Bread and Bread

I met Cynthia Romanowski a few years ago when I interviewed her for Poets & Writers’ coveted fellowship program. As with any paying gig in the literary world, we got a ton of applications from absurdly over-qualified, bright-eyed young people (for a funny, book-length rant on this topic, see Julie Schumacher’s Dear Committee Members ). P&W tries harder than most orgs to be kind and fair to its employees, and yet the gist of our call was: Get an advanced degree from an impressive institution, possibly accrue a lifetime of debt, have publications up the wazoo and come do data entry for roughly what is deemed a living wage in L.A. County (but not really, because it’s only part-time and there will be no health benefits). A lot of people called this the Friends cover. So no one told you life was gonna be this waaaay.... Most of the applicants were way more impressive than I was at twenty-five, when I’d started working at P&W (full-time, with health insurance…albeit for...

I’ve been thinking about space lately. I’m finally living the Eastside dream I’ve had since I started making pilgrimages to Silver Lake in college . I start the day with a train ride that takes me across trestles and over a cement river. I eat lunch in the middle of 1938’s idea of China—neon-outlined pagodas and bamboo lettering. And then I go home to Highland Park’s rolling hills and gold-pink light. I took a long walk on Saturday and found an old glass-works studio I’d never known about. Old New Chinatown. Sometimes, even now that it’s (nearly) all familiar, L.A. still takes my breath away. Other times I wonder if the magical space I longed for in my twenties is made magical only by my longing. It’s like having a crush on someone and then marrying them. Your love dives deeper than you ever knew possible, but the exotic twinkle fades. A little while ago, a writer I know, who recently moved to L.A., asked her Facebook friends what their favorite coffee shops to write in w...

1. the end of the middle of treatment In a couple of hours, I’ll have my sixth and last (hopefullyforeverknockonwood) chemo session. Before I started, I told people I was thinking of chemo as my four-month vacation from worrying about getting cancer, and it’s pretty much been that. I’ve used that time to work and read and write and do some fun things; also to bitch about people who’ve let me down and stir up small dramas with my family and friends. Because hey, cancer treatment still blows, just not in an anxiety-producing way. I also told people who seemed convinced I’d be more sick than I’ve actually been (knockonwood), “Maybe you’re right. Maybe by the end I’ll be so sick of being sick that I’ll trade it in for good physical health and the return of crippling anxiety.” I’m almost there—it would be nice not to have my feeble exercise routine undermined every three weeks. It would be nice to have hair. And, thanks to Effexor, I’m not totally an anxious mess. I’m just a gi...

Leafy greens are good for your health. Friday morning I met Kathy and Bronwyn for a writing date at Buster’s while waiting for the chemo hangover to kick in. I caught up on Bronwyn’s new job and Kathy’s lizard adventures at the Natural History Museum and worked on a freewrite about how one of my characters first encountered a frozen rabbit fetus, in order to postpone outlining. When Bronwyn and Kathy left, a guy with dreadlocks approached the table. “Do you mind if I ask you something?” Not to presume what it might be, but let’s see, the last two strangers to strike up a conversation at Buster’s had said, respectively, “You’re so brave!” and “Why you not have hair?” “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about an oncologist,” he said. “Do you have cancer?” “Yeah, I’m going through cancer treatment,” I said, because the chemo is for hypothetical, microscopic, undetected cancer. The only cancer we knew about for sure is gone, bitches. “Have you tried medical ...

1. at least frida kahlo had awesome hair This morning at Starbucks an unassuming, middle-aged man came up to me and said he was gathering signatures for a new strip mall down the street. At first I was all skeptical and Occupy-ish, but then he said he was hiring a local architect, and I figured that local poor folks could benefit more from a 7-Eleven and a Chipotle than from a fifth record store or a seventeenth art gallery. So I signed. He said he liked my Frida Kahlo day planner. I bought it because I wanted a daily reminder that people who spend a lot of time in hospitals can be fierce and glorious. He said he liked my hat , the one Keely made. This is what people did in hospitals before iPads. “Thanks,” I said. “A friend made it for me.” “I have a friend who makes hats like that too,” he said. “Only she does it for chemo patients.” “Well, that’s me right now.” “Oh. Well, you look really healthy and vibrant.” (When people say this, I think what they’re s...

When my hair first started falling out in clumps at Trader Joe’s last week, I had all kinds of angry thoughts. People who get prophylactic surgery never have to deal with this shit. Chopping off your tits isn’t nothing, but it’s not cancer. And Fucking chemo. It’s all, “The disease you have is SO BAD WE HAVE TO POISON YOU; IT’S WORSE THAN POISON!” And I want to shove my balding head in the face of anyone who thinks I’m just an overly emotional drama queen who can’t deal with life. I don’t know if anyone actually thinks I’m an overly emotional drama queen who can’t deal with life. But my superego definitely thinks that, and over the years it has worn the faces of various people.   It seemed too soon to declare the ChemoCap a success or a failure. One day, I’d been able to tug gently at a handful of hair, and it stayed in my head. The next, it was in my hand. The fact that my life could change so quickly and concretely without notice or consent was alarming. I know that’s t...

It was one of those weeks. Yeah, AGAIN. But I had the day off today, and I had a gently used laptop with my former mentee Daniela’s name on it. She mentioned that she was in the market for one, and my amazing friend Craig donated his. So I drove out to Lancaster to deliver it. Not a drive I was looking forward to, but the trip plus Daniela worked their magic. There have been times when I’ve wondered if I find hanging out with Daniela healing because her problems have often been bigger than mine. I’m not at all comfortable with this possibility, but that might be a piece of it. Mostly, though, it’s about who Daniela is: this hilarious kid who’s faced down her demons at times, chased after them at others, but never given up—and who, now, is not really a kid at all. In the past six months, she’s become a mother, gotten her papers, gotten a grownup job with benefits and everything, and become the primary breadwinner in her household of six. That’s a hell of a lot for a 19-year-old to take...

I’m at Starbucks right now, ostensibly doing some freewriting in preparation for a possible future novel, which is a huge indulgence because the circus novel isn’t anywhere near done. But a few drafts in, I get itchy to start something new, and I’m not nearly practical or short-winded enough to just work on a short story. I’m also drinking a salted caramel hot chocolate, another huge indulgence (360 calories; thanks, stupid new law requiring Starbucks to inform me of this). But I was distracted from my indulgences by these wristbands that Starbucks is selling. They look like little loops of bungee cord sealed with a metal square. I have to admit they’re more attractive than the LIVESTRONG-style bands. The red and blue bungee bands promote “Americans Helping Americans Create Jobs.” If you buy the $5 wristband, some money will go to a domestic micro-loan program. My first thought when I saw this was Oh my god, we’ve become our own third world charity case. I’ve done m...

1. a caffeinated review of the ides of march AK and I drove through drive-thru Starbucks on the way home tonight to get hot chocolate because it’s a night that calls for coziness. But they accidentally made mine a mocha, so here I am, all wired up with nothing to blog about. But since when did that ever stop anyone from blogging? The thing we were on our way home from was The Ides of March , a movie so dark it was hard to believe it was actually in color. Afterward, I kept telling AK that I didn’t want to work in politics, until she was like, “Okay, I get it.” As if she’d been pestering me to run for city council or something. Ides is a really smart movie about people resorting to dirty, dirty means to justify noble ends; it also feels like George Clooney’s answer to the people who keep actually pestering him to run for office. That answer is: Sure, I can look good saying idealistic things, but I’m going to imprint you with this image of me as a sleazeball with poo...

Since returning from the cruise, I’ve been meaning to start working on my circus novel again. I no longer have the “but first I need to do some research” excuse, or the “but I have debilitating anxiety*” excuse, or the “but I’m working on this art project ” excuse, or the “but I’m working on this short story” excuse. I don’t even have the “but at least I went to the gym” excuse. Last night I planned to go to the gym, but AK—who’d also been planning to work out—had a really long day, so I convinced myself that she needed me to crash out in solidarity with her. And to pick up pan dulce on the way home. And to watch TV while eating roughly half a bag of the sweet potato tortilla chips that Trader Joe’s was pushing earlier this week. AK is grossed out by Weird Cheryl Food like sweet potato tortilla chips and chile mango popsicles and mochi everything, so I’m not sure how this particular gesture showed solidarity, but it’s all about creating a mood of relaxation, right? Today I’m back on va...

Yesterday I ate like 14 cookies at Meehan and Sally’s housewarming and contemplated how drinking would be a more literary way to wallow (although AK pointed out that a booze hangover is rougher than a carbohydrate hangover, which I definitely have). Did I mention that I chased it with pizza? It was a flashback to my younger years, when every day was the last day before the first day of some diet that would mark the beginning of my new life. Today I’m holding onto the healthy living wagon with one hand, basically being dragged through the dirt. I went to the gym this morning, where any sense of empowerment was tempered by every stiff ligament reminding me why I’d been away for two months and why I was back now. Then I stopped at Starbucks where some stupid compilation of Mother’s Day songs* next to the mint display reminded me that this Mother’s Day will pack twice the crappiness punch as the past seven. I kind of lost it, and some guy asked if I’d like to pray with him. I said a firm ...

This is one of those moments when it would be really nice to have an iPhone, because I would love to take a picture of the mural across from me and post it with this post. I’m at McDonalds because Antigua, my chosen writing spot, was closed for plumbing repairs (not that paying $1.10 for coffee is such a terrible consolation prize). The mural next to the counter depicts a McDonalds with some people milling around outside. I know it’s supposed to be this McDonalds because there’s a lamppost with a banner that says “Highland Park Fall Fest,” as if the artist’s goal was to capture not only a specific place but a specific time as well. But here’s the weird thing: If I were standing outside this McDonalds, I’d see a Food4Less doing its best to imitate a California Bungalow, some sparsely leafed trees, a side street populated with crumbly actual California Bungalows and a few 1960s apartment buildings, and, in the background, low hills peeking up from the other side of the 110. The ...

“Crazy artist” is one of my least favorite cinematic stereotypes. “Crazy genius homeless person” is right up there too. I think most artists aren’t crazy, just creative and hardworking, and the ones that are make art in spite of the crazy, not because of it. I know a manic episode can inspire a creative binge, but I don’t think it’s as simple as go off meds, paint Mona Lisa. Similarly, I don’t think most homeless people are fallen violin virtuosos just one shower away from Disney Hall. I imagine mental illness is a long, lonely slog that most often takes you away from yourself, not to some higher plain. So imagine my surprise when I noticed one of Westwood’s resident homeless guys sketching and painting in Starbucks today: small fashion portraits of women in old-fashioned bloomers and a slightly Toulouse Lautrec-ish three-quarters profile. I don’t know if they were the visual-art equivalent of that soloist guy . But they were good. And he was filling them in with watercolors from a kid...

Have I really not blogged for an entire week? Wait, I know what I was doing instead: sitting in traffic. Wednesday morning it took me 45 minutes just to get from Highland Park to Lincoln Heights. I could have walked it in that. (I know, I should have walked it, except that my destination was the Westside, not Lincoln Heights.) Friday night I got distracted on the way to the Hollywood Bowl, missed my left turn and lost 25 minutes backtracking. When I wasn’t sitting in traffic, I was sitting at Starbucks, grading student work. They have to submit weekly writing exercises based on Brian Kiteley’s book of prompts, The 3 a.m. Epiphany . And because I believe in making the writing process transparent at all levels (but really because I’m self-centered and think the prompts are fun), occasionally I’ll submit my own. Here’s what I came up with this week. And yes, it takes place in Starbucks. Exercise 79: Mistaken Identity: Write a fragment of a story in which the first person narrato...

In the name of trying to kick jet lag, I just settled in at Starbucks with a Java Chip Frapuccino Light. A little caffeine means a lot of England blog. This post and the next few will all be excerpts from the travel journal I scribbled in tiredly at the end of each only-tea-fueled day. While I was packing for England, I did some math and realized this is my eighth trip in five months. So maybe I can lay off myself a little if I don’t ride my bike enough or submit enough work or go to enough poetry readings. Already, on the way to the airport, I was having fantasies about the glorious four months I’ll spend at home. But on the plane I read a surprisingly good Vanity Fair profile of Angelina Jolie, who’s always daydreaming about her next city. So for the next ten days, I’ll try to channel Angelina, but without six homes and a private jet, the lack of which could make things tiring. My dad, Susan and Cathy don’t get here till midday tomorrow—it was nice to get our bearings...

I was celebrating the fact that my elderly laptop had finally booted up when a famous queer theorist walked into the coffee shop with her girlfriend and her girlfriend's kids. They sat down next to me, and QT started reading Harry Potter out loud to the kids. I know you shouldn't write in coffee shops if you want complete silence, but I kind of wished they would relocate to the play area. Since I couldn't concentrate on my short story, I was forced to eavesdrop. Queer Theorist: Which of Harry's teachers is your favorite? Stepdaughter: Miss [um, I don't know most of the Harry Potter characters, so let's call her Miss Tumbleweed] Tumbleweed. QT [who goes by a man's name these days, but I'm not sure what pronoun s/he prefers]: It's Mr. Tumbleweed. Mr. Tumbleweed is a man. Anyhow, I like Ms. McGonagall . She's strict, but she knows her stuff. I think the best teachers are like that, don't you? [Kids give her a blank look that suggests this is...