This week’s blog is a quote from my book, friends. Surprise! The baby is me.
A couple of my blogs have been written when I woke up in the middle of the night to a racing feeling that I had something I needed to get out. I’d exit my bed, access the notes feature on my phone, and the writing would flow into what felt to me a coherent piece, heartfelt, and one that might help someone. I’d then go back to sleep and edit it later, and by the by ask my BFF Nova to read it, just to make sure what I wrote didn’t sound like it was coming from a lunatic.
Well, a couple of nights this week I again awoke at lord knows what hour of the night with the familiar inklings of that feeling, and thought “God! All I wanna do is SLEEP.” Also I told myself I didn’t have a set idea like I’d had with the other blogs that had quickly come to me. I told myself this to justify staying under my warm soft blanket though I was awake for probably two hours, as ideas, like bubbles, came and went, lost forever since I didn’t capture them.
So sorry for being lazy here gentle reader. Lesson learned: when my subconscious mind wakes me up to write, great Scott! I’d better write! Though in my defense I did spend a lot of time this last week prepping for three separate readings of pieces of my book. One took place last Wednesday, one last night, and the BIG one is tomorrow and I’d like for you to come!!!!
Wednesday nights I tend to tell or read a story at Story Salon, as I did last night, and beautiful Beverly Mickins, the founder, asked me to be a part of a four-person show in which I’ll be reading a piece from my book. I will be sharing the stage with three other funny, clever, and talented storytellers in this hour-long show (Mark Reis is a larger-than-life actor/dancer/singer, Stan Sellers is an attractive actor you may have seen on various TV shows, and Vicki Uditz is a quirky, insightful storyteller)!
Art Parlor – 5302 Laurel Canyon Blvd
Valley Village, CA 91607
7:30pm Friday, October 30th, 2015
Snacks and beverages included for donation.
Story Salon has been described as “Gemstones of Narrative. Something new, funny, astonishing.” -Los Angeles Daily News
I’d love to see you here!
I ran into the aforementioned Boy in De Longpre Park in Hollywood a couple of years ago. I didn’t smile upon seeing him. I didn’t think I needed to see him. He, however, did. He told me he’d been thinking about me and wanted to apologize. He said he’d tried to make me feel like a weirdo-freak because he’d felt intimidated by me because of “all those life experiences you had.” He said my past had made him feel inadequate about his. “Really?” I said, suddenly touched and surprised. It was unfathomable that he would be envious of anything I went through, since for me, part of the reason I worshiped him was because he’d had such a normal childhood, and came from what was undoubtedly a together family, his parents in a monogamous marriage and all.
His words made me feel light. Maybe I had needed to see him. I told him I was sorry for the crap I put him through too. During our relationship, for example, when conflict arose I’d shut down completely, my anxiety through the roof to the point that I simply couldn’t talk. I told him I’d since then gotten therapy, which had helped tremendously, among other things, and am writing a book. I told him we’d both been very young and had made mistakes. He said, “You knew and saw things at such a young age that I never did.”*
That’s when I took the opportunity to say, “Were your parents ever in an orgy?” We both laughed uproariously, a reenactment of sorts of the laughs we’d at one point shared, he being one of the funniest people I’d ever met, our good moments quite grand. With that we left each other feeling better than we had before. He back to the arms of his girlfriend, and me, to my Stanley whom I love so much.
*Boy’s dialogue has been paraphrased.
Yesterday I was hanging out with my brother, and others* at a pie festival on the beautiful UCLA campus, and a friend said to my brother “What was the cult like that you were in?” and my brother, who I’ll call Frederick, said “Oh, you know. Worse than some, better than others” and with that we all lost it laughing. Because how do you distill an experience that is so subjective and while you’re having it, ‘normal?’ With that in mind, here’s a tale I’ve distilled just for you.
Girl takes a class, Girl meets Boy, Girl falls head over heels for Boy, Girl and Boy move in together, Girl tells Boy about certain instances in her childhood, Boy reacts in such a way that Girl feel like a total weirdo-FREAK of nature. Girl feels she is tainted and thus worth less, and from then on is even more guarded about whom she shares information about herself.
That was me after college, and one of the reasons I distanced myself from my past. I wanted desperately to be ‘normal,’ like everyone else, and I worked hard for that to happen. It did. As time wore on, my past felt less relevant, and that was the reason it wasn’t the first thing that came to my mind when I decided to share stories about my childhood.
The next blog will tell what happens when aforementioned Girl runs into Boy in a park years after they parted ways. It ends up being a great moment.
*Nova’s child was also in our midst (off hula hooping).
I was walking South on Ivar Ave, near Sunset Boulevard one day, back when I’d first moved to LA, when someone a block away yelled, “I LIKE YOUR FAKE LA BOOBS!” I happened to be wearing a loose tunic shirt, so that was odd. I yelled back “THANKS! BUT THEY’RE REAL, AND THEY’RE SPECTACULAR*!”
A stranger had given me a phony compliment, and I’d corrected them while quoting Seinfeld, because God forbid a stranger think something about me that wasn’t true. At the time I felt differently about myself than I do now. I had gained a lot of weight, and was fluffier.
I ate ravenously to cover trauma and pain. I would only heal from it when I met a person who loved me more for my mind than anything else. We’d talk for hours about social theories, TV shows, politics, relationships, or our screwball families, punctuated by unabated laughter at something one of us had said such as “I don’t plan on having any children that are related to my parents!”
He took it upon himself to shop for my groceries and bought the best food in WeHo that he could find because he wanted me to not only deeply enjoy what I ate, but to be healthy. His months of love in action, in the way I needed it, were more powerful than all the preaching I could ever be subjected to. His love healed me of hating my body, of judging it, of seeing it primarily as a vehicle to please a man. Because to him I wasn’t a body, though he saw my body as valuable because it housed my mind, his favorite thing about me. He helped my mind become my favorite thing about me too.
*I’d originally written “fantastic” in place of “spectacular.” That was incorrect. I was writing around 4am and mixed my words. Many apologies.