Wednesday, December 22, 2004

"Always protect yourself." -Frankie Dunn

Last night, Howard Hughes, Jr. and I braved the swarming Christmas crowds at the Grove to see "Million Dollar Baby," the Clint Eastwood-Hilary Swank-Morgan Freeman film. It's set in the world of boxing, and allows an intimate look at the issues of relationship and healing from pain by opening your heart and pursuing your passion. Recent professional acquaintance Lucia Rijker also stars in the film, in a powerfully pivotal role; I'll spare you the details, lest I completely spoil it for you. Beautifully photographed, every shot is a work of art. A moving story, even if the script occasionally tries too hard, and a performance from Eastwood that reminded me of a totem pole with moving lips. Swank and Freeman are the heart and soul of the film.

It was the one moment she forgets trainer Frankie's above-referenced admonition that resonated so deeply in me. Because it's the one thing I have so often forgotten to do...and I have the scars (more on my heart than on my body) to prove it.

I got home well after midnight, to a mailbox stuffed with a bag holding a Christmas gift from my ex-husband and the pooch whose custody we share: a striking necklace of red coral and turquoise, from which dangles a silver pendant depicting the Hindu Goddess Durga, riding a tiger. The identifying tag read, "Protective Goddess." Of all things.

Then, in a conversation with HH, Jr. this morning, I heard it again as we discussed the anonymous communications I've been receiving via this very blog.

Heed the Universe. Always protect yourself.

Sunday, December 19, 2004

"You can't see the moon without the sun." -Howard Hughes, Jr.

He and I were just on the phone, comparing half-moon sightings on our respective trips home: mine was perched atop a tall, Christmas-lit spruce in San Marino. His rested on an Abbot Kinney building in Venice.

The first time we discussed the moon was when we first met, a year and 4 months ago. I'd told him over the phone that the view of the moon from my house on the hill was spectacular...and, after we'd taken a tour of Downtown LA, he asked if he could come up to see it.

The next time was a couple of months ago, during the lunar eclipse, his first. He called to ask me if I was watching it; we stayed on the phone and described it to each other: the moon was on fire, a burnt orange glow through the clouds.

I told him tonight that, if I had to make a choice, I'd choose the moon. And he pointed out the irony.

So...I have no choice but to choose it all.

Anonymous schmononymous.

You seem like a literate guy -- what part of "in private" was beyond your comprehension?

zantales@yahoo.com




Thursday, December 16, 2004

Okay. I'll bite.

Which is not to say, "bite me."

I received a blatantly sexual -- oh, let's say positively pornographic -- anonymous post last week, now hidden from the view of my more sensitive readers. And it would be more intriguing, even flattering, and less disconcerting if I hadn't been referred to as a "beautiful, delicious whore." It isn't the beautiful and delicious I mind, mind you...I certainly appreciate the appreciation, even if it comes from a source I can't identify for the life of me (I had an idea -- he was shocked that I'd think him capable of such a slight -- but I was just hoping it was him so I wouldn't have to worry that it was an inmate from San Quentin or -- worse -- a disgruntled former lover). I mean, I'd like to know who thinks of me as beautiful and delicious; really.

It's the w-word that puts me on edge; it's a moniker I simply must refuse. My self-respect allows nothing less.

I know there are those who find it erotic to call their lover a slut during sex play, and those who are aroused by being called a whore. The dialog goes something like this:
"You're my little whore, aren't you?"
"Yes, baby, I'm your slut."
Your vivid imagination will tell you where it goes from there. Personally, I have always been able to get there without taking that particular path. But, to each his/her own.

I'm not Puritanical by any means ('though I do absolutely eschew the scatological). I simply prefer that such personal suggestions be made in privacy. And by someone I know and (at least) like and (especially) trust. Then I might find it, um, endearing.

So, you there, with the mouth on you: Identify yourself. In private.

Sunday, December 12, 2004

"You don't know what it's like/To love somebody/The way I love you." -Barry Gibb

How long does it take to heal from a broken heart? Should the recovery time be commensurate with the length of the relationship? If so, what might the formula be? A month for every year? Given that ratio, if one has been in various states of love with the same person for, say, 15 years, it should take approximately a year and 3 months -- give or take a couple of weeks -- to complete the stages of grief attendant to such a loss.

There are a few rules that should be strictly adhered to during the healing period:

Friends should not comment adversely on the bursts of tears or the late-night phone calls or the wanton eating of Cheetos (or the inevitable weight gain) by the heartbroken at any point during this period.

Any subsequent romantic, or potentially romantic, relationships should be held at bay by the heartbroken until thorough healing has been accomplished.

Suffering beyond the healing period is optional...but definitely gratuitous. Masochism, however masked, is generally unattractive. Martyrdom, however, has certain appeal -- with the right wardrobe.

Saturday, December 11, 2004

To the one who would offer salacious commentary anonymously...

...I think the Earl of Kent said it best when addressing Oswald in The Tragedy of King Lear:

"A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson*, glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition."

*ironically (Ed.)

Monday, September 20, 2004

End of Season Wisdom from Six Feet Under...

Nathaniel: "You can do anything, you lucky bastard -- you're alive! What's a little pain compared to that?"
Michael: "It can't be that simple."
Nathaniel: "What if it is?"

Sunday, September 12, 2004

Q&A

If we are but objects flying aimless
with wings clipped, with eyes blind
How to divine the reason
for full heart, for creative mind?

If not for the waves of thought that
pass through ether to their goals
How to explain the connection
of bodies, brains and souls?

If there is no power higher than we
who vibrate with fear and love
How to escape, and embrace,
that which we are frightened of?

If the call of passion and light
were heard only by ear
How would the feeling, the seeing,
the knowing be as clear?

There is more to this.
Watch with eyes closed
and heart open.


for BSW
2.11.04

Saturday, September 11, 2004

Fresh poetry from my mom...

I have lived an ample life.
From many facets I have wrung
joyous bounties, free and rife,
and memories made when I was young.
Delicious days of childhood -- seen
tender at seven, eight and nine;
primal woodlands, pastures -- green
trees, their timbers as young as mine,
invited me to swing and climb,
prepared to bend; and just as I,
letting go the lissome limb
with sibilants, would slap the sky!

Evelyn Barnes
Sept. 7, 2004

Friday, July 30, 2004

I thought I was too candid, but maybe I'm too candent. Maybe both. You decide; I can't.

candent (KAN-duhnt) adjective 1. Glowing. 2. Impassioned.
[From Latin candent-, stemp of candens, present participle of candere (to shine or glow). Ultimately from Indo-European root kand- (to shine). Other words from the same root are candle, incandescent, incense, candid, candida, and candidate (in reference to white togas worn by Romans seeking office).]

Saturday, July 17, 2004

For the record...

At the risk of sounding like I'm recreating the provocative "Crash" Davis speech from Bull Durham -- I believe in second chances. I believe in the magnetism of souls. I believe in the healing powers of open communication, understanding and forgiveness. I believe that our thoughts create, however unwittingly, those situations that best serve to allow our progress. I believe that adversity is the most effective proving ground, because I believe we don't learn the lesson if it isn't hard. I believe that God, or the Higher Power, or the Universe, has wisdom - and, clearly, a wicked sense of humor - far beyond our own severely limited comprehension. And I like to listen when he/she/it speaks. Even when he/she/it says that which I'm not prepared to hear (as is often the case). Even when it brings back to me that which I, for whatever reason, have rejected once and for all. I believe that very little in this world is once and for all.

Do you hold similar beliefs? Do you believe that, when we're given the opportunity to make the necessary corrections, we should choose to make them gratefully and fearlessly?

Do you appreciate irony?

Thursday, July 01, 2004

This is one of the many reasons I love my mom. She e-mails me stuff like this.

THINGS YOU'LL NEVER HEAR ON THE BAND BUS

Ladies, I'll need to see some proof of age, please.

Boy, I can't wait 'till we get to Maine.

No, I could hear the monitor just fine -- I screwed up.

I walked her home, kissed her goodnight, and came straight back to the bus.

Go ahead and roll 'em down the aisle -- they're only cymbals.

Should we go back and get the drummer?

Wow! The leader nailed every tempo perfectly again tonight -- and everybody played perfectly in tune all night long -- again!

Boy, it sure is fun playing all those old Glenn Miller arrangements.

Can you believe all the money we're getting?

Man, I wish we could get the guitar player to turn up a bit louder.

Hey, who cleaned up in here, this bus smells like a spring breeze!

I sure hope we reach the next town in time for Mass.

I can't wait to get to my private hotel room so I can have eight hours' uninterrupted sleep, a swim in the pool and a couple of margaritas with my complimentary steak dinner before the gig.

Yeah, I got into music mainly because of the job security, the benefits and the opportunities for advancement...and these great bus trips, of course.

So, are you more heavily invested in balanced or growth funds?

Nice to be back in this cozy bus again, hangin' with my pals.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

"Even a lie is a psychic fact." -Carl Jung

Have you ever caught a close friend in a lie?

I recently did, and I don't quite know how to handle it. It's not a BIG lie; and it was most probably put forth for altruistic reasons. This person cares deeply for me, and would do anything to prevent my feelings from being hurt. But I KNOW this unnamed soul -- who happens to be someone I love with all my heart -- told me a fat one, and my feelings are hurt, anyway. It's a tiny betrayal, but a betrayal, nevertheless.

And my righteous AA sensibilities are nagging at me. See, if I had told this untruth, I know I'd have to make amends at some point, because it would gnaw at me like a dog on a beef knuckle, like a rat on cardboard, like me on my cuticles while thinking about what to do with my beloved's lie.

Not that I'm Miss Perfect Sober Girl. Not that, in my 11.2 years of sobriety I haven't fibbed. White lied. Shifted the truth. But only a little. Just a handful of times. And I've pretty much always cleaned it up, especially when it looked like the other party would slip on my spill.

(Okay, wait: some of you out there know about that one rather sizeable falsehood, originated almost 5 years ago -- yikes -- and are wondering how I could have possibly forgotten -- after all, it changed my life and another's quite dramatically. Well, friends, I didn't forget. I confessed, offered a sincere apology, and moved on, promising myself I'd never do that particular thing again. Which I guess is the best thing one can do with a lie.)

Here's the other thing about today's lie from mon cher ami: I'm now thinking there may have been others, or may be others to come.

So, do I call the perp on the fabrication? Or do I let it slide?

It's after midnight, and I'm having breakfast with dear friend Heij in 9 1/2 hours. She's not Carl Jung (one of her best attributes), but I'm thinking she can help me sort this out.

Monday, June 07, 2004

...which may be why those of us who make it don't actually watch it.

"If you came and you found a strange man...teaching your kids to punch each other, or trying to sell them all kinds of products, you'd kick him right out of the house, but here you are; you come in and the TV is on, and you don't think twice about it."
-Jerome Singer, psychology professor

Saturday, June 05, 2004

They come in threes...

First it was the disbanding of Phish; phinally. Now Creed is at last splitsville, as they say in gossip columnese.

Who next? No, not THE Who. In fact, they're actually back; sorta.

Sorry...Reagan doesn't count. But they do all fall under the category of an idea whose time has come.

Friday, June 04, 2004

He's chuckling in his grave.

"Television's perfect. You turn a few knobs, a few of those mechanical adjustments at which the higher apes are so proficient, and lean back and drain your mind of all thought. And there you are, watching the bubbles in the primeval ooze. You don't have to concentrate. You don't have to react. You don't have to remember. You don't miss your brain because you don't need it. Your heart and liver and lungs continue to function normally. Apart from that, all is peace and quiet. You are in the man's nirvana. And if some poor nasty-minded person comes along and says you look like a fly on a can of garbage, pay him no mind. He probably hasn't got the price of a television set."
-Raymond Thornton Chandler, writer (1888-1959)

Monday, May 24, 2004

Dream Quote...

A few months ago, BSW (director) and I (writer/producer) were having a spirited philosophical conversation about the oil & water of art & commerce. That night, I dreamed this quote; I swear, it unspooled in my head just like this, and I grabbed my journal to scribble it down before it got lost in the ether:

"There may be room for compromise in commerce, but there can be no compromise when it comes to art. Artists accomplish the impossible: through words and images and sounds, we make dreams come true. We need to be left to our various processes -- they can't be manipulated or even understood -- they simply need a safe place for the miracle to manifest."

And, I might add, a commensurate cash flow.

Friday, May 21, 2004

"You take your life into your own hands, and what happens? A terrible thing: no one to blame." -Erica Jong

This weekend, I ate in a way designed to allow me to swallow my feelings: about Mom's current health condition, about the profoundly challenging health conditions of two of my closest friends, and about my selfish behavior on Friday with someone I love. Thus, in the past four days, I've consumed a whole Trader Joe's Four-Cheese Pizza and a Tab, Indian tea and Danish biscuits (courtesy the lovely Marianne), my favorite muffin (Patticakes' Lemon Zest) washed down with several cups of coffee, an incredible couscous dish by dearest Kate, followed by luscious leftover Huntington Gardens tea scones and the attendant yerba mate tea...oh, the list is longer than that, but I daren't continue, lest I shame myself further.

That's right, friends -- I have immersed my aching soul in carbs and caffeine, the perfect culinary antidote to worry and guilt. For 11 years, that kind of eating has been the most destructive indulgence I allow myself, the thing I do instead of drink alcohol or smoke nicotine and marijuana or take Ecstasy. Which reminds me: I had lunch last week with a friend who recently returned from a Mexican resort, where she took X with her husband. She glowed as she told me about her incredibly enlightening experience. I was only a little envious; recreational drugs are no longer available to me, and there have been times in the past decade-plus I've thought it would be fun to indulge. But there is not a reason in the world -- not today, as they say in AA -- that I would give one day, one hour, one moment, to any artificially-induced high. I am too grateful to be awake and aware to make such a sacrifice. Even when the consciousness is rife with pain. "Pain," said Paramahansa Yogananda, "is a prod to remembrance." Precisely.

To reinforce my precious sobriety, I took my five extra carb-induced pounds to my Sunday AA meeting in the back room of Silver Lake's Cafe Tropical. This is my new home meeting, and I was able to share comfortably and openly about Mom in a safe, compassionate environment -- without snatching a Cuban confection from the tray of sweets that passed under my nose as I spoke! It was immeasurably helpful that sisterfriend Stacie was there to give me a good, long hug. So comforting; and it kept me from reaching for the macaroon.

By the way, you mustn't think I've been holed up in front of the tube with a bucket of buttered popcorn in one hand and a Big Gulp in the other. With the aid of Lulu, The Best Dog Ever Made, I have not been sedentary in my scarfing. We walked every inch of the Venice canals on Friday, we hiked in Eaton Canyon Saturday morning, we've walked miles around my own hilly 'hood. This is a limited and conscious wallow.

I apologized almost immediately to the beloved friend who bore the brunt of my Friday frustration; he assured me I had no amends to make. His forgiveness was a gift, one I don't always give myself right away. Which can dovetail into gimme that cookie.

Mom's positive attitude in the face of a possible cancer diagnosis is breathtakingly admirable. She is my inspiration. And, as proud as she is of me, I know she'd be completely pissed off if I regained the 50+ pounds I lost 5 years ago when I stopped the carbs (before it was all the rage). Don't fret, Mom; it ain't gonna happen. I promise.

Pass the protein, please.

Thursday, May 13, 2004

"The light which experience gives is a lantern on the stern, which shines only on the waves behind us." -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

My most recent experiences have been a clear illumination: that I have lived, am living, and will likely always live, a labyrinthine life, snaking through passages that twist and turn and blindside and lead me insanely away -- and to -- everything and nothing I expect.

I guess the Universe is giving me exactly what I need, fulfilling some unconscious request; after all, the boredom of a linear life would probably kill me.

Saturday, May 01, 2004

"Everybody's very happy / 'Cause the sun is shinin' all the time / Looks like another perfect day..." -Randy Newman

So, I had a procedure done yesterday morning at the new Cedars-Sinai outpatient facility across from the Hard Rock Cafe on Beverly Boulevard. (Never you mind what kind of procedure. Suffice to say, all is well.) I was in the curtained recovery area, emerging from my Valium-induced snooze, when the nurse -- an adorable gay man named Carter -- asked me my occupation. "Uhhh...I'm a writer and producer," I responded, trying not to slur. A beat; then, from the cubicle next to me, I heard a similarly drugged male voice: "Yeah? You are? Hey, I'm an actor! What are you working on now? I was in the last three episodes of "Dawson's Creek!"

There was more to his verbal resume, which continued while he dressed, and after he seated his undeniably cute and tousled self across from my gurney. I tore the heart monitor from my chest, hoping the flatline would deter him. Notsomuch.

Flattery followed ("Wow, you're a redhead!"), laced with small talk about how he got his hernia. I feigned a seizure.

As he took his next breath, undoubtedly in preparation for the inevitable Hamlet soliloquy, Nurse Carter scooped up the can of worms he'd opened and came to my rescue, swiftly closing the curtains before Hot Actor Boy could take a bow.

...I love LA.

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Poem. 7.6.01

THIS SPORTING LIFE

So here comes another curveball,
curling across the plate at 72 mph,
and I’m catching them all…it just takes practice.
And I’m good at it, now. But I’m tired.
And we’re at the bottom of the ninth,
they’ve got two outs,
the count is 3 and 2 on this guy
and he’s expecting the damn curve,
so let’s surprise him.
Here’s the signal for the low, inside strike:
C’mon, baby, straight into my glove.

I love that plop, that smack of leather-on-leather.
Or the solid whack of driver on golf ball.
Or the whoosh of basketball into nothin’-but-net.
Nail the landing.
Spike the pigskin.
Cross the finish line.
And feel so much satisfaction…
’cause the competition’s a killer.

Look, I’m running the 4-minute mile
in three-point-two;
I think this is my personal best.
And I want to take a victory lap and
have you drape the garland around my neck,
like a hug.
How am I doing this without your high-five
as I round the bases?
I’ll gladly endure the locker room sting of your
snapped wet towel on my bottom.
Go on, douse my head with a bucket of icy Gatorade!
Spray cheap champagne in my eyes!

See, I want to celebrate with you.
And if there’s defeat to be faced,
I want it to be your chest into which I weep,
your shoulder on which I rest my head.
I want your hand to reach down and lift me up.
Your laugh motivates me.
Your smile inspires me.
And you know I will always make
the same effort for you.
We are each other’s coach,
each other’s cheerleader.

I’m not out on the field alone, y’know,
not by any stretch.
This is a team endeavor, and I’m getting
amazing assists from my ‘mates.
But I miss you, nevertheless…
you are not expendable.

And here is the uncontestable final score:
Because it’s challenging, even when it’s easy;
Because it’s fun, even when it’s tough;
Because it’s rewarding in every way,
even though the rules are hard to follow;
I play life so well when I play it with you.

Friday, April 16, 2004

This guy's dead, isn't he?

"It is better to be unhappy in love, to be sickly in love, to be neurotic, diseased, gruesome, sordid, as long it involves the passions of life. It is better to be all that than to be careful."
- Paddy Chayefsky



Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Rewrite hell.

Or heaven. I'm not going to complain about the process, since it's what I love to do, and want to do for the rest of my life. How many times have I been able to say that before? Um...that'd be none. But it has taken me away from other things I enjoy and need, and wreaked havoc on old routines...my daily yoga practice has fallen off (a 20-story building), I haven't seen my beloved Lulu in what seems like forever (that's changing next week), and my former highly-organized self has left the premises. I don't need her while I'm writing -- in fact, she's detrimental to that process. But I miss her when it's time to go grocery shopping and pay the bills. She makes lists, and takes pride in checking off each item as it's accomplished. I admire her. But I'm in love with the writer. How can I keep both of these women in my life?

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

I'm on deadline. 9 days to delivery. Read this instead, if it hasn't already found its way into your e-mail. It's very funny, and quite tragic.

Twenty Eight Reasons Why English Teachers Die Young -- Actual Analogies and Metaphors Found in High School Essays

1. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

2. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.


5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

26. Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.

27. She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

28. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

Thursday, March 11, 2004

"Suffering is optional." - Maya, The Mistress of Illusion

Yeah, but only when we master the art of balance. Which means crawling from the end of the seesaw to the center, where you can observe each end flying up and bouncing down without taking the ride. This is how I imagine zen children play in their zen playground.

Now, for some of us, it's the ride that keeps us alive and creative -- all those feelings serve a purpose, they're the oils with which we paint, the images we record on film, the dialogue we ascribe to a character. We are not creating something from nothing. We are drawing from our vast external and internal experiences to present a story from which others may derive some education, emotion, entertainment.

Right here, I will interject that my year of Paxil was the calmest and most unproductive of my life. On the other hand, extreme emotional turbulence is like drinking a Slurpee too fast: brain freeze.

I don't want to suffer, 'though I do seem to choose it on occasion. I want only these things: to love/be loved, to understand/be understood, to be fearless -- not reckless -- in my approach to it, to play in it, to laugh in the face of it, to cry only long enough to cleanse and not drown in it. I want to enjoy my successes and learn from my failures.

There is great risk in asking for what you want; the possibility of unmet expectations looms like a cinematic shadow, faceless and foreboding, its source unseen. Ironically, we are the source of the threatening shadow that darkens our dreams. Is there a way to use this self-induced energy as a creative medium without being destroyed by it? Perhaps it's simply a question of being in the flow without clinging to the destination. Change is inevitable; we can participate in it with grace, or be ravaged by its craggy edges.

My body wears a few physical scars, part of my collection of life's souvenirs: the one in the center of my forehead is from a car accident when I was 4 years old, on my way to see Santa Claus; the one on my right breast is from a frightening biopsy with a happy ending; the one on my right index finger is from a Star Wars laser fight I had with my former lover in the La Cienega Toys 'R Us. There are many more invisible scars on my heart. I am learning to wear them with the same kind of respect and honor one attributes to any wound of war.

We hold ultimate responsibility for our part in how it all goes down and plays out. We can make it an adventure or a disaster. If our needs are not met by someone else, we must learn that our care was not in their hands. We are afraid to claim such power, because it could blow up in our faces. Then again, maybe it won't. You never know.

Balance is available to us, even if we're challenged by gravity. It's just about choice.

Saturday, March 06, 2004

"There is no Mr. Right because there is no Mr. Wrong. There is whoever is in front of us, and the perfect lessons to be learned from that person."

A little "Course in Miracles" wisdom from Marianne Williamson.

What did I learn today, in finally exposing my heart to a man who doesn't share the exact sentiment? That speaking my true feelings was an act of bravery. That I can be loving in my acceptance of rejection. That I can respect the man's process without compromising my own needs. That I can state what I want, ask without begging, hear without whining. That I can be loved for who I am and still not be the one. That I can accept the possibility I am not the one for him, but I am a magnificent woman who is worthy of being the one for someone.

That open, honest communication can reframe the definition of a relationship to accommodate a new paradigm -- also a test of bravery, but that could be a very good thing.

That 15 years is a long time to some people. That six months can feel like one.

That you can't eat in the face of unrequited love because it hurts like a hot dagger in the belly.

Wait: I already knew that. Why did I need to get that lesson again?

Saturday, February 28, 2004

"As soon as you've got it, you want something else/It's not the sale that you love, it's the sell..." -Chris Carrabba, So Beautiful

Thanks to all of you who heeded my February 9 call to vote for Brian's Dashboard Confessional "Rapid Hope Loss" music video...as a result of all the voting, it's been added to MTV's rotation. He's now got TWO hot videos airing (Lostprophets' "Last Train Home" has fast become a staple on MTV2). So far, the guy can still get his head through my door.

Now, since you've been so effective for my director friend, see what you can do for my presidential candidate.

Tuesday, March 2. Hint: Two Americas. Two words: John Edwards.

Monday, February 23, 2004

"Been tryin' to get down to the heart of the matter/Because the flesh will get weak and the ashes will scatter..." -Don Henley

It's a miracle; I don't miss him, not in the least. Not for almost a year, which is how long it's been since his final unconscionable behavior towards me. In fact, I don't think of him much at all, except when forced to by occasional circumstance. A relief to me, and to my treasured protective friends, without whom...

I don't want to have fond memories of him. But today my brain flashed back to one of his rare kindnesses -- sincere prayers offered on the day of my mother's leg amputation -- and I welled up in the middle of a Starbucks. He was at his best in that moment, at his least narcissistic. Where is that man now? Buried alive.

From the Shakespearean heartache I suffered during, and in the wake of, the ill-advised relationship, I have gratefully gleaned great lessons about who I really am and what I really want. The evolution is measurable, but the essence is immutable; I'm the same woman he fell in love with almost five years ago -- the same woman under whose tender touch he melted, with the same deep blue, adoring eyes he said he took away with him whenever we'd part. The same witty mind and passionate soul, the vibrant, open book of a heart. It was that last one he couldn't live with. Because he exists as a dusty, incomplete volume, full of others' scribblings and his own half-truths, doomed to remain unpublished.

I didn't go postal when he didn't choose me. I imploded. And I shared that searing pain with friends to vent the pressure, lest I completely disintegrate like a 60's Vegas casino on its last day in hell.

I could have manipulated him, could have made his life miserable, but that isn't my style, and would have been redundant -- others got there long before I did and handily accomplished those tasks. And he went along with their agenda, bleating on my shoulder about his woes like a 'nadless sheep. And I, willingly draped in the obscuring pink veil of love, allowed it.

I gave in to him every step of the way, until he resorted to emotional battery and terrifying threats at the end...because I believed the love and respect between us was real. But in his sad reality, I had to be relegated to fantasy. He'd encourage, even exhort, me to be myself, but he could never quite allow me my flesh and blood, my quirks, my process. After all, a fantasy can never be acknowledged as human.

I'm ready to lay down the last of the load I've been carrying about him. I know that my next step -- the final conscious step towards complete detachment -- is forgiveness. I'm about a block and a half away from the dump site.

Monday, February 16, 2004

"Food is a very handy tool for any writer interested in character." - Anne Tyler

Having read this quote in context (from an interview in today's New York Times) I know Ms. Tyler (she of "Accidental Tourist" and "Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant" fame) was speaking of the culinary preferences she gives to her characters when she's designing their lives. But it's got me wondering what my current eating patterns tell me about my own character. Today, for instance, I've consumed a handful of raw pistachios, a handful of raw cashews, leftover stir-fried carrots and almonds, a bowl of frozen blueberries (slightly nuked), a glass of chocolate soymilk as a vitamin wash, several stone wheat crackers slathered with butter, and half a salted cucumber. I keep going back to the refrigerator with the thought that someone will have left me an actual meal (a little platter of sushi would be nice), but the same red peppers, broccoli, and tofu keep greeting me; and they know damn well I don't feel like cooking.

I'm now thinking of how to feed the heroine in the book I'm ghostwriting. She's not a vegetarian; if she's anything like me (and, yes, she is), she needs animal protein with her veggies. She's basically good to her body and consumes lots of salads. But perhaps she secretly craves the occasional slab of pork ribs ('though I myself steer clear of the pig items). A Sabrett's all-beef hot dog with mustard and sauerkraut on the days she longs to be back in her hometown of NYC. The comfort of chicken soup when life is being cruel. The rare sensual treat of Haagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream. And she keeps a Trader Joe's thin crust cheese pizza in her freezer for emergencies...

...hey, wait! So do I! Please excuse me; dinner is served.

Monday, February 09, 2004

It's not like I'm asking you to vote for the clubbing of baby seals...

...no, I'm only beseeching you to go to the following URL and vote for Brian W's Dashboard Confessional video...multiple times. It's a very cool piece of music video art...it deserves airtime. LOTS of airtime. So much that people will get sick of it, like I'm sick to pieces of "Hey Ya," but look where it took Outkast...right to the "toppermost of the poppermost" (to quote a young John Lennon).

Even though you haven't met Brian, you'd like him and want to vote for him of your own accord; I promise. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong before? Okay, maybe that one time. But I was probably sick or drunk or something.

Rock the vote!

http://www.mtv.com/music/viewers_pick/

Saturday, February 07, 2004

"Do you suppose Stanley Kubrick ever gets depressed?" -Joe Gideon, All That Jazz

If I didn't have to think about the business aspect of my various creative endeavors, I'd be even happier than I already am. If there were no contracts to read and sign, or demographics to acknowledge and accommodate, or dollars to count and spend, if I could just write and produce and have people enjoy my work and compense me accordingly, that would fit my definition of career heaven.

Clearly, my right brain prefers not to know what my left brain is doing. And my left brain would just as soon take a nice long nap. Alas...

I admit, my current problem is one worth having. I asked the Universe for the task at hand, and it delivered. So it's time to shut up and put out...as it were.

Various herbs, elixirs and the unconditional love and understanding support of my friends and family are all I need, while I go off to write that which now has a looming deadline. Back soon...

Thursday, February 05, 2004

If you're on the fence about John Kerry and need a little downhome chowder for thought...

...enjoy this piece I found in today's edition of ABCNews.com's The Note; I've copied it into the blog, as I can't seem to create a link to the webpage. Read this juicy eye-opener while I consult with the Mother Blog...and if you can find a comparable expose about my man Edwards, feel free to share.

THE REAL KERRY

By HOWIE CARR
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

February 5, 2004 -- BOSTON

ONE of the surest ways to get the phones ringing on any Massachusetts talk-radio show is to ask people to call in and tell their John Kerry stories. The phone lines are soon filled, and most of the stories have a common theme: our junior senator pulling rank on one of his constituents, breaking in line, demanding to pay less (or nothing) or ducking out before the bill arrives.

The tales often have one other common thread. Most end with Sen. Kerry inquiring of the lesser mortal: "Do you know who I am?"

And now he's running for president as a populist. His first wife came from a Philadelphia Main Line family worth $300 million. His second wife is a pickle-and-ketchup heiress.

Kerry lives in a mansion on Beacon Hill on which he has borrowed $6 million to finance his campaign. A fire hydrant that prevented him and his wife from parking their SUV in front of their tony digs was removed by the city of Boston at his behest.

The Kerrys ski at a spa the widow Heinz owns in Aspen, and they summer on Nantucket in a sprawling seaside "cottage" on Hurlbert Avenue, which is so well-appointed that at a recent fund-raiser, they imported porta-toilets onto the front lawn so the donors wouldn't use the inside bathrooms. (They later claimed the decision was made on septic, not social, considerations).

It's a wonderful life these days for John Kerry. He sails Nantucket Sound in "the Scaramouche," a 42-foot Hinckley powerboat. Martha Stewart has a similar boat; the no-frills model reportedly starts at $695,000. Sen. Kerry bought it new, for cash.

Every Tuesday night, the local politicians here that Kerry elbowed out of his way on his march to the top watch, fascinated, as he claims victory in more primaries and denounces the special interests, the "millionaires" and "the overprivileged."

"His initials are JFK," longtime state Senate President William M. Bulger used to muse on St. Patrick's Day, "Just for Kerry. He's only Irish every sixth year." And now it turns out that he's not Irish at all.

But in the parochial world of Bay State politics, he was never really seen as Irish, even when he was claiming to be (although now, of course, he says that any references to his alleged Hibernian heritage were mistakenly put into the Congressional Record by an aide who apparently didn't know that on his paternal side he is, in fact, part-Jewish).

Kerry is, in fact, a Brahmin - his mother was a Forbes, from one of Massachusetts' oldest WASP families. The ancestor who wed Ralph Waldo Emerson's daughter was marrying down.

At the risk of engaging in ethnic stereotyping, Yankees have a reputation for, shall we say, frugality. And Kerry tosses around quarters like they were manhole covers. In 1993, for instance, living on a senator's salary of about $100,000, he managed to give a total of $135 to charity.

Yet that same year, he was somehow able to scrape together $8,600 for a brand-new, imported Italian motorcycle, a Ducati Paso 907 IE. He kept it for years, until he decided to run for president, at which time he traded it in for a Harley-Davidson like the one he rode onto "The Tonight Show" set a couple of months ago as Jay Leno applauded his fellow Bay Stater.

Of course, in 1993 he was between his first and second heiresses - a time he now calls "the wandering years," although an equally apt description might be "the freeloading years."

For some of the time, he was, for all practical purposes, homeless. His friends allowed him into a real-estate deal in which he flipped a condo for quick resale, netting a $21,000 profit on a cash investment of exactly nothing. For months he rode around in a new car supplied by a shady local Buick dealer. When the dealer's ties to a congressman who was later indicted for racketeering were exposed, Kerry quickly explained that the non-payment was a mere oversight, and wrote out a check.

In the Senate, his record of his constituent services has been lackluster, and most of his colleagues, despite their public support, are hard-pressed to list an accomplishment. Just last fall, a Boston TV reporter ambushed three congressmen with the question, name something John Kerry has accomplished in Congress. After a few nervous giggles, two could think of nothing, and a third mentioned a baseball field, and then misidentified Kerry as "Sen. Kennedy."

Many of his constituents see him in person only when he is cutting them in line - at an airport, a clam shack or the Registry of Motor Vehicles. One talk-show caller a few weeks back recalled standing behind a police barricade in 2002 as the Rolling Stones played the Orpheum Theater, a short limousine ride from Kerry's Louisburg Square mansion.

The caller, Jay, said he began heckling Kerry and his wife as they attempted to enter the theater. Finally, he said, the senator turned to him and asked him the eternal question.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Yeah," said Jay. "You're a gold-digger."

John Kerry. First he looks at the purse.

Howie Carr, a Boston Herald columnist and syndicated talk-radio host, has been covering John Kerry for 25 years.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

"If you fill the empty spaces of your heart with compromise, there won't be enough room for your heart's desire." -Brian L.

I cannot expound on the truth of that statement right now. But it's quite perfect , isn't it?

Monday, February 02, 2004

"I am sorry if anyone was offended by the wardrobe malfunction during the halftime performance at the Super Bowl..." -Justin Timberlake

Three words: It was staged.

Does my cynicism reveal that I've been in show business all my life? As a stage performer, one becomes intimately familiar with one's costume prior to live performance, especially if it is going to take a choreographed beating in front of zillions of rabid fans. But most telling is that she had installed on the nipple of the exposed breast a metal pasty that looked for all the world like a weapon designed by Q for 007! PUH-LEEZE. There was no reason for her to have decorated her nip if she wasn't preparing to show off the rest of her precious mammary gland.

Wardrobe malfunction, my ass...which you will not be seeing bared on national television anytime soon.

Thursday, January 29, 2004

"Now that I can see you, I don't think you're worth a second glance." - Chris Carrabba/Dashboard Confessional, Rapid Hope Loss

I liked Dean there for awhile. Dubya notwithstanding, I prefer presidential candidates who have actually governed, and I appreciated Dean's record in Vermont. But I've heard a 'bite here and there, and he has recently shown a rather unattractive arrogance. While I think the US presidency requires an inhuman quantity of extremely informed chutzpah, I'm not sure I cotton to the way Howard has conducted his campaign of late.

I am a citizen with very simple needs; perhaps they'd be met with Kerry for President, and Edwards as his VP...give Kerry 8, let Edwards take the next 8, and we might just make it to 2020 alive.

My mother, a staunch Democrat whose only voting blip was a vote for Nixon in 1960 (What can I say? She was a young woman concerned that Kennedy was too young to go up against Khruschev), watched Bill Maher on Larry King tonight. If I'd remembered, I'd have done the same, but I had a West Wing rerun keep me company while I made notes on the book assignment. Maher has gotten Mom quite fired up about the campaign. She's a North Carolina girl, and likes Edwards...she (facetiously, I promise you) thinks it's high time we had a hot guy in the Oval Office.

My personal and professional activities have prevented my acute attention to the race 'til now; with the California primary looming, I guess it's time for me to plug my nose and jump in. I'm sure those of you who have paid closer attention than I will be happy to edumacate (sic) me...Tommy. You, too, Heij.

Sunday, January 25, 2004

Friday, January 16, 2004

"The great thing about a computer notebook is that no matter how much you stuff into it, it doesn't get bigger or heavier." -Bill Gates

I suppose I have Bill G to thank for the fact that I am typing on the keyboard of my very own laptop at this very moment. (Actually, I mostly have Linda the Dragon to thank, but that's true for many crucial and enjoyable things in my life.) It's a Hewlett-Packard Pavilion zt3020, with Harman/Kardon speakers, several bells, whistles and That New Computer Smell. And a 15.4" screen, the better to view DVDs with, I guess. I fell for the extended warranty, and Comp USA threw in a pretty cool carrying case, which I will heretofore refer to as the "gig bag" (you guitarists out there will appreciate the reference).

This is the laptop on which I will ghostwrite my first book, a process that begins as soon as I load her up with MS Word -- thanks to new friend and associate Alec S, I will be cheating Microsoft Boy out of $150, which the salesman at Comp USA quietly recommended. "Gates has plenty of money without yours," said Don the Computer Guy. Perhaps when my own book does well, I'll send Bill a check. Oh yeah, that's what I'm gonna do.

I am not given to affection for inanimate objects, but I have the feeling this is the beginning of a long and fruitful love affair...and, if it's the only one I have for awhile, well...I could do worse.

Monday, January 12, 2004

"I'm tired of the future." -Agatha the Pre-Cog, Minority Report

I have a birthday coming up. For those of you who don't have it recorded in your snappy Palm Pilots or scribbled on your quaint little calendars, it's Saturday the 17th. Capricorn (grounded), Aries rising (fiery), Cancer moon (loving). Born at Maimonides Hospital in Brooklyn on a snowy Sunday morning, I'm the only shiksa I know to have the Star of David embossed on her birth certificate (that's right, BSW, I'm honorary). The OB's name was Dr. Gergely, which is probably why he got into the baby delivery business. It was that or product development for Listerine. I was 8 pounds even, 21 inches long. The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck as I emerged, and I had hiccups. When Mom saw me for the first time, she said my eyes looked like bluebirds.

When I was 8 years old, my godmother Yuriko advised me never to tell anyone how old I was, because that's how people would then view me. She assured me no one ever gets past that information. Such advice at such a tender age had little resonance for me. Now, of course, I see her wisdom. Most people need frames of reference, and age is usually the first question they ask about another human being. That's fine, I guess...but most people also allow the frame to upstage, even obscure, the actual work of art. When beautiful, lithe yoga instructor Yuriko turned 50, those who knew her actual age couldn't quite believe she'd been on the earth for half a century. In response to the phrase, "Wow (or Damn), you don't look 50," she borrowed a line from Coco Chanel: "This is what 50 looks like."

You who really know me know I am not my age, and don't look it (whatever "it" is!). For that, I credit the blessing of good genes, possessing the body, mind, heart and soul of an artist, quitting smoking, drinking and drugs, not consuming megacarbs, lots of sunscreen...and making the choice of right attitude. After all, the body is merely a vehicle for the soul and the mind and the heart. All of which are in fine tune these days...and I couldn't ask for a better present than that.

OK, a DVD/VCR combo, a digital camera and a new sound system would be very nice.

Thursday, January 08, 2004

To Cool - 19 August 1993

Appreciating the common ground
this friend of mine and I tread;
our lives so much and so little the same.
So long have we known each other,
and only now have we reached
the bottom line.
Beyond financial status,
generational distinction,
intellectual affinity,
community standing, belief system,
astrological sign, career path.
Just this experience,
this knowing,
this love.