Education

Something to think about...

Trust

"...I will look up."
Psalm 5:3

I know where to put my trust.

"But as for me, O LORD, I will come into Your house
in the multitude of Your mercy....
Let all those rejoice who put their trust in You;
Let them ever shout for joy, because You defend them...." 

                                                                                     Psalm 5:7a,11a

THE MAVEN - a poem written by my dad

THE MAVEN

(a poem that doesn’t ask the question: “Do mites have ears?”)

by

Severt Score

Once upon a dead mite’s ear was found a dozen dead bacteria,

Twelve microscopic corpses on that arachnid on the floor.

As I spied that dead arachnid I wondered what kind of whack did

Dispatch that tiny creature to the land beyond death’s door.

What sent that little mite on to the land beyond death’s door.

                         Tell me that, if nothing more.

Was it some miniscule mugger or a commercial de-bugger

That made that mite expire -- something he’d never done before?

Was it victim of a swatter? Did it die from lack of water?

Did it starve for lack of food because to buy it was too poor?

Was it victim of starvation because to buy it was too poor?

                         What dispatched it through death’s door?

Was it gout or was it dropsy? Should we ask for an autopsy?

Should some wise forensic wizard probe this mystery to the core?

Could some wise police detective help us gain the right perspective

In the matter of the demise of the mite upon the floor?

Could he find an explanation of that body on the floor?

                         At least that, if nothing more.

We went up to New Haven and retained an able maven.

(“Maven” is a Yiddish word for one who knows the score

And can go without confusion straight to the right conclusion.)

He had been solving mysteries for thirty years or more.

Expert in forensic medicine thirty years or more.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Well, he came down to our city to pursue the nitty gritty

Details of the mystery that made our brains so sore.

He was persistent. He was thorough. He carefully turned each furrow

As he plowed through all the evidence -- o’er the facts did pore.

He left no stone unturned -- o’er all evidence did pore.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Oh, whatever did that cop see? Naught was found in the autopsy

But the dozen ear borne corpses that we told about before.

All he found in the inspection was a petered out infection --

Just a dozen dead bacteria -- only that, and nothing more.

Only twelve deceased bacteria on the ear, and nothing more.

                         Just a dozen, three times four.

Well, it seems that each bacterium had succumbed to some strong serum,

But not before the arachnid was a corpse upon the floor.

Given sooner that same serum might have conquered each bacterium

In time to save their tiny host and snatch it from death’s door.

Given sooner might have saved it from passage through death’s door.

                         Now it’s dead upon the floor.

Or perhaps some stronger sera could have conquered the bacteria.

Some powerful medications might have held some hope in store.

But saddest words of tongue or pen, as the poet said, are “It might have been.”

And what might have been did not occur, so it hit the floor.

For want of stronger sera the arachnid hit the floor,

                         Stiffer than a two by four.

Can you tell us, clever sleuth, relentless stalker of the truth,

If you find this kind of germ when a mite’s ear you explore,

Does twelve seem an average count, or what’s the usual amount?

When a mite’s ear you explore, is it less or is it more?

Quoth the maven, “Never more. Sometimes less, but never more.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

“To find none is always nice. I’ve found a dozen once or twice.

“The usual number I have found is in the range of three or four.

“Six or seven is not so strange, but three or four’s the usual range.

“I have found twelve but never more when a mite’s ear I explore.

“No arachnid has ever more when its ear I explore.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

The view out Grandpa's window.... I'm so thankful for my dad's poetry, as it offers a means to glimpse the world through his eyes. I hope my children will come to cherish this heritage of humor and creativity.

Looking for more poetry by Severt Score?  

Check out the Norwegian epic, Gunder.

Strength’s Casket

The ceiling hovers like an airtight lid.

The pounding in my head, nails,

I no longer resist.

I rest.

Rest is said to rejuvenate.

That’s what I’ll say I’m doing.

In this airless room,

I wait.

In the past, I had the strength

To run out the door to fields a flower,

To trudge toward the exit,

To crawl.

This state becomes the new norm.

I breathe smaller breaths,

Make fewer moves,

Eat less.

Oh, to fade from existence.

The crunching of the termite’s jaw

Muted, as from some distant land

Where destruction is merely change,

Deterioration is transformation.

I exhale.

Exhale.

I am Woman, Hear Me...

Coming off a project in which I wrote a script with three great, highly nuanced male roles and one so-so female supporting role, I read this article:

Gender inequality still has a starring role in Hollywood

Nothing new. The study didn't even address the fact that there are more female actors vying for fewer good female roles.

I am proud of the latest script I completed, but I do regret that it had worse than a 3:1 ratio of decent male roles to female roles. Reading this article, I'm reminded that as a female writer, I still can be part of the gender inequality problem.

Since I started out acting, part of my dream has always been to write scripts that will bring creative opportunities and employment to more female actors. It is always about the story first, and not the casting agenda; however, with half of the world population being female, it is utterly foolish to think that strong female characters somehow weaken a story! The male-dominated story mill is not a product of logic, but rather of habit. Given the fact that male screenwriters are less likely to go out of their way to create strong female roles*, I believe it is not only a noble dream for me to do what I can to fill the gap... it is also my responsibility.

It was such a joy to see all of those women up at the podium receiving the SAG Award for outstanding cast for The Help this year. While I must admit that it would be nice to someday receive recognition from the Academy for my writing, I think it would be equally enjoyable to be able to sit back and watch a group of talented actresses receive an award that they never would have been considered for if not for hours, weeks, months, even years I spent creating characters for them to inhabit.

This is not just another "I am woman, hear me roar" rant, but rather a "I am woman, hear me... Hey! Over here! I am woman, I exist... I am part of this world you are writing about. Please remember that at least occasionally. It could even add some authenticity and depth to your writing!"

There may have been a lot of changes in the world for women in the four decades since Helen Reddy wrote her #1Hit Song, "I am Woman," but looking at what comes out of (and what goes on in) Hollywood, I'd say we've still got a long way to go... Baby.

Emily Joy Craig (center, www.facebook.com/cast.emily) was the lead in "Grace Like Rain," my 2011 short script about a young woman struggling to be taken seriously in a production role in 1930's Hollywood. Seen here on set with fellow cast members, Gib Gerard, Jenn Gotzon, and Kristin McCoy

* Hats off to Tate Taylor, however, for writing the screenplay for The Help (based on a novel by a female writer, BTW)

ON THE OPINION OF A WRITER

So, the viewing marathon is over and my ballot has been cast.

I'm looking forward to seeing which performances my peers will select as the best of the year in the 18th Annual Screen Actors Guild Awards. I've been eligible to vote all 18 years. That's a lot of years of keeping my dues current even when I've not been acting, but I keep it up because I never officially quit acting -- I've just been on a very prolonged maternity leave.

For those who don't know my story, like so many other starry-eyed young girls, I came to Hollywood intending to act. My road to stardom, however, quickly became very bumpy. Literally. Bumpy. Within weeks of arriving, I contracted my first of five consecutive major bumps.

Concealing an ever-growing "Baby Bump" while running to call-backs for roles like one recurring character who was supposed to be a skinny model was one thing, but after the colicky child arrived making it to any audition, rehearsal, or performance became next to impossible. It had all happened too quickly. Without extended family or resources to pay for babysitters, I could not go on auditions, and without going on auditions one can not get cast, and thus, can not act. I'm not complaining. That derailment ended up bringing me back to an earlier love -- writing. That was something I could do at home and I didn't need to hire babysitters nearly as often.

Over the past 18 years, I've come to look at movies from a much more writerly perspective. While I love a great performance, it is usually the story that that I find myself analyzing and celebrating most when it is well done. (And I would argue that actors rarely win "Best Actor" awards alone, but rather in partnership with well-written scripts.) Because of this, I have to really slow myself down when faced with the question of which film to choose for the "Outstanding Performance by a Cast" award. I have to remind myself that this award is not about the story, it's about the acting. This is such a collaborative art that the dissection is not always as easy as it might seem.

Watching all of these great performances does give me the itch to get back into that form of creative expression again, but I may have to wait a bit longer to do that. I'm still overseeing the education of three of my kids, and dedicating a lot of time to writing. I want to be Superwoman and juggle it all at once, but the truth is, I'm not. For now, I'm a writer and mom (or perhaps I should say "mom and writer" -- priorities always affect perspective.) Acting and painting (and traveling the world, not to mention keeping a clean house) will have to remain on hold.

All that said, I view my SAG screeners as an actor, and I view them as a writer. And I celebrate when both sides are pleased. Although, I would say this was far from the best year I have seen for performances paired with stories that blow me away, there were several celebration-worthy nominees. The Help easily won my vote for "Outstanding Performance by a Cast" and is (not surprisingly) also a "Best Picture" Academy Award nominee.

Personally, I found The Artist delightful, and yet I heard one Hollywood outsider say, "Oh brother! Not another film about making films! How self-indulgent can these filmmakers be?" It's a worthy (and fiscally necessary) challenge to strive for objectivity and to try to see films as those who are not in the industry might see them.

Then there are all those films about characters who happen to be writers -- sometimes they work and sometimes they do seem self-indulgent. Is the writer only being lazy and writing about what he or she does in order to avoid research? I do find myself wondering what non-writers think of these movies.

Whether a person is in a "creative profession" or not, however, we all do create -- we create the lives we live and the environments we inhabit; some create fantasy worlds so elaborately detailed that they even deceive themselves; we create relationships and networks of relationships (and sometimes we destroy them); we create harmony and disharmony.... Because creativity is at the core of what all people do in the living of life, I think stories about writers and artists, if done well, can embody that creativity (which is rather abstract) in a metaphor that resonates well beyond the surface of the storyline of a certain character and his profession.

Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris was one of this year's films that did that well. The competition did not allow for me to cast my vote for it to get a SAG award, but I am glad to see that it received some Oscar nominations. It is a good story that I wouldn't mind watching again... and the writer in me absolutely loved this little exchange:

GIL: Would you read it?

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: Your novel?

GIL: Yeah, it's like 400 pages long and I'm just looking 

just for, you know, just an opinion. 

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: My opinion is I hate it. 

GIL: I mean, you haven't even read it. 

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: If it's bad I'll hate it because I hate 

bad writing. If it’s good, I'll be envious and hate it 

all the more. You don't want the opinion of another 

writer. 

(from Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, 2011)

RETRO BLOG: When Trucks Fly (Human Souls Encased in Metal Obstacles)

Last night when I was driving my daughter home from her dance class, she made a comment about drivers who honk their horns at other cars when they're impatient.  She said that she didn't think people would act that way if they weren't protected by the metal shell of the car.  People feel free to behave rudely, she said, because they don't think about the people in the cars, but rather they just think about the cars as objects.  

My soon-to-be-driving daughter's insight reminded me of a blog from a few years ago (my pre-"Rebekah's Core" days.)  In the interest of gathering more of my ramblings under one cyber "roof," I thought I'd re-print a copy of that vintage blog here...

October 26, 2007 (from MySpace, oh my!)

When Trucks Fly

On my way to the Screenwriting Expo, I saw a truck fall from the sky. 

 

Traffic was moving along at a moderate pace, too congested for anyone to speed. All of a sudden, I saw a truck flying across two or three lanes just about two car lengths ahead of me. Last thing I heard, flying trucks haven't been widely produced. I was reminded of that tornado movie, Twister, and the scene in which cows fly. To me that looked so hokey. If the wind was powerful enough to rip a heifer off the ground, wouldn't it also dislodge enough dirt and other small debris in order to make such a dark cloud that the cow wouldn't even be visible? And where were the pigs? Why weren't any sow soaring through the sky with their barnyard friends? Surely a tornado capable of launching cattle could manage to detour a few little piggies on their way to market. But I digress. 

 

The flying truck has lingered in my mind, weighing heavy on my heart. It was a landscaper's truck, nothing fancy, the kind with wooden sides. I had passed this truck and it had passed me. Traffic was moving slowly enough that I had even noticed the driver. He was a middle-aged Hispanic man, perhaps a poor immigrant who had struggled as a day-laborer to save enough cash to purchase this humble vehicle and start his own business. I don't know why I noticed him in the mass of encased humanity weaving along this vein of Los Angeles infrastructure. Perhaps it was to prepare me for a life lesson.  

 

How many times have I been running late for a meeting and the only obstacles between me and my goal are all these annoying cars? It's a car vs. car battle on the freeways of Los Angeles. Sometimes we forget there are people, human souls, encased in these metal obstacles.  

 

When I saw the flying truck, I slowed down lest it clip the top of my car. It tumbled slow-motion through the sky, shedding parts which I maneuvered around like in one of those driving video games at Chuck E. Cheese. As it rolled and slid to the right side of the freeway, I cautiously split focus between the safety (?) of the road ahead and the surreal tragedy in my rear-view mirror. 

 

Gagging, I fought the impulse to vomit. The truck was motionless. It was a shell, but I had no way of knowing if it contained life any more. One minute I was glancing at a stranger passing me by; the next he may have breathed his last breath. I don't know. 

 

Was he wearing his seat belt? I don't know. If he survived, will he be able to afford the necessary medical bills? He was most likely an independent contractor. Did he carry any kind of disability insurance? How will he be able to feed his children if he's unable to work? If he's not harmed too badly, will he be able to work without his truck? Questions pounded my head and I flipped the radio on to see if there was any news. 

 

The traffic report rattled off slow-downs and inconveniences due to generic collisions. Then they got to the wreck I had just witnessed: "Traffic is slowed due to a roll-over on the right shoulder" was all they said before moving casually on to a tacky mattress ad. That's all? I imagined how serious this event would be to the family of the driver, this trivial inconvenience to commuters.  

 

On the way home, still thinking of the driver of the truck and his family, I yielded the right of way to another car as our two lanes merged into one. Then I realized that there was a man in sport car riding my tail. As soon as he got a break in traffic, he wizzed past me impatiently, laying on his horn as he passed. I had inconvenienced the poor fellow by delaying him a fraction of a second, and he made certain all would know about his anger issues. I pitied him. He didn't know. He'd been lulled into the sad belief that the world revolved around him and all of these moving shells of metal were only meaningless obstacles. I've acted like that too. I've been there, but I don't want to go back.