Ride the Human Crutch

don't we all have a crutch? - a human crutch we lean on every once in a while when our own two knees begin to wobble and buckle? and what is wrong with that? what is wrong with reaching out and asking for help? yes, the feeling of helplessness is acknowledged, but isn't that better than absolute defeat. don't we all need a partner every once in a while? don't we all need help sometimes? advice? another set of rose-colored glasses to help better decipher our own delusions of grandeur? we should all be so lucky to have a crutch, or two, or three. without them, we'd never be able to get back up after being knocked down!

I want you to hold me -

even though I fight.

Tie me down if you have to

and cover me with kisses,

until I’m bruised and can sleep.

Wear Your Seat Belt

Love – the world’s biggest vulnerability ever. Just stay clear, love is a worm hole of catastrophe. There's nothing worse than the leftovers of emotion, the discovery of Nothing, finding the small man behind the curtain – it's like the lights coming on when having sex with an unattractive person. Keep those lights off, keep that heart closed – it's  safer that way. And this advice is free . . .

You know what’s scary? When you wake up from a night of heavy drinking and your husband (or whoever) thanks you for the great sex, and then asks if you’re “okay.” Sometimes it’s just better not knowing…

Learn Your Lesson, Please

King Henry can hurt from the inside,

Feel good on the outside,

And break your smile

Because he does absolutely nothing good for your heart.

The Tango

           The tango is a struggle between dominance and submission. The male dancer leads, the female dancer follows. In actuality, she allows herself to be led. She moves her body backwards at the same second he brings his body forward. The audience is led to believe he is strong enough to move both their bodies. What a strong man. What a submissive woman. What a perfect match. What a beautiful dance.

           I have danced the tango every night for the past hundred years without ever stepping out onto the dance floor. The first time I ever danced the tango was forever ago – the first time I ever saw him. It is an odd feeling; the recognition of destiny. The realization that you will dance under a spell for the rest of your life, or until guilt whittles you down to your knees. My first dance and I thought: For you, I will dance the tango. Forever. For you. I once read, with stars in my eyes, a piece on the tango, which described it as, “public displays of intimate miseries, shameful behaviors, and unjustifiable attitudes. The tango is…a spectacle of traumatic encounters, a story of meetings between those who should never have met.” As is necessary for one person to follow the other, I have never endured the grace to do so – yet I have danced the tango every night. I have mastered the steps; the intricate precision of rehearsed and practiced motions – I am a master of the tango’s illusion.

However, the tango, like many things in life, is not something one can simply forget how to do. Once mastered, the steps to the tango become engraved into your mind, as if they were hieroglyphics from your earliest encounter with civilization.

           How do we rebel against the tango? Against the routine of performing the same acts of submission? It is hard to defy, yet effortless to succumb to. When faced with the raging war on duality, one can remain submissive for only so long. After playing a submissive onstage in front of an audience for so long, it is inevitable for us to rebel. Rebelling against the restraints of oneself is most painful, especially when we have tied our own knots.

           After years of performing – I rebel. It is a constant and unwavering pattern, a cycle, a universal truth. After years of performing, I will rebel. All performers that play submissives on stage, rebel.  Occasionally, after a performance an actor will indulge in actions very unlike himself, in efforts to prove that he is nothing like his character onstage. Or occasionally, after a performance an actor will indulge in certain addictions in order to escape the role he plays onstage, to forget the fact that the next day only brings the same routine, the same lines, and the same dance. Or occasionally after a life time of performing, an actor will become an introvert – weary of performing exclusively for the delight of others and longing to forget the stage and unlearn the steps. This is an example of the great lengths we will go to, to distance ourselves from what binds us to submission. I believed the only remaining relic of my youth existed solely in my husband’s memory of me. But, like any good archeologist or tomb raider, I uncovered real proof that I once existed. I found a fly-away sliver of self that I had written. When Nina Simone said “You’d be so nice to come home to,” she meant herself, for we are our own missing piece. But he, he is paradise. Yet, at the end of all my performances, the shell is still empty and only ghostly remnants of vibrancy exist in faded versions of written stories and these fragments of poetry. Entire lives can be lived onstage; the actors die each night only to be reborn again prior to the next curtain call. The world becomes your audience and it is all around you.

           There are endless avenues we tour on our journey to rebelling against the tango. Some people living a submissive life – whether on stage or off - choose to rebel by leading double lives that no one knows about; seeking deviance before going home to a yellow house with a white picket fence. Others rebel by being mentally defiant. I am dancing the tango with you, but thinking about another leading man.

           I have had many other roles onstage that influence my rebellion offstage. I rebel against the tango off stage by being dominant in all other areas – except for my performances. I have played World’s Best Mother in which I was a member of the PTA, classroom Mom, and book fair volunteer (I won an award for the portrayal of that character). To counteract this consuming role I became a recluse each night after bedtime. Retreating under the stars to the backyard shed for solitude and to inhale long, deep hits of burning tranquility. I hid from my other roles by relaxing during this one. I once played the role of a perfect housewife a housewife that kept a spotless home, and though she couldn’t cook she praised her husband exuberantly for his expert role in the kitchen. To counteract this consuming role – I jumped into many deep pools, some of which I still drown in today. I am tied to my past with cement blocks. Tied tight with tight knots, from which I will never escape.

           Who we are backstage is what makes us either excel or fail at our performances on stage. Since who I am backstage has been replaced with the obsession to master the tango, I live for my performances onstage. Dancing the tango can begin to fade a person, the way the sun fades artwork once bright and vivid. Dancing the tango begins to fade a person the way time begins to fade memory – causing us to fill in hazy pieces of a timeline with wishful thinking. Dancing the tango begins to fade a person the way age fades the beauty of youth – tugging at the tight skin, clawing out the innocence in the eyes.  I feel myself begin to fade. I feel my mouth – once quick and succulent – grow silent and dry, like the desert at night. My hands, once livid with the longing for expression, now cringe at the thought of writing. I feel my legs – once fast moving and firm – grow weak and unable to dance. I feel that guilt whittle me to my knees. I dance one last tango and then I put down my pen. The life this actor once led, the identity once filling her shell, the person she once was – is gone. Instead, I now live vicariously, I live and exist through my well-rehearsed roles and well learnt tango steps.

Fall

Hundreds of titles begin with "The Fall –" there’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ (one of my favorites), the fall of Troy, the fall of Rome, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the fall of Man, and the season – the season is cold, snowy, an end to the warmth of summer. There is crispness in the air, alertness in step, red noses, and cold, cold hands. Even the word ‘fall’ has a negative connotation; people are always "falling in with the wrong crowd," or "falling down drunk," or worst of all, "falling in love," the most vicious of traps. But many do like the Falling . . . and to fall into something - anything - would be rousing wind stimulating midnight's desert.

The Friend and the Lover

Women have anguished over the desire to obtain the perfect man; a man who is both their all desired lover, as well as their most loyal, truest, and best friend. But for as long as that battle to find the perfect combination of the two qualities has raged, so has the disappointment – as such a find is rare. Women today share a struggle similar to that of Sisyphus, we push that boulder up the hill of Impossibility and it grows steeper and steeper with each passing day. Good luck women - may you find your perfect Romeo and keep him tight; may you have the insight to recognize the lover you want – who makes you feel like a woman, and the friend you need – who lets you cry on his shoulder and carries you to bed when you’ve had too much to drink; and may you have the fortune to find the perfect man who encompasses all that we know of love, romance, and Prince Charming.

Insert Bob Dylan song here ______________

Today was an incredibly emotional day for me.  I gave my 2 weeks at the spa and for me, it was a very sad thing. I’ve been so fortunate to not only have a job in this economy, but to have a job that I absolutely love, and to work with friends who I love like family.  I’ve tried (almost to the point of success) to convince myself that I am making the right decision, that the money being offered combined with a better opportunity, is enough to push me out of the nest I’ve grown to love so much.  We’ll see if my self delusions prove triumphant, until then - I mourn the fast approaching changes . . .

I realize Change is essential. It is an unavoidable inevitability, like the falling of leaves, the passing of time, and the cycle of life. So why do we still fight against it, as if we have a chance of victory, as if we can count the sand on a beach or the stars in the sky? There’s no changing the course of Change, or the outcome of fate, there’s only making the best out of life and loving the ones you meet along the way. Realizing this as a universal truth, I cannot help but mourn the path of Change…

Van Gogh's "Two Women in the Woods"

Disturbing the Peace

You know you're in trouble, when you wait for the car to pull up along side you, so can say, "Go away! It's over!" . . . . but it never comes. Don't you just hate those late night spectacles? The loud screaming ones that consist of throwing nearby objects, hiding phones and car keys, and threatening murder? No good fight is complete without a very specific murder threat. But what could be better than making up before you go to bed, and starting a new day? Nuthin...

Oh, Boy...

The days of The Bad Boy are over. Their appeal has simply slipped to pass, much the same way as AquaNet hair spray, Pauly Shore, and Hair Band Rock. Have women grown wiser? Accepting the unforgiving truth that bad boys rarely reform their lives and turn a new leaf? Their originality has been washed out like last night’s sheets.  The Bad Boy is no longer an anomaly. He no longer offers that rollercoaster ride of surprises, in fact he is quite predictable. He no longer stands out in a crowd; he’s simply in the way of a much shinier Prince. And don’t we all just love shiny? . . . And new?  

Ink

You are written all over me - all over my heart with those heavy sighs, encasing my body with absent kisses. You are written all over me - tightly, deeply, seething, and taking, and taking, and taking, and discarding the shell, like the wrapper of a pack of smokes. You are written all over me in the half hearted lies I wholeheartedly believe, you are written through and through the diminished sparkle in my eyes, you’ve inked your name to my bruises, engraving with a hard, cruel hand. And yet you sleep a sleep that is sweet, and pure, and full of tomorrow. And I am gone.

A Dream Within A Dream

We used to have time, and more importantly – privacy. Not any more. It’s almost an inevitable certainty that once you get married and have children – your sex life, your ANY life will, without a doubt, revolve around your kids. From what time you get up, to how long you have to take a shit – everything is determined by your bloodsucking children. I had great plans for tonight, but instead of grownup time, I’ve got Vivian in our bed reading every single Poe poem aloud, Jared reciting Poe in a Pirate dialect, Mikey dressed in nothing but underwear and a Captain America getup while waving a shield and putting marbles and small toys into Jared’s belly button (as Jared recites ‘A Dream Within A Dream’ in Jack Sparrow character), the dogs rubbing their bodies on the carpet and stealing Baby’s stash of smelly scraps, NFL highlights blaring in the background, the phone ringing with calls from bill collectors, and of course – every light in the house is on. Somewhere in this Zoo someone gets hurt, someone is crying because someone else isn’t playing fair, or someone got a little too rough and followed through with a Ninja kick…..and that’s our nightly charade. So by the time I finally have peace and quiet and climb into bed, I have to remember to dust off the animal cookie crumbs, return all the hidden toys and trucks and weapons to their designated areas, it’s been another long, long, long day. And as I lay my tired head down, I go to remove whatever is causing a lump under my pillow and find it’s a sippy cup of milk…..from breakfast.

Orgasm Olympics!

Karma is a bitch – and tonight Karma came back to bite Samson in the ass! I specifically said, “Just a trim” but that’s right up there with: ‘It’ll just take a second’ and ‘I promise it won't hurt,’ or my favorite, 'We need to talk.' So, let’s hope my beautiful hair will make a speedy recovery and grow another four inches at a super human pace! And yes, let this be a reminder to all you bitches – never trust yer sister with a pair of scissors after you’ve laughed about fucking up her hair.

On another note, I’ve learned that exercise can be alot like the Orgasm – control yer breathing, have an awesome partner (or be extremely independent), and you too, can achieve amazing results! And similar to the Olympics, practice makes perfect - there's nothing like gettin' the Gold!

Lost and Found

There are people we lose, either by choice or fate, who impact our lives. For better or worse (and sometimes for both) they leave us; breaking our hearts or demolishing our dreams; or maybe it’s for the better and their absence reforms our existence, toughens us up or prepares us for the world. Either way, the entrance to the heart can often times feel like a revolving door – people entering while others leave, sometimes crowds at a time. Sometimes, it feels like the heart is an empty warehouse or a barren wasteland of what once was, where nothing now grows, not even weeds. Other times our hearts are packed so tightly and on the brink of bursting forth and for some reason this intensity brings us the most rewarding and satisfying feeling ever – the feeling of being alive. But what happens when we lose those stimulating people? Do we just hope for a fresh face? How long do we mourn their departure? Do we hold a place for them, preserving that special seat, keeping our eyes closed for years and years, eagerly awaiting the return of that stimulation? When we find them…. crumbling and deteriorating and no longer exuding that rush we’ve yearned for, only then do we realize they are no longer our lost people, but an unappealing reality. They were lost and found again - but never really ours to lose.

Great Expectations

We all have them, and it's so damn unnerving, how those great expectations can fuck up our outlook on reality. As if we've put blinders on over our already rose colored glasses -  great expectations have us seeing things for how we'd like them to be, not how they truly are, and anticipating outcomes that never existed to begin with - even in the most embryonic of stages. And the mere fact that we are now privy to these great expectations only emphasizes their piteousness. I suppose we always have the choice to unplug from 'The Matrix' and expose the transparency of our great expectations; their sugar coated facade, their false identities, their man-made euphoric sensations, their false feelings of security, their fantastically imaginative futures…. and when we open our eyes, we’re left with nothing but the memory of a beautifully unfulfilling delusion. Until, we create another one.

I remember you
though you may've forgotten me-
though you may've spread my ashes
or buried me at sea.


Flourishing in youth
you've been revived and reborn,
softening and diminished
I've lived monotonous and forlorn.


But, I still see your eyes
I know their color blue,
though your memory of me has died -
I still remember you.

Morning

There is something
so exciting
about the freshness
of New -

the contorting
and morphing
of an old
point of view.

Funny Story. . .

Let me set the stage for you; I'm coming ‘round the last quarter mile of my walk and it’s a straight uphill incline. I’m drenched in sweat – it’s dripping off my neck and running down my back (my makeup is in place thanks to MAC and La Bella Donna!). My hair WAS in a ponytail, now my afro burns are jumping out, and I keep looking all around for snakes while walking. So I'm walking past a house with a gangster parked out front, chillin’ on his low rider (ok, I'm stereotyping, but whatever! All my uncles had ‘em) and this poor guy says to me, “Hey, you’re the most gorgeous thing I've seen all day.”  And I’m roaring with laughter on the inside because I know I look like a sweaty piece of mess, and I said to him, “It’s dark dude!” but deep down it made me smile....and want to exercise more, and shit - if I was the most gorgeous thing he'd seen all day then he needs to do some sight seeing! Seriously!

Wilting

I’m afraid that maybe I’ve missed out on something, and it's lost and gone. Today, Jared and I were eating lunch and I had this sudden urge, this sudden pang, to have a baby. Not just any baby – but another Mikey. I felt like he was slipping away, growing up, and I was missing out on him. Years have gone by, and I’ve wondered were I’ve been….? Where have I been while Jared’s hair has been falling out? – I just suddenly noticed it. Where have I been while Vivian stopped sharing everything with me? – I realized I didn’t know the answer to one of her security questions on her phone. Where’ve I been while my “marriage” became a routine – a habitual cycle that repeats day after day after day…..where have I been while I turned ordinary? Old and ordinary, and no longer charismatic and vibrant. I’m wilting. . .

Into perspective

The scariest thing to ever happen to me, happened recently; one of my biggest fears in all the world, nearly came true. And finally, after three days of shock and disbelief, I can finally take a deep breath, enjoy a glass of wine, and say to myself, "We got through it and we're okay."


Over the weekend Mikey fell into the pool, was pulled out by Jared and given semi CPR (as Jared noticed complications with breathing), went into a febrile seizure, spiked a fever of 103 point-something degrees, and taken in an ambulance to the hospital. He was given meds, an IV, and admitted for observation. His stay was brief, 24 hours. And it was truly the hardest, most painful 24 hours I think Jared and I have ever been through. At his follow up visit with his pediatrician, he was ordered neurological tests to make sure everything upstairs is fully functional, and though I'm sure it is, I cannot help but feel shadowed by a huge "what if?" It sneaks in as soon as I think I can relax and feel safe . . . "what if?"


When I first flew into the ICU, saw him lying there on the gurney with tubes and needles, Jared looking SO weak and SO scared, I wanted to die. I thought, "this is too much. I’m not strong enough." I wanted to die because I was so scared of the pain I would feel if Mikey did not... if anything happened…I was scared of what I could not handle as a mother. I was scared of that darkness. And there were times during those 24 hours that I was NOT strong enough, that I lost it, times when I knew what "going crazy" really meant. The night Mikey came home from the hospital he slept in the bed between me and Jared (sick or not, that’s his usual spot) and after he fell  asleep Jared and I just laid in bed staring at him, much the way we did the night we brought him home from the hospital when he was first born. We kissed him all over; touching him, caressing him, smelling him, loving him, because we were given a glimpse of a future that we never want to experience, a future where we have voids that would rapidly eat us away…


It's difficult to convey just how helpless I felt and I'm sure Jared felt the same way, if not worse. All I could think about was how much we had waited for Mikey; planned his conception, his birth, his absolute beauty, and even his life - the path he would take, the choices he would make (how they'd all be the right ones and we would have our selves to thank), and the man he would become. I begged God to "make this okay, just make this okay" I made promises to Him, anything and everything, I just wanted my Mikey. Those 24 hours he was in the hospital with an IV, and up until this very moment, I cannot help but recognize just how precious he is to me, just how much I love him, just how much I need him. I suppose it isn’t until the existence of something you treasure most in the world is threatened, that you learn just how fragile that existence really is. But it also makes me scared, very scared that I might one day feel that overwhelmingly paralyzing feeling of being helpless, knowing that we are so small in this very big universe, that at any moment a candle's flame could suddenly . . . extinguish.

                           

"When I was yer age...."

I was talking to Vivian about school; the funny and happy times, and the scary and miserable times, that encompass that which we call "growing up." I realized (after I opened the conversation with, "When I was yer age...") that I had a wonderful time growing up. I had a coupla of the best, most loyal, and most wonderful friends. I was smart and thank god I was allowed the space to grow - and make mistakes, or fuck ups, along the way. I played a very important role in the upbringing of my brother and sister, practically leading double lives that many teens keep secret, and eventually I became a strange adult.....and it all started because I had a great time growing up. I had (have) some awesome friends, and I've know some great (strange) people.

Roundtrip Ticket

I don't know what the hell I was thinking taking a trip down memory lane, via Facebook. I've read a number of articles about how that very same method of transportation can lead to serious obstacles, and perhaps, even passage into desolate terrain! (Spooky)

Although my travels lead me looping through winding tunnels of memories and ascending peaks of forlorn contemplation - unsuspectingly, my procession pulled back into its unfailing, and very stable, station. I came back to Home.

I found an old friend, does anyone else do that? Pour salt in an old wound? So, I found this old friend of mine, who was one of my most favorite people ever. She moved away Freshman year and I haven't seen her in 13 years.....damn - I sound like an old Grandma. Anyway, she was one of my first best friends, and the sad thing is that Ive only had a few close friends, and one of them I had children with! Therefore, I must be such a fukin' hypocrite; preaching to Vivian about the importance of making (and keeping) friends, while my idea of "going out" is drinking with my friend from work while her esthetician-mother does my facials and waxing!! Next I'll be partying with the mail lady as she delivers my mail, and drinking with my GYNO every March. Do I need to get out more? Yes. Because I'm turning into a bitter old lady.... and Jared's too good looking to be with a cougar.

I learned two new things at dinner tonight:

#1) My mother collects (among many other things) temporary tattoos from gumball machines. Tonight at the dinner table she just happen to conveniently whip out a stack of temporary tattoos (rubber banded together the way the mafia and rappers keep $100 bills). You name it, she had it; dragons, flowers, crosses, crosses surrounded by flowers, skulls, "little homies," gang tagging, rainbows for the gays, skulls with guns, skulls with snakes coming out of the eyes, naked women, naked men - you name it, she had it in a temporary tattoo. I think she must have "invested" thousands of dollars worth of quarters into this "collection."  This discovery generated two different emotions; 1.) admiration - for the kind of fervor one must have, in order to continue to build such a wealth of unique specimens, and 2.) shock and terror - that someone would waste so much of their life and money purchasing, and then idolizing, such pieces of absolutely worthless shit. At that moment I seriously pondered my mother's sanity....

What the fuck, man! My mom has this omnipresent delusion that there will be some sort of catastrophic disaster and the fate of mankind will lay in her possessing a magical, celestial,  last-of-its-kind low rider el camino tattoo, which she alone will possess somewhere amongst the stack of other priceless artifacts.......

and

#2.) Mikey likes to make announcements. Sporadically, at random intervals, Mikey made a number of announcements; when we sat down at our table he announced he "had to go pee, NOW!" When our food came he announced to all who could hear that Jared and I were "eating disgusting food." When he was done eating his rice, he announced it was "time to go home." When my mom pissed him off because she wouldn't share her temporary tattoos with him, he announced that she was a "caca jerk caca" . . . . and then his departing announcement as he walked out of the restaurant - "I just farted!"

FUN AT THE PARK

The other night at the dinner table, we were all talking about how our day was: Jared was telling me about how great Mikey is at Baseball - that earlier in the day Mikey was hitting home runs! I look at Mikey to confirm this good news, and while chewing his steak (or whatever it was Jared had cooked for dinner) Mikey smiles and nods in agreement as if saying, "Yes mother, I am a young Derek Jeter." Jared and Mikey go on to describe their fun and exciting athletic excursions they've engaged in: the Baseball; the home runs; the fastballs Mikey was pitching; Mikey’s pristine ability to hit a fastball and a curve ball; and Mikey’s amazing talents that have been genetically passed down to him from Jared.  As Jared tells me about this day of robust, adventure-filled, action-packed, energetic fun (the baseball, the pitching, the hitting, the running, the sweating, the falling-down-and-getting-back-ups, the HOME RUNS) I finally ask . . . . “Wow, so, how long were you guys at the park?” Then, Mikey and Jared give each other a puzzled look, and Mikey says, “We didn’t go to the park, Mom. Me and Dad play IN THE HOUSE!” ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh…………

Awww, Mikey's making me watch "Marmaduke" and its the lamest movie . . . Okay, okay, its really cute!

Mikey's Weenie

Last night Mikey referred to his weenie as . . . . . . . a "bone-uh."

Yes, he was saying "boner."

He pointed to his weenie and said, "I don't have a bone-uh, yes-tuh-day I  had a bone-uh, but tuh-day I don't have a bone-uh."

I was too shocked to respond. The whole potty-training thing has brought alot of attention to his "anatomy," thus producing a number of questions which get directed to Jared, who is better qualified to answer. Well.....I thought he was better qualified. I guess I kinda have a choice; either I take over the potty-training and eventually turn him into a little boy who is scared shittless of fecal matter and takes a piss sitting down, OR, let Jared keep up the "good work" (yeah, Mikey shit his pants again today) and experience those occasionally odd, yet hysterically entertaining, cluster-fuck moments of random, childhood outbursts.

Maybe Jared and Mikey have been spending too much time hanging out in their man cave, because they're starting to pick up each other's knack for descriptive word choice.

My kid shits the floor!!!

Mikey has hit a major obstacle in his potty-training saga. He won’t shit in the toilet! He'll just shit his pants and let the turds tumble on out, and onto the carpet. It gets better - his father (instead of punishing him) just follows him around with a bucket and brush, and a can of foaming carpet cleaner.

Now, I can appreciate the fact that Jared is an excellent parent, and awesome at taking care of everything from the housework and carpooling, to the potty-training and bill-paying, but he has got to do something about this shit-fest that goes on every day. Mikey needs some sort of punishment, some sort of consequence to face after doing something so....well, so shitty.

If he were a puppy, I'd rub his nose in it and put his ass outside........