The morning after you finish a project, this is what your brain vomits.

I'm not a good blogger. I forget this thing exists and I go months without writing anything on it, which is why I have four followers. Four people who are probably family members or friends who forgot they liked this page and have been too lazy to delete me from the list of things they follow.

I started to write a facebook post and realized, oh yeah, that's what a blog is for.

My college acting professor Mark Majarian told us that he was there to help us get out of our own way. That the only thing keeping us from being successful actors was our fear. He told me specifically it was his job to get me working. I think this is where my obsession or misguided belief that as an actor the goal is not to be famous, or make a butt load of money, the goal is to be working, and that as long as I am working, and growing then I am successful as an actor. It was this mentality that made Los Angeles a very strange place for me.

People always had advice for you, most of it misguided. I was advised to choose an actor whose career I wanted to have and then emulate that person's trajectory. I chose Tony Shalhoub. Ethnically ambiguous, not the typical standard of beauty, an honest performer, that is good if not great in everything he has ever done, including Thirteen Ghosts. I was met with disappointment when this same person said, "But, he's a dude." Apparently, women cannot emulate men and be successful. It was around this same time that someone asked me what my goal was and I said, "I just want to be working." The response was, "You don't want to be famous?" I flatly said no. Apparently, "No" was disappointing to this trusted confidant. "You do know that this is a tough industry? That if you aim to be famous, you will be working, but if you aim to work, you won't get anywhere. You have to aim higher than what you want."

I thought that was bullshit. So, I fired my agent.

Whatever happened to realistic, carefully planned goals? When did it become a poor decision to know what you want and then create and execute a road map to attaining a tangible goal? Notoriety does not equate to success or happiness. Feeling like you have accomplished something through your own merit is what creates lasting contentment. At least for me it does.

If there is an easy road and a hard road to travel, I will always take the hard road. It is a character flaw. I acknowledge that, but it is so much more interesting than feebly walking along the trail stamped out by reality tv stars and poorly written rants on youtube. I would rather be poor and psychologically fulfilled, than rich and wondering what the hell has become of my life.

These are the things that keep me up at night, and these are things that keep my fingers clicking against plastic, feebly trying to tell the stories that have been hidden away off the paved highway of popular fiction.

Oh, god that was pretentious.

I need to get back to writing my werewolf novel, or the one about the girl in the diner off route 41, or the Sci-fi adventure movie I'm outlining. Screw it, Kimberly's right I should start writing Flowers in the Attic, a Space Adventure.

Chuck Wendig Flash Fiction Challenge-"Dolls"

For those of you who don't know, Chuck is kind of brilliant and a big deal. His blog is excellent for those looking for honest writing advice, and occasionally he holds awesome contests. This week it's a flash fiction contest using a first line supplied by last week's contest winners and honorable mentions.

I chose the line: "When the last cherry blossom falls, so will my axe." by Delilah.

This spawned quite possibly the most Japanese thing I have ever written. Research may be required after reading, search for Butoh masks, Tatami mats, Hinamatsuri, and Fox Weddings, if you are unfamiliar with any of these terms or mythologies.

Thanks for reading,
Lauren

DOLLS

When the last cherry blossom falls, so will my axe.

Midori twirled in the fragrant flurries of pink and white blossoms. Her lithe figure clad in layers of fine silk pranced up and down the rows of cherry trees, a Hinamatsuri doll clutched in her hands. Our mother screamed from the house, “Where is the Emperor?”

Midori giggled back running into the forest, “He’s on an adventure.”

“Tetsuyo, get your sister! TETSUYO!”

“Yes, mother.” I called, disappearing into the forest.

Midori’s geta left clear impressions in the soft muddy spring ground. The snow melted two weeks ago, the canopy covered forest floor had not yet recovered from winter. If deer left tracks as obvious our family would eat like kings tonight.

Tiny equal signs ran through the trees, down to the spring our family gathered water from and fished in the summer. Midori sat on a rock beside the stream, the Emperor’s feet skimming the surface of the water. The sun shone on the pastoral beauty, tiny rings of water formed and dissipated in the stream, a million minnows searching for food. From the cloudless sky rain fell in sheets, soaking Midori’s silk kimono, the azure cornflowers turning a deep purple.

Drums sounded in the distance, the air filled with the metallic taste of rain and the scent of cherry blossoms, and wet dog.

Not wet dog, wet fox.

The drumming grew louder. Midori cheered, figures began to appear on the opposite bank, a royal wedding procession.

I ran to Midori, clutched her hand and dragged her from the bank. The emperor fell into the water. Midori screamed and broke from my grasp. Her white socks brown with mud, the geta pried from her feet stuck in the riverbank.

“Midori, we have to leave.”

“I want to watch the wedding.”

“No.”

I grabbed her hand and drug her to the tree line.

“My shoes?”

“Leave them.”

“The emperor?” Midori frowned.

“We have to go.”

I dragged her through the forest, her white socks torn, stained with mud and blood, as her tender feet cut on roots and rocks.

“Tetsuyo, up?”

Midori’s porcelain face marred with mud, the tears streaking the dirt away, reminded me of a Butoh mask I had seen in one of mother’s dance books. Her little body contorted, the binding of her kimono loosened as we fled. She looked so common. I threw her over my shoulder running from the forest, through the orchard, to our house.

Mother stood on the porch, refusing to let her soiled children ruin the Tatami mats that ran the entrance of the house. “And, where is the emperor?”

“Tetsuyo, made me leave him, and my shoes. Look what he did to my feet.”

My mother glared at me. The hard lines of her face, that perfected this stare, began to soften, a tear shaping at the corner of her right eye. On the wind came the sound of drumming and the stench of foxes, I knew it was too late.

Canadian Discoveries

Since posting my last blog, several months ago. I have moved to Canada. This is something that has happened to me, rather than a conscious decision to extricate myself from the United States.

I used to think I was a West Coast girl. Before that, I was a Cali-girl. And, before that a Long Beachian. Now I find myself in Montreal. Not just Canada Canada, but French Canada. The girl who took Spanish two at Long Beach City College her junior year, so she wouldn't screw up her high school gpa, now lives in Quebec. And, I still don't speak French. Granted it's only been two weeks, but still, this seems like a failure in planning. Although, when you only have ten days to rent out your house, get a new car, update the puppy vaccines, pack, and move across the country, learning French falls way down on the list of priorities.

It's almost 3pm, the mister is at work, the boys are passed out on the hotel bed, that was supposed to get fresh linens today, at some point, and I am here, at work, on my computer. Or, rather, I am here writing a blog and postponing work, on Travis's computer, that actually has an appropriate sized screen and keyboard, unlike my dying netbook. Yesterday was a bad day. I felt completely lost, and disconnected from everything I know, and suffering from a very annoying head cold. But, I digress. Today, I had a revelation: Food here is awesome.

I don't just mean snooty French cuisine or all the poutine a fat kid from Long Beach could ever dream of, but genuinely, the food here is really good, in ways we Americans take for granted. SODA is made from real things.

Orange Fanta, in the USA, tastes like Orange. Orange Fanta, in Canada, tastes like Oranges. This may seem like a subtle distinction, but when you crack open an aluminum can of Orange Fanta expecting it to taste like Orange flavoring and instead you get a mouth full of slightly sour carbonated refreshing confusion, you look at the can to see what the hell just happened. The label reads made with real oranges, and real sugar. I picked up a can of Coke and to my surprise found that it was also made with real sugar and manufactured in New York. I don't understand how a product can be made in the United States but not sold in the United States.

Which brings me to another startling discovery: Stork Chocolate Reises are delicious. And Werther's Original Caramel Chocolates are completely confusing and delectable.

Although, this move has been beyond stressful and I feel myself floundering trying, to find some footing, having twelve inches of snow drop down the day before spring starts does not aid in footing finding, I can't help but feel hopeful that everything will eventually work itself out and the boys and I will be fine.

Next week we will be out of this two-hundred-fifty-square-foot-bachelor-hotel-apartment and will be in our permanent rental where the boys will have a yard and momma will have an office. Things are looking brighter already, as long as I don't gain fifty pounds drinking real soda, sucking on real candy, and eating real poutine, before the wedding in June. Did I mention our wedding is in Seattle?

"wretched is the slavery where the law is changeable or uncertain"

These are the times we live in.
The time where free-men become slaves to an ideal, a concept separate from reality, one where a washer woman becomes an heiress, a billionaire on the backs of the impoverished.
A time when the middle class is tantamount to snake oil.
We have been duped by the salesmen, distracted by the spectacle and upon our return from the big show, we leave our fortunes to the gypsies who read our futures from a Monsanto Greenspan ball of tar sands oil.
We ignore the sages, the Krugmans's and scientists, in favor of the wizard and his dime store relics, that instill a sense of peace, we clutch tightly to our "live better, work union" buttons while the wizard sets our temples on fire.

This is the time in which we live.
The time in which we passively expire, while the dreams of our fathers are perverted by a global attack on intellect, simultaneously, grieving the future our children have come to accept as inevitable. A future in which we conform to a diety whose teachings only apply in theory. In practice we celebrate the individual and family, while denigrating the community.

We are enslaved by a nation too impoverished for change.

Where are the artists, who question the status quo?
We are silenced by the snookies, the Hiltons, the Honey Boo Boos.
We read US Weekly instead of Salman Rushdie.
Literature is being defined by edgy form rather than content.

And in this realm of freedom we become good Americans through conformity rather than dissent.
It is through discourse that this country's ideology was founded and it is through compliance that we fail.

Loyal Stone Press

I am gearing up to release the first issue of Prospective: A Journal of Speculation in three weeks. Kayla Crow's chapbook "Finding Highways in Cracked Coffee Cups" has been doing very well on amazon. For the first week of sales Kayla was on five best seller lists and was at #1 for two days on Amazon's list of Hot New releases in American Poetry. Which is kind of insane for a first publication from a writer and press. I look forward to bringing more new voices to print and digital publications. Although every project is not without its trials and tribulations. Last week Eric Loya decided that he needed to step back from the project and I respect his decision. Though it means that I am running this business on my own, it also means that I am running this business on my own. With that pressure also comes freedom, and I am hoping that my business savvy, creative aesthetic, and desire to cultivate strong lasting relationships with my writers and artists will make this venture a success.

My Kickstarter

My friend Eric Loya and I are starting a literary journal, and were approved for a Kickstarter. We have 17 days to raise $2500. The pledge levels range from $1-$2000, and come with varying levels of awesome SWAG. The more you pledge the more you get. $50 bucks will get your name on the "Thank you page", a pdf of the magazine, a print copy of the magazine, a writing journal with the first issue's cover art, and a t-shirt with the first issue's cover art.

Every little bit helps, and more than that if we get off the ground we may be able to publish some of your work.

Thank you for reading, here is the link

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/591497086/prospective-a-journal-of-speculation

Lauren

P.S.

Please forward the link to anyone you think may be interested. Thank you again.

P.P.S
If you are worried about not having enough money for Christmas shopping, the way Kickstarter works, is if we don't reach our goal your financial obligation goes away. If we do reach our goal then the amount you pledged will be deducted from your bank account, through Amazon, after the fundraising period ends, which is December 26th, just in time to deposit that ten dollar check from grandma that you never know what to do with. Now you could turn that random trip to the bank into a print copy of "Werewolves and Other Bitches" and a awesome thank you to your grandma in print, in every copy of the journal.

Regarding the Events at CSULB

The argument has been made that this is a matter of free speech or free press, that the article represents Noah's opinions only and I take issue with that. Had Noah published this article on his own personal website or an independent paper that was not affiliated with the college there would be some controversy but it would not be to this magnitude. There are several things to take into account when reviewing this "article".

First, it is presented as a serious piece of journalism, which requires responsibility on the part of the reporter. I am an English major at CSULB and have dabbled in journalism. When reporting a journalist is supposed to provide a fair, balanced, accurate and responsible product, this article was not fair, balanced, responsible or even appropriately researched.

Second, the facts of the article are either subjective or incorrect. The only objective fact in the article is inaccurate, Noah states the Powwow is an all day event, the CSULB Powwow is a two day event, and generally has fallen on the second weekend of March for at least the past 20 years, if not since its inception I will not claim to know if all 41 years have been the second weekend of March. I have only been on this planet for 27 years and really cognoscente of Powwow in any intelligent way since I was seven, although I have been to Powwow virtually every year of my life, my first experience in my mother’s womb.

Third, the placement of the article, had this been published under the opinion section or even in the Grunion the controversy would be lessened because it is not purported to be a piece of news.

Fourth, the last line of the article immediately preceding also written by Noah, "Words can be powerful, and the more open and upfront we can be with each other without judgment and bias, the closer we can get to not participating in unacceptable behavior". It is obvious that Noah is capable of writing a thoughtful article on a sensitive subject, that the same care or consideration is not extended to racially charged material is disconcerting, although reducing rape and sexual assault to "unacceptable behavior" seems to diminish the power of those acts and is a little off the mark as well.

Fifth, the dietary issue, if Noah wrote an equally scathing article about the donuts sold on campus or french fries or burgers and the promotion of unhealthy dietary choices by allowing fast food chains on campus then perhaps there would be more substance to his complaint about frybread, to be fair he may have written a piece like this in the past that I am unaware of, but as this is my first semester at CSULB I have not seen any such article written by him. Additionally, I would like to know what video he watched about frybread, because I am sure they would have discussed that frybread is res. food, the result of government rations sent to reservations, and when all you have is flour, sugar and oil to feed your children the result is some kind of fried dough. Also, the naming of Indian tacos/hamburgers/dogs, is for ease of clarification that it comes on a piece of frybread. Most of these meals were the result of need not want, most traditional native food is very healthy consisting of wild rice, berries and local game, the so called “unhealthy native diet” is a constraint of the US government forcing native people onto reservations, I personally believe that this government sanctioned diet has a direct correlation to the rise in type two diabetes in the Native community.

Sixth, the blanket dance analogy. The dance in which people were throwing money on the ground without a context is inflammatory enough but becomes appalling when taken into context. I have always called it a blanket dance, or an offering dance other people may have other names for his type of dance but generally the dance is to benefit a member of the community who is going through a hardship or has had a tragedy befall them. According to my mother who is on the Powwow committee there were two blanket dances, one of which was for a man whose two sons were murdered. It is Noah's duty as a reporter to get all of his facts straight before reporting rather than passing judgment. Additionally, the ground was blessed on Saturday morning, so in addition to CSULB being built on Puvugna the ground was rededicated as sacred land. There is nothing "crass or borderline obscene" about giving an offering on sacred land to a fellow member of your community who lost his sons.

Responsibility in reporting should be a primary focus of any paper, particularly a university publication because this is where the journalists of tomorrow are being reared. The irresponsible actions of the Union require proportionate consequences, and I hope the university, AIS and President Alexander take that into consideration when next year’s budgetary negotiations arrive.