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

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.”

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….

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.

_{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

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

---

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.

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:

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.

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

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.

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.