Clown Problem# 15: “You’re from another dimension…aren’t you?”

At a book opening, a man came up and said this to me in all seriousness.

Was I? Aren’t we all? Aren’t we in multiple dimensions at all times? Am I from another dimension–was I from Xanadu? Was I flying out of graffitied portraits of muses, whoever they were, the children of Zeus? On roller skates? I mean, I didn’t know. Sailor Moon?

First I am electromagnetic and the next, I am from another dimension.

Was this is my vibe?

I was confused in a girlie lilac polka dress that was transparent tulle with a slip underneath. I had asked my friend what I should wear, but I wouldn’t do that anymore. I had to figure out what I wanted to wear or how I wanted to present myself. I got to a point where I questioned whether my aesthetic was really me. I am taking my time in figuring out what I want to wear.

I have gotten these sorts of reflections before.

I went to a work party, for example, and who knows what the theme was—it was the year I was invaded by the Russians, an antithetical statement. It was a vintage 40s robe over a Victorian-esque shirt with a long silk big pink bow. One of my students came running up to me on Monday. For the entire hour, he spoke to me about his experience watching me at this party…in a monologue, his eyes still following the me who was no longer there in the room. I’d never heard him speak better English. I was like a ghost…here but not here…in-between… the way I moved, in my outfit, it was as if I didn’t have legs…

I was just walking around in costume.

It was really wild to him. I appeared like I was, I guess, in another dimension, also.

Come closer.

Let us discuss the dimensions—tell me what you see young man. Tell me, what are you seeing? What brings you to my shores? In this dress and white heels. Come closer. You see, I know I could do this with him. God bless you. My mother’s real nickname is Dr. J. Take that in. Dr. J, I would have say it again. You are a perceptive man. I believed that Dr. J was not from this planet, as well. Good. She was a buffoon, yes, in the real, classic sense. I cannot help these things. These creatures do not come from Earth, thus you are correct.

I am from this dimension though I am also psychic, but I have issues using this word, tipping my head, as you know. Maybe I can time travel, but I believe we all do. I do not have a linear perception of time, regardless.

Words are not my primary form of communication.

Dr. J was apparently an insane/genius—ah, remember me, I heard it in my head at four—this is her story. Me? I tacked on insane first for good reason. Dr. J gave me away to a totally stranger when I was four and “lied” about my father being a child molester and I have had a different family structure. But was it a lie? Thank you, I feel the support, no I do not need to see him. Let us sit awhile and talk of these things. How to shape the energy, what you see, do not attach, move away. Let us try again—tell me simply what it is that you saw? Where am I? Where are we? Let us penetrate the hallucinatory imagery, real, it’s all real, young man. I could very be in an another dimension currently, perhaps you, you man, may be able to find me…retrieve me…bring me back to this dimension so I may be fully present at this party.

Help—I was withdrawn. I wish I didn’t say half the things I did, to be frank with you, but maybe I didn’t really say anything. Sorry, I truly didn’t understand what was going on and I came from quite a background. I had a nice time though.

Where was I for a long time? I wonder what this psychic young man would say now? I prayed, oh yes, I would see him again. I had a nice feeling from him. During my dark night, he did come to my aide. Just that comment. I hope it was in good fun and I wasn’t being messed with. In any case, it’s all energy and you can shape it, transform it. Everything works in my favor, this is my mantra. Man, what did the Puritan pastor say to his talented daughter in Babette’s Feast? And God’s path runs across rivers, my child. Leave the opera singing behind, take a seat beside me at the table.

Come, come. For truth and mercy have met together. Are we not in another dimension, now, together?

I feel goodwill from this man. Thank you. I am okay. I used my ability to move through the dimensions. The only way is through.

I must work on Health and Wellness freelance material now.

If it turns out that I was—messed with—let me tell you also of my ability to move through time. The feeling was true, regardless. I came from a background that I myself didn’t understand. Out of every door, I had nothing but support—characters who helped me navigate through many storylines that were rising from real, difficult feelings but also feelings coming alive—that I had something to contribute in a real way. Many possibilities opened up and I took the opportunity to envision another way through.

I was aided by real, fictional characters as well…stories that resonated with me, that touched me. They have a life. I appreciate characters for that reason very much. Again, the Neapolitans–I was simply Dante.

“I saw the eye of jealousy,” I said, and then my front door would close and the glass fell out of my peephole—a glass eye. It was a symbol. Without hesitation, a character appeared…with lots of space…”oh, I definitely saw the eye of jealousy…” It turned out to be “my evil brother” in a future conceit. It was time to do a little character analysis. He wanted me to succeed, actually, so he could be realized as my “evil brother.” He was a Joker without a scratch on him—just beautiful, my evil brother, getting ready to deliver the news in a suit. Just seeing him, walking in his suit, made me laugh through this part.

A woman came with daggers, slicing through the fabric of time and space? What was this? It was amazing to witness—a supernatural character reached for me. No! Whatever was happening, it was no. So, I began crafting a team of supernatural crime fighting forces, sure, it has been done before, out of a very specific feeling. It all came from a real place. There was a powerful internal force within me—that turned into forces. I wanted this to go in the best way that it could. I went inside and dealt with the energies internally, because technically, and in this case, it would take care of any external problem.

Speaking of dimensions, my friend, I walked a line, in a way.

It was a unique experience to say the least: Mother’s Day 2021.

“SHAM” appearing on 10th Street…I was like, what? Is this how I feel about myself? Well, no.

Out the corner of my eye, hanging out of windows, am I seeing people hanging out of window calling my name? Is that one of my best friends in the middle? I didn’t want to look at anything directly, because it was crazy. I am hearing this…I got the real feeling that something was going on, but I was going through so much that really happened, so yes, I was rather present through that experience, too. I never had anything like that—but I did go through a PTSD type of experience in which sounds and the environment took shape around these feelings. I knew that, though, even if it was sharp. I

In terms of psychic sight, seeing things, if you will, I am rather advanced, from a certain perspective. I don’t mean to present myself in that way, but I had received training in this regard. I was asked to help a Ukrainian refugee through a hallucination. And I thought about him a lot during this experience. I always tried to learn—I also dealt with it with curiosity, I couldn’t look at what was happening directly, but what was it? It wasn’t real, right? I hoped not.

So I sat in front of this apartment building, keeping it in my soft-focus periphery. Right in front.

A dark van pulled up…I stepped, it hit the breaks, it seemed to respond to my movements.

Now, I really got up. It ended up speeding down the street. Please, some people yelling shit out of windows—flick it. Horus Cafe became my safe place—hookah. I didn’t feel safe in my own home, which was probably very, very true as a very young child. I had to deal with that, which I did.

Remember I was dealing with repression, regardless.

The next day, SHAM was gone, but I could see the outline. It was bizarre. I stood there.

It wouldn’t make that much sense if it were real, but the graffiti appeared rather real. Do you know what I mean? Then, crazy shit happens. I know that, too. It can, it can happen. At four years old, I knew it to be true. In the reality that “Dr. J was a diabolical mastermind” which was my four-year-old perspective, could have there been a spectacle to mess with me? Well, yes. In that, the Brazilian family thing was one. I couldn’t care—at four.

A drunk woman running into this woman’s house…the first time she’s been over? In four years? The Brazilian mother said this woman came over “like twice” to put on a spectacle of ignoring me, fawning all over my friend. I mean, the guilt I felt. Then, the mother of this remarkable child tries to project onto me that I was jealous—and remember, I was studying this situation, though I was young. I was, what, nine years old? Huh.

No, even that, considering where I came from was terrifying and painful. I had to watch her daughter’s horrified face. Who hugged me after this experience. I would never be jealous of that, it sounded insane, and it was. But you could teach it to a child that it was an expected and even an appropriate response. No, I was Dr. J’s daughter.. I wouldn’t wish that person onto anyone.

Feeling took time. I was not in touch with them, though I was a feeling person. So, I was dealing with repression, and due to the intensity of the experience I had to come to some hard terms: Neglect for one. Okay, I called the wise screenwriter. Uh, I uh, maybe wasn’t um, fed? Fed properly?

“Yeah,” he didn’t miss a beat or act like it was shocking.

“And I imagine you weren’t bathed either…”

We talked a little about how neglect was a serious form of abuse.

I remember eating sometimes, but that’s also a weird thing to say, because who remembers what they ate? I liked the broth at Neiman' Marcus…and candy sticks: the texture inside the chocolate, it was soft and bright, and my little cup of broth was tasty, warm in my hands. I could handle that. I was there a few times. My housekeeper I remember her being upset over my eating…she would make me quesadillas…so I remember these items. I also remember birthday cake. Maybe that’s what she was complaining about. My mother didn’t eat, not really. Did Delia bathe me, I think she might have sometimes…beginning to move through them, but memory has its way of functioning.

Eating was a particularly harrowing experience, I have to admit. I settled that, but it was.

The sham graffiti was something. That leg of the event. What’s this? I also have psychic experiences. I cannot deny that. That’s a real thing. Maybe there was a touch of that…in this, too.

Remember me, that’s what I heard in my head at that age, so that’s what I am doing—regardless of what dimension I am from.

Clown Problem# 14: I DO NOT SPEAK TO FAKE OR REAL SECRET SPIES!

I inspired a character on a TV show that Courtney Hoffman is developing called Drama Majors.

I, in fictional form, contend with the reality of my spy identity along with Dr. J’s.

But does Hoffman know, remember, what really happened?

Dr. J told me that her escort, a man who had appeared out of nowhere and saved her from the ashes of this Brazilian family fiasco because she was a genius, was a secret spy.

At the Continental Hotel in Paris, France.

Hear me.

When I came to at my front door at eight years old, wondering how I got there, to see peppy slacks coming down the stairs—the words “secret spy” flooded my senses before I saw him. Not that he was one, but he acted like one. Why is he acting like a secret spy? Now I was getting confirmation? At the Continental Hotel in Paris, France?

I had told my friends in college about the mysterious appearance of Mr. G after these four years I spent in this Brazilian-Jewish household. No way—they said. No way. Oh yes. Dr. J was back in business—no. Yes. Is that his name, Nate shook his head with big eyes and a chin strap from Long Island. It was his favorite character. I never really saw Dr. J alone again, when I did. Meet G: a man who acted as if he had always been there. The moment I mentioned where he was from, “the suspicious energy” entered the room, so I will leave that aside, because I also saw, in his eyes, many wars. But the spy narrative took fire. Was it true? It was the central question of Dr. J. Now she was going to Abu Dhabi and Dubai, calling me from “Mama’s secret phone” the couple times I spoke to her.

In order to get to Dr. J, I had to go through the escort first. I called him, archetypically, Cerberus.

I could get tap on my shoulder from Nate, pointing to a security camera in a deli. The spy narrative could descend into my present, real reality out of nowhere. I got a call from Nate in Istanbul: “Bosphorus. Jet-skis. George Clooney is closing in on the escort with Anton Yupangco.” (Pilipino royalty, an extraordinary man). I never thought about how it affected me or didn’t.Now, at twenty-four years old, at the Continental Hotel in Paris, France, he worked for the government—Christmas.

“What did you do for the government?”

I asked him.

He would rather not talk about it, looking around the room.

He got up to use the restroom.

So, for fun—here we go. Let me face the reality of her, my, spy identity. I am prepared, if not trained, to meet all realities at once.

I snapped Dr. J to attention floating in the ether.

“Double life,” Dr. J rubbed her index fingers together.

I looked at these fingers, trying to decipher their symbolism, graining away. I was making a face like I knew people could be listening, sure. I was making sure, on a subtle level, even, that I was aware of that and appalled by this behavior. I was simultaneously studying it as I had always done.

What was she doing?!

“Mama doesn’t say anything,” she patted her fingers to her lips, shook her head sincerely, eyes wide. “Mama just does her work,” but yeah she hears things.

I wasn’t taking the bait, but also, I was trying to discern what the hell she was saying because you don’t just go “oh yeah, sure, really? Wow.” I mean hello? There’s nothing “secret” about secret spies, but I wouldn’t play these games. Hear me. But then, she hardly made sense. In a hotel lobby?

“He trains people.”

But things aren’t going well—oh?

Why?

Getting older, can’t climb those mountains…

What mountains? What was she even saying?

I guess I wasn’t “getting it.”

She said “the name” that everyone was searching for.

Are you saying that he is looking for Osama Bin Laden? In my mind. Seriously speaking, at the Continental Hotel in Paris, France? Without much of a reaction, everybody had a theory, so what was another one?

“Where is he?”

”Pakistan.”

Then, he sat down.

The secret spies descending from the ceiling decorated for Christmas, I would put my head down with wide eyes that do not see the spies. If there was a leader here in the political sphere, I knew that I would be recognized immediately. I would not need to explain.

I WILL NOT DIE FOR THESE IDIOTS!!!

NO ONE IN ANY REALITY IS DYING FOR IDIOTS!!!!

HE’S LOSING IT! TELLING SOME GIRL IN SOME HOTEL LOBBY?!

HERE!

I DO NOT SPEAK, THEY DO, THEY SPEAK.

I would have pointed one finger, pressing on the matter of them, refusing to see “the spies” transparently.

I DO NOT SEE YOU! I DO NOT SPEAK! HERE! THEY SPEAK.

THIS IS MY MOTHER WHO ABANDONED ME IN A WEIRDO FASHION, LYING ABOUT MY FATHER BEING A CHILD MOLESTER,

Hands blocking my peripheral vision.

Pay attention, pay attention, this is my Brazilian Mama person who speaks. I would begin on my pinky finger listing the accusations and some of the things Dr. J did.

Excuse me. YOU THINK THESE PEOPLE WHO I DO NOT SEE AND WHO ARE NOT HERE HAVE NOT SEEN, EXPERIENCE, ETC. WORSE? Please, IN THE WORDS OF BARBARA HARRIS,” in an Italian accent.

THREE SECOND LASH?

I do not have the time.

Bringing in some large bloody scene—needing to take care of this?! Putting this on someone—to have to go after me? Kill me?! A random chick? No, hear me. No. But will he/she/they decide they can’t, blah blah blah, will we have a romance? I do not know. I cannot know these things.

I would give my “they speak” pointer finger.

This will not be my legacy. Not for these idiots who I don’t even see! I mean, for real! I do not see these people who speak! I do not know what they do. I do not care if this real, not real, or why—I do not care. Tap my phones, follow me forever, no problem. If this is true, you KNOW ME. And if it isn’t—you know me. My information, I would have emphasized, is yours. With pleasure. I would have been gracious about it. I know, let the people know. Thumbs up. You see? What is the song of Christmas, in an Italian accent, “in NAPLES? MY WAY—FRANK SINATRA AND GLORA BY LAURA BRANIGAN! HEAR ME! The vault, this was my nickname in college, I assure you.

WHO SPEAKS?

HERE. They speak.

DO YOU SEE? I DO NOT SEE YOU. I DO NOT WANT TO SEE YOU! THERE IS NO ROMANCE HERE. I WOULD NOT DISRESPECT YOU.

HERE—THEY SPEAK.

I KNOW YOU ARE REAL. EVERYONE DOES. EVERYONE KNOWS! I HAVE SEEN MOVIES!

Covering my ears.

HEAR ME!

THIS IS A MAN—COURTNEY HOFFMAN. What did she say TO ME?

I KNOW YOUR POWER.

Shaking my THEY SPEAK pointer finger—I would feel the MAN in the room who doesn’t not exist to ME–HEAR ME.

Seriously, sincerely.

Forget the imposters! I am a clown! Hear me!

I DO NOT NEED TO KNOW THIS INFORMATION! YOU FRIGGIN IDIOTS.

THERE ARE MANY FRIGGIN GOVERNMENT JOBS.

Ask me the question..

“Why do you have a house there?”

Family property.

There you go, did it for you, not “I used to work for the government” in a paranoid fashion.

“What did you do for the government?”

Administration, mother fucker. I don’t know, does anyone know? Post office? Pick one. Policy making? Environmental affairs?

Excuse me, I do not like using curse words, but I am in a high stress situation.

Some chick telling some friends making up silly conceits—who cares? Who gives a crap? A man, literally, every single person is looking for?

Tap my phones, hear me. Follow me, please. No problem here. You who I do not see who I do not know and do not want to know—you are welcome to my information.

Not my legacy.

The tension line is what I follow. Now, I do not see. I will get up when I am told I can. I want to set off no, zero, alarms, I am not a spy. Not for these idiots. I do not care. I want nothing to with this, real nor real. What is true, not true. Just idiots. DO NOT SPEAK TO ME, I want nothing, I do not want to know the sound of your voice. I would put my arms and hands around my fields of vision.

CLEAR A PATH so I may address these people who speak. We would be surrounded, obviously. I would make sure as I went to mime school to paint the degree to which this is true. Everywhere.

Do you know what people risk….secret spies? Military Men—AS IN MAN KIND? Do you know what people have to deal with? On behalf of Australia—WTF mate? I am not “releasing top secret information” to some girl, man, at a public space that you have never seen nor cared about—over my life? Please.

I do not need to hear your voice, just clear an exit.

There are lines no? Do not kill me. That’s all I ask. Do not kill me, not for these people who SPEAK.

HERE— a buffoon: an alien creature who comes down to earth to mock, like children, what humans hold to be their most selfless ideals. Here.”

Everyone hear me knows I do not speak. They don’t even know how much I don’t, that’s how much I do not speak. Watch me—I invite you.

You’ll never hear a word, not ONE, hear me!! I won’t have any issues holding in this information. it won’t get “too much.” Please, I would not insult you.

OKAY?!

I would have flicked it in the Neapolitan.

Forget about Dr. J? Sure. She died. Don’t know. No one asks me, flicking my fingers, about this woman. These people. Are you kidding me?! If I found myself in this situation? Death is? A blade. Hear me. I’ll stick to, no problem, my other adopted family? Sure. Who do you feel? Free. I hope she…I don’t need to know. Just get this out of my face. I could have handled that. I don’t want any part in this. I do not want to see you.”

If you must talk to me, please.

I said to the spirit of my father who may or may not have come into my room the night of his funeral.

“NO CREEPY SHIT.”

If he had something to say—write a note. Guess what? I got one. More than one. I do not have the time.

Not for these people who speak. There are lines, no?

Guard them, I’ll guard mine.

AND MAKE SURE that I stick to my nonexistent guns that I do not want anything to do with. Make sure, with palm, and eyes widely not seeing.

I respect you, I could even bow, genuflect, sincerely.

Thank you.

I still will not and refuse to see you. I would hold the line between realities with my hand.

Okay, I will close my eyes or walk out in a ridiculous fashion! I have no interest in seeing “secret spies!”

Do you want me to crawl out the door? Just clear my peripheral PATH. Do not TOUCH ME. Protect me from the people who speak!!

Okay.

Death is HERE. This is a character I am working on. He who is not a man thus does not have a gender. I keep him VERY close. Do you know what he/she/they must deal with? The stories they hold? He is my guide, this fictional character yet real concept. And what did Courtney Hoffman say?“You made it out of Hades, I’m so proud of you.” And who escorted me to the exit? Hades, also here. There are Gods in other belief systems who serve in this way.

Thank you, Courtney put aside an artist’s fund for me.

This is the truth.

Rest assured: these idiots will not go further than here. They speak. That is all: I do not play these speaking games. I apologize because she said it! Dr. J. She speaks again. I do not know this man. I am walking the line between realities out the door—I will dance down the street, I assure you. I will not wish anyone a specific holiday to celebrate, I will not impose. But remember MEN there and not there…

I have seen Gods die to become ordinary Men and I have ordinary Men! Die! To become extraordinary Men!

Clown Problem# 13: “Say aristocracy…” Death said.

I was typing it, so he didn’t say it:.

Looking at the words on my screen, “I don’t say it right,” I said, “and you know it.”

“Try.”

So, I did.

“Aris..tocracy.”

After a few attempts, Death looked at me in Ignazo’s room.

“You have called me a fool on several occasions.”

Writing is magical, isn’t it? I would have never expected such a phrase to come through my fingers. No one had ever asked me to say this word. But Death did.

Clown Problem #12: A cockroach was on the living room floor…

He was still, large.

I scurried behind a threshold and paused.

I stuck my head out…

It was a grand room in the Chelsea Hotel, so he had traversed a great expanse: a sole cockroach.

He was frozen. I figured I had scared him. My head floated to the front door. I figured he was just trying to leave.

I had to go to a birthday picnic on the Hudson River…so I left him the time and space to continue his journey to the door. He was almost there.

Along the river around Battery Park, a British gent—good man—was sipping rosé and asked me what I did. He, too, was experimenting with writing and it turned out he was working on a story about a cockroach! Something about cockroaches and planetariums. I told him that I had just met one who simply wanted to cross the room and leave. We had a whole discussion about this insect…what if they are cognizant, sentient beings aware of what’s going on, we assume that they are “the worst,” don’t we? What don’t we know? Maybe there’s more to them…huh.

I went back to the Chelsea after this exchange, and the cockroach hadn’t moved.

It was then that I realized he was dead.

The old vents were an ocean away for him.

I called the apartment holder to tell her what happened. She informed me that she had packed the vents with years worth of bug repellant—nothing was getting past her. (They don’t function anymore). But this cockroach did. Just one. He got through…to crawl across my floor and die at the very end of this living room.

Turning to it, “this is an extraordinary cockroach,” I said.

So, I named him Wilbur.

Clown Problem #12: My father signed me up for Big Sisters of America…

About to turn ten years old, my eyes were hovering over my globe—Asia. I had demanded for this globe when I was four to understand what this “world” was…I had been blown away by what I had been hearing. Now, I was back from this weird scenario, and I was feeling confused about this continent. I figured I would ask, which I did, for an Asian big sister—it was my sole request—because where was Asia? Where was Asia in my textbooks? I figured, given that I was saved by a Brazilian-Jewish family that I might use this an opportunity to explore another continent…I didn’t care where in Asia, I was trying to give some room. Maybe I would learn a language, I thought that would be good. I had so many questions—what was going on here? Where were you in America? Did Asians call themselves Asians?

When I got matched—I ran, full speed, down the Big Sisters of America hallway—I couldn’t wait to lay my eyes on her. I scared my Big Sister of America. She would begin singing the Jurassic Park theme. Halting in the threshold, frozen and visibly waiting to receive me, I told her to her face that she wasn’t Asian, looking at this case worker. She was ashy blond with highlights well-done, blue eyes from Santa Monica, and a full mouth—attractive. She was about twenty years older than I was working in finance, but she didn’t age.

Without missing a beat, she grabbed her slouchy bag.

“Oh no, I am definitely not Asian,” she said with an assured hand, getting up to her feet.

“I’m from Bakersfield…”

She was tall with a barely detectable drawl…

Crossing her arms, looking down at me, “and you,” she said, “you are not eight.”

Eyeing me, a piece of work, she said to our case worker.

“Eight is not the same thing as ten…”

She was a straight shooter—she wanted an eight year old, not ten.

I blinked. She knew how old I was?

She knew I was about to turn ten and when my birthday was. She didn’t even need to open the file in her hand to check! Smirking, she was a clear, smart person.

She was easy, breezy, quirky: she could brush her layered locks—layers, she would say deliciously—off her shoulders. She could make circles with her hands and perch her voice high; sweet. She was grounded, complacent, with flurries.

With a pointer finger at her chin, we were in a predicament.

I was not eight and she was not Asian.

Where was she from…her accent…it was barely there but her mannerisms, too. Something else going on.

Snapping and hitting her palm, she was driving her pointer finger respectfully around my face.

Her mother was from Orlando, the “real” one, and swinging a little, proud, or making fun of its seriousness?

“Home of the casserole.”

I had never heard of such a thing.

She never wanted to have children, it was never her desire, so she was a very special person who wanted to show up for a girl in this very special way.

With a circle, we could all agree, the case worker did not say one word in this entire exchange, that ten was not eight and Asia was a very large continent. I appreciated it. But where, where is Asia? It was also a large question. I was smart—she liked that. Was she on the basketball team? Ah, yes, she sure was. Hm, she was pleased with me. It appeared, according to her, that we were in the same boat. And she stepped up to me as if a good coach…maybe because she knew more about children than this lady did. She was confident and she had heart.

What do you say, she cut to the chase, we give it a shot.

Wait, what? I hadn’t moved really.

Sometimes, and she gave it me like a coach, you just gotta give it a shot.

The ball.

What do you mean?

Turning her head, you just gotta give it a shot.

Okay, I said, I just wanted to see the world…what’s Bakersfield like?

“Ohhh,” she was laughing, talking to me like a kid but not down to me.

The two of us walked out the door, leaving our case worker behind…

She would always say that sometimes all you have to do is take one clear step and the whole universe shifts…

Arms crossed, she was listening to me.

It was time have dinner with my parent time—at Italy’s Little Kitchen.

Opening her menu, the server made an assumption.

No, no, not my husband—about to turn seventy—not my child.

Yeah, I nodded on that one. I would ask her questions later—straight out the gate.

She would call me the most adult child she had ever met…

Clown Problem #11: I conducted an experiment on lying around the impending release of Mortal Kombat IV in the fourth grade…

Clown Problem #10 - : I went to a “Frozen Conflict Zone.” A Series.

Well, with the 2020 Nagorno Karabakh war that happened during a global pandemic, I am struck because I went there in the spring of 2011…I had to miss the first week of clowning to accompany a conflict resolution Master’s student. And nine years later…this series will take me a little time to write with my “clown acts.” In the words of my mother-friend from Kazakhstan: “this is very important.” It was she who also said, “do you need a mother? I will be your mother, this is not a problem.” Every day, she would open her arms with a smile at my kitchen table covered in plates of food—”come to Mama darling!”

I wasn’t a clown professionally. I wasn’t a theatrical clown. I did end up interviewing a few for my Barbara Harris project. She brought me to discover many themes that intersected with different projects. I will post an interview I did, as a result, with a world-renown clown and scholar about clowning, belonging, and Totalitarian regimes, as I had begun reading Hannah Arendt. In the words of an Afghani-German refugee camp manager, hand on his heart, “I honor her.”

I wasn’t going to talk with a professional clown out of context about what I did, because he also made me realize what I did.

“Diffuses tension…”

It was startling to get confirmation from a real clown. A clown is one of the oldest figures that exists. He taught me that. He had even looked up Barbara Harris, though she wasn’t a clown, professionally. It was an archetype that I was thinking about in relationship to her. So did he. In speaking with another clown, a clown was also, he agreed, “a spiritual archetype.”

Russians from the former Soviet Union came into my life—after this trip. I opened up to her, in a private way, about the experience because she recognized me as a clown immediately. I pointed to her and said—panther! I also heard her to be an oracle, which is a completely legitimate archetype. She was the O/P. The archetype of clown struck me at my core, even if I failed as one in school, but it also happened in that program.

“You will bring the message to the people in their language,” my mother-friend from Kazakhstan said.

“A clown was a political figure, also storytelling, yes.”

I will begin the story at different two points in time: we were in the back of van for five hours on our way to Stepanakert, and we were walking towards the post office towards the end of our trip. I was sending a postcard, because I was interested in knowing when it would arrive. How does an unrecognized republic work?

Through a tiny window with a curtain, a bird in a cage in front of me in the lap of a passenger, there is only one route into this frozen (?) conflict zone: through the Lachin corridor. I remember the intense, passionate, exact, and beautiful conflict resolution Master’s student telling me the story in my kitchen the warmest shade of yellow. There were soldiers along the entire landlocked island, except, here? Technically, this is Azerbaijan? We were driving through here.

In the post office, with my postcard, a mountain of herbs rose with my approaching steps behind the clear barrier.

It was very high, lush, and so green.

I was amazed, the light shining through the windows, pouring in. Nagorno Karabakh means “Mountainous Black Garden,” or so, I understand. Apparently, the descendants of Noah settled here, as in “Noah’s Arc.” It was for the flatbread! It was a specialty in the region made with seven (or, is nine, eleven, twenty-seven?) herbs.

I am in a different time zone as my friend, so I am looking up what the name of the bread is. I tend to be transparent about my process, because I find so much wisdom springs from a position of “not knowing,” and I figured that we would find incorrect information. Sorry if my spelling or the information isn’t right, but the flatbread is called Zhingalov khats. I am eyeing the comments at the bottom of a recipe. So, parsley, though it is listed as a main ingredient, isn’t used, according to this person. One essential ingredient is chervil. It gives the flatbread an indescribable taste. The other essential ingredient, I hope this is right, is chrchrok, or water grass, to give the bread a “juiciness.”

My reaction was greeted warmly, the clerk smiled at me, the light over her.

She came around and invited us to go back there!

I couldn’t believe it—really?

They welcomed us.

Around the table, more than four women were preparing the herbs—the aroma was blooming.

Pointing to this mountain, we ate it. The Master’s student was trying to demonstrate where we had gotten this flatbread.

How many herbs? I remember eleven.

It was time for an Armenian language lesson. I wanted to learn.

We were cooking, sending postcards, going through Armenian conjugations—I couldn’t get it right.

The Master’s student was laughing.

We were present and focused on a mountain a medley of herbs in a flood of light. I was genuinely trying to conjugate verbs.

And the Master’s student was Black and Cherokee: her father was in the last school to be desegregated in the US, and her mother was White European, I believe. She came with that history, too. She respected me, too, in this context—always presenting me as someone of merit.

I thanked them for my postcard, for the invitation, the mountain rising over the counter.

It was an image of the We Are Our Mountains monument, a sculpture completed in 1967 by Sargis Baghdasaryan.

So, “Grandmother and Grandfather” from the mountain people of Karabakh were on their way…to the United States.

More to come.

Clown Problem #9: “Words are not your primary form of communication,” the Wise Screenwriter said.

The first time I was sitting in his living room, I was taken by the objects in this room. His focus was crafted, he was a major meditator. It was thanks to his influence that I began to, though I had been for a long time. There isn’t a right or wrong way to do it. Every thing had a resonance, in particular, and he said that was exactly right. He was interested in “the energy of the thing.” It was his real preoccupation.

Skipping ahead, when he was kind enough to read through my drafts, though that would be a strong word for what they were, he ended up saying this to me: words are not your primary form of communication. He was aware that I would get the feeling. He was careful with me, in that way, especially with my work—and this is my feeling—because he couldn’t help what the process was of becoming a writer, what mine was, what my obstacles were. I would unpack the feelings in my own time. He was very focused in the feedback he would give me. It wasn’t a long conversation, in general. He was the major catalyst behind the character of The Oldest Storyteller: he knows. A good idea. It just so happened that I had made a decision to “befriend” this concept as a child which years later became a character….coming through to help me through this confusing childhood of mine. In other words, I had an idea when I was young which matured into an idea…how characters are born, all that, I am not going off into all possibilities. It was a focused thing. It was important for me—you can shape a lot. The possibilities are endless, Death could say.

These words, though it was odd to receive them, on the one hand, soothing on the other, really helped me. Again, “what the central energetic frequency of this material?” This was his question. It’s all energy.

I do not know what this means exactly, but in some cultures, it would not be unusual or new. I do not know what anyone’s primary form of communication is. I remember someone saying in response to a shaman…she could never quite grasp what he was saying. I understood him completely, there was never a clearer person. He spoke, I said, in feeling, that’s why, not why she didn’t understand, but it was the universal language. Or a universal language? So, words. I can receive words as images. Some people bring it out of me more than others. I don’t know how people receive words.

Clown Problem #6-8: The Ashford Castle Series

“Am I a photographer?”

Listen here, I told the wedding party. Am I a photographer? I believe I might be. Are you? Others wondered, sincerely. Is this my true path…with an I-Phone? I didn’t know.

“Maria is electromagnetic, this is why she cannot use her phone.”

Ben turned.

I was shaking my I-Phone—look at it—it’s bugging out!

Elisa nodded. “Maria is electromagnetic.”

We were headed to do a little falconry. I would meet Mia, my falcon, in a jacket that matched her feathers.

“There’s a lunar eclipse, super moon this evening…”

Get me the shaman!

I cried in my vision-dreams.

I found him in a car, and then, when I came to fully when he called at 3 AM, he explained that he was really in a car, at the time. I knew this! I saw this. There are ORBS.

Clown Problem #5: Do you know who you remind me of?

I’ve had more doppelgängers than years on Earth. When I got to college, I began hearing “you remind me exactly…” of this person. Elisa from Ashford Castle knows…she knows. In front of the experimental track classroom at NYU, which I did not attend, I wondered why have I not met any one of these people because there were so many. Was it the curls? No, people would specify—it is your energy. Elisa remember it well—we were in the bathroom, I didn’t know how to do my hair, having an intimate moment. I began to take on an energy, and she told me that I reminded her of a childhood best friend, if I am not mistaken.

Due to my background, I could feel familiar, I don’t think that’s so “woo woo.”

With this, I began to use it as a moment to inquire more into this feeling, this connection. I take it as a gift, too, that they draw it out of me and I draw it out of them, perhaps. I didn’t know what to do with this trait of mine, it was something that I wondered about for quite some time, just due to the frequency of it. It happened enough.

All the same, it extended to some famous people. I could feel “the people” notice me, not knowing why, but after a while, I was able to feel this frequency. Out the corner of my eye, having a beer, I could see the blurry people discussing whether or not they should come up to me and tell me…who I looked just like. “Excuse me,” they would say. This is Jean Baudrillard: The Simulation and Simulacra. “Do you know who you look just like?”

I believe I might have mentioned him, also.

What am I supposed to do in this situation? Thank you, but, for what? It is a honest question. I normally didn’t say anything. It’s a compliment, which I understood, but again, I had nothing to say. Even if I appreciated the work of these people, sometimes I didn’t know enough, I would express that I didn’t really watch TV. I got around, all the same. I didn’t need to talk about how I looked like someone else, though, you know? Yes, wow, thank you. It was a funny position, something I reflected on, quite simply.

My former therapist said that the only person she could think of who related to my story was Queen Elizabeth. Wow, I thought, I had no idea why. Well, I was looking for TV shows to watch, in any case, because I was coming to realize that I enjoyed the dramatic form. I had studied it my whole life. A fictional character was particularly vocal about it, taking me back to my childhood, standing in my memories. It was a wonderful time in my life, just writing and dreaming with all these characters coming to life.

I put on The Crown. I didn’t know how on earth I related to this character, but it was a good show, so good.

I didn’t know how to adjust the screen on my projector so it was quite large, visible from the street. My friend came over. I had no clue as to why he responded to me watching the show…because it was a good show, because he wasn’t surprised that I was watching it? Was it a “me” show? I don’t remember. It isn’t a criticism. But then, another friend texted me. I can’t remember if it came before or after, but it was the same period of time.

“Is everyone saying that you remind them of Queen Elizabeth?”

“Yes!”

Well, no, but it was in the air? It was really something.

My fictional character reminded me that I was of Irish descent, also, or? I had no idea what to do with it, but it was time to deal with it?

These are clown problems. I do not know these people. There’s nothing wrong here. It’s just to say.

Clown Problem #4: I became the face of capitalism at a psychedelic conference

So, in terms of dealing with our conflicts, let me tell you what I did at a Psychedelic Conference at Cooper Union. Yes, psychedelics. I became the face of capitalism, day one. I put on a tweed skirt, man, having leftists insult me in public yet private area because I was nice and said I worked for, I guess, the capitalists who didn’t even ask me for a CV.

Uh huh, they wanted me to keep talking, so I did.

I gave them the company’s point of view, as far as I understood it, and how “we, they,” I didn’t know what pronouns to use and why I was using them, were looking to collaborate or work with likeminded individuals. The energy was already shoved me offtrack, though they were not stating their case directly. They were sizing me up, I had confidence issues, too, maybe in their opinion if I am feeling into this correctly. I was brand new to this world. I had sought out this kind of therapy for almost five years, though, which I didn’t know was a fair amount of time.

People act, the biologist said, (but who were these people), like we are on the same team.

He paused.

“And maybe we’re not.”

He was looking at me as if I knew what he was talking about.

“Aren’t we on the same field though?”

It was a sincere question.

We were the capitalists—coming to ruin this transformative community—though they didn’t say that directly. Or, did we swim towards floaties of some kind, something concrete yet full of air? Remember me, I heard it in my head at four, watching “the material of air” become apparent to me—what did my father say? Air is not nothing. This is a material. No, there is substance in air. Matter.

He was nodding about the matter and I didn’t know what is was, the intellectual throwing theory and ideas to expose me as someone who knew nothing about “this world” that was already—I felt angry for being here—hypocritical. I was bamboozled by this exchange that was not exactly direct.

All I knew is that they: the people I worked for, acquired this site to…

I didn’t understand their expressions. I also didn’t have their knowledge. We were all tip-toeing weren’t we, but the energy was nasty.

Okay, I thought, wow, these people I worked for were not liked, on a floatie, the intellectual in the shade.

The biologist was in with me—in.

“They, uh, used to work for x,” uh huh.

Okay, that credit didn’t give them credibility, but I had no idea what “x” meant either.

This intellectual was fast baby: Tetris, boom, fitting into place, proving itself right, making room for more discourse.

In my mind, I was like—for you, the world.

“Capitalists.” That’s what I was. We were. We were taking over; it was the vibe, words or not. I didn’t understand, in general, what this world was. What the “plan” was. The “grand plan.” I was swimming in a “vague” but “not” substance, trying to respond to them as someone who believed in facilitating connections.

I kept on trying to make conversation…confused…so, finally, I asked.

“What do you want ‘us’ to do?”

Did they even say capitalists?

“Listen,” he said, “listen.”

I have no power—this is the point. I have no political aspirations, I am eating fresh prunes from a farm with a dog named Neptune. He too eats fresh fruits.

If you, whoever “you” are, know who I work for—how, I do not know—and there are questions and concerns, please tell me because I do not know and I just started, again. I aim to support organizations and companies that have an altruistic aim or are treating a problem positively, but if there are concerns…let me know in clear, grounded speech. Me? I’m surfing out of this world in gratitude for those who have embraced me, taught me, and encouraged me to continue on my path.

I will share this—at the top of the coronavirus, without reflection, I ended up on a beach. I walked straight across the sand towards a windsurf. I grabbed it. I didn’t think twice. I was not thinking. It was time to move. I saw one of my characters named “Ah King,” a descendant of Chinese nomads from Mauritius, receive the instruction from her grandmother, teaching her how to navigate the seas…the diagonal line, coming into clear feeling as energy.

“I will cut across the seas of time and space.”

At a specific diagonal. This was my meditation.

Why? Because Ah King was a woman on the road to Damascus, in real life, trying to get a team out with two 25 year olds from the US and Ireland in the middle of the desert at night. War, it was war. She had told me this story the first morning in an apartment in Paris. I was wearing an extra large t-shirt with holes, Aunt Jane’s pool cover up, with sailboats on them. “The road to Damascus!” I cried.

She cut across, or so was the image, the sea of people towards the office at an angle. I had seen a courtesan in her, I had been cautious in using this term, but she had beamed: she always felt connected to the “Geisha” archetype. She practiced the art of seduction, all the same, in navigating through this office: a most amazing performance or act of close combat. Oh yes, Ah King followed a man through the door. She got the team was out—an extraordinary man.

In the auditorium of the psychedelic conference after an exchange with these men, I felt like shit but why? I had no takeaway. I remembered as a clown however I had the power to flip it. I had tickets to the taping of their podcast. I even bought the second tier—as there were three prices—at 60 dollars. What was I supposed to do, swallow the money? They were on my territory: an acrobatics studio in the depths of Brooklyn regardless of their affiliations.

I was wearing—this time—brown tights, brown leather lace-up shoes, a fall patterned with some vintage top and a coat that matched the colors in my skirt and sleeves that were too short. I put on my computer glasses: large and square, with a purple tint on the lens to deflect harmful rays from the computer. My curly hair was half-up, half-down.

I showed up—got a beverage.

I walked outside to the large patio where people were seated in circular patterns with rocks on the ground. I began talking stat. I met some people; what is your purpose? Ah, just interested in the world? You like their content, this is what I also hear. I was working with this site that was apparently capitalist, or something, what did you think? I face my conflicts. I said it—I am not afraid. Can they can face their conflicts? This was my question out loud. I was why I was there. Nothing will change this way.

I am laughing now, but it’s also very true.

I was transparent about my operation. I probably said that I changed my clothes, too. Can you remain in conflict? So, I am here. A Muslim-American Conflict Resolution specialist, truly speaking, told me that “conflict is good.” What is your opinion? I rose in the conflict with that kind of charge wondering with “the people” what we would learn. What would they do? Wasn’t it the problem?

Everybody, at least those I spoke to, went into this taping aware that I worked for this site, that there were issues, etc. I was open and willing to face the conflict and why would this person chose swords? I sat right in front—in the second tier—of the man who asked me “to listen.”

I was, but what was I listening to?

They mentioned my employer. I suppose they tried to insult “me,” though it was the company that I worked for, in public. I did not leave.

Good, it was all good. I laughed, uh, supported them in a crowd of people who had no idea who I was and those who did, prepped ahead of time.

I started the applause several times in this auditorium. I nodded, yes. They had good ideas—none of which I retained. But the motivation was positive? A woman was talking about how “we don’t understand what madness is.” That, of course, I remember. Do you know Game of Thrones? Let us, in Wayne’s World terms, travel back through time and through the world of the imagination to this conceit. Tell the people there, who have seen a mad king—what is their opinion? This taping lasted over two hours—I stayed until the very end. I listened to all the questions. I was communicating that I was, that I was trying to support them and also, of course, playing.

I stood at the back of the seating arrangement, staring that the backstage entrance.

I was waiting for him.

I went outside, knowing that “the people” who I had spoken to before would be curious about “the comment” that they had made. Had it affected, what did I think, feel? I went straight in—positive. Did we hear? Exactly. I do not care—I said in a semi-circle in the dark. Did you see, I was applauding them. This is good. Conflict is good. Hear me. But can you face your conflicts? I am here facing my conflicts. Would he come out, would I have to go back there?

“Face the conflict!”

I took a seat, I decided, to the side—at the point of where two spaces met.

Excuse me, in real time, a blond sassy Italian woman just came up to hug me in an animal print panama hat with matching sunglasses: blue tint, and a jersey khaki jumpsuit, opening her v-neck even wider to show me her pink bandeau swimsuit top. Her ring and nail color match. Her earring are? Large, gold, hoops. Her perfume? Unapologetic. She’s chit-chatting, putting her top back on in the kitchen saying “galleria.”

“Realize,” she said. “Without money?”

“No one sings in church.”

The biologist came running and stopped on this line—his eyes across the expanse, I believe, searching for me.

Meanwhile, Italian women are taking off their clothes as I type this showing each other their swimsuits.

The biologist turned his head to find me sitting there and I extended a hand to the place beside me.

First, I embraced him: the show went very, very well. I was complimentary, for I felt it was a point, though I didn’t need to know or understand why. There were many good points, I didn’t want to reject him. “What I do not understand,” I said, “what is your plan?” More individualized care. Yes, there are millions of people out there, so what is the plan in terms of distribution? How? I said it was my feedback. I didn’t do criticism. Well, let’s talk about it, then.

He agreed.

As you can see, I became the face of capitalism at a Psychedelic conference—I staged a clown act and it worked.

So, thank you.

The next morning, I was in white—the journey. I went from Capitalism to Hipster (I guess), to whites: a good coat, unlined. Remember, I have sold my whole closet, these are no longer my clothes. A couple of French women upon arriving to Cooper Union complimented my look. I thanked them. I was fresh. Renewed. Full of hope. I was trained by the Russians from the former Soviet Union, quite frankly, as a clown in the political sphere. I cannot help the facts. I never had to explain to a Russian what my job was here. My bratan is a former thief, and yours?

So, coming into Cooper Union with a bratan and mother/trainer from the former Soviet Union in spirit, I was in all whites. Think, think about that statement. I was a capitalist, and to them, yes, I came from this country—no? Be real here—conflicts? Criticism? Begin, please. There was a panel of Capitalists, I guess, who were building psychedelic centers. I sat directly behind these players in the back—these men. They were going to stage something themselves, so no harm in me doing it, no?

They dumped a rant onto this panel. I could hardly understand what he was saying, I really couldn’t, so what was the point of it? I am not disagreeing with them, but I couldn’t even hear his words. Now, I would take these men directly to conflict resolution specialists. Literally, let these women lay out what they have to navigate. In the words of my Russian mother-friend—”this is geopolitics.”

Unfortunately, my boss didn’t want to talk at that point. It was disappointing to me, but I didn’t say anything because I was in that position. I also have not worked there for a while—I got on a windsurf with extraordinary Men. Listen here.

“I have seen Gods die to become ordinary men and I have seen ordinary men die to become extraordinary men…” and Steve Schneider is one of them.

I feel the support of these men from this publication.

After all, they had a “psychedelic comedian” open their show. Yes, this is a movement within the movement. “Psychedelic” comedy—here here. At the edge of a dagger, tell me, and tell me now—what comedy is not psychedelic, what does this term mean? Please, get me an Asian who does not know what plants can do? What did my Russia mother-friend from the former Soviet Union say holding up a bag of yellow flowers? “It will clean you.”

Thank you, I have a vision, standing on the Men of yore. These are ancient Gods, man, not new ones…

My commitment to confidentiality is clear.

Anyhoo, I became the face of Capitalism at a psychedelic conference. It’s okay, it happens.

Clown Problem #3: I ditched my parents on a boat headed to Tijuana with the name Vanessa Williams.

We got on—I bounced. I regarded the sea at four years old. Who were these people? I was pretty sure nothing could happen to me as I was on boat, so I decided to explore, my name beginning to be paged. But this was not my name—Maria. My name was Vanessa Williams. How many times had I typed it on my label maker, how many times had I showed them my agendas with this name on it? My name. I told them, I had no desire nor interest in being called Maria. His mother’s name—and? I didn’t carry these sentiments. Mary the mother of God? I didn’t want this fate—pease!

Maria, paging Maria—who’s that? I ignored it, visibly to myself, I don’t know this name.

No one could find me. A couple people, sure, tried to approach me. What’s your name? Uh huh. "Vanessa Williams.” Where are your parents? Oh, I could point to people over there, waving to them, skipping over like all was fine. I could say they were in the bathroom, heading my way back in there. I did this. I was blending in with other families, next to other kids, adults taking a moment. Oh! I was surprised.

“Mommy!”

Someone would turn.

Did I ever use this name? No, not typically. I only called Dr. J by these sorts of names if necessary.

I was in the cafeteria or whatever this was, at one point, hearing “Maria” being paged. How dare these people?

What’s your name?

“Vanessa Williams.”

Did anyone on this boat—headed to Tijuana—suspect that the lone girl saying her name was Vanessa Williams was the missing girl named Maria. No, they didn’t.

Finally, it was almost time to go to Tijuana—time to bust out, run away, but what would I do? Where would I go? I had to come to my senses; I was four.

They were right in front of my hiding place…my latest one: the cleaning thingy. I was listening to them discuss how they couldn’t find me. Idiots. How many times had I told these people that my name was Vanessa Williams—I screamed it in their faces. Why weren’t they getting it? Why didn’t they just go, well, she’s always calling herself by another name so try “Vanessa Williams.” Hello? I spelled it, literally speaking, to these people. Were they there?

Well, I popped up, walking up, my head going back and forth amongst the people.

What did I do? Nothing, not in my opinion. Nothing! I threw my hand. Nothing could happen to me. No! I pointed. It is you who do not understand.

My father was speaking to me as if I weren’t a four year old, trying to reason with me—I had no interest, snapping at the man. I couldn’t just go off by myself—I disagreed.

Let me tell you what I know.

I could be invisible. It was okay, relax. I felt safer on my own.

Clown Problem #2: I knew what Santa wasn’t—real.

The first time I heard about Santa, I got the picture. Yes, yes, a made-up figure to conjure magic for children. Sure, I didn’t want to ruin it for anybody, I would never do such a thing. I just had enough of the lies. I didn’t need this version of magic. It didn’t change the magic, in any case, if he was real or he wasn’t. Not to me.

Dr. J, I knew she didn’t know what the truth was, and the Catholic Church has fundamentally confused me. I knew these people literally believed in this—but I had never heard such tales! But I also knew that if I were to tell them that an angel visited me, I would be belittled, at least. I could feel there was something of value here, but what was it? In any case, now, I have people talking to me about Santa Claus. Uh huh…some man who can travel the globe in night…with enough presents for everybody?

My parents—these people—started trying to sell me Santa, and I told them, I wanted nothing to do with this man who wasn’t real. I was chill, no worries, I was going to keep my mouth shut in my pink hot wheels corvette—these people upped the ante, trying to convince me that he was real. I pleaded with them—I had enough of the lies!

These people took me to the mall; I’ve never seen such a ghastly place. Why was I here—I objected! Looking at this mall Santa, I could see the velcro! It was a costume. Was this magic, well, was it? A mall? I wanted nothing to do with this man! I didn’t want to sit on his lap! I do not know this man. Really, would Santa come to a mall—period? You are ruining magic. Isn’t he occupied getting ready for his unbelievable flight through the skies for a night? Enough.

I grabbed my father’s yellow notepad paper and waved it in my father’s face—this is your handwriting. No, no, it’s not. Do not insult my intelligence. I was four. Now, this man was trying to show me “the difference” between his handwriting and “Santa’s.” Listen here, loopy handwriting was not going to convince me. He was disguising his handwriting. I knew what he was doing.

There is no Santa, get over it.

Santa always gave me “pen sets” and I was technically not supposed to be able to read or write, but somehow I was able to but no one noticed. At least, I could tell it was his writing. I was aggressive.

Finally, Dr. J called me into her office because “Santa was on the phone.”

I had had it.

I busted into her conference room telling her to give me the phone, demanding for the label maker so I could print more labels of my desired name— Vanessa Williams—and paste them all over my agendas. Maria, what kind of nonsense name of this? Everyone was named Maria—a most common name. Couldn’t they have come up with something more original?

“HELLO?”

I was sassy—listening.

“Ho, ho, ho…”

“This is not Santa!”

I cried, Dr. J was nodding with the History of Tax Law Anthology behind her.

Oh yes I am—Oh? I was snapping at this imposter, this man, trying to convince me that he was Santa.

“If you’re Santa,” I said, “tell me this, okay? How many Marias are in the world, huh?”

I was waiting.

He said a number in the millions, which, to me, was credible, at the time. All the same, he wasn’t Santa and I told him!

Santa is not real—this was not magic!

Did I have to tell the man, whoever he was? I wanted this game to stop!

I couldn’t reason with these people, so there was nothing else to do, nothing else I could do.

I rejected this man—gave the woman the phone.

“My NAME,”

I was punching letters: V-A-N-E-S-S-A W-I-L-L-I-A-M-S.

I marched right out, determined, with label maker.

“My name is Vanessa Williams!”

Clown Problem #1: My first memories began at two years old.

I didn’t know it was remarkable—was it? I wasn’t sure. Not to a shaman. What about past life memories, things such as this? Two? This was easy.

People started telling me that my awareness of myself around four years old was—special, or something. What? It was? A lot changed at four, let me tell you. I had to pay attention, pay attention, this is what my Brazilian-Jewish Mama person said who took me home for four years not expecting to. Pay attention—I was two. And, with my psychological device Death, I even went back to birth—though this was simply a fun exploration of self to express how “being born” was an intense process—sensational, also. I didn’t want to come to out—clown problem.

So, I came to at about two years old. I was in the car seat driving to Hawthorne as my father had a P.O. Box there in the ‘67 GTO Pontiac in mint condition. He took meticulous care of his cars but didn’t fasten the seatbelt correctly around my baby seat, facing the dashboard. I remember the light, I could see it, changing from green to yellow to red as we were pulling off the ramp. My father hesitated on what to do: slow down—speed—slam on the breaks. I was went flying into the dashboard—all went black. Then, I emerged and through teary eyes, my father was blurry. He was crying, apologetic, and I felt bad that he was crying, not able to speak at the time. Was I hurt? I didn’t know. I was crying though. I was aware of my feelings, somehow.

My father said—you don’t remember that, then how did I just say it Man? We were going to friggin’ Hawthorne. I knew where I was.

Then, I woke up crying from a fever in-between my parents and I didn’t want to be there. The moon was visible in the crack of the curtain. I was feeling hot, not wanting to be in-between these people, unable to move or speak or contextualize what I was feeling. I felt, heard, these idiots getting out of bed not knowing what to do…suddenly, there was an ice pack on my head. I was screaming, and they pressed down harder. It was a painful experience.

Then, I had just learned to walk, or so I assume. I was left unattended in the living room at like 9PM. Also, how do I feel it was in the 8 o’clock hour but not 9, did I catch sight of some pictures of numbers? I might have: 9, 8, what was this? I was fine, or so, I thought at the time. My father returned from a work trip of some kind to find me left alone there and went running up the stairs. The next thing I knew I was on my feet, holding teddy in my hand, a little wobbly. I was trying to compute this picture: my mother naked at the front door, pleading with my father in a suit. To me, at two, why was he fully dressed and she was buck naked, though this was common; they truly didn’t come from the same worlds, I thought, sort of. Utterly bizarre these people, I was regarding them.

For a long time, I had no idea what this picture meant, though I was an adult. Thanks to my psychological device “Death,” he found me on the page trying to figure it out, and we pieced it together looking at my weird hair. It was an easy one. True, but I was two. But I knew. I was even able to get some information, pieces of this ridiculous exchange. I had thought, at first, that she was trying to leave the house and he was trying to stop her. But no, it was the other way around.

Ah, I see.

I remember Gerber bottles—I had never seen so many bottles! I could never forget the sight. Once, I saw a banana Gerber bottle in the refrigerator. I don’t know what to say about these memories, but this is where my conscious life began.