True Life

Finnigin, Begin-igin

Here's the deal.  When the going gets tough, Bill gets silent.

I know this about me, but I haven't clued you in.  Well, you probably got the idea, anyway.

This causes a host of issues.  I stop calling friends and family.  I pull into myself and disconnect.  People get hurt--and often angry at me.  They just wanna know what's up.  They worry.  They wanna help.  But I don't let them.

I don't know why this is my way.  Most times I wish it wasn't.  But over the course of my life, I have come to accept it as my process and due to my introverted nature.  It's not that I don't try to change it (for those of you who know me, think of how much MORE communicative I have become in tumultuous times!), but it's a slow turning at best.  I don't know that I will ever be anything other than what I am today.

And, to my great comfort, I am finally okay with that.

So...to all of you that worry, to all of you that mutter, I am great.

You see, my life took a sudden turn this past summer.  With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I see exactly how and why it happened.  I can track it back--back and further back, even.  But in the moment, it--all of it...meaning the really, really good and the really, really bad--threw me for a loop.  Kicked me in the ass, in fact.

My hindsight, though, has also shown me this: that it's all good.  I've lived long enough to know that no matter what you think you're gonna do, sometimes the Universe has other plans.  Bigger, better plans, in fact, but it means that big and bold things are going to cross your path.  You have to make choices, and you have to act.

Over the past few years, folks might get the idea that I am an impetuous person.  I do make decisions boldly, and I do make bold decisions.  True.  But I honestly wouldn't qualify myself as impetuous.

I think things out.  When I do that, like all writers, I suppose, I look at the end first.  What is the end I am looking for, and what end do I think is most likely as a result of this course of action?  I assume--again, probably because of my writerly nature--that there will be a certain amount of drama and conflict in the middle.  Assuming the end result is worth it--I make the leap.  I trust that everything is going to work out in the end.

The trick is that my process is faster because it takes into account that there will be fallout.  I don't require everything to be sewn up nice and neat-like in order for me to act.  I don't know whether very many people make decisions that way.

Sometimes I've been right, and sometimes Ive been wrong.  To my credit, more right than wrong, I believe.

Over the past several months, as life has handed me a gigantic bowl of lemons, it magically turned to lemonade right before my eyes.  I didn't ask for it.  The Universe put it there.  With hindsight again, of course I can tell you exactly why it's there now and how it got there.  That it was always meant to be there, but that's a much longer conversation.  And probably requires a lot of beer.

The upshot is that it required me to make a choice and then act.  And...I did.  On the surface, this choice and action could look like something controversial.  To some it could look that way, and I wouldn't blame then for thinking it.  Those who know me, however, know controversy has nothing to do with it.  And those who take a moment to look just below the surface nod their heads and go, "Ohhh...  I get it."  And it all makes sense to them.

Okay...all obliqueness aside, if you have been following me at all you know that there have been changes in my life.  800 lb. gorilla changes.  Half of these changes I simply don't want to talk about.  Not that I don't love y'all, but it's the kind of stuff that is best to simply let be.  On the other side of things, I am glad to talk your ear off...and I probably will.

Life has shifted for me...fresh and forward, and yet back to where it really all began in the first place.  Funny.  Most days I just smile and shake my head.  Huh...

I do not live in Minnesota anymore.  I left it.  Quickly, yes...but for Zach's sake as well as mine I think it was one of the best decisions I've ever made.  I have gone west, toward my destiny--personal and professional.  And I am done with anything other than keeping my eye on the prize--personal and professional--every day.

More later.  Because now I wanna talk.  Now I need to talk...to share.  There's so much!  Yet, there's been this awkward "thing" hanging out there.  That gorilla.  I am wondering if we can all just nod at it and move past it?  That's what I'm doing here--acknowledging and moving on, because I don't want to do the silent treatment thing anymore.  Not with you, TRUE LIFERS (ah..!  How long has it been since I wrote that?!?  Feels good).

Alas, here's to the end of silence.  Here's to welcome back.  To the past, to the present, and to the future.  To True Life.

New beginnings and coming home

Look up..!

You see it, huh?

Yeah.  I know.  It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Look right.

See that, too?

A long road, to say the very least.

Today, both are stretching, blinking in the sunlight.

Today, both are coming back.  Back where they belong.

They stand at each of my shoulders, keeping me company and keeping me focused and on the right path as I, too, stretch, blinking in the sunlight.  As I, too, am coming back.  Back to where I belong.

Today, TRUE LIFE returns.  Welcome back, old friend.  Maybe now we can get back to business, eh?

And today, I have official written permission to announce that RUNAWAY will be released on DVD on Tuesday, December 8.  Just in time for Christmas!!!  Remember that when the time comes!

As soon as all the marketing and publicity stuff starts rolling in, I will, of course, keep all of you in the loop.

Right now, my compadres and I are going to enjoy this bright, sunny day.  Feel free to join us!

The Gift of Exhaling

I have been holding my breath since I was 12.  For those of you in the studio audience who are counting, that's 31 years.  Three decades.  And [read with sarcastic tone] thanks for counting in the first place.

Whether you're counting or not, it's a helluva long time to wait to exhale.

One day when I was 12, my mom asked me to grab something out of her dresser drawer.  There, I found a picture: the smiling faces of three of my siblings as children--ages ranging from about 12 down to about four.  But there was a fourth child in the picture--a beautiful little girl about age 10.  She was smiling like the rest of them.

What struck me, though, was that she looked so much like my siblings.  Like she belonged.  Part of a set.

When I asked my mom about the little girl in the picture, she broke down in tears.  Over the next four hours, I heard a story that my 12 year-old brain could barely wrap itself around.  By the time my mom stopped talking, we were both exhausted.  And all cried out.

The little girl in the picture was my sister.

I won't go into all the details around her departure from my immediate family.  The past deserves to stay in the past.

But she was gone.  Strangely enough, adopted by the brother of my mom's first husband and his wife, which legally made her a cousin to my three other siblings in the picture.  Sometimes God has a wicked sense of humor.

Occasionally, I would hear reports about her from my siblings, who would see her at family gatherings of the "Mom's 1st husband's family" variety.  But I had never met her, never seen another picture.

Late last fall, one of my other sibling's called me and told me that she and my sister had not only been in contact, but had experienced a full-fledged reuniting.  They got each other back.  The four children in the picture were back in the picture again.

Then came the best part of the news: that my sister had expressed a wish for me to be in the picture, too.

The upshot of all this is tomorrow, after 31 years, I get to join my siblings--my sister included--at a family gathering.  Robbye, Zach, and I are going to my sister's cabin to meet her and her husband and all their kids for a day of fun and (apparently) of devouring every type of barbecued meat imaginable.

I am a little nervous, but in a good way.  To think of it brings to mind the final scenes of THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION.  The ones where Red is heading across the border to meet Andy Dufresne in Mexico.

"I hope to see my friend," Red says.  "I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams."

I hope, too.  And I am hopeful.

More than anything, I am grateful.  Finally...to exhale.

Relax... It's good for you?

I've been in a funk lately.  And not the cute sitcom kind where I sit on the couch for a day or so and fire pithy quips at the boob tube or whomever blocks my view during Oprah.

No...this has been a bonafide funk.  The real deal.

I've lived my life, sure.  Every day, though, has felt like slogging through mud.  Every action requires five times the energy.  And everything that comes out of my mouth seems lame.  Probably is lame, as the dead space between me and whatever thought I'm searching for, much less the right word, can be measured in astronomical units, and then there’s no guarantee that whatever I latch onto is right or appropriate or even coherent.

It’s really bugged me because I am at a “feet don’t fail me now” point in my life.  It’s not simply that there are a lot of things I want to accomplish; there are myriad things I need to get done.  You know…keep life integral stuff.

I make lists and then sit down in front of my computer (through which most of said work must be done)…and nothing.  Well, not if you count reading Yahoo! News or thumbing through my iTunes library.  I excel at those lately.

What gives?  It’s not only that I have to get these things done…I want to.  There’s so many things I want to do, and this goddamned funk—it’s mucking it all up.

For every day the list is swelling with the things I didn’t get done the day before.  Things small and large.  Overflowing.  Dropping onto the floor around my feet.  In pieces.  Which leaves another, more complicated and troublesome task to heap atop everything else: picking up the pieces and trying to put them back together.

And trying to keep forward movement—hell! ANY movement—going.

So far, I’ve been able to keep things reasonably together.  Things are fine.  The speaking has been going well, and things have been moving forward with INCARNATION.  But I know.  Inside I now that my performance is sub-par.  And there have been outward signs lately—the orbital decay has become apparent to others.

That sucks.

I am tired of hearing the whys and the well-meaning hypotheses, from me as much as anyone else.  I just want my energy back.  I just want me back.

The silver lining in this dark cloud is that when the world is quiet (or I succeed in simply ignoring it), I am experiencing some of the most creative journeys ever through my inner space.  The result is that the MANIACAL ENGINEERING story I’ve landed on is, I believe, pretty good.  It feels fresh and inspired.  As I work to put it together, I am realizing that it represents a real evolution in not just my storytelling ability, but in my story generating ability as well.

And then there’s the matter of the other thing that’s cooking in my head all of a sudden.  The stuff that Facebook entries like “Bill had an interesting creative realization Monday that set his mind a-whirring. Me thinks...it just might work” are made of.  I don’t wanna say too much about it.  I’ve bounced it off a couple of people in my inner sanctum and gotten the wide-eyed, smiling nods that tell me I am on the trail of something worthy of pursuit.

It’s important for now that I keep the idea close to my chest.  Not that I think it’s gonna get stolen or anything like that.  At the moment, it’s simply delicate, fragile.  It’s going to require a lot of TLC to grow into a strong and full-fledged concept, much less a great script.

But for the first time since the germ of this idea popped into being (which was a few years ago), scenes are playing in my head.  I am hearing characters talk, seeing them interact.  Dots are being connected between them.  The world and the path through it are revealing themselves to me.  That feels good.

And it’s a TV idea.  I’ve been wanting to come back to TV for over a decade now.  Even gooder.

Which leads me inevitably to this: do I just relax?

All the billboards along the Interstate warning us about the dangers of depression aside, everyone gets the blues, right?  I mean, please don’t misunderstand—I’m not demeaning the seriousness of depression.  I know it’s real.  I know it’s devastating.  I know it’s a killer.

Trust me.  I know.

My statement isn’t one of denigration or denial, it’s one of recognition, yet trying to get a handle on type and severity.  Of trying to identify whether or not I am on well-trodden common ground or somewhere else...somewhere lost and needing to call for help.

It’s not like I’ve never been in a funk before.  It’s not like I have never been flat-out depressed before.  And though this funk has felt more acute than others in the past, I sort of understand how I got here.  Take everything that’s happened in the last several years and line it up, and it makes sense that I would feel tired.  Yet, I don’t want to make the mistake of dismissing it out of hand because I know how slippery a slope these funky things can be.

Hmmm...  Well, I guess here’s where I stand (hence my “do I just relax?” comment)…I know that over the course of the past couple of weeks I've been feeling incrementally better.  I feel a little lighter. I know that through sheer force of will I am kick-starting myself and attending to a number of things that have been screaming for my attention.   These are good signs, adding up to a feeling of “I’m on the upswing.”

I know that all of a sudden I am writing again. That’s a good sign, too.

And there’s the rub.  I am writing again.  Harvesting ideas fertilized and cultivated in the manure pile of this funk.

I remember telling a psychologist once that I wanted to be happy in my life, “but not too happy.”  I worried that through the course of therapy I would lose a grip on my underlying angst.  That it might dissipate and be gone forever.  That would be a bad thing, I thought.  Tantamount to a creative lobotomy.

Well, fear not, self.  You have nothing to worry about.  Through thick and thin, your beloved angst hasn’t gone anywhere.  I doubt it ever will.  Then again, you know now what you knew then, huh?  It’s par for the course.  An occupational hazard, if you will.

Laborers have back injuries.  Typists have carpel tunnel and eye-strain.  Miners have black lung.

Writers…we have our angst.  Our funks.  In the end, I suppose it’s a good thing.  It is, after all, as much a source of our inspiration—maybe even more so—than our elation.  And, I must admit, there is an odd comfort in that.

Keeping it in check.  Keeping perspective.  Only heading so far down the rabbit hole.  Now that’s the trick, ain’t it?

I ):-( Dream Bill

It’s early.  It’ll be a little while till Robbye wakes up.  Anyone that follows her blog knows she’s been a bit of an insomniac of late.  My snoring contributes to that, and I am trying to get that under control.  It’s a difficult fight to fight, much less win, as I’m lightyears away when it’s happening.

That's not the only reason she's having difficulty sleeping, though.

Life, with all its promise and possibility, is a tenuous affair.  The phrase “passing through the eye of the needle” makes its way out of our mouths with notable frequency.  When all is said and done, we will be great.  In fact, despite a few nuts and bolts that need tightening, everything is great now.

But it—life itself—is a stressor…on myriad levels and in numerous forms.  Hell, for my own part, living right now feels more like the storming the beach at Normandy scene in SAVING PRIVATE RYAN than anything else.  I’m relieved simply to exit the day intact.  Taking the bunker isn’t even a consideration.

I know that this life—for all its positives—has proven to be a rough road for my beloved.  Rougher than I think was expected.  Definitely more bumpy than she deserves.

Which, of course, makes me love her all the more.  I often tell people that Robbye is the bravest person I know because she stepped into all this—the somewhat psychotic tempest that frames my existence—and she did so without hesitation.  And she stays here.  The fact that this wonderful woman doesn’t run screaming from the house on any given day amazes me.  The fact that she’s still here and that she loves me as she does lays me low.  It awes me.

Because I know that the pressure cooker of our life leaves her feeling blistered and burned at times.  I know she worries.  I understand she has fears.

Of course, she talks about them.  That’s good.  But the bigger, deeper worries and fears come out another way.  In an altogether more insidious manner.

Enter my new nemesis: Dream Bill.

Sleep is a precious commodity right now.  I am trying work the mornings to give her all she can get.  Thank heavens Boy and the dogs have been cooperating lately.  That’s the difference sometimes between 2-3 hours of sleep and 5-6 for her.  Every hour counts.  Because she not only loves sleep (as is well documented), but she needs it.  And she deserves the rest.

When Robbye wakes up, she likes to share her dreams with me.  She has about he most vivid and exciting dream life of anyone I’ve met.  Since I’m a person that rarely dreams, it fascinates me (and tires me out a little) to recount the excitement that unfolds as she slumbers.  Usually it’s fun to listen.  It’s a lot like Cute Overload...on psychedelics.

Then there are the other times.  When he shows up, and the party’s over.

Dream Bill does all sorts of raunchy and terrible things.  He disappears.  He runs off, even.  He says bad things and does even worse ones.  He's an ass of unspeakable magnitude.  And when Robbye awakens, Dream Bill haunts her.  Casts shadows over her thoughts and a shroud over our morning.

It’s not as difficult as it used to be.  In past days we've logged serious time helping her see that Dream Bill and Real-Live Bill are two very different guys.  That I would never do the things Dream Bill does.

As we move farther along in our relationship, she’s more trusting this as opposed to intellectualizing it.  We find ourselves laughing about it more often than not.

Yet, occasionally, Dream Bill does something so deplorable that Real-Live Bill needs to answer for it.  Like last night.

There are times when I wish Dream Bill would take his own heat.  That I wasn’t taken to task for his crappy faults just because we share the same face and name.  He makes his bed, but I gotta sleep in it.  Which used to make me a little grumpy.

I’m learning something about Dream Bill, though, that lately has me appreciating the guy..if only a little.

Dream Bill represents—of course—my beloved’s deeper fears.  You don’t live 30+ years without gathering up more than a few of those babies, right?  And the scars we carry are, I believe, the windows to said fears.  They speak to their presence and validity.

Hell, I got ‘em.  We all do.  I think it’s part of what makes us, you know, human.  They're part of the journey, and I've come to think of them more as badges of honor than baggage.

I know talking about Dream Bill’s shenanigans provides her a venue to talk about her fears and address the scars in a tangible way.  And a way to meet the fears head-on.  I realize if Dream Bill didn’t exist, we might not ever get a chance to talk about them, and our relationship would suffer for it.

So…Dream Bill.  I don’t like you, man.  You are—to put it mildy—an absolute dick.

But thank you.  I don’t know whether you mean to do this or not, but thank you for the light you shed on our relationship.  Thank you for giving us an opportunity to talk out some very important and foundational issues, which is making our life together better and our bond even stronger.

And thank you, Baby.  For your courage and for walking beside me every day.

And for your love.

The devil's in the details

Okay...here's the thing.  My friend, Mike, knows I hate these things.  Oh yeah...and I know he hates them.

Why...then why would he fall prey to one of these insipid Internet lists?  And why...tell me, God, why would he not only inflict it upon me, his supposed friend, but then announce to the world that I was one of the most likely candidates to respond to the f@cking thing!

Because he knows me better than I know myself.

And he knows that as the thing sat in my inbox, it would eat at me like acid, eventually exposing my guilt-ridden underbelly.

He knew I would cry uncle.  It was only a matter of time.

Michael...you devil, you.

----------

Okay...no more drama.  Vote Obama.

Here's the deal.  You don't gotta send this thing to anyone.  If you're up for it, though, show yourself, OLU readers (both of you!).  Cut and paste the questions below, delete my answers, and put in your own.

We wanna get to know you!  According to my friend's email, "The theory is that you will learn a lot of little known facts about those who know you."

For now, here's my answers.

Four jobs I have had in my life

1. Grill Master and Drive-thru Wizard at Wendy's Old Fashioned Burgers
2. City Maintenance Worker, where I painted all the fire hydrants and babysat the city sewage plant in Isanti, MN one summer
3. Salesperson and Store Manager at Radio Shack
4. General Manager for a chain of Black Hills Gold jewelry stores (even though I have never been to the Black Hills)

Four movies I've watched more than once

1.  Planet of the Apes (the real one)
2   The Commitments
3.  The Dukes of Hazzard (against my will)
4.  The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari

Four places I have lived

1.  Los Angeles, CA
2.  Las Cruces, NM
3   Sierra Vista, AZ
4.  In my car

Four places I'd like to live

1. St. Petersburg, FL
2. Loreto, Mexico
3. New York, NY (Manhattan or Brooklyn)
4. Moonbase Alpha before the big, nasty explosion that sent it hurtling away from Earth at apparent FTL speed

Four places I have been

1. La Paz, Mexico, gawking at a too-fresh-for-comfort skeletal arm that washed up on the beach
2. On a late-night Central Park carriage ride with my baby
3. Hanging in a near-deserted pub with my Canuck "brother", Pigger, in Thunder Bay, ON, unexpectedly tossing back more Labatts than we could count with The Beautiful Girls
4. Perched in scaffolding, 10 feet directly above Prince's head for two hours (I coulda hocked a loogey, but I demonstrated incredible restraint)

People who e-mail me

1. Dean Hyers
2. Pete Machalek
3. Robbye
4. Scores of people who are quite concerned about my penis size and sexual endurance

Favorite foods

1. Eggs--especially my pickled ones...  Mmmm..!
2. Chipotle burritos
3. Robbye's lentil spaghetti
4. Peanut butter slathered on pretty much anything

Four places I'd rather be right now

1. The Madeira Beach cottage
2. London, England
3. An eco-resort on the Virgin Islands
4. Snuggling in bed with my wife

Four friends I think will respond

1. Robbye
2. Diana
3. Colin
4. Barack

Four things I am looking forward to this year

1. A week off bumming around somewhere with Robbye
2. Selling another script
3. FINALLY, MAYBE getting to see Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse
4. Speaking in Seattle later this month and in LA in June

Four T.V. Shows that I watch

1. Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations
2. Medium
3. Battlestar Galactica (the new one)
4. ("Who wants a..!") Clean House (Official Member, Miss Niece Fan Club.  Mmmm Hmmm!)

Now, do you know me better?

And...are ya satisfied, Mike? [wink]

Lazarus

Remember this?

No longer will I call thee "Poop Phone".

From here to eternity, I dub thee "Lazarus".

Turns out the phone, itself, was fine.  When it went in the drink, it was only the battery that shorted out. 

Don't know why it took me so long to check that out.  Well, for one, I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Second, when I fished the thing outta the pot and rinsed it off, it seemed as though the screen was shot.  Oh yeah...and none of the keys worked either.

It's been sitting in my desk for months.

Being forced to use the Ancient Phone I HATE has been absolutely grating on me.  I mean, let's get this straight...ol' Lazarus mighta taken a poop bath, but APIH was and always will be, quite simply, a shitty phone.  I don't wanna piss off any cell manufacturers, so I won't mention the brand.  All I can say is using the thing wears my nerves RAZR thin.

To top it off APIH hasn't been doin' to well lately.  Feeling it's age.  So it's old and shitty.  Ack!

Facing the prospect of having to sling significant jing at a new phone, I decided to see--just see--what would happen if I put Robbye's battery (it's the same model) in my phone.  And, well...lo and behold...  Hot damn.

Next thing I know, I am running out to my local ATT store for a new battery.  $23.00 later, I slip that bad boy in, and guess what?

Lazarus.

Umm...anyone got any Lysol spray?

Catching up

Dear friends,

Hello.  How are you?

I am fine.

Thank you for stopping by today.

What's going on?  Oh, man!  Where do I start?

Remember this l'il thing?

Apparently, I should be provide a little more explanation when I post something like that.

Reminds me of the time when I posted this (really bad) poem I wrote as a kind of nod to Pablo Picasso and Surrealism a couple of years back and promptly left town for a week to the lands beyond cell service coverage.  Oh, my...  Can you say voice mail messages?  Took me over a week to convince everyone that I was neither losing it nor suicidal.

Friends and family.  God love 'em, but sometimes it's hard to be a writer trying to strut his stuff in their line of sight.

Oh, well...occupational hazard.

No one said it was gonna be easy.  Trying to understand a writer guy, yet trying to care about him at the same time, that is.  It requires a whole new compass than most folks are used to.  North doesn't always point north.  What's worse is north changes, sometimes shifting unexpectedly and for inexplicable reasons.  So you can't obtain a compass for the purposes of getting a good read on us writer types.  You gotta build 'em from scratch.

Oh, well...all guys like me can hope is that the rest of you think it's worth the trouble.

That said, from the "What I really meant" department, comes this:

I had a lot going on.  I tried to write it all out in a sort of "let's catch up with Bill" missive, but there was so much to say.  It gave me a head ache.  My creative response to said cranial distress was to let the long, rambling post go and simply (and, I thought, humorously) "depict" my feelings over trying to describe the myriad plates I had spinning at the time.  The rest, as they say....

In truth, everything was fine, though I admit that I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed of late.  Hyperactivity, with rarely enough energy to tackle each zone of my crazy/beautiful life with the gusto, creativity, and passion it deserves.  There have been many days, in fact, when I've felt like I'm losing ground everywhere.  And even moments when I've felt like an utter failure.

Then again...that's nothing new.

Occupational hazard...of being me.

But the strike is over, and far from my previous fears, Hollywood seems to be welcoming me with reasonably open arms.  Yeah..check this out--

• It's not out of the realm of possibility that RUNAWAY could see some sort of distribution in the near future.
• The management company I would like to work with seems genuinely interested in working with me.
• I am in very active talks with a very reputable production company to develop a real, live Hollywood movie (a proposed budget in the mid-eight figures was tossed onto the table yesterday).
• I have a good bead on (and have been highly recommended to) a great agent at a major agency.
• INCARNATION, all of a sudden, is getting a lot of attention and seems to be taking on a life of its own.
• As I plan on making a pilgrimage to the Tower of Tinsel in the next few weeks, people seem to really wanna meet with me.  For the first time ever, I think that my dance card will be full--with real and meaningful meetings to show for it.  Yikes!
• If I play my cards right, I'll have a first draft new spec script (which already has parties interested in reading it) ready to show the world by the end of March.

Holy crap, right?  Makes my head spin.  Mostly in a good way.

SagePresence is going equally well.  People are really responding to it, and we're getting opportunities to speak and train all over.  The biggest problem there is there's only three of us.  At some point in the VERY near future, we will have need to hire someone (or somones) to help us manage this thing.  Especially as word about what we're doing spreads outside the Twin Cities, as it's beginning to do so.  It's quite amazing and scary cool.

Funny how this professional speaking thing so powerfully supports the screenwriting career, and vice versa.  Equally, how much fun I'm having going around and talking to folks.  Having such an immediate, profound, and positive impact for people--seeing it on their faces and hearing their stories of trouble and triumph--really makes my day.

And home...  With respect to that, let me simply say that Georges Seurat would be proud.  As I am proud of us.  All of us.  Yesterday, I noticed a piece of me was calm in the face of an otherwise tubulent day.  That piece was the one associated with home.

It was a bit of a surprise, as honoring this Great Love, this great family, and "putting it together" hasn't always been the most calm of affairs.  But yesterday's discovery spoke volumes.  It spoke of healing.  It spoke of health and happiness.  It spoke of peace and prosperity.  It spoke of adventure and accomplishment.  It whispered in my ear, visions of the future that brought a smile to my lips.

Today, my head doesn't hurt.  Nothing has changed, except for today I feel a little less overwhelmed by this crazy/beautiful life.  That's all.

Because I know head aches come with the job description.

Husband.

Dad.

Partner.

Speaker.

Friend.

Family.

Screenwriter.

Superhero.

None of 'em easy.  All of 'em worth it.

Dear friend...I hope you are well, too.  I look forward to catching up again in the near future.

Best to you and yours.  Let's get together soon!

Yours TRUE-ly,

Bill

Two years ago...

We were painting what was then my bedroom.

In a house that must have felt like a ton of bricks on her soul, I was trying to create weight-free oasis.  Someplace that could feel hers.

We'd already moved well beyond talk of "possibly" moving in together.  The "ifs" were long gone.  Our conversations landed solidly in the "whens" column.

Then again, as we were working and dancing and singing and joking and smooching, I knew something she didn't know.  Or at least I thought I did.  Turns out she knew it was coming, but not quite at that moment.  Come to think of it, I didn't really know it was coming quite that day, myself.

Yet, it wasn't a concept to me.  It was a certainty.  And only after all was said and done, could I share with her, for example, why I was so quiet, like "such a freak" all New Years Day, just a month earlier.  It was because, if I opened my mouth, it would spill out.  There simply was no holding it back.

But back to painting.  It was another day like New Years.  Every brush stroke seemed to whisper it to me: "Say it.  Say it..."  As the walls came to life, they called out: "Tell her.  Tell her..."

We were taking a break.  We were tired from going at it (and I don't mean "in the good way") all day.   Exhausted, in fact.  We were sitting on the couch having one of those intense and yet quiet conversations.  You know...the ones you have with...well...the one.

And I am sitting there, and I am thinking, "Oh, my god...  This is the moment."

Plans be damned!

Hadn't showered in two days?  Who cares?

Dressed in dirty, smelly painting clothes?  Whatever...

I got down on one knee, and I started talking.  I have no idea what I said.  I am guessing that I was babbling.  I am guessing Robbye thought I was babbling, too.

But I caught her attention when I said this...

"Will you do the honor of marrying me?  Will you be my wife?"

There was about a three second span where I thought she might say, "What the hell are you talking about?!?"

Turns out she was a little stunned.

In the next second, though, I got my relief.

"Of course!  Yes!"

At this point, I would say that the rest is history.  But there is one more movement to the story that not many people know.  Not enough people, anyway.

Robbye, Lucy (her dog), and M.P. (her cat) were staying the weekend at the house.  Kind of a "trial run" for the pets.  See how they would fare in the insanity...not to mention with the three other animals already running the joint.

Robbye didn't have kids before all this.  For the most part, she'd lived on her own.  Robbye, her dog, and her cat...in a little pink house in St. Paul, in an apartment that was about the size of my living room.   Needless to say, life was a lot quieter.  A lot simpler.

Okay, then...on top of that...add...you know...THE HOUSE.  THE HISTORY...  Ack...

When I talk about our coming together, I tell people that Robbye is the bravest person I know.  Yes, because she said "yes" to the "Will you marry me?" question.  But more significantly to how she answered the next question to tumble out of my mouth that day.

"Now, will you just stay home?"

To which she answered, "I guess I'll need to get some clothes."

I tell Robbye that the three smartest things I ever did in my life where these:

I called the girl, I asked the girl, I married the girl.

Two years ago today...  Proof positive, Baby.  Proof positive.

My Head Hurts...