March 12, 2026

I was a pretty dour theater kid. I liked black box theater vs. musicals. While I was able to summon up rage and tears on a dime, if I was meant to laugh, I sounded like an evil genius: Ha! Ha! Ha! It was impossible for me to laugh in a carefree, honest way. Growing up, I witnessed my mother’s grief over my father’s death in Vietnam and it became mine. I was the souvenir of a life my mother once dreamed she would have with my father - a reminder of the life she was denied when he was killed. I grew up with the understanding that anyone can be taken from you at any time for any reason. Once you know that, it’s hard to “unknow” it. As a kid, some described me as slow-to-warm. Others said I was aloof or even a snob. Some said I was “an old soul.”

The last time I wrote in this Substack, the U.S. was not at war. Now we’ve been at war for two weeks. Bombs have been dropped. People have died on all sides, including hundreds of school children. What were their dreams? Who did they want to be? The remains of U.S. servicemembers have been repatriated. War-hungry politicians are momentarily solemn in their memory and then they go back to their politics and bluster, and their phones. As do most of us. AI threatens to do all the work of war and thinking and feeling for us, while we get lost in scrolling.

I am often duped by AI posts. Dogs doing cute things with unlikely animals, like baby ducks. “Fake,” my children message back. More and more, I find myself detached from the big important stuff and drawn to the simple things, like researching how to make gluten-free sourdough bread or contemplating the color to paint the walls or when and how to build raised vegetable beds.

I bought a stand-mixer before my Amazon Prime expired. I involved Catherine from Denmark when deciding on the color. It’s a cold fluorescent blue. I wish I hadn’t made that selection. But it’s out of the box and I don’t want to put it back into the box. I’m lazy that way. It’s too heavy. This is all part of the gluten-free sourdough plan - the project on which Blaze and I will embark in eight days if the sourdough starter arrives on time and I learn to feed it and keep it alive. The sourdough starter will be a living thing Blaze and I will create and then share. We used to have a green stand-up mixer, but they don’t make that color anymore. All these months later, I am still trying to approximate what we used to have.

The last time I wrote, I was in Santa Barbara in a house with a dank water hole out front that was meant to be a decorative waterfall but had evolved to being a garbage-bag-lined petri dish of rain and mud, where frogs loudly procreate. I collected golf balls that were hit over the fence. Now I’m in New England in a Victorian house by myself except for the two dogs. There are different birds here. I think the Canadian Geese might be migrating back. No golf balls. The house seems to have survived the winter. Now we are in the muddy season. It was actually t-shirt hot on the day I arrived - hot and with snow still on the ground. The cover over the hot tub in the backyard had blown off at some point over the winter, and algae had grown in the tub. So, I changed into PJ shorts and got into the tub to clean it off before I unpacked the car.

Now, the snow has melted but there is still a chill in the air. I heard from Chad the moment after I posted last - and not since. Chad is the go-between with the insurance folks. The footage recovery portion of my policy is still unresolved. My beloved unused, unboxed camera - the symbol of my filmmaking and the life I once knew - still sits in storage in limbo because the sale has not gone through. The buyer is waiting for the bank, apparently. I was encouraged to “make a deal” and go for the “cash sale,” but the cash has yet to materialize. Maybe the buyer has changed their mind? Maybe they have bad credit? Or there’s a plan to rip me off? Hard to say. As much as I have a lump in my throat just thinking about the whole transaction, I am now also removed from it. The way the last fifteen months have evolved - anything can happen.

The broker for the camera sale continues to tell me not to worry - that the equipment is safe at a rental facility that has over forty cameras just like mine. Still, it’s hard not to worry when the camera is my most valuable asset. Part of me wants the camera not to sell – wants me to reverse the decision not to own a camera, not to be a documentary filmmaker anymore. But I am sentimental that way. I regret most decisions that involve big change.

I text that if the camera has not sold by April 4, when George is traveling back through LA after Blaze’s trip to stay with me during spring break and after George’s trip to visit Catherine in Denmark, he will retrieve it. That gives me the illusion of control and momentum.

It’s March 12. Today there was an attack on a synagogue and a shooting at Old Dominion. Violence and hatred is a toxic soup boiling over.

I drove across the country since I last wrote. The United States has so much real estate. The Mojave Desert. The Kansas Plains. Seven days - six nights, including a few days recovering from a stomach flu I caught from Blaze before my departure. Somehow the car was very full. I think I just kept shoving shit in there and didn’t plan it very well. I had one hellacious day of bad weather where I had to drive in a foggy downpour of rain for two hours, in the dark, with a fever. Thankfully, I had requested a digital key and made my way into my motel room on the first floor before I collapsed. The rest of the trip was without bad weather or incident. It was largely a silent drive - I only listened to one podcast that I picked randomly but was highly relevant now that we are at war with Iran. It puts a lot into context.

I didn’t take many selfies because I’d done the drive twice before in the past six months so there was less adventure to it. Also, I didn’t want Catherine inspecting the photos for potential damage the dogs or I may have inflicted on her car.

The stated reason for me to be back in Williamstown now was that I needed to return Catherine’s car before the summer. I also needed to get here before Blaze so I could receive her for her spring break. She arrives next week, in eight days. Now I have eight days to myself. To contemplate my life. My living space. My everything. Also, to meet new people.

At the cool consignment store, I met a man in his thirties in wireframe glasses and a beanie who was buying only green things. He has a podcasting business. He “got famous” doing crime podcasts. He is also opening a “membership” speakeasy in the neighboring town - that’s what all the green is about. I am very curious - I want to say, “count me in!” Also, I can tell right off the bat that he is less curious about me - a middle-aged woman with tangled hair in a claw, in the stained South Wind Motel sweatshirt I have been wearing for days. I say, “I have made documentaries.” Then I correct myself, “I made documentaries.” I leave it at that and realize I need to work on my elevator pitch - not for a project, but for ME.

Sometimes, I want to say, I was sort of famous, once upon a time. For people at my age, that’s how it will work. No one reads a CV. I will need to slowly meet people. I need to sound honest, confident. I am told I should also “be excited,” which I will fake until I actually feel. This is what happened - this is where I am now - this is what I want to do!

I met a young woman in a red sweater and rose colored glasses who helped me carry a lamp to my car. She is on spring-break from Kenyon College - here to perform with her band on the Williams College radio. She has California license plates, too. She’s from “West LA.” She asks me where I’m from - I tell her Pacific Palisades - and the question, “Were you affected by the fire?” She is very sweet, loading the lamp in my car. I follow her band on Instagram. Oh to be young and in a girl band!

I will spend the next few days judging this year’s Webby entries. I am fascinated by what people are submitting - especially in the Film & Video category, which is my featured category to judge. I keep a list of submissions and creators I want to know more about. I include their links on the same document alongside links to my vegetable garden inspiration.

The geopolitical events of the past year - the war of the past two weeks - the fire of 2025 - it’s all a big ball of “anything can happen.” I am wanting to unknow what I know and to make bread instead. Is this self-care? Or am I rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic?

I make plans to meet my neighbors. Have the women over who watered the plants and brought in the mail.

Go slow. Do this. That’s what keeps coming up.