Dreams. I'm sorry, yes...a dream.

Monday 5:30 a.m.

I had a dream. Forgive me for writing about my dream. Don't read this if you, like me, glaze over and gird yourself when anyone else says they have a dream to share. But actually, when I think about it, I don't mind reading about dreams other people have had. In fact, I like it. I just don't like hearing them. I guess the fact that I'm reading it makes me always feel I have the freedom to stop. But if someone just tells me a dream, I feel I am trapped and there's no way to gage how long the dream will go on.

So, I just had this dream: I was in West L.A., or closer to West L.A. and I happened to visit a woman, a woman I had known a long, long time. I had met her originally in Seattle at college, through my friend Greg. Or maybe it was when I first moved to L.A. She was so young then, she had jet black hair and made art -- big pieces and little pieces, a lot of day-of-the-dead pieces. She had silver jewelry and was funny. But I had forgotten all about her. I couldn't remember her name.

I don’t know why I went to her apartment in West L.A. She was packing up to move. She had lived in this apartment for 20 years. This apartment was my dream apartment. It had four small bedrooms and a living room along a narrow layout and a galley kitchen. I loved how it was decorated, lots of colors, lots of Mexican art. She said she felt like she had to buy a house. Her landlord was George, my old landlord on Sierra Bonita. I suddenly remembered that my whole family had been in this apartment many times. She had been a good friend of my brother Mike, and my parents had attended many parties here. My father had said he enjoyed being at this apartment, it made him feel comfortable. He had said that when he was in there he always knew someone interesting would show up: someone who spent all their time doing something or thinking about something he hadn't realized someone could spend all their time thinking and doing.

The woman had a boyfriend. Someone who was with me in the dream -- maybe it was Greg -- told me that recently, after years of resisting a committed legal relationship, the boyfriend had asked the woman to marry him. The woman had said no. But they continued to hang out together all the time. But the boyfriend did not live with her.

Suddenly the boyfriend was there, he was thin, he had black hair too. He had a bracelet of rope, a thin, woven rope. He was rolling a cigarette. He had a sweet boyish face that was now older. He looked depressed, but friendly. Mild. In fact, he looked a little like my college boyfriend, the one who was a projectionist. But I felt really glad he wasn't my boyfriend. Yet, I was jealous of how comfortable they seemed together, like old familiar blankets -- some holes and frayed edges -- but trusty and sure.

I asked the woman if she knew if George had rented her place out to someone new yet. She said she didn't know, but she didn't think he had. I wanted to move here. I wanted to live here. I began to look at the apartment with covetous eyes, like I could possibly move in. The woman got excited about it. She said, this would be perfect! It made so much sense that I would live here. I wondered if I could stand it to have George be my landlord again. I knew he was so cheap, that he would never fix anything, but that the rent would be inexpensive.

Mulan was with me. I took her to the bathroom and found that there were another two bedrooms in the way back. One of them had a fireplace, it was cozy. The other bedroom was this little kids room that was right off the bigger bedroom, not in a hallway or anything. It was almost like a big closet off the bedroom. It was perfect for Mulan. Then when she was older she could move to one of the other bedrooms. I realized I would have a guest room! My dream come true! I was so excited.

The woman called George to see if he had rented it. I imagined that I was going to have to sell my house and move. I felt a little sad, I love my house. And this apartment was farther away than I had planned, it was farther from Mulan's school.

But then we went out the backdoor, and there was the ocean. It was beautiful, this gorgeous lagoon, just off the whole ocean. And to the side of it were all these beautiful apartment buildings and houses, small little houses, up a hill. It did not look at all like Los Angeles, it looked Italy, like pictures I have seen of Uffizi. Or maybe Florence. But it was so beautiful. I thought, I had no idea that West L.A. was so gorgeous. And it's not even far away.

Other people, other friends came over. They were all old friends, people I've known for years but now that I think about it, I didn't recognize any of them. But I was so glad to see them. It was like my old life. Like when I first moved to L.A.

I was suddenly so relieved to sell my house. Not to have a yard and a pool to upkeep and deal with and pay for. I wondered if it was a good idea to sell a house and just rent. But I knew it was a good idea. I just had to convince some people, like my business manager. But I knew he would give his blessing.

This apartment felt like I was coming home. That something had finally fallen into place. That it was going to be much simpler, just renting, not owning. That this would give me so much time to think and write and maybe become an artist myself.

I remembered that Mike and my Dad had spent a lot of time over the years in this apartment. They had been to so many parties, I could suddenly see them, sitting in the big living room, with drinks in their hands, in a spirited happy conversation with other people they clearly liked being around. And I caught their eyes as I walked through the room, because now I was the hostess of this party and now I lived in this wonderful apartment. And in their eyes I could see how happy and appreciative they were that I lived here and had all these wonderful friends.

Then I woke up. But I was woozy.

I realized I had this dream all the time. Not exactly in the details, but in finding the dream apartment that was bigger than I thought and seemed like it was waiting for me. And it was always right next to water.

Then I just lay there in my bed, and tried to figure out if I could find the right words for this sentence I want to put in my show, near the end. It’s when I'm looking at Lourdes Cathedral (in Spokane) and I say, "I wish there were a beautiful building where I could mark the transitions in my life and my daughter's life, with ancient rituals and great art. Where we could feel like part of a long continuum of people for generations. Where we would know that our grandparents and their grandparents and their grandparents had participated in the very same rituals. But not have to pretend that myths are literally true. And not have to lie to myself and others about God. And not have pay the price of being lulled into complacency about our acute, visceral, realness of being awake and alive."

No that doesn't sound right. Too many words. That sentence is too preachy, and overloaded and has too many adjectives, but maybe I could make it work later.

Oh...Mulan is up.
Monday 5:30 a.m.

I had a dream. Forgive me for writing about my dream. Don't read this if you, like me, glaze over and gird yourself when anyone else says they have a dream to share. But actually, when I think about it, I don't mind reading about dreams other people have had. In fact, I like it. I just don't like hearing them. I guess the fact that I'm reading it makes me always feel I have the freedom to stop. But if someone just tells me a dream, I feel I am trapped and there's no way to gage how long the dream will go on.

So, I just had this dream: I was in West L.A., or closer to West L.A. and I happened to visit a woman, a woman I had known a long, long time. I had met her originally in Seattle at college, through my friend Greg. Or maybe it was when I first moved to L.A. She was so young then, she had jet black hair and made art -- big pieces and little pieces, a lot of day-of-the-dead pieces. She had silver jewelry and was funny. But I had forgotten all about her. I couldn't remember her name.

I don’t know why I went to her apartment in West L.A. She was packing up to move. She had lived in this apartment for 20 years. This apartment was my dream apartment. It had four small bedrooms and a living room along a narrow layout and a galley kitchen. I loved how it was decorated, lots of colors, lots of Mexican art. She said she felt like she had to buy a house. Her landlord was George, my old landlord on Sierra Bonita. I suddenly remembered that my whole family had been in this apartment many times. She had been a good friend of my brother Mike, and my parents had attended many parties here. My father had said he enjoyed being at this apartment, it made him feel comfortable. He had said that when he was in there he always knew someone interesting would show up: someone who spent all their time doing something or thinking about something he hadn't realized someone could spend all their time thinking and doing.

The woman had a boyfriend. Someone who was with me in the dream -- maybe it was Greg -- told me that recently, after years of resisting a committed legal relationship, the boyfriend had asked the woman to marry him. The woman had said no. But they continued to hang out together all the time. But the boyfriend did not live with her.

Suddenly the boyfriend was there, he was thin, he had black hair too. He had a bracelet of rope, a thin, woven rope. He was rolling a cigarette. He had a sweet boyish face that was now older. He looked depressed, but friendly. Mild. In fact, he looked a little like my college boyfriend, the one who was a projectionist. But I felt really glad he wasn't my boyfriend. Yet, I was jealous of how comfortable they seemed together, like old familiar blankets -- some holes and frayed edges -- but trusty and sure.

I asked the woman if she knew if George had rented her place out to someone new yet. She said she didn't know, but she didn't think he had. I wanted to move here. I wanted to live here. I began to look at the apartment with covetous eyes, like I could possibly move in. The woman got excited about it. She said, this would be perfect! It made so much sense that I would live here. I wondered if I could stand it to have George be my landlord again. I knew he was so cheap, that he would never fix anything, but that the rent would be inexpensive.

Mulan was with me. I took her to the bathroom and found that there were another two bedrooms in the way back. One of them had a fireplace, it was cozy. The other bedroom was this little kids room that was right off the bigger bedroom, not in a hallway or anything. It was almost like a big closet off the bedroom. It was perfect for Mulan. Then when she was older she could move to one of the other bedrooms. I realized I would have a guest room! My dream come true! I was so excited.

The woman called George to see if he had rented it. I imagined that I was going to have to sell my house and move. I felt a little sad, I love my house. And this apartment was farther away than I had planned, it was farther from Mulan's school.

But then we went out the backdoor, and there was the ocean. It was beautiful, this gorgeous lagoon, just off the whole ocean. And to the side of it were all these beautiful apartment buildings and houses, small little houses, up a hill. It did not look at all like Los Angeles, it looked Italy, like pictures I have seen of Uffizi. Or maybe Florence. But it was so beautiful. I thought, I had no idea that West L.A. was so gorgeous. And it's not even far away.

Other people, other friends came over. They were all old friends, people I've known for years but now that I think about it, I didn't recognize any of them. But I was so glad to see them. It was like my old life. Like when I first moved to L.A.

I was suddenly so relieved to sell my house. Not to have a yard and a pool to upkeep and deal with and pay for. I wondered if it was a good idea to sell a house and just rent. But I knew it was a good idea. I just had to convince some people, like my business manager. But I knew he would give his blessing.

This apartment felt like I was coming home. That something had finally fallen into place. That it was going to be much simpler, just renting, not owning. That this would give me so much time to think and write and maybe become an artist myself.

I remembered that Mike and my Dad had spent a lot of time over the years in this apartment. They had been to so many parties, I could suddenly see them, sitting in the big living room, with drinks in their hands, in a spirited happy conversation with other people they clearly liked being around. And I caught their eyes as I walked through the room, because now I was the hostess of this party and now I lived in this wonderful apartment. And in their eyes I could see how happy and appreciative they were that I lived here and had all these wonderful friends.

Then I woke up. But I was woozy.

I realized I had this dream all the time. Not exactly in the details, but in finding the dream apartment that was bigger than I thought and seemed like it was waiting for me. And it was always right next to water.

Then I just lay there in my bed, and tried to figure out if I could find the right words for this sentence I want to put in my show, near the end. It’s when I'm looking at Lourdes Cathedral (in Spokane) and I say, "I wish there were a beautiful building where I could mark the transitions in my life and my daughter's life, with ancient rituals and great art. Where we could feel like part of a long continuum of people for generations. Where we would know that our grandparents and their grandparents and their grandparents had participated in the very same rituals. But not have to pretend that myths are literally true. And not have to lie to myself and others about God. And not have pay the price of being lulled into complacency about our acute, visceral, realness of being awake and alive."

No that doesn't sound right. Too many words. That sentence is too preachy, and overloaded and has too many adjectives, but maybe I could make it work later.

Oh...Mulan is up.

August morning

It's early morning on Friday. This is surely the most sacred time of day. I have been up since 5:30 and got enough sleep. When the world converges to allow me to get to sleep early and up early, before Mulan gets up, I can almost hear the monastery's Gregorian chant in my mind as I walk through the house. It's simply perfect. I have been off coffee for five days and I believe the headaches are gone. I am drinking tea. Oh! How civilized life can be!!!

So, I am in the throws of the hysteria of getting this show up and going. This is my third time to do this, my third monologue, so I sorta know the drill. It's frightening. And it's so exciting. This show is two hours long, an hour first act and an hour second act. I don't even know if I'm capable of memorizing two hours worth of show. I mean, I guess I will figure it out. "In The Family Way" is like, about 60 to an 65 minutes. "God Said Ha!" vacillated between 90 minutes to 95 minutes. Everywhere I go, I am memorizing. In the car, on my hike, walking around the house. I have a new approach to memorizing this one, I'm going backwards. I am memorizing it bit by bit from the end. It's like I keep adding to it. I don't know, it makes me feel safer, like...if I get to opening night and I'm scared I might go up on my lines, I will feel most confident about the end.

I feel so vulnerable. The show is costing a lot more than I thought it would. In fact, it needs to run for 14 weeks and sell most of the tickets in order to just break even. I am constantly justifying to myself how this risk is okay, even if the show goes bust. I think my business manager thinks I'm a little nuts. I mean, I've chosen a very unpopular topic. Or maybe it's a popular topic, but I come to a very unpopular conclusion. So, jeez. This all puts my mother in a very awkward position. She doesn't like what I'm saying, but she doesn't want me to lose money, so I think she vacillates between how she wishes it would turn out.

I have really great designers. A wonderful sound, media designer and a great lighting designer. It's so exciting! I mean, this is about as fun as it gets. Yesterday I spent the whole day picking out music for the first act. I am going to use mostly Vivaldi's Mass in D Major. I got a great recording from the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and I have been playing it on my ipod while I hike and it's just perfect, conveys all the feeling in all the right places. It's sort of an obvious familiar choice, but I think it works. Today I go through the second act, which I have less pre-determined ideas for.

Things are hectic but going better than they were. I finally figured out how to control my dog, and mostly, my kid. All with the same concept. It all started when I went on the Runyon Canyon hike with my neighbor, Marc, and his two dogs who are playmates and friends with my dog. And when Arden would start to misbehave, or even seem like he was going to misbehave (like smell some other dogs butt too long -- Arden, like all dogs, says "Hello" by smelling the behind of another dog, but honestly, Arden takes it a step further. It's like he tries to stick his nose in and then Arden goes into this reverie, and the other dogs are like, "Okay, buddy, jeez." Sometimes it can get heated as some other dogs feel justifiably violated.) Marc would say, "Arden!" in a deep authoritative voice. And Arden would immediately back off and run to us! And when he seemed like he was in a group of dogs who were on the verge of either playing or scuffling, Marc would do it again and Arden would look almost thankful and come immediately to us. WELL.

So, I figured I had to try that. I figured my previous way of calling Arden, saying in a sing songy voice with no malice whatsoever: "Arden, what are you doing? Don't do that to the other dog...don't you think that the other dog doesn't want to have your nose up their ass? Ha, ha, ha." wasn't the best approach.

We started hiking together and I would try the lowering the voice thing. AND oh my god! It worked immediately! It was amazing. I can't believe it. I mean, I guess I knew about the tone thing, but it was so dramatic. And most surprising was the feeling that Arden wanted me to control him. I mean, that's probably projecting, but still! Then I started this with Mulan. It didn't work as well, but it did work. I think the thing with Mulan is to make eye contact. But again, I realized how much she also seemed to secretly want me to discipline her, like she herself could be afraid by her own misbehaving. Oh, I am learning, slowly but surely.

I went to a parenting class and it was really helpful. But at one point the teacher was telling us how we shouldn't laugh "at" our child. That feeling humiliated or shamed was very bad. And even if our kids did something like fall down or walk into a wall or inadvertently say something funny, we shouldn't laugh. We should only laugh when they were trying to be funny.

I can't stop thinking about this. Because I don't know if I agree. The fact is, when a four year old is trying to be funny, it isn't all that funny. Like it's not funny at all. When Mulan tries to be funny, she is often obnoxious or just goofy. And I feel it's my responsibility to not laugh. I don't want her to grow up thinking that stuff is funny. I think it's my job to laugh when it's genuinely funny. She often says things that I laugh at and she says, "Why did you laugh?" and I try to explain how it's the way she said it, or how it's the context of what she said given the situation, etc. I try to explain that I laugh just to show appreciation and not always just because something silly happened. In fact, I don't laugh at things that are silly, most of the time. (Unless it's in a Preston Sturges movie...) If I encouraged her to be "funny" by being goofy, I fear she would turn into Carrot Top.

Mulan is attending a summer school, this ballet/tap/hip hop school. She hated it at first. She sobbed for half an hour on the first day. And then when she finally went into the group, it was like she was walking to her execution. The next day she cried for fifteen minutes, and then next day five. Yesterday , she just walked in with no problem. There is one other Asian girl in the class, a couple of white girls and then about 25 African American girls. Yesterday, when I picked Mulan up, about four or five of the African American girls surrounded Mulan and said to me, "We all think she looks just like that girl, we can't tell them apart!" They pointed to the other Asian girl, who then came up to us. They said, "We think they look like twins!" Of course Mulan and this other Asian girl, to me, look nothing at all alike. All the kids, naturally, being just beautiful. But I laughed all the way home that they were so blatant about not being able to tell them apart.

Sometimes I am full of fear that my show will be a bomb and I will have to sell my house and move back to Spokane. Then I think about how much I love Spokane and how I could go work at Auntie's Bookstore and how happy I would be. And then I calm down and just settle in for the ride.