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Night Notes / LA Edition
By Stephanie Kemp







July 24, 2023

My husband said this over coffee this morning:

“You don’t have to live in the trunk of the family tree, you can live in its branches.”

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Happy Birthday, Dad.
I miss you sometimes.

I know that sounds bad,
But it is actually great on both fronts.

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“Existential”

E-x-i-s-t-e-s-s-e-n-t-i-a-l.

I got it wrong on the test, even though I was right.

It was a new kind of lesson in learning.


July 26, 2023

Sometimes dreams are so fucked up that you don’t know where to begin to write them, which could be a sign that maybe you shouldn’t.

You should let them fade away and drink coffee.

Especially if they had to do with:

…Your house (possibly) burning down because of soy sauce and/or an e-bike battery.

…A surprise visit from all of your high school friends just as you were calling 911, proving (to them) that you should never have left Michigan.

…Your girls not realizing the house was on fire and still getting ready for friends to come over for a kick back.

…Your husband looking for the bird’s nest (and the babies) that disappeared (in real life) yesterday between coffee at 6am and cleaning the outdoor table at 10am.

…The mama who won’t leave the site of where her nest was built, scanning the universe for her babies like an avian telescope (also real life) with a heartbreakingly fast and visible heartbeat.

Sometimes you wake up with wet cheeks and just need a big glass of water and then a big dump of caffeine.


July 27, 2023

This is what my daughter said to me yesterday, over (her) lunch of a homemade (by my husband) turkey pesto panini:

“Mom. There is a flavor at 21 Choices that I think you would love. It’s called Chubby Hippo.”

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“Career”

I hate that word.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want to (and can’t really) use it to describe my professional life.

The most interesting parts of my “career” were the experiences I had between the jobs (usually movies) that were supposed to lead me to the top of my professional mountain.  I created these experiences to help me stay grounded because I worked in movies.

So, do me if a favor if you ever hear me say that “I miss my career…”

Challenge me, motherfucker….(and/or remind me that I am grounded, please - so I can apologize for calling you that).

Thank you!!


July 28, 2023

Goodbye 55.
You will (not) be missed,
but were (very) helpful.


August 5, 2023

I fucked up my kids.

I didn’t teach them board games or Solitaire* (or force them to go to sleepaway camp).

And in making sure I showed them all the good parts of life on this planet Earth, I somehow forgot to teach them that people (also) suck.

I need to write about Monopoly and Passing Go.

And then write about SHOULD (the word) vs. LAND (the verb) -  and the epic battle between daily tedium and infinitesimal progress.


*I also forgot to teach them Gin (and they only pretend to understand Backgammon, which, in and of itself, could be considered a double parental failure, if you were - or are - inclined to judge....).


August 6, 2023

Full Disclosure/Confession: I am Anti-Container.

This might be a problem if I want to be an “Author.”

(Do I?)

If I do, possible book titles that I like today are: Proof of Life or Through Lines. 

Tomorrow I might like: Things that Got Stuck Along the Way

Always I like: Stephanie Says

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Notes for the End of a (my) Life:

I want to be surrounded by my poems, all 600+ of them, all over the walls. To remind, remember, show any one who might visit me (even if it’s only me) who I was, wanted and/or tried to be…

...what I thought, hated, missed.
...who I loved, tried to hold on to, had to let go of.

To tell my friends again (if there are any left - I have been ignoring them because of my writing and the state of the world and my increasing need for solitude and the anxiety around my family’ decreasing need for me and who I’ve always been - and wanted to be -  for them) how grateful I am for their friendship.

Oooh! This reminds me to write about the pool party yesterday and the goodbyes for Olivia and her friends who are going to college. I need to write about the kindergarten “Room 1 News” dvd I brought to the party. How everyone pretended they didn’t want to watch it but then no-one could stop. How could anyone stop watching 18 year olds watch their 5 year old selves on tv delivering tiny news stories about: Disneyland, A Trip To The Zoo, An Airplane Ride, A Lost Tooth. (And yes - I know that I am in reporter mode here and that this paragraph is not my most interesting writing. It’s left over from watching the baby reporters from  Room 1 News and because I am sort of heartbroken, but also excited and a little bit ready for this impending moment in time. This is nerve racking and precarious because I am fully aware that the excited and ready part can only remain true for as long as the 18 year olds are excited and ready…….and safe.)

All of this to say that sometimes the most important stuff can sound sort of boring. Sometimes you just have to write something down and report the facts, or bear witness - you know, like the news used to do.

But back to the end of life!

So I’ll be surrounded by my poems….Please feel free to look at them and ask any questions you might have, even though I might not be able to answer them.

And speaking of Alzheimer’s, Dementia, or Good Old Fashioned End of Life Forgetfulness (should I be so lucky), if I tell you while you are visiting that I need to catch the bus off the back patio surrounded by trees (I am going to aim end of life high and have a tiny patio surrounded by old growth trees!), please don’t tell me there is no bus stop on my back patio. This is not helpful. Or productive. Or kind. Just escort me (or help me) outside and wait with me, maybe gently suggesting that the bus isn’t coming yet. Or that “maybe it got a flat tire.”  Or the schedule has changed! Maybe we could have a lemonade (or glass of champagne since we’re not driving!) and wait and talk about other things or just look up at the trees, until I forget that I was waiting (and/or hoping) for a bus.

One more thing about my end of life that I should share now (at a healthy, knock on wood, brand new, so far so good 56) so it doesn’t seem (too) creepy later:

I will probably have a doll with me. Its name will be either Noah or Charlotte, depending which one made it through all those years in storage after my daughters outgrew them.

Noah or Charlotte will look and feel like a very real baby. Equal parts totally adorable and vintage Stephen King with a dash of only the best kind of M. Night Shyamalan, depending who you ask.

Photo real.
Heavy like a real baby at approximately 2 months old (I know this because of my memory, not just the fact of my motherhood).
Soft.
With perfect hot mess baby hair.
And footie pajamas only.
Tiny curled fingers attached to chronically outstretched arms, always asking to be picked up under the armpits in hopes of hitching a ride on your hip or a cuddle over your shoulder.
(Noah or Charlotte will fit perfectly in both places and have a strong neck so no one will have to worry........at least about that.)

I don’t want to worry.
And I Love/d Being a Mom.

This will probably matter to me at the end of my life* and I will want my baby/ies to be safe on my hip or over my shoulder.

Or anywhere.
Always.
Everywhere.

Now I know this might be a lot to digest, depending who you are to me and/or how old I am when you are reading this, but I feel good about all of it (still at a knock on wood 56).

One other option though, if you are bumping on the baby doll part and/or are somehow in control of me at the end of my life?

I would also be happy with a (real) kitten (or cat, of any age), but that would be more work for you and (possibly) more worry for me, so I’d go with the doll/s.

But the poems are non-negotiable...


Ps/ One More Thing About the Pool Party…..
The grown ups of the going to college former children are some of my favorite people. There is something about the people that raised people together that is magical and irreplaceable (at least to this person). The ease, the history, the shared knowledge (including, but not limited to, wisdom) and protected secrets. I will forever be in love with those grown up people at the pool party.

I hope we will overlap forever, but realize(d yesterday) that we most likely won’t. We are all now (that our kids are 18) fully in the process of figuring out who is who in this new and ever evolving world of Reason, Season, Lifetime.  

Just like our kids are.

We are all starting again.


Pps.  I was actually talking about my writing yesterday (progress!) and my friend Kia said she wants to see me, “try to get it out into the world a little more.” I was about to throw up and/or punch her when my other friend Jody said: “Yeah. You don’t want to be like Emily Dickinson,” to which I responded (completely vindicated!), “Yes I do! I want to be exactly like Emily Dickenson - just read my M/Eulogy!”

Then my friend Jennie said, “You wrote your Eulogy?”  

“Yes, and…,” I started to say as no one listened, having moved on to less uncomfortable and/or more interesting things.

(Undeterred, I continued): 

“…I think everyone should write their own eulogy. It makes you feel better and is more dynamic than an obituary. Especially if you are lucky and/or (still) having a good time...Or if you used to like public speaking.”


*Remember to write about what mattered to your mom at the end of her life and don’t forget to reach out to Patty Aarons, her Witness, to thank her (and ask a million questions).