Lunch break: I was given away when I was four/Barbara Harris in the end

I just read about someone who started a blog and got discovered that way; it was a fiction blog, and so what? This is nonfiction, fiction. I’m just starting…sharing my crazy ass story…and that’s what it was, no? I know, from a new standpoint. In a nutshell, I used to say “my mother gave me away to this Brazilian family” and I have all these families…a nonsensical story that I recently totally reframed to be able to begin on a much more sensical foot which took a journey to get to: both my parents were sick.

Lunch in Istanbul, coming to feel what my story sounded like wasn’t easy— feeling a response somewhere out there. It knocked me over so that took some time: care. I’ll admit that. Feeling that people really cared, that I really cared. I don’t know the difference yet but people have to care, at least, to want to read what you put out there…and I guess, yes, I came from particular circumstances, and I felt a lot of support. Maybe that has to start inside of you…

Not to say I wasn’t supported over the years, in that, a total stranger took me home one day that turned into four years when I was four so four and four even confused my cousins in Naples as in “you were four or four years?” Both. My story, feedback one, didn’t always make sense, so I’m telling my story in a foreign language in Christmas in Naples is a Sport and working on my chapter outline to define better what this journey is now that I’ve been writing it, many things, for a couple of years now though I had to take a substantial break around Mother’s Day 2021.

And what’s amazing about that experience that has been compared to Carl Jung’s The Red Book, which I thought as an agent, that might sound rather interesting, I went back to writing…at least…as an outlet and I felt more cohesive though I had to recover from that experience. If you read my blog posts, I got hit with this message through my website at 5 AM, and regardless, I had to deal with that gut, for real, in admitting to myself that the message felt intended for me — me — not random and that helped me to resume normal eating, since it could induce panic attacks, some pain.

I don’t know what all of that might mean…but…

To sum it up — my mother, Dr. J, manipulated this Brazilian mother of six children into keeping me for four years with money and accusations that my father was a child molester, on the light end, so he comes home from a work trip and begins calling this stranger’s house to speak to me…we’re playing a game now, a nice game with this child molester of pretending everything is GREAT, NEVER BEEN BETTER, SAFER; I’m rehearsing my script for the lawyers…we’re going to really GET HIM.

He doesn’t know this.

It was rather terrifying beginning to make basic connections like that when I started “sure!” writing a story about my life. He doesn’t know, holy shit. Knock knock, who’s there? My father — he cannot cross the threshold, he cannot enter this woman’s house. Nothing is said. This is all subtext. He obeys these unspoken rules. Meanwhile, screams of glee! Her daughter and I have been instructed (I’m laughing) — to play happier!! We’re not HAPPY enough! — to put on a show for my father. A spectacle, this situation was a pure spectacle.

He watches this, a broken man, and gets the door slammed in his face.

That’s the snapshot.

About four years.

Laughter, not being able to judge a reader’s response, came with this story. I used to laugh a lot. The Brazilian mother laughed, we did. You cracked up —Dr. J. She pushed this button. “AH!” She could fire one off, unexpectedly. Pop, pop, Jack in the Box, she was a party, Dr. J. She could pop, acted in a manner you just didn’t expect, so you couldn’t help but laugh, sometimes, I think. I learned that there are many shades of laughter, some cruel, even. Obviously I have big plans for Dr. J: a Joker. Sure. Not everyone can say that about their own mother and I have come to accept it. And Angelita, the Brazilian mother, would nod, point, exactly. She really was.

I didn’t, I think, tend to include all these details when I told the story but what did someone expect? In my defense? That’s what it was, that’s exactly what it was. This Brazilian woman — just the way she opened the door, you see, for my father. Hysterical. She was so nice, right, so nice with the child molester coming over to visit me…opening the door as wide as it could open…nothing to hide here…nothing wrong…that’s what I mean about this conversation that was happening. The door has never been more open for a human being but there’s not — nicely — a fat chance you son of a bitch, since she was like this, that you’re stepping a pinky toe into her house. Portuguese curse word here. She would swing her her hips in a tennis skirt like an MC, so happy, truly, to see children running wild, free, my father in the threshold. There wasn’t really a hello either. It was a “HERE SHE IS NICK!!” When she went to close the door, she thanked him profusely, truly, even emotionally, for this wonderful visit, for this special time that we got to spend together. Buh bye, don’t worry, she’s SAFE.

High five!

That’s really what it was.

So, you can understand how this woman might have been convinced that it was true. Dr. J came over “like twice.” I know all this because I launched an undercover investigation after these four years because they fascinated me, how it worked, infuriated me, how it worked, and I had no idea what this was. I was really studying Dr. J, of course; it appeared a touch too traumatic to not suspect that this came out of her childhood and she was by far the most insane, unique — a dead word brought back to life — person I had ever seen.

A prodigy, supposedly, a high-powered attorney, licensed to practice in the Supreme Court, a tax law expert. Her first client as she stated in Neiman Marcus Magazine, truly, was typically about to go to jail. She covered her office walls in mirrors — mirror, mirror, mirrors — I know, at four, I got the metaphor though I didn’t have this language at the time. She collected tea cup sets and put them on their individual pedestals, yes, yes, and I had to hold on, please, please. True. So, at that point, I’m going to design those, the Mad Hatter with many many hats with a dazzling smile out of a Crest toothpaste commercial.

I guess she spent one too many nights at the police station for drinking, driving, and looking for sex downtown in a cherry red convertible and a license plate that read IRSHELP, you see? Buffoon. She got a limo, baby, cruising to…the IRS….I had never seen a person more involved with this IRS place. I understood, at four, that you didn’t want to mess with these people. And I apparently demanded birthday parties — go — so balloons could be hanging in bulk from the ceiling so this atmosphere for this world of taxes, home, debts owed. And I owed, you see, after this. Even my parents.

For a Joker, it’s the type of imagery one would perhaps expect. Tea cup sets, mirrors, optical illusions, and balloons and the IRS, somehow, trying to make it through since THE IRS IS COMING! I had no idea, just none.

With extremely pale skin, remarkably so, she had the most otherworldly blue eyes as wide and clear as the summer day she was born, cloudless, limitless, a little too clear for comfort. As a villain, you’re disconnecting from the Earth, darkness is done, we’re going up up into the sky…it’s another way, another path for a villain, and I did feel, sincerely, that she might have been prescient in some way…

She only wore red wigs and haute couture. Picture-perfect grotesque, I call her.

And four years later, at the tennis club, this mother who took me home had to perform her to give an impression of who she really was. A grotesque performance, you see, as if the world was her stage not big enough, and that’s really what she was like, with a marionette, tight smile, gait, proper with prodigal hands —a musician — in a full-length white mink coat. She sparkled, sometimes. Little girl, showgirl, elegance. This was a strange person.

Nothing nothing pretty about this, the performance too, though Dr. J was, hard to say it, an attractive woman…stunning. She was an addict, with pungent breath, ate three items of food, a very loose woman to the point that you can’t skip it. An unreal person, hard to believe, and from my perspective, I can’t really say much…a hypochondriac, a woman who spoke of rape rather frequently, seemed to exhibit pathological victimhood tendencies. A real case. Pathological. Put on dying displays.

Boom. There’s an intro.

I was a kid investigating this at the tennis club with swooshing iced sodas in tall plastic glasses, outside, of course. The pineapple ice cream was noteworthy but too expensive. Hey, at least, I can advocate for myself even have fun with what this was. That’s what it was. To add, right, I couldn’t really eat anything but apparently my father paid her for these visits though it, um, he couldn’t afford it. But that’s another story. He was sixty years my senior, a Great Depression baby. My mother had the appetite for cash — she was fabulous, even, no one — hand — thought she would amount to anything but we’re talking about someone you can’t approach with a conventional, classic understanding of what the truth is. She had a dark direction for someone so bright, joy being the signature note.

Dr. Joyce but I call her Dr. Joy.

So how do people become who they are? If I’m already destined to become her…I was studying madness and civilization and criminality and civilization at the time, this relationship. And this was the only way I could get to know this person…what the truth was in a field of lies, emotional truths, reductive truths, became the subject as well of my investigation to consider how my parents — I could not study my mother without him — became who they are. I mean, after all, I was lucky. My father remained in the shadows for quite some time.

All these years later, I reopened my childhood investigation and started making connections, even what I didn’t ask, what I didn’t realize…I was confused.

This is what this mother of six — let in. Again, Dr. J only came over a couple of times though this mother seemed to know her quite well, but then, Dr. J had a few notes. But still. The sweetest, fakest human being, according to Angelita, that’s her name, she had ever met…a person who smothered her love onto you almost operatically, she came close to you. Dr. J was a true buffoon…this woman cringed, shuttered, stuck her finger in her mouth to gag, flopped open her legs to demonstrate her smell…the sexual promiscuity…I was a kid. Dr. J was one herself, once, who I thought at four had been a victim of sexual abuse or and her fantasies in this department went wild. Not to demean the addiction. This was not a normal person. There’s nothing normal about Dr. J.

Already, I feel a little better, since care or intrigue or sincere interest outside of my little circle…is part of what helped me through the worst moment of my life, truly speaking. I hoped that it could resonate, that I could bring forth a story that had impact even taking what I did at like nine, ten years old, what my approach was, what I was seeking to understand. I was sort of a new Sherlock, Jung, I guess, Drew, I never thought about “crime dramas” since I shut this away.

It’s one of those stories that requires elaboration especially with the questions and interpretations I had to maneuver around, pulling out more evidence, except I wasn’t always this clear…I normally stuck to these families that came into my life, how funny this family was, the lambada we danced, and I guess, what a problem I was…at four. That seemed to take precedence. Fascinating to me at nine with a mushroom cut, squinting at all this.

A few years later after my investigation expanded to include the Catholic Church, I had seen enough, I concluded it. That did it.

By my college, I had shut this away, you see, and why the fuck would anyone care about my undercover investigations, still undercover, basically speaking. I can’t totally grasp my storytelling around that, though I had moments of vulnerability, I was even sort of known for this quality, and I’ll take us on over to Barbara Harris to explore later. I needed some time around that, too, you see, how I approached my story…coming out of a childhood like that.

That’s another thing, my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s when I got back from these ridiculous four years and didn’t tell anyone— because this woman decided that he wasn’t a child molester. My mother was the biggest liar on Earth to a pathological degree but this doesn’t mean anything in this case, you know? Just because, too many stories, I didn’t have my own bed in this house and that was a tough edge. Plus, this woman told me after all this, well, she asked me casually if it was true, about my father. For one. Next, she wasn’t too sure about my mother, how she handled me. So putting this together all these years later — how was I supposed to feel? I started to feel…but this ended up being a much different picture when I started really connecting the dots. I went through real hell around this not knowing anymore.

At least, I read that article from Goop, in at least contending that I had been psychologically manipulated…and I figured in time…I might be able to put together a clearer picture. The hospital really didn’t help me. If you’ve been reading, it might suggest that something happened, but this was my whole life. A bit too much confusing information, too many people in my life also projecting onto me…but again, I went through a journey — a narrative journey — with this one. Whoosh. For a Joker, different context, I could perhaps spin up something rather topical, fun, since a super iconic villain can make an impact for the forces of good…a realization that helped me through “my darkest night.”

Which was surprising but true.

He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s first around the time I turned ten. Ten years later, I found out about it from his doctor but it was Alzheimer’s now…so at twenty, that news shocked me and I couldn’t compute that for another ten years. I told two of my mothers, I told people, but that didn’t seem to register to anyone including me. And that was — if you think about those four years — fairly obvious? Or? And? These years were shut tight, it took time to go through them, to wake up to it sort of in it, which is more of an Oldest Storyteller, something, a later book. Denied dementia, right, coming to see myself training my father to not wake me up on the other side of the pink wall. “I’m up!! I’m up!!”

Since he had an abrupt manner, an anxiety disorder as well.

I had found another family by then, twenty. And then, the saga continued.

I ended up having a physically challenging time getting in touch with the body of this because I was repressed for a long time and pity was such a problem in them. He let me “run around in these different families” because he pitied me. And the emotional body is rarely examined in relation to physical and mental illness though that’s beginning to change and would have been the entry-point in my opinion, rather obvious my story, no? You can’t not see it.

My feelings didn’t come into the equation until recently. I suppose I had my moments. But fear, never knew I was afraid, wasn’t running to my parents, and rage, again, I was repressed for some time. You didn’t see al this, per se, for some time, I had more like an awakening when I started writing my story…I ended up at Christmas in Naples is a Sport…but I had a lot to grasp, understand to get to who I was, became, when I stepped into their house. So even that draft…it just landed and sometimes that landed hard. And can’t call, to touch upon this old spot, my cousins though they said “you’re like our kid…” that thing again. So people crossed lines with me. Now, I’m integrated, it’s fine, if someone goes…affectionately you’re like my kid…I’m not going “sure,” wink.

And the thing is, I ain’t knocking myself either. It seems I was remarkable or someone who was respected even. I’m not sure quite how to frame it but who I was in relation to this story even back then…tended to bring me sincere admiration even. Did anyone know what it was? Probably not. The adopted narrative not untrue, I seemed to inherit some of these “issues,” did a splendid job at erasing my parents.

I was a bit of a character, right? I think. Hard to access that person, sometimes, and people projected onto me too, welcome to the world, so no, not everything people believed was even close to true. But then, who was I? That too, were they right, was I wrong? Interaction. I came from sick people…how people can take hold of one’s narrative, all that, I had some separating to do…I ended up sort of looking around like…not sure if this is me. It was…but I’m grateful to be where I am now because I got back much more than the pain but my childhood, who I was, and for a kid…investigating how narratives are perpetuated at that age, it wasn’t un-sophisticated, so the “Betty Boop” or whatever this mask I had though cute, no, sort of commenty around sex as well, depending, fro of curls, yeah yeah. Not really the deal here. I was serious, very.

It’s not to say I’m not cute, I do not give a shit, it’s just that…I feel like I sort of got myself back, too, like I wasn’t pretending on some level, family having become this whollleeeee thing, that I didn’t come from where I came from. So, now, I’m much more empowered than I used to be. I still, if you look at my homepage, made interesting choices. I’m much more empowered, able to lead, from a certain standpoint, with a story like that.

Sometimes, I have to write through some of these moments of feeling care, very real, taking real steps, having concrete goals and dreams that do not have to strictly do with place…you know, when you come to realize that you decided where you were going to college and live “one day” because you felt time bend…you start thinking. On top of it, I had this mysterious shift in my time perception, and I made two major life decisions. I told people about that too, wanting to be proud of mystery or be a proponent in its reality. But the correlation between these occurrences and my father’s illness didn’t gel until fairly recently. I expressed other symptoms, memory related.

Even with the bare facts, people seemed to reflect that my story was unbelievable at times and that seems to be true. I don’t know what to say since psychologists, or one, seemed to not be that surprised, like I was a child so I probably did pick up on symptoms. That really affected me, in other words. I wouldn’t suggest leaving a man with Alzheimer’s Parkinson’s to raise a child.

I suppose I was always a sensitive kid, too, since people tell me that I’m psychic but they might not admit that, that’s up to me to…let you know. I don’t know but apparently I do not risk persecution and I only say that because it seemed like someone I worked with led with that. I had the adopted issues, which I didn’t know was a thing, and I was psychic. I don’t tend to use that word. Time bends.

That’s more of an Oldest Storyteller thing but in Christmas in Naples, my cousin’s response, their response to my story was hilarious. So? I had an experience I couldn’t explain. This only made me more Neapolitan. Franco Franzese demonstrated every street corner in Naples, everyone in Naples has had a mysterious experience. Do you remember the Devil’s Bridge, Maria? It’s a bridge, a tourist attraction, where you can meet the devil if you want to, so no one found this unbelievable, but my mother giving me away— just that — impossible. Don’t believe it. That’s Naples in a nutshell.

I was Dante, that’s it, that’s all, perfectly acceptable here. To them, my story sounded like Dante. That was the final answer. I was a Neapolitan, this was clear, though I grew up in some Dante family universe in the USA…and there was nothing but feeling and care there. The important thing — the point — his name is on every piazza. Immorality. This is the point. And now, I had the chance to rise to eternal life as he did. That was 100% serious to the point that they didn’t understand why I was laughing. Is Dante funny?

Well. “Exactly.” And exactly.

That’s them.

So, Flora concluded, you made these decisions because time changed, you felt time change, and there was nothing I could do about it, true, here here, brav, we supported each other, and now I could make new choices, accept what is, etc. No question, no concern about time bending…

I’m working on my chapter outline right now and running into roadblocks and moving pieces around…I know or figure that’s just how it goes and I just sort of wish I embraced this format earlier. I hope that the way I approached this will only benefit the copy as I have all the pieces basically, and even the dialogue might serve me later if I decide to do the script version, which I might, who knows? I could. It’s a great Christmas story, I think, refreshing, unexpected, and dramatic, so Neapolitan. Even Franco Franzese playing cop in the kitchen with me. They acted out of real concern for me, real attraction to drama, too? I don’t know…people are attracted to drama, sometimes. I’m not sure. But I guess they wanted to help me resolve it.

It was new, in that, a family, I guess, responds seriously if they have a situation on their hands…you know, I found myself in Franco Franzese’s hot seat. How hilarious. How unreal, or how sincerely archetypical it was, which is true, so recognizable. Not performance per se but it could look at that. No one got that. People are funny to me, it depends. People’s sincere ways of being…I had a much sharper eye than I tended to let on. “Shush shush,” Dr. J, don’t tell anybody how smart you really are.

Angela and Vico didn’t take such an aggressive role but I think Franco bulldozed over my defenses, dunno, I also couldn’t say — stop, justifiably — which makes it fun, not fun, but he’s questioning this "mask” of mine, this happy go lucky thing, is he perfect, and I perfect, no, but he was the most affected. An emotional type which made him really funny. Ready to bust chops, Franco Franzese. Ready to bust chops…looking at his sons…the eldest being “OH BAMA.” This guy. But Franco and Flora sort of love being parents. It cracked me up.

Angela and Vico, sure, but they aren’t the same type.

Franco Franzese is playing “that father.”

“You,” me? “Yes you.” He would sometimes begin to put his head into “my persona.” It’s a fun ensemble piece, no, I have to capture that, since Franco Franzese had my number…and we can switch topics without warning, words…also. Just telling them this story in a foreign language could cause me to break into laughter, hearing it for the first time, getting inebriated by the nonsense. Lots of reigns, tight, is navigating all this, and I don’t know who’s reading but whoever I reached for…the people I’m writing to…seemed to even help me to describe all this. Like, yeah, makes sense. So thank you.

This book concerns itself with the “other families” right…my parents not there…I don’t really know that…I’m trying to figure out this story…can’t say everything which also gets me into more trouble…since I had a clown persona and no one in Naples cared, they even appreciated it, my fantastical gestures, almost abstract art, cracked them up. Good, good. I liked laughing, making people laugh, but I came to understand that sometimes that didn’t reflect back on me…something that was entirely true. It was, I guess, but I came to realize — oh, I’m falling into old habits of behavior since family was more of a thing I went to visit, a foreign country. So Naples ended up being a good container for all this even if I’m still working out the cohesive whole.

I had to take a break. I’ll go back now. I’m glad I released the pressure of social media…just a tad. It’s not the easiest forum to share stories such as this one but I’ll still do it, I would rather concentrate on my writing…I wish I started a blog sooner. Even that took me a second. Just to land and start.

I think feeling seen like that after all that — it still can make me a touch uncomfortable only because I am alone, too, and can’t really talk to anyone I know about that. Basically. They’ll get it eventually. The silence I got around certain terms…I’m just not like that. I can’t do that. I can’t deal with people telling me what it was. Who might not know.

When I got out of the hospital, that feeling of care could overwhelm me but it almost felt like I made new friends…new thought processes…that propelled me forward without judgment. Talk, keep talking. New insights. Wisdom. Learning. Love, even. Internal support. That’s what I relied on. I had a couple of people I could rely on not necessarily talk to since the hospital further confused me…

Beginning there, you know the marked the end of one phase of my life that began at four, if not before, and then, now, I feel like I have the riches, maybe not all of that was shiny, smooth, of the learning I did and a great sense of relief. I moved through that successfully. My life seemed to really change.

It’s fine, people go through their journeys, and I’m basically integrated, it’s just…walking up the stairs after lunch…what was I expecting? Just because it’s one of those stories…it’s even an asset, from a perspective, in that it lends itself to discussing what we learn young, what the truth is, and I hope the choices I made as well resonate. Family. Trauma. Mental health. Depending. I can do a lot with my story so I’m grateful for that. I do think that life is a gift, that’s why I also had the attitude that I did, still do.

I’ll go back to my chapter outline now.

Thank you for reading!

I’ll think about all these platforms, I got to pitch, I’m just trying to finish this book, you know, let it be amazing, right, let it be delicious, no? I’m making statements like this. It’s a challenge for my first book I must admit. Lots of characters. If it the power of family? So, more about them, there’s the story itself, there’s Christmas in Naples, which is fine, to let the traditions entertain you, right, because it’s belonging, that’s what tradition is all about. I’m reconnecting with my roots which might be a better guiding principle. Which means, I guess, less interrogation time, though that’s evidently the most exciting, probably, since that’s the sport of Christmas. I’m floating…trying to figure this out…I guess there’s nothing to say that it can’t have elements of all of that, sure, but that’s my challenge for the moment. They are my roots, sure, whoosh, and tomatoes are from Peru, permissions are from Japan, a very great line for today…in considering that foreign cultures have long long been in native soil. Vico, thank you.

Again, right, my roots have foreign cultures in them which didn’t make me unnatural but the opposite to a farmer and this is the basis of everything, the food we eat. It helps to use this diary to work out some of that thinking and I’ll begin allocating stuff to different areas, hopefully I’ll end up trailing off this blog, I don’t know. I needed a place to start that wasn’t exactly a publication.

Even Barbara Harris, truly, can’t wait for that!

Me being “the interviewer…”

Making choices for “you” who are not there but maybe will be there. Not knowing exactly what this is, will be, no agenda. I dropped it consciously even if I said, in the car, right away, that it was my interest, and sometimes, it’s hard to feel a little Dr. J in me…she is the woman who brought me into the world…but I have real moments of…sincerely understanding that I did not really want to show myself for that reason. Do you have face dysmorphia my friend once asked. No, it had to do with my parents and not really being that much of an image person, in fact. I’m trying to put more photos of me out there, too. Doesn’t matter what I look like, you know? Now I’m much more at ease…and Barbara Harris was basically an ally in most regards, if not all.

Barbara Harris and I on the edge of the known universe, gargantuan parking lots…a dried up ocean…under stars, just a sensational universe that captured her mystery, too, as if we really were the only people in it, sometimes. The pool. There was a lot of energy to work through…and I still stand by that she can change her mind…this was…one of those. Maybe part of that was me, too, in that, it’s a little easier when know my background.

I’m so grateful to her and to the people that introduced me to her. That goes without saying. I’m very honored to be able to advocate in her behalf given our — similarities?

Remember, remember, in a vintage Laura Ashley jumpsuit —floral — I heard the crazy genius thing which is why I crossed the room. My mother was supposedly this. One of the greatest actresses of all time…I mean, seriously. Her credits. I took it step by step. But like, everyone talked to me about that…her genius, her intangible quality (Mary Martin, bow), and her struggles. That was so openly discussed. It was a time, just like any other, with Goldie Hawn getting her Oscar at the end of the decade, Meryl Streep, Barbara Streisand…James Earl Jones. Feel the gravitas. That’s fun. The Second City. Hitchcock. Rodgers and Lerner…

I was vulnerable, not; this and not, this and that. Does she know, not know, etc etc etc. I can play in this arena. She seemed to deal with mental health issues her whole life. I cannot ethically state that. But then, in her case, who knows — I mean, I really came out of one hell of a situation, it just didn’t feel appropriate leading with all that.

I’m applying some of what I learned in my case to this situation about myself. I could. I could go down a whole — the history of psychiatric drugs, again, Barbara Harris might be even more relevant…which says a lot about her. No shame here. That was a big one. I appreciate the meeting point of mystery and comedy as well. She was fantastic, she really was, and these scenes — I’ll get there. I’ll maybe start that blog once I’m further along. In just posting these scenes. And as a script, I even learned from her.

I was about to delete, the first night, on the edge of this parking lot…

“How long was your flight,” she asked.

“An hour…” I said.

I heard “don’t do that.”

Why? I wondered.

On the other side of the parking lot, I thought, oh, right, because we’re about to spend more time, right, crossing this inky abyss. It was lovely to begin to see images…come to mind…and feel supported on what I was thinking…not bad. Stuff like that. If there’s something about a story, too, how that begins to open up, that’s a mystery, too.

I told people it was like a complete piece in itself…not really knowing what I was saying. No one was surprised. When I finally took that time out again, there was more going on than I myself realized, in that, she believed in me…by the end. I read that. I didn’t want to know that. I didn’t — that’s what I mean. That was quite a compliment.

I learned from this. I went back and she really did see through me…which I figured she would and I invited that but even her ability (Mary Martin) to make me forget that she had been to AJs before, so there are layers…ah, yes, the layers, Shrek, the layers, that, to me, signals a good script, dramatic writing. Such a great guide, Austin Pendleton said. I studied some improv, at Lecoq, theater my whole life, and apparently, this was a particular “thing,” in that, she was a founder of improv, she seemed to somewhat live and breathe that? Can’t totally say because who really knows? I interviewed people but only once…so there are more questions I could ask…it stands alone, these four days, and I also like that, so we’ll see. But there’s room in our drive through the desert…

It seemed that way though — she would exit stage in character.

“The unreality of the stage was real to Barbara…” Darden, : ) , said.

No problem. I could meet her in life. Me at nine years old with my tape recorder. I needed to be spoken to. Not on stage. Couldn’t ever quite get there though. So at least, I could be honest, vulnerable as an approach even if I’m there for her…in that…we’re getting to know one another…the first night being a little different in making sure that my intention even if I would never do it…was clear. And I’m young, no, not really a writer, even, so there’s that, too, though I started interviewing as my first job. I was always told that I was a natural interviewer — who knows, truly.

That’s part of the reason I did it. I spent over a year, I think, deciding whether or not I was going to engage. Fame, the wise screenwriter and I had some discussions about that one. A very fun career trajectory because of what she was in, a part of, her perspective which also drew me even if that might have been complicated.

I knew I was meeting a genius, prodigy, of some kind, no? That’s baseline one. I tried to also surrender to the exercise, no? Just be there. I did that rather consciously and where it wasn’t, can talk about that, I’m swooping my hands to keep that back, since the fame element in this or how people might have talked around her…yeah, she was / is famous. I don’t know…might be more true than not as an approach even about human beings in general. We might be more of a mystery than anything else.

The general public might not totally remember her offhand but everyone in her field, basically, knows who she is. I was a touch nervous…because you don’t want to get that…not right. Someone who is a giant in comedy, also, so. Music, too. This is what I mean. Acting. Improv. Everyone in improv or comedy right…knows who she is. I feel so much support for that one so thank you…

I can breathe a sigh of relief, even in how I made decisions I didn’t quite understand…don’t want to assume…as to boundaries, privacy, not crossing certain lines. I’m not doing that. My argument for her struggles has to do with shame, what we don’t know, and also what she shared. “You can’t really talk about her without mentioning it,” and everyone did. Paul Sand said — horseshit. That’s what made her brave, too, that’s the part that could help people. So, thank you.

Kopit wanted to know why…and what can I say, I didn’t really know, I obviously had a personal interest, not always clear, not yet, but she’s one of the greatest, no? I don’t know in this case seemed to be more appropriate than not. A female prodigy, genius, comedy — isn’t this what we want more of? Making people believe in past lives…that this is possible which is what it makes it funny…becoming someone else.

That one. Still. No, picture it, not Daniel Day Lewis, no. She’s literally becoming another person.

In my case, I, people, might not have had a full understanding of my story. What was really going on.

That’s enough right there. In considering her.

I wouldn’t draw parallels…so there’s also that.

I really felt her support in me and continued to in spirit since I didn’t have family members that I could rely on, though the Brazilian family in spirit could basically speaking.

I like to think about things in advance, how I’d like to design it, so I keep saying it. Hopefully, I can start a fund or something altruistic in her honor. Not sure what yet but I don’t want money. I might take some to develop it but all that is rather easy with a lawyer who is trained to write contracts to ensure all parties remain true to their word. You see? You see. I love a lawyer for this reason. That’s rather important to me. She wasn’t like that. I’m not either. And that experience ended up giving me so much, but just so much, so that’s the idea with that one. If they turned out to be good scenes, if I could do a play version, awesome. I thought that, suspected, it was going to be a piece…since she was who she was…and I think that the SUV eating sushi scene is sort of perfect.

Confidence comes from belonging too.

I tried editing that a little to make it a smoother read though it might end up being better to let some of that back in for SUV sushi. Again, how lucky am I? To be able to learn from that? Even the action — we’re driving through, toward, the apex. And that was real. She was at the end of her life. Even thinking about her mental health struggles, I’ll read that book about emotion and physical health, this is what I mean. In terms of supporting her. Even educating myself about what I went through. Understanding her too. She’s even ahead of her time, in a sense.

And if you want crazy….here’s Dr. J.

I hoped, more so than anything else, in time we would be able to talk…and it felt like we did, too, as time went on. Just cause.

That’s it for today.

I’ll go back to my little drawing board. Publish something in my newsletter. Thank you so much.

That’s the thing. I have plenty on my plate.

I have some other songs that have come to mind for Barbara Harris besides hers…just cause I think like that. I

“Love is the key that opens every door…” she said. Perfect.

Pete Townshend.

Let me love open the door.

Also, Stargazing, maybe, because we do…we stargaze and that’s it.

Kygo feat. Justin Jesso…

“I will be still here…stargazing…”

Those are the two I have right now. And I do have a tiny recording of the song she wrote with Shel Silverstein…right?

That’s what I’m listening to…”for love.”

Also, Soldier of Love was blasting out the bar at the outdoor shopping mall…when we met.

For Naples, well, there’s a whole canon…I went down a pop run during quarantine, coming to discover I liked it, I’ll admit. Never really listened to it. I took many turns, just to say. One of them is “Give Up” OSTON. It’s not Christmas though. “Always,” even, sport, somehow, Gavin James. That intro. “Sister,” Lstn, but more for the family chorus…the Feast of Santa Lucia. One section of this song…you’ll know. I’ll have to think more. I mean, there are Bruce Springsteen nights in Vico Equense. His family is from there. Also, Christmas in Naples has nightlife and karaoke : Bolero, Fancy, lol, and Fabrizio de André “il pescatore” lol “Il testament di tito.” that’s the one. When I perform the mandatory ritual across Plebicisto “SAPORE DI SALE,” I begin blindfolded. No! Carmine reprimands. “SAPORE DI MARE.”

“WHEN YOU EXIT WATER…”

But the one, okay, the one is Claudio Baglioni “E Adesso La Pubblicita” — the intro and instrumental break at 2:34. Only because sometimes, it sort of turns neon colors at night, we’re going out every night — the fiat. Here we go. There’s so much music. It’s so much fun. My Way, evidently. O Sole Mio. We sang the whole Neapolitan canon, practically, and Carmine introduces me to Domenico Modugno. That’s what he plays on the guitar, for now, sort of perfect…the butterfly across the hall.

Notte Chiara is very very pretty.

Umberto Tozzi covered by Laura Branigan, drinks with friends — Christmas Eve. Parade!!! Gloria. Then, maybe just this one, Gennaro pulls up with Call Me In the Heart of the Night by Baltimora. Sorry, I’m just joking around. “Elstree, remember me.” I went down some ridiculous not a book trail of Gennaro meeting Gloria with selections. I’m just silly. It’s just that this drinks with friends lasted so long. Also, for a French one lol “T’ES O.K.” by Ottawan.

I listened to a lot of Neapolitan music but evidently…others. Oh, Lucio Battisti My Song for Maria, that’s my song as a child also for Rosa. And Il mio canto libero “in a world that doesn’t want us anymore…” I like that one a lot.****** I’m writing a book, so, but I’m going to pitch a music-related article…about Christmas. I’ll work on that tonight.

Grande fan, Vico, of Battisti.

Franco Franzese — Julio Iglesias, lol. Which is why I like that initial car ride…and in general, he’s always ready to listen to him.

Glory of Love — the Oldest Storyteller lol. Not really. I just put on some funny songs with that one. Sort of more retro, probably, not quite the right word, but childhood. Even “Maybe I’m Amazed.” I’m just throwing stuff out there. That’s different. I don’t know, oh, Genesis. But that one’s also changed…but uplifting…”Opening” East Forest. If you don’t — I just listen to a lot of music.

I mean, every family had their music. Ladera Heights…Ael the Archangel of the Wood pulling up Dr. Dre, A Tribe Called Quest, his mother: Patti Labelle, Irene Cara — FAME — Carlos Santana, etc etc etc. Steppenwolf, that was good. Magic carpet ride. My sister? Genuwine, Justin Bieber, etc. We’re cruising through many songs. New Jersey — David Foster’s Carol of the Bells, this was irony at its finest, the O’Jays, Fats Waller who is one of my favorites. Dem Bones.

And the Neapolitans played Macarena and the lambada on Christmas Eve. So many songs. Which I think makes it so joyous and wonderful.