Radiation Level: Lowered
Listening To: X Insurrection by Machines of Loving Grace
You may know my gal-pal KodakGirl is producing an all women’s play festival called Dirty Laundry that includes FalloutGirl’s play Ring Around the Collar. I will fly from LA to Prescott on a nail-biting 19-seater jet and pray for zero turbulence (note to self, skip breakfast). My travel companion will be another fancy playwright, OpheliaGirl. This is going to be a blast!
Last night, because my unconscious just can’t let me have stress-free sleep, I dreamt about being in Prescott. In the dream, it was a group of us girls getting ready to go to the big show. Hair. Makeup. And of course, what to wear, what to wear? I looked in my suitcase and saw that I brought a pair of gold pants. With spandex. I’ll back up.
When I was in my twenties, I used to rock a pair of vintage Fredrick’s of Hollywood gold spandex pants when I went clubbing to places like Club Fuck. (Yes, that was a real club) Sounds like cheesy disco garb, but I had the bod back then and the pants were quite coveted. I still own them. Not as part of my wardrobe, but more as a memento of my former self.
So, in my dream I was trying to decide if I should wear those pants to my play. Am I too old? Am I too fat? Am I too hootchy? Now that I’m awake, the answer is a resounding NO, DUH! But in the dream, it wasn’t so obvious. Okay, Carl Jung – what the heck does this mean???
In my 20’s, I was an actress. I was excited about the future. I was hoping I’d have a great career. Everything was a new experience. Being a struggling artist was cool. Independent film was thriving. On television, the sitcom was king. I was young. President Clinton was balancing the budget. The dot-com bubble was inflating. I was optimistic about the future.
Now. Economy tanked. Independent film dead. Reality TV rules the tube. Jobs (not just writing ones) are hard to come by. Partisan bullsh*t ruining Washington, ruining our country. Bye-bye space shuttle. Wild weather making me baffled at how many people think global warming is a hoax. I am disillusioned.
So maybe this dream about the gold pants is symbolic of a happier time in my life, one where hope beat cynicism and only good things awaited. me (and the country). Maybe somehow, writing this play, as insignificant as it is, has brought back a touch of that 20-something attitude? Letting me know that optimistic girl is still alive inside of me?
To everyone who is contributing to Dirty Laundry, my unconscious mind thanks you from the bottom of my hippocampus. Now, the big questions is:
DO I WEAR THE GOLD PANTS TO THE SHOW?
Let me know what you think!