By Julie Jordan Scott

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Tomorrow, my Julie Unplugged blog plays host to the ReadWritePoem.Org Virtual Book tour and I will be sharing my thoughts and reviewing At Night, the Dead a” darkly delectable poetry collection “ penned by Lisa Ciccarello.        & nbsp;    

        & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;         ;                 & nbsp;     

I wanted to post something about my
beyond words, fantastic experience
witn Inclusion Films and Zombie High
when I realized - I haven't written
anything in my voluminous files
about this experience.

I have a new assignment for myself now.

And this essay which I did in my
voluminous files seems to be
the perfect counterpoint.

May the words inspire you today.

I sit here, not knowing what to write,
so I write nothing.

I am devoted to putting words on the page
yet when I think I have to write some thing,
so grand thing, my brakes are somehow
slammed on today.

I could blame it on the oppressive heat, or
worrying about Sam's day back at school when
I know he isn't feeling tip-top. I could blame
it on interrupted sleep or the need for a
refreshed glass of water but that feels silly.

My desk is a mess. That is it. I have
chores undone, is that it?

I sit here, not knowing what to write, so
I write nothing.

Though lo, and behold, I have eeked some
words onto the page.

They are there, a chorus of words – in
several rows.

They look like they are singers, on risers,
harmonizing – perhaps not completely
effectively – but they are there.

They are there because I felt devotion to
putting words on the page and let go of
feeling like a victim to my own
lack-of-spark this morning.

That feels so much better.

Roy Blount, author of "Crackers and One Foul
Soup" said, "I think writer's block is simply
the dread that you are going to write something
horrible. But as a writer, I believe that if
you sit down at the keys long enough,
sooner or later something will come out."

Your writing doesn't have to fulfill some
extravagant purpose – oftentimes my writing
that attempts to do that comes out all
stagey and fluffy, without the rich taste
of every day grit, grime and reality.

I don't want fluff as a writer, I was substance.

The mere fact I wrote my way through, "I sit
here, not knowing what to write, so I write
nothing." is intriguing.

It is so much better than the nonsense
which might have come if I started
trying too hard.

I sat here, not knowing what to write, so
I wrote something. That works for me.

Today is another read through and it is not
“just” another read through. This project
calls to me as an artist and it romances me
in the soul sense. Today I start work on the
short film “Zombie High” which is being filmed
here in Bakersfield.

It is being produced by Inclusion Films.

I feel deep within that my participation in this
project is a homecoming to people who I have not met
but to whom I am closer than many people I have
known for years. It is difficult to put what
I feel today into words...

Just a week ago I was waging warfare on myself, not
sure if I wanted to go through with the audition
or not because there were too many roadblocks in
the path. Certainly these roadblocks were telling
me not to bother, right?

That’s what I hear far too often – people perceive
challenges as reasons to not do something when in
actuality, challenges are often times the exact
reason one must do something.

My challenges ran the gamut, from physical challenges
to belief challenges.

Every actor I know has some level of disbelief in himself
or herself. I knew there were more than likely people
auditioning for the role I was auditioning for who
were more suited age-wise,  who were more attractive
and more experienced. I felt that “Why bother?” voice
creeping into my preparation.

The audition day was ridiculously busy – I had more
appointments than I had time to fulfill them. Who did
I think I was, attempting to slide an important audition
into the mix? Wouldn’t it be easier just to bail on
the whole thing before it started?

My printer wasn’t working, so I couldn’t print out my resume.
(Solution: Call my friend at PIPS, email my resume, and
have them print it for me.)

The folks at my usual photo lab wouldn’t print my photos
due to copy right issues. I understand this one, it was
my own mistake. I opted to arrive at the audition sans
photos since I had previously emailed photos. I trusted
it was acceptable to not be absolutely perfect and
follow all of the guidelines exactly to their specifications.

This is enormous to me, one who likes to follow instructions
as closely as possible both for personal comfort and also
due to a life long history of “fear of making
other people mad.”

I texted Hester, who was facilitating the process, telling
her I was a bit late and would be arriving, most likely,
a couple minutes after 12 noon, the time I had first said
I would arrive.

I got closer to the downtown building praying aloud
two simple words, “Parking space, parking space, parking
space, parking space” and God heard my call. I parked
and literally floated into the basement where the
auditions were being held.

Hester met me and advised me in a manner so similar
to how I would advise auditioners, “Take a breath… yes,
just breathe…” so I did.

I didn’t allow my belief barriers to get in my way. I
didn’t allow myself to fuss over my appearance or lack
of skillfully applied make up or lack of designer clothing.
I caught my breath and before I knew it I was swept
into the audition itself.

The audition itself remains like a dream in my memory.

I remember the voices of the production team: familiar
East Coast accents. I remember the cameras and seeing
myself on a screen so I knew I was being filmed, which
normally sets me back creatively as I get self conscious
of my appearance.

I remember being directed towards my “mark” which was
taped onto the floor, which I took as a reminder to
stay grounded and not wander from my aim – doing
the best performance possible.

I remember a sea of faces, glorious faces – the participants
in the Able Program who were key collaborators in the
making of this film, some of whom asked me questions
before and after the audition itself began.

I remember letting go of my worries about not knowing
enough about what was desired of me and allowing myself
to create wildly – perhaps even a bit recklessly – loud
and silly and over the top.

I remember getting some direction and pulling back and
trying again and feeling grateful for the opportunity
to give the team what they wanted.

I remember applause and thank yous.

I remember leaving the room and floating back up the stairs
and crying on my way home. My crying was not filled with
sadness, but with an overwhelming sense of joy and hope.

My friend and neighbor, Jill, sent me a message on facebook,
asking me how it went.

I responded:

I had the best time ever at an
audition - I felt like there was a magical doorway
to my forever home right there on
18th Street and no one had told me about it
until I tumbled into it yesterday afternoon.
Head over heels over heart I fell down those
stairs to be changed, forever, even if I am
not cast in the movie. I have spent a lot of my life
working with folks who are "differently
abled"... and now, with Sam, the whole concept
is even closer - if possible to be closer than
it has always been - to my heart. Right down
to the accents of the folks who were leading the
audition reminding me of my New Jersey home.
This audition had a sense of coming home for me.
I loved each and every minute. 

Today I have read through for a movie being filmed
next month here in Bakersfield.

A homecoming, a beginning, a renewal, a blessing, a becoming.

This isn't a NaPoWriMo poem, but came to being from painting and writing in my journal the next day and I believe my burst in poetic productivity is a direct result of writing poetry, consistently, daily - just like writing metrical verse has made free verse so much more sound oriented....  I hope you enjoy....

I stepped into the concrete coffee
- - spilled adrenaline - -
my toes tapping into its brown
greyness on my walking path.

I heard the purple, cast off
water color painting which bore the brunt
of my "I hate you's!" last night say
in its appearance the day after
so much that language can't contain.

No verbage, no letter necklaces no
excess explanation.

It was more like the spilled
coffee on the concrete that
said so much more in just being

- - concrete coffee - -

The brownish painting sprouted a face,
overnight, a face borne of leftover paint.
The color "burnt sienna" or something
like that, although colors labeled
"burnt sienna" remind me of scents
made in a factory and the convenience
of cookie cutter houses - useful and
not entirely satisfying, simultaneously.

I feel the call to cocoon, not leave here,
my porch, my house.

I stay.

God sounds affirm me. Chilled air asks the
rain to fall.

So far, the only response is a black sedan,
unremarkable in shape or execution, driving
through my thoughts with its headlights
begging the darkness to keep hold
just a little bit longer.

There is satisfaction in each painting. Each
one is me, in this moment, in Bakersfield.

Intensity. Loss. Muse Fire. The 90's.

I love it. 90's. Triangles. Squares. Lines.
Fitting. Inside. Boxes. Somehow. Please.

Loss clenses leftover gunk. Authentically
leaves nothing behind. When done well,
makes leftovers beautiful.

Lessons in letters. In words. In no words.
In few words.

I stepped into the concrete coffee
- - spilled adrenaline - -
my toes tapping into its brown
greyness on my walking path.

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 This morning’s NaPoWriMo prompt was about searching for words… it actually went something like this… 

I put my face over the bowl of cooking oatmeal and the scent that wafted into my soul immediately wrote a poem for me. 

In these days of tightening the fiscal belt in education, perhaps educators in Kern County may begin to learn some lessons from this story -

You can find out  hwo the schools can start saving some of their budget needlessly and why World Autism Awareness Day makes me mad by reading my RaisingBakersfield.com blog.

“A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees.”

William Blake

I treasure Monday mornings.

This morning I am practicing what I teach.

There are tree trimmers right outside my window. Some
of them have their chainsaws hacking away at my
beloved mulberry. Others are walking on my roof, with
their hacksaws on another part of my beloved mulberry.

They have been here for an hour, when my workday started
with a conversation about what I wanted and didn’t want
and wanted again, let me reiterate, from them.

I have a teleconference in half an hour and I am
intending they be done and gone by then so I can
hear myself and the others speak.

The tradition in Bakersfield is to top trees, to
cut them down so far they are almost unrecognizable.

The sight of the weeping willow two doors down
makes me weep.

I am an advocate for conscious pruning and I also
honor my neighbor’s request to not have a purple,
fruit colored drive-way. I have been known to clean
their driveway, sweep their driveway, rake their
drive-way in order to maintain peace.

My job now is to maintain peace among dogs barking
wildly, and the nub of a rake man banging into the
window by my writing desk. The chainsaws have been
turned off. No, one was just turned back on.

Its screeching climbs up and down my spine.

I breathe into the sounds, much like I learned
to breathe into labor pains.

I can smell the exposed places on the tree. Salty
tears coat my eyes.

The back part of my brain reminded me I have yet
to complete my daily gratitude practice.

I noticed the quieting of their equipment so I
went outside to check the progress and what I found
brought pain into my heart.

They sliced off much more of my tree than I had
requested. I looked up sadly at my tree and simply
said, “Too much was taken away. Too much.”

I practiced gratitude even in my place of sadness,
which are the times gratitude’s work is most felt.

I am grateful I feel as much as I do.

I am grateful for the quiet time with Katherine yesterday.

I am grateful I know how to breathe when I am sad.

I am grateful my neighbors will be pleased.

I am grateful for the work of the children of Dorothy
Kundhart and Anne Morrow Lindbergh.

I am grateful for metaphors.

I am grateful I am strong.

I am grateful for rebirth.

I am grateful.

“A few minutes ago every tree was excited, bowing
to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing
their branches in glorious enthusiasm like worship.
But though to the outer ear these trees are now
silent, their songs never cease.”

John Muir

The man who owns the tree service just knocked on
my door. We talked. I told him I wasn't happy and
gave him my speech about trees. Shared my quotes,
and my observations about the weeping willow
that makes me weep.

He probably thought I was just another fruit or nut,
perhaps something else to prune.

He said, "Now you won't have fruit, it won't make
a mess."

I said, "This tree is supposed to have fruit, it
gets messy. That is ok, that is what mulberry
trees are supposed to do."

Maybe he thinks people who think like I think
are too messy. I shared I think it is wrong
for people who have surgery so their dogs
can't bark and old-school teachers who
slapped children who were left-handed
"into shape".

I turned and walked away, after I thanked him
for trying to do what I wanted and reminded him
it was too much. I reminded him I wasn't pleased.

He saw my tears.

I am grateful.

Last night I sat at rehearsal of Shakespeare’s
“The Winter’s Tale” next to my long-time friend
Julia. I was reading from “Finding Water” by
a different Julia, my beloved life changing
author, Julia Cameron, occasionally underlining sections
or looking up, around the room, to ponder either
what I was reading or the words from
Shakespeare which, from time, to time,
pierced my consciousness with their energy.

The set of the current show, “Supervillains”
is silver-grey and contrasts just enough with
the standard black-of-the-black-box to play
the occasional trick on my eyes yet not distract
either my creative process when I was
on stage or my creative process as I sat in a
chair normally reserved for the audience.

When I sat in the audience, I borrowed the
tension and artistry from the actors and
directors at work to imbue my own process.

I found these words from Julia Cameron that
said much more than the eleven words would
say on their own:

“For today, all you need is the grace to
begin beginning.”

There is a task I started this task in the
beginning of March. The month is almost over
and I have made more progress in getting this
particular job done than in the entire lifetime
of needing to get it done.

I remember first talking about getting my garage
cleared out and reorganized as long as
three years ago, but it probably nagged
at me without conscious awareness for
twice as long as that.

The task sat, undone, for all this time.

There was an occasional, lack-luster attempt
to clear it out, but I never actually started.

I only talked about it. I never filled it with
anything concrete, just my words which met
with nothing more than, more words. I never
bothered to add the words together to create
momentum or power or force as I
did this month.

This month, I created a goal which said,
simply, “March Goal: Clean out my garage”.

My goal was public, as this adds to the power of
it, on the 43things.com website. I had learned
over time that my goals had a greater strength
if I stated them simply, if I gave myself a
container of time – such as a month – and I
had people occasionally peeking in at me to
see how those goals are going.

Those factors, together, make up my “grace to
begin beginning”, as Julia Cameron describes
it in poetic terms.

Other March goals include Learn lines for
"The Winter's Tale", Write two of four
reflective essay/articles for Autism
Awareness Month and Create a Sacred Writing
Space on the Front Porch.

Today my “Clean Out My Garage” goal took
form like this:

I walked towards my back door, lugging an
oversized box on my hip and two trash bags
in my hand. I was practicing being efficient,
you see.

Spring cleaning was not only in the air, it had
taken charge of many of my choices.

I was heading out my back door because I was
on the way to move my clothes from the washing
machine to the drier. In California, many washers
and dryers are in garages and for homes built
when my home was built: 1939 – the garages
are in the back yard, detached from the
rest of the house.

I knew I might have a spare moment to
separate items for donation to local thrift
stores and perhaps put some stuff into a
trash bag to find its final resting place in
the dump. That’s why I needed two trash bags.

In the last few days, I have seen places in
my garage that have been covered with
“stuff” for longer than I would like to admit.

Let’s just say that I put some size 4, 5, and
6 girls clothes into the wash today that belonged
to Katherine when she attended Readyland Preschool
and was in Mrs. Abeyta’s Kindergarten classroom. 
Those were the days when she was building
volcanoes and extolling the virtues of Minnie Mouse
compared to today, when she drives her
Volvo to study Advanced Math Analysis
and discuss with her friends what they
are wearing to the prom.

Her little girl clothes will be put into the bag
marked “Thrift Store” after they are washed
and dried so that some other little girl
will be able to enjoy them.

You can see, it had taken me a decade – ouch – to
find the grace to begin beginning.

I wrote that last line and folded my hands on my
stomach and leaned back in my chair. Ouch
doesn’t begin to say it.

Since I started typing these words, I also cleared
two book shelves that were holding old VCR
tapes that are no longer useful as I no longer
own a VCR.

I put books on the shelf I actually use. I put them
on shelves by category, another outcome I have
always wanted, but never managed to get to
until today.

Now I have two shelves housing books I use
constantly in my writing classes as well as in
my personal writing practices, too.

Today, by working diligently and contentedly
on other tasks, I was able this time to have the
grace to begin beginning completely by surprise.

My timer just went off, which signals to me that
it is time to move the laundry to the drier, another
load to the washer, and to come back and
finish this writing time with you.

Today, this is what satisfying feels like. I am doing
what I love to do, taking care of things I have put
off for far too long, and weaving it all into this one
Spring morning of 2009.

I just remembered to tune into Radio Swiss Classic.

When I am done spending time with you, I will light
a candle in celebration of our time together, when
I found the grace to begin – and to complete – this
time writing words for you.

Where did you find yourself in these words today?

What will you do differently in order to find the
grace to begin beginning?
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You won't want to miss William Shakespeare's "The Winter's Tale" at the Empty Space Theatre opens on April 10, 2009 at 8 PM. The Empty Space is located at 706 Oak Street behind Pizzaville, just south of California Avenue.