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"the remedy for dirt is soap & water. the remedy for dying is living."

30 july 2010

Andrea LaHue Update:

Murals sprout along empty buildings in Lamar

Andrea LaHue paints a series of lilies on the side of the McCoy building in Lamar Monday. “I like to paint lilies. One of my dog’s is named Lily,” she said.

 

 

LAMAR, S.C. --While new businesses have opened in Lamar in the last two years, several empty storefronts still line Main Street. On Monday, some of those buildings got a bit of a facelift as Andrea LaHue turned red, yellow and blue paint into giant flowers on the sides of these vacant buildings.

“It’s a service for the community,” LaHue said as she sketched the beginnings of a lily in yellow on one panel of the McCoy building. “I paint giant flowers to uplift, inspire, beautify and make people smile on a basic level.” click here to read more ...

24 june 2010

Such fun to co-host for the WGA/SAG cocktail party at the LA Film Festival!  What a lovely evening!

 

(with Adrienne Wilkinson, Frances Fisher, and David Dean Bottrell)

26 may 2010

 

Every day we make a choice.  Today, I create chaos.  Today, I create calm.

Today, I am going to paint a giant yellow flower on the wall of an empty building on La Brea Avenue.

I was in the shower, pondering the new flower we saw yesterday. It had become a game now. We’d drive up and down La Brea or Highland Avenue, looking for the “new flower.” My 3-year-old daughter would spot it and scream in delight— “Mommy! Take a picture!” I would, and then I’d post it on Facebook.

“Who is painting these flowers?” she asked. I don’t know, I answered. But it’s someone nice. Someone reminding us to stop and see the beauty in the world.

The shower water was too hot, but I didn’t care that it scalded me, turning my pale skin red. I was too busy pulling at the sagging skin on my belly, angry it was still there, three years later, unable to accept that carrying a child had changed my body forever. The beauty of the random flowers forgotten now.

Would I ever have the courage to make love in the shower again?

One is the most raw, the most exposed, in the shower. It’s harder to put on a show when the tight black riding pants and thigh high boots are tucked away in the closet. When the hair is no longer blown dry and flat ironed to sassy perfection. When all traces of mascara, foundation and red lipstick are gone—revealing me.

It was a challenge of sorts. The gauntlet of this is who you really get – look a minute – closer now – really look – do you still want me?

And if the intimacy becomes too much and I need to hide the pathos-seeking tears, they seamlessly blend with the streams of liquid pouring down from the shower, and I can pretend you did not make me cry. Either by your rejection or your acceptance—both equally startling to the bruised heart.

As I looked down at my body, at the history that was made there, I realized the bigger question was not why I missed what was gone. But why I was choosing to judge myself so harshly? There was no one in the shower but me, and I was crueler to myself than any lover who’d ever rejected me had ever been.

It made me wonder, what prompted Random Act to paint those flowers? Was it a reaction to the devastating earthquake in Haiti? A hurricane? A shooting?

Or was it just a bad day when Random Act didn’t like themselves very much and thought – I can do better? I can love myself and this world a little better?

When I got out of the shower, I had three emails waiting for me from friends in New Orleans, all asking me the same question: Where are you? The last one was from Marda, my Mother Figure.

“Well, Sugar. It’s Saturday. I guess you really aren’t coming to the Championship Game after all. It just feels wrong with you not being here. Oh, well.”

We are all a fan of something. I’m a New Orleans Saints fan. Born and bred. The Saints became a football team in 1967. They had never been to the Super Bowl. My friend Gerald says, “Being a Saints fan is a lesson in taking the good with the bad, in showing up no matter what.“

Being a Saints fan is the greatest metaphor for life. It requires you to keep believing. That even if you fail today, you still suit up and play the game tomorrow. It’s what I tell struggling writers in this business looking for a break. Make the choice to keep showing up. It will pay off.

Believe me, as a former Bob’s Big Boy waitress, I never thought I’d get to the place I am now. I’m not rich. I don’t make a million dollars a year. But I have success in a field where last year, only 15% of the 250 top grossing films were written by women. My film Valentine’s Day was number 1 at the box office. A week later, my friend Laeta Kalogrides saw her film, Shutter Island, take the number 1 spot.

Two different women held the number 1 spot, two weeks in a row. First time in history.

In New Orleans the week before, Marda and I went to the first playoff game against the Arizona Cardinals at the Superdome. We won and the Saints were advancing to the NFC Championship Game, the winner of that game going to the Super Bowl. I say “we,” even though I don’t own the team or have a son or husband who plays on the team. When you’re a fan, you’re part of a community. You’re a We.

After the win, I immediately flew back home the next morning and went right back to work on a script rewrite that had a super quick turnaround after notes. It was a great project, oozing potential. After Army Wives, I’d gotten used to pulling all nighters, my eyes red, my soul bargaining with the muses not to abandon me now, sitting in a chair for 13 hours straight until my fingers cramped up, the early beginnings of carpal tunnel.

When I was a young, hopeful writer, delivering flowers during the day and waitressing at night, I was most impressed with writers. Their names were on books! That alone was pretty shocking. Some magic threshold had been crossed. I stood patiently in line to get a book signed by Tom Robbins. I had devoured his earlier book Jitterbug Perfume, and owned a first edition copy.

Although he was only scheduled to appear for 2 hours, Tom signed books for over 5 hours, until the last person was gone. When I finally met him, he was tired, yet strangely invigorated. Surprised it seemed, by the never-ending line, “just to meet me.”

I quoted my favorite line from Jitterbug. “Erleichda. Lighten up.” He smiled. The woman standing next to him smiled.

As I was leaving with my signed book, the woman ran after me. She blurted out, “You know, he writes all his books in long hand and he has carpal tunnel now. But he won’t stop writing or doing these signings.” I looked at her, the urgency in her voice. Was she his wife? Agent?

I said, "Oh." Not entirely sure what carpal tunnel even was back then. She continued, breathless, “After he’s done, he’ll go home and lay flat on his back in a dark room for 24 hours, he’s in so much pain.”

Then she looked at me. In that look, I knew she loved him. I don’t know why she chose me to tell this to – but I’ve never forgotten it. We all make a choice to do what to do, but everything has its price.

Back in September, the New Orleans Saints began their season. I brought my father to the first home game. He was having a difficult time walking. So, for the first time ever, I hired a driver. Lucien. He and his wife have 8 kids. They lost everything they had in Katrina. Every material thing, that is. Lucien still had his smile and his love for the city. Stories were shared, and a new friend was found.

I hired Lucien to drop us off and pick us up after the game. Lucien waited in the Superdome parking lot with the other drivers. They huddled around the radio, listening to the game being played inside.

Lucien had never been to a Saints game before, never able to afford a ticket, but he was a diehard fan, just like me. Whenever I came back into town for a game, I’d hire Lucien to drive me to and from the Superdome, but I’d also log onto StubHub and buy him a single ticket. I couldn’t bear the thought of him sitting just steps outside, listening, so close yet so far from his team.

In turn, Lucien told all the guests he picked up from the airport that they should show up at the movie theatre to see Valentine’s Day because his friend wrote it. When I learned he was saying this, I thought – poor tourists. Just wanting a drive-thru daiquiri and here they are getting movie recommendations. But we all pay it forward.

The day I was leaving for the airport, Marda was standing on her 2nd floor wrought iron balcony, waiting to see me off. When I came out of my front door, she waved goodbye. Lucien was already there, holding open the front passenger door to the black sedan. He remembered I get car sick and have to sit in the front, not the back. On the seat was a wrapped gift. Inside, a fleur-de-lis scarf he had picked up at a gift shop when he was giving tourists a view of one of our plantations.

It’s the small kindnesses that matter the most. Committing to memory how someone likes their coffee. Knowing what face makes them laugh when skies are gray. A scarf bought on a plantation gift tour.

I reminded Marda I would not be there next week for the Championship Game, then hugged her goodbye. She nodded solemnly. That’s right. You have a marshmallow. Marda hated the word “deadline,” so she called them “marshmallows.” Much easier to swallow that way.

I had a marshmallow waiting for me in Los Angeles, a movie coming out, my daughter turned 3, my heart was not broken, and things were going really well. But instead of embracing all the good in my life, that Saturday morning, I was in my own shower, tearing myself down in a random act of hating.

Then I got out, grabbed a towel and dripping wet, logged onto my computer and saw a photo of a random flower that I swerved off a busy street to take and posted on Facebook for the world to see.

I was struck again by my own need to spread the word, to almost proselytize on how one unknown person chose to spend his or her day. Because our days will end. When someone dies, we’re filled with sadness. But also, out of that sadness often comes, “I just wish I had realized what I had when I had it – because now it’s gone.”

44 years of being a Saints fan and I had never been to a Championship Game, yet here I was sitting at home. In step with Edna St. Vincent Millay, I’ve always burned the candle at both ends, stockpiling memories in case I’m snatched away from this place too soon. Why am I not giving myself this memory?

I texted my friend Rita. She wrote back, “Come home. You’re loved here.”

If I was going to do this, I had to leave that day. No flights leaving in the morning would get me to the Championship Game on time. It was Saturday afternoon already. There was only one flight that would work. It was leaving LAX in 40 minutes. It would change flights in Dallas, with a 3-hour layover, and get into New Orleans at midnight. The last minute ticket cost $1600 and change. I live 20 minutes away from LAX.

I drove 60mph in a 35, thinking if I get a speeding ticket, it’s still cheaper than that plane ticket I haven’t paid for yet so I never slowed down. If I did, I wouldn’t make it.

I pulled into Terminal 7, looking for a parking spot. I’ve parked here so many times before that I knew I’d end up on the top level of the structure, forced to run down several flights of stairs. But there was one parking spot dead center in front of the terminal entrance. At first I thought, this must be a handicapped space. Nope. It was a real space in front. I parked.

There was a long line at the ticket counter. I ran up to a closed window, begging the woman to sell me my ticket. She was not amused. “What is wrong with you people? Always running in here late. If you’d only leave an hour earlier, you’d have plenty of time. But no, you put us through all your stress.”

She was right. I remembered taking a course in traffic school where the instructor said most accidents caused by left-hand turns could be avoided if the driver just looked ‘beyond’ and waited. From then on, whenever I gauge, “I think I can make it if I gun it,” I look ahead one car – and he was right. Many a time, the road was empty. There’s no one behind that car, if we look beyond.

The ticket agent keyed in my license, then looked at me and said, “Your flight’s been delayed 15 minutes. If you run, you can make it.”

I took the ticket and ran up the escalator to security. A man in front of me took one look at my frenzied state and said, “Go ahead.” More Go Aheads took me all the way to the gate, where the plane was completely boarded and the ramp door about to close.

I threw my ticket at the flight attendant, and then raced down the ramp to the plane. When I was on the plane, I noticed a Latino man, Ruben, in Saints gear. We both nodded a quiet hello. Then he suddenly shouted  out – “WHO DAT?!” The passengers looked up, confused. This was a flight to Texas, after all.  No one knew what a who dat was.

When the plane landed in Dallas, Ruben was already up in the aisle, itching to get off. Hey. What’s up? The connecting flight to New Orleans doesn’t leave for 3 hours. He looked at me, confused. It leaves in 45 minutes.

Ruben grabbed my hand and we raced through the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport. The gate was two terminals away from where we landed. We had to take a tram. We ran down long escalators to the waiting tram. It was closing. I slammed my hand into the tram doors and stopped it. My hand was bleeding. But I’m a girl full of random acts of adrenaline, so I barely felt it.

On the tram, Ruben and I started talking. He and his brother had gone to Saints games as long as he could remember. Then his brother died a few years ago. Yesterday, Ruben was sitting at his desk in his office, looking at a picture of his brother. He swore his brother started talking to him. Dude. Why aren’t you going to be there? You know I would be there with you if I could.

So Ruben bought a last minute, high-priced ticket and was going to the game alone. I looked at him, tears in my eyes, and just said, “Thank you for telling me that story.”

When I landed in New Orleans, Lucien was waiting at the curb to pick me up. He wasn’t surprised at all to see me. He said, “We knew you’d be here.” “We, who is we?” I asked.

“Me and Marda.” Then he told me about the scene I didn’t see last week. The scene that played out when I was still inside my condo, packing to leave.

Marda stepped out onto her 2nd floor balcony, the same balcony we throw Mardi Gras beads from, and shouted down to Lucien, who was waiting on the street for me to come outside. Lucien and Marda had become friends now, too. Lucien drove us to the game the week before, when I handed him two tickets to the Championship Game so he could take his wife. I’ll never forget the surprised look on that dear woman’s face when she thanked me. We give to receive. Prize the surprise.

So Marda told Lucien, “Katherine’s going to tell us she won’t be here next week for the Championship Game.” Lucien said, “Really? She won’t be here?”

Marda laughed. “She says that, but she’ll be here. She can’t help herself. So let’s just smile and don’t argue.”

Shaking his head at Marda, Lucien nonetheless agreed to “just smile,” but had to add, “She has to be here. It wouldn’t be right if she wasn’t.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “I didn’t even know I was going to be here until 5 hours ago, so how could you two know I was going to be here last week?!”

Lucien said, “Because you believe. You believe so much, the rest of us believe, too.”

Then Lucien asked me, “Now who are those people you got with you?”

I turned and introduced Lucien to Ruben, from the first flight, and Kara, from the second. Kara, too, was on a magical odyssey of her own. She and her husband paid those same big online ticket prices for game tickets. He was already in New Orleans, but she had to stay behind to finish her nursing school exams. They lost so much during Katrina. But it was also the great equalizer. Rich and poor had to stand in the same line for the same amount of water.

Lucien and I dropped off Kara at her hotel, then Ruben. We all hugged, expecting never to see each other again.

The Championship Game was one of the best games in Saints history. It all came down to one kick in overtime. The Superdome seats approximately 72,000 people. I stood against the railing and looked down. There sat Ruben, sitting directly below me. I screamed his name. He looked up. Smiled.

The overtime kick lives in infamy now. The kicker, Garrett Hartley, admitting that two weeks earlier, he told his father that he dreamt he kicked the winning field goal in the Championship Game, then that night, he went out and did it. The Saints were finally in the Super Bowl. I looked down at Ruben, seeing a grown man in tears looking back up at me, the ghost of his brother sitting right next to him.

I realized I too was crying, my body wracked with sobs. Remembering 24 hours ago, I was in a shower in Los Angeles, attacking the body that gave me my child. And it took a random flower painted on a wall by a stranger I never met to get me on a plane for a once in a life time event that I will never forget.

Then I felt a woman appear on the other side of me. She was pretty, young. I turned to her, my face wet, no stream of water, no shower to hide my tears. She said, “I was just watching your back as you sorta broke down after the win. I’ve never seen such pure emotion before. It was beautiful.”

Colette said, “I’ve had a wonderful life. I just wish I’d realized it sooner.”

Time goes by so fast, the days becoming nights, becoming days. I just made the bed five minutes ago and now I'm falling into it again. My daughter is changing shoe sizes like seasons, her vocabulary adding hundreds of new words each month. Yesterday she said, “Mommy, remember you want to do more.”

There is a spiritual law that says your life is the way it is today because of the choices you made yesterday. If you don’t like how your life looks, make a different choice.

I want to paint flowers on random streets. But I don’t have the talent. What I can do is thank the woman who did. Her name is Andrea LaHue. She created the Cross-Country Random Acts of Flowers Project, painting flowers on empty buildings with For Lease signs all across the country.

This is Andrea's website.

I tracked her down after six months of searching. I found her through Pablo, who runs a website on graffiti art in Los Angeles called the dirt floor.

Pablo said, “I must say, her approach is refreshing in the sense that it comes from a place of sincerity rather than social criticism or sarcasm. There is some really great stuff going on in the street.”

Yeah, Pablo. There is some really great stuff going on in the street. As Andrea said, “The interaction with all the communities is surprisingly the same. Flowers make everybody happy.”

Then she pulled up a thought. 

“There’s a big blank wall across the street from Target on La Brea. Tempting ... very tempting.”

Every day we make a choice.  This memory or that.  Chaos or calm.   

Pick up your paintbrush and choose.

Update:

Kickstarter >> The Cross Country Random Acts of Flowers and YOU, Summer 2010 by Andrea LaHue Andrea LaHue is raising funds for The Cross Country Random Acts of Flowers and YOU, Summer 2010 on Kickstarter! Artist Andrea LaHue will uplift, beautify and inspire by painting Giant Flowers on "for lease" buildings across the United States.

Andrea, the inspiration for my latest blog, Random Acts, is taking her flower power on the road! Andrea is raising funds for her summer cross-country tour of random love. Pls consider making a $10 donation - which pays for a gallon of paint - and I will match EACH DONATION myself! Follow me on Facebook and post there when you do so I can keep track! Let's help this lady spread the joy! 

17 february 2010

I was honored to be the Featured Screenwriter of the Month at Storylink.com and my question and answer interview is now up.  Thank you for your questions - I hope my answers inspire you to go forth and conquer!  

11 february 2010

IT'S ALL ABOUT LOVE THIS WEEKEND! 

So grab a hand, open your heart and get to the theater!

FRIENDS AND FAMILY: It's on! I just bought 50 TICKETS to "Valentine's Day" at the ARCLIGHT HOLLYWOOD this SATURDAY, FEB 13th at the 8:20PM SHOWING.

I WILL BE INTRODUCING THE MOVIE. THERE WILL BE A LINE FOR MY FOKKERS (Friends of Katherine) and I will personally hand you your movie ticket.

THE FIRST 50 FOKKERS ARE FREE - MY GUESTS!

LET'S ROCK THIS LOVE PLANET! SEE YOU THERE!

click on the pics above to see a slideshow of the premiere!

 

13 February 2010

Feeling the love from the Who Dat Nation and New Orleans in this 'local girl done good' story by Mike Scott in today's Times-Picayune!  Best story ever as it's about my love for the city of New Orleans - and feels like a big warm hug of lagniappe!   

 

 31 january 2010

The Soul of New Orleans

"The people of New Orleans love the Saints not because they provide a distraction from their fall, but because they are a reflection of their rise."
 
If you have ever wondered why New Orleans lives in the blood, coursing through the veins, take a moment and watch this just released video about the city, the Saints, the fleur de lis and the soul and heart of our recovery.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ugV6gcXGPwk

26 january 2010

Patricia Velasquez, my friend and President of the Wayuu Taya Foundation has created a brilliant way to show solidarity with our brothers and sisters in Haiti and to build an new orphanage and school there, as her foundation already does in Venezuela. 

Patricia has commissioned a jeweler to create a specially designed "H" charm as a necklace or bracelet to represent Help, Hope and Haiti.  All you have to do is wear an "H" - you'll look hip and give hope and help to a great cause.  Please see the link above to be part of the solution! 

22 january 2010 

next month i will be the Featured Screenwriter of the month at Storylink.com. post a question for me in the StoryLink Forum by February 7, and if your question is chosen, you will receive a The Dialogue: Learning from the Masters DVD (Winner's Choice) from The Writers Store.

15 january 2010

"Soles4Souls" -- donate your gently worn men and women's shoes to those in need in Haiti...all through Sports Chalet. Now through Jan 31st. if you don't live near a Sports Chalet (or after Jan 31st), you can still donate. please visit www.soles4souls.org to find a local drop off point in your area. you can specify where you want your donation to go (ie Haiti).

13 January 2010

HAITI EARTHQUAKE RELIEF INITIATIVE

Haiti is one of the poorest countries in the world. Let's help assist our brothers and sisters there today. There are many wonderful charities to donate to. The Wayuu Taya Foundation was created and is run by a personal friend of mine, Patricia Velasquez. I can vouch for her and the promise that 100% of your donation will go directly to Haiti as they deal with this terrible tragedy.

Wayuu Tayaa, is on my links page because i've personally seen them in action.

Please consider sending any amount possible today. And include the people of Haiti in your prayers tonight.

www.wayuutaya.org

The Wayúu Tayá Foundation is a nonprofit organization created in 2002 to help improve the lives of Latin-American indigenous people while maintaining and respecting their traditions, culture and beliefs.

my friend Marti Noxon, a writer, can also vouch for this organization: Americares. here is her message:

My husband and I know the people behind this organization very well and if you want to help provide quick and efficient medical relief to the people of Haiti, you can be assured that AMERICARES will provide when others can not.

www.americares.org

AmeriCares gives disaster relief and humanitarian medical aid to people in crisis in the USA and around the world. Please donate to help us save lives. This Christmas Holiday, honor your loved one with an eCard from AmeriCares!

additionally, you may also have heard of the texting system, conceived after the success of voting for American Idol. donations are added to your cellphone bill.

1) hip hop star Wyclef Jean's Yéle Haiti charity where you can text YELE to 501501 to give $5 to help with earthquake relief efforts.

2) The US State Department seems to favor the Red Cross, where you can text "HAITI" to "90999" to donate $10 to the Red Cross.

3) In Canada, people can donate $5 to the Salvation Army by texting "Haiti" to 45678 through a system set up by the Mobile Giving Foundation.

so whichever your avenue, please take a moment to choose one and give from the heart today! 

12 january 2010

Valentine's Day Featurette

25 December 2009

Whenever I start feeling stressed about shopping, finding the perfect gift to express how I feel, worrying if the receiver will actually like an electronic drum set (my lawyer) or karaoke machine (my agent), I see a video like this and remember that no matter who we are or where we live in this world, we all carry with us the best gift we can give to each other:  Love. 

All You Need Is Love.   Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!

 

21 november 2009

What the Fugly? 

About once a week I have a dream about Fergie. I’ve never met Fergie. Despite living in Los Angeles, I’ve never even seen Fergie. And we’re talking Stacy Ann Ferguson, not the royal one across the pond. My Fergie-mares started over the summer. Prior to that, I’m not even sure Fergie was on my radar. In the pilot for Army Wives, we had “My Humps” playing in a key scene, only to lose it at the last minute because of licensing fees. “I Gotta Feeling” currently plays over the teaser trailer of Valentine’s Day. So yes, I’ve always had some love for the Black Eyed Peas, but I couldn’t name one of them. Not even the girl.

But that all ended when I saw several websites calling her “Fugly” instead of Fergie. In the first dream, I simply walked up to her and said, “Don’t you mind that assholery. You look great.” Fergie seemed thankful enough. But the dreams continued and basically all along the same lines—some version of me telling her that all that tearing down is simply to make smaller people feel bigger. It’s their 15 seconds of fame against the many years of yours. Be bigger than that and walk in your light.

But after the fifth Fergie dream, I began to wonder what the hell was going on here. My friend Lisa would patiently listen to me recount the Fergie dream of the week, until she finally said, “You want to protect her. You’re the champion of the underdog. Look around. You feed turtles, fish, birds, squirrels, and your toothless dog is a rescue from the streets of Mexico.”

Ironically, Lisa, who wasn’t dreaming about Fergie, knew more about Fergie than I did. She knew about her past drug addiction, her early career, and that she grew up in a suburb of Los Angeles. My male friend had another answer: “She’s got a slamming body and you want to sleep with her. Forget all that nice stuff. That’s like foreplay or something for girls.” I, of course, blushed. That was certainly part of dream Number 4, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. The beauty of dreams is that they’re yours to create and keep. I’ve had many gifts in dreams and I understand their power.

I’ve long studied dreams. I’ve studied Freud and Jung. I’ve kept a dream journal. I’ve even solved troublesome act breaks and turning point reveals in dreams. I’ve so come to trust my dreams that I keep a pad, paper and mini-light next to my bed to write them down, should one be so insistent to wake me up in the middle of the night.

When my mother died, I was in my early 20s. It was 10:30 in the morning when I received a phone call. “You’d better sit down.” I stayed standing, phone pressed to my ear. What is it? “Your mother was just killed in a car accident.” That’s how it happens for some of us. The phone rings, we answer it. I hung up and went over to my calendar and wrote down the words: Mom died today. I think writing the words made them real to me.

Death is stressful. A lot has to be done: funerals arranged, forms signed, people to feed, hands to be shaken, belongings to be packed. Then it dies down some and you’re left with your dreams. In the first dream, my mother was playing piano. She didn’t play piano in real life. But she did in the dream. Her hair was long and blonde and she was highlighted by a golden sun coming through the window. She smiled as she played a classical piece. She was healthy, vibrant, and alive.

When she finished, I clapped. Although I was an adult, I felt very young and filled with the unconditional love and wonderment that a child has for a parent. After all, when we are very small, our parents are superheroes. They can carry us on their backs, they drive cars, and they use big words.

When my mother was finished playing the piano, she stood up, her long white cotton dress, diaphanous and glowing in the sun. She was going to go into the kitchen and get some lemonade. Did I want some? My heart raced and I was seized with panic. Don’t go in there! She smiled softly, why not? I said, because you’re dead. If you go into that other room, I won’t see you again. You have to stay right here and play some more. She called me silly and moved into the other room. I woke up in tears.

There is a scene in the movie Carolina that I wrote that is loosely based on my life. In that scene, Julia Stiles (Carolina) goes to a tow yard to pick up Grandma Mirabeau’s (Shirley MacLaine) belongings that were in her car when she died in a car accident. In the movie, Carolina confronts some fugly assholery. They won’t release her grandmother’s belongings until she pays for the tow and housing of the wrecked car. They don’t take checks or credit cards, both of which she has. Cash only. So Carolina loses it.

The true story is that I was collecting my mother’s belongings after she died. Yes, I still cursed the tow yard owner up one side and down the other—crying and screaming, what the hell! My mother was dead. He can’t keep her things. He has to give them to me. They’re mine, not his. And yes, it was his wife, just like she did in the movie, who finally gave me the keys to the car so I could go get them.

But the next scene never played in the movie, because I never wrote it into the script. When I reached my mother’s car, broken and lying next to so many other cars, with its tin can crushed body and torn and missing limbs, all I could think was, no one could have survived this.

It was hot in the desert. Almost in the 100s. I opened the car door, carrying a bag. The steering wheel was smashed into the seat. You couldn’t get a body in there to drive. The windshield was gone. She had been thrown through it. There was dark paint everywhere. Curious. I found her purse. More paint. I opened the glove box and started pulling out her papers. I found a hairbrush, strands of her blonde hair still entangled, alive. Her clothes were cut in half; I would later learn the paramedics cut them off her body to work on her after they arrived and found her on the black asphalt.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my Aunt Kathy, my mother’s sister. I gave her the bag of all my mother’s things, and then I asked her, “Where did all this paint come from?”

She said softly, “Honey, that’s her blood.“

I don’t know how far I ran, but it was when I hit a chain link fence that I stopped. My chest hurt, but my heart hurt more. I fell to my knees. The world began to spin. Then I heard music. It was the piano. It was the same song my mother played in my dream and it was coming from the sky.

Words have such power. They can lift us up or they can tear us down. They can heal or they can destroy. But at the end of our lives, it’s the words left unsaid that haunt us. When you lose someone so suddenly, all you think about is all the words you didn’t say.

I was a waitress when my mother died. Ironing a white shirt every night, using clear nail polish to stop a run in a pair of nylons. I had big dreams back then, but I also believed I wasn’t good enough to make them come true. But another part of me kept fighting. The part that carried my mother’s DNA inside and wanted to give meaning to her tragic life by making something of the person she left behind. It’s nice to think that somehow, somewhere, she knows that I have carried on. And that she has a grandchild now, who will do the same after I am gone.

My friend Howard’s wife recently died. He told me that he and his wife had every intention of growing old together. A week ago, she had visited him in a dream. In the dream, he realized something was wrong—that Anne was dead. When he told her they shouldn’t be talking and laughing, as they were, because she was dead, she said, “I love you,” and then disappeared. I told Howard that if he thinks Anne visited him, then she did, and to not think any further than that.

Dreams are powerful things. If we dream when we are awake, we can become astronauts and walk on the moon. If we dream when we’re asleep, we can walk on stars. There is a theory that all the people in a dream are really you: the hero you, the villain you, the healing you, the broken you. And all the yous have a common goal: to help you love yourself a little bit better.

So if we dream about Fergie, perhaps we’re really trying to say to the world, WTF, people? Why spend so much time publicly tearing someone else down? Is this really how we want to treat each other? When did all this fugly assholery become a sport, especially on the Internet, where underneath the cape of anonymity, we’ve returned to the Wild, Wild West?

As my friend Christina said, “Sure, you're a successful [fill in the blank], but I get to use these next 30 seconds to try to make you feel like shit. That's the power I have over you."

There was a time when a handwritten letter arrived on a silver platter via horseback a month after it was written. But now, words move swifter than ever. The speed of the Internet allows us to have a thought and let the world read it a second later. We can accidentally hit send on an e-mail we had no plan of actually sending. We can drunk text, then regret it the next morning. But once it’s out there, it’s out there, and it can’t be taken back. All the apologies in the world do not make it unread.

Because of the tragic death of my mother and so many others around me, I’ve made it a mantra to carpe my diem. Speak my truth. Be bold. But even if fortune favors the brave, I’ve been punched in the gut a few times lately by blurting out too much truth without thinking of the consequences. I made the mistake of not stopping to ask, Is this for the greater good? Will it create comfort or will it create chaos?

I was sitting in a dentist’s chair—a routine teeth cleaning - 10 years after my mother died. The 8th floor office window overlooked the tops of lush green trees. Beyond the trees was the sea. The dental hygienist popped in a CD and gave me a set of headphones. The first few notes of a piano began. I got the chills. It was the song my mother was playing in my dream. When the hygienist tilted my chair back, she noticed the tears streaming down my face. She asked me what was wrong. I said, I never really told my mother I loved her. I was so mad at her the last few years of her life. I know it’s a cliché, but I could’ve been nicer. I could’ve been.

So perhaps that is why my mother, like Howard’s dear wife Anne, came to me in the dream. To tell us both it’s all right. They know. We loved them as they loved us. That’s what dreams are made of. And perhaps that’s why I dream of Fergie. Because she’s a person with a heart, with dreams, who’s conquered some hurdles, has made some mistakes, but has kept on fighting. Maybe Fergie is me. Maybe Fergie is all of us to some degree. And none of us deserve to be called fugly. Them words just ain’t right. And look at her. They ain’t even true.

 

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