I was living in the last original apartment in the Chelsea Hotel and working on the first real attempt to writing a story about my life at about thirty years old. It was a fantastical universe, an exercise for the imagination, and even a Wonderland. Suddenly, a wall disappeared in heaven, and a real memory appeared as a scene before me as if I could walk back into it. It was ten years in the past, but I had to double check. I was about 32-33 years old, but I had started this story around 30-31. It was the night before my junior year of college at Shakespeare in the Park in Central Park. As intermission ended, the last act beginning, I came out of the theater on the phone with the hospital. I was on hold on the brink of 20. I faced the dark path I took out of the park toward my father’s death and the end of yet another family. I was just going to fall back into it, the whole saga, but just off the road I took, two eyes opened large, green, and glittering neither man nor animal. As I was writing, I didn’t know what this was, so I simply breathed and allowed the image to change shape. From swirling patterns, my heart was filling with a feeling of love without an agenda and being understood as if he had really been there all along…those years with my father began to feel like they made sense. I was very bright but in the dark about my own past. “Death,” I said. I recognized him immediately. He very kindly wondered if I might need some company for the walk…I did. I was lost.
So a character was born, a real idea, that led me to the next day in real time.
I was coming out of the UHAUL on the phone with my father’s doctor trying to put together what was going on. Angrily, his doctor informed me that he had told my father ten years ago that he had onset Parkinson’s. “But what about Alzheimer’s?” Ten years later, at present time, he could no longer deny his illness…and I was told that it was Alzheimer’s. At thirty years old, at twenty, I was totally disconnected from this moment. I wrote, now with this character in the scene with me, that, at the time, I felt as if I had gotten whiplash through ten years in the past. I was ten years old when he received this diagnosis. I never recovered from that moment. You mean…I was right all along? I had never gone back through these dark ten years…I had never gone home, in a sense. I didn’t want to go there. I had been given away to a total stranger, too, when I was four by my mother and spent four insane years with another family due to lies, in one way or another. My father had been accused of being a child molester. It was as if it were a fiction in real life. It was a story that I didn’t want to be apart of.
It was a flash of a moment—whiplash, Death understood. He continued to lead the way home from this moment. I didn’t know where we were going…I was following a character that put me in my heart. It is only the heart that can see through the darkness…since I was in the dark. Up the steps of my old house, it was empty, not even a light. There is nothing here, I said. Suddenly, Death moved through a thick black…this is all material, he said. I would come to learn that I was repressed. And a Native American told me that storytelling is a form of medicine. Death was the oldest storyteller, he had been a part of every story ever told…a real idea, and in some cultures a real guide. Reaching the top of the stairs, I stood in my old homework room which was a large square with a skinny window in the corner that still had the Japanese-inspired shade leftover from the years that my mother used the top floor as her office. We slept in the master bedroom—shut away. The small room would become my bedroom after these four years I spent in another house. This was my homework room. Death’s eyes were the fiercest—very present. There’s nothing here…that’s what I understood. A great healing journey began. I might have been writing a fiction, a way to treat my childhood years, since they were in the dark. It was in the process of writing that I began to understand that I had no clue. I had gotten a job, started something else, you know, because the fantastical world I was in came into a new light. But this character was on my mind, all the same, though I would really begin in 2020.
My writing mentor read all the drafts that I would begin writing that year and he asked me “what’s the feeling?” I had no idea. I was stuck in my life…I couldn’t quite get past this story. The Chelsea Hotel, the last original apartment, became a splendid setting for the beginning of this fairytale ending and new life beginning. A truly amazing apartment. It’s not that. It was part of the inspiration that came from the space, too. The antiques, another family’s house, once again, with bright ceramics, a deep blue on the walls, no working plumbing….but fine, I got a space at a woman’s co-working space down the street with showers because I was living for free, they helped me out as artists and who in my generation would have this chance, in a sense, as it was being somewhat destroyed in the eyes of many. I came out of a childhood tale, and I had started doing plant medicine therapy, too. I was particularly interested in patterns, especially traumatic ones. I wanted an end, in a way, and it was a character that emerged from that full-hearted wish. It was a good question.
I could change, I could heal. It was in my capacity. Now, at thirty-seven, I understand the pressure I was under. Franco Franzese knew as well. He could tell.
It was across the universe. This story is inherently psychological. It was my childhood preoccupation in secret. I never told a soul about these years. I didn’t really have parents. These were the realizations I began coming to with this character, and in my mind, Death never goes anywhere. It’s an idea that lives in every moment. There is a beginning, end, and every day, he would tell me, is a new day. It was moving, because finally, I had someone, even if I invented it, who was there strictly for me. It was my life. Death could not help that he existed. What it means turned out to not just be “a literal death.” I was going to go through a fundamental shift in my perspective. But there was a higher perspective that was going to lead me through it, and we all hold wisdom. I had to become an adult that emerged from my real experience. I was totally disconnected from my feelings, I had never seen myself as a child, and I didn’t even understand that. It was a character, too, who existed regardless of the reality—fiction, nonfiction. It was time to resolve my tensions between all of this. The idea that my father had Alzheimer’s, the he was sick the whole time, would not land for a couple of years. I was also a mysterious person. I was psychic, too, which I don’t tend to use as a word just due to the projections, fears, and distrust around it. But of course to Death, this character, that was not a problem, obviously. I would make my own decisions about how I wanted to focus that.
The year my father was diagnosed with his dementia, I had two experiences I couldn’t explain. But as a small child, mystery was nothing new. I had grown up in the Catholic Church, though I left at twelve, and I had major issues around that religion. A major chord, not a minor chord, though a minor chord is simply an arrangement of notes. In other words, I was reading about mystery, basically, and to me, spirit never abandoned me, so I investigated the Catholic Church. I had many undercover investigations. My parents were “my cases” and I was assembling psychological profiles. All by myself. My mother was apparently a prodigy, though she was insane, and her psychological architecture was the subject of great fascination for me. Death understood. Maybe I was scared, but I wasn’t at the time, but then, the idea that I ever scared was not even a thought in my mind yet. And yes, it would turn out, I was. My mother was scary, okay, to me…at four. I was scared, very. My life had been deemed a little unbelievable, regardless, and it had isolated me a little bit. What could I say about that? Again, Death had been a part of every story ever told, so there was nothing he hadn’t seen, though he would never even say that. My story wasn’t that unbelievable.
“Time bends…” to this character, he was keenly interested.
I had two experiences where my perception of time changed. I didn’t know that these two events were related though I couldn’t forget either one of them. These were very real. The more acute experience happened the first time I went to Paris with my father, coming out of these strange four years. As a nine year old, my father was in a state, and I felt a shift in consciousness, and I asked myself what was happening. Oh, time is bending came into my head, and I was rather shocked. It was one of the most significant moments in my life. It was awesome in a real sense. Time can bend? I was getting information. Somehow, I was seeing probable futures? Every future, okay, I was nine, exists as an idea. There were some futures more probable than others and points in time were ablaze, generating energy. I felt at one, actually, and I didn’t have any problem; it was disorienting at times, and I cannot even speak to how long this was. Not long. I was trying to simply understand what I was experiencing. And no matter how improbable, okay, I was nine, it can exist. So, there were many more options than we typically see. We are limited by our knowledge. I was shrugging because it made sense. It was a large experience to have at such an age, and it was Death who told me. One of the visual points that took time to land for me…since I was writing these scenes with a character that brought them to life and gave me valuable insights…was that I was small. He didn’t belittle me, but he looked down at me. Down there. At the time, even as an adult, I hadn’t quite put together that my father was wandering off, muttering to himself. “I should have bought her flowers…” Nevermind, it was his last word before he drifted off leaving me back here with an energy state I didn’t understand. I’m very sensitive in that way. I cannot help that. Finally, I began seeing a hypnotherapist as an adult who worked with me in terms of energy for a little while. “That’s the Alzheimer’s” he said, but that much later. I was a child, too. I have heard the phrase “children are like sponges.” It’s not that farfetched. You know, to Death, who was not ill, he would have taken me to see a neurologist. Really? Yes. That’s what “time bending…” means.
I had to laugh, sometimes, no?
I could play the fool. Death had seen it before. In poems, even, things like this.
This moment in time became a central image for the story…points in time illuminated…a child who was quite moved by all this. It took time to integrate that. I had wondered what it had to do with my mother, since she was a special person, and I’m not even saying that in a positive way, perhaps. She was a tough character to digest. So, you see, once you start digging, there were many feelings there.
It’s just that, as a nonfiction, it might exist outside of our typical understanding of it.
So, I figured I might as well write a novel, a fiction, inspired by real events.
It’s just that—it really happened. I was writing a story that had to do with my childhood.
I guess a fictional character, which is funny, because it’s a real idea, but then, there are nothing but real ideas inside of a fiction. I was recently reading about Steinbeck’s East of Eden and how Cathy Ames represented evil. That idea. Is that a real idea? Well, it depends on who you talk to. It’s also why I enjoyed this character because regardless, again, he existed. But yes, he’s a fiction, no? I mean, it’s not that I literally thought that he was real. That Death is a figure who performs a job for us all. It’s a characterization of a real idea, which is nothing new. Death as a healing idea…I liked that, because it’s true, too. Now, Death escorted me home from these four years…in the backseat of my father’s car. He was talking to me—my inner child. In reality, I was talking to myself, obviously, making a bridge, if you would. I was disconnected from that child. I was an adult beginning to craft a story. And I meditated and created a connection with a point in the future, I know, that was a place I wanted to get to. That’s what it was. It was a little easier starting to go through it because of the design. I watched The Hours…here we are. There’s the reality of the book, it’s layered, there’s nothing new about it. The interconnectedness. He said that there were such a thing as a proper end, okay, and it was soothing. It’s just going through all this wasn’t easy, in reality, and no, it’s not exactly healthy to not feel anything. It’s time to go through it.
Through the drafts…I was coming to understand so much, personally, so it was quite an adventure. There was delusion, too. There was nothing new about that either. It was intimate and personal and as well as universal. The thing is, I was given away at four, so that’s step one, more or less. And one’s cleverness can work against them. As an idea, you cannot outsmart Death. Not possible. “Your whole life flashes before your eyes…” that’s an idea, right? Everything from your perspective. What does that mean? Your whole life…meaning? What does that mean? We have one life as far as we need to know. How did I want to feel? About all this. There were indeed different probable futures. Different outcomes depending on the steps I took at this moment—and yes, his eyes could glitter. Love without an agenda. Life was meant to inspire me. I spent some time with this idea simply because I was, personally, getting so much out of it, even if it was hard at times. Do people hang on? Even if it doesn’t work…Feelings began coming alive. He could not help what those were. I wanted to be joyous, happy, and to not let all that affect me. Was I hurt? Well, yeah, probably. There were voices in my head—other people who got involved. At four, was I really the biggest bitch that ever was. Forget the truth in this case, you see. Why was I defending her? After getting involved in such a way, playing child molester games. You see, to Death, it wasn’t “shameful” or “inappropriate” to talk about. These are the facts of your life. I never had this attitude either—it was part of what I didn’t understand. It was why I launched “an undercover investigation” because life was mysterious, reality was, and so were human beings. Yes. All the same, I was guilty, I blamed myself, and my parents didn’t “go away.”
It was time to leave some of these ideas aside…anger, even, get angry at all of them. Stop trying to be so understanding of the human condition or something like this. It was out of whack because my father and I only fought. My parents were difficult to understand. And believe or not, it was my time bending experience that would help me stop the physical confrontations between us. It’s true though. Again, I was twelve, and Death was still fine. After the journey I took, I’m more on that side of things. Fine. I would become a parent to myself, I would be able to make this step. Death had no attachment to all this; it’s a Man thing. So, obviously, I was affected by all this—a little psychologist…in secret. Very serious.
It’s a healing journey…and a “re-membering.” I had heard that phrase come into my head at four before I even left for the Brazilian household…
“Remember me.”
Probably this character showed up about a year, and maybe less, before quarantine arrived.
It was then that I finally started trying to put a book together. And as an exercise, I spoke outloud for twelve hours, just to get the story out as I understood it. At the end, that moment came back: me at four, sitting there in front of the mirrors that covered my mother’s office…and it was the first time that I saw myself at that age. “You mean, she isn’t dead?” No. I was living in another apartment—and I would move a lot that year—and it was the beginning of the rest of my life. Connecting with this part of myself. Remember me.
I had gotten by the end of two relationships, and maybe not even because it was so soon, you see? I was given away at four. I had no idea why it had struck such a chord. There were many things that had to change about my attitude and approach. It’s not a wrong thing, it’s a trauma thing. But no no, I wasn’t traumatized, no no. Yeah, a small child. I couldn’t trust anyone, but Death, yes. I was learning how to trust myself, which wasn’t, in reality, that easy. It was inner child, connecting to myself, and it’s a concept that applies to everyone. We’re talking about the universe of a child who grew up in peculiar circumstances. If you think about the film Pan’s Labyrinth, it wasn’t about war…but it was about repression, illness, and healing instead. And look, to a character like that, maybe I was quite a smart child, but it was too stimulating to be seen in that way. I wanted nothing to do with my mother’s smarts, her obsessions. The idea was not unhealthy, it was the opposite, but it wasn’t like romanticized. It was a fact. It existed. I didn’t want to get a surprise—trauma, repression, affects the body. And I learned that the deep emotional healing that people were experiencing with ayahuasca, for example, according to a doctor, seemed to be having almost miraculous effects on a variety of illnesses. So, that’s what it was really about.
It took some time to get back to my house…for my house to come to life again. And it’s true. “All my undercover investigations,” Death’s eyes between the shadows of my pink blinds. My inner monologues, because I thought a lot, I was quite serious and considered…I remember many of those because I made all sorts of decisions. And that…we went through those. I decided to go down specific agelines because I made decisions. I had decided at about nine years old, maybe ten, but I’m not sure to befriend this concept called death, this real fact of life, because I saw it as the real root in my father’s malady, whatever was happening to him. And all these years later, there he was—a character to lead me through these years, so it was an idea I had in childhood that came to life once I started reopening all this, even if I was in a bit of a fantasy at first, because it was thoroughly confusing. No one understood, quite literally, what was going on. There is more than meets the eye…too. I knew that. Maybe my mother had a different approach to reality, not untrue, at first. Who knows with that? To me, Death was a master psychologist. It made sense. Yeah. The thing is, one’s cleverness can work against them. Cleverness, power, control, these sorts of ideas…meant nothing to him. As an idea, you cannot outsmart death…not possible. To me, it was deeply relieving. No, no, he assured me, a gentleman, a consummate professional.
I was unclear about the enormous amount of energy around this concept. I know. And my father’s religion was not helping him through this time in his life, speaking as if he were already dead. I was the one who was trying to tell him that he was not dead. He denied his illness—to the point of violence…even. Maybe it was the illness itself, but all the same, it goes to show how sick he was already. Do we want to face these moments? He wasn’t alone there. It’s just that I was the problem—not him. I mean, the psychological crack up. These four years. Death started picking me up, very simply, stepping into the house…telling me it was time to go home now. Ah, a totally different perspective. He treated me at four with kindness. I had been such an awful human being…at four…you know? Yeah, you know, we could sit in every house, and he gave me some room. It was inspiring…as an adult…to reframe all of this…to feel my life open with possibilities that didn’t come from a wide-eyed—I will see the world…I had to deal with my parents. The other families drifted into the background, in a sense, though I was dealing with “an adopted child” perspective, on the one hand, just due to the way my life unfolded…so many disasters, though there were moments of joy…it was the best I was ever going to do. So, on a Pottery Barn couch in New Jersey, I was what, nine ten…twelve, too…the years. The shopping bag that became a real stocking. We worked all this out. As a child, since I was typing, I chose to leave. It was kind. It wasn’t the same experience the more I came into awareness. And yes, those feelings could be sharp. I’m not alone in having come from a childhood tale, let’s say, and yes, it was driving my whole life. I started this journey around 33, 34 years old. I couldn’t change how old I was, and I couldn’t let that stop me. All the things that held me back, that I didn’t realize, and no, it’s not “just you.” Which world, which you? That’s Seth. And that’s a good question.
“Architecture” became our metaphor for a person. It was mine, and this character supported me. I saw “pillars” inside my father…societal, too, and yes, we come from a culture, religion, uh, there’s a lot that factors into a person. Some of those “very real” pieces are lies, for one, and hard, too. He even agreed with my ideas as a child, you know, of thinking about universal laws…human laws…all this. This character ended up bringing me out…and I was an adult reconnecting with so much more than my trauma, for example. That’s healing too. In my case? For sure. It was hard to even open up a space for that. It took some time. Why would anyone say—don’t do that. I didn’t really understand, that’s what I mean. And sure, as a semi-supernatural character…I liked these worlds, too…and the intelligence of this character…the through-line…nonlinear…even…there was a lot I could do once I got over my rigidness…for being a character that was so open. I see you. And I began to really see myself as a child, no, and it obviously put me in touch. I drew myself as a child to the surface. We all tell stories…even to ourselves…and Death was still there.
I myself was surprised by how he spoke to me at different ages…here’s a way through your heart, and you cannot move, because it is a real unknown. As an adult, it was true, wasn’t it, and as a child, that’s the area that we were dealing with. At that age—yeah. I could leave the portrait of Michelangelo as a loose piece of hanging skin…aside. I could go another way, but why do people hold onto to what they do? I had my pathways, no, of thought…I would drive full force down these roads…and there were more. I could call him Wilbur, or give him another name, or her, whatever. Except it was Death, and it’s a literary character, too, inherently, in my point of view. It was also maybe divine masculine, too, in a sense, which I thought might be healing at this time. And a woman has that too. It depends on what you think about those energies, and there were many points of view. Death had no problem with that. There was no gender…you know? There are male, since that’s the name, and female reproductive parts. Lots of problems here, though, we could feel it, so Death could change shape. Eventually, he suggested a consistent face. Having a point of view…could stir up a lot. People who think they are right, you are wrong, and all the gunk of the patriarchy, and what masculine means, what feminine means, and what gender is. Oh yes, I had problems with gender, mine. I was just a kid. It was about finding balance. Chemistry provided a neutral perspective. I needed that. The drama of man, the forces of nature, the building blocks of life, in a sense. I would balance equations after class, because it turned out it was a subject that I had a natural talent for. It was high school, but still, it was the subject that I seemed to grasp. It was like breathing. I mean, once you get…to more advanced chemistry, I don’t know, because I didn’t end up pursuing it, but I almost thought of putting the theater aside…which I did anyway because of the experience that I had. It makes sense, I think. A life can go in many ways.
I’m working on a novel outline now for a grant, because it’s not a memoir, though I myself went on a real journey. In that context, I can continue to open up and explore. It’s just that, maybe someone might say…this sounds unbelievable, but it’s what happened. I don’t know quite what to do with it. But if a person can mistake their wife for a hat, you see, Oliver Sacks would have warmly welcomed me. Excuse me? Probability, yeah…and you know, my father, it would turn out, had Alzheimer’s, though his general practitioner said “Parkinson’s…” It’s just that more than one neurologist ended up saying Alzheimer’s…and he didn’t want to hear it, and I was in college, by that time, so I’m going to go with the neurologists, but what can I say? About what the real root was…to leave it there. The effect that it had on me was very real. On the one hand, I would sense an odd energy in my room…and it would turn out that my father said that the housekeeper of the former owners had been raped in my room. And then, a hypnotherapist would say, well, didn’t he have Alzheimer’s? And what am I supposed to do? Look all of it up—Dani Shapiro. Inheritance. I can only take it one step at a time. I can’t go flying off. It was mind-bending…I mean, just going through these years…It was a fiction but it wasn’t a fiction…The Oldest Storyteller is not a new idea, I came to understand later. I had not read yet…around this character. It’s just a true statement that I came to. My hypnotherapist friend told me about Sir Terence David John Pratchett later…I believe that’s the author. So, I myself have more reading to do, but it’s clearly an original idea. I was glad that the phrase existed already, obviously. So I was dealing with my childhood with this idea as a guide through it…so would that be a fiction inspired by real events? I inserted this character…and a story came to life…it was just that it changed my perspective on mine, because it was my life. It was about healing…and how do you tell that story? I looked up Tim O-Brien, one of my favorites, The Things They Carried…it’s classified under “War story, Novel, Psychological Fiction.” So, it’s a psychological fiction…that’s it. Thank you. I can continue.
I can use the first person, and I know all that, but I wasn’t sure how I wanted to frame it.
With all that lying that was happening, which isn’t what fiction is, it was just hard as a four year old. It’s true, I got so much out of the Seth books. If we can forget the costume a minute. “There’s a natural aggression for anything to come to life…” And there was so much of it between my father and me. It was out of control, but I was the one who was asking questions…but of course, as an adult, I would have asked different questions, too. That was Death, you see, and sometimes, yeah, laughing could be a kind of purge. So, that aspect of Death’s character was my writing mentor—he did not laugh. He said that…it was a kind of purge, he understood. It was an after-thought to ask me…at the tennis club, did that happen? And I was four…and it wasn’t until later…in healing contexts…that I quite literally met women who were coming to this realization…I have one memory…that’s it…and my mother was quite wild with how she approached the priest every Sunday, but still. It was a pathology, okay, that’s what is was without safe boundaries in that regard. Yeah, I was scared. And, at least, there was a character that didn’t lie to me. There was a lot of pathology here, and in terms of what we inherit, I didn’t have to. I didn’t have to become my parents.
I said that….time bends; I had no problem with the existence of mystery…I mean, what a revelation, you know, all the same. It’s just that time bending is a particular event. To my Neapolitan cousins, they had no issue with it. “You had an experience you cannot explain?” Moving on—everyone in Naples has had…there’s mysterious phenomena all over this place. Franco Franzese couldn’t even keep up. It’s just that it was my father—he was my single, sick parent, and I made major life decisions around these events…it was the point. To see “the future” you understand, I suppose it was just one that struck me, I didn’t fully understand, though I saw that there were many, but it was still a large experience…my father’s responses. We were talking in the real, fighting….Franco Franzese confused…about where I was going to college when I was ten. No you’re not! Yes I am! Yeah, Franco Franzese would have probably noticed that I was staring across the Seine, sort of confused, “I’m going to live here one day?” There was nothing I could do…But he himself would not have been in a state, leaving his kid behind, in a bit of a spell. That’s what I mean. And there was a clear before and after….it went back to normal…my experience of time, I’m telling you. Even starting to hear questions in the future, let’s say, was a lot to deal with, right, just given the accusations that were brought against my father and people out there maybe knowing what a pathological liar is…so many unknowns…I had to keep myself grounded, but some of those questions, and now I can talk about it, got very scary. I would go through a lot…in my body, just to say. I was repressed for a long time. It was, in itself, a revelation. No one investigated this situation, and all things considered…but no one wanted to send a child to foster care. But then, there are stories of successful foster care and adoption stories…so. I got here. I’m more than okay, fine, I keep healing from all that. When you think about war, the word seems to apply, and it should, but in terms of one’s childhood, even insanity, I mean, what else can I say? You can heal, I hope so…I’m not trying to put myself on that level. I can move forward.