"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.

"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

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.

"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.

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.)

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?"

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

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

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).]

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?

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.

"One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter." -James Earl Jones

Damn, ain't that the truth?

"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.

...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

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.

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)

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.

"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.

"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.