My Aunt Cindy

Tonight I had a lovely, if not random-ish, message on facebook from a woman who was one of my late Aunt Cindy's best friends. I was astonished, flattered and well...thrown into a big tornado of "WTF?"

My Aunt Cindy, Lucinda (Lewis) Boone, was an extraordinary woman, and a paragon for me since I was a gangly little kid with skinny legs and too much "gumption and booksmarts." I was told by my mother, from the time I started talking that I reminded her of her sister. I grew up with an ingrained pride in being like my Aunt. She was a remarkable woman.

Here's the thing: I only met her a few times in my life, and yet she is closer to me than many, many other relatives. Why? Because she "got" me. Christmas presents would come and I would have all sorts of gadgets and goodies, but when I opened Aunt Cindy's present, there was everything I was thinking and dreaming and believing in. She just knew me. Sometimes even more so that my parents. When I got older she had sage advice. For instance "When things got me really down in college I would just smoke a cigarette, drink some wine and listen to Joan Baez or Joni Mitchell." So of course my college career was totally threaded with the dulcet tones of long haired hippy women...whom I have now become. But I still have all of her emails and all of them essentially say, to paraphrase, "Be yourself, you are wonderful, and keep creating."

And I think I "got" Aunt Cindy, as much as a precocious child/eccentric teen/early-twenties-fuckup could. I knew a kindred spirit the first time I met her, when I was 3 years old and she let me eat my dinner next to the cat bowl with her fluffy kitty because I was not Natasha, NO! I was Inkabell the black kitty. Seriously I lived in black tights and a leotard and ate out of dishes on the floor. I blame Andrew Lloyd Webber...but I digress. Aunt Cindy totally embraced this first meeting of her kitty-niece and loved me all the same.

She got to see me, in life, only a few times more. They were lovely times. Times I will never, ever forget and very important times to me, at this point in my ife. Now, as a woman (because I am FINALLY starting to feel like one) moving into an age where all that chaos is (hopefully) being slowly absorbed into the ether of the past, I feel I am seeing my amazing Aunt in a new light.

The first thing I turned my attention to was my Uncle Michael. When Cindy died, I had no idea what he was going through. I had never known love like theirs, and I am sure that few people have. But now, after marrying my best friend, and living through only a few years of life together, I could not imagine such a loss. If anything happened to Jason, or if I knew that I was going to leave him in despair...well that, my friends, is true tragedy. My Uncle lives it everyday and all want to do when I think of him is apparate, like some J.K. Rowling character, and give him the biggest hug and cook him a meatloaf. I really wish I could. I wish I could let him know how much I still love him. There are some uncles in my past, who married family and divorced, and honestly I wasn't bothered to see the back of them. But Michael is family. Always.

I love so fiercely. From as long as I can remember my biggest fear was the people I love dying. And here I am, so far away from the people I love, so that that fear takes everything out of my hands. When my Aunt Cindy was dying I was unable to come to her. I tried, but I was told she "wouldn't want me to see her like that." I dunno. I regret it. I regret the fact that my family on that side barely speaks to me now. Family can be so fickle, but you would think, after years of sadness, we might all want to relish something light.

That's what Cindy would have wanted.

My Aunt Cindy always had funny ideas for me. She liked picking out celebrities for me to marry. One time it was Derek Jeter....good thing she died before it came out that he is a walking STD. The best was after she saw "The Pianist" and emailed me saying "I think the man for you is Adrien Brody!!!" She totally got my thing for guys with big noses. It's too bad she never got to meet my Jason. His nose would knocked her out, as would his manners, joie de vivre and sweetness. I would like to think she would have approved. In fact, I think she would have totally dug (is that the right form of "like it dig it man!" ?) our wedding as she loved Arizona and we played the Beatles in our ceremony, which was officiated by a woman.

There is so much about my aunt that I want to know. She was writing books. I want to read them. She was so fantastically interesting and amazing and yet I feel I have always been distanced. I don't know if it was space or people. I was the perpetual "kid," as she liked to call me. All I know is that I miss her, and I regret the time that I wasted not getting to be more a part of her life. And I desperately hope that the rest of my family, who is part of her, will allow me to to be part of theirs.

I think Aunt Cindy would have loved Okinawa. In fact, I think she would have approved of everything, except that I was not acting. But I will make her proud. She'll see. ;)

I Would Like the Disaster, Please, And a Salad Nicoise with a Cold Sancerre, Thanks.

In the last few hours I have been examining a lot of my friends' status remarks on Facebook. I have had several online conversations with some very unhappy people. This election has gotten everyone's knickers in a twist, and I, being an expat, am at a loss. Disaster, it seems, has happened again....or to some, perhaps, great strides have been made. I, being a little too bohemian in my principles to ever appeal to the Right of Wing, am resoundingly, if not by default, liberal. So there we are, it is another "Disaster."

But when I really sat down and thought about the word Disaster, and what it meant to me, who has lived through many, is that my particular sense memory has me recalling the most ridiculous thing. Food! I was astonished. Every episode of my life that held some sort of Disaster, when remembered like a good little actress/writer in my giant sensual recollection box, had a memory of food, and I started to think about how, in times of great horror, fear, despair, or need, how truly fascinating it is to nourish. So I thought it might be interesting to catalogue my memories here and see what they amounted to.

I suppose the first memory I have of Disaster was my parent's divorce, although consciously I don't recall it as a Disaster, I suppose a therapist might, and it was a major moment in my life. The funny thing is I have no bad memories from it at all. The only thing I know is that after my parents divorced, there were suddenly these great weekends with my father that brought us so close together. Rituals that last, to this day, when we can embrace them. The first was Friday night dinners at El Chapparrel, my favorite, yet now nonexistent Mexican joint. We would roll in and know half the people in there. Dad would get his green corn tamale and chicken enchilada, and me a deep fried bean burro with extra hot salsa. We would laugh and talk about the world, movies, school...and when I went to bed at night I was always satiated and loved. In the mornings he would wake me and we would go to local breakfast joints like "Waffles 'n' More" (mmm strawberry syrup) or "The Juniper House" (best pancakes of my life) and then promptly hike it all off. He is smart, my dad. He knew how to make a transition from something potentially life damaging, like a divorce, into a cool new way of looking at life. Even with our summer trips, I have nostalgia for the camping food he cooked on the propane stove. It was lovely.

In a way the next life Disaster was something different. When my parents divorced I was still loved and had lost no one, but when my step father killed himself when I was still just a girl, I finally faced a Disaster head on. I faced it, and had to face my poor mother, who had lost more than even I had. It was around then when she stopped cooking, I think. She was never a big one for chef-dom, but after my Grammie, who had come in to help out for awhile, moved out, well...my mom could not be bothered. Not that I blame her! In fact I got my love of experimental restaurant-ing from her! We ate out all the time. I learned to try so many new foods and eat on a budget! I learned all about the different jobs of waitstaff and soon we knew every waiter, busboy and chef in town! I have survived, during hard times, with this knowledge, and still make friends with waiters, bartenders, bussers and chefs all over the world.

There wasn't much Disaster after this. I think, looking back, I lived a bit of a charmed life. It wasn't until 9/11 that I endured another bout of disaster, as did all Americans. The funny thing was, that day, that actual morning, I was moving to London for the first time. I had a $1000 in my pocket and a dream of acting in my jet lagged head. My friends picked me up at Gatwick and we hurried along to a little pub. I do not remember what I was eating there. I only know that when the bartender switched over to the news and we saw what was happening, we all ordered several more pints of lager. The food that I do remember, after that tragedy, was served two days later, at a dinner party thrown especially for me, to introduce me to my new life and get my mind out of the terror regime that was becoming my country. Leila, my friend, made Iranian cuisine while her husband made French desserts. Someone brought English Trifle. The wine was from all over the world and so were the guests. We drank loads, stuffed ourselves, laughed, cried and cleansed. Through that dinner party I was able to see the world, and what was happening to it, from many different cultural, moral and intellectual points of view. I was relieved of the burden of worrying about a country or a government I could not understand anymore, but rather incited to listen to people and discern and to LEARN. That dinner made a new breed of American.

Later that year, not long after 9/11, I was traveling through France and had two more Disasters. One was in the old part of Nice. I was having my first Salad Nicoise with a beautiful glass of Sancerre and I watched a man die of a drug overdose just a few meters away from where I was sitting. I still love that salad and that wine, but it will always be an epitaph for that poor man.
The second French Disaster was a lot more serious. I was staying in a seedy hotel on Rue de Mavais du Garcons. It means "street of the bad boys." Shoulda been a sign. I was just bringing my dinner guests, Lionel and Susanne, back to my place for a quick drop of Absinthe before we headed out to the clubs, when we were accosted by the owner, who was a bit drunk. He refused to let my friends in my room. When I said it was just to have a drink and change my shoes, he said we had five minutes. We hurried up the stairs and no sooner were we in the room then he was banging down the door demanding to "speak to the man!" I was furious of course but Lionel took over. The three of them followed the crazy owner downstairs, but I had the most incredible feeling that I had to get out of there. I quickly packed my bags and started down the spiral staircase. Just as I got to a view of the front area I saw the owner pull some sort of bat from behind the desk! Lionel and Susanne ran from the man swinging at their heads. They barely escaped through the glass door. I don't know what came over me but I was furious. He had locked them out and me in. I confronted him. Told him, in amazingly good french, that he would have to answer to the American Embassy. HE asked for money, of which I had none.
"But you are an American. Of course you have money!"
We argued. I don't remember much but finally i just started screaming, to try and rouse another of the people in the hotel. Then he came after me with the bat. Just as I had reached the end of the line, the glass door where Susanne was pounding and crying, the Gendarme (with darling Lionel!) broke down the door and saved my fucking life.
Six hours later, at the prefect of police, turns out my hotelier was a terrorist, wanted for years for car bombings. C'est la vie, mais no?
How does this relate to food? It was Lionel. Lionel took my poor broken body back to his home that morning, went to the fresh market and bought the most amazing meats and cheeses, fruits and breads. I had the best French meal of my life that day. It renewed me, healed my wounds, gave me life, confidence, joy. It made me realize the magic of cooking. He made coq au vin and it save my soul, just as he had saved my life.

In so many times in my life, when I felt the waves of Disaster, whether it be political, emotional, natural, economical...food has always been there. The impromptu, half naked BBQ we had on the roof during the NYC blackout so none of our food would be wasted. The scones an elderly grandmother of a friend gave me with tea after my brief run in with the Northern Ireland Troubles. The big shopping carts of randomness from the food bank that I had to make into magic after the economy collapsed and my new husband and I were unemployed. A beautiful toasted bagel and cream cheese in the early hours after I watched a man be shot to death in front of me in Brooklyn. The champagne ceremony I held for my aunt who died, who was celebrated so that night, even though I was the only one who actually knew her. The way my also late grandmother used to fill her fridge with food when my dad and I would come to visit and insist on cooking breakfast and dinner for us, even when she was getting frail. There is a resonance to these sad sad things. These scary things. These survival things.

I think again (I know you who are rolling your eyes) of the zombies. I suppose in a way we can circle this back to zombies anyway as I started by talking about politics. But let's look at the zombies. All they look for is food. We pretend to be so above the zombies but we are just the same. We are afraid of our own mortality and when faced with it, of course we revel in the pleasures we are afforded! The feasts after the wars! The drinks at a wake. We all can be put together again by food and drink. No matter where you are in the world, food is one of the main centers of all cultures. From the Masai who drink cows blood, to the French who eat snails and even that eternal comfort food, the Big Mac....it all means something to someone. When we eat, we are truly living. When we eat we say, "Hey man! I am fucking ALIVE and I can survive!" When we eat, we are dispersing Disaster.

Namely a Hairy Matter

"It's your hair. Who cares. Fuck it!" said my friend Beau from the slightly scratchy Skype portal. "Why do you care about people's opinions so much anyway?"

I thought about that for a minute. Why did I care? I know back in the day, when I was a successful, working actress, that my hair was not my property. I remember being ripped a new one by a wig stylist for "Peter Pan." I was 18 and new to professional theatre. I was wigged for every performance and thus thought that my hair did not really matter. No one told me that if I went from long hair to a little bob that it would misshape the $3000 human hair wigs I had to wear. But I learned my lesson, and after that I have tried to maintain "castable" hair, except for the occasions when I was not working, like now, where I reveled in the experimental. As my mother says, "It is only hair, after all, and it grows back."

And here I am, again without any acting prospects in the future, save the ones I make for myself, and no real job opportunities except for writing (an occupation decidedly antisocial) or maybe food service (but the Japanese girls get to have crazy colored hair so why not me?) and I honestly can't come up with a reason why a little purple hair dye (not even permanent!) should be a big deal.

Of course I do recognize that I am turning 30 in less than half a year and I feel the need to connect to my inner rebellious teenager. You see, I never did much wrong as a teen. I was too busy planning my acting career, a bit like Rachel from "Glee." I had the biggest plans in the world and did everything the way I thought it should be done. And I succeeded. But now I have no major plans, and even if I did I would have no means to them. I am living better than I have for my entire adult life. I am supposedly all grown up and doing things properly. So no I feel the incredible need to be improper. I know it is completely ridiculous, I know it is almost akin to a 50 year old man with a small penis and a boring life buying a red sports car and suddenly picking up 20 year old chicks in bars called "Echo" or "Slag" or whatever.

Women mature quicker than men. Does it not follow that our midlife crisis' occurs much earlier? Why were so many women in the 60's downing a handful of "Mother's Little Helper" in their late 20's/ early 30's? When faced with eternity in a house, making dinner, overseeing the cleaners and repairmen and the laundry etc etc....does it not follow that a little madness ensues?

Look at "Revolutionary Road," a film very dear to my heart. Here you have a woman, an actress, who marries an exciting young guy who is into all the things that she is. Adventure, travel, the arts. Flash forward and she has been moved to the suburbs, is a housewife with accident kids, her husband has a great job that pays for a great life, and she given up everything for this. And she is miserable. She convinces him to move to Paris and live the bohemian life again but the rut is so deep...and well, all I can say is I hope I never get pregnant.

Harsh this may sound, especially as I started this diatribe whining about my hair. But, IT IS MY HAIR. And MY name...oh yeah...that was a peach...

So this afternoon, whilst the completely inept repairman for the dryer was mucking about, I got a call from my darling husband, ranting and raving about the fact that he couldn't pick up the boxes from the post office because it had my last name on it. Well now let me preface this by saying he did not even try. The line was too long or some nonsense. He was SURE that they would not give him post because we had different last names. This is not the case, but there was a whole THING about the fact that my having my Ragsdale last name was a pain in the ass. Completely inconvenient because he had to EXPLAIN to people! I think mainly it is a slight to his (and all men's) archaic manhood that he must EXPLAIN that his wife chose to stay herself rather than take on a family heritage that she had nothing to do with.
"Well but no it would just be easier.." Fuck that! Was it "easier" for Jews, in the holocaust to pretend they were Christians? Was it "easier" for very light skinned black people to pretend they were white before the Civil Rights Movement(a la "Imitation of Life") or for Okinawans to change their nationality every five minutes because they were being taken over by China or Japan or the US? Was it easier for my mom to take on all the last names of her(ex)husbands? Sorry mom but a point has to be made!

YES. Yes it is easier for all involved if I become Mrs. Jason Garlock. But at what cost to me? I already feel as if I am nothing more than "Jason's Wife." I am struggling daily to retain a part of the amazing person I used to be. Don't take away my name!

How did I come to live in this society that is still ensnared in Victorian sensibility. A woman can serve in the military, but if she marries she HAS to get all new patches for her uniforms with her husband's last name on it? And I, I who was Ragsdale at birth, I who was christened by my parents, by the creators of me, Natasha Cristina Ragsdale, who has always known myself as that person, am asked to not be any longer.... well, and we ask ourselves why I feel the need, the desire, to dye my hair purple and flip the bird to the world.....

The Empty Glass: A Tale of Horror

The wind was howling fiercely at the shutters as the storm raged against the large, nearly empty house on the hill. In the living room candles flitted neurotically, the only source of light, the tempest having stolen the electricity about an hour ago. She sat all alone, save for her four cats who huddled, trembling at her feet. She sat still, sucking on a glass of wine for courage and reading the same line in the book, over and over. Occasionally she whipped her golden head around abruptly, in hope (or fear) to see what she felt, what she knew, MUST be watching her...but there was never anyone, or anything there.

Eventually, she found the glass empty, yet her nerves were still on edge. The decision had to be made. Try to bear it all in sober silence or leave the comfort of the sofa to fill the cup and ease the terror mounting every minute. One foot felt out for the cold, hard floor. Then another. Her legs were stiff, in fact every part of her body screamed out in the pain as it unfolded itself from the tense, curled position she had adopted, perhaps innately, as a means of self-preservation.

Slowly, she inched along in the darkness, toward the kitchen, feeling her way with a tentative hand against the wall. She realized, halfway there, that she should have brought a candle with her, but, with trepidation she soldiered on, knowing full well she did not have the courage to take this trip again. The boards creaked under foot, as loud as explosions in the silence of this inner part of the house. She was sure, if anything was laying in wait for her, that It would have no doubt where she was. As she reached the kitchen, she allowed herself a quick breath (she had held her breath the entire trip) and as the air released from her lips, breaking the eerie quiet, she swore she heard a breathy, whisper of a laugh from across the kitchen. Paralyzed with fear, she listened desperately for a few seconds, the fear building up in her like a volcano, that then, suddenly erupted. She grabbed the bottle from the counter and made a mad dash down the hall, knocking over plants and a vase in her frantic hurry.

When she reached the living room she slammed the door shut and pushed an over-stuffed armchair in front of it. Leaping onto the sofa, she stared at the door waiting, with heaving, gasping breaths, that, after awhile began to calm and slow and return to normal. After several minutes, she even chuckled a little to herself. What a ninny she was being. Her imagination had gotten the best of her, silly girl. Of course there was nothing in the house! What a nerd.

She smiled to herself as she lifted the bottle to pour another glass of wine, but the smile abruptly gaped open in horror. She couldn't scream, her eyes grew wide and filled with terror. It couldn't be possible!

The bottle was empty.

Rain Dance

It is one of those lovely rainy evenings, here on the island of Okay-Now-Wha? I have opened all the windows and balcony doors and am bathing in the sounds of tropical rain...all the birds and frogs and fruit bats and so forth, chirping, bellowing and cooing with delight in the cool, heavy dreaminess. The rain is always falling but it undulates in ways that I am not used to. It is almost like being in belly of a fish as it's gills open and close.

I have always loved the rain. Perhaps that is why I enjoyed living in London so much. You could count on the rain there, unlike growing up in my home state, Arizona, of which I thoroughly have to thank for my love of storms. When you grow up in fear of or in the midst of drought you tend to relish the rain, for it's protection from forest fires, it's nurturing, life-giving wetness that feeds the trees, the crops, the rivers, the animals, and the people, sustaining life. I remember as a child my parents taught me all about the Pueblo Indian tribes, particularly the Hopi Kachinas who brought the rain down from the mountains.

I saw my first Hopi Rain Dance when I was probably in 4th grade and very determinedly tried to emulate it in the school yard with my friends because I just couldn't wait til July for the monsoons to start!

The word "rain," in Okinawa, has a bit of a darker underbelly, however. One thinks of "The Rain of Steel," as was called The Battle of Okinawa, one of the most gruesome, bloody battles of World War II. And then, of course, typhoons are always a constant threat, particularly from June to November. Now I am thrilled by this. Perhaps I watched "Key Largo" one to many times as a kid, but I have always wanted to be in a hurricane, so when we got our official Typhoon Announcement (TCCOR) a few months ago I was ecstatic! I ran around making sure we had canned food and bottled water, that I filled all the bathtubs and sinks with water, double checked my emergency kit and stockpiled candles, cat food and wine (the essentials!) I was ready for an adventure!
We got quite a storm, I can tell you, but not anything like I expected. There were no branches flying at the windows or blackouts or anything like we were informed to be prepared for. All we did was wait and drink wine and watch an entire season of "Ugly Betty."
I know, especially now with our neighbors, The Philippines, getting inundated with what they are calling a "SUPER TYPHOON," that I should not be waxing poetic about my pathetic little Typhoon, but one can't very well be held accountable for their little fantasies. Especially if it involves Edward G. Robinson chewing on a cigar and hold us at gunpoint...but I digress.

The rain in Okinawa, is a lovely blend of expectation and surprise. You can count on it to show up several times a week, if only just to pop in and say hi...or rather konichiwa! Then again, you never quite know exactly what kind of rain you will receive. I am reminded of Forrest Gump and his Vietnam experience: "We been through every kind of rain there is. Little bitty stingin' rain... and big ol' fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath. Shoot, it even rained at night..." Well that is Okinawa in a nutshell. And I love that about this place!

So now, with the light beginning to fade in the fog=--that is so thick I cannot see the ocean---I shall close up shop for the evening, and take my musing to another form of water....the bathtub. Good night, and may the waters nourish your land, soothe your mind and enliven your soul. May you too, have your own Rain Dance.

Inside and Outside

Whoever invented Skype (and made it free) is my hero! I am sure it must be some military tech guy who missed his family terribly. The ability to ring up my mom, my dad, my friends and see their lovely faces and talk with them, albeit sometimes over computer glitches and bad connections, is priceless. Particularly on days when you can really use a friend, when advice is in short supply and you need inspiration, a late night skype with a loved one is an amazing tonic.

Last night I was feeling forty shades of blue. Jason and I had a bit of a row and he had gone to bed. It was late. I sat in my studio watching the rain slap itself across the balcony and began to snuggle into the wallowing blanket, when suddenly there was my dear friend Ema, popping up on the screen, almost as if she had popped over for tea (and brought the bright, cheerful Parisian sunshine with her, no less!) It was heavenly to talk with her! The last time we had talked was before I moved to Okinawa, so just a chat in itself was a treat. The fact that she brought her special brand of wisdom and peace to the table was an absolute blessing. You see, the thing about Ema is that she is the antidote to gloom. Now she and I are very similar. We both travel the world, are expats, we're both creative in our own ways, and we have been through a lot of similar life experiences, but where she walks into a room and it lights up, I tend to hit the dimmer. Last night she made me full of light.

You see, Ema reminded me to explore inside myself. To find the quiet joy in stillness and internal reflection. My brain has been on overload. I think to much anyway, or so it has been said of me. I ramble over three thousand things in seconds, and confuse the hell out of my emotions because, say for instance, I have a fight with my husband, my head has already argued, found fault in my arguments, freaked itself out and started thinking about what to do next before my eyes even know if they should cry or my fists even know if they should ball up. Because of this rapidity of thought...well, cumbersome quantity of thought, rather...I have been numbing my mind for some time. TV and facebook are great for that. If I get engrossed in a movie there are 2 whole hours to think about nothing! This works pretty well except when the movie suddenly brings up some thought that I had been trying to avoid, which is why I assume I have been sticking to zombie movies as of late.

So how do I let myself back inside my own head without wanting to run screaming like I am being chased by a bunch of Romero corpses? Well, thanks to another good skype from Beau, who always listens to my madness with patience and a cocktail, I am writing again. Not Earth shattering tomes, but after six months of writers block, it feels pretty damn good.

Another great suggestion came from my typically Sagittarian mother. "Get OUTSIDE," she said, in that manner that makes you feel like you, perhaps, were very silly and naughty for cooping yourself up with your cats, your "True Blood," and your candy corn. But she was right, as she usually is. The only way for me to get inside myself is to get myself outside of this gorgeous, damn house. After all, I moved to this country for a reason, TO SEE IT! That doesn't mean memorizing the view from all the windows and balconies. It also doesn't mean I have to wait for Jason to have a day off to try to experience things. Hell, I lived in London on my own several times, I traveled all over Britain and Ireland and France with just a backpack, and did so for half of my adult life! Yeah Japan is different, WAAAAY different, and the public transport is almost impossible to decifer, but if I get lost, I am on a bloody island. It won't be hard to get found.

Backpacking in Paris

I always found that exploring, out on my own, was the best way to overcome so many of lives problems, to really get my head on straight.

Riding in Ireland


Seems the only way it works for me. So I now vow that I will make an effort the rest of the week to get inside and outside. To walk around until I find a new bit of Earth and sit on it, and write.

Creative Exile

I have had six months of jet lag.

That is my story and I am sticking to it. I know I should have started writing the minute my plane landed in Okinawa, but somehow, in all the kerfuffle of transplanting my life, I seemed to have forgotten just which box I had packed my inspiration. That may sound silly. I know that there are many people, who have made me aware, in no uncertain terms, that I must be mad to complain about anything. I mean, I am living on a TROPICAL ISLAND. Paradise. My husband has a wonderful job, we have an amazing house on a hill overlooking beautiful, turquoise seas. I want for nothing. I should be enjoying my adventure and comfortably nestling myself back into my preferred role as an expatriate. Yet, it would seem, that the universe or God or what-have-you cannot allow complete and total bliss. As my father always says "It just goes to show ya, there's always somthin." Well my somethin' is simply this: what is a girl to do when she has nothing to do?

I am an actress by trade. Have been since I was 8 (good lord!) and really honestly never was interested in doing much else besides that and travel. For work I mean. I have tons of hobbies, but as Anthony Perkins says in Psycho, "hobbies are meant to pass the time not fill it." And yes, there is a lot to do here, lots of outdoors-y fun when we aren't getting pelted with typhoons. But can I really manage to be happy just puttering about, like a spoiled little rich girl, doing absolutely nothing but what pleases me? It would seem that I cannot, but not for lack of trying.

When we first got to Okinawa I had so many plans. I thought about starting a business teaching public speaking. I had a screenplay percolating in my excited brain. I was going to learn to scuba dive. I was going to get in on the action at the Japanese Acting School and try and start a theatre company of my very own (a dream I have been nursing, like a sickly kitten for years) I had plans! Oh the PLANS. But after the initial buzz wore off, I was left, sitting alone in my house most days, feeling the pungent hangover of dashed dreams. Plans became no good to me anymore, as one by one I was informed of their silliness. It made me feel desperate to think that perhaps, after so much money and time spent on this beloved profession, this defining label of who I was, it was all for naught.

Of course I ignored this. I spent time enjoying the ocean, the castles, trying to learn Japanese, collecting cats like some mad old woman, and occupying my time. Yet it still kept creeping back in, the despondency and the fear. What if I amount to nothing in my life? In the last few days the battle has been raging, and after a good long chat with a dear, dear friend, I have finally realized that, unless I release all this chaos in my head, I could truly go quite mad.

Yes, yes, yes. That was horribly dramatic. And no I do not intend this blog to be all about being a failed actress or dashed dreams. I just intend to search. To start an adventure. Perhaps I am in creative exile, in existential crisis, lost in the jungle of my own bullshit, but somehow, I have to find my way back to a trail, and hope that it takes me somewhere interesting. For if you stay in one place, you eventually just die.