Every Minute is a New Day: 8 MORE DAYS!

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8 more days! Help bring my #Alzheimers book, Every Minute is a New Day to life with love & laughter.

Thank you to everyone who has backed me so far. I love and appreciate every one of you. You are all rock stars. We still have time to spread the word and make my goal.

The book will be published no matter what happens, just on a more limited scope. Please help me make this a global message of love.

Don’t forget that I am a tenacious force of womanhood, I won’t let anything get in the way of my passion. Healing the world one patient at a time is my passion.

Click here to explore or help fund Every Minute is a New Day.

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11 Days! FAQ: Every Minute is a New Day

photoEver since I made the decision to publish the book I’ve been working on for years, life has picked up speed. I am in a constant state of exhilaration, optimism, and sheer terror. I have dreamed of being an author since I was 6 years old. And finally, I’ve found my voice, my passion. Thank you all for being a part of it.

The Kickstarter campaign started out with amazing gusto. Then, Christmas shifted the focus. Now that we are into the new year, I am hoping to pick up steam again. I think I need to address some frequently asked questions in order to do this.

  1. What is Kickstarter?
    1. Kickstarter is a crowd-funding website that helps independent artists, writers, entrepreneurs find financial backing from around the world.
  2. How do I back your project?
    1. Go to the kickstarter website, kickstarter.com/projects/fuzzylizzard/every-minute-is-a-new-day.
    2. Click on the amount you want to contribute to my project (anywhere from $1 – $1000, your choice). There are rewards for every amount contributed. I appreciate anything.
    3. The funds are processed through amazon.com. So you’ll need to enter your amazon info when prompted. YOU WILL NOT BE CHARGED UNTIL 1-15-15 at 11pm.
    4. If the project is not fully funded, you will not be charged anything. Nada. Zip.
    5. Feel the good feels that come with supporting an independent author writing about her passion. And possibly changing the world with her message.
  3. What will you do if your Kickstarter campaign is not fully funded?
    1. If the book is not fully funded, I get no money from the campaign. You will not be charged.
    2. The book will happen no matter what.
    3. I have invested my personal savings into securing a basic publishing package. So no matter the outcome of Kickstarter, the book will be published.
    4. The Kickstarter is to secure a global marketing plan with audiobook.
  4. When will the book be ready?
    1. I still have some finishing touches and editing to do.
    2. I anticipate submitting the manuscript for the first editing phase to happen in February or early March.
    3. The book itself will probably not be ready to hit shelves until at least July 2015.
    4. Backers will get a sneak peek at exerts from the book via email.

So much joy has filled my heart since I begun this adventure. I am so grateful for everyone who has supported me either financially or emotionally.

Love and blessings,

Amy

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Update: Every Minute is a New Day

In response to a few questions lately about wanting me to detail the plan for the publishing funds and an attempt to remain transparent in this whole process, here is an outline of my publishing and marketing plan:

  1. Audiobook recording and release to Amazon and then later Audible
  2. Worldwide press release to over 500 media outlets
  3. Large color print ads
    1. New York Times Sunday
    2. Reader’s Digest
  4. Radio and television interviews
  5. Google search terms
  6. Five international book shows:
    1. Frankfort, Germany
    2. London, UK
    3. Guadalajara, Mexico
    4. Beijing, China
    5. United States
  7. Book Return ability to retail outlets buying hard copies of book
  8. 100% Royalties to author
    1. in order to ensure larger portion of proceeds go to Alzheimer’s research
  9. Amazon “look inside” feature.
  10. eBook formatting
  11. Professional editing
  12. Professional cover art
  13. Copyright and registering ISBN

There are more features that I am pursuing in the publishing process. But this is what I am aiming to accomplish with kickstarter funds.

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Every Minute is a New Day: 17 Days Left

“Hope is a force as fragile as it is enduring. Hope and fear are forever entwined, not always on opposite sides of the spectrum. Hope can fuel fear and fear can fuel hope.” -Every Minute is A New Day.

17 days left to help fund the book.

Tell your friends, tell you mom. Let’s make this happen. Be a part of this message of hope.

Click here to help fund the book. As little as the cost of a latte can help.

Happy new year.

Thank you.

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Today or tomorrow, instead of buying a Latte Ginormousa, back my book project, Every Minute is a New Day: The Language of Dementia.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

every minute is a new day

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It’s here.

Hello beautifuls,

It has been a while since I’ve posted. There is a great reason. I have been working on my Alzheimer’s book Every Minute is a New Day. And the Kickstarter is now live and ready to support. Please take a moment and help spread the word, back the project, or do an interpretive dance to say how much you love it. I love you all.

Here is the link: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/fuzzylizzard/every-minute-is-a-new-day

“Be the change you want to see in the world.” -Mahatma Gandhi.

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Do Not Squander Your Madness On Petty Things Like Reality: The Smile Challenge

photo“You’re only given a little spark of madness. You musn’t lose it.” -Robin Williams

What is life without a little madness? What is there to take so seriously that we lose our sense of curiosity and wonder?

Life has been a bit topsy-turvy as of late. I have begun work on the Nurse Bitterpill book. Which as been more challenging than expected. I have stepped down from a director position to be a nurse again. There have been some medical issues as well. The lesson truly is, people are my passion. Namely, people with Dementia/Alzheimer’s Disease. What I love is making my residents happy and fulfilled.

With this passion come my love of madness. Not clinical insanity, per se. But true fun-loving madness that comes from enjoying life to its fullest. A person no matter what their struggle, be it dementia or just a case of the Monday’s deserves to be happy and engaged. I have made it my mission to bring this kind of joy to as many people as I can. To make at least 10 people smile every day.

Working in the world of Alzheimer’s has also given me the gift of never taking something like reality too seriously. I gladly enter the world of make-believe. Their’s or mine. Too much of society is dedicated to squashing out imagination and forcing conformity. Being labeled as eccentric or creative is as good as wearing a scarlet letter damning you for independent thought. I embrace this part of myself and I encourage it in my patients.

I’m proud to be called the Patch Adams of Nurses. And I challenge everyone to do the same. Make it a goal to put a smile on at least 10 faces each day. Tell their stories to another 10 people. And the world will find it’s spark of madness again.

 

 

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Richard Linklater and the Little Monk of Odin Hill

Another episode of Public Dream Journal:

young-buddhist-monkI drove up a steep mountain pass on a dark night until I arrived at an outdoor amphitheater carved into the rock face of the earth. The rotting wooden sign read: Welcome to Lost Odid Hill, You may not return as you arrived.  The theater was empty except for two people: a Tibetan monk child and Richard Linklater.

Monk: What brings you here?

Me: I came to see the performance of the crows.

Rick: I was invited to witness rebirth.

Monk: You did not arrive together?

Me: No, we arrived simultaneously, but not together.

Monk: I see. You both choose rebirth, then?

Me: Does that come with dessert?

Rick: Excuse her, she cannot find enlightenment without first going through a joke.

Me: Enlightenment, I fear, is the joke.

Monk: You think too much, Amy.

Me: That is not the first time a Tibetan monk has told me that.

Silence descended. A man with black raven’s wings took the stage. His shadow extending at least 10 feet above him. He spread his wings then fell to his knees, wrapping his wings around him. A red light from the mountainside fell upon his cocooned form. A single flute played. As his wings spread apart, slowly, a woman’s form emerged. Her skin black and slick, as if made of oiled obsidian. Her eyes cerulean blue with specks of starlight. Her black wings caught the moonlight and infinity pulsated in their expanse.

Rick: Is she rebirth?

Monk: She is creation and destruction.

Me: Does she do parties? I’d hire her for my 40th birthday party.

Monk: Don’t worry she’ll be there. But for now, she has a gift for you.

Me: Why would she have a gift for me?

She flapped her wings once and suddenly she was standing in front of Rick and I. She leaned forward and kissed Rick softly on his third eye. Then she looked at me and wrapped me in her wings. Her skin was cold against my skin. She jumped and we were airborne. She chose a star from the night sky and plucked it from the darkness. She placed the star inside my heart.

She lowered us back to earth where the monk and Rick waited. She reached out and pulled a strand of silver hair from my head and placed it around Rick’s wrist. The silver hair pulsated with the same rhythm as the star in my heart. Then it faded into his skin, leaving a silver circle around his wrist.

Monk: It is time to go now. The lady must return home and you both have many dreams to share before she comes back to renew her gift.

With that, the mountain faded into a rolling sea.

What does it mean?

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Crow’s Feet Are a Rite of Passage to Fabulous, Right?

So, today I discovered my first crow’s feet. At first it struck a nerve about looking old. Then the more I contemplated it, and I did contemplate it for hours, the more I realized that those little lines are a gateway to becoming that amazing woman that I envisioned myself being by the time I turned 40. (Which is only a few months away at this point.)

So much emphasis is put on looking smaller, younger, and more like everyone else’s version of perfection. Age is seen as a failure rather than an achievement. This has been a subject I’ve had on my mind for a while now. So much pressure is put on us, citizens of the targeted advertising culture, that our minds are not even our own any longer. We are animatronic drones doing and buying what we are told to by a calculating few. Women and men have an equal amount of pressure in different areas: women to look as perfectly landscaped as an 8 year old prepubescent child with the physique of one that just happens to have D cup breasts, and men to be as manly as a lumberjack eating 20lbs. of steak while wrestling a polar bear shirtless. The polar bear is obviously shirtless too. It’s a constant mental struggle to accept what we truly are as compared to the images we are bombarded with on a continual basis.

I’ve always been open and honest about my struggles with weight, body image, body hair, BgPbu2nCcAAAAKiand depression. But being honest with you, a blog reader, is not necessarily being honest with myself. And until now (ok possibly up to a few years from now) I have been lying to myself about the image I see when I look at my reflection in the mirror. Yes, it’s imperfect according to societal standards. But it is what I am. I am shaped like Gimli, as hairy as Chewbacca, and as neurotic as Lucy Ricardo. Which makes me so much more interesting than our culture gives credit for, honestly. It’s the difference between the A.D.H.D style of a tabloid magazine and the texture of a book by Douglas Adams.

Self-doubt is a constant companion. But it is enhanced by this need to fit into this unachievable societal mold. So, let’s all breathe in an acceptance of who we are right now and then blow away those paper dolls that make us feel inadequate. They are pretty to look at but have no staying power in the presence of a gorgeously fabulous self-accepting mature* woman.

I HAVE CROW’S FEET AND THEY MAKE MY EYES LOOK ABSOLUTELY STUNNING.

*I mean, mostly mature.
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Out of Dream Experience

dream-content-analysis

Out of Dream Experience

By Amy Moloney

I am having an out of dream experience

The world does not meet expectation but exceeds hope

A familiar voice whispers from a remembered dream

Not quite here but always there

The sweetest notes sing from that voice beyond the limits outside the dream

I am having an out of dream experience

Where space is limitless and time is running out

I bend a familiar page that I read once in the darkness

Folded over space where the light reminds me to fade away

Freedom only takes form when there is a letting go

I am having an out of dream experience

Where fire burns its hottest after winter’s bite

The seasons blend into a blurred landscape of monotony

Familiarity with the unknown leaves nothing to surprise

But the voice continues to whisper from sleep’s lost film

I am having an out of dream experience

Colors become slightly muted when the dream ceases to roll

Witch doctors dance in the greyscale of shadow

Conjuring the strength to walk the out of dream day

Nothing will ever be the same yet the world will never change

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Lake Karma: A short story

Still shot from the film 13 Lakes by James Benning

Still shot from the film 13 Lakes by James Benning

Lake Karma

A short story based on a dream I had today

By: Amy Moloney

 

A young messenger boy looks for me. His name was Luca. He finds me inside a marble building where I am studying ways to face karma with a man, my soul partner, twin soul. The teacher asked Luca to lie on the table. Young Luca does as he is asked, looking at me for reassurance. I am unsure, but nodded to go ahead and comply. I trusted teacher. Teacher said he would demonstrate how to pull the face from a man with one grasp. This would reveal his true soul.

My partner has large manly hands and places one of his big hands above a different prone body. My small hand reaches for Luca. At the same time my partner and I said to teacher, “We cannot do this.”

I look at teacher and ask, “How can I look into a soul if have first caused it harm? I will not do this to another being just because I can.” My partner nodded his agreement.

I pulled Luca up from the table and told him to run, run fast. He did. Then turned to me and said, “We all know the truth, soon we’ll accept it.”

The teacher laughed, clapped his hands together and said, “Well, that was a lesson well learned. Time for lesson number two.” He led us to the shore of a misty lake. The sand was soft and the water had a thick, dark surface. A boat arrived at the shore and my partner got in. The teacher held me back saying, “No. He needs to face his first.”

My partner set off in his boat alone. I watched from a terrace kitchen above the lake and busied myself with making dinner for his return. The teacher told me, “Your partner will find a great flying fish above his boat. He must look into its gaping mouth and see truth within himself before he can return to shore. I hope you are prepared to save this dinner for a while.”

I could see the silhouette of the boat in the blanket of mist. The sun was nearly set. From the water a great fish jumped toward my partner, hovered just above him. My partner began to row his boat backward, away from the fish.

I screamed to him, “NO. Face him. See what you need to see. Go back.”

My partner turned his boat around and rowed away. I ran to the shore only to see his boat disappear in the other direction, the fish flying behind him and another more menacing fish ahead of him.

The teacher appeared beside me, “It’s your turn to travel the lake of Karma. Only it won’t be a fish you encounter. It will be your partner and he will not know you until he has entered the mouth of the great spirit. To face your karma, you must face his.”

I get into the boat and teacher removes his face and places it inside with me. The face spoke, “The more alone you feel, the less alone you’ll be. Go save your soul.”

I began to row. I encountered nothing until I reached the middle of the lake. It was just before sunrise, the color of the mist transformed into a golden glow like that of sunlight through drops of water. Rain began to pour and a lone dragonfly hovered over the boat. It landed inside and waited for me to turn in the direction it came from.

“He’s that way, isn’t he?” I asked the dragonfly. I didn’t wait for an answer, I proceeded in the direction I was being drawn. I found myself rowing into an inlet where trees on the shore hung low over the water. Moss created a curtain. Behind the curtain I could see my partner’s boat. I pulled back the mossy curtain and found him lying in his boat with a young woman, a mermaid. She had golden skin and he was beneath her with his eyes closed.

“Are you the great fish he is to look into?” I asked the mermaid.

“Yes. But he chooses to take comfort in my embrace rather than looking too deeply within. It is his choice. You should go.” The mermaid said.

“I’m here to help him. You can’t have him unless you can prove you are only here to nourish his soul with happiness.” I respond defiantly.

“I make him happy. See.” She illuminated his sleeping face with her gentle golden hand.

“He’s content, not happy. What will he be when he wakes?” I ask her.

“Why would he ever want to wake?” She asks.

“To fulfill his destiny, our karma, our souls have a purpose. You must let him go.” I demand.

“I accept your challenge.” The mermaid rises to hover above his body.

At that the dragonfly roes before the mermaid and grew to a full sized dragon, green and gold. “Now my young sister, you must look into her mouth and decipher truth from untruth. When you see the untruth you must crush it in your hand then feed me the ashes. I will take it away to leave you free. Only when she holds nothing but truth will she release this man’s soul and allow him to face himself.”

I look at the golden mermaid, “Open your mouth, temptress. Let me for our soul. His soul and mine are the same.”

“As you wish.” She opens her mouth

I look into the mouth of the great fish and see myself as a child, a teenager, then as a young adult. That is when I notice the untruth. The word “unworthy” flutters around my memories. I reach out trying to catch the untruth. It skitters out of my grasp again and again. I hear the mermaid’s laughter echo through my mind.

“You are unworthy of his soul.” She cackles.

“No I am not, you bitch.” I scream back at her.

The next time the word flutters by, near enough to grab, I catch it, crush it. Then I feed it to my dragon friend.

My partner’s eyes begin to open. I pull him into my boat and row away from the mermaid-fish. He wakes.

“Who are you?” He asks me.

“Just a friend. I’ll get you home safely, I promise.” I tell him.

“Thank you, friend.” He smiles up at me.

I row back to an empty shore.

As we walk toward the road my partner asks, “Can we go fishing again tomorrow?”

 

 

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Zombie Stuntmen: A Machete Kills Love Story

El Rey Pulpo Machete Kills, Baby (punctuated properly to keep Machete from killing babies. Grammar saves lives.)

El Rey Pulpo
Machete Kills, Baby
(Punctuated properly to keep Machete from killing babies. Grammar saves lives, people.)

Recap of a pretty spectacular few weeks.

Friday the 13th brings delicious catfish

Let’s go back a few weeks to Saturday the 14th. That was the day I learned that I owe Harry Manfredini* a fuck-ton of money for torturing my sister at bedtime when we were kids. I think he said it was a nickle for every Ah ah ah ah Ch ch ch ch I have ever uttered, totaling, as I said, a fuck-ton. I also learned that I would be terrible at scoring a film.

Then I ate fried catfish later that day and watched Les Blank films about Mardi Gras. And forgot all about how much money I owed people for being a smart-ass kid.

Throughout the day I made new friends and became more than just a face in the crowd at AFS events. I was reignited with the passion that brought me to Austin in the first place.

Going home

The next week was filled with work and woe. Alzheimer’s never rests. After a jam packed work week I hopped a plane and flew home for some much needed family time. It was the recharge that my heart-battery was needing. The hugs from my nieces fit just right.

Upon returning to Austin I realized for the first time that Austin feels more like home than Cincinnati does.

Dinner with Danger Gods

L-R Bud Cardos, Bob Ivy, Gary Kent, Chuck Bail Photo from Austin Film Society

L-R Bud Cardos, Bob Ivy, Gary Kent, Chuck Bail
Photo from Austin Film Society’s facebook page

Last Friday I attended an event where four veteran stuntmen** sat around telling stories. I don’t think I stopped smiling for three days. I think my favorite story of the night was Chuck Bail’s telling of  frog rustling in South America. Or maybe it was Bud Cardos telling us about this weird, scrawny guy named Charles Manson who came over to fix a car and ended up getting thrown off the set for being a jackass.

These men are true superheroes and their stories are pure gold. All of them are more than stuntmen, actors and directors who have worked with some of film’s most notorious personalities, beautiful starlets, and the toughest cowboys ever on the big screen. Again, I used it as learning tool to become a better storyteller and screenwriter. It was an honor to have been witness to a dying breed of movie men. There will always be a need for stunts in movies, but men of this era are slipping away from us. The stoic cowboys of old Hollywood are becoming a thing of the past. And I am one of the lucky ones to have touched history, if even for a brief evening with these danger gods.

Zombie Toes & Legends

Tom Savini and me. He has his zombie toe on his belt. It thrills me that he was wearing it all night.

Tom Savini and me. He has his zombie toe on his belt. It thrills me that he was wearing it all night.

Tom Savini is a legend, period. I had the privilege of meeting him on Monday night at a moviemaker dialogue hosted by AFS. He is warm, funny, and a total bad ass.

I hadn’t intended on giving him one of my zombie toes. For whatever reason it did not occur to me that he would appreciate my weird hobby that gets me through writer’s block. During the dialogue he mentioned something that has always been a peeve of mine in the movies, the lack of realistic anatomical portrayals of death. I am a nurse, I see death a lot. It doesn’t look like what you see in the movies or on TV. Which made me think of my zombie toes, that I happened to have in my purse. I purposely do not put any red blood on them because zombies are dead flesh, therefore would not have oxygenated blood coming from inside. Tom made me feel vindicated in my choice to keep with physiological correctness over sensationalized gore. So I walked up and handed him a toe. Told him that I make them with as much realism as you can get from a clay rendering of a fictional dead thing. He loved it. So much so that he told me he was going to wear it to the Machete Kills screening the next night. And he did wear it. Unfortunately, the chain I had on it didn’t fit around his bad-ass neck, so he wore it dangling from his belt the whole night. This, my friends, is my proudest zombie toe achievement. Robert Rodriguez may have one of the first ones ever made, but he doesn’t come close to having the zombie-cred that Tom Savini sports. This awesomeness came close to rivaling the eating of chocolate from Neil Gaiman’s pocket. I want all of my encounters with talented people to be this bizarre and wonderful.

Machete Kills

1-WP_20131001_006 (1)

And now for the amazing night of Machete. Yes, you’ve heard me ramble on about Robert Rodriguez in many posts last year when I was struck by the creative firestorm that he ignited at El Mariachi. Which in many ways was the impetus for my moving to Austin. Not for him, the creative part. Perverts.

Anyway, back to Machete Kills. All I’m going to say about the movie is it lives up to the craziness of the first Machete movie. Honestly, it was so full of disjointed fun that it was a bit like watching one of my dreams on screen. (Look up at least one of my dreams in my Public Dream Journal for reference.)

Don’t forget that Savini was wearing my zombie toe dangling from his pants this whole night. My mind is still blown.

1-Aviary Photo_130251405843615039After the movie I headed over to the after party. Where I had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Rodriguez a bit more. In fact, he took a picture of my chest. Well, the El Rey Pulpo I was wearing that I made just for the event (pictured at the top of this post). I loved how he was more interested in the artistic process of making it than anything else. He barely noticed that the throwing knives looked like lobster claws. Which he better put into a movie. Deadly, silver lobster claws would be an amazingly unexpected weapon. Very James Bond villain.  Screw that, I’m going to put the damn lobster claws in my own movie. If I ever figure out how to make one, that is.

I gave away a few more zombie toes to awesome people who lit up when I mentioned zombies and toes. Making people happy for no reason is what I live for. And tonight my mission was accomplished.

 

*Harry Manfredini is the amazingly vivacious film composer who scored Friday the 13th and about a million other films and television shows.

**The danger gods are: Bud Cardos, Bob Ivy, Gary Kent, Chuck Bail

Awkward group shot from my phone.

Awkward group shot from my phone.

Just in case you forgot, because I sure did, I still believe in magic.

Posted in All the World is a Stage, Artistically Inclined, Finding Film, The Life And Times Of Fuzzy Lizzard, Zombie Toes | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Awkward’s Guide to Being Fabulous

carried a watermelonHello, my name is Amy and I walk into walls. Daily.

Don’t be alarmed, I’m mostly harmless and incredibly fabulous. Being an oaf does not have to hold you back from being amazing and sexy. In fact, there are many men who find awkward clumsy women quite alluring. We provide hours of entertainment, even with our clothes on.

Here is your guide to being fabulous if you too are an awkward klutz:

Let Go

Let go of these things called dignity and grace. You have no need to retain these attributes. It will only inhibit your awesomosity. When you are constantly breaking things by merely being near them it will tend to diminish your sense of graceful dignity on a daily basis. So it’s best to just check this shit at the door.

Forget Regret

There is no regret in the world of the fabulous idiot. Regret does no one any good. Yesterday is gone and cannot be changed. Tomorrow hasn’t happened yet, therefore doesn’t’ exist. There is no sense in living in any other place than the present. Each bruise is a symbol of living in the moment, awkward Zen.

Own it

napoleon_dynamite_765Let your dumbass shine. Get out there on that dance floor and run into the support beams like a champion. Step on toes, and keep on dancing. And when the pictures show up on facebook say, “That’s right, I’m a fabulous dancing fool.”

Follow your bliss

Playing the fool is a glorious state of never-ending wonder. You have no idea how many ways there are to break your big toe until it’s practically impossible to wear fashionable shoes.

Know your strength

Know the strength that you’ve amassed. The infinite universe shows itself every day in situations that would make other, more graceful people run screaming. You have built an armor of strength from every misstep and bungle. You know how to fall and rise again. There is power in getting back up.

Intuition

jerk24bbtn1Get in touch with your klutz’s intuition. I know that every time I make a complete ass of myself in front of someone, that someone is important. That someday my shame will be a beacon of light for that person. This is how I make friends.

Break the ice

Somewhere down the line that first impression of you walking into a closed glass door will break the ice and help put others at ease in your presence. They will know that you are not afraid to be yourself wholly and completely. It earns respect and also a nice bubble of personal space. Mostly because they don’t want to go tumbling down the stairs with you if they are standing too close.

Most of all, be you.

That is what makes you fabulous in spite of all of the broken things in your wake. Even if you think no one else does, I love you just the way you are.

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PMS Film Fest

pms

Today's cravings brought to you by the letters P M S.

Today’s cravings brought to you by the letters P M S.

I am going to  talk about things most people are afraid to mention in so-called polite company. It’s a shame, too. Humans should not fear the female body. I certainly don’t fear my body: functions, imperfections, size, needs, the weird shape that my hips make when I wear a pleated skirt. I am a woman. A beautiful, sexy, voluptuous woman. My body may not work perfectly, but it still reminds me of my femininity once a month. It reminds me with intense pain and ridiculous cravings for bare-chested men and ice cream. Preferably at the same time.

For a while I’ve been making movie lists in my mind to remind me of what it is I love about film. So today I thought I’d combine those lists with my PMS. You are so very welcome.

This is not a list for film nerds; this list is based solely on my period. My current period. When the butterfly is in the sky (Yep, that’s my code for riding the “bleeding rainbow.” Just try not to sing it to yourself. You can’t. It’s stuck. I’m probably going to be sued by Levar Burton.) I like to traverse the peaks and valleys of my emotional spectrum by curling up under a freshly slain animal hide in obnoxiously pink flannel pants and watching whatever the fuck I want. This isn’t about female empowerment, it is about release. The screams, the tears, the laughter, and most importantly letting go of the loneliness this time of the month can bring.

The following are my PMS Film Festival selections based on mood and the fact that they are on my DVD shelf

HighlanderHighlander Because it is my favorite movie and sometimes I feel the need for beheading assholes that do not respect my obsession with Scottish accents and kilt-clad men wielding swords. Sean Connery pretending to be a stag, that’s pretty hot. Sexy Scottish nostrils.

 

grosse pointe blankGrosse Point Blank Murder for hire seems so more civilized than staking my jerkface neighbors with sharp pointy sticks torn from the trellis outside my door. In fact, there is a plethora of weaponry outside my door tempting me to scare the holy crap out of those fuck-weasels who play their guitar turned up to 11 at 3am. YOU DON’T NEED TO PLUG INTO YOUR AMP TO PLAY FUCKING SCALES.

fearless hyenaFearless Hyena Early Jackie Chan can cure anything. Anything. Even asshole neighbors.

 

 

doctor detroitDoctor Detroit This is my safe place. When all is going wrong in my world I retreat inside my head and attend the Players Ball wearing a sequined ball gown made for a hooker queen. Not a pleated ball gown, my hips would look terrible.

 

detroit rock cityDetroit Rock City Because Doctor Detroit made me think of all the other Detroit movies on my shelf. Also, KISS. Pretty much any music movie makes me cry like a mother-daughter bonding moment in a tampon commercial on the beach.

 

two towersLord of the Rings: The Two Towers SEX NOSTRILS. Seriously, when I am PMSing I oscillate between wanting to hide away under the weight of the entire earth to wanting to rage fuck everyone in my path. And the men of Middle Earth have the flareyest, most sex filled nostrils ever amassed on one screen.

 

spaceballsSpaceballs Basically to channel the Schwartz and heal my wounded uterus. Dudes, I’m bleeding out. I could die unless I get a can of liquid Schwartz. And I’m craving a little good helmet. Dark Helmet is kind of hot. Don’t judge me.

 

stardustStardust I’m a romantic that needs more DiNero in drag. Also, romance. Why the fuck is romance so hard to find? Why can’t I have a whoopsie lightning pirate help me fall in love? Will you be my DiNero? Let’s cuddle. Just for 10 minutes.

 

the holy grailMonty Python and the Holy Grail It’s only a flesh wound. I just keep telling myself that it’s only a flesh wound. It’s not so bad. The horror will eventually stop. Come back here, I’ll bite your ankles. Fight me, damn you. I mean, this is a really funny movie.

 

xena 1Random Xena episodes Every menstruating woman has 90’s era pseudo-lesbian tendencies and wants to watch Xena. It’s a scientific fact. Or maybe it’s the swords. And flarey nostrils from New Zealand, again. SEX NOSTRILS.

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School of Rock: The Dementia Review

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Let me start with the disclaimer that I have worked nearly 130 hours in the past two weeks. Then I spent my one night off celebrating the 10 year anniversary of School of Rock with the cast of the movie.

1-WP_20130829_015To prepare for the show I decided to show the movie to my patients at work. 30 Alzheimer’s reviews were better than watching the band get back together. I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy the reunion. I did. I danced blisters on my feet.

It amazes me to see the changes ten years can bring. Each kid from Mr. Schneebly’s class has grown into a beautiful young adult. I enjoyed speaking with them after the show about the awesome things they are doing now. I’d tell you more about that, but I wouldn’t want to mislead you into thinking that this is a professional blog or anything.

Here are the highlights from The Dementia Review

Almost as fun as The Alzheimer’s Quote of the Night. Just like over at the NurseBitterpill.com, no names or context given.

  • His face has a truck in it.
  • Jumpy little guy, isn’t he?
  • Her mama should have put jelly on her rolls.
  • When are they going to play George Straight?
  • Someone should get him to clean his room. He’s going to get pants.
  • Get me new legs, I want to dance.
  • Oh yeah, and he’s got lithium go-go in his goose.
  • Should have taken ‘em to lumber school, where the dusty wind blows.
  • This silliness reminds me of my nurse. (I paraphrased a bit. Still a compliment in my opinion.)
  • I want ice cream.
  • They didn’t do it for the peanuts.

A few of the brain thoughts from my actual brain during the actual School of Rock reunion show

  • Holy shit! I’m old enough to be their mother. Thank the gods I still look young enough to just be a big sister. Shut up, I do.
  • Jack Black doesn’t seem to annoy me as much as I get older. What’s with that?
  • Oh yeah, this was the movie that changed my opinion of Jack Black. I think it is, I can’t remember. I think I may have misjudged Mr. Black. He totally nails the Zep.
  • I miss playing my brother’s Led Zeppelin albums on my little red record player. I need a little red record player for my Zappa albums.
  • Those are some damn talented kids. er… adults… must suppress cougar like responses to young men. Damn, I’m one of those creepy old women now. Don’t make eye contact, act natural.
  • 1-WP_20130829_013The back up singers have great shoes. I wish I could still wear kick-ass heels. Or at least not have worn out nurse’s feet. I shouldn’t have worn new shoes.
  • The true power of music is that I’m tolerating this crowd shoving me into the stage. I should’ve had some of that sushi. Now there’s no escaping. Glad I went to the bathroom before the show. I totally had a Spinal Tap moment trying to find the bathroom. I walked through the door screaming, “Hello Cleveland.”
  • Holy crap I’m exhausted. Seriously, I’m so tired I’m telling inanimate objects to kiss my ass. Not that I don’t talk to inanimate objects all the time. I just don’t usually tell them to kiss my ass. It’s usually make me some cinnamon toast, toaster. Or fold the laundry for me, machine.
  • Ooh, snickerdoodles.
  • Rick Linklater got a haircut. I wonder if he’s still wearing ugly socks?

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Now go have a great Labor Day and rewatch School of Rock. Pretend that I’m there making you cinnamon toast with my sentient toaster. You deserve futuristic toast.

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Frequently Asked Questions

943249_10200471732928869_692595876_nFAQ

Let me take a moment to answer a few of your frequently asked questions.

How do you know so much about life, Amy?

Well you see, I fuck up a lot. That means I’m actually smarter than people who never fuck up. Because I learn more life lessons I’m practically a walking encyclopedia of what not to do. You’re welcome.

How big is the universe?

Really fucking big. If you want to know how fucking big I suggest you read Douglas Adams. He explains it a hell of a lot better than I can. He explains most things a hell of a lot better than I can. He’s also a much better writer than I am. So do yourself a favor, quit reading my blog and pick up a copy of Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.

Are you more Star Wars or Star Trek?

Trick question, nerdos. I am a fan of both. But if you must know, I love Star Trek a wee bit more, TNG to be exact. In fact, I always wanted to name my first born Jean Luc. Alas, I am barren and there will be no captains spawned from my womb. My desolate, empty womb. Dammit, why do you assholes ask such emotional questions.

Who is Skippy and are you sure you are not clinically insane?

These two questions always come to me together. First, Skippy is my amazingly handsome imaginary lover who has been visiting me in my dreams for years. Sometimes he shows up with his children, other times he shows up with David Bowie. He is also known as The Dragon Man. He’s perfect because he lives inside my head. Which of course makes me perfectly sane. There. Now you have your answers.

What’s with this obsession with Frank Zappa?

This is a DUH question. Frank Zappa is a god. He created things beyond the imagining of anyone else of his time. And it is not obsession; it is extreme reverence for the music that Frank has gifted the world. How many times have you been able to deter a street thug from selling you used drugs out of his pocket with Justin Bieber lyrics? Exactly, Frank is the only man with lyrics bizarre enough to keep you safe from greasy, murdering, hoodlums.

When did you first know you were a goddess?

I first suspected my goddesshood at a young age. But I really did not embrace it until after my divorce in 1998. That is when I began studying kung fu. That’s right, Bruce Lee released my inner goddess. He was once very proud of me. I think he’s pissed at me now. But that is another question for another time. Suffice it to say, never piss off your dead heroes.

Who is Nurse Bitterpill?

Nurse Bitterpill is me and I am Nurse Bitterpill. She found me while I was toiling away in nursing school looking for a cynical old bitch to make it all seem worth it. And you know, Agnes Bitterpill and I have grown into quite the pair of cynical yet funny old bitches together.

Do you write anything better than terrible poetry?

No. I pretty much stick with writing shit. Once in a while something good emerges, but I try very hard to suppress any talent that may be lurking beneath the surface. There is plenty more terrible poetry to come.

When will you actually publish something you write?

That is a good question. If you are someone who publishes shit and want an old lady to write stories about magical grandmothers for you, give me a shout. Until then, it’s terrible poetry and poorly edited short stories for this blog. Nothing’s too haphazard for my beautiful readers.

What does Neil Gaiman’s pocket taste like?

If you remember correctly, it wasn’t Neil’s pocket I was eating. It was his pocket chocolate. And it was delicious dark melted chocolate from his breast pocket. Next time you see him, ask if he has any sweet confections melting in his pockets, I’m sure he’ll share. He’s that sweet of a guy.

Will there be a sequel to The Banana Sting? Will Danny Trejo be in the sequel?

Whoa, slow down hotshots. I really do hope so. That was one of the best dreams I ever had. He was like an Amy whisperer. Danny knew how to yell at me just right to get me to almost behave properly in a tense crime situation. And if I do get to stake out banana cream pies with Danny Trejo I will certainly let you know the moment it is happening. I bet he knows where all the best pies are kept.

How do you manage to stay so fucking sexy for such a complete dumbass?

It’s a tightrope for sure. But I stay sexy because I am sexy. Fucking sexy is a state of mind. Being a complete dumbass is just an added bonus for your viewing pleasure.

Posted in All the World is a Stage, Music Is The Best, My Public Dream Journal, Nurse Bitterpill, The Life And Times Of Fuzzy Lizzard | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Finding Film: In A World

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I admit it; I’ve been off my game lately. You, my pretties, have been suffering months of blog silence here on amymoloney[dot]com. It’s tragic really. For a while I almost thought I lost my funny. Have no fear, the funny is not gone, it’s just having a few bad hair months.

Moving to Austin was supposed to supercharge my creativity. And in some ways it has. But it also has put it back into a holding pattern. I am at a very important juncture in my life career-wise. My nursing career has taken center stage. Which is a good thing. I love being a nurse, especially to my beautiful Alzheimer’s patients. I have found a place where I can blossom and truly be important to the work I do. But it has left me with very little time to focus on blossoming into the other career I want to have, writing. Granted, I do write every day. Most of the daily writing is only bits and pieces on notecards for various projects that are far from completion. I am at least trudging forward to where I need to be. And my nursing career and writing career are colliding in a promising way.

That brings us to the reason I’m writing tonight. Believe it or not, there is a point.

I saw a movie. And I am feeling like I may be back in the game. At least one big toe and possibly my right elbow are feeling some game.

It’s a good sign when a movie carries with it the ability to inspire and motivate you long after leaving the theater. A good film sends ideas buzzing through your mind, encouraging you to continue projects that are already taking shape on paper. Lending fire to that little voice inside your head telling you that you are on the right track. And without even knowing it, other creative people are cheering you on with the work they are doing.

That is what happened at the movie theater tonight.

in-a-world-is-about-so-much-more-than-romanceI went to a screening of In a World, a movie written and directed by Lake Bell. It was, to put it simply, a wonderfully fun movie filled with painfully real interactions. The film was well written and had an incredibly true sense of what life is like for those of us who fly just under the radar. I found it delightfully uncomfortable to watch at times, mainly because it very much mirrored my own sexy awkwardness. (Yes, sexy awkwardness. It’s making a comeback. And I am brushing up for those fall on my face moments that will seduce and mystify you.)

I have to admit that I was not fully aware of who Lake Bell was until a few weeks ago when I decided to do some research on the woman. After all, I had just finished reserving my ticket to her movie. The premise of the movie is what attracted me. Mainly because of a dream I had earlier this year. Voice work has been a thing rattling around in my mind for a while. I’m not saying I’d be good at it. But I have been making up voices and characters since childhood. It was one of the things that made everyone think I was weird. So I related to the character (well, many of the characters) in the film. I also related to the woman who made the film.

Lake Bell was in attendance at the screening and she is adorable, funny, awkward, and charming. All the things that make her film work. She should be proud of her first film.

Overall, it was a night filled with everything that makes me happy: movies, beautifully bold women, and making a fool of myself in public.

 

When it comes out in theaters near you, go see it. Really. It’ll make you laugh. A lot.

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Finding Film: Learning Curve

1000297_168124383375332_1485791733_nAround 35 years ago I discovered something that has been a vital part of my life. As a child with a more vivid imagination than those around me, I was starving for an outlet, a playground for my imagination. What I found was the world of television and movies. I was bewitched by the fantasy, the stories. So much so that I began writing my own stories by the time I was six years old. I wanted to be a part of that magic.

I can’t recall the first movie that weaved its spell on my young, ravenous imagination. I do, however, remember the first movie I ever saw when we finally got cable (The Boogins). It was terrible, but I loved it anyway.

And here is the magic part, as much as I fought with my mother, we always found common ground while watching old movies together. These little two hour journeys were somehow the key to my sanity in a world where I wasn’t allowed to show my true self. I was allowed to have a small amount of imagination while these movies were playing. I fell in love with old men and glamorous women that my peers had no idea even existed.

297234_10151276195227243_607406995_nShe took me to see Gone With the Wind at the Esquire in Cincinnati when I was about 10 years old. It was pure magic. It was the first time I had seen something from the Golden Age on the Silver Screen. It was a real movie theater, not a movie-plex with a dozen screens playing what my friends wanted to see. It was a real movie, full of pomp and fancy dressed southern belles.

But for me being hooked on movies was not about recreating what I saw on the screen. I did not go out searching for ways of making my own movies. It was my means of escape. What it unleashed within me was the need to write my own stories. And I did. For many years I did just that. I wrote.

970798_147203295467441_138530918_nMy mother and I continued to have a strained relationship throughout my childhood and adolescence. She would watch old Gene Kelly or Audrey Hepburn movies with me, but never let me watch the sci-fi and fantasy I really craved.

That was where my great-aunt Georgie came in. She was a sweet 70-ish year old woman who indulged my every movie whim. When we went out, she let me pick the movies. Imagine a 70 year old woman seeing Tron with an 8 year old. She was completely perplexed by the 3D glasses. So I asked to see Jaws 3D next. It went on like this for years, I wanted to see a movie that stretched my mother’s tolerance for imagination, so I’d ask Aunt GG to take me. Even at home I walked the tightrope of her tolerance by sneaking into the kitchen at midnight to watch Doctor Who on our little 13” black and white TV.

I felt like there was something calling to me when I was watching the forbidden. The seed had been planted for me to want more than just a sneak-peak at the imagination of others. I wanted to be a part of creating the worlds that other little girls and boys escaped into. And I wrote them. Until I was around 19, I wrote them.

Flashforward 20-some years later, a woman wonders what it would have been like to have listened to her inner voices instead of the voices from those who supposedly know what’s best for her. Those voices that said she wasn’t good enough to be great at something. Anything. But were those voices from other people or were they her inner voices all along?

This is what I have come to learn since taking a giant leap of faith and moving to Austin, I am meant to be great at something. Everything I choose to do, I am meant to be great at it. I did not move here to make movies. I moved here to learn what my love for them has always meant. I moved here to learn how to embrace my love for stories and how they are told. I moved here to learn how to tell my own story without the limitations of my own mind.

I have begun to learn from those who do put their imaginations on the screen. I am learning to make my stories into something more than words on paper. I am becoming what I began as a headstrong, rebellious child. The path has always been set before me, I was just too afraid to let myself walk too far into the unknown.

And I am once again writing my stories.

Moral of the story: It’s never too late to start over.

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Roustabout Garden

17012_492581944123181_126256998_nMy dreams are a significant part of who I am. And as such they reveal the stress and hope I happen to be experiencing at any given time. I have been working a ton the past few months. So much so that I haven’t had much time to write, especially this blog. But it’s all worth it, if you were wondering. I love my work. But I miss writing too. Stress can be very hazardous to the creative process. 

I am no stranger to epic stories being born from one of my nighttime adventures. Sometimes the characters are reoccurring. I have recently been visited by one of my favorite characters, the Rat Guru. I have a series of short stories based on previous encounters with Renny, the Rat Guru. He is the oracle of the Rat Nation, and their leader. His divining gift manifests itself in gleaning insights and prophecies through his love of baking sweet things. He can see the future in cakes and creams.

This is what I wrote about him years ago after I first dreamed about him: I spoke with the Guru of the rat people over coffee and a slice of pineapple upside down cake. He is quite the exquisite baker. His cottage was quaint and decorated with antique furniture. Each table had a hand knotted lace doily laid upon it. The house was cozy and smelled of fruit pies and cinnamon. He wore robes the color of a spring sky, an azure blue. Upon his head he had a band of silver with the symbol for wisdom at his third eye. In the culture of the rat people the guru was a cherished icon of wisdom. He was revered as an infallible oracle. His visions were regarded as law and undisputed. He himself remained humble, scrying into baked goods instead of some fancy mirror or cauldron

Each time he invites me to tea we sit in the center of his garden.  A large stone circle is laid out in the ground surrounded by walls of overgrown flowers and herbs. There is a stone archway at the East side of the circle large enough for a dragon to enter. And on several occasions dragons have joined us for tea and cakes. Today we sit in the circle having lavender tea and eating blackberry cobbler with vanilla bean infused cream. It is the most decadent thing I have tasted since meeting Renny.

Renny: I called you here because of yesterday’s strawberry cheesecake.

Me: You saw me in your cheesecake? That’s awesome, I love cheesecake.

Renny: I saw your destiny in my cheesecake, Sweetling.

Me: Oh no, not another destiny dream. I’m done with the dreaming. I just want to get to the manifesting part of this destiny bullshit.

Renny: You might as well just suck it up, Little One. You have so much more dreaming ahead. But this is completely different.

Me: Last time I was here you introduced me to a unicorn, a Minotaur, and an Elvin prince. Are they coming to tea to gang up on me too?

Renny: No they aren’t. But you might listen if I sick the Minotaur on you again. We all agree, however, that it may not be wise to trust you with your own destiny.

Me: Why not?

Renny: Do you remember that story you started by never finished called The Time Yard?

Me: Yes.

Renny: Well, you are sort of stuck in The Time Yard. Not going forward, not going back. Just spinning in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Me: I’m not sure I follow. The Time Yard was filled with architecture and misplaced road signs.

Renny: Exactly. You are building a huge castle using the wrong signs.

Me: Huh?

Renny: You took the right leap of faith, found the right job, but forgot bring your castle. It’s still out of synch with the rest of you.

Me: You saw an out of synch castle in your cheesecake?

Renny: Your castle is on the hill just waiting for you to find the doorway. It is about resetting the timeline back to where you were when you took that leap of faith, when you were ok with not controlling your destiny and letting the signs lead the way. More cobbler, Sweetling?

Me: Yes, please. You are basically telling me to let go, aren’t you?

Renny: Yes and no. There’s more.

Me: Of course there is.

The stone archway shimmered with light and a small brown tortoise wearing a box shaped hat made from bamboo walked through much more briskly than I would have expected of a tortoise. Renny told me his name was Tito.

Tito: I am not an Earth tortoise, silly girl. I can move around quite sufficiently.

Me: You can read minds, I assume.

Tito: Indeed. And we have a matter to discuss.

Me: About The Time Yard?

Tito: No, this is not about that piece of fiction you wrote. It’s about one you are writing right now.

Me: Ok? Which one?

Tito: Are you committed to the story, girl? If you are going to keep writing that screenplay, you must be committed to that story. It’s a rather large piece of yourself.

Me: I know.

Tito: Well, are you?

Me: Yes.

Tito: Good. We want you to keep going and stand strong when the wind picks up. Because it will.

Renny: Sweetling, you see, this isn’t just about you any longer. You are writing for more than just you. So be sure you are ready for a storm. Good, bad, indifferent, you will need to be sure of yourself.

Tito: I have no patience for half-assery. So get to finishing what you started and be proud of it.

Me: This whole afternoon tea is about my writing? My destiny, that I am not to be trusted with, is what I write? How can I keep from being in control of it if it’s what I’m writing?

Renny: You need to let the story tell itself, it’s already in you.

Tito: Control where you put the periods and commas, not the message. You are too wrapped up in “I can’t” and “It’s not what so-and-so would do”. Get over it and write your story, your way. The strength of your character will show itself.

Me: So do I need to revisit writing The Time Yard or not?

Renny: Revisit it when the other three projects are finished.

Me: I do tend to start too many things at once, don’t I?

Tito: That is exactly what I mean by half-assery. You are a nuisance to yourself, girl. At least you are good at being a nurse. That gives me some hope.

Renny: Don’t be hard on the poor girl, Tito. She’s under a lot of stress. I think we’ve made our point.

Renny tipped his teacup and the entire garden disappeared with a wink.

Posted in My Public Dream Journal, Nurse Bitterpill, Original Writing By The Fuzzy Lizzard | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Moondrops

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Moondrops

By Amy Moloney

A poem from a dream…

Waking life, more painful than the dream

And the dream becomes the pain

From the edge of sunlight

To the haloed darkness, filled with drops of moon

That precarious perch of never and always

Desperately clawing for tangibility

We fall into the pools of familiar alienation

Moondrops and sunbeams cast silken nets

All that is left is the next fall

The abyss of this foreign realm

Steeped in what some may call reality

Posted in Original Writing By The Fuzzy Lizzard | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments