Dramarama days

There's a band I love called Dramarama (who I'm seeing live tonight). They have a song titled Emerald City. Here's a few of the lyrics:

"I'm lost in a sweet dream/I'm living on chocolate ice cream

I'm letting off my steam/Now everything's going to be fine

High high/I think I'll learn how to fly"

The lyrics speak to me today. With everything going on in the world, it seems as if I'm in a nightmare. ICE raids. The death of the US Constitution. Due process' demise. And I fear it is going to get much worse.  

But then I escape into my head. I start writing. I listen to music. I watch West Wing. I soothe myself. 

And then I think, everything will be fine right? Perhaps not. 

Yet, it's hard to live perpetually in fear. We have to believe it's gonna be okay. That this too shall pass. That the world will get better. That we do have some power left to change all of this. That our voice and perspective matters. My words matter. As do yours. 

I truly believe that there is a higher law that will prevail and that the good will win out and the light we shine will take away the darkness. 

And that we can learn how to fly.  

These are the days to remember

It's 5 am. The dogs are in the backyard running around. It's dusk, the sky a mix of blue and grey. I sip from my espresso cup as I write this. 

I've decided to work on some things. Some predilections, addictions, obsessions, whatever you want to call them. It's still too early for me to talk about it. I'm afraid I'll fail. That I'll slide back. Especially with the world as it is.

These recent times make you want to do one of two things, change your life for the better to get ready for whatever is to come by getting your shit together, or what is usually my go to, just bury your head in the sand and indulge in whatever soothes the pain away.

I've watched tik tok videos about ICE for the last few days, my sleep uneven at best. I've been wrought. Anxious. Fearful. On edge. My mood up and down. One minute I'm freaking out about it all and the next I'm like, forget it. What's the point? I know I can't control this. I feel powerless, as if I can't do much of anything.

Then the other day, I had a young Latino kid in my courtroom, one who was beginning to change his whole life. I had gotten him released from custody to his mom on a release pitch and he was doing great. Obviously, our discussions are confidential, but our talk made me so happy. I was joyful. 

Then that night, I thought of how many people, my people, are being grabbed, dragged and taken into detention where basic necessities of food, sanitation and water are being denied, and I wept. I wept and wept. Then I dried my tears and vowed to do something. 

3:35 am

So I don't know what happened. I haven't been able to write a story for a few months. I think it's the political arena that's getting to me. The forced disappearances, the rhetoric, the authoritarian regime, and my democratic world crumbling.

It's hard to believe it's all real. Is this a dream? A nightmare? A prophecy of end times come to fruition? The doomsayers were right. It's worse than I imagined it would be and happening way quicker. It may be too late at this point to save democracy in the USA and in the world. Everyone is capitulating. The senate, the Supreme Court. And yes, we the people are standing up, but I don't know if we can stop this. 

And it's 3:35 am. I want to write. To lose myself in a story. But I can't. The words won't come. Fingers to keys, I wonder in my head if I should write my fears. Write my reality. But in these times, to capture my nonfiction, I might have to start writing a dystopian novel (yet perhaps, it's not dystopian any longer).

Maybe I don't know who I am any longer, and it's been too easy for too long to drown my sorrows away. I need to try to recall who I am. I am a writer. At my core. Remember that. I tell myself. Remember. 

Paperback writer

It's easy to say, put out another book already. The reality is much harder. The first one I published when I was fifty. The second one, which I started fifteen years prior, came out soon after. 

I have at least two more books in the works, maybe three and a play. One is a YA novel (a few meh chapters), one is a book of essays (most of which are already written) and one is a sequel to "Portrait of a Deputy Public Defender". I also have a working draft of my play adaptation of "Tales of an Inland Empire Girl". 

I also have the beginnings of a one woman show.

But listen dear reader, you know that I work full-time as a lawyer in court most days, and come home exhausted. And on my weekends, I have a podcast. Plus, I'm finishing up my MFA one class at a time (where is where I've written my essays), along with three puppies and a husband. Life is full. 

I want to retire so I can write full time and finish these projects. But I'm more than a little obsessed with financial security. And in these times, you have to be. The good news is that I'm joining a two year writing collective next year and the organization and the cohort I join will help me finish my next book in two years. So there's that. 

Sometimes, I wish I could travel and do a summer workshop (which is how I generated "Tales of an Inland Empire Girl" over a ten year period), but the shih tzus will not have it. And I would miss them so. 

Let it be noted that I write every day. I have my practice. At 530 am, I write this blog at least weekly. During the semester, I write on the weekends and early morning for class. I'm not an evening writer. I can edit in the evenings, but my creative flow is early morning. Evenings are for chilling with my hubby along with my podcast recording and facilitation, and/or sleeping or playing with the puppies. Or watching tv, which I find inspiring creatively as well as relaxing. I've had a number of essays published in anthologies recently. That's where I lean toward. Unfortunately, I don't have time to submit my writings to journals. At this point, they're being saved for the next book. 

Today, I have to get the puppies groomed, so I'm gonna hang at a coffee shop and write for a couple hours. It's going to be heaven. Let's see if I can make any headway on my YA novel. Or on collating my essay collection. 

Hey, it will happen eventually. I promise. 

The mean lil shih tzu

Pippin is a brown and white shih tzu who weighs about 6 pounds. He is a barker and a biter. I am working on a data project so came home a bit early to work on it from home (mostly to save my neck and have some focus) and he saw me and yelped. "Ruff!" Then he said it again. "Ruff!" 

His brother and sister, Merry and Princess, each cocked an ear. I usually talk back to him so shouted back, "Give me a couple hours you mangy mutt." Then I went upstairs to work. Headphones on my ears in blissful silence. 

When I came back downstairs, it was time for the dogs to eat. Hubby and Suegra watched a soccer/futbol game. I grabbed a piece of the pizza my husband had made as I filled the dog's tiny bowls. The shih tzus ate. 

I took them outside. They ran in the backyard like maniacs. Animaniacs. In circles at high speeds. It was like watching a live cartoon. Merry who rarely barks, yelped at Pippin and growled. Princess looked on then retreated to a corner to watch them fight.

And Pippin was clearly spoiling for one. Back inside, he yelped at me. I decided to sit in his dog bed. I laid down and taunted him from the large dog bed that fits all three of them. Pippin got very angry and ran in circles and started nipping and barking at me. I was laughing hysterically. My husband was wondering what the heck was happening (I'm sure), but the game kept him mesmerized.

Then one of Pippin's nips got a lil harder. I decided to put the piranha slash shih tzu to bed in his play pen after calming him a bit and giving him a kiss on his forehead. 

Moral of the story is, don't mess with a shih tzu. And definitely, don't take his bed. 

The tanks are coming

The tanks are coming 

They're coming 

From panzer man

Our wanna be king

But no oh no 

Not in Cali

Please not here 

The governor said

Come arrest me 

He knows the tanks 

They're coming 

Panzer man is burning 

Our constitution

Due process ash

Democracy soot

The tanks are coming

They're coming 

You see 

They're coming

For us all 

Who dare 

Speak Truth to Power 

talking with myself

Sometimes, I feel like I am writing to talk to myself. This blog is a diary of sorts. My way of memorializing where I am in my life. Occasionally, I'll go through my prior blog posts (I am trying to create a book from them, but after more than a decade of posts, on average 2-4 a month, it's harder than you think) and I wonder, how in the heck did I write all of these?

What I like about the blog format is the brevity. I've always been a concise writer. It can be a detriment at times, especially when an editor tells you they want more, more, more, but it's usually a benefit to be short and to the point.

My dream is to write full-time. Without the pressures of a demanding job that saps my energy, I wonder what I could accomplish. But then again, I might just spend my time watching Gilmore Girls or West Wing straight through for the upteenth time. 

I'm watching my dogs play. I wish I could in the moment like they are. I'm usually in my head, thinking of the future or the past. Yet, still, as I get older, and older meh, I am trying to be less preoccupied and worry filled. The amount of unhappiness my anxiety has caused me would fill a dumpster, and I'm trying to get rid of all that. Mainly because it's impacted my life domains so much that I just need a change, and I want to be free of it.

I guess that's all I have to say. Time for another espresso and then I got to go get ready for work. Put on my dress and jacket (but even when I have to wear a suit, my new ankle bolt tattoo will remind me of who I am at my core) and face the day.