Amateur: Volume Thirteen: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell, #13

By Meghan McDonnell

In Amateur: Volume Thirteen, Meghan McDonnell moves to Los Angeles with her husband to pursue an acting career. She muses on identity and sense of place while waiting tables and taking classes, seeking to understand LA with its mythic promises and gritty realities. Along the way, she meets fellow actors, observes the implications of culture and class systems, skinny dips in the Pacific Ocean on a rainy night with strangers, and experiences the rush and heartache of following an uncertain path.

With searing candor, McDonnell distills daily life with uncommon humor and honesty. In brilliant, lyrical prose she brings depth and illumination to themes of family, friendship, ambition, love, redemption, and identity to reveal a detailed glimpse of the universal.

Her powerful observations and deeply felt insights about the human condition, struggles and transcendence included, reveal a courageous woman holding up a light in the thick of life as it happens.

Discover your interior self. Surprise yourself by unlocking your life within through yielding to the vulnerability of another voice, one that may sound startling like your own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meghan McDonnell
• Release date: Jul 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393755111

Meghan McDonnell

Meghan McDonnell lives in Walla Walla with her husband and two kitties. When she’s not writing or reading, she spends time outdoors, sits by a fire, solves crossword puzzles, and pretends to garden. She’s been known to listen to a true crime podcast or ten and wants to be a detective. You can learn more about her by reading her books.

Book preview

Amateur: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell

Volume Thirteen

Meghan McDonnell

Copyright 2019 Meghan K. McDonnell

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Titles by Meghan McDonnell:

Minor: Volume One

Novice: Volume Two

Limbo: Volume Three

Elsewhere: Volume Four

Faithful: Volume Five

Vespers: Volume Six

Onward: Volume Seven

Sojourn: Volume Eight

Ingress: Volume Nine

Witness: Volume Ten

Listless: Volume Eleven

Falter: Volume Twelve

Note

All names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect identities. I have solely recorded my interpretations and opinions of all events. Certain place names have been changed. Aside from minor edits, all else is as I wrote it at the time. If you’re new to the journals, welcome. If you’re a veteran, thank you for coming back for more. You’ll find links to songs, books, films, and more throughout the text, and a playlist at the end.

Contents

September 2007

October 2007

November 2007

December 2007

January 2008

February 2008

March 2008

April 2008

May 2008

Playlist

Thursday, September 20, 2007

We are on the road in Northern California on our way to San Jose. I’ve been cleaning out papers and poems and things I’ve written on scraps of paper; a general purge and desire to get things in their proper place.

I came across old notes and thoughts and memories on pieces of paper, a few of which I want to record in here so I have them in one place, even if I’ve written of them before.

I wrote about how Papa used to buy ice cream when it was on sale for ninety-nine cents per carton. He bought a brand with blue packaging that had lit-up stars on it. He stacked the cartons in his freezer and wrote the date he bought them on masking tape with a Sharpie and stuck the tape on the cartons so he knew which order to use them in (oldest first). Days before he died, we had dinner at his house and when my Dad went to get ice cream out of the freezer for dessert, he saw there was only one carton left, as though Papa knew he wouldn’t need more ice cream because he sensed he wouldn’t be around much longer.

We had been at Papa’s to celebrate my brother John’s 25th birthday. He is six years older than me and I’m older now than he was then.

A few days after that dinner, Aunt Frances hadn’t gotten her usual morning phone call from Papa. She called my Dad and he drove to the house to check on Papa. Dad had tried to call him but he didn’t answer and this was unusual since it was late enough in the morning that he’d be home from weekday mass. Dad knew on the drive to Papa’s house that if Papa’s car was in the driveway, then Papa was dead. I can feel how my Dad must have had his heart do a flip when he rounded the corner into view of the driveway and saw the car there. My Dad walked into the house and went upstairs. Papa had collapsed while dressing for church.

I can’t believe how strong my Dad was to go find his Dad, dead. When the medics came, one of them said to my Dad, He might still be alive.

Dad said, No. He isn’t.

I wonder if the medic was trying to comfort Dad or give him false hope. He didn’t know he was dealing with my father, who is strong, and always prefers the truth.

Love, Meghan

P.S. I need to find "Young Girl at Seventeen" by Norman Rockwell. I had the plate. I got it after Papa died. My Grandma collected plates with Rockwell reproductions on them. That plate hung in my apartment in Bellingham until I broke it on accident.

(later on) Another thought memory: Emma’s mom talked to us years ago about being married to Emma’s dad for fifteen years. The last five of them, she was preparing to leave him. She wanted to be strong and financially independent, all the while aware of his infidelities. Emma’s mom Michelle would talk to her mother about it and Emma’s grandma would tell Michelle, I know it’s hard but can you hang in there a little longer? It will be to your benefit if you do.

Michelle listened and it served her well.

How do we know when to listen?

Michelle said she still loves Jerry, Emma’s dad. She said she always will. She said Jerry loves her too and knows he fucked up. She said it’s not painful anymore, that he was a huge part of her life. She said they were crazy about each other when they were young but that passion doesn’t make for a good marriage.

Love, Meghan

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Hello from Los Angeles. I’m hesitant to write. I don’t recognize myself. It’s different than I thought it would be. That’s always the case though. I am well.

I’m at the Cow’s End on Washington Boulevard at Venice Beach. I’m trippin’ on palm trees. We drove in at 5 last night to torrential downpours.

Heidi greeted us. She and I polished off a bottle of Scotch and went to bed at 5 a.m. I feel yucky today.

Carson and I saw Kirsten Dunst at a coffee shop this morning. It was oddly comforting – just an actress chillin’ and getting her coffee. Just like me.

I have an hour to myself before I take a sunset walk on the beach with Carson, Heidi, her boyfriend Gordon, and their gigantic dog Duke.

It’s beautiful here. The rain has made everything clean and the air is good by the ocean.

I feel detached from myself while writing this. Probably the hangover.

Our road trip was great and made for a necessary easing into California. I don’t think I could have handled walking off a plane and going, We’re here. Forever.

We spent Monday night at Mom and Dad’s after a family dinner at Canlis. It was beautiful and warm in there with my parents, Sis, John, Kim, and Carson.

Before dinner arrived, I said to my family, I know we’re going to do well in California. But we’re only able to go because we have family and friends supporting us. This is all that matters, right here. We could be eating out of a dumpster tonight but if we’re together, that’s what matters.

I cried. Then Elizabeth, Mom, Kim, and Carson cried, too.

We drove to Elizabeth’s after dinner for dessert and so she and Mom could open birthday gifts before we drove to Gig Harbor to my folks’. We had a nice breakfast with Mom and Dad on Tuesday morning. Mom and I drove to a Scandinavian shop and she bought me a Dala horse. When we got home, Dad made us sandwiches for the road and packed fruit and chips for us.

Carson and I got to Eugene early that evening. We stopped in Springfield at Tom Tapper’s Tavern so we could enjoy the novelty of smoking in a bar. Then we met up with Shannon, Chandler’s new squeeze, at McMenamins. Chandler has been living in Oregon, getting his master’s degree.

I’d started going through and weeding out poems and old writings. There was a wood burning stove at the bar and I burned some pages, a ritual I began in Springfield and that continued the rest of the way. It will end tonight when I burn the last pages in a fire on the beach.

After McMenamins, we went to a couple bars near the U of O campus and then went back to Chandler’s to sleep.

In the morning, we got coffee at Dutch Brothers, a windmill-shaped drive-thru joint. We pulled off the road south of Eugene and opened gifts Steve and Annabelle had sent us off with. Annabelle gave Carson a Holga camera. She gave me a leather bracelet with a delicate silver button clasp and the word Faith imprinted in silver on the top. I love it. I haven’t taken it off since I opened it.

Annabelle put cash in the bracelet box. We read her card and letter and hit the road for Gold Hill and the Oregon Vortex. It’s a crazy place and I don’t understand it. No one does. There are theories but nothing solid.

We drove into Northern California, bound for Sam and Olivia’s place in Shasta. We drove an hour past our exit and had to turn around. We didn’t mind. It gave me more time to sort papers and allowed us to see the Castle Crags, beautiful rock formations, and the majestic Mount Shasta.

When we arrived, Sam stepped out of their cabin, a converted barn, to greet us. He and Olivia have a wood burning stove so I burned more old poems and papers. Their friends Kyle and Marnie came over for dinner and wine. I enjoyed talking to Olivia for hours. She is awesome and it was the first long conversation we’d ever had. I used to feel strange around her, awkward, because she is so pretty and quiet. But on the drive there, I talked to myself about being open and gracious with her.

I woke up in the middle of the night at their cabin. It was the heat of the room and the elevation because I felt claustrophobic and disoriented, like I had vertigo. I opened a window and the crisp mountain air soothed me back to sleep.

I’ve always loved many parts of California but it gives me a homesick feeling – a dull, sweet ache I am constantly trying to uncover and understand.

In the morning, we got coffee with Sam. He drove us to a natural spring to fill our water bottles.

We drove to San Jose and stopped by the Winchester Mystery House but decided not to tour it. In lieu, I found a book called Ghost Stories of California to add to my growing collection. We didn’t know where to stay that night. We’d talked to Jed Ramey about staying at his place in Monterey but he was in DC so no dice. We stopped at an internet café in Santa Cruz and looked up places to stay in Big Sur. We settled on the Fernwood Inn and drove down the coast.

We arrived after dark. It was a great place to stay, cheap and rustic. We had a gas fireplace in our little cabin. Everything seemed miniature, a throwback to earlier times in American culture. There was a general store, a café, a bar, and a huge patio in front and back.

We walked down to the campsite below, bordering the river. I burned more papers in a group campfire. We walked in the dark, by several sites, listening to the river and fireside conversations. One group with at least fifteen people sat around a fire like sardines. A guy was explaining rules to a game they were about to play. I marveled at how quiet the group was as he spoke, no one interrupting. I told Car that our friends could never do that. I noted that no one had a beer or cigarette in hand. I was impressed but then I noted their picnic table, covered in booze bottles.

Carson and I had a beer at the bar after our walk. We settled into bed at 10. Our cozy little cabin was warm from the stove. I read for an hour before crashing hard. So strange that was only two nights ago.

The next morning, we got coffee, packed, and got back on the road. We stopped at a turnout to help a couple who had locked their keys in their car. We drove to Gorda, the next town, to get information and help for them and then drove back. It took an hour, all told.

We hit the road again and drove through beautiful coastal towns. We stopped in Santa Barbara but couldn’t find a good place to get coffee. We drove through Ventura, where Lucas lives now. Tomorrow, it will be ten years since the day we met. I’d like to see him some time. That’s a strange area of my heart.

I’m trippin’ that I’m sitting in LA, looking down Washington Blvd. at palm trees and cars.

I don’t have the energy to write about shit with Heidi and Gordon so I’ll do it later.

Carson and I drove to West Hollywood earlier and got stoked on finding jobs and an apartment. It feels manageable.

I want to call Cassidy. It will be a while before we make friends here. It’s hard to call people back home because I can’t explain how I feel. No one there is here to go through it with. But Carson is here and we’re lucky to have a partner to go through this with.

I wonder if a freak out is waiting for me in the coming weeks and months but for now, I’m glad we’re here. I don’t feel insecure or weird or scared for the moment so I’m going to roll with that.

In a new place, I usually get weird about the simplest things, like How are you supposed to order coffee here? But I don’t feel that way. The sun is about to set. It’s surreal.

Love, Meghan

(later on) I have burned most of the papers. One I still need to burn is a copy of the letter I sent to Charles Blackburn about Evelyn. I don’t need to keep it because it was to him and for him and I don’t need to hold onto it. There were memories and images I have of Evelyn that I probably wrote about years ago, after she died. But I want to get them down in here in case. She is always in my heart.

Evelyn was the master of moments. I think of Christmas gift exchanges. I think of when she sang "Shortnin’ Bread. I remember walking to the bathrooms in the cold nights when we camped with the Blackburns at Kearns Lake every Memorial Day weekend. Evelyn loved The Diarrhea Song and on road trips, when we drove through Tonasket, she’d sing, A tisket, a tasket ..." with her head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised.

She loved Elton John and k.d. lang and when their songs came on, she’d glide her fingers through the air, pretending to play the piano. She always had to drive us over mountain passes because she needed to ensure our safe passage.

Love, Meghan

(later on) I found writings from our trip to Mexico with the Stoppards and Bedfords in 2005. I don’t know how much I wrote about that trip at the time but I found a timeline and notes I’d sketched about it while we were there. We flew into Puerto Vallarta and after getting our rental car, we drove to our hotel, Villa del Palmer. Whitney lost her watch. While the fellas checked us in, Jackie, Whitney, and I went to the outdoor bar for margaritas and cervezas during happy hour. We swam in the pool. Later, we checked into our rooms and swam in a smaller pool behind our rooms. Whitney and I had time just the two of us and then Mitch and Jackie joined us while Carson and Joe went grocery shopping. After the pool, we walked to the beach and swam in the Pacific Ocean. Jackie pretended to perform Swan Lake, doing water ballet and pretending to sing opera-style.

We showered, had more drinks, and took a cab to Old Town PV. We had dinner on a second-floor balcony overlooking the street. Jackie and I talked about Micah and religion.

After dinner, we walked along the beach, looking at people and bronze sculptures dotted along the path. We wound up at a bar called Club 69. Oy. We got pails of Corona and Pacifico. A young woman who worked there approached us and blew a whistle. She poured shots for us one by one, shook our heads, put her boobs in our faces, and grabbed out chests. We danced on a window ledge.

We walked back to the hotel, stopping along the way for tacos and beers at food stalls. The next morning, we got breakfast at a patio restaurant in Old Town. We window-shopped. It was a Sunday so most places were closed. We found an outdoor market on a river and walked through, looking at wares. We grocery shopped, stopped at Walmart, and drove to Sayulita in Nayarit. We drove through jungle and saw cows. We drove past the town and had to turn around. We saw a car accident on the drive back. No authorities were on the scene but many civilians pitched in. I noticed that when people slow down on the roads there, the person behind them and in front of you puts their hazard lights on.

We found the rental office in town and took a bumpy road to our house. It was gorgeous, much prettier than the photos online could capture. We unpacked, had dinner, swam in the pool, and played Taboo and Trivial Pursuit.

The next day, Carson and I woke and walked along the beach to Choco Banana in town. I got a book of poems by Alejandro Aura. We met Jackie, Mitch, Whitney, and Joe in town. They got fish tacos. None for me, thanks. We ate on a second-floor patio overlooking the town square and a beautiful, whitewashed church before walking home to swim. We sipped drinks and spent the day in the pool and ocean. Then we walked back to town for dinner. We ran into the guys staying in the house next to ours. They were from Colorado and they and Whitney knew people in common.

Jackie, Carson, and I stopped by a bakery to talk to a woman named Belinda about making a cake for Mitch’s birthday. We walked home on the beach and turned in.

The next day, we went running in the morning and then hopped in the pool to play Marco Polo. We lay by the pool for hours. We walked to an outdoor bar on the beach and had quesadillas and gigantic margaritas. We watched surfers. Jackie and I bought beer and walked home. We left before everyone else so we had time to strip down and skinny dip at dusk. When the other four returned, they skinny dipped with us. We showered and sat down to a dinner that a local woman had prepared for us in the house kitchen. After dinner, we played Apples to Apples and had cake. The Bedfords went to sleep. Carson and I stayed up with the Stoppards and played three rounds of Celebrity before turning in.

The following morning, we walked on the beach and through a jungle to San Francisco. There was a beautiful house on the water along the way with public beach access on private property. It had been owned by a former Mexican president before a gringa bought it. We had lunch on the beach at a spot in the little town. We body surfed and walked back to the house hours later. Jackie and I took a trail that led away from the water while the others scrambled over rocks along the shore. Back at the house, we swam and drank margaritas. One of the Colorado boys stopped by. Mitch and Jackie made dinner.

The following day, Carson and I went back to Choco Banana and then literally went to see a man about a horse. Then we shopped for souvenirs.

Jackie made me laugh that week. She often said to Carson, Stop looking at my chest.

Several times, she said to each of us in the group, Don’t talk to me ever again.

But my favorite line of hers that week was when she said she wanted to play a board game while we were laying poolside. I said, I don’t know if I can handle that kind of commitment.

Her response: That’s not what you said when you opened your legs.

Love, Meghan

Monday, September 24, 2007

I had unsettling thoughts and feelings last night. I had a flash of understanding for why people commit suicide. I know that’s extreme. It was just a flash. It’s difficult to describe what is going on in me. I’m not myself.

I have learned to let certain things go, or at least to not flip out when walls close in on me. I ride out uncomfortable feelings. We just got here. I need to be open to the unfolding. But I feel down, strange, lost. I do not want to ignore or deny it because I could stuff it down inside but I know it would come back up and mess me up.

I need to relax and be myself and go with the flow but it feels like when you go somewhere new, you have to contain yourself. That’s the word for it. I’m trying hard not to be a sloppy mess while I get my bearings. But that might not be the ticket.

I’ve been thinking of Claire and how she described her experiences of living in New York. When she visited Seattle, she seemed wound up, talking fast, trying to absorb everyone as if she could not get enough time and talks with her real friends back home. As though she had to fill up and there wasn’t enough time before she had to go back east.

How do you honor and process your feelings without letting them paralyze you?

I have a real soul. I am prone to depression. But I am strong and resilient and capable of going after what I want. I keep realizing (for the millionth time) that no amount of money, no house, no car, no booze, no cigarette, etc. can blot out this desire in me, the compelling force that brought me down here.

I think about an interview I read about Joanna Newsom. She said something like, People make fun of me all the time. Maybe she got to a point where she didn’t care anymore. I need to get there. I may as well be who and how I am because I can’t control how I am perceived by others either way.

I feel self-absorbed to be trippin’ when I am in a city full of souls.

Heidi said I’m struggling because my astrological sign is Cancer and I don’t have a home. She and I are going to temp agencies today to drop off resumes. I need a job. Writing in my journal is not getting me closer to my goals of getting a job and finding and apartment. But I need it.

Love, Meghan

(later on) It’s 5:41 p.m. I’m on the patio listening to the wind through the trees and ocean waves. Heidi and I left at 11 this morning to hit up temp agencies. I have an interview tomorrow. By 3:30, I was tired, hot, and disenchanted, and my shoulder was burnt.

When we got back to Heidi’s, Carson was working on resumes. He told me about a beach hotel a couple blocks away that was hiring a full-time, live-in manager to oversee the place. I don’t account for opportunities that crop up unexpectedly. It makes me think things can be exciting and possible. I need that feeling. We are grinding the ax, knocking on doors of a seemingly door-less city, knowing something must wait for us, somewhere.

Things feel precarious, like they are teetering, swinging like a pendulum going side to side, good to bad and back again. Maybe it isn’t things but we who are swinging side to side, not knowing where anything will rest.

This hotel thing feels like an unexpected invitation, the work of good fortune. It would be a peaceful place to land while we get established and start earning income. There are many routes to take in the seamless egg of Los Angeles.

I know too well how to bend and fold and contort myself to fit myself into things that don’t feel right (like temp agencies and office work). I need to get better at inviting