To Touch You More

_{My good friend Peter and I}

 

My New Year’s resolution made over a decade ago was to touch people more. To break that social wall that keeps our hands and bodies a safe distance from one other. To connect more physically.

I’m speaking of the non-sexual variety of contact. We all know when someone is touching us with sexual undertones. That may or may not be welcome. I wanted to offer the kind of touch that wouldn’t be misconstrued.

This was not easy at first. Not because people weren’t receptive; they were. People generally love touch. They bask in it. They appreciate it on a cellular level.

It was a challenge because I wasn’t sure how to do it. My German family is not the touchy-feely sort. Stiff, awkward hugs. Overly firm pats on the back. Touching others freely hadn’t been habituated into me, so it took some training.

But soon, my hands and body reached out to anyone in my world, whether it was via handholding or a quick massage or a touch on the cheek or a full-body hug or a head on a shoulder. Or I’d simply stand closer to people, trying not to invade, but simply enter, their space. I even began kissing some of my closest friends on the lips, which is incredibly sweet and rewarding.

How did people react? Shoulders would drop, breathing would deepen, gentle smiles would appear – people relaxed almost instantly. We so desperately crave human contact, but often aren’t even aware how hungry we are for it. And giving touch is akin to receiving it. I feel touched as well. Cosmic win/win.

Last month, while taking a bus from the Jersey shore to New York City, an older, fragile Indian man sitting across the aisle from me suddenly handed me his cellphone. I accepted it, confused and slightly nervous.

“Um…hello?”

“Hello, my uncle may be having a heart attack. He needs help. He doesn’t speak any English.”

I looked over at the older gentleman and he was grasping his chest and moaning. I went to the bus driver and explained what was happening. As I returned to my seat, the man had fallen to the floor, in the aisle.

The bus pulled over. Emergency help was contacted. Several passengers made suggestions but few had any medical training, myself included. So I resorted to my New Year’s resolution. I placed both of my hands gently on his face and began whispering in his ear, “Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.”

I then unbuttoned his shirt and placed my hands on his chest. He was very agitated and his heartbeat was frighteningly rapid, so it took some time, but finally his breathing resumed to somewhat normal. At one point, he opened his eyes to look at me and they were filled with gratitude. No clumsy words needed.

When the police finally arrived, they instructed everyone off of the bus. (Another was waiting to take us to our destination.) I was afraid if my hands left his body, he would become unwell again. The cop didn’t really want to hear my spiritual take on the situation, so I got up to leave.

Almost immediately, the man’s breathing became erratic and his eyes glazed over and looked filmy. I left the bus feeling a sense of peace regardless. Strangely, I could feel his essence on me for quite some time, like an energetic imprint of some sort.

Fortunately, the man was fine. (His relatives left me a lovely message the next day.) But it was then I realized that touching was something beyond “feel good.” We live for it. I live for it.

So that is my first (and only) working New Year’s resolution – one that would change my life on a level beyond words.

“I Have The Touch” – Peter Gabriel

The time I like is the rush hour, cos I like the rush
The pushing of the people – I like it all so much
Such a mass of motion – do not know where it goes
I move with the movement and … I have the touch

I’m waiting for ignition, I’m looking for a spark
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair
Oh, do I dare … I have the touch

Wanting contact
I’m wanting contact
I’m wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Any social occasion, it’s hello, how do you do
All those introductions, I never miss my cue
So before a question, so before a doubt
My hand moves out and … I have the touch

Wanting contact
I’m wanting contact
I’m wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back – but nothing seems
to please

I need contact
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact

The REAL Jersey Girls

Click on funny NJ map to enlarge.

Jersey. Whatever with this damn state. People staring at you all the time. Surprised by so little. Beige people in beige houses busy being dull and devoid of personality and looking at me funny? The nerve.

Jersey. No, not like the show The Jersey Shore. That bears no resemblance to the South Jersey existence I’m tethered to. Mine is the Jersey shore that’s entering a long winter, where a handful of weathered locals sit at dimly lit bars, drinking Coors Light, talking about bait, football and plumbing.

Jersey. Bad accents. Really bad ones. Now that I’m living here again, I can hear that nasally vowel-dragging suburban twang returning to my speech after years of trying to get rid of it. Makes me want to sew my lips shut.

Jersey. I was born here. So I guess that makes me a “Jersey girl.” I fit the bill, I suppose. I’m not thrilled about it, but its my simple, inescapable fate. I would have preferred London or Madrid, but New Jersey it is.

Though there are some qualities I do appreciate about being a Jersey girl.

Qualities of your Average Jersey Girl

• She “parties” in one form or the other and has for a long time; its simply a way of life now.

• She keeps it real; no bullshit. Definitely not prissy.

• She probably lost her virginity pretty early on. In a fast car with orange flames painted on it. He kept his leather jacket on. The smell of leather will turn her on from that point forward.

• She smoked cigarettes in high school bathrooms, where you had to say, “It’s alright” before entering, so the other girls knew you weren’t a teacher, trying to bust you. If you forgot, and cigarettes were tossed in the toilets, those girls got pissed.

• She attended many a keg party. She rolled down hills while going to pee with her friends. They laughed hysterically until they realized they couldn’t climb back up the hill because they were too drunk.

• She most probably had brushes with the law. Maybe involving Quaaludes.

• She’s definitely tripped on acid before. Something wildly disastrous happened that is still talked about to this day. She can laugh about it now, finally – but it took a while.

• She may have jumped over fences while being chased by the cops. And tore her jeans while doing so. She wore those jeans for years after, until the bottom finally ripped. Then she had to throw them away. She may have sighed.

• She thinks an occasional fistfight is a perfectly acceptable way to handle disputes.

• Yes, she’s eaten hoagies.

• She has never said “Joisey” or anything remotely like that. Has no clue where that came from. Also doesn’t joke about “What exit are you?”

• She’s roller-skated in her past. Bubble gum and strawberry lip gloss. She carried a comb in the back of her pocket and compulsively ran it through her feathered hair so Alan Gantowski would maybe, just maybe, ask her to join him during “Couples Skate.” He never did.

• She has the mouth of sailor but can be soft and sweet in demeanor at the very same time. Its a delightful paradox, at least to her.

• She knows lots of “dudes.” Not quite boys, not quite men. Just straight-up dudes.

• She’s humble. She had to be or she’d get checked by a group of friends that didn’t tolerate snobbery of any sort. She could stand to be less humble at this point of her life.

• She acts a little Italian, whether she is or not.

• Yes, she has a strong affinity for Bruce Springsteen. (She does not feel this way about Bon Jovi.)

• She learned French kissing from friends in the back of a school bus. She mastered the art over the years and enjoys it as much as sex. (Well, almost.)

• She will moon people if she’s provoked. She will not feel embarrassed about it the next day.

• Friends are her family.

• She’s worked hard. Often too hard for too little. She gets weary; the kind of weary that Otis Redding sang about. She now awaits tenderness. Waits, waits. It comes in dribs and drabs when she needs buckets of it poured over her naked body.

• She didn’t dream as big as she’d liked. Everyone around her, well, no one was that inspired to break out the suburban trap that was South Jersey…eh, or maybe dreams are overrated.

• She likes flannel shirts.

• She will always love classic rock.

• She is a survivor.

Yes, living in New Jersey has shaped me. When I go other places, I realize I’m from this state. There’s a “keeping it real” aspect that made moving to California a little difficult at first, for instance. Now, to get the hell out here.

Because as Bruce so aptly puts it:

“Baby this town rips the bones from your back. It’s a deathtrap. It’s a suicide rap. You gotta get out while you’re young. Cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to run.”

The Evolution of a Rock Star Dream – An Online Love Story

This piece was written for Red Room‘s Blog Topic of the Week: Your Favorite Love Story.

And maybe there are seasons. And maybe they change. And maybe to love is not so strange. – Dan Fogelberg, To the Morning

I’m going to give away the punchline: I fell in love with a rock star after developing a long-term online relationship. Why beat around the bush? Better to just blurt it out now and spare myself the embarrassment of having to admit it later on. His name is (fill in the blank) from this point on. You may not have heard of him anyway, so who cares, right?

I added him as a MySpace friend over 6 years ago (when that was our social meeting place, remember?). And much to my surprise, he wrote a personal message back. I asked him if he was an imposter, you know, some bespeckled geek, hanging out in his parent’s basement, acting the part of this well-known musician.

His response? “I’ve been playing the role of (fill in the blank) since 1965.” That’s when I knew it was him, for some reason. I was floored. He emailed me? He joked with me? I felt like the luckiest girl in the world, teeming with girlish glee.

Over the next few years, we communicated sporadically, but incrementally, more and more. We moved over to instant messaging, which was a first for me. His little face would suddenly pop up on my screen, out of the blue. Wow. He’s kind of in my bedroom now. Our little virtual world seemed so intimate and magical.

We would chat for hours on end, exchanging songs, jokes, links, stories, photos, struggles, heartfelt compliments, sarcastic zingers and mild flirtations. Sometimes we’d type the same thought at once. Or send the same song to one another. It was uncanny. I felt as if I’d finally met my soul mate, as painfully corny as that sounds.

One night, after excessive typing and wine drinking (he drank vodka. He was bipolar and often self-medicated in some not so healthy ways), he suggested calling me to give my hands a break. On the phone!? Mother of god, this is getting real.

When my phone rang, I felt so small and scared suddenly. Why was this amazing man interested in a little nobody stranded at the Jersey shore? Well, I don’t think I’m a nobody per se; it’s just that when a romantic dream unfurls before you, you feel humbled by it. It almost hurts. Am I worthy?

Yes, I am. Indeed I am. So I answered the phone.

And I heard his sweet voice for the first time. We talked and laughed as if we’d known each other for thousands of years. He even sang to me that night – yes, he did. He played his guitar and sang one of his popular songs to me over the phone. And I sang with him, nervous, elated.

From that point forward, I fantasized about us living in a home on the beach in California. He’d play his music for me or ask me to sing a section of a song, so he could work out a glitch. We’d be very musical together and fuck a lot – that was my dream life with him.

Phone sex erupted in the middle of our 4-hour long conversation (shocker, right?). He lead the way. Quick and wildly creative, he could spin these wonderfully steamy stories, as if he knew all of my private little kinks.

He tucked me in that night, thousands of miles away. He told me to get under my covers. He whispered in my ear for some time and then said good-night at the just the very moment I drifted off. I hung up the phone and floated up to the heavens.

The next day, he instant messaged me with the news I secretly suspected: he was married. The “kids” part was a surprise though. Wasn’t expecting that. Young kids. Fuck. How could you? He apologized and explained to me their situation: he and his wife haven’t slept in the same bed for years, he lives in an in-law on their property now. They stay together for the kids. Lots of animosity.

I felt shattered and told him to leave me alone for a while, or permanently – whatever sticks.

Torturous weeks went by and he either contacted me or I contacted him. “I miss you desperately” was the theme. And our strange, other-worldly relationship resumed without missing a beat. We jumped back in like two lovelorn idiots.

His bipolar disorder became more of an issue as we progressed. He was deeply struggling. Yet so was I, mentally as well as financially. I was desperately alone in an old, decrepit family house on a desolate island. He went on meds. He became my medication, my happy pill amidst profound loneliness. His moods changed quickly and radically. I’d hear from him, then nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then he’d flood back in torrents, all over me. Until he was gone again.

A quick aside on abandonment issues: when you have them and your love interests show up/don’t show up, you’re in a constant state of pins and needles. Anxious and preoccupied all the time, you can’t focus, you can’t work optimally, you can’t even take a deep breath. His departures wreaked havoc in my life. But our times together were transcendent and blissful.

Did we ever make plans to meet? We talked about it during our sexual and fantastical exchanges. Hotel rooms. Waiting for me in hotel rooms. What he would do to me. How he would do it to me. How long he would do it to me. And how shopping and dining would be involved beforehand. (It was often a full-day fantasy. We wanted as much time together as possible.)

But did he ever really plan on meeting me? No, probably not. That’s hard to write, to admit.

Would we be attracted one another, if we had met? I wondered that for some time. Maybe it would be deeply disillusioning if we broke that fourth e-wall. Maybe he would be a 4 foot boil-covered troll of a man. Or we just wouldn’t have that “thing” in the real world. But after years of our strange intimacy, I worried less and less about that. We were already deeply attracted to one another on a level few could understand, including ourselves.

I loved an introverted, troubled and highly creative man I never met who sang and played in a popular band in the 90′s. And I believe he loved me too. A strange, beautiful and ether-like love. One that couldn’t last unless we met, which wasn’t going to happen. I began to hear from him less and less. Then not at all. My self-esteem plummeted and I found it harder to reach out, for fear he wouldn’t respond.

He also made sure he covered his ass. I had no phone number or address, just his email. When someone left vaguely threatening comments on a blog post of mine, I emailed him immediately. We had already drifted apart, but the comments mentioned his name specifically. I felt scared and vulnerable.

At first I thought it was his wife – which was surprising, because she didn’t seem very involved in his life. Then I thought it was some hateful side of him during a manic episode. I’ll never really know, but they were scathing words which I’ve long since locked in a metal box in my head.

After several weeks, he emailed me back and claimed no knowledge of the comments. That he had found God. He was deeply sorry for what he put me through. He lives with the guilt and the pain and blah. But thanks to Him (yes – a capital “H”), he is back on his path. How tidy. God in a box, Hollywood style.

Eh, I’m being sarcastic and mean. Neither of us killed ourselves, which I consider a definite perk of our time together – and trust me, we were within spitting distance a few times. Let him have his God. Let me have the Goddess he made feel like. All is forgiven, ultimately. It has to be or the pain could gnaw at me.

And what he did to my confidence alone – I wrote like a mad woman during our time together – was worthy of gratitude. He read all of my material and constantly gave me glowing feedback. This amazing and complex musician was my muse. I was the star of the star’s eye – the princess at a ball, even though my prince was troubled, married and electronic.

I miss him. To this day. When someone parts ways with you so poorly, the recovery time is rocky and protracted. When you never had the chance to meet that person, its as if they never really existed, making the grief that much more complicated

I did my best to digest the loss by sending him emails, expressing my pain, my love. I knew he wouldn’t respond, but I did it for myself, to purge and move on. Eventually my need to contact him lessened to once in a blue moon. And then, I’d simply keep him posted on my life or send him a song he might like. He had a become a distant pen pal and I was dating others, slowly getting back to real life again.

Last month, an email I sent him was returned; his account has been disabled. He slowly but very surely shut a large, immovable door on me. I had no choice but to let go completely.

“The email account? You couldn’t let me hang on to that puny little thread? I’ll let go when I’m good and ready, not a moment sooner. In the face of such dismissiveness, it’s the least you could do. Or hell, would flowers have been so hard? Or a phone call? Anything? I am a human, afterall. A human.“

Sometimes I fantasize about bumping into one another in some random hotel lobby in NYC. I’d recognize him and speak his name simply and he’d turn around slowly. I’d see his face for the first time.

Ha…what would we do? We would both cry, I guess. And hug. Then I’d slap him hard across the face and he’d be stunned and then laugh. Then I would punch him in the gut. This wouldn’t be so funny. He’d have to sit down after that one. And I wouldn’t apologize. I’d wait until he caught his breath and….

No, I could never hurt him. Nor would I name him. He knows that because he knows me. No matter how much he hurt me or denied me the chance of respectful closure or a physical meeting, I’d never do anything to harm him. I wish I could say he did the same for me. He was kind of a bratty, narcissistic jerk, right? But it’s not that simple. It never is.

He was one of the best things that ever happened to me and one of the most amazing men I’ve never met.

It’s taken me a while to get over him and I still have my heart-stabbing moments. Though most of the time he’s just a pale ghost drifting around my heart, bumping into things occasionally.

It’s just accepting the bitter fact that we will never meet. I will probably go to my grave never seeing him in person. And that’s the thing…that’s the thing….then I just can’t seem to let go….completely….

Dirty Little Fairy Tales

Once upon a time, I nursed a horrible heartbreak like a sickly blue baby. I kept it alive at all costs and let it burn a never-ending hole in me. The man I love had left me, passively but decidedly, until he became a flickering ghost whom I could barely remember but constantly longed for.

Work during this time was the ultimate insult to injury. On top of being profoundly bereft, I was forced to endure mindless tasks that would have insulted a drugged monkey. The man in charge of the dismal warehouse office was a lecherous, asthmatic sort. I’d catch him staring at me through the glass that separated us, occasionally licking his cracked lips. He disgusted me.

Yet somehow, so desperate for attention, I’d allow his loathsome advances. Sometimes I’d even encourage them by dressing scantily and bending over slowly in front of him to pick up a dropped paper. I could feel his eyes trail up the back my legs and hear his raspy breathing, labored and slow.

At home, I’d undress and slip between my sheets, hugging an old pillow and mindlessly kissing it, wrapping my legs around the blankets, like a teenager in practice for an upcoming date. There was no one to give my wild, broken-hearted love to, so it was given to objects, to dirty bosses, and to myself, in bed, time and time again, until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

On Tuesday nights, I frequented a dive bar. Shadowed men would occasionally look my way but I wanted to be left alone to make love to my chilled vodka, suck deeply on my cigarette, and burn an endless stare into the dirty mirror behind the bar.

One fateful evening there, while drifting into an alcohol-induced unconsciousness, I was hit from behind. A tall, delicate man with glasses had tripped and fell into me, sending me and my drink flying. I’d seen him there before: he sat at the end of the bar and read newspapers furiously, raking his fingers through his tousled hair. He never looked my way. Now he was practically in my lap.

“I’m sorry. So clumsy…are you alright?”

“I’m fine. But my drink isn’t.”

“Let me buy you one. Please. Sorry, terribly sorry. It’s so dark in here and I’m…sorry.”

“I get it, you’re sorry. Buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.” I said curtly.

He picked up his papers from the sticky floor, laughing nervously. I perched myself back on the squeaky bar stool and continued my stare into nowhere.

“You come here often.” I heard him mutter.

“Seriously? Did you just ask me that? Just buy me a drink and go, please. Really…do I come here often? Fuck. Work on some better pick-up lines.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t a pick up line. I recognize you. Or at least I think I do. You’ve been in here before.”

For the first time, I bothered to make eye contact with him. He looked gentle and sincere. My face flushed with shame. He wasn’t trying to make a move on me. He was not another big bad wolf. He was simply reaching out.

“Do you want to sit down and have a drink with me?” The question hurt coming out of my mouth, like kindness had rusted in my gut and cut on its way up.

“Yes,” he stuttered nervously. “That would be nice.”

We spent the next few hours talking, laughing. He was a kind, sensitive man, in need of the same attention as me. Giving it to him warmed us both, melting my pain and his shyness. As the night wore on, I found myself moving closer to him. (Or was he moving closer to me?) As he began to ask me a question, I kissed him. The question was forgotten and we sat in silence, staring at one another for what seemed like a hundred years.

“Do you want to come home with me?” he asked in a bare whisper.

“No…no. That would be too much. Um. I just…I broke up with someone and…yes. Yes, I’d like to.”

We walked in silence back to his walk-up apartment on that starless night, holding hands nervously. As we climbed the stairs, I stopped.

“I can’t do this. I can’t.” The waning love of another kept me fixated; it felt physically impossible to allow my guard down for another.

“Turn around,” he demanded. His voice was suddenly deeper suddenly.

“Why?”

“Just turn around. Close your eyes.”

I dropped my bag and faced the wall.

“Put your hands on the wall and do what I tell you.”

I could have been scared. Or threatened. Or resistant. But I had nothing to lose. I relinquished my power to him and turned around.

He pressed himself into me, suddenly confident and assured. His hand ran up my bare legs slowly, methodically. His mouth reached my ear. “I want to fuck you. And you’re going to let me. Okay?”

I nodded, as he pulled down my panties and proceeded to fuck me in the staircase, my face pressed up against the cold cement wall. The pleasure was excruciating and divine. I let out a moan.

“Be quiet. Just be quiet and take it,” he said, covering my mouth. And that’s just what I did. I took it until I could take no more. I came and collapsed in his arms. He kissed my neck and whispered in my ear, “It’s better now. It’s all better now.”

He was right. The spell was shattered by sordid sex with a stranger in a cold staircase one evening of my life.

Open Salon Meet-up and 11/11/11 Power Birthday for Beth Mann

_{Ruby Lawrence, one of my closest friends and co-host to 11/11/11 party.}

I met Open Salon’s Cartouche last year. It was as natural as the breeze. We hugged and proceeded to spend a glorious weekend in Florida together, as if I’d known her my whole life.

So strange, isn’t it? The bonds we’ve formed here on OS. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never experienced anything like it. There are few online communities that could compare with us. We are strangely and deeply familiar with one another. Our work together has created this wonderous ripple effect. It’s profound and touching.

When Nikki Stern walked into the restaurant before Friday night’s NYC’s OS meet-up party, I hugged her and experienced that instant sense of intimacy and familiarity. She’s beautiful and radiates as much as I imagined she would.

The rest of the night was full of that same OS magic. I couldn’t help but think that we need to come together like this, especially now. Maybe a new friendship connection or a great business opportunity or an idea moved closer to fruition – or whatever! – the sky is the limit, isn’t it? This night will have long-term, positive implications, I hope.

I’ll let Les Stone‘s photos (please check out his website and see the serious work this guy does) do the rest of the talking, but it was a magical night, with energy streaking across the room, as you’ll see in these photos.

Actors, writers, business owners, photographers, graphic designers, directors, reporters – super sharp, smart, creative people – together at an Australian Bar called Eight Mile Creek in Soho, exchanging ideas, connections, jokes, play, hugs, kisses (some really great kisses actually…wow), beer, New Zealand wine…doing our thing.

We’re creative and grew our powers together on a special day: 11/11/11

(Click on photos for the “big picture.”)

Group shot – Open Salon friends and other dear friends.

Neil Paul, Cranky Cuss, Beth Mann, Nikki Stern, Frank Apisa and Designanator. Love this shot.

Nikki Stern and Joe Nation, looking like a superhero unveiled.

JohannaLG and Cranky Cuss. Cranky Cuss is the sweetest, warmest man who gave me a lovely mug (photo at end of post).

Neil Paul, Cranky Cuss, Beth Mann, Nikki Stern, Frank Apisa and Designanator, a kind, gentle man with a busy camera.

Frank, Beth Mann, Neil Paul. God, what’s there to say about Neil Paul? He’s a genius, I’m guessing. He’s so smart, you have to be sharp to follow him. He thinks on 3 levels at once and you just need to keep up with him.

The strikingly beautiful Autumn Whitefield-Madrano and Frank Apisa. Frank is accessible and relaxed and a chill dude with substantial “cool” cache. He’s good at living, I think.

The shining Nikki Stern, dear friend Ruby Lawrence, Beth Mann – rock trio in formation. Or maybe a pop trio…I’d prefer that, I think. It’s sillier with better costumes.

JohannaLG and Frank Apisa. Johanna thinks I’m a little weird because I wanted to take photos of her and hugged her maybe a little too much. That’s because she’s beautiful and smart with these intense, laser-focused eyes and you just want to stand close to her.

See? Neil Paul, Beth Mann, JohannaLG.

Friend Peter Herbst – one of my wittiest friends – and Nikki. These two just naturally got along, I think.

Wall Street Journal writer Jon and Beth Mann. Total stranger at beginning of night, friends by end of it. Just a sweetie.

Long Beach Island friends who came to NYC for this event! This is my family at the Jersey shore. The uber-smart and sweet Peter and Danielle Morris.

Me and Jon, who gave me his coat when it got cold.

One of my dearest old friends, actor/director Kevin Augustine. One of the most deeply creative people I know whom I’ve known him a long, long time. I told him before he left, “I love you from the bottom of my heart.” I don’t know if I’ve ever uttered those exact words to anyone before.

It’s a shame that cigarettes look so cool.

Frank and Kevin Augustine

Peter Herbst, Ruby Lawrence and myself. This is what fun looks like.

Me with the inimitable actress Toni Silver. Toni Silver is a fiery, fiesty and fierce woman. She’s a creative powerhouse and makes me proud to be a woman.

Dear friend actor/director Joseph Shahadi with the Autumn Whitefield-Madrano, whom I want to be my best friend. I will pay her, if necessary. (With a face like this, she should use a photo for her avatar, if I may be so bold.)

Joe Shahadi and I know each other very well and for years and years. We’ve done absurdist theater together – that bonds people like nothing else, trust me!  Also a ridiculously creative and smart man.

Good friends actor and comedian Anthony Devito and business owner/bon vivant of NYC Ruby Lawrence.

Anthony has that old school, shimmery movie star charm. And funny as HELL. Next to him Ruby Lawrence, as FUNNY AS HELL, and one of my closest friends. I’ve often dreamt that these two take over the world with their cleverness.

Hugging my dear friend Peter Herbst. One of my fave photos of the night. Just makes me cry. I miss my friends. I live at the often-isolating Jersey shore and I miss being around sharp, witty people who love me.

When I came back home, I walked on the beach and looked at the ocean. I said, wagging my finger at it, “It’s for you, I come back. It’s for you!” So the “after party” was had with a large body of water that often shapes my decisions. I sighed a lot, wondering about the bigger trade-offs we make in life.

^{Filled with hot chai as I write this.}

---

Ghosts of Broken Glass

The dollhouse? He broke my dollhouse too?

In my early 20’s, I naively thought someone had to hit you to constitute an abusive relationship. I didn’t know that breaking all of your shit was also a form of abuse. And that’s what Bill did. He broke all of my shit.

Looking around the old house we lived in at the time, I saw that he had also broken the television, a coffee table and a chair. He had given me the dollhouse last Christmas – a childhood dream of mine, to own one. I perched it on a stand in the corner, where bit by bit, I added pieces to it. Now, just like our miserable relationship, it was trashed, in pieces.

As I cleaned up the mess, the old house watched me quietly. The walls absorbed the psychic pain. Some places feel inhabited by ghosts, but it’s a strangely comforting sensation to me. That house, where I lived with Bill, had a more ominous feel. It was never easy being alone there. Even though I despised Bill at this point, I was always slightly relieved when he would return.

To this day, I often dream of that place. I’m locked in and I can’t get out. The house is breathing and groaning, as if it’s trying to come to life. I run down the stairs to escape, but the stairs never end. The walls slowly move inward, in an attempt to touch me. I usually wake up startled, sometimes screaming. Perhaps it’s a form of PTSD from that awful relationship.

Or perhaps that house still remembers me, still reaches out to me from time to time.

One of the evenings there, as I slept next to Bill, I woke up suddenly. I had been sleeping on my arm and it had pins and needles. I shook out my arm for a moment, hazy with sleep. Then I felt something move toward my bedside: a cold, airy presence. It stood above me for a moment then seemed to bend down, near my face. I turned my head away from it, in weak defense.

“Beth!” it whispered loudly, inches from my face. It spoke my name.

I let out an ear-piercing scream. Bill woke up and immediately began yelling. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Someone is in this room. Turn on the light!” I pleaded.

He did, and of course, no one was there. He berated me then went back to bed. I stayed awake the rest of the night. I just had a brush with the supernatural and sleep wasn’t remotely possible.

The next day, I felt like a zombie. I tried to explain to a friend what had happened, but mere words couldn’t convey the sensation, that dark, icy presence. Or the voice – not quite male, not quite female. That harsh whisper.

“You have to get out, Beth. That house, that relationship…just get out,” she warned. “You’re under a lot of stress there. Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

Sleeping was difficult for the next few months. When I woke up in the middle of the night, I was instantly terrified. When would it return? Why did it feel so cold? Why couldn’t it be warm and welcoming? Did it want to hurt me?

The relationship with Bill worsened. The fights escalated, police were involved. When Bill wasn’t home, I packed my bags and hid them in my closet. My escape was forming though I had no clue where to go.

During my last week there, I remained as quiet as possible, just biding my time. A fight erupted nonetheless.

Slam. Boom. Things began flying. What was there left to break?

“I know you’ve been packing your shit. It’s all in your closet. You think I’m stupid?”

He headed down the steps to the bedroom. I knew what he planning to do: destroy the contents of my closet, which included a newly purchased stereo and my mom’s jewelry box.

I grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and followed him downstairs to the bedroom.

“Touch that closet door and I’ll kill you.” I hissed.

I raised the knife over my head to reinforce the point. He laughed nervously. I charged him. He grabbed a large pillow off of the bed and used it to protect himself. I stabbed at it repeatedly. At one point, I saw his face peek from behind. The look will stay with me until my dying day. He was terrified and it felt good. My breaking point had been reached. I had become the malevolent force in that house for once.

The police carted us off. Since I had called about him in the past, I was permitted to place a restraining order on him. He moved out and I was left in the house alone. My bags were packed and out in the open. I was ready to go. I had so little left to take with me. It had all been broken. But I was taking me with me.

One of the last nights there, I woke up to go the bathroom. When I returned, I hurried under the covers and demanded my brain to drift instantly off to sleep. But before I could, that cold presence was by my side once again. The voice wasn’t as distinct as the first time. It whispered hurriedly to me:

“Beth. Hi.”

I did not scream this time. I did not lie awake frightened all night. This entity knew I was scared, I believe. It said something as quickly as possible that would convey some form of friendliness. Hi. A ghost said hi to me. And in a few days, I said goodbye to that house and one of the most difficult phases of my life.

Though I don’t know if that house has ever completely said goodbye to me.

Why I Don’t Wear Pink Ribbons

I was suspicious of them early on, though I wasn’t quite sure why. Perhaps its that pervasive and cloying “pink means female” message. We suffer from a “cute” femmy disease and wear sweet little ribbons to prove it. Barbie should wear one!

After watching several friends and relatives die from the disease, I distanced myself even more from the pink parade. My loved ones weren’t simply ravaged by cancer; they were ravaged by the treatments for cancer, which seemed hoisted upon them by an all-knowing healthcare industry, for whom I was growing increasingly skeptical.Why find a cure for something when you’re making so much damn money from it? Wear a pink ribbon instead.

And there was the convenience factor. Buying a box of Lean Cuisine or a bucket of chicken with a pink ribbon on it hardly seemed like a good deed for the day. “Pinkwashing” became the name of the game, where companies hijacked a cause for profit and PR.

Because sodium-laded soup only causes heart disease.

 

But the ribbons, they’re about awareness, I’ve heard repeatedly. Have people not heard of the disease? Oh yes, we should perform self-examinations. And we should get our routine mammograms (where radiation may contribute to the problem) and we should, well, just be aware! Look, the football players are aware!

 

My agent told me to wear it!

 

Unfortunately, awareness hasn’t necessarily equated with action or success. Incidence rates are higher than they were 30 years ago. Awareness also hasn’t included outing companies that flagrantly use cancer-causing agents in their products. Or our meat and dairy pumped with hormones and antibiotics. Or genetically modified foods. Or polluted air and water. Awareness hasn’t included any alternative treatments for cancer, which are barely recognized because Big Pharma makes sure they keep their traps permanently and legally shut.

Smith & Wesson’s Pink Breast Cancer Awareness 9 mm pistol, when ribbons just aren’t cutting it.

 

Instead, breast cancer awareness includes yogurt, Tupperware parties and cosmetics (again, possibly the cause, not the cure). Noble folks “race for cures,” raise substantial funds, and then promptly hand it over (potentially) to the corporations benefiting the most from keeping us sick.

 

Eat the cancer-causing hormones in the yogurt and donate to finding a cure to your own disease.

Wow. No sarcastic caption needed.

 

When I stumbled across Think Before you Pink, my concerns were validated and more clearly defined. They do a much better job of describing the potential damage of the pink ribbon campaign.

Their mission:

“Think Before You Pink™, a project of Breast Cancer Action, launched in 2002 in response to the growing concern about the number of pink ribbon products on the market. The campaign calls for more transparency and accountability by companies that take part in breast cancer fundraising, and encourages consumers to ask critical questions about pink ribbon promotions.”

Have lives been saved by supporting the pink ribbon campaign? Undoubtedly, indirectly or directly. Awareness (and millions) have been raised.

Now to step it up a notch and see who is behind this research, where your donations are going, what’s really making us sick, and how people benefit from keeping you that way.

Oh…and Barbie does wear pink ribbons. I should have known.

A fictitious ad, but drives home the point.

Stop Blaming your Age Already!

Years ago, I had the pleasure of watching Kazuo Ohno perform. Kazuo Ohno is one of the founders of Butoh, a distinctive, evocative and often disturbing dance form born out of the horrors of wartime bombing in Japan.

When I saw him perform, he was in his 80′s. He was beyond mesmerizing. Tears rolled down all of our faces, watching this precious and agile man move. After shaking his hand at the end of the show (which I’ll never forget – that man radiated something so powerful), I thought: I will not burden myself with the limitations of age – not after watching you.

My mother helped out in that realm as well (though trust me, I could write a book on the ways she hindered). When it came to age, my mother could care less. She was from “hearty stock” as they say. I saw her remove an entire tree from our backyard in her 60′s. She would swim in the ocean for hours at a time. Life was about being physical and vital.

Yet I battle the constant refrain of so many (some who are turning a mere 30!) complaining about the effects of aging:

“Yeah, you just kind of fall apart when you hit 30, 40, 50.”

“Back hurts again. I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

“Oh I could do that when I was 20. Not now.”

It’s the most accepted form of negative talk out there. We’re allowed to bitch endlessly about our age. And if you’re a woman, you get the added bonus of hearing blow by blow details of physical deterioration, since our worth is tied into our look.

I remember speaking with one woman at a party who told me repeatedly, “Wait until you hit [fill in the blank], it all goes downhill. Trust me. You’ll notice one thing after the other. Just wait. You’ll be horrified. I was.” What damning talk.

It reminded me of a scene from My Dinner with Andre where Wally Shawn’s character tells his friend Andre the story of an experience he had right before he was ready to go on stage, donning a theatrical mask. A fellow actor whispered to him, “Good luck with that mask. Last time I wore one, I nearly passed out.” Shawn goes on to wonder what people are thinking of, spreading their negativity so mindlessly, carelessly.

But back to the age bitchers, a few points:

Stop blaming your age when its your health. You eat like crap and sit on your ass for decades and you expect your body to repeatedly bounce back? It doesn’t.

Get up, do something. There is no excuse to not exercise every day. It’s abnormal to be so sedentary. We’re built to move. Even if its a 15-minute walk. Or a dance in your bedroom. Stop reading this. Get up, go!

Take supplements. I don’t care how many people tell you that your diet should supply all the vitamins and minerals you need. It’s not remotely true. We live in a highly toxic world, we eat crappy food and we’re stressed. Antioxidants protect from free radical damage, so why wouldn’t you take something to protect you?

Get off the dolls. We are a nation of pill poppers, making evil pharmaceutical companies quite wealthy. Don’t believe the hype. Just because a doctor prescribed you something doesn’t mean you have to take it. Or if you do, research it. Know it. Own your health.

Tune in. Most people are amazingly disconnected with their bodies. Stop acting like its a vehicle to get you about town. Inhabit it, feel it. Can you touch your toes? You should be able to. How about a spinal twist? (Keeping your spine flexible is key to good health.)

Take some deep breaths and simply be present, in your body. Recognize signs of stress in your body and do counter measures. Most of us just accept stress as a way of life. Some even think its a sign of productivity. It’s not; it’s deadly.

Below is my movement teacher and mentor, Manfred Fischbeck (and his daughter, Laina). He is a professor at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. He taught me about inhabiting my body years ago. It’s sounds like some esoteric, artsy concept, but its how we were born. We just grow away from it.

You didn’t have to dance professionally to work with Manfred (though many did). You simply needed to move and express and free yourself.

 

Watch your mouth. If you’re going on and on about aging and how its destroying you, guess what? You’re right. Just keep saying negative stuff until its drilled into your subconscious and your body will fall apart in agreement. And recognize the effect you have on others when you talk in that manner.

For me, I was a physical wreck in my 20′s. I did drugs, weighed next to nothing and the only lifting I did was a cigarette to my lips. Now I feel pretty darn strong. But more importantly, I feel at home in my body. The sad part? I live in a culture where I’m supposed to believe that this is my time to fall apart!

Getting older, for me, has meant simply upping the level of maintenance. I eat better, take supplements, exercise every day. I watch stress carefully. I also drink copious amounts of wine and eat chocolate. I smoked a cigarette last week because I was in the mood. So I’m hardly a purist.

But mainly, like my mother, Manfred and Kazuo Ohno, I don’t believe the age hype.

Kazuo Ohno lived until he was 103. He was 43 when he started his dance career. This is some of footage of him in his later years when he had difficulty standing.

Me, when I started surfing more seriously at 40
http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=14162368&server=vimeo.com&show_title=0&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=00adef&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0

Me at 43:

http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=14162368&server=vimeo.com&show_title=0&show_byline=0&show_portrait=0&color=00adef&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0

I’m Having a Dust in the Wind Moment

Fall descends upon the Jersey shore. The tourists have scuttered back to their suburban box homes with their whining offspring in tow. Quiet stands a chance once again. And although this season ushers in some much needed peace, it also fills me with a sense of “Oh my god, how the fuck am I going to make it through another winter” syndrome.

Life isn’t so easy here in the winter. Think Jack Nicholson in The Shining:

And I’ve had to say goodbye to a few of my favorite people here the last few months:

1. Paulina

Paulina is a friend success story. She is from Poland but grew up in Virginia. She is a geologist and one of the only female drillers from her area. Strong, sassy, kind-hearted, with the mouth of a sailor.

Well, she moved up here for some hot-headed dude six years ago, found herself a job and figured this would be her new home. Until the relationship started going south. Like hell south.

You know the deal: Determined to make a fatally flawed relationship work, you try and try while the “significant” other tries very little and calls it a lot. Constant bickering ensues. Self-esteem spirals. Years go by. Then you can’t leave. Stuck in a relationship glue trap in New Jersey. Hello, hell.

With some coaxing and cojones, Paulina left for Florida several months ago, to break free, to start anew. She got a job on a boat because she didn’t want to lock herself into another full-time job right away. She wanted a hands-on experiences. Well, she got it. And bit by bit, she got her self-esteem back.

She went back to Poland for a family wedding and met a man who doesn’t make her feel like a piece of kurwa (Polish for shit, I think). She’s looking for a job closer to him, happier and finally free of a repetitively sick relationship. So I’m happy/sad she’s gone.

(Go, Paulina, go!)

2. Clint

What’s there to say about Clint that I haven’t written about many times? He’s the oldest of the brothers who live up the street from me here. All vastly different from one another, they each serve as real brothers to me. (Apparently, brothers can be immensely annoying but difficult to live without.)

(The Brothers and I)

Clint is slow. Smart, but slow. If you ask him a simple question, he’ll mull over it for a bit and then, like molasses, say, “No, I don’t want any more coffee.” The beat of a different drummer guy who doesn’t feel “made for these times.” He’s very pretty, Kurt Cobain-style. This helps me not want to kill him so much when he says idiotic things.

Clint joined the effin’ Navy! What? Nobody is sure what that’s about. He’s hardly the type to follow rules or, hell, simply respond when spoken to. But he was feeling stymied here. He worked for his family business for years and wanted to break free, learn, expand, travel.

The night before he left for boot camp, I made him a nice dinner. I started getting choked up a few times until he acted like a jerk, as he can so well. Then I hugged him and told him to get the hell out of my house. No tears spilled yet. But they’ll come. He and I know each pretty damn well.

(Our last night together.)

(The sunscreen incident of 2011.)

(Clint saying something sexist and ridiculous.)

3. George

George is the grandfather of the brothers. At 80, he was doing fine: active, sharp and very fun. He taught me about gardening and the importance of drinking wine with fresh peaches, among a slew of other things.

Well, after a relatively minor medical procedure, he started showing signs of dementia. And it grew and grew and took him over so quickly, it was stunning. I’d leave his house shell-shocked, come home and curl into a fetal position. Very scary and sad to see someone you know so well not remember your name. (That’s alright, George. Your smile said it all. I don’t remember names either.)

Goodbyes. And they are goodbyes. Paulina had to go. So did Clint. George was too much of a fiery spirit to be held down by dementia. I ushered them along as best I could.

Yet I remain. My life is fueled by helping others on their paths, but I don’t always know mine. My third year running my online business and I love it, but it just about pays the bills, nothing more.

And everyone seems to have their lives so settled: 2.5 kids, house, dog, cars, matching silverware. Its like there was a big game of Life Musical Chairs and no one informed me. Everyone grabbed their seats while I sat in the corner, listening to the music, wondering why it stops so suddenly.

So here I am. Stuck in a cold, old house that my long-gone parents used to own. Trying to be grateful for what I have but quite aware something must shift. Three years have gone by on this island and I’m ready to move on.

Or am I? Apathy weighs you down and wearies your soul. Soon, you don’t want to do anything. And that’s potentially the scariest state of all. Like Dorothy, falling asleep in a field of poppies. Wake up, Dorothy! Wake up!

My brother is supposed to buy my portion of this house from me but the economy and familial lethargy have slowed down the process. There’s no perfect plan in place after I leave anyway, so I don’t push it along the way I probably should. A beautiful ocean graces my existence and blurs my ability to realize how horribly stagnant it can be here.

So hence my “Dust in the Wind” moment. It keeps playing in my head the colder it gets. I don’t even like the stupid song, which makes matters worse.

I close my eyes
Only for a moment and the moment’s gone
All my dreams
Pass before my eyes a curiosity
Dust in the wind
All they are is dust in the wind
Same old song
Just a drop of water in an endless sea
All we do…oh you get the drift.

 

Cell Phone Etiquette for Morons

So you have a cell phone? Okay, well good for you. I do too! Fancy, isn’t it? But remember, there are some rules to remember when using that spiffy telecommunication device of yours in public:

1. You’re not special because you have a cell phone. Small children and homeless people have cell phones. There are probably pets out there with cellular devices. Remember that when you’re walking down the street barking orders like you’re Donald Trump and thinking people are impressed. We’re not.

2. Using a cell phone in a theater is the height of rudeness. Don’t even dare convince yourself otherwise just because other people are doing it. People also pick their nose and urinate in their pants in public. Wanna follow that lead too?

That glow from your cellphone is extremely distracting to those around you. God forbid you simply try to be present and enjoy the show instead of recording crappy video that no one will watch.

3. Using your cell phone excessively in the following places is also rude, rude, rude: 

• Public transportation
• Restaurants
• Libraries (Come on…are you serious?)
• Church
• In a grocery store line (You’re too close to me. I can’t run from your inanity.)
• The beach (Is anything sacred? Can you just be in nature for ten damn minutes without a phone glued to your face?)

4. Annoying cell phone rings showcase your shallow personality. Just go with something simple. No one needs to know about your love of Rhianna’s Umbrella, you know what I mean? Keep that a secret. And don’t let it ring incessantly if you’re not prepared to answer it. Turn the damn thing off and spare us Toby Keith or whatever weird shit you’re into. 

5. It’s a cell phone, not a walkie talkie. That means stop screaming or speaking unnaturally into it. Hearing your one-sided conversation is annoying enough; to hear it at high volume makes others want to pack their ears with broken glass.

6. Stop acting like your cell phone is your lifeline. Just because you have children does not mean you need your cellular device on 24/7 to prove your uber-protective parenting skills. Kids made it to adulthood prior to cell phones. If you turn off your phone for a blooming hour, the world will continue to turn and your spawn will continue to spawn, I promise.

The same applies to students in school who are encouraged to have their cell phones on during class “just in case of emergency.” No, just learn for once in your one-dimensional life. Focus for a bloody second on something other than your gadget, you little techno-junkie.

7. If you’re a chick in your 20′s, give the human race a reason to believe in you. When you’re in “Like, oh my god, I can’t believe he sexted me last night!” high-pitch mode, you become a Barbie caricature of yourself and make us wonder what good you’re serving on this planet. Chill out, reign in and experiment with the idea of something called depth.

8. Most of what you say is dull or ridiculous. Really. Nobody wants to hear your inane conversation about your little life. You think it’s important, but that’s because it’s your little life. To the rest of us, its trivial overshare. “When Harry’s prostate was enlarged, they put him on Flomax.” What am I supposed to do with that little tidbit?

9. Stop carrying your cellphone near your balls. Seriously. Did you ever walk by a radio or computer with a cellphone in your hand? Do you hear how they pick up the electromagnetic… whatever? Do you want those cancer-causing waves radiating on your testicles or ovaries? Or the glands in your neck? Come on. Soon enough, they’ll be called “cancer cell phones.”

10. Shut up. Just shut up. Do you know how to be quiet sometimes? You know, where you just exist in the moment and keep your trap shut? Where the endless chatter inside your mind doesn’t pour out of your mouth like a spewing sewage pipe? Try silence, just for kicks.

So there you go. A cold, hard post about the apparent that I never thought I’d have to write because, heck, I think people should naturally know this stuff. (I know, silly me.) But like the woman pictured at the top of the post (who was on her phone about 75% of the time during a live show I recently attended), apparently we all need to revisit the obvious.

So go forth. And shut up.

My Own Private Hurricane

 

I’m looting my neighbor’s garden. Looting light, I would call it. Everyone has been evacuated and I’m one of the few remaining at the Jersey shore during Hurricane Irene. I grab a few ripe tomatoes, a batch of heady oregano. It’s all going to drown tomorrow anyway.

God, it’s so quiet and peopleless here! I’m reminded of my childhood on this island when time seemed slow and sleepy, like it does now. You could actually feel the place, the pulse, you know?

The tourists and most of the locals have left. Their hectic, greedy energy is no longer bouncing all over the joint, smacking me repeatedly in the face. Right now, all is still, all is mine. Tonight, when the storm hits, it will be another animal, no doubt. But for the present, I can think for once in a long time. Maybe I’m looting some much needed peace of mind.

After my garden thefts, I come home and sing really loudly in my room. This is nothing unusual: I sing any old time. But often I suppress my voice just a little when singing in this house, in this neighborhood. I know neighbors can hear me, or the people I live with. Today, truly alone, I set my voice free, like a dog unleashed on a sunny beach.

Walk around naked for a bit. That’s a given. Nudity is good and right. I don’t know what else to say other than that. Oh, and I found good porn today – not the crappy stuff that kind of turns you on but part of you is like “Yeah, right. You’re horrible actors” but you make do anyway. For my particular fantasy mindset, this porn fit just so.

My people, all the people, they keep contacting me and offering up their homes. Frustrated, I relay to them that I have lots of places to go thank you, but possibly not a place to return to. That’s my concern.

Yet some friends have such earnest tones to their voice, it almost brings me to tears: a young surfer dude whom I didn’t expect to be so worried. Or an old friend who keeps calling, even though we haven’t spoke in over a year. Strange, that they care so much. And don’t say, “Well, of course they do!” Because it’s not that simple. People care sometimes, and sometimes they don’t.

Like this guy on the mainland that I’ve been seeing on and off, whom I didn’t hear from at all today. He checked in yesterday, via text, and asked me to keep him posted. An old, tired voice played in my head: “If you really cared, you’d call.” Like, fuck – if you don’t worry about me during a natural disaster, when would you, dumb loser face.

And enough with the texts already. Like when I’m being swept off to sea, I’ll miraculously manage to shoot off the last text of my life:

Hey. I’m drowning. Need help asap. Phone not waterproof. : (

But yeah, whatever, fuck it. The perk of a natural disaster is that relationship minutia doesn’t have as much holding power. Something more primal is trumping it. And you’re quietly grateful because that old bullshit teenager-level worry has been wasted too much space in your brain anyway.

Now I’m blaring some Led Zeppelin in my room. I ate a nice, fatty meal. I’m ready for disaster. Fattened up, rocked out, drunk and ready. (No, I’m not drinking that much wine and I resent your implications. I’m drinking just enough wine. Hurricane level wine.)

Hey, wait. Don’t go. Yesterday, I pulled the veggies from my little garden so they wouldn’t go to waste. One small pepper plant had struggled all summer to stay alive. Teeny, meek little thing – the Charlie Brown Christmas tree of pepper plants. I thought she was a goner last month but somehow she managed to spruce up and eek out one small hot red pepper. I tried to pluck it but she wouldn’t let me; she wasn’t ready and I didn’t want to hurt her.

Today, I plucked her puny pepper anyway. Ah, so sad. Man, like this summer wasn’t hard enough on her: she barely lives and finally manages to produce this little runt of a vegetable and now she’s going to drown. Poor, poor fucking hot pepper plant.

Can you hear it? The wind is shaking my walls. It’s about 40 mph and soon will be 70 mph. I hope the glass in the windows doesn’t break. Because that will be scary. Because then the weather comes in and you can’t hide from it. It’s at your feet, in your face, bitches.

Wait, before you go…wanna hear a scary story? About an hour ago when the wind started kicking up, I ran around the living room, pulling furniture away from the window. Out of the blue (or the black), the doorbell starts ringing. And ringing. I direly hoped some brave soul was stopping by.

I ran to the door and peeked out; there was no one there. The bell kept ringing. The wind was blowing so hard, it rang the damn doorbell. How perfectly spooky, like the hurricane was paying me a visit, all proper like, but with a definite sense of urgency.

It’s going to be a long night. One of many long nights in this woman’s life. Peppers are spicy and glass is sharp. Looting is wrong, unless you’re in the mood and the pickings are easy. People show up, people let down. Tailormade porn and wine can be fun when you’re all alone. And sometimes storms literally come knocking on your door. That’s what I’m saying.

PHOTOS – THE DAY AFTER IRENE (Click on image to enlarge.)

A Stillness to this Place

This town is so empty. Even the breeze feels empty. A dead, lukewarm breeze.

Walking down the bleak, sun bleached streets, I wonder if there’s any life here at all. A few people peek through windows, then quickly draw their curtains.

Why did I come here? Because I had to, I remind myself. This place might ring hollow right now, but eventually I’ll fit in.

The town I left held very little opportunity for me. My husband was a cold man, barely there. I could punch a hole through him. He resented like hell when I hugged him. Sometimes I feared he would hit me after an embrace. But desperate for closeness, I couldn’t help but try.

My friends were store-bought. They kept me company, nodded when I spoke, but never really heard me. Whenever I would get upset or angry, their faces would instantly become flat and emotionless, as if I pulled a plug out of their backs. They could only handle me in neutral.

My home was a house with things in it – that’s all. There was a cheap little hanging in the kitchen that read “Home” and for years, I fantasized about smashing it into bits. The day I left, I pulverized it, then walked out, never to return.

When I first arrived here, I knew I’d have to pay a price for leaving the way I did. I didn’t go outside much, just slept. Or something like sleep. Now I feel awake again. Yes, this new place feels foreign, but soon it will be filled with love and community. It has to be.

I arrive at a small corner store and slip inside. It looks as if it came right out of the 50’s, dusty, filled with sunlight. An old bespeckled man stands behind the counter, wearing a faint smile and an weathered flannel shirt. He seems wary of me, like the others.

“How can I help you?”

“I just moved here. I guess I’ll need some supplies.”

“You don’t need anything right now. Just go home. Relax.”

“May I look around anyway?”

“Sure, sure,” he says, though I can tell he’d rather me leave.

The cans in this store have no labels. Neither do the boxes. There are burlap bags lining the perimeter of the store but I can’t tell what’s in them. It’s as if the store is posing to be a store. Like a movie set.

As I leave, the bell on the door jingles. The sound rings down the empty street and develops a strange life of its own, bouncing off the treetops, reaching toward the clouds. It’s an enchanting, hypnotic sound that reminds me I’ve done the right thing. Because magic only happens when you’ve done the right thing.

When I enter my house, I’m reminded of its utter emptiness. There is no bristling husband, no cardboard friends, no meaningless decor. Just fresh, new emptiness. It overwhelms me.

What am I supposed to do next? If I’ve made a mistake, it’s too late to go back now. No, this is right. I’d rather have nothing than what I had before. Empty is better than emptiness. No one is better than loneliness. Lack of appetite is better than constant craving.

I sit in the middle of the living room, on an old wooden floor, bathed in sunlight. I try to cry but no tears come. It’s as if my emotions have dried up. I’m empty now too. And it feels good.

The sunlight on me becomes warmer and, just like that bell at the corner store, comes to life. It begins playing with me. When I smile, it grows and swirls and encircles me. Suddenly I feel less alone here. I may never fill this place with furniture. The sunlight might be enough.

Suddenly, I hear an old piano begin to play. It’s coming from my empty kitchen. The light lifts me up a foot above the ground and carries me down the long, dark hallway. I begin to laugh from the glory of it all. My laughter becomes little stars falling from my mouth. I can’t believe what I’m seeing! I try to catch them but they slip through my hands and spill across the floor.

As I land in the kitchen, I spot an unplugged radio playing the piano music. Perhaps my home is haunted…good! Ghosts will watch over me when I sleep, if I sleep. They’ll fly up and down the staircase and play in the yard. They’ll greet me at the door when I come home. We will speak a secret language that only ghosts know.

The radio plays louder and the music begins to touch me, like a man I’ve known forever. I sway back and forth, imagining my dance partner, full of grace, full of love. He’ll come to me eventually, I’m sure. After I’m forgiven. For what I did.

When I decided to buy the gun, I felt focused for the first time in my life. My existence had become weighted by crippling indecision and for once, I felt confident, strong. For months, I trained at a gun range, without anyone knowing. With every shot fired out of its shiny silver barrel, I felt a surge of power enter my body. My aim was sharp. My mission, clear.

My gun was my ticket to freedom and there was no reason to grieve and every reason to celebrate. When I walked into the woods behind our house my final morning, I felt like an explorer in the wild, an astronaut on a mission. Not a woman killing herself. My note simply read, “I’m ready to move on.”

Yes, my new house is empty. And they haven’t welcomed me yet. But they have to accept me eventually. And then I’ll be home. Because magic only happens when you’re home.

Jaded Sex Advice for the Youth of America

As a single American female in my 40′s, I feel it my duty to impart sagely advice to as many young men as possible. As a surfer, I am provided that opportunity. Many young men have approached me with pleas of guidance. And I’m happy to impart.

23-year old Derek has a new girlfriend, he explains to me out in the Jersey waters one steamy morning last week. I congratulate him. He takes a big wave fearlessly and effortlessly. He paddles back and takes a big sigh. I know what’s coming next.

“I’m not so sure about the…sex.”

I take an even bigger sigh.

“What about the…sex.”

“I’m…I’m just not sure she’s having an orgasm.”

“Well, she’s probably not. She’s probably faking it.”

“She said she’s having them, but I don’t think she is. She just kinda screams the same way each time and, well…it doesn’t sound very real.”

I ask him to replicate the sound she makes. He does. I ask him to do it again. He does. I’m tempted to ask a third time, but don’t want to tempt the gods of funny.

“Hmmm…maybe your technique is lacking. Are you just fucking her mindlessly like a rabbit, without really figuring out what pleases her?”

“Well, not like a rabbit but…”

“Do you go down on her?”

“I did. Once.”

“Wow. Once, huh? What was it, a Christmas present or something?”

“It’s just…I don’t know.” He starts playing with the wax on his board.

“Are you gay?”

Derek stammers and tries to spit out a response, but he’s too aghast. I take a wave and take my time paddling back out to him. He needs to sit with that one for a minute.

“NO! I’M NOT GAY!” he screams at me from afar. Other surfers look his way.

“Then I don’t know why you wouldn’t go down on her. If I were a straight man, you couldn’t keep me away. Is it a hygiene issue?”

“No…no. I just figured, well…I’m doing enough!”

A case of sexual laziness at the ripe old age of 23. Nice.

“Listen, most women take longer to orgasm than men. You have to seduce her, take your time. You have to see what pleases her. And I can almost guarantee you that going down on her pleases her. Trust me. Does she go down on you?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” he responds proudly.

“Well, she’s not your sexual workhorse. Get busy, man.”

Derek looks deeply into the sparkling waters, concern shrouding his face. I’ve shaken him up a little, I know. It’s been a long week. Had a costly car repair, dealt with a major tax issue and barely talked my way out of a speeding ticket. I wasn’t done imparting my wisdom yet.

“Have you ever thought of a little S & M?”

“What? Like hitting her?”

“Yep. Hitting her.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. You usually start with the ass. You can move on from there.”

“What if she doesn’t like it?”

“Then slap her harder. Make her like it. Show her whose boss. And try talking dirty to her.”

“What should I say?”

“You want some of this, bitch? Then beg me for it, you filthy little slut….that kind of thing.”

Derek’s jaw is dropped. An incoming wave almost knocks him off of his board.

“Okay, okay. Maybe that’s a little too extreme. Sorry. Just whisper in her ear, ‘You want me to fuck you harder, baby? Is that what you want? Say it.Yeah, baby. There you go. Just take it. Take it, like a good girl.’”

I do this in my breathiest, perviest voice possible.

Derek is wide-eyed and speechless.

“You’re crazy.”

“Like a fox, my friend.”

He goes for a wave. For a second, I think he’s going to exit the water. But I know he’ll be back for more. He wants it. Bad.

He paddles back out to me.

“Derek, I just want you to improve your game. There are a lot of surfers out here who’d happily go down on your girlfriend. She’s a hottie. You don’t want to lose her.”

“Well, she’s not going to leave me because I’m not going down on her.”

“I would.”

He looks wounded, angry.

“I mean, not right away. She’ll stick around for a while. But ultimately, it’s grounds for dismissal.”

“Okay, fine. I will.” He folds his arms tightly against his tanned hairless chest, exasperated.

“Listen, go down on her because you want to, not because you’re supposed to. A woman can tell the difference. It’s not like I asked you to mow the damn lawn or something. And don’t worry about the orgasm thing. It will come when it comes…ha! That’s a joke. Get it?”

“Ha. Ha.”

He takes a small wave in and wipes out for some strange reason. He starts heading back to the beach.

“And Derek!”

“What?” he turns around, annoyed.

“Fix something for her. That’s always sexy.”

He grumbles something.

“Next week, we’ll talk anal!” I shout cheerfully. The other surfers glance over at me.

I look around me at the vastness of the ocean, thoughtfully. Tonight, I will bring some young woman a little closer to an orgasm. It’s a small contribution to the world, I know. But I feel pleased nonetheless.

“Anal.” I repeat and smile.

Depression and Weed – A Girl’s Story

I was ten years old and living at the Jersey shore when I heard the song “Someone Saved my Life Tonight” by Elton John. I curled up on my bedroom floor and cried my eyes out. For a long, long time. Too long for a little girl who didn’t even understand the gravity of the lyrics. I knew, even then, something was wrong.

Due to the passing of my father several years before, I also became obsessed with death and the supernatural, thinking ghosts were constantly around me. Darkness was terrifying, so I slept with the lights on until I was a teen. I was perpetually afraid of being left, in any manner. Bleak thoughts seemed to chase after me like hungry dogs.

It was the beginnings of depression.

You almost had your hooks in me, didn’t you dear?
You nearly had me roped and tied

As a young adult, I tried several anti-depressants. I desperately wanted to live a normal life and thought that was the path. I experimented with four different kinds in total, each with their own specific insidious side effects (including one that caused my face to twitch when I discontinued it. Fun stuff.)

Sure, on some levels, I felt better on them – but I didn’t feel like me. Instead, I felt like a cartoon version of myself, existing about a foot above the earth. When I found out that my happy pills could affect my sex drive, I parted ways with them. My sex drive defines who I am. I refused to live life without it..or even have it altered in any way.

So instead, in my twenties, I self-medicated and disassociated with the best of them, via hard drugs and alcohol. I was surviving, not thriving. Marijuana had been in my life since my early teens so I can’t say I used it effectively to treat depression. It simply helped in the numbing out process.

Sitting like a princess perched in her electric chair
And it’s one more beer and I don’t hear you anymore

It took some time (and therapy) until I figured out ways in which marijuana could help my depression. (I stress “my” for a reason: I don’t think it’s a solution for everyone.) I suffer from anxiety-based depression, where I can get stuck in “thought loops” as I call them. These loops can leave me standing in the middle of a room, unable to take a single step forward for fear that I’m going to do the wrong thing. (Crippling indecision is a nasty and often under-discussed aspect of depression.)

After a particularly bad break-up about 10 years ago, the thought loops were growing worse. Just as some people envision a warm beach to relax, I pictured a shiny gun in my mouth. Seriously. That’s what I did to relax. Something had to change.

I never realized the passing hours of evening showers
A slip noose hanging in my darkest dreams

I still remember the afternoon I used marijuana – not to escape, not to “party” – but to help me.

I lived in San Francisco at the time, a beautiful city. I smoked some weed and forced myself outdoors. The sun was crystalline bright, the breeze so light. Everyone was bustling about Castro Street. I couldn’t help but smile, something I hadn’t done in months.

Then I hit the yard sales. (I love yard sales – a therapy in and of itself. Another blog entry.) Soon, I found myself chatting it up with my neighbors, laughing, telling jokes. When I came back home, loaded with bags of who-knows-what, I let out a deep and profound sigh of relief. The spell had been broken. The loops had stopped. I actually enjoyed my afternoon!

I don’t advocate weed for everyone’s depression. As a matter of fact, I think there is a tendency to use it too much as a form of escape from pain or an inability to sit with one’s “ugly” emotions. I’ve worked hard, via traditional routes, to move past depression: therapy, creative expression, meditation, exercise, nutrition, etc. They all work. (As an aside, I’m constantly shocked by people’s resistance to therapy in this day and age. It’s just weird that there is still such a stigma attached to it.)

And I don’t smoke weed every day. It’s very important for me to spend time just “as is,” with the loops, the sadness, the dark and heavy thoughts. On those days, I cry as I did when I was a little girl, hearing that song. My life has not been easy and it deserves its due. It deserves tears and grief occasionally. It deserves some sobriety.

But I won’t suffer needlessly either. If I find myself spiraling, I will smoke pot to stop the cycle. Suddenly, instead of worrying, aching, dreading, I simply notice the clouds. Or that cheerful, focused way a dog walks. Or the rustling of leaves on a gray day. I can live in the moment and feel relieved of depression. My mind and body are given a break. And when I do feel depressed, I have a little more perspective, because I remember what its like not to feel that way. But that’s just my story.

You’re a butterfly
And butterflies are free to fly
Fly away, high away, bye bye

Someone Saved my Life Tonight – Elton John

Beth Mann is a popular blogger and writer for Open Salon and Salon. She is also an accomplished actor and director with over 15 years of experience, as well as the president of Hot Buttered Media. She currently resides at the Jersey shore where she can often be seen surfing or singing karaoke at the local dive bar.

Other blogs:

Opensalon.com

Silly Lists of Nothingness

The Most Boring Blog Ever

Patti Davis is Naked and I’m Tired

When I read Patti Davis’s recent article in More magazine, where she “bares all” at 58, I was poised in my seat, prepared to feel inspired.  

My body, like hers, has been built from scratch. I too have a chemically-laden past from which I’ve broken free. I too found my physical strength later in life and now surf in competitions in addition to being a recommended black belt in Taekwondo. I love exercise. I love competition.

Then why did I feel irked by her article instead? 

Perhaps the media play-up was annoying: “Oh my god. Can you believe she’s posing nude at 58?” Is that really what we find so incredulous in this day and age? What did you think she had going on underneath those fine designer clothes of hers? Dusty skeletal remains? She’s 58, not 402. 

Or maybe it was the “Yeah, if I worked with a team of personal trainers, nutritionists and chefs, I’d look pretty damn good too” voice playing in this jaded middle class head of mine. Money can obviously buy you a toned body, whether it’s real or manufactured or both. So she writes check well? 

And finally, where is the victory in showing another woman with an uber-fit body? Doesn’t the real problem lie with the rest of the bodies that we don’t find acceptable? Namely, the other 95% of the female populace? The message remains the same: look like you’re 20-something and you win. Eternal youthfulness is the unrealistic gold standard by which we all must dutifully adhere. 

Then it was her elbow comment; Patti Davis doesn’t like them apparently. They look old to her. This is when I feel considerably less inspired. That never-ending magnifying and micro-managing that most women do with their bodies has reduced us to such petty creatures. So she’s got a smoking hot bod at 58, but those elbows of hers keep haunting her. (Elbows shouldn’t haunt you. Just as a rule.) 

Last week, I had a young man in my outdoor shower (a long but beautifully sordid story). He pushed the wet hair back from my forehead. I saw him examining the gray hairs that I’ve let grow in as of late. The painful self-consciousness I felt was overwhelming. I turned away from him, feeling once again flawed, wrong. 

Yet an equal part of me wanted to turn around and shout: “Yes, they’re fucking gray hairs. I’m 44 years old. If you don’t like them, go find someone else who has the energy to fight the tide of time better than me!”

God, who can keep up? Who wants to?  

Ultimately, Patti Davis is still an inspiration. (And I still had amazing sex in the shower, in spite of my “glaring imperfections.”) She has a good, healthy take on her body and what it means to her. I’m not discounting that. I do admire her. 

But the messaging underneath remains insidious and tedious: look young at all costs. Society will give you props for turning back time. Thing is, time only has one direction. For all of us. (Shhh…don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.)

Kristen LaBrie – Child Killer or Political Scapegoat?

I’m not defending Kristen LaBrie. Her case is hardly clear-cut. This single mother was convicted of attempted murder, among other charges, for ceasing to give chemotherapy to her 9-year old autistic and cancer-stricken son. He eventually died and she will spend 8 – 10 years behind bars.

1. If LaBrie is guilty of withholding treatment, can insurance companies be guilty of withholding treatment as well? Or how about the doctors with a financially vested interest in chemotherapy? Can they be held legally responsible? Or the pharmaceutical companies who mass produce these “wonder drugs” with notoriously dismal success rates?

If these corporate giants were convicted, would their actions be shamed by a sanctimonious judge, as LaBrie’s were, and deemed “extended, secretive, and calculated…acts that really do chill one’s soul.”

Big pharma and the healthcare industry have been chilling my soul for many years now. Extended, secretive and calculated? Check, check and check.

Like LaBrie, insurance companies have withheld treatment from my family members, friends and myself. When is my court date? Oh that’s right. They’d legally wallop a little nobody like me. Hell, I might get a “cease and decease or we’ll eviscerate you” by the time you finish reading this piece.

2. Why do we sound so judgmental when it comes to crimes involving mothers? I get it. It’s supposedly the worst of the worst, a mother harming her child. But why do these trials and the public reaction to them seem reminiscent of a witch burning or some Victorian-era public scolding?

I can’t help but think if the father were on trial, the tone would be remarkably different (in this case, the father died in a motorcycle accident several years ago. You will not read much about him. He’s an invisible part of this story now.)

We’ve grown entirely too accustomed to expecting single mothers to successfully raise children. There is little to no allowance for the stress any single mother is under, let alone one raising a child with an illness or handicap. Mothers are not the only caretakers of our children! We should expect no more or no less from them than fathers.

3. While we focus on LaBrie, are more of our rights quietly slipping away?

While the media and public morally toss stones at LaBrie, our civil rights continue to slowly erode. Yes, a child has rights too, but so do the parents. Whether you agree with it or not, LaBrie made a choice that countered the medical establishment. She broke free from a highly flawed and corrupt system and made her own choice; unfortunately, one based in enormous stress, fear and financial hardship.

We’re often forced to agree with a healthcare system that leaves us little freedom to decide. And the decision is not based on what is best for you, but what your company will allow you to do. If you don’t buy into the protracted and questionable go-to “answer” that is chemotherapy, you are considered some sort of heretic.

On top of that, many of us hopelessly suffer from “Doctor is God” complex. What he or she instructs is the gospel according to Western medicine. What would you know about your own health, stupid?

“But her child could have survived!”, everyone shouts. “His cancer had a 80% – 90% success rate with chemo treatment!” So the doctors say. A friend of mine had these same “optimistic” statistics and died a few months ago – not from the cancer, but from the effects of grueling chemo treatment. LaBrie’s son, Jeremy, may have survived. But we all know it’s not as simple as that.

Many people die from the cancer treatment, not the cancer itself. “White House spokesman
Tony Snow succumbed to colon cancer” we read in the news, when he died of complications surrounding his treatment.

And hopefully, by now, we understand what is meant by “success rate”: If you’re still alive after 5 years of treatment, you’re a success. If you die by year 6, you’re still considered a success! Congratulations.

The cancer industry is for-profit. It makes money by treating cancer, not by curing it or preventing it. Don’t expect honest answers from them. Or, frankly, from your doctors. It’s time to be your own health advocate and learn more about alternative treatments – many purposefully hidden from view by these greedy giants. 

What would you do if you were Kristen LaBrie? Most of us don’t know the answer to that question, thankfully. Yet we’ll judge someone as if we personally experienced the enormous stress and strain of one parent raising an autistic child with cancer. We’ll overlook the real monsters and cast our critical eye on a mother who may have just broken under the strain.

You don’t know what you would do in her situation, even though you’d love to imagine yourself doing just the right thing. It’s called moral superiority and it’s dangerous. And unfortunately, it doesn’t address the darker and far-reaching implications of this case.

Thanks for Finding my Dead Father, Peg!

_{My father left me to be with this family.} 


When you discovered my dead father last weekend, Peg, it went beyond the boundaries of friendship. I was ready to leave his body behind…but no, not you. You were determined, even after the tranquilizers set in.

When I went back to my hometown to visit you, old friend, going to a cemetery was last on my list. But you and several others have wondered why I’ve never visited the place where my father was “laid to rest.”

Well, you know the reasons:

1. My father has no tombstone. Are they still called tombstones? That sounds old-school and ghoulish. Grave marker? Well, whatever…he doesn’t have one.

Why?

I have no effin’ clue. Do any of us understand the dysfunctional workings of our families? It wouldn’t be dysfunctional if they did the “normal” thing, right? When my dad died in 1973, my mom fell into a depressive stupor that lasted about, oh…her whole fucking life! A gravestone for the “man that abandoned her” was last on her list.

“I was busy raising five children. That’s why! Have you tried raising five children on a secretary’s salary? Have you? Did you want a fancy stone for your father’s grave or dinner? Huh? Which one? You pick! Ungrateful, little…

 - My Mother, from the Other Side

2. I don’t do cemeteries. I’m not into the “business” of dying. You’ll be able to reference this when I croak. I don’t want a stupid casket. Or a funeral. Or a fancy urn for my ashes. Just stick some dynamite in my orifices, light them and throw me off a cliff over the ocean, for the fish to feast on.

3. My father didn’t die. I wasn’t allowed to see him in the hospital and didn’t go to the funeral because I was only six. I figured he skipped town to be with a better family (pictured above) with better little girls. While I now know this is silly, my little girl brain works differently. When people leave me, on any level, I feel too hurt for too long.

When we drove into the cemetery, my hands started shaking a little and you noticed. You offered me a cherry flavored, fast-dissolve Klonopin. Ah, what a friend! Tranquilizer candy! I didn’t consciously find this situation upsetting, but I can disassociate with the best of them. So while I felt alright, your cherry flavored, fast-dissolve Klonopin made me feel…alrighter.

Cemeteries are hard to navigate – a virtual maze of death. How do grief-stricken people ever track down their loved ones?  It’s “Section this, Lot that, Lane whatever, Row something.” Perhaps they  are laid out in such a way where you walk your grief off.

My  father, according to the directions we were given, was between “Griffin”  and “Fario”. If we found those two, he would be the “blank spot in the  middle.” I cringed when the office told me that. Ah, the bloody symbolism of it all.

Our search began.

Plastic flowers blew everywhere this windy, cold Spring day. I gathered them into mini-bouquets and began putting them on several unmarked graves, having no luck finding Griffin or Fario.

Meanwhile, Peg, you kept looking as if your life depended on it. Why were you so concerned? Ah yes…long-standing friends know better. They’ve watched me operate from that little girl’s mind for far too long. They want change for me, sometimes more than I want it.

But even you tired of the search, Peg. We just couldn’t find him! (You’d think we would have found a goddamn Griffin, at least, just by default!) We got back in your car. You were more disappointed than me.

“Peg, I don’t care. Really. This doesn’t mean anything to me.”

We started driving and after a moment, you slammed on the brakes. “Oh shit! Section H is on this side too!”

“Peg, really.”

“No. We came this far.”

We got out of the car and looked again. 

At this point I had no flowers left. A plastic red poppy blew by me and I grabbed it, just in case. As I looked halfheartedly for Griffin, I Klonopin-mulled over the effects of being fatherless:

To a little girl, your father is your prince. Your saviour. Without him, you feel like a perpetual Cinderella, too ugly and wrong to go to any ball. Or the last one at a party, hoping that special man will arrive and take you home. But he doesn’t, so you stand there in the cold, waiting. Years go by, waiting. A fucking lifetime could go by, waiting. I don’t want a lifetime to go by, Peg. 

“Griffin!” you suddenly yell. “GRIFFIN!!!”

My heart and time stops. I turn toward you slowly and you’re standing there, with such a look on your face; scared, pleased, relieved, concerned. This image of you will remain with me until the end of my days, this I’m sure. I stand there, with one plastic red poppy in my hand, feeling 6 again. Tears fall. Hands shake. I walk toward you. Toward my father.

When I reach you, we hug 6 feet directly above my dad. It’s a true friend hug. Big, mighty and safe.

“Your father is right here, Beth. Below me. He’s not with some better family. He’s right here.”

“Thank you. You’ve…you’ve gone beyond friendship, Peg.”

You insist I sit there for 10 minutes and grieve, damnit. And I do. I place the plastic red poppy where a marker should be. I rather like it. The surrounding tombstones all look the same. My father has a single red poppy instead, because he’s special. He’s not a blank spot anymore.

————————————————————————————————————–

Peggie and I on beach, years ago:

“Peg, it will come back to you”

My dad with his original family:

Those cards…whatever they’re called:

Rap as Performed by Average White Chick from Jersey

It’s been a long winter. They’re all long winters here at the Jersey shore. You try to keep yourself entertained in any way possible. For kicks, I taught myself the lyrics to Eminem’s Lose Yourself, the popular hit from his movie 8 Miles.

Well, it was no easy feat for a number of reasons:
A. I’m a classic rock chick. I have Boston in my blood and Genesis in my genes. I don’t even know that many rap tunes.
B. You need to be angry to sing rap. I find myself to be very angry – bordering on the rageful at times. But I’m not rap angry.
C.  There’s a lot of effin’ words to rap! My god…how do they breathe? I’ve done Shakespeare monologues that were easier than learning this tune.

So for your viewing pleasure (or displeasure, or comic relief, as the case may be), here are my two bedroom stabs at rap.

1. Lose Yourself – The Standard Version

2. Lose Yourself – The Teary Version

3. Eminem singing Lose Yourself

The Rise and Fall of Dumb Love

They didn’t even know I was still in the room, they were so drunk, so wrapped up in one another. I couldn’t help but stay. Emotional train wrecks are awkward, sure, but fascinating to watch.

These two have been going at it for years. They break up, but keep coming back for more, like two bleary-eyed boxers. I’ve tried to convince her to stop contacting him. And she does, for long periods of time. But then a text message leads to a phone call leads to a lunch date…then leads to this mess!

She’s screaming at him. He has to go home, take his kid to school in the morning. The “baby’s momma” and he split the caretaking of the child and tomorrow is his turn. He needs to leave, he tells her. She knows, she screams. “So then go! Leave!”

He never understands when she gets like this. It’s hard for her to admit what she can’t even admit to herself: she’s jealous of his child. She’s jealous of how deeply attentive he is of his little boy and how easily she falls by the wayside.

She also can’t stand how much control the baby’s momma has over his life. They aren’t married but they might as well be. She’s neurotic and overbearing, calling every few hours. She cleans his house all the time, like a dutiful maid, like a dog pissing on a hydrant. She buys him food and takes care of him, like a well-heeled nurse. And he lets her because…why not? Would you give up a perfectly good servant?

My friend is lonely. She doesn’t date anyone on this bleak lifeless island she calls home. She tries, but not hard. She’s too lazy for love, she tells me. Drinking too much and working too hard, she finds herself falling further down an emotional black hole. He’s “easy” she says. That’s not easy, I tell her. He does more damage than good. But who am I to judge? I’ve been there. We’ve all been there.

So here I sit, in her bedroom, watching them fight at the end of a long, drunken night that we’ve spent together. They don’t even notice me suddenly.

“My boy…I have to take my boy to school tomorrow. Please!” He doesn’t understand that that only incites her more.

“I’m just a fucking bootleg mistress!” she screams. “Go. Go! Go…do things for others!”

Normally he would have left on the first “Go!” Both are proud and defiant sorts. But something is different this time. You see, he is sick. They may not have many more times together.

Somewhere in the recesses of her drunken mind, she is reminded of father who died when she was 6. Her family thought she was too young to go to the funeral. She didn’t comprehend “death.” She thought he just left her to be with a better family with better little girls.

Somewhere in the recesses of his drunken mind, he’s reminded of his volatile one-legged father, a Vietnam vet, who used to beat the shit out of him repeatedly. One day he would grow bigger and stronger than his father and pin him up against a wall, choking him with his sizable forearm. He would say, “Never again, you fucking asshole. Never again.”

But a little boy would remain in that big, strong body of his. A little boy who cowered in the face of confrontation. Who would have left on the first “Go!”

Why do these two bother, I think, watching in amazement. More of the walking wounded, trying desperately to reach across an endless abyss of damage. Why not walk to the moon? Why not dig a hole to China?

“Go! Leave!” she bellows, with a voice that shocks me. Masculine, demonic. Her eyes, wild with rage.

Then the strangest thing happens: this big man dropps to his knees and moves toward her, as she sits poised on her bed, a loaded gun. (I can’t leave now! The show is too good!) She threatens to hit him if he comes any closer. I wouldn’t go near her.

But he takes a chance. He crawls clumsily over the great divide of mutually combined sickness, dangerously close to the epicenter of her rage. She is confused and diffused by his actions. She twitches and recoils, as if to hit. He suddenly lies on top of her, diffusing her little girl rage,  putting a blanket over her fire. She  convulses in sobs.

“I just don’t want you to leave,” she cries like a little girl. “I know I don’t matter to you. I know I’m nothing in your life and everybody else matters more to you than me.”

“I came her to see you. You do matter to me. I just can’t show up the way you want me to.”

“Yes, you can. It’s a choice. You just don’t try.”

“I tried today.”

“Please, please don’t die. I can’t…I can’t…”

They both hug and I think he might be crying too. I slowly get up and begin to leave the room. I shouldn’t have stayed that long, I know. I’ll tell her later that I stayed just in case “things got ugly.” But I guess that’s too late.

They are a tragedy. A ridiculous excuse for a relationship. But somewhere amidst their carnage is a white rag of love, dancing above them like a tattered flag.

Outside the door, I hear them laughing. It’s the laugh of two lovers who have conquered the sickness, at least for now. Soon, he will go back to his life and forget about her (or so she thinks) and she’ll feel even lonelier than before. He’ll think she’s better off without him (or so he thinks) and do nothing to reach out.

Ah, we’re all so broken, I think. Broken records, stuck in dead-end grooves. But I guess even a broken record plays a little music.

How did they not even see me? I was right there! Maybe they weren’t bothered by my presence. Maybe someone needed to bear witness to their love and mess. Maybe they didn’t see me because I was one of them.

 

The Look of Sun Deprivation [VIDEO]

She got down but she never got tired She’s gonna make it through the night

I pulled over to the side of road to drink in some fading winter sunlight, sparkling on the bay. Coincidentally “Blinded by the Light” was playing on the radio. When I finally calmed my restless spirit, I felt at peace.

Like this is how death must feel.

Like you gently fade away into a radiant pool of light.

While Manfred Mann plays in the background.

(Though you’d think heaven might play the original Springsteen version, for purity’s sake.)

I hastily put together a video, in an attempt to convey this sensation.

http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=19904284&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=00adef&fullscreen=1&autoplay=0&loop=0

http://boos.audioboo.fm/swf/fullsize_player.swf

Mama always told me not to look into the sights of the sun
Oh, but mama that’s where the fun is!