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Monthly Archive for June, 2009

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Writers in Valencia

In Stevenson Ranch, a suburb of Valencia not a half mile from my house, there is an area called “The Arts”. It was not surprising to me that builders in this area would decide to borrow some of the cache of the famous school down the street, the California Institute of the Arts. Because, really, as art colleges goes this is up there with Yale and the Rhode Island School of Design for being a top tear art school. I assure you, me who worships at the alter of post modern contemporary conceptual art am impressed every time I pass the school. I say things to myself like “Judy Chicago has taken that road” and “I might see John Baladassari at the Whole Foods” or “perhaps Roy Lichtenstein once got gas at this Shell station”. As cheesy and white bread as Valencia is, and it is, it also is home to a college that is too cool for Valencia. Cal Arts seems like it would be more at home in NYC, rather in the town with the largest number of master planned communities in the United States. But thanks to Walt Disney who built and funded the college it is here, in Valencia.

When I heard about “The Arts” area I was sure that the streets would be named for famous visual artists. Maybe famous Cal Arts professors like John Baldessari, Laurie Anderson, Barbara Krueger, Roy Lichtenstein or Judy Chicago would have a street named for them or maybe famous artist alums such as David Salle,Tony Oursler and Mike Kelley might merit a mention. And, if not visual artists then at least some of Cal Arts famous graduates like Tim Burton, Sofia Coppola, John Lassater or Pee Wee Herman. I was so excited that He-weasel and I decided to take a look at “The Arts” area because even if it meant we would be living in a Master Planned community we might be able to find a house on Laurie Anderson Lane, Tim Burton Blvd. or Pee Way Way.

Alas, no such streets are to be found. Instead of being luminaries from Cal Arts the streets in “The Arts” area are named for the household names of the cannon of literature. The main two streets in the “Arts”area are Hemingway and Steinbeck. It seems that the city planners have decided these two deserve the big streets( I feel sure if Shakespeare was alive he would have had something to say about that as would Faulkner). I can, it turns out, get my clothes dry cleaned at Hemingway Cleaners on Hemingway Avenue. If I do will when I wear those clothes feel inspired to write about bulls, broads and battles? To get to Lily’s vet I must travel with her on the road of the author of “Travels with Charlie.”

Other streets in this literary who’s-who of housing include: Faulkner, Webster, Shaw, Wilde, Dickens, Burns, Frost, London, Poe, Irving, Keats, Coleridge, Emerson, Fitzgerald, Longfellow, Elliot, Blake, Carroll, Twain, Dickens, Durant, Shakespeare and Tennyson.

Sadly there are only a few streets named for famous women writers in “The Arts” neighborhood yet even those streets are marked by identity confusion. Is Bronte Street named for either or both Charlotte and/or Emily? Is Browning named for Robert or Elizabeth Barrett and which Shelley is the intended namesake? I was most sorry to see that Thomas Wolfe got a street and Virginia Woolf did not. Perhaps the builders would feel a moral obligation to create rooms of one’s own in houses on Woolf Way and the budget wouldn’t allow it so Woolf was replaced by the author of “You can’t go home again.” I wonder if that means the road is always blocked off?

There are other writer’s who are not included who seem natural namesakes for residential roads: Edith Wharton and her house of mirth; Hawthorne and his house of seven gables; Irving and his cider house; Ibsen and his doll’s house; Dostoevsky and his house of the dead( which I suppose is a little too depressing to attract home buyers) as is Styron’s burning house which would have been best located near the fire station. I suppose that E.M. Forester Road was edited out because most of the homes in these developments are lacking views.

The homes in this neighborhood are nice enough but are certainly not worthy of the kind of inspired genius of the literary icons the roads are named for. I see these homes more at home on Jan Karon Court, Harold Robbins Row, Dean Koontz Drive, Sidney Sheldon Street and Robert Ludlum Lane. However, there are few streets I would consider for their names alone. I would LOVE to be a highly talented litigious recluse on Salinger Lane. And, Burroughs Way? What a trip that would be!! I do prefer a road less traveled which makes Frost Lane a very good option for me. However, can a home that requires membership to a Home Owner’s Association, that limits which colours you can paint your house and what trees you plant, really be a road less traveled?

At first I was a bit perturbed that Stevenson Ranch eschewed the famous names of Cal Arts Alums and instead chose to name the streets for writers and then I thought to myself, “Self, what the heck are you thinking? This means that you are not the only writer in Valencia and that you are in pretty good company and if you keep at it and someday manage to get a book or two published you might even get your own street.” Maybe a Belette Blvd. or a Rouge Road? I would even settle for an alley in a bad part of town. It would seem only right that it be a street that no one would want to live on as that has been my feelings about Valencia ever since we arrived. Probably better to stick to dead writers who have never been here and didn’t have such open antipathy. That said, I feel sure if Dickens had ever had the chance to visit Valencia he might have written a sequel to “Bleak House”, “Bleak Master Planned Community”.

In my dreams I went to Igor’s house

I didn’t give Igor time to ask me how I was. I jumped right in. I had things to discuss and only 50 minutes to do it in.

“I dreamt about you last night,” I told him as if I was telling him I had a present for him.
“It’s about time,” he laughed gleefully.
“I knew you’d love it that I dreamt about you. “
He laughed his Igor laugh.
“And, even when I don’t dream about you somehow you make it all about you. Maybe, because this one is about you, you will say it is really about my mother.” I said jokingly even as I knew that he has read “Wit and the unconscious” by Freud and that meant he knew there was truth to my joke.
“Go ahead”, he instructed me.

“I am driving around Valencia. I am on the back side of Magic Mountain. It is a side that I have never seen before. I didn’t even know it existed. I drive up to your house, to the back of the house. I go into an apartment attached to the house, a big white two-story house. I walk into the apartment and I go out through the front door down the stairs. From the stairs I can see you through a window. You are building a wooden weight bench. There is wood all over the office. It is a mess. I see you lying on the wooden bench, so as to test it. I laugh. Something about this strikes me funny. It doesn’t seem like you, woodworking and weightlifting. I realize that my session is soon and I wonder how you will clean it all up before my session begins.

I enter your home, where your office is. I lie on a couch in your office. This couch is right up against a wall made of windows. Your in a chair right behind me, you are so close. There is no evidence of the weight bench or the mess or the wood that had cluttered your office just moments ago as this is a different room. You tell me in a curt way to never go through the apartment again. You tell me that it was your office but you had given it to your wife for a photographic studio(I got an image in my mind that your wife looks like Shohreh Aghdashloo who played the wife of Ben Kinsley in the House of Sand and Fog). I got upset by the way you said that to me. It seems parental and sharp.”

“I got up and walked out of your office. I leave expecting you will walk after me and try and stop me. But you don’t. I stand in an anteroom and look at papers on a desk. I see a condolence card laying on top of a stack of papers. I think that this means that a professor that we both know has died. I go into a waiting room and put on my white Converse tennis shoes on my bare feet and I wait for you to come and get me. I see you walk into the room where you had been constructing the weight bench. You come out of the room and stand in the anteroom. You say to me “I am not a behavioral therapist. I cannot deal with your behavior.”

He loved the “I am not a behavioral therapist. I cannot deal with your behavior” line.
“I am funny in your dream.” Igor said.
“I made you that way.” I explained so as to remind him that it was my psyche and not his that made the joke.

Igor said excitedly, “You are quite intuitive. “
I wondered what I got right. Is he really married to Shoreh?
“I used to be very into weight lifting when I was young. It was my hobby.”
“Oh”, I answered unimpressed by my intuition.

“And, wood, you like wood very much. Don’t you?” Igor asked.
“Yeah, trees. I love trees. To be at home I have to have trees.”
“Trees and space and room to create” he paused as if he was trying to make sense of it but it instead sounded like poetry.
Finally finishing the sentence, “… these are the things you want”, he asked.
“I do.” I answered

“So, what do you see in this dream? Igor asked me mining for more material.
“I see that I have gotten to a new place. I am on the other side of where I was. I have made a new discovery. I am in a place that I didn’t even know existed.”
“Magic Mountain” Igor laughed. “You know, I have been there. It hasn’t been for a lot of years. But I have been there. There are some terrifying rides there.”
I create a picture in my head of Igor in his black turtleneck, wool trousers and Gucci loafers standing in line to ride the Colossus. It is an image even more humorous than imagining him as a young gym rat.

“There is a lot about closeness and distance in this dream. In the dream I am now close to you. You no longer have to drive to Beverly Hills. I have come to you. I am where you live.”
He said it in such a way that it seemed the symbolism of this ought to be obvious only I didn’t get it.

“And you are close to me in the office. Extremely close to me. Everything feels close in this office. The window, the couch, the chair and you.” I said as a means of amplifying the closeness theme.
“At first I am very close to you and then I say something wrong and the closeness is lost and then there is distance between us,” he reiterated.

My mind wandered, “I go through the apartment and you are in the house and you don’t want me in the apartment. Jeeze, I wonder what that is about? You want me in a house, where the roots are; where the wood is. You want me to be in a permanent place.”
“It is not the house I want for you. What I want for you is to be free of the ideal that one place exists that is going to be without challenges, grief, and loss ” he explained.
I uh-huhed him. I wanted to get back to the dream and away from previously discussed material, the clock was ticking.

We both quietly searched our minds for more meaning. The more we worked at it the more confused I found myself.
“And,” Igor reminded me, “you call it an apartment not a guest house. An apartment is something temporary, transitory, something you are going through and yet it is a longer stay than a guest house. Then, after you go through the “apartment” you come down to where I am in the house….you have quickly gone through the transitional into the rooted.”
He could see in my avoidance of eye contact that I had nothing to add to that.

“The house has two stories. What are the stories of the house?” Igor asked.
Again I had no answer. It was only while driving home that the “two stories” of the house came to mind. The two stories are: my infertility story and my mother story and the attached apartment is “Thursday’s with Igor.” The attached apartment is the studio where I am developing, editing, working on creating something new. It is not a place to stay. It is a place where I spend 50 minutes a week working and then I leave.

My mind moved to the homonym of the dream, “There is the weight room and the waiting room. You are in the weight room. You are where the heavy lifting happens. You are building a place where that can happen. I am waiting for you to come get me.”
Igor answered, “But, I don’t. Rather I come from the weight room into the waiting room and reproach you when it is you who should have reproached me.”
I am not sure what he means. Why should I have reproached him? For making me wait?

Igor offered,”It seems to me that this dream is indicating a movement towards a very positive masculine. This is a balanced masculine. And, the wife, tell me about her?”
“She is really beautiful. Have you seen “the House of Sand and Fog?” I ask.
“No.”
“You should. It is a beautiful film and it is loaded with stuff about the significance of house on identity. I think you’d like it. ” I suggest.
“Anyways, the woman who plays Ben Kinsley’s wife is really beautiful and in the dream she is your wife. Well done, you.” I congratulate him.
“There is space for both my “wife” and I to create in this house. Often in a marriage there isn’t enough space for what is required to be truly creative. But, this inner masculine and feminine have room to create.”
“They do.”
Hearing this I realize how I have so much space in my life here in Valencia for writin
g. I have never had as much space for it. Even when I had my Virgina Wolf room of my own in Lake Bluff I did not have the emotional space or creative energy I have had since living here. I hated to admit it so I didn’t.

“And, the death of the professor?” he asked.
“Well, in the dream, I assume the condolences card is about him as he has been so sick. You know, this professor, he wouldn’t know me if he saw me but when I heard he was sick I was truly sad. He is this great mix of intellect and feeling. So often one is lost at the expense of another.”
“….a kind of death?” Igor asked.
“I guess.” It seemed like a bit if a reach but I could see what he was saying.

“How about the shoes?”
“Um, uh……well, they are Converse, they are shoes I would never wear to see you. They feel too casual. I would never wear them here. And, if I was barefoot I guess the shoes were making it possible for me to go outside.”
I imagined myself trying to get those shoes on. I always have a hard time getting them on and they are not very comfortable. I didn’t share those associations with him. I wondered why not.
Perhaps I am willing to show him a part of myself that up until now didn’t feel good enough.

“This” Igor said, “Has been a very illuminating dream.”
I was happy to hear that he thought so only I still felt a bit in the dark.

As I drove home I wondered how you get to the other side of the mountain and what was there. There has to be another side. There is another side to everything. I looked it up on a map and it seems that there is nothing on the other side of the Magic Mountain. Isn’t there a song about a bear and a mountain and how there was nothing there on the other side? Maybe I should tell Igor about there being nothing there and about the bear song. But as he seems to know very little about popular culture I would likely have to sing him the whole song and letting him hear my voice would be worse than letting him see my Converse. Oh, “converse”, now I get it.

Converse(1):
intr. verb:

  1. To engage in a spoken exchange of thoughts, ideas, or feelings; talk.
  2. Archaic. To be familiar; associate.

noun:

  1. Spoken interchange of thoughts and feelings; conversation.
  2. Obsolete. Social interaction.

Converse (2)

adjective:

  1. Reversed in order, relation, or action.

noun:

  1. Something that has been reversed; an opposite.
  2. Logic. A proposition obtained by conversion.

Find Belette

Editor, the author and creator of Up and Down Town which is one of my favorite fashion blogs, was kind enough to do a piece starring the two of us. So, are you up to Editor’s challenge to “Find Belette“? Once you have found me please go over to Editor’s blog and find her.

Writing in Valencia: Part Thirteen

It has been along time since I have done a “Writing in Valencia” post. I am guessing you know why and have been too kind to say. It means that I haven’t been writing the novel. I suppose I could have done another “not writing in Valencia” post only I felt a little shame at failing to stick to my novel writing plan and I wasn’t ready to admit defeat to you even though I had admitted it to myself weeks ago.

Let me sum up in a few words what I learned from my attempt at novel writing:I really don’t want to write a novel. I wish it were otherwise. I still and always will believe that novel writing takes more creativity than personal essay, creative non-fiction and/or memoir. I suppose I believe that because it comes easier for me to write non-fiction and what is hard has to be better (must remember to talk to Igor about that ). The strange thing about my idealization of fiction is that almost all I read is non-fiction and I have to literally force myself to read a novel. Forcing is always involved in the writing and the reading.

So, I am back and I am not only writing but I am starting to put together a query letter and sample chapters for my memoir, “Thursdays with Igor.” I am excited and simultaneously terrified to enter the world of queries, agents and rejection again. This time I am approaching it with an entirely different attitude. My new attitude did not come from the misery of me trying and failing to write a novel but rather thanks to my endlessly supportive and encouraging friend, Kirie, who suggested I read Malcolm Gladwell’s new book “Outliers”.

“Outliers” is a fascinating book and definitely worth a read if you are interested in the science of success. However, if you would prefer the extreme Cliff notes of what I got from his book it is that, according to Gladwell, it takes 10,000 hours to be a genius at anything. He uses for examples of his argument the Beatles and Bill Gates. He shows how both of these household names had opportunities to put in more time and practice hours than others in their field. This may be true or not, I have neither the inclination or the time to assess his research. I prefer to assume it is true for the sake of my sanity and self-esteem.

I imagine that I have spent about 5000 hours writing. It is my conservative estimate that I am now spending about 30 hours a week writing for the blog and for my memoir. That means in a year I will spend 1560 hours writing and, according to Gladwell, in just 3.21 years I will be a writing genius. Now, no need to warn me that this may not be true. I don’t care. I care that this idea frees me to think I don’t have to publish this year. It gives me the freedom to keep writing, come what may, for the next 35 months. In 35 months, if I keep this up, my writing will be better. I know that to be true. I know that in writing a blog for almost two years that my writing has improved,a lot. Just go back to the first six months of this blog to see for yourself. On second thought, don’t; just trust me.

I hope that it doesn’t take 10,000 hours to learn to write a great query letter or 10,000 more hours to find an agent. For today I am not going to worry about that. Today all I really care about is accruing hours and writing my way to better writing. Today I clocked six hours. Only 4994 hours to go.

This is not a francophile blog

For most of my life I was not really sure what I liked and what I disliked. Upon that realization I worked hard to discover my authentic preferences and where they came from. Was it me that hated okra or was it my best friend from fourth grade, Mira Jane, who made a face each time the “o” word was said and, so, in an act of solidarity I eschewed the slimy southern vegetable? Did I like jazz because it was the soundtrack to my parents life or did I really love Ella and Billy? Was my love of mythology born out of my own interest or was it because of a certain adolescent Adonis that Eros was ignited for Olympus?

It was during my “Do I really like this?” phase when I first saw the film Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain. I loved the film for many reasons but what I loved most about it was its unapologetic celebration of idiosyncrasies and specificity. We learn who the characters are via their likes and dislikes:”Raphael Poulain likes peeling large strips of wallpaper;lining up and shining his shoes; emptying his toolbox, cleaning it out and putting everything back.” “Amandine Poulain is a school mistress who has always had shaky nerves. She dislikes puckered fingers in the bath, having her hand touched by strangers, pillow marks on her cheek in the morning. She likes figure skaters’ costumes on TV, polishing the parquet, emptying her hand bag, cleaning it out and putting everything back in.

The literary device of “turn-ons and turn-offs” as a means of knowing characters became one that impacted not only my writing but also my philosophy. I started to seek out specificity (, i.e. what makes you, you and what makes me, me and what those specific preferences say about us). I found that people who would have previously frightened me with their passionate love of LEGOS, Star Trek, and Civil War reenactment to have become newly interesting. “So, what is it that makes you love Dungeons and Dragons?”, I would ask rapt with interest.

I had lectured on the film “Amelie” just days before I began my blog. In doing research on “Amelie”, I found a short film by Jean Pierre Jeunet, which he made years before, entitled Foutaises: catalogue nostalgique des plaisirs de la vie . I loved this film. It was a short film about nothing but preferences and it was a major motivating factor for me starting my blog. I decided that my blog would be a catalogue of the pleasures and displeasures of my life.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDnVcLdu1C8]
Another inspiration for my blog came from, of all people, Gore Vidal. I remembered seeing an interview with him years ago on the Charlie Rose show. I don’t know if Gore was on to talk about one of his books, his life or to give insight into his distant cousin. What I do remember is him talking about how in language and writing we have a tendency to modify. We use modifiers in language as a means of not owning our thoughts, feelings and arguments. Gore’s point stuck with me over the years as I had been a big time modifier. I modified my likes, dislikes, thoughts and feelings so if you disagreed with me I could say, “well, I only sort of like it” and that way there wouldn’t be an unbridgeable chasm created between the two of us.

I wanted my blog to be a place where I could have the courage to say what I love and what I detest without modifiers or qualifiers. I didn’t want to have to apologize for my preferences and I assumed I would never have to as I was sure no one would ever show up to read my blog.

For some reason, I decided that I would keep the focus of my blog to French things I love and loathe. I thought I could keep myself secret, hidden and a distant “vous” and never slip into the familiar “tu” form. It worked at first as I do love Paris and am most certainly a francophile. I thought by writing about the French things I loved and detested I could keep a safe distance and never reveal too much about myself. What I didn’t realize was that in revealing what I love and what I detest I was revealing everything about me.

In January 2008 this became a blog about me even though I never-ever intended it to. I had failed to become pregnant after years of infertility treatment and I couldn’t get myself to write about anything but my pain. The loss was so large that it demanded my full focus and it eclipsed my interest in writing about Paris or things French. As the grief subsided my life remained the focus of my writing and the francophile focus fell further and further away.

I am sorry if you came here looking for a francophile blog. I have a whole list of wonderful francophile blogs on the left hand column of my blog, if that is what you are looking for click on over and visit them. It’s not that I don’t love Paris, I do. It’s just that there are other things I love and detest and there are other things I want to write about. I may or may not ever write about Paris again. It is likely I will but I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for it. It could be a long time.

My writing and I may not be your cup of cafe creme. I can be bitter, viscous, strong and on occasion leave a bad taste in your mouth. If my blog isn’t for you that’s fine. I will not modify. I will not pretend to like what I don’t and I will not modify my feelings about what I detest. I am going to keep writing about my life, loves, and hates and part of that is my grief, depression, loss, whining and whinging. I do try to make the whinging funny and entertaining, but it if you don’t find it so isn’t then there are many other blogs to read. My feelings won’t be hurt if you’d rather read about Paris than me prattling on about my life. I get it. Really, if I had a choice between Paris and me I would choose Paris every time. As I don’t have that choice I will stay here and keep writing about the specificity of my life. If this is au revoir for us I thank you for stopping by. It is my sincere hope that you be true to your likes and dislikes; I will continue to attempt to be true to mine.

Things other than my blog that you need to read

1. Please go see Wendy B’s fantastic new blog Francis: The Blog. Let me have Wendy explain it: “I’ve created this blog for my designing friend Christian Francis Roth and his Francis clothing line. But it won’t be all clothes all the time. I’ll also take you behind the scenes at the studio and out on the town. It will be just like the fly-on-the-wall Valentino documentary, but online and without the savage tan. (Didn’t see the movie? Do it! It’s great.)”

2. If like me you dream of having an agent and publishing and you fear it may never happen for you please go and read Shelli at Market My Word’s incredibly inspiring success story and congratulate her, she got an agent!! I have read her success story three times and I will reread it again and again when I once again give up hope that it will ever happen for me. Congratulations, Shelli, and thank you for the inspiration!

3. The first chapter of my favorite book of the moment, “On Moving” by Louise DeSalvo. I cannot recommend this book enough even if you aren’t planning to move anytime soon.

4. Not to toot my own horn ( toot-toot) but the nice people at GazeboNews: News and Stuff About Lake Forest and Lake Bluff have written a post called, “California Dreamin” about one ex-Lake Bluff resident. Any idea who they are talking about? Thanks to them I now have readers from Forest and Bluff. Please, don’t be shy, Forest and Bluffers, leave a comment and say hello.

About Me

My name is Tracey, aka La Belette Rouge. I am a psychotherapist and the author of Freudian Sip @ Psychology Today. I blog about psychology, my therapy, dreams, writing, meaning making, home, longing, loss, infertility and other things that delight or inspire me. I try to make deep and elusive psychodynamic concepts accessible and funny. For more information, click here .

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