Category: Writing

Never Ignore Your Spidey Senses

So happy on my 1st day of vacation.

Leading up to this glorious day, I’d been furiously packing up to donate, ship or load my things into my fuel-efficient car to relocate back home to NC. With average Austin rents rising 40% and average one-bedroom apartment rents increasing 108% from one year to the next, my migration was inevitable.

Initially, I thought I would “good job” my way out of Texas. Somewhere, somehow, I’d land a more interesting job, making at least twice as much money and move closer to my parents, who I hadn’t seen since December 2019. Instead, I relocated with my present work-from-home job. As a matter of fact, I’d worked for over a year and had never taken a vacation…only a few hours to a few days here and there. I’d accrued over three weeks of PTO, but I knew better than to take more than two.

I rolled out of Austin in good time to meet one final friend for brunch.

I didn’t realize this place was famous.

I’d asked for a restaurant recommendation close to the highway. I got more than I bargained for. I was surprised that there was a 45-minute wait for a table. Nearly everyone I spoke with was from out of town. I felt like the only one who hadn’t seen this place on some TV show.

My friend and I discussed our respective life choices, given both circumstances beyond our control and the limitations of our respective skill sets. No matter what, seems like success is always short-lived or just out of our grasp. All those heavy topics about human drama over a two-egg benedict for me while my friend ate his non-dairy and other dietary restrictive meal.

The whole day, no matter whether I was parked at a restaurant or at a gas station, especially when I’d dashed into the bathroom, I worried about the security of the stuff in car.

Except for when I checked into a hotel for the night. As I drove up to my usual hotel chain of choice, I somehow convinced myself that the general reputation of the hotel chain would be maintained in Jackson, MS. This particular location was near a construction site, had no cameras on the building that overlooked the parking lot except for a camera on the entranceway.

What I should have done was drove to another location, after all it was a national hotel chain, but I convinced myself that security, who would come around 11 PM would suffice. Besides, I parked on the side where there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic, close to the entrance.

A bit past midnight, I received a phone call.

My worst nightmare had come true.

The police officer on security detail escorted me to my car, telling me essentially that no one saw anything until after the fact; so this must have happened before he came on duty at 11 PM. They had to run my tags to find out who the car’s owner was. Apparently, some good Samaritan reported the burglary to the front desk, who called the police. The responding officer left their contact card, which provided the local police number and a case number.

I immediately saw that two out of three of my work-related computer boxes had been stolen. Days later, when I unpacked the remaining things in my car, I realized that more of my personal things had been stolen.

I went to bed for a few minutes, returning to my car to retrieve the remaining computer box. On my way back into the hotel, I asked the cop how long he’d be on duty: 6 AM…the same time breakfast would begin. That was the start of a plan.

I called my car insurance to see how fast I could get the window repaired. Although the cop had used one of my blankets to block the busted out window, I needed more of an appearance of a secured car. Plus, I didn’t want to cause my parents undue stress when I rolled up to their house. Of course, nothing could be done at that time of night.

I barely slept, which meant I was on time for breakfast. While I ate, I reasoned that I’d be better off as a moving target rather than sitting around the hotel, waiting for 8 AM EST when the car insurance main office would be open.

Even though the rear passenger window was busted, I still kept up with the flow of traffic. I pulled into a gas station an hour later to call my car insurance company again. I wanted them to locate a place to fix my window in Meridian, MS, which was where I was heading. Yet, thanks to timezones, none of those shops were open. No problem! I drove for another hour before stopping at another gas station to call my car insurance.

This time, I connected to one of the best customer service agents ever. Plus, I was an hour longer into my travels and knew that the next biggest city was Atlanta, GA. I’d never driven this route before and since I was using Waze, I hadn’t bothered plotting a travel course on my own. This customer service agent worked diligently for over 30 minutes to find someone to fix my window later that day.

I met the angel mechanic in Atlanta.

Just to prove how ultimately cool this guy was, he asked where my final destination was, then suggested a closer place where he’d meet me, saving me 30 minutes of driving out of my way. He was eating lunch with his daughter when I rolled up in the parking lot. He remedied the broken window in less than half an hour, including vacuuming the broken glass that he could see among my things.

Plus, I supported a small Black-owned business.

Once I hit the road again, not only was my window fixed, but thanks to staying in contact with my supervisor, the replacement equipment was in the works.

As I drove along the series of highways, the trip became a metaphor for moving on. The burglary became a metaphor ofor the negative things that happen in life that force me to change. Instead of checking into another hotel for the night, I drank coffee with a shot Baileys and drove into the night to my parents’ house.

Happily ever after for now.

My Sister’s Wedding Anniversary

Even though I was in my sister’s wedding ceremony 33 years ago, I wouldn’t have remembered the date if it wasn’t for my father. Dad is a numbers guy. I don’t know how many other ambidextrous people who are also good at math or have a “thing” for numbers. Yet I’m thinking that Dad, if he hadn’t been born in 1938 and schooled under egregious “separate but equal” conditions, he probably would have been an engineer because of his ability to fix things and affinity for math.

Instead, his math skills were not nurtured. Nonetheless, he’s always “figuring” number patterns. If you have a piece of paper that’s important, don’t leave it lying around Dad. Eventually, his numbers will be all over it. Then, he chooses some 3-digit number that appeal to him and play it as his Pick 3.

More of a pastime, than an addiction. Dad doesn’t merely rely on the number patterns that he toys with. Significant dates like birthdays, famous people’s death dates, anniversaries, and so on are all fodder. They don’t even have to be exact.

That’s how I know that 6/24 is my sister’s anniversary. Anytime a combination of those three numbers come out as a Pick 3, Dad will inevitably say, “That’s Renee’s anniversary data.” So, whether I wanted to remember my sister’s anniversary or not, I can never forget.

A year and a quarter of being in the pandemic changed the economic landscape where I could no longer freelance. My last day as a 100% freelancer was on 6/24/2021. Being a full-time employee stopped the downward money spiral.

Fast forward to 6/24/2022, SCOTUS overturned Roe v Wade.

I had the cheek to call my sister and ask her how she felt about women losing reproductive rights on her anniversary. I don’t remember her answer, but she has two daughters; so it hit doubly hard.

I try not to give into superstitious beliefs. Let’s just say that I’m beginning to grow wary of 6/24. Then again, my sister has been married for 33 years; so, at least in that respect, it’s been an auspicious date.

Calcium Dust

When I needed a follow up to my standard mammogram, first thing that crossed my mind was, “Yay! I get to to take some more time off.” Up until that point, I hadn’t taken any time off unless I had a doctor’s appointment. A strong contrast to the days when I was a classroom teacher, which was the most stressful job I’ve ever had and needed the time off for survival, mental/physical health and the such.

With my current full-time job, which I work from home, it’s not that stressful, so my paid time off just accrues without me paying much attention to it. Celebrating time off was more at the forefront of my mind than worrying that something was wrong.

After all, many years ago, I’d had a follow up mammogram because my breasts were “fibrous,” or something like that. It’s apparently common in Black women. I figured the doctor was being cautious since I’d not had a mammogram in a long time. So long in fact, that they couldn’t even use my last one as a baseline. I had no idea that I needed one every year.

After the second mammogram, I became worried when they called me into a consultation room, asking if someone else had accompanied me to the clinic. No health care professional had ever asked me that question before.

The doctor and technician who’d conducted the mammogram explained to me that the results showed calcifications in my right breast. Showing my sheer ignorance about breast cancer, I questioned why I had any calcifications if I’d never breastfed. As a matter of fact, I’d never been pregnant.

The technician answered as if I had not just asked a stupid question, telling me that breastfeeding had nothing to do with it.

She and the doctor led me to another room where we looked at the mammogram images. Even though the images enlarged the 5mm area of my right breast where the calcifications were, they still looked like specks of dust.

As they explained the next step to me, I stared at that suspicious calcium dust with dread. If we hadn’t been in a pandemic caused by something even smaller than the specks that I saw, I would have marveled that something that couldn’t even be detected by a regular breast exam could curtail my life.

We returned to the consultation room where they explained what a stereoscopic biopsy was. I’d lie facedown on a table that had a hole in it where my breast would hang from. They’d apply a local anesthetic, followed by a series of injections of the anesthetic before the removal of the suspicious calcifications. At the end of the procedure, the doctor would leave a metallic maker just so in the future, depending on the results, they can return to the spot and retrieve the rest of the calcifications if they turned out to be cancerous.

Before sending me on my way, they assured me there was only a 20% chance that the calcifications were cancerous. Even with those odds, I don’t gamble because I see myself as having bad luck.

At that point, I moved through a fog of worry. I only told two people about my upcoming procedure: one of my sisters and a good friend. From there on out, the rest of life’s worries washed over me.

One thing that I needed after the biopsy was a tight-fitting bra, so my right breast wouldn’t move around much. Coincidentally, I’d already planned to go bra shopping with that same friend.

A lot of back and forth occurred to get the biopsy scheduled because my primary doctor’s office either left a vital part of the faxed form blank, or what was written couldn’t be clearly read, or there was a missing signature. That was cleared up after nearly a week and three attempts.

The day of my biopsy, I drove there by myself, thinking that I’d get the result before I left. That didn’t happen.

Before I talking to a technician, I checked in with the front desk. Part of the process was to pay for the procedure upfront. I’m not sure what would have happened if I couldn’t have put the charge on my credit card. Would I have been as good as dead at that moment? One thing I noticed was the increasing cost with every procedure.

The initial mammogram was 100% covered by my insurance. The follow up procedure cost $160, which was covered by my HSA card. This latest procedure cost nearly $1000. Since I’d recently used my HSA card, I barely had over $100 on it. At that point, I was still grateful that it lowered the amount going on my credit card.

As the EMT previewed the procedure, I kept thinking I couldn’t literally afford to have breast cancer. No one wants cancer, but to have it and not be able to afford the treatment…would I be yet another sick American with a gofund me page for treatment?

I tried to temper my anxiety. After all, going with the odds, I’d be in the 80% who didn’t have breast cancer. Another cheerful statistic was emblazoned on the side of the bag the tech had given me to put my clothes in: 98% survival rate for women diagnosed with early stage breast cancer by a mammogram.

There should have been an asterisk with that statistic, stating if one could afford the treatment.

If my mind was preoccupied with not being able to afford cancer treatment that vanished once the procedure began. I lay on my stomach with my exposed right breast hanging from a hole in the examination table that had been raised a few feet.

The time between the local anesthetic being applied to my breast and being pierced with a sharp object seemed like a few seconds. As a matter of fact, I’d started quietly crying before being pierced. The position I was lying in, along with my breast being held in place with vise grips was so uncomfortable, I knew the whole contraption had been designed by men.

Yet, I hadn’t screamed in pain until the piercing. From the beginning, the doctor assured me that more anesthetic was being injected. All I could feel was my breast being pinched very hard. At one point, the doctor sounded impatient, stating that noting was being done. I could have slapped him. Despite nothing being done on his part, I still felt a pinching sensation.

Once the procedure was done, I lay on my back, traumatized as the EMT applied pressure to the incision. I took deep breaths to calm myself down, while the EMT and tech talked over me about attending some event. They never specifically stated what they were talking about, but it sounded like some shopping/networking event. Whatever they were talking about, it was completely disconnected from the physical trauma I’d just experienced.

I’d planned in advance to have a mani/pedi afterwards. Fortunately, one of my favorite woman-owned nail shops was still in business. The place looked a little rundown, but considering that she was still in business, that was a miracle. She had only one woman whose nails she was putting the final touches on as I soaked my feet in the whirlpool. Soothing relief I needed after a biopsy.

A few days later, I received an email stating that my results were in. I nervously clicked on the link. Initially, I thought my phone couldn’t handle the amount of data to download the results. I raced to my laptop. Same result.

I called the clinic that performed the biopsy for the results. They informed me that I had to call my primary care physician (PCP) for the results. I called my PCP’s office. The receptionist confirmed that the test results were in, but only the PCP could go over them with me. The best I could do was leave a message. Unfortunately, I was frustrated. My parting words to the PCP front desk was, “You mean I have to wait even longer to find out whether I have breast cancer?”

I spent the weekend, trying to put breast cancer and the impending cost of breast cancer treatment out of my mind.

The following Tuesday, my sister texted me about whether I knew the results. This gave me new motivation to pick up the task again. I did the same dance I’d started on Friday. This time, I knew the name of the employee at the biopsy clinic. I left her a message, then called the PCP office. As luck would have it, I was on hold for the PCP receptionist when the biopsy clinic employee beeped in. I put the receptionist on hold.

The clinic employee apologized for the phone tag over the past couple of days. Just when I thought she was going to give me another runaround, she informed me that my results were benign.

A lightness washed over me. I thanked her, then clicked over to the PCP receptionist, telling her that I’d received my results. I thanked her and hung up.

Next call was to my sister. As we talked, I texted my friend the results. My sister and I talked for over 30 minutes as I continued to work. I was impressed how long I was able to work without having to make an outbound call. Fate was on my side. In more ways than one.

With that burden off my plate, I moved forward with my life as I’d planned to do, regardless of the results. At least this way, I didn’t have to strategize how to pay for cancer treatment.

Voting Vultures

Not only do I believe in voting, but usually on the first day of early voting. I couldn’t do that this time around since I’d moved and my voting activation hadn’t kicked in until May 1st. No problem! That was a lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

When I entered the polling place, I spun around in a circle because I was the only voter present. The number of voting workers usually outnumber voters during these non-presidential elections, but this was extra special. In more ways the one.

I always take a picture after voting.

I use it as a visual reminder for friends to go vote as I point to my “I Voted” or “Yo Voté” sticker. Yet in this case, I directed everyone’s attention to the two vultures over my right shoulder in the background.

They picked at a dead squirrel’s carcass.

I texted the pictures to some friends, inviting them to make whatever voting analogy they could think of. As for me, the political climate often does seem as if we are picking over the leftovers of a dead system. If I were more optimistic, as one friend suggested the analogies should be, I would see the present state of things about to replace what no longer works.

The pessimist in me thinks that the people who benefited, or at least who perceived that they benefited, from the old system will practice a scorched-Earth policy rather than allow something more equitable to flourish in its ashes. As I’ve reminded myself and others, no one embraces a future where they don’t see themselves as a successful part of.

Amazing, my optimism does extend into the future. I wake up every morning feeling that today’s the day wonderful things are going to happen or at least get me closer to that.

Creature Comforts

There’re several little things that make one feel at home.

With my recent move, I donated some things, threw away others, but I packed up the majority. Many of my possessions are creature comforts. My entire collection of costumes and accessories, for example. I don’t bother asking when, during this pandemic, I’m ever going to costume myself for an event. That has already happened several times because the plague doesn’t stop cosplay.

It’s probably one of the healthier ways of dealing with reality–escaping from reality for a minute. All the doom and gloom will still be there once I’m finished dressing up as the Mad Hatter, Anubis or Ms Information.

On the other hand, I found a place for the things one thinks makes a civilized dwelling: furniture to sit upon and sleep on, cookware, regular clothes and the such. Even the decorative red throw pillows found a home, much to the delight of the fur baby who gave them the nap test.

Upon the foundation of all the material things being in place, I’ve resumed a productive routine. On the other hand, I’m using this foundation to dream about other things. I have to first visualize myself as doing something else before I take the leap.

Buh Guh Money

At the beginning of this year, the leasing agent emailed my roommate and I a notice about what our rent would be if we renewed our lease. They’d unwittingly crossed into the “ya’ll niggahs must be crazy” realm. As if we’d pay nearly $500 more.

When one of my nephews was a little kid, he’d race to the brightly colored shiny bubble gum machines and ask one of us adults for some “buh guh money.” He wasn’t much of a gum chewer. It was more about the entertainment of watching the colorful piece of gum travel through its dispenser.

I don’t know at what age the magic waned from watching bubble gum dispensers or when he started referring to “buh guh money” as “quarters,” but I thought of my nephew when I saw my pay raise. Buh Guh Money.

I couldn’t muster my nephew’s young childhood enthusiasm for twenty-five cents, especially when the cost of practically everything had increased way beyond my raise.

Even the cost of gas, which I don’t often have to buy, thanks to working from home, shot up as soon as Putin invaded Ukraine. These assholes couldn’t wait for any excuse to jack up the prices, which caused some people to jack up their fellow citizens for gas. As soon as I’d paid Putin prices for my gas, the cost started to lower. Much better to stretch my buh guh money.

π Day

The irony of my π Day observation is that I never observed it when I was a Math teacher. As a matter of fact, if it hadn’t landed on a Monday this year, my current grocery shopping day, I may not have bothered with it at all.

Yet since we’ve passed the 2-year mark for this roller coaster pandemic, I bought a celebratory, individual-sized spinach and cheese quiche. My quiches taste better, but this was pretty good in a pinch.

In my younger days, I would’ve opted for a sweet pie, but now that I’m convinced that too much sugar makes my left knee hurt, I opted for a pain-free celebration. (Hey, some people can tell the weather with their knee. Mine lets me know when I’ve consumed too much sugar!)

Another reason I like this observation is that π is the most famous irrational number. “Irrational” being the M.O. of the US dominant narrative for the past couple of years. In a way, being sequestered has been nice because I don’t have to surround myself by irrational people in real life. We are comfortably separated by distance and social media.

As a matter of fact, I messaged people as a reminder to eat a sweet or savory pie in observance. Not a soul complained about how much they hated math because everyone found a type of pie that they liked without too much grief.

As a counterpoint to my belief that my country currently runs on irrationality, the US Senate UNANIMOUSLY voted to end Daylight Savings on March 15th. Could that have been the result of too much π the day before? I’m mostly sure that had nothing to do with it.

More than likely, they were all blurry-eyed from springing forward an hour on the 13th. Either way, it’s refreshing Congress can actually get some shit done. One Republican even made a big deal about how “the science” backs up the decision to end Daylight Savings.

I just thought, “Oh, you son of bitch, a vast universe of logical decisions await when you choose to embrace “the science.”

Nonetheless, I’m not going to be teased into a false sense of optimism that this occurrence has ushered in a new era of logical reasoning and innovative science. At least I enjoyed my pie.

$1.60

At first blush, the title of this post may have led one to the false conclusion that I’m going to talk about the cost of something. In an obtuse way, I guess, I am. Yet after paying the rent, a credit card bill, which included my 6-month car insurance payment and a smaller bill, $1.60 was all that remained until the next payday.

Most would see that low balance and cringe in horror. Not me. As a matter of fact, having some money north of zero was an outright accomplishment, all things considered.

The bank’s email the first morning of that balance got me going. Note: I said “the bank” and not “my bank.” I still don’t claim the bastards that took over my bank.

RIP BBVA Compass

At some point, I’m going to research a better banking solution, but bank shopping is a low priority.

Since I don’t fully trust banks, I thought they were going to charge me a fee for being poor. I’m sure as the economy gets worse, that bullshit will start–charging people money for not having enough money.

The email stated that its existence was triggered because my balance was below $50. I calmed down and waited until they were open. They kept me on hold for about 20 minutes. To my relief, being poor, at least this time, wouldn’t cost me more money I didn’t have.

I received those automated emails daily, reminding me of the low balance. As if I could possibly forget. As if I don’t know when payday is. As if I don’t know that check will evaporate as quickly as its predecessors.

If a human being had sent those emails, I’d accuse them of being passive-aggressive. The disembodied automated reminders still deserved a special place in hell for the humans who set that function up. Again, I’m not dividing what little waking and off work hours to finding out if I can turn that “control” off. The real control I’d like to have is over my financial situation.

Given my recent “raise,” which was so breathtakingly small that it mathematically satisfied the definition of an increase, but economically seemed to be the same as before the raise along with an insult, I’ll have many more paydays ahead of me where I’ll celebrate any positive amount that remains after the bills are paid.

One bright spot: on the next payday, that same alarmist bank emailed me that the low-balance crisis was over. Assholes. Now I have this shit to look forward to about every other month since from here on out until who knows when things will stabilize financially.

Now Hear This

As soon as I wished out loud to be part of a real film set, versus the spur-of-the-moment set where I shot my first short film, the universe granted my wish. Originally, I applied for the “Sound Mixer” position not really knowing what all it entailed. The only other open position was DP (Director of Photography). I learned back in undergrad that I didn’t have the “eye” to be DP. Besides, I’d edited several podcast episodes. All I knew was that the filmmakers, who shared director/producer titles, stated they would rent the equipment if the Sound Mixer didn’t have their own equipment–something I learned while on set to not be the usual case.

Fortunately, my mentor guided me in the right direction by providing a few videos and a blog. Until she did that, I truly thought I’d stroll up on set, dressed in all black, wearing hiking boots and a camelback without having done any research. Thank God I killed the camelback idea and brought a water bottle like a normal person.

The first thing I learned and immediately internalized was: early = on time; on time = late; and late = fired. Since my official title for this set was “Sound Shadow,” which, if I hadn’t known any better, I would have assumed was the latest comic book superhero, essentially meant I was an unpaid intern.

At least I didn’t have to pay for a class to gain this experience. As an undergrad, I’d worked on three student film sets. In that blind-leading-the-blind situation, none of them were at any level of professionalism as this movie set was. Regardless of my volunteer status, I still respected our mutual time and made the most of the opportunity.

The second lesson was an explanation of what “collaboration” means on set. As collaborative as both codirectors/coproducers, who I’ll refer to as A and C, announced they’d be on set, I’m happy I didn’t go with my original plan. Instead, I quietly approached the codirectors to ask a question or suggest something. That way, none of the actors overheard, which might have been confusing.

Plus, if one talks when things aren’t rolling, then they should do so quietly. I witnessed first hand how side conversations get out of hand. I found myself pulling a Ms. Roberson and gesturing two people on set to talk quietly. Given the lag time between takes, there was no way we’d all remain silent, but talking normally was too loud.

On the first day, I parked on the edge of the lawn among the other cars with a minute to spare from my call time (ie, late) and texted one of the codirectors/coproducers, C, about my arrival. I entered the house through a side door, nearest the line of carefully coiled cables–another thing the videos had reminded me: the over-under method to wrap most cables that would minimize damage and entanglement. C met me at the door with a big smile on her face and gave me a hug. (At least her eyes communicated “big smile” since her face was actually covered with a mask. Everyone on set had to show a negative COVID test that had been administered within 48 hours).

As I walked in, I met the Boom Operator, T.

For weeks I’d sung the phrase “boom operator” to the tune of Sade’s “Smooth Operator.” Took me mere seconds after our introduction to sing it to T. It had been my ear worm for a while, but I didn’t quite plant it in T.

Moments later, the Sound Mixer, J, arrived with an impressive amount of equipment, 12 years of filmmaking experience and a remarkably positive attitude for someone who wasn’t a morning person. The most golden nuggets of information I learned from him was that sound mixers were expected to own their equipment, and that he sometimes makes more money renting his equipment verses his labor rate. Although I’ve been a lifelong an emerging entrepreneur, my ears perked up when he talked about “rental.” There’s a standard package of sound equipment that filmmakers pay for. On top of that standard package, any additional needed sound equipment will be rented at a daily rate.

One of our producers/directors, A, bravely chose to shoot in and around her home.

I could have made a documentary just from the furniture alone. The piece that spoke to me the most was the Singer sewing machine that had been repurposed into a table. My maternal grandmother had a Singer. When I visited her, I’d sit down in front of the Singer and peddle. Not sewing, mind you, just idly peddling. Bonus: the set dog is in the picture. He was super chill for that many strangers doing strange things around his house.

I notoriously have cold fingers and toes even in warm weather.

For once, masking due to a pandemic worked in my favor because it kept my face warm. We purposely had open doors to keep fresh air flowing–fresh COLD air. Except for when I was eating or using the bathroom, I had gloves on whether I was inside or outside. The combination of post lunch, a comfortable beanbag and comfy coat and KA-BOOM! immediately transported T into a power nap. The headphones were such a nice touch for someone who confidently stated that she wouldn’t fall asleep.

At one point on the first day, T and I talked about me handling the boom when we were outside.

Yet, I didn’t want to be part of the reason why the shooting schedule got further behind. So, even though I never worked the boom for a scene, I miked the actors. Plus J told both T and I that whenever we were operating a boom, we should either fully extend our arms or have them bent and close to our ribcage in order to use our bones rather than our muscles. He summarized in this sound adage: “Muscles wear out; bones don’t.”

On Halloween 2021, I’d requested to read A’s script after she announced that she wanted to make a movie. Just get the dang thing done. Although I didn’t know her, I loved her confidence. Since it was a short film, I offered to read it and made three suggestions.

Fast forward to mid-February 2022, I was part of the crew. The first scene we shot implemented my first suggestion. To my joy, as the two-day shoot unfolded, I witnessed my other ideas implemented as well. That was my preproduction contribution. Being on set was a whole different animal, just seeing those words come to life through the interplay of crew and actors.

In the one screenwriting class I’ve taken, the instructor said that a film gets made three times: once when you write it, then when you shoot it, and finally when you edit it. Throughout the shoot, A kept thinking out loud about how to edit the story altogether. I didn’t envy her that, having to switch back and forth from director and editor.

On the second day of shooting while we were finishing up lunch, I looked at A and asked if filming in her house was everything she thought it be. Her nonverbal reaction, which ran from exasperation to optimistic smile, was something I wish I’d captured on film. Her practical answer saw the value of saving location fees. Another thing I wished I could have captured on audio: the other producer/director, C, commanding “Quiet on set!” Up until then, I’d never experienced her voice hitting the back walls.

The second day of shooting began outside, adding to the challenge.

Our location was near traffic and in the flight path of several planes/jets. I helped solve one challenge that day.

I’d noticed on the first day that a tablet, which was linked to the DP’s camera via an app, had to either be held or lie on some inconvenient surface. My solution? I removed all the painting paraphernalia from my music stand, which has not hardly had sheet music on it since a friend had gifted it to me years ago. Now I can add another nonmusical item to the list of things that have rested on that music stand.

Ever since I was offered the position of “Sound Shadow,” I wanted to illustrate it as a superhero. The moment I can use as inspiration occurred on the second day shooting while we were outside.

Our lead actress lost an earring. At one point, a handful of people were looking for it. Then, just the lead actress and another actress who had been in a scene with her were on their hands and knees still looking for the earring. My attention was on the shoot nearby, but from my peripheral vision, I saw them searching for the lost earring in the same patch of ground as if conducting an archeological dig. I carefully walked over, not wanting to accidentally step on it. Once the lead actress showed me what the earring looked like, I looked at the patch of ground in front of the chair where she’d sat, and squatted to examine the ground closer.

“Don’t hate me, but…” I held up the earring and handed it to the lead actress.

That’s precisely the types of wrongs that The Sound Shadow rights–small scale, huge sentimental value. Like a mysterious superhero, regardless of magnitude, I drove back to my lair once the shoot was over.

Parking Lot Lake

If one natural disaster doesn’t get me, there’s always another around the corner. On Monday, the sustained heavy rains created miracle lakes everywhere. Miracles because after all this time, money and enthusiastic construction, it is truly a miracle that no one can build things in a way that doesn’t collect water in all the wrong places rather than spread it throughout nature, where it could do its best work.

That wonderful feeling I usually get when landing a parking space was fleeting. I pulled into spot that was part of the parking lot lake. Stepping out of the car, I patted myself on the back for wearing hiking boots. As I stepped through the gently rolling waves, I worried about how drenched the cuffs of my pants were while the pelting rain wetted the rest. Then I discovered my boots weren’t waterproof.

The travel adventure ended once I entered the grocery store. After two years of living with a taxed supply chain, I strolled up and down the aisles foraging for the closest approximation of the items on my digital grocery list.

On the return trip to my car, the sky was darker and the lake had swelled. Despite the latter condition, all I could think of was pushing my basket as quickly as possible through the rain and flood. Then I made another discovery.

Some safety mechanism on the cart’s wheel locked in place. I reached down to unlock the one wheel that prevented me from pushing the cart with ease. Finally, I settled for half pushing, half carrying the cart onto the sidewalk.

Even though I only had three reusable bags full of groceries, they were heavy. Daily planks had strengthened my core so I wasn’t stranded, needing someone else’s help. I made several appeals to the Higher Power for my bags not to rupture. At the same time, my mind churned with the thought, “I will kill a motherfucker if a bag breaks and someone gives me a hard time.” Once I waddled to my car, stowed the groceries and sat in the driver’s seat, I took a moment for some deep breaths.

As I’d agonized my way over to my car, I noticed that the best bet was to back out and turn around, despite how the parking space was angled. That would require me to make a 3-point turn. I waited for a lull in traffic. Definitely didn’t want the car version of something getting locked or stalled like the grocery cart did. Fortunately, none of my fellow drivers were assholes. They were in the lake and respected that my small car was attempting to head in the opposite direction.

After that, I didn’t mind the slow progression home. No need to rush through 6 PM traffic in the pouring rain. All that awaited was the pandemic and fretting about whether the electrical grid would hold up during the ice storm later in the week.