It seems people like pictures of words.

So. I am learning to make pictures of my words.

First, Black:

Before I moved to Los Angeles, I had an actor friend. He was studying hard, and finding money to get a degree in acting. I thought this was great, supported him, and proudly bought him his first black turtleneck.

“Wow! Thanks! I don’t know why, but actors DO wear black turtlenecks a lot.”

This was my beginning of understanding that you don’t have to be smart to be a good actor. I explained:

“If you are trying to act, you only use your face and the shape of your body. A black turtleneck shows those off perfectly. People can’t notice your emotions if they are distracted by a hawaiian shirt.”

Second, Authenticity:

A younger friend discovered that I am a fan of Beavis and Butthead. He said, “I have lost respect for you.”

Like I said, he is younger. For me in the 90s, Beavis and Butthead were so stupid cool that I couldn’t stop laughing. One of my friends frequently laughed so hard he turned purple.

You had to be there.

I mean, you really had to be there. What we didn’t admit but deep down we knew was that we were all Beavis and Butthead. They were trying SO HARD, and were so repulsive and so far from being cool. The parts they can’t run anymore are the parts where they watched the music videos and talked about them. In their wretched homes with completely absent parents they consumed nachos and music videos, and tortured the school when they attended.

Their lives were rather hopeless, which is what almost every felt like when we were young in the 90s.

Looking back it’s hard to believe. Things got better (thanks, internet).

And then they got a lot worse. Thanks, financial crisis.

But striking a pose did not survive the same way.

If Beavis was a generation X icon, Juno is a Millenial touchstone. And I can’t forget the big ending when Juno tells the baby daddy Paulie that he’s cool without even trying: “I try really hard actually.”

Admitting that you try is not something you could have admitted in the 90s.

Authenticity. Admitting who you are, what you believe and what you love. It’s the ‘in’ thing.

And yes, this is my opporunity to talk about The Russian American School of Tomorrow.

Memoirs are part of the new Authenticity. In 2006, Elizabeth Gilbert rocked the world with her story  told in Eat Pray Love. Augusten Burroughs gave Running with Scissors to the world in 2002.

Right now, everyone wants to tell me about Wild by Cheryl Strayed.

Is this what we are looking for now? Truth truth, told truly?

When I tell people about my memoir, I cringe. It is real embarrassing to talk about the stuff that happened in that book.

But it’s real.

Yes, the Millenials have embraced auto tune vocal music. Yes, the millenials have been avid consumers of that least realistic of mediums, Reality TV.

But no one is fooled. Everybody knows.

That’s what the memoir is about. We are all telling what we know.

I found this blog, of a man who went through the Accelerated Christian Education system, and has made a crusade to point out the failings of it.

He lost his faith in God. He declares his atheism openly.

But he does believe in organized education. So much so that he become part of a PhD program with a thesis that focusses on the failings of the School of Tomorrow (ACE).

Me? I stuck with God and even Christianity. But I am VERY suspicious of organized education. I did get a bachelor’s degree, but I took a long time and didn’t borrow a dime to do it, partly because I couldn’t believe that the investment of money in the education system would be a worthwhile investment.

I taught myself to play the piano. I taught myself computer networking, I taught myself Project management, gaining lots of professional certifications along the way. I have a good career, practically hand-carved.

So, even when it came to publishing my books I couldn’t bear to do the “traditional” route and had to teach myself all the skills and do all the work myself. MY voice MY way.

I have an ENORMOUS chip on my shoulder about organized education. I am just so suspicious of the exploitation I see in it. I can believe it might be good for people but I also see the cracks in the foundation.

Funny the similarities and differences

Getting into the car, I gave Veronica a poke in her side. Just playing around.

“Ow! Mommy that hurt!”

Whoops. I must have gotten her with my fingernail by accident.

I was already in the driver’s seat by then. I stretched my hand back into her car seat area and said “I have CLAWS!”

“Mommy! We don’t need to do that any more. Animals need to fight and use was to eat but we don’t.”

I looked at my fingernails. They are not that long, half an inch at most.
“They are not very good claws,” I reply. “Maybe I should cut them off. Is that what you think?”

She could be right. Mostly my fingernails disappoint me by breaking at inopportune times. They are not useful really.

So why does it feel so sad, to trim short that small crescent of white on my finger?

Once upon a time long nails were a sign of pampered luxury. Someone had long nails because he or she did not need to use hands for work.

I want to work, and to look like I’m working. Yet somehow my vanity is pleased to see my fingernails long.

Self image is a strange thing.

School gave Veronica homework:
“Tell how you would catch a leprechaun.”

It’s a writing assigment. How many ways this is wrong! “leprechaun” is not a sight word. Or a real thing.

Her answer:
“I would make a trap.”

GENIUS!

I cheated and told her how to spell “would” correctly, but then bailed and “Make” came out “mac”.

Take that, homework designer.

I am so happy right now
It feels so beautiful just to be present and at peace

I spent a long time being afraid of all the things that might happen and all the things that I needed to do and I wasn’t doing.

I was so afraid that I didn’t know what it was I was supposed to do and that I was going to get caught and punished heavily for not knowing and not acting

Right here right now, I feel safe and like I can enjoy myself

I find myself wondering what I would like to do if I didn’t feel afraid

I am so used to feeling the wolf at my heels.

It is not quick and easy for me to know what I enjoy

I’m paying attention to small things . I like feeling comfortable. I like reading. I like laughing with people.

These are good starts. I also like accomplishing big things. And if I could accomplish what I want just because I want it I wonder how big it might get

I’ve heard it called an engine. That thing inside me that keeps me moving towards a goal.

People ask me “How do you find time?”
It confuses me. It’s not a matter of time. It’s a matter of wanting to do it.

Take reading a book. I love reading books. Easy books are fun. But then there are the hard books. Those are the challenge. And by challenge I mean FUN.

My husband likes to climb mountains. That’s good. That’s his thing. Me? I like to challenge myself to finish Ulysses. THAT felt amazing.

Because it was an experience I wanted to have. I wanted to read it and I wanted to have read it.

So I did it. I read it everytime I had any spare minute. Because I loved it and because i wanted it.

The same thing with my books. And my blog.

I don’t believe in procrastination. If I am not doing something I want to do, it’s not a fault. There is something else getting in the way

It’s hard to talk about.

I’ve learned since that when something happens and you don’twantto-can’t-areafraidto talk about it, that is a big red flag for abuse.

Shame is the tool of the abuser. Secrecy and silence.

So when at last I leave and I am out, I carry the message. Don’t speak. Don’t be that guy that hangs on to things to be dramatic.

No one will believe me.

And no one will understand.

Just be glad you’re out. Be glad it’s over.

But then. When every church service means I cry silently without stopping it doesn’t quite feel over.

It must be the songs. The songs I played on that church piano, the only piano I had access to. THe place where I could express myself in pure emotion and leave dangerous words out of it.

I can’t stand in church and hear those same songs I played without tears. Crying might be the wrong word. Because it is a reflexive reaction. It’s barely emotion, and it doesn’t even hurt

that much

It’s just that i have to cry.

What if I went to a church that didn’t look, sound, smell or feel like the one I played the piano in?

I tried that. It worked okay for a while.

Until the leader and the group started to feel the same. No, I will not repent and confess if I miss a Sunday service. As a matter of fact, I think I will miss every Sunday service from here on out.

I can be confidence and fippant after the fact. At the time there were a lot more tears.

But they never knew about the church with that piano. Not really.

I wrote a book about it at last. I pushed past the shame and silence and secrecy.

People may still say I am over dramatic.

And then there will be the people who read the book, and it drops down into their still silent heart like a stone in a lake.

All the way down to the bottom, never to be removed.

Because they will know. They will know that SOMEONE told it. That the secrecy is a broken rule.

A broken lock

and the jail cell can be vacated.

Be that guy. The one that breaks free

It’s not that people don’t like new things. But mostly we want a new thing within a narrow range.

A new flavor of our favorite snack is a great new thing.

But a new person or a new idea can be too much.

Crossed arms.

Closed heart.

Not you not now.

I taught myself how to play piano using a chord chart, and my church plopped me down in front of the organ. Just play the chords! Organs are easy, right?

I did it. I got good at it. And then eventually I got to play the church piano at age 15. After I’d been doing it for a few years, I had an opportunity to go to a Saturday seminar in Anchorage. They were going to teach us how to lead worship even better.

I’d picked up a few things. The bass player had been part of a band, and he gave me tips on free worship (now I might call it interstitial) music should be structured. Major 1 and major 4 progressions are thoughtful. Throw in a major 7 chord and it sounds like triumph. I had seen how the congregation or audience responded, and I could see the musical affect.

While I played, I was thrilled to have the chance to practice by performance. I could do this thing that I loved and was needed. I was part of worship, and I felt like I was serving a higher spiritual purpose to play as well as I could.

The seminar in Anchorage was intimidating. I felt like real piano players and worship leaders were attending. They actually knew what they were doing, while I had only memorized a chord chart from the back of a songbook.

But when the teacher got up and started talking, my mouth filled with ash. He was so calculated.

The bass player hadn’t felt that way.

This guy told me things I already sort of knew, but instead of feeling like I was helping the Spirit he felt calculated. Like a puppet master.

I felt humbug and complicit. I played as usual that Sunday. I didn’t feel as I used to, part of the mighty rushing wind of inspiration. I felt like the overgrown girl assistant to the tawdry magician.

Well. As least the music was mine. Regardless of how the masses were swayed, I knew what I was making.

Why remember this now?

I’m preparing to tell people about The Russian American School of Tomorrow. <~MARKETING!!!~>

The experts say to appeal to the audience’s emotions and give a compelling call to action. I feel right back in humbug city.

The Russian American School of Tomorrow is the most authentic and real thing I’ve ever written. Now I have to take those skills I learned while writing it

Writing skills

And use them for manipulation. Or what feels like exploitation. It’s uncomfortable. I don’t like that side of human nature and I don’t like that side of my nature.

I don’t like how we have these strings exposed to the world, which almost anybody can pick them up and play us.

There must be a positive side to it. Not all manipulation is exploitation. The people that I love can play me, and I am in many ways grateful for it. Yes, I am glad to do that thing, make that food or that trip which makes my family react in that way.

Is it mutual manipulation? Perhaps it’s mutual gratification. Or maybe it could be called love.

I wrote The Russian American School of Tomorrow for the love of creating it. I knew that if I wrote it well, it would be a great story that would help a lot of people understand themselves and each other.

So maybe if I take the next step, and learn to love telling people (the dreaded marketing) about the story I wrote from love, it will be a good feeling. Not exploitation and manipulation, which I deplore.

But a true authentic gift, a favor. I’m not going to hide behind a curtain like the humbug Oz. I’ll stand in the open and let people know.

As soon as I figure out how.