Shopping for NYE

I wish I had met an older women back there, I really do. Why did I have to meet older men? You know. I really struggle with why these men felt like they knew anything about women. I am so sad, on some mornings, though I’m moving through it, because I could have had a house, I could have just adjusted my focus slightly and gone out there and tried to meet a real man. One I could build something with…not some aging screenwriter with too much time on his hands. What about that relationship was going to help me? It’s just, he pushed deep buttons, you know? My past. When, why would you do that to begin with? So, just a day, where I grieve the decisions I made. And I get so scared. I was a gentle person. I can’t help that. Am I to meditate money into existence? Because money was a joke to that guy? I just had to meet an enabler. Just had to. And that guy had nothing to lose. I had everything to lose. So, that’s it. I got that out. I was destined to be ALEXANDER the GREAT to this man, when LOOK at the person sitting in front of you. Not that I am not GREAT but that was a lot of pressure to put on someone you don’t even know. And now I still find this man insufferable. On some mornings.

This person believed, this screenwriter, that I was repressed for reasons that I don’t understand. Repressing what? Maybe I wasn’t a good writer? Maybe I wasn’t getting it? I don’t know what to say because all I had to do was READ around. Now I might have been stupid, but this guy wasn’t supposed to be stupid, right? There are all sorts of writers out there. Just, this self-proclaimed guru royally messed up my life. That relationship did. Feeling your feelings — feelings create reality — I just didn’t understand why this was happening. Was there anything wrong or that indicated that I had fucked up my life previously to meeting you? I couldn’t even TRY something without this guy getting involved and misinterpreting the situation. Now, I don’t know left from right. That seriously was detrimental to my personhood. The Seth Books. The psychic period, the whole thing. It was just everything I didn’t need. I needed a normal person. I guess? You see, I don’t understand why I needed HELP. I wish I went to a psychologist, and wrestled with what life was, for me, and worked out my priorities. If I didn’t touch my money, I would have been a millionaire by now. Like one mill, but that’s not nothing. But these MEN saw me for my lack, wanted to play GREATNESS games. But who cares right? I can meditate a mill into existence. I hate that man. I keep working through that.

How much I hate myself for ever getting involved with that man.

It’s like, he believed in my as an artist after doing a number on me over a lost I TANYA DVD? I really look back and go, I have no idea why this man is doing what he’s doing. And now, not to say I can’t reach greatness, but what was the point of that? I can’t change, I really didn’t see what a weirdo this guy was. He acted like a total weirdo. I just had money back then. And, now, you know, that story sounds so different to me. I didn’t really want to capitalize on it, exactly. That was a heartbreaking move, on his end. I keep trying to separate myself from him, I mean, he got all emeshed, in a situation he can’t relate to at all. He has no idea how “someone” like me would be like. Was I repressed? Or just simple and sweet? I just couldn’t believe him, trying to turn a weekly lunch date into “a feeding you” routine? “I’m always feeding you?”

I regret the day I decided, hey, I know, I’ll write a book about this. I regret that day. Just because I wish I had been able to take responsibility for myself and get psychological help. Just because the way I was living my life was so complicated, unnecessary, and I feel like I became a character. I can’t quite explain that. But I left that story aside. I was fine, living abroad, that’s why I really don’t understand why this screenwriter started acting as if I hadn’t had a life up until that point. Repressed? And I struggle to move on, I do, I am — but I have mornings or days where I only want to cry. Just cry this person out of my system. As my worst mirror. The most disgusting reflection of myself I have ever seen. Why I had to become that? Why I had to go wrapped up in this man who had no idea what he was doing, I don’t know. But my life was ruined. And he’s not someone who understands what a relationship is. He would let someone abuse themselves on him… because he just doesn’t care about anyone. Like I was clearly disturbed. So, that person reminded me so much of my mother, it wounded me, more so than she did. She was severely mentally ill. I mean, what am I supposed to do? FEEL EVERY FEELING ABOUT SOMETHING I have no control over?

You know? I just, I’m angry this morning. I want so badly to fall in love. At the end of the day, after meeting him, and meeting some of these other types I did… that’s like the only thing that matters to me. Sure, I can get lucky or I’ll figure out how to make a MILL back, but as of right now, I have no way of retiring. I didn’t work a conventional job. And I don’t KNOW if I’m a super talented writer. And I was JUST a NICE pretty woman. That’s it. I could have found a MAN who just loved me AS IS. I just get so scared, sometimes, because I was SET UP well. Actually. But I wasn’t seeing straight. Like, at 26 I was 500k. So, that hurts, because just by the general rules of money, it appreciates value over time. I could have been a receptionist, it didn’t matter. I didn’t even realize that in reality… I wasn’t exactly direction focused. And here comes this guy, with the Seth Books, talking to me about creativity. He just represents how stupid I was. And I can’t quite shake it, because I don’t have anyone. I don’t have a family with money to rely on. That was all I had. And sure, I can make more money, but I grieve, I do, I grieve the loss of that money. “It doesn’t matter what the rent is,” he said. “That takes care of itself.” I was so deeply wounded. I can’t HELP that I had the issues that I had. Forgiving myself in facing him, has been a difficult chapter. I can’t quite forgive myself for getting involved with him. He was someone who utterly broke my heart worse than my own parents. And my father, I don’t know what to say, but he would be so heartbroken with me, I think. I don’t know if I was abused, fed, this man was the worst. When I was FINE. I was FINE. Sure, get a shrink. That’s not what this guy was. He really really overstepped. His knowledge set. I’m just meditating, he says, or he’s not interested in a relationship — honestly, I don’t understand.

I always feel like I make progress on what I’m working on, to then, not feel that way at all. So I am still just trying to let go of “this can make me famous” or “bring me success” as this man impacted me so severely… in that way. And just figuring out how to move forward. I keep finding this to be a very unsatisfying road. But I’m working through it. I have to. I have to try to meet someone. I wish I wish I could just reach back to myself. I can’t. “You deserve so much better than this man.” I really did. People who love you, for real. People who want to be friends with you. People who want to — I wish I could just run away from help as far as I can, which I have, but now, I’m older, so I feel double terrible because I wasted my youth on this guy’s ideas. Wouldn’t you want to see your daughter, or a nice young woman get married? You know? Fall in love. For real. And yet, no one thought of it. I didn’t need energy graphs, you know what I mean? I didn’t need channeler tapes. I was a thirty year old woman, not a sixty year old man with time on his hands. So, so. I’ll leave it at that, today. I needed to just get out these emotions. I didn’t want to feel like I went against myself — I can’t help how my minds works. Like, I’m just not sure if I chose the best profession for myself. I was someone who loved people, who was very bright and warm. I don’t really think that was very fair, what he did. Said. So I have my moments where, I just think, why couldn’t I have just seen that this man was such a bad idea? Just the worst idea. Anyway, I still don’t know what I want to write about. So, I’ll get back to reading.

I need to find a job. Don’t spend the money that you have. that’s the best piece of advice I could give to someone.

I had dinner with 6 strangers last night

I read about TimeLeft, an app, in an article in The Guardian. I downloaded it and tried it, as I’m looking to make friends, meet new people. I had no idea what to expect, as the app is somewhat cryptic. You click on a date and time and the app organizes a dinner with people you don’t know. It just gives you an address and time and general information about the people who are going to be there, where they are from, and what industry they work in. That’s it. You don’t even see their picture. The app set us up to meet on Gelso & Grand, an Italian restaurant in little Italy, so we were in a festive neighborhood downtown. The restaurant was warm, inviting, decorated for Christmas. I went up to the hostess, “um I’m having dinner with people I don’t know?” And she said, “Timeleft?” I nodded. “Yeah.” I approached a big round table next to a Christmas tree and the kitchen. A prime spot. Good location. I was delighted, surprised, to find that there was a table of four men. “Am I the only woman?” Thus far… so I was seated with a journalist with the UN, Kurdish, nice guy. “You work at the UN every day?” He does. He covered the Middle East. I thought, sitting there, okay, so that’s a journalist, got’cha. That’s not me. Another man beside him, Chris, I remember his name, he worked in consumer marketing, or something to do with “the stuff you use everyday.” It wasn’t that exciting, but he loved it, because he’ll never go out of business. He has 4 kids, “that’s my hobby,” he laughed. We went around and spoke about ourselves. Then there was Hamza, a Canadian Pakistani diplomat. He was a cool looking guy, good eyeglasses, in a blazer with his maple leaf pin, a chic one. He’s in New York on business — he’s the type of man who’s contacting journalists, he’s extremely involved in making connections with people who are in his milieu. Finally, we had a TECH guy, he’s in fitness tech. He works for a company that makes some kind of sophisticated version of a blood test, a way to monitor your health. Oh, and running late, a woman from India who, by accident, became an influencer, because she posted some video that went viral? What? And she went from 700 followers to 40k overnight. She plays in a band, she lives in the South of India. She works for a marketing company, I think. Weddings in India have at least 800 people. I hoped that I would have a wedding like that, if I ever get there. I want a big ass wedding.

Now, some of them had used this app before, and it’s like anything else, touch and go, but we had a a pleasant time… I liked the makeup of people who were present. Hamza is gardening, painting, and cooking, he has to use his hands. I felt better, sitting there, and I felt like I presented myself well as someone who isn’t a journalist, that’s not who I am, I’m trying to break into story writing, entertainment. I started acting again, etc. And Liz, my friend Liz sent me an invite to casting workshop this afternoon, so there you go. I replied—yes. The journalist, I just don’t remember his name off the top of my head, he said that the app gives you a place to have a drink afterwards which assembles the people from different dinners at a bar. Hamza and I didn’t feel like going to W 26th street, so we went to a speakeasy nearby, Atta Boy, something like that. It used to be Milk and Honey. I’ve been there before. So we continued our conversation, you know, where he’s up at 3 AM, 4 AM, that’s when the phone starts blowing up as he specializes in the Middle East. The TECH guy asked, sort of nerdy, so it was funny. “What’s a day like for you, like how does your work work?” He works for a prime minister. He gets photos of children dying, basically, every day. You know? But now, he said, ten years ago, it wasn’t like this — but he has to verify what’s real and what’s not real. Oh yeah, the journalist had said. Anyway, we carried that conversation over to the bar. He was someone who actually enjoyed my personality. Fun. Passionate. Like, we talked about Turkey, because he lived in Istanbul, and he asked me what my favorite part of living there was, which was the ferry. I went on about it, like, I was leaving a lot behind, and so it was a poetic act I did, of goodbye. He got it. He wanted to read what I wrote. And I thought, heading to tbe bathroom in the back, to be honest, with myself, there’s nothing I am proud of. I haven’t had an experience like that. So, what are you going to do? I said, if there’s anything to share, I will. I tried to say I was in a transition in my life, but not focus on that, so there is nothing to show….that’s my point when it comes to writing, at this point. I have nothing to show. But I said, right now, I’m mostly reading, to be honest, because I don’t know what to say. I also don’t know if that’s what I’m going to end up doing, and I said, who knows, I might pursue psychology… he sort of said, “you’d be so good at that…” without knowing me. I don’t take those comments seriously anymore. I don’t know why people do that. I have no idea who this person is, and I don’t act like I get feelings about them. That’s what I mean, about these men who called me psychic. I don’t want to be psychic. I want to get to know someone.

He made one of those comments. We each got a delicious boozy after drink —mezcal, pear liquer. He’s looking for friends. We’re in similar places. Where, he feels like he’s evolved, and he’s looking for real connections, as he meets tons of people all the time, but none of them are friends. He doesn’t care if they’re married, single, nothing. He’s not looking for marriage, a girlfriend, necessarily. He’s just looking for his people. I related to that. That’s why I signed up for the app. I need to meet friends who fit me now. I have texting relationships with some people from college, but that’s so unsatisfying. I’m restructuring my life, completely. Again, I just don’t know what to say — as a side note — about writing, because I ended up in this crazy relationship with this screenwriter who took himself to be a guru, and it ruined my life. I didn’t say that. NOW, yeah, I’m sitting there, and I understand I went about being a writer in a totally nonsensical fashion. I have nothing to send this guy, in terms of pieces to read. So what do you do with that? So I’d like to be able to say, “oh I write about THIS.” We’ll see, as I’m breaking into story-writing, I’m trying to figure that out, and I’m trying to figure out what my beat might be. Or, just, a job, a cool job. I don’t write about politics, so there’s no point in trying to get a job in politics. He might change his career too, and I’m sure, he has money in the bank, I don’t. Because, just the content he has to deal with daily, weighs on him. How many dead children can you see? And then, is it even true? I thought about my mother, thinking, I can’t talk about my family, obviously, and I’m laughing, because it’s dangerous… that’s how the GURU from Hollywood got involved. Nope, no talk of family.

I did tell him about the Ukranian refugee I met, so he has a sense of the types of stories I’m working on, but I said, briefly, I came from a background, a family background, that made me well suited for working with people in states, psychological states. Strangely. So I was asked by these Russians, and he got the significance of that. “The Russians asked you?” I know. “The Russians asked me to help this man through a hallucination he had on the run from war…” so we talked about that. “He saw the devil,” you know? We both got it. He just fled a war. “So the devil, does that scare you?” It didn’t. “Men with guns?” Sipping his cocktail, “sure.” Exactly. “Who cares about the devil?” But I told him as a container, he went through something so complicated, that the symbol spoke to the dimension of the experience. We had a nice flow, we had a genuinely good time, where he was like, “what are you doing tomorrow?” But I’m going into my crazy workweek but hopefully we’ll be able to grab a coffee, or something, before he leaves, and he said I should come down to DC. He’d show me around. I didn’t get the sense that there was any romantic interest, but I must tell you, I hope so, in a sense, because I could use all the romance I can get these days, Jesus. I didn’t get that impression, not sure, but he genuinely liked my personality, and I say that, because it’s not always the case. He didn’t make fun of me. He didn’t try and “help me,” like that screenwriter, Jesus, he simply enjoyed my company. And I enjoyed his. He was an interesting person.

Got a lip mask last night, it worked, I jumped on this shit fast, when I read it. CNP laboratory.

So I’ll definitely do these meet ups again, as they have coffee, drinks, different types of dates. My goal is—big big birthday party. I need to do that. And this entire moment feels like a TV show, a good one. I can picture myself in a Frances Ha way, so I’ll watch that movie, because I haven’t, running towards my destination in a signature coat, Hudson Bay, which the Canadian appreciated. He was a refugee, by the way. His family fled Pakistan (the Kurdish guy back at the resto said he couldn’t tell Turkish people where he was from, just to say) and landed somewhere else before Canada, but he was twelve, I think, when he first arrived. A lovely guy. I left him at the bar, because I had two drinks, hunny, I can’t do this anymore. He had another, like four, and I have to be careful, because I sometimes don’t realize when I’m with someone who drinks… who likes to drink. I’m not a big drinker. But I like someone who likes to go out, as long as I can take off. This speakeasy is a dimly lit corridor with booths in the back. They don’t have menus. A nice bartender with a blond ponytail, sort of balding, and in a Hawaiian shirt, practically. He’s just there, happy to be there, happy to discuss what it is that you want to drink. And then, he serves you something delicious, that’s his basic MO. He’s just there, shrugging, to serve you exactly what you want. I can’t tell who goes there. In any case, Hamza offered to pay for my drinks, which was a lovely invite from him, so that meant I was taking a taxi back home, which I appreciated.

So, yeah, what I’m doing feels like a TV show, about a woman starting over, it’s pretty simple. First scene? Um, my conversation with the sexual trauma specialist, stumbling over texts from friends shutting me down…was this true? Um, to him? Could be. We’re going to have to take our time. And that’s basically it. You guys, I mean, I had to just dive back in, I had no money. I had to wrestle with my stupid psychicness, this stupid screenwriter, and his love of the SETH books, a nightmare! And I had to contend with — what the fuck was I doing for the enitrety of my life? So it feels like a TV show to me, I just don’t know what that means, in actuality. How do you develop a TV show? Well, I guess, you might just start? And like, Carrie was a writer on that show, so I could be a writer too. But it would be funny, Barbara Harris and I making our way through the neverending home and body section at AJs Supermarket in Scottsdale to the song from Kingsman: WEST VIRGINIA. That’s what’s happening in my head. “Take me home…country roads…” and then, my Black roommate, he makes a pass, singing that song, though he had no clue… that was in my head. “Hey!” I cried from my room. “That song!” “Classic,” he said, like a real dude. And I was kicking around a comedy routine: “Black men are the unsung psychic heroes of my life right now…” no biggie, Black men are just psychic, right? It’s like, not a big deal, that’s what I’m getting psychically from them. So that’s a running joke. Black men saving the day or commenting on what’s going on… without realizing it. Laughing, sipping cocktails. “This also has meaning for me,” very clearly showing the wallet, when I was frantically trying to find my Black roommate’s Dark Matter Yeti cup. Scenes like this, are good. “Where’s the DARK MATTER YETI CUP??”

“It meant something to him!”

And then, I overheard a couple of guy friends talking about what had meaning to them.

And Jesus, my open mics? Going to these open mics? Oh wow, me doing this? Okay, with the sexual trauma specialist behind me, nodding, okay. I’m stepping out on a comedy stage and seeing what I can do with the sex scandal… “I was in a sex scandal…when I was four…” crickets. It might be funnier like that. But there’s always getting better… but I could develop a show about starting over now. Coming from THAT background. Showing this specialist a picture of my mother? Oh my God. Can you imagine? Hamza? Most of the time, it’s a “wow.” That’s where I came from. “Are you okay?” I’m telling you, a crazy crazy lady who treated me like crap, utter crap, who gives a shit about her personality? So I’ll keep playing around with scripts, as I need to just spend some time writing scenes — simply. I don’t know what to say about why would I go to film school? I would try to go to NYU, no? For film? They have a SUPER nice department, that’s for sure. But I don’t get the point UNLESS it’s like, “you can get x.” I don’t know how to operate a camera. I was just going to use my Iphone. Watch a tutorial, watch the films and shows made with an Iphone, there’s one from Naples, too. That’s what I thought though, like, if you saw me back in Istanbul, versus now, I looked terrible. And I’m surfing the metro, I thought that was one of those “nice touches.” I’m trying to find my life, for real, I want to recognize my life. And there’s something about “everytime” so to speak, I step onto the metro. Something about the journey. In my red beanie. Starting over from scratch, literally. Fictionalize some of it.

So, we’ll see, that’s what I’m thinking now. Again, I’m not so much attached to it being ME literally on screen, though, if I’m interesting, I don’t KNOW yet, that’s fantastic. If I’m a good actor, cool. You see? No issues. But if I could do something in entertainment, I would be thrilled. I thought that’s the direction I wanted to go in, and I keep on… settling there. I just need to think like these editors I’m trying to get to… they were also journalists, for real, one of them reported from prisons. I’m not that person, that’s the thing, I wish this stupid guru didn’t ACT like he knew what he was talking about! Telling me to MEDITATE on the future book already done? Telling me to ZERO in on “my life idea?” NO. “Go get a reporting job, no?” Go… of ALL the people I could have met, I’m telling you. I was acting stupid, that goes without saying. And he was definitely part of that stupid leg. (I’m pretty sure Obama would be tuning into these moments, like, wow, that was mighty stupid.) I couldn’t believe how stupid I was acting. And he’s like, sure! Spend your IRA money. Right? Because you can meditate money into existence. Like, what are you even talking about? I don’t have a pension, coming, you know. Not yet. I haven’t had a job like that! Sure, I can sell a book, but I mean, I gotta make real moves here. So, another day, it’s another day. I feel better this morning. I feel better that I met people…I’ll keep getting very social… and I’ll take this one step at a time. I hope I get a big break, sure, but for the moment, I wish I didn’t have to work in a restaurant, so I have to keep problem solving.

I’m not exactly well qualified, as the guru said I was. What are you even talking about? I wasn’t even operating sensically. So I gotta keep on, trying. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t been looking that aggressively, to be honest, as looking for a job is a full time job, sort of. But hopefully, I’ll MEET people, yeah, as many jobs come to you in that way… so you want to meet people, obviously, thinking about this stupid guru. Now, if I can get into EPIC, if I can make it there, I would take a small deep breath. Like, okay. They are producers. You see? That’s a direction. So I gotta buck up, and get back to my story. That’s what I’m going to do this morning, and then I have a casting workshop I’m going to with Liz. I guess she wants to get back into acting too.

Worked on a script today

I took that scene with the Ukranian refugee, and I am transposing it into a script. Fun. Very. There’s a lot of nonverbal communication so there’s longer descriptive paragraphs in the beginning. I’ll continue building tension. That seems pretty standard. Again, tight heart, this is emotional for me, just — the TIME it took for me to get here, and I don’t have a job, you know? That stupid shit. Who cares? I can’t help that. I always get sad, tense, on Wednesday, because I have to go into my work week tomorrow, and I hate this aspect of my life, and I haven’t been able to find just a better job yet. I usually find my zen.

I’m going out to dinner later to meet new friends. There’s an app that sets you up with five or six strangers, so I’m going to do that this evening. I have to get ready, actually. I just want a real birthday next years with a lot of friends. So that’s a goal of mine. I don’t know, right now, I just don’t know. I don’t know what to do job wise. I’m not exactly well qualified, and all this is going to take time. I’m nowhere near completing a book. I have to just keep reading, simply, and thinking about the next decisive step… I’ll keep working on my short story… it’s just, I wish I had a job I enjoyed. A real job. So. I’ll keep problem solving. I’m just frustrated, right now.

It was nice to finally rip off this bandaid though. Just try a script. So I’ll move into my short series next, as I’d like to just produce something, quick, easy. So I’m going to try these monologues, the 1800 I’m Psychic, and I’ll see if anyone at Columbia might just give me a couple of pointers. Anything they’re learning. I’m sure. THIS, the Year I was Invaded by the Russians, is a good script, or it could be, I think. It’s more like figuring out one story. I’ll keep watching movies. I don’t know what this would be like. I’ll think about that too — with a smile, “this is the year I was invaded by the Russians…” Putin would watch this.

In any case, it will be alright, I’ll find something, it’s not that, it’s just…I didn’t have to be here. And the WEEE HOOO manifestation crap, just…but the god of film, (haha), is with me, I believe that. The goddess too. There are usually two. They typically have children who watch over the individual genres, the technicians, you know, film, literally, the film, or the cameras… precious metals… whatever is required… and I believe this family of Gods is watching down on me… helping me along… unbothered by someone… going THROUGH IT, you know, as that’s what DRAMA IS… blah blah blah.

I’m off. If you want to be afraid, very afraid, just look at my mother’s picture below. It really just sums it up. Can’t believe her? Well, just look at her. That’s a woman who would wrap her 4 year old daughter in a sex scandal.

This picture of my mother

Everyday my relationship with the guru dissipates though the ridiculous nature of it, which I don’t know what to do with, reading Modern Love, going, I have no clue how I would even synthesize what this was, even, so my major dilemma in life was coming from a story that triggered helpers. Weird attachments. That’s a book title, maybe, instead of fierce. It was so weird.

I just read how this woman found a better therapist in AI than in real life in Modern Love. I just downloaded a book to read that didn’t sound like it had a “hanger” in the guru’s words, but rather a string of her experiences…Year of the Water Horse. I wasn’t that OFF, in terms of my approach, I just didn’t know what writing was. What can I say? I’m not sure if it was a matter of GETTING IN TOUCH WITH MY FEELINGS, in ALL CAPS, but just reading around. But I definitely, now, am in touch with the problem this story brought me as an attractive person? I can’t totally penetrate that, but my personality caused me problems, but in a public space, I might be called inspirational, I really don’t know how to frame it, but THAT was a heartbreaking problem to have. This guru, right? He’s going to find me remarkable enough to grace me with his presence, that we know, but he doesn’t have the GUTS, and it required none, to tell me he sincerely appreciated who I was as a person. Or else? Was I just there to fulfill his desire to help someone? Not get a job, but manifest their life? Wow. And, I JUST arrived in LA. There wasn’t any problem, and this man was obsessed with problems. The problem was — living with my adopted sister to BEGIN WITH.

This, looking back at this disgusting man, wasn’t something to CUE VIOLINS over, dude. This was a — stop acting like this. Get a job. Get your own place. This isn’t HARD. No spending that money. I wish my father had put it off until 40. The whole amount. She can’t, under any circumstances outside of an emergency, use this money until she’s 40. But in my father’s mind, by 35, I should have a career by then. Not the case. And 500k, sorry, that’s a solid nestegg to receive at 26, you understand. I had loans to pay off, sure, but I can’t even deal with myself, honestly, just the way I was operating, but AGAIN, I am a MOTHER now, someone who gives a SHIT. I’m not GOING ANYWHERE BECAUSE I AM ANGRY. I’m MOVING CLOSER TO YOU. ANGER. YEAH. What Wthe fuck is in this closet? Who the fuck is this person? Who are you emailing? UP in your business. That was the Zen Master Sybil’s point, the only psychologist I worked for that did me any good.

That’s your problem, you said. “You do not CARE,” and she SHOWED ME the rage in it. It’s just red energy. And the thing is, unfortunately, people can get attached to YOUR problems because it distracts them from THEIRS. Watch out. Learn how to put on a FACE, yes.

What sucks is, looks fade, unless you’re Amanda Seyfried who looks so beautiful at 40, she’s a radiant goddess, she really is, of vulnerability, groundedness, and simple charm. Looking at her, all I thought was, God, I wish I never opened my mouth. I wish I never opened my mouth. A strong line. “Do you have a story?” Nope. Nothing to see here. (Deal with it privately.) Do not BOND over this. Trap. It’s a trap.

Now, I see how I could use my experiences and direct them into a role — because, taking a deep breath, I didn’t care that much, you guys! En revanche, as we say in French, I didn’t care THAT MUCH ABOUT MY STUPID FAMILY STORY. But I could USE the experience to make a contribution in the world. Why did it feel as though I was the ONLY person who ever read a BOOK, or ever TALKED to anyone? People come from BACKGROUNDS, sure. But—weird attachments.

In any case, who cares? We only have one life. Forget life is LONG. Right now, it feels like, “wow, that was a long time I didn’t have my shit together.” Jesus Christ, if you saw a picture of my mother — I’ll post it, you’d grain away, “holy shit.” SHE, my father, I mean, I can’t with this man, was an IMPOSSIBLE fucking task to work out. This woman was degree of fucked up. And I see myself in this subliminal space, as I’m editing, rewriting, so I don’t think I’ve gotten there yet, but I desscribed the psychic period, my thirties, as the corridor in Penn Station when you enter from 7th ave — yeah, I mean it’s NEW sure— on the way to the A C E line where teenagers rehearse their dance routines. (I’ve thought about it.) Right now, I feel like a waste of space, time, a waste of time and space. That was self indulgent and a disgusting display of wealth, even, on all accounts. We just picked a corner, set up a boombox, and experimented on a grounbreaking pas de deux… useless. But it’s a corridor in the station, sure, like I could stop there and hang out on my way to the A C E line. But why? It was a stop I have trouble moving past, but I do, I keep doing it, because I look back… and of course I see the whole PATH of it, as a mother now, and maybe I’ll never be one for real, thinking of Ann Lee, but I had to become one. It was imperative. Okay, clearing my throat, there might be 1 billion stories in the world, but not for my kid. You know? So here we are, and I want to feel a sense of purpose.

I love to dance, how funny, I’ll keep moving, you know, I’ll keep figuring out where I belong… but even that word, enough. It’s not belonging. It’s like, what I want to do… because right now, yes, it hurts sometimes looking at Amanda Seyfried—she’s my age, she’s had a stellar career, she puts her kids to bed, and I don’t know if I want kids, in fact, I don’t know, but it’s definitely a possiblity. It’s another one of these YOU BUILD OVER TIME. It’s not just about a career. So who knows, maybe I’ll take up a spot in PENN STATION and dance around… I don’t know, work on routines. On Saturdays. My friend LIZ would come, my darling friend, and with her particularly innocent gaze, she’d point and say, “hey, you’re not bad.” She’s a real friend. I found that, one of those. I see her often, right now, at least, and there are no complexes, she’s not a so-called “alpha female,” which drives me CRAZY as a phrase. I hate hierarchy, I prefer respect. One of these concepts that’s…disappeared. And so, thus, I am someone who doesn’t like to RELATE, I believe in differences. Respecting those. I’m an Arendtian. Especially after my goddamn experience of being fucking psychic. I imagined her… turning the page there, taking a deep breath.

“Oh no…” she’s already worried, looking at the cover of THAT book called “my thirties.” She might skip to the end, “did she make it out?” So now, will she defy all odds and rise a star entertainer in her forties? Will she… make the impossible happen with this guru in this corridor singing “impossible things are happening everyday…” from Cinderella. And I’m dancing, dancing, to hip hop, like, I’m not exactly that person. I’m grooving. You know? I’m Casper, that was my nickname at school. I might wear a hat, type deal. I’m an Alice in Wonderland character, my friends at THAT school, would understand. “You gotta get a hat…” I bought mirrored furniture, started to, as a means of making a space for my mother’s love of mirrors, aesthetically. I thought, alright, I’m embracing the fairytale, a bit. I have Tina Turner, this light, beaming at me… whatever that means.

And now, guess what? Not psychic. I’m not psychic anymore. I do not “see things,” which is funny, even if I saw “real imagery,” if you would. It’s just, what exactly was the point of this psychicness? From my perspective? Self-importance. I’m sure Ann Lee really stopped the storm, that she was able to predict the future. I don’t know what to say, you know? I didn’t want to be this person. I’m not on a mission from God, type deal. I just, ugh, found this all self-indulgent. I had to hang on, I did, through this film, “the god of film,” as a joke, was chill. I just have to laugh, at that. I am with “the ancient concepts.” Please.

If anything it freaked me out, more so than anything else, which I had to wrestle with, like, yesterday in the theater, I dropped my head. Maria, you’re not PICKING UP ON ANYTHING! You’re watching a movie that’s stimulating you, Jesus. But that, I dashed that out, quickly. It’s barely a thought, a thing. It’s a strict no. Let’s see, I posted something on social media, and my friend’s response sort of freaked me out. Going to SAG screenings isn’t exactly the sign of things LOOKING UP. Or me doing a Columbia SHORT isn’t exactly THAT AMAZING. She texted ME RIGHT THERE AND THEN when I posted the story…and I don’t know what that means, because it didn’t feel supportive, actually. And I was working 24 hours….. you see, so no, I wasn’t going to respond right away, and now, she hasn’t responded, which might not mean anything, it’s just, I find texting to be… a nightmare for me, so I’m letting go of all attachment… there is no problem. That’s the new baseline. Enough.

The texting aside, you see, I had to wrestle with myself — for real, like you’re not PSYCHIC. And like, yeah, casting out the demons, sure, to use this imagery, I, in a holy fire, roared at these fucking men who would INSIST that I was. Get the fuck out of my head. Cast Away, starring Tom Hanks. For the love of Christ. How did I get here? But Seyfried retained a youthful spirit, in a graceful posture, so I’ve had some struggles with my youthful spirit, my feeling like I’m 17, since I feel as though I just got here as a person. I’m over whether I was abused as a four year old because no one gives a shit. There you go, there I am, speaking to myself a few years back. I assure you, everyone cared about your stupid fucking family story for shits and giggles. Weird attachments. But when it gets real, no one is going to give a shit. Zero. No one gives a shit about child abuse.

And there, I feel like the Joker’s daughter. I would be so there for my friend, it would be, night and day, and why? Why? My mother, right? I saw so much truth in her, in what she reflected. But I am a rare person who came from particular circumstances. And now I see myself on Riverside park, because it has the air of a neighborhood for a superhero… I don’t know what to say about what I heard in these psychedelic journies… like, I saw a couple of women who came to understand that they had been abused… which made me tremble. “It can become your superpower…” so, firstly, why do AMERICANS speak like this? Next, the sexual trauma specialist simply used the word: empowerment.

I didn’t exactly get illuminated, if you would, but it definitely freaked me out. Spirit guides? What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t want to be here. The line between life and death is arbitrary, and I have to slap my hand, at myself, you father is simply coming to MIND. Stop. Don’t get tense and worried. Let these idiots go off on their tangents. The channeling thing was awful, like another energy was in my body. I hated it, and I had to seriously seriously work it OUT — out. In a restaurant, now. In my mind. Where I work. Sitting on a bench. OUT.

Look at me, bask in my giftedness, which I didn’t really play, to be honest, I suppose I investigated a little bit, though, what to say about hinges, in the mind, where — these plant people, to insult them, even, as they said I could be a faciliator ? I had THAT gift? Whatever that means. Looking at myself, people, it was obvious that I wasn’t a candidate. It’s interesting what you see, though, or what I saw, or could see…like I saw a woman’s schizoprehnia… the images that came to mind… uh oh. That was scary. She hadn’t told anyone that she had a psychic break… recently… and I couldn’t really read the imagery… at first, only go, I can’t even look at these symbols… need to get away. And then, she came for me… I had to wrestle with this woman, because the facilitator was out to lunch. Just states. She was fine the next day, by the way, but that was a scary moment I had. But I saw it, I guess, that she had schizoprehnia, something. A psychic break…right away. I had experiences like that. I could pick up, sure, I mean, who cares?

It’s funny, because my experiences in that realm make me draw a strict line — I will not go there.

I had my moments. I was asked by the Russians, this Russian underground family I made in Paris, to help a Ukranian refugee through a terrifying hallucination he had, as it turned out, I was supposed “gifted” in this realm. (I can’t help by laugh.) When we first took off on this terrifying journey he took to leave the train station, you understand, he wasn’t aware of how tense he was, terrified, he lost all his brothers, and he gets to Paris, and he slams into “the devil.” No worries, the devil? Flick flick flick, like a cigarette. Like I give a shit about the devil, this figure isn’t scary. Enough. Bombs are. Men with guns. I can hold that for someone. But sure, we can work out the devil, as he couldn’t even wrap his mind around that. Now, I tried to simply, at first, to slow him down… “where did you come from?” He can’t GO THERE, you see, which was fine, but he’s going to GO THERE, the devil, once he felt I wasn’t going to judge him or recoil because he mentioned “the devil.” FLICK FLICK FLICK. This puny figure next to GUNS, man. I can’t stand this symbol, I told him, I cannot STAND this symbol. Everyone gets scared. I just HATE that figure. ENOUGH. (Fire crackling.) I didn’t get upset, obviously, I kept my state extremely calm, neutral, more so than anything else. Total neutral. But, because I saw imagery from time to time that ended up having a real application, I decided to try and put intention behind it by setting up a container…a visualization experiment. I was wondering if anything relevant might pop up. So, I walked to the train station, I had been there before, I set up the space in my mind and — there he was… across the train station. NOW, honestly, I would have asked, “did you have time to pack a bag?” I didn’t see a bag. Stuff like that. I found him, in my imagination, in a state of total shock. A deer in headlights. I stopped him, “too fast,” as he was in a state, obviously! In a state of terror and panic. He might not KNOW, you see. “Hold. Where did you come from?”

“What did that matter?”

Well.

And then, I got a moving image, you see, of a green landscape out a train window… I remember it, even now, so sensationally, the green, the dark red cabin, and no, it doesn’t have to be literal, and without thinking, it just looked different, you see, so I said, “you had a passage someplace else?” Curiously, I wasn’t even thinking. He snapped his head at me, “how did you know?” “Nevermind, it’s not important.” I’ve had moments like that. More than one, but who cares? People love these sorts of stories. And I’m not the person who’s GOING OFF the first thing I see, feel, nope. Time. Like I give a shit about images coming to mind. Give a shit. It was a good war story, and right now, I’m thinking I’ll tell a more SWEEPING book… so all these chapters in my life will just be that, and the running THREAD through it, that would be obvious. It was a good “war story…” and, what do you do, when — you see someone tortured? You see? The TEMPTATIONS. I interrupted him, cut the chase:

“Let me guess, there were temptations?”

His eyes bulged. “How did you know?”

“The Bible.”

“The devil is real?”

“No, but he exists in a way,” I do not understand WHY psychology has to be A JAPANESE FAN DANCE full of mystery. Step by step. He can’t shake the reality of it because guess what? It was real. What he experienced, Jesus, this topic drives me nuts. I was amazed by the script of it. By the book, this stupid figure, I hate the devil. “A broken record,” I told him in the beginning, so annoyed. He had his moments, where he cracked, just a little, I mean, almost laughed—good. But that was a hard shell to crack, and you got to do it gently. But here we went…into the temptations. I was watching his body, his emotional experience. It reminded me of Tim o’Brien where he described war as love, terror, everything. It wasn’t so much love, but that was a complicated experience. Obviously. And in this case, he got SUCKED in… so he’s wrought, confused, he wanted so badly for some button to be pushed, of course he did. Who wouldn’t want a million dollars man? To fall from the sky? But there’s EVIL in it, right? Lots of feelings CONTAINED in that encounter. He freaks out, right? And as he pulls away, gets CLOSER TO THE DOOR, which is the only thing I see, we can wade a bit, but we’re going to come back, so we just have to get out that door… and if you put yourself in HIS shoes, that had to be the worst cross he ever made in his life. So, he tries to break away, and that stimulates the hallucination to demonstrate the full scope of his POWERS. He pins people down at the station, in a state of agony and death, grusome, terrifying, he didn’t want ANYONE TO DIE! And, I’m just a container. Now here, in terms of my experiment, I don’t even remember him by the fire… as we were really by a fire in the woods, in the middle of Paris, though really the outskirts. I only see him at the station in my mind. Whatever. But we made it out… we did. Out the door. And I won’t talk about my feelings personally, because they aren’t the point. I only hold a space, for him, even respectfully.

This is not something I can relate to. I can sit and contend with how the images or experiences communicated the agony of war, the bloodbath on the floor, the turmoil, how he can’t quite get out of the door… in a state of shock, his mind was blown. It didn’t make him crazy.

I ended up in this situation, funny enough, where I was asked to do this, because this Russian woman saw me “as a true clown.” This was my job, you know? In the shamanic sense. I was the person to go to if you’ve been through madness, I will get you out, (I’m laughing), like I give a shit about my feelings. You see? I came from particular circumstances. So sure, I suppose I could work with people? I don’t know what to say about the PSYCHICNESS. Maybe someone else would have simply asked the question, “did you have a passage somewhere else?” As a question that popped up. You know? Or, they would have DESCRIBED their feelings, through this, I don’t know. I wanted to be there as fully as I could for this man, that was my only intention. I even called it an honor to be here. Okay? We’re going to get through THIS leg, just the devil, and if we need to wrestle with him, for a moment, that’s fine. I reframed it, in the end, like, “he’s not bad," you know…

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s not bad… not if you don’t believe in that binary…” like, he was struggling, personally, with the temptations. You’re not at fault, you’re not bad. He’s not BAD, again, FLICK. I cannot STAND the devil. The Year I was Invaded by the Russians is a good script, I think, and I could easily transpose that scene, because the WANT from both characters is describable… there’s a beginning, change, end. So I might try that first. The Year I was Invaded by the Russians.

Always the same routine, with this guy, the SAME routine. It’s boring. And hopefully, you’ll start laughing… enough! (Later, with her? I cannot stand the devil.) I’m with the Native Americans, you see, in Anne Lee, shifting my eyes: here come the Christians… these lunatics. Their obsessions with the SUMMER SOLISTICE. The eclipse, you see? The Native Americans looking at these man’s drawings. A little, “crazy.” Sex is evil, etc etc etc. Around the world, dancing in this field, around the world… I’m dancing to that song in the middle of this field.

I’m on the side of Seyfried, in that, she was so graceful about it and yet so moved that a woman was a religious leader. Totally, high five, you nailed that shit. You DID IT. I’m like a basketball player— pointing at YOU, like you did that, ooooo, one for the team. There’s nothing but LOVE and cheer coming from me. I’m just watching movies right now, because I don’t know what a dramatic build is, but — I wonder what a screenwriter would say about the build of that movie? Like, is that APEX satisfying? Like the burning building — the BULIDING was effective because it was a real fucking fire. But again, biopic, right? I’m trying to learn. But obviously, there are possibilities. I guess the APEX of the Russians, as they slipped in right before Putin did. Gasp, in a restaurant called love, almost as if a reversal of Master and Margarita —like, oh my God, it’s true, you people are like that, thinking about Dave Chappelle saying it…”A Navajo?”

“Wow,” his delivery. “I studied you in social studies.”

I might try and work on that today, actually, as I need to feel like I’m moving ahead, a bit. And who knows, I keep looking out there to the field of actresses, like, who could play my mother? I didn’t ask a question, but I would have asked, was that doable for you, did you find that hard? I just didn’t want to put her on the spot. I mean, playing that sort of character. I feel like that’s a private question. But I was curious… if she found it hard, or she had a strict process. My mother, at times, she worries me for that reason, but again, I’m just thinking LOGIC, that makes sense. There’s no logic there, really, but I might be able to… problem solve, find the art in it. But, like, the actor said, another one, who she so respected, it was clear. He commended her for not falling prey to getting OVERCOME, if you would, beyond necessary. THIS IS DR. J though. She’s overcome for sure.

That was a truly truly insane woman. Look at this picture.

A Joker.

Now cue the soundtrack. Looking at the world in relation to her.

She gave you away to save you from herself. Right, she LIED about her husband being a child molester, wrapped up some MOTHER up in this madness. (And there, I see Chappelle, I do, nodding, like, I sort of said that… ) but these people are telling me that to make themselves feel better. NO, she didn’t GIVE ME AWAY. She wrapped me up in a little sex scandal.

I don’t know… someone that fucked up, that wounds you beyond the personal, to be honest, at all these assholes. Talking to me about all mothers being crazy, do not insult me. It’s a bad photo, but that’s it. That’s basically it. In terms of feeling my feelings, I don’t know, thinking about this goddamn guru — this Hollywood screenwriter? Barking up my tree? — I could picture fighting for people’s lives! You know? One of THOSE? Like get the fuck out of my way, picturing myself in some movie, someone who can’t…cool it, maybe, in a police station. “You care too much.” Stop. And of course, the line would be, of course it would: you don’t care ENOUGH. Leaving. Fuck this place.

Now, I picture Robin Williams’ face coming over that bench, in Good Will Hunting, with that smile. What would he recite?

Looking at a refugee who saw the DEVIL? Sure. I’ll, get you out. I get that drive, just thinking about Anne Lee, her passion. She went through so much, so much loss, that was gruesome, I couldn’t even look. Please! I had to laugh at myself, unable to GET THROUGH THIS PICTURE. I remembered my cousin Angela, beginning to laugh, because I was writhing on her couch, unable to STAND Legends of the FALL. “I can’t do this!!” “It’s just a movie, Meri.” “I know,” standing away from the TV. I had to face away. Turning around, not wanting to see this progression! I had a similar experience with Dawson’s Creek but for different reasons.

“TOO MANY MISUNDERSTANDINGS!”

I suppose I had to laugh, you know, my mother was so cruel, she was so messed up. I’m more so angry at who I met, and how they dared to speak to me. THAT’s who she is. Crazy upon sight. You’re in the WRONG MOVIE. At the police station nightly, and like, no one is doing anything, and I’m FOUR, not fourteen. Like, in my investigation, my undercover investigation that I can’t quite structure, not knowing what to do, but I’m going to keep reading and figuring it out. Angelica and I had to STAY on the FIRST interaction with this woman for quite some time. “So you turned to her…” alerted by me. “HERE! TAKE HER!” Wee!!! And the sexual trauma specialist, you see, is worried, not BACKPEDALING, like “no, it doesn’t mean anything…” to him, it did. He’s trying to support me, like, “from beginning to end this is troubling.” Stop. He wasn’t exactly CUING VIOLINS on my ass. Some sappy song. THOUGH, shrug, who knows? Through the years! When everything went wrong… together we were strong… I picture Jim Carrey, a lot, as I move through this time…he would GET IT, he would HIT with a little invisible mallet, the chord. How heartwarming. Child molesters. Heartwarming tale, Dr. J. Sentimental.

Like I give a shit at this point, I mean, this woman is going to die, and so will her little escort. In any case, thank you to the “god of film,” to bring in my Neapolitan roots, for assisting me on my journey to process deep wounds… I guess, you know? Couldn’t be vulnerable. The NFL coach within me is saying, “nope, not in a dress, lady.” Watching these MEATY MEN RUN and SLAM into things. There’s a real world, too, you know. My heart was so broken, really, by the psychic stuff, um, just where I ended up, contending with my own vulnerability. Alright, I’m going to read, because that’s all I have to do, and I will try writing a scene between this refugee and I, and I’ll post it. Get that done.

I don’t know what to say about the psychicness, I could have skipped it. It felt masterbatory if I’m being totally honest. Now, if there are real psychics out there, I am your biggest fan, actually. I am not against. In my case, I’m staying out of it. I’m not getting involved, with a bow. I do not believe in hierarchy. I’m laughing. In the movie right? I am zero, no one. I was so turned off by all this greatness, if you would. And I have nothing to show for it, you understand. So I’m back, found, here. I have a sword, a bow, a crossbow even — approach me if you dare. This guy, truly, he told me I was TOO PSYCHIC, imagine?

Nothing but KIDS wanting to be Pollock — dipping brushes in and throwing paint around… too psychic to manifest. Utterly crazy, and that’s my mother, you understand. Wanting to drive to her house, break her shit, with Tom Cruise, someone like this playing a secret spy that I fall in love with immediately. Jerry Maguire. There’s your elevator pitch. He’s going to have to calm me down, unable to contain his laughter, his love for me, Jesus. “Listen bitch…” hearing me go off, “telling some GIRL at the Continental Hotel in Paris, France, that he’s a secret spy?” Looking at HIM. “Absurd.” He’s laughing at how I crack eggs, calling this woman INSANE. At HOW I crack eggs, specifically. How I make eggs.

I say that because this producer I met, suggested, maybe “you go home because your mother is about to die…” like in A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints. I went back to my humble abode, like, um, that’s never happening. I don’t know if she handled me inappropriately sexually, you see, um, we’re in a different (picturing the spy not ABLE to stop laughing in shock) picture. You see? So, that aside, putting it “over there…” sliding that “over there…” like Jm Carrey is going to understand why I am comedic, in my approach. Look, scratching my brow, that took three weeks that crack, conceptually. Now, I can picture 13 movies. But the first? If this were for real? It’s Jerry Maguire. I’m going to the Pentagon, wherever I need to, and I’m GETTING A REAL SPY. Immediately. And we’re going to fall in love so completely, it’s going to be hilarious… picturing this guy, looking at them.

He’s a real spy, smiling, I hope you don’t mind. “Sit down.”

“Imagine?” Sitting in front of him. “At the CONTINENTAL HOTEL,” and I have said these words to Obama’s picture. “In Paris France. He tells me he used to work for the government,” air quotes on “the” government, and I can’t make it through this monologue. “And she goes, SHUSH, rubbing her finges together, double life…” And, look, to him, the spy who loved me, “he’s climbing mountains…” vague, with a fantastical hand, Italian, “searching for Osama Bin Laden…” We’re going to get married, you see. “Was he a child rapist, woman?”

Imagine? This was my family. “WERE YOU? A child abuser? WOMAN?” Truly. “Angelita,” fuck Angelica Leibowitz, a name so close to Angelita Leiberman, it’s like, hm, you might as well just keep the name. “She didn’t know how YOU HANDLED ME.” Okay? Ridiculous. “So you want to SEE ME?” That would be EARTH SHATTERING conceptually, because she never even CALLED me in my life, practically. I don’t know what this madwoman went YAPPING ON ABOUT, but the SPY has access to your PHONE RECORDS bitch. FBI, they are BEHIND ME as an organization.

So, that’s for real. But of course, I could come up with other ideas. Even a international spy family AKA Royal Tanenbaums with Cate Blanchett kicking my ass, and Jordan Woods Robinson my hilarious brother. That works. Just some crazy family that’s dealing with some internal problem.

So, you know, I don’t know if I was wrong, actually, in my approach, I just needed to work out the emotional…it’s different now. I hear, see, read about mothers left and right. She was a total disgrace. I don’t care about mentally ill. Like, that’s some cop out, okay? What? Why did you act like that? And I would wrestle the devil, wouldn’t I? To get a human being back, if you catch my drift. Like I gave a shit, in the sense, about the personal. It was all personal. So, I’ll think about it, keep thinking about it, and you know, people have their interests. Natalie Portman went and studied psychology… I just mean what my life is, what it looks like.

But, I keep landing, I do, in entertainment. Like that’s where I’d like to be… more of a speaker, than writer, though I gotta figure it out. I gotta figure out how to make LIFE WORK. How does it WORK in my case? I have no idea. And look, everyone LOVES to give ADVICE. THE JOB is to FIGURE THAT OUT. For yourself. What I know? Despite my feelings, which are a bit touch and go, right now, personally, I’m DOING IT ANYWAY. That’s quite a picture. Heartbreaking. Yes. And I found her, oh my God, to be the toughest make up, genetics, sure, to work out. But I’m here now. That’s it. I accept that… I kinda just have to do what I couldn’t do back then, and just keep on figuring out HOW life works for me now that the basics… are aligned.

You are going to want a HOUSE. You are going to want MONEY in the bank. You are going to want a purpose. I’m still working out, the “oh life is this tricky entreprise” where “you make the same mistakes…” I’m exhausted.

So that thought this morning. I’m going to keep reading… I’m going to keep figuring out the book in the back of my mind, momentarily, as I try to put together A STORY. This undercover investigation, or the miracle mile story… and I need to think income, job, and keep steering. I have to get back to these open mics. I’m going back into the rehearsal room next week.

Someone swiped my dresser — I left it for a half hour, dunno, in the lobby, thinking I was in a safe building? Tacked messages everywhere. I drove to Jersey for it, I got two. It’s NYC, I know. Hopefully, they’ll put it back. But making peace with mirrors. I feel like it’s one of those, “aw, yeah, I like mirrored dressers, actually…” I could picture people saying that, “love a mirrored dresser, sure…” not so much the walls, Dr. J, but the dresser is good. I needed a real piece of furniture. I’ll get more, but I needed to throw down a block, and the person in my building who took my dresser, maybe thinking it was up for grabs? Just put it back. I wish I put a note on it, I did, so it’s fine.

Alright, enough. I’m off to LOVE this day with Tina Turner… my light in dark places. We don’t need another HERO. We don’t need to know the waaaaayyy home.

Just saw The Testament of ANN LEE

Wow, I could hardly get through this movie — truly. I could hardly get through Legends of the Fall too. I had to get up, when Tristan’s wife was accidently killed. I hated this movie. I squirm, in my seat, I have to look down… and in this case, I felt particularly tense because of the religious storyline. It was, at times, too much. The psychedelic group I was in, was nothing like this, but anything remotely in that vein caused me to almost melt down. I thought about the emotional body, for sure, as I saw a young man with pent up rage, for example, who had to go into a room and unleash. And in the end, he was rinsed, and he spoke calmly about his life, basically. But it’s very contained, normally, it’s just, it’s not my thing. So this movie triggered me, even her prophetic states, this is a state. However, it was gorgeous, full of movement and song, I loved how daring it was, how they showcased a female leader of a known religion, the Shakers. I did not know her story. The shots were practically a painting, the lighting exquisite, and Seyfried did an extraordinary job. One of the actors described her acting as “to the bones,” so she didn’t fall prey to over doing it. I don’t know if one would call that logic over emotion, in the field of acting, but it was one of these movies that can make me uncomfortable because of the time period and the flashes of brutality. But, I made it through it, you guys, I made it through this picture. I had to laugh a couple of times because — it’s just a movie, Maria. I had to slap myself around a little bit, relax. Please. But the state of ectacsy…the being overcome by spirit… I just tried to concentrate on the choreography. I would have loved to have been in the movie. Not watching it. But I really really enjoyed it as a picture. Seyfried was outstanding.

And my running joke now, right? The God of film, to bring in my Neapolitan roots, now sent me to see this picture. Now, we’re upping the ante, we’re getting deep into my wounds here, as people, men, spoke about me as if I could SPEAK to animals at that time, basically, for real. I could download information from other times as well. I was so psychic… I could not really exist normally in the world. I “saw things,” stuff like this. I had some mysterious moments, but there’s something to say about going OUT of the psychic architecture, I don’t know how to describe that, but whipping oneself OUT. Not my thing. The guru, he scared me, the way he changed states and lifted his arm at me as if we were in the movie SPECIES, truly. I felt my nerves spike, my stomach clench, but it wasn’t that bad. My nerves, in places, but I kept breathing. I enjoyed the movie, aesthetically, the music, the art in it. Could hardly get through it though. I deep breathed as Seyfried was so lovely, cool, generous, I enjoyed her presence. She’s my age, 40, she looks fantastic, and I just connected with where I was—40. And then, the beating, I can’t handle that, but what a gorgeous shot in the end, wow, just wow. I was blown away by the locations… they were upstate, Budapest. I thought, at one point, I probably could use my mother to play this devotion, in the sense, that she was so mad, so ill, so cruel that I could probably access — pure love, type deal, a real passion. I mean, the “state.”

That’s that, I think I felt, standing there, fear. Mostly. Like, where am I going? I still have some residue from that god awful period, of channeling the future, all this stuff. I thought, intellectually, about emotional purges, as people would go through emotional purges sometimes during these psychedelic journies… I had some moments of intense crying, that’s about it, and of course, I was told I could be a shaman, that’s the joke, but the shaman told me I could “do this work,” so I had moments where I connected with people, though not often, but I had a moment where I saw this woman’s grandmother, it was remarkable, actually, because I ended up approaching her, like, “okay, so I saw something…” and she looked at me. "Are you okay?” I said. And she looked at me, “yeah.” Okay, the shaman told me to explore what I saw, a little bit, so I did. I told her of the eyes that flashed open on her forehead, a very specific personality, and I began to describe her eyes, and she went, “oh that’s my grandmother.”

“Oh,” I said. “Really?”

She ended up opening up that — she’s supposed to be there. Her grandmother is in the hospital. Instead of going there, she came here, instead, because she needed to do this for herself. She needed to…prepare. She described her, impersonated her, and by God, that’s who I saw. “You have to go…” I said. She nodded. “You have to go, now.” She went the next day, by the way. We had a whole exchange about it, her wrestling, how much of a tough bitch she was, and I could SEE that, wow. I was blown away that I — saw her across the room. “I’m sorry, can I tell you?” And she made it for the end of her life. She did it. She crossed the country. She’s one of the people, not the only one, who would always remember me because I — saw something or did something that struck a true cord.

I followed this one woman…during the journey, because she had a strange ability to disappear. She would disappear, reappear, type deal. I went up to her, and I said, “you can disappear?” She nodded, one of these moments, “yeah yeah, people have said that to me before…” oh, okay, you can — disappear, really, in a room, and then you reappear, that’s interesting.

I’m a bit like who cares? To be honest, because I just didn’t need to do that, but I had my experiences, I suppose. A few. I’m making peace with them. I can’t even discuss it, honestly, and when it comes to emotional purges, I have no idea what to say, but sometimes, it seems, there might be a therapeutic value in people emoting.

But the entire thing freaked me out, a little, but I thought, hey, I could even use some of that…that exists too. You know, the mystere, as we said at Lecoq, prophets, classical. I feel rinsed, after that film, like I was brought to a pitch, it was even more extreme, the film, I mean, so I felt that experience surface… and I admired how brave her performance was. I left, and I didn’t carry that movie with me, and I thought, once again, I can’t change… I cannot change…that I didn’t go this way…this wasn’t my life. But I’m going to give it the best I got… I’m going to keep going… the guru said ANYTHING ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE, THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN’T DO. LITERALLY NONE. He freaked me out a little with his Seth Books, actually. Is that true? Anything? We’ll see.

So now I’m going to get into a Zipcar, and I’m going to pick up my bedside tables.

Look at the picture below

I was deeply invested, at that time, Armando laughing, in an undercover investigation that I was conducting into the sex scandal I was just in. I’m not stupid, exactly, but I’m just happy to be there, you see? The storytelling of me is very clear. Simple person.

That's me, the most psychic human next to Armando

I was just a nice girl with a funny haircut. I mean, truly. This goddamn shrink of mine, who did nothing for me except take my money, she made some comment that I was always attractive? Or beautiful. Okay, not exactly the vibe. I wish I could just reconnect with my New Jersey family, like, “oh my God,” I have no idea what the fuck even happened. I can imagine, my cousin’s wife, the one who got a bit too wrapped up here, not even knowing what to do with the guru, really. I picture my financial liasion of sorts, right? From Jersey, the one who said, “you wanna live with us a second?” I can’t even believe she said that, (lol), with her mic-mansion in Hamilton, she has hens and shit. She picks up eggs. They have tractors, boy cars. They hunt. She cares about me, actually, and I can’t quite face her yet, but I’ll reach out to her soon and go hang out with her. I’m not going to live with her, I have to figure this out, but Jesus Christ, what the fuck was I doing? My investment person, Art, he like washed his hands of me some years ago. It’s just this guru, this douchebag who came into my life too — who encouraged a dysfunction. I had — imagine? My financial advisor, nodding at me, he would be so annoyed — I HAD MONEY IN THE BANK. “Meditate on your reality,” just ridiculous. “You can make,” picturing his brother’s caring voice, on top of it, “money fall from the sky.” That’s basically what they were saying. And I was just a chick, in a cafe, working on a book. Be real. Cynthia, my point person at Northwestern, she would say, “yeah when Maria came into the office, she could cause a bit of a stir?” I don’t know how to comment on that, because I wasn’t geared to notice, but it might have been more of my style, my vibe. I just look back and I go, I don’t even know who that is. I don’t know how I became that… both my parents were, I mean, if they heard the story of what happened to when I was four, they’d been shocked. If they had known that, they would have suggested — psychological help. I’m almost positive of it. “Okay, first, let’s just get you some help, because you don’t get what you’re doing…”

I thought everything, here comes WONDROUS Maria, was going to work out. It’s not to say that it can’t work out, that I can’t drop a digital product that makes me real money, that I can’t, I don’t know, start a platform like this woman did serving freelance writers, she made 700k one year. It’s not to say I can’t make money now. I’m having a hard time right now because I acted like an idiot, and this Hollywood screenwriter was — tapping the baton on his music stand, his elegant genius fingers flaring up towards the orchestra — the APEX. So were the plant people, this psychedelic group I regretfully got involved with. Where ALL these people saw me for MY LACK, what I did not have, which was the case… throughout my life… senitmental attachments to my lack of a mother, blah blah blah. And in the end, in nice clothes, I guess, I’m going to meet this Hollywood screenwriter who’s going to not be able to hold himself BACK. He’s going to hear that story, “oh I’m writing a story about how my mother gave me away to a total stranger because she lied about him being a child molester…” I can picture Art Blick, senior advisor at Northwestern going, “okay, we gotta get you a shrink.” That’s it, all good, let’s just make a plan. “Nope, nope,” clicking his mouse. “Nope nope, you don’t make sense, Maria.” And it’s so true, WHY would you spend the MONEY you have, that you don’t REALLY have? I didn’t come from a trust fund, I had a nest egg. You see, even if I have a million dollars right now, I would not exactly change my operation. Currently, I’m scared, and they are scared for me.

Again, I hope I sell a book, I hope I reach success, I hope I can empower others, women, even, to not fall prey to a system that might be designed to disempower them in the name of empowerment — it was amazing to me. I had MONEY in the bank. Resources. I didn’t need HELP. This Hollywood screenwriter got a WHIFF of that story, imagine? And he got triggered where he’s going to lift his arm with a deep deep breath in — here comes the movie SPECIES — and he’s going to POINT at me across a living room: knooowwwwwww, what do you wanna knoooooooooowww, life is not about what you wanna dooooo, it’s about what you wanna knoooooooooowwwww… and then, I’m going to go down a track. In the end, “who cares how much the rent is? Totally, spend your IRA…” a rich guy from Beverly Hills. Who lives in a universe? I really didn’t understand it in which money magically falls from his sister’s tree in Bel Air. Like, I’m happy for you… you come from the kind of wealth that can act that way, I guess. But in my case, that was a destructive force, and at times, I thought he had major problems with women, he doesn’t understand. As he confessed his love to me as my father, sort of, as he was role playing? What??????? Over a lost I TANYA DVD.

I’m just that funny looking girl in that photo up above. Someone Dave Chappelle would have adopted, I’m pretty sure. “I got a white baby now… “ shrugging, “probably a good idea…” look, “her mother’s name is Dr. J if you can catch my drift, not a peachy story.” He’s just seeing a cute baby. That’s basically it. Nothing to get crazy about. Just a person. So I woke up terrified, again, and I’m not exactly stagnating, I need to figure out a step I can take… so I can at least get to the next step which is… a regular job. It might take a second, because I wasn’t THINKING straight, people. I wasn’t THINKING straight. I got close to a professor in college, right? Now, I snap, grain away, in terror — why are you getting close to this person, Maria? Sure, weeeeee, what the fuck did that man care for me? Move to Paris, BE, live, when now, as I had to become a parent here, Art Blick would be on my side — I’m on the CONCORDE as a mother — I’m flying in fast and using my psychic gifts to track you down fast. What the fuck are you doing? Ohhhh, you can’t GO ON VACATION? You see what I mean? Dave Chappelle, my husband on a dream TV SHOW, in the seat next to me, as I am fuming… “she’s lost her MIND.” You’re acting a little DISNEY, Maria, you’re getting a touch too DISNEY on my ass. “Little town…it’s a quiet village…” I totally put myself down, you know? This guy thought I could marry a Duke? I mean, I’m picturing my family in New Jersey, taking that in.

I became…someone I do not understand… I have no idea… but it was a dreamworld, man, it really was. Where I was HELPED my people who didn’t see what I was really dealing with. I needed a bowling ball — Art Blick, I think — who would CRASH this shit — no no no no no no. Did you say you were given away to Brazilians? Looking at my father? No, no, no. If he’s gotta call social services, he’s calling social services. If my father can’t respond properly, you understand? There’s something wrong with him, that was pretty obvious to me. So I got here, basically, and I don’t know what to do with how I feel most days. Where I regard — ghost of Hamlet’s father in a META TV show Ben Stiller could make better — the Hollywood screenwriter guru… on the outskirts of this movie theater… nodding with my friend LIZ, a very very special person, like, horrified. I don’t feel so special anymore, not for the moment at least… and let me tell you, Art Blick would be the first person in line to see me on the goddamn screen, if I managed to get there, “unbelievable.” I don’t know what to say, because there are attractive women in the world, it was more like, I had no idea why I attracted THAT.

Personally, I don’t know, as I’m trying to WATCH screenplays, and think, how would I get up there? I’m mostly reading a second, trying to picture WHERE my story would go, and how I should tell that story… Art Blick? Senior financial advisor at Northwestern mutual with a cool house in Miami, which was the point here, MARIA, he’s on my side: think BIGGER DECK, not artistic greatness necessarily. Oh man, oh man oh man, “and then I got adopted into this other family…” just a mess. Anyway, I’ve taken my space. I can’t deal with, the idea, which Art Blick is going to understand, Blick is going to hear what happened to me when I was four — and not give me some speech. He’s going to go, “oh my God.”

But I’m looking at my notecards, reading, just so I can begin to establish steps that I can take to get a job I’m proud of. Simply. I want to go into entertainment, I keep coming back to that, like that’s where I wanted to go, originally. So I don’t know what to say, there’s a girl, Stranger Things? A young girl investigating the sex scandal she was in, is that the story? I just want this to be done. I didn’t want to be here. I was JUST a chick, okay? Not to say I can’t rise to greatness, but had money in the bank. SORRY if it wasn’t A CRAZY AMOUNT OF CASH LIKE THE GURU HAS but his approach was ridiculous, and he looks terrible, as a character in all this. It’s a psychological thriller for sure with funny music. Wow, she’s going to die? That’s what you would think… towards the end… oh no, why doesn’t she see this? I came from a background. My mother left me for dead. She wouldn’t have cared if I died. You shouldn’t get involved. That guru had no idea what it means to CARE about someone.

Anyway, I don’t know what to do, look, I made my choices, but I’m just saying, you shouldn’t play psychologist or guru if you have no idea what you’re doing. And why would you do that to begin with? Saying “I’m HERE,” as if you were training a dog. It’s twisted, man, that guy was twisted. He took advantage of my vulnerability. So, that aside, now, I look around and I go, um, you guys, I think I was just young and pretty. Sure, looking at a room full of cool, nice, interesting people — Diane Kruger included, who doesn’t give a SHIT about personality — um, is that RARE? I’m holding onto the ghost of Barbara Harris, because…I had a quality? A vulnerable quality? Okay okay okay. My mother really fucking made my life a living hell, her PROBLEMS, she really made my life harder. That wasn’t a “take the good and leave the bad,” because THE WHOLE PICTURE was bad. That was a “bye bye…” I am not a part of you, in a Aragon from Lord of the Rings type of bow. I want nothing to do with you, your personality, your mechanisms. I reject you, madwoman. My father too. I don’t know what to do with this man. I’m just not the type of person who would TAKE ON THE AIRS OF A FUCKING GURU because I learned a thing or two. Arrogant prick. An arrogant prick.

Okay, I think sometimes, let me set up my room exactly how I want it, right? But I don’t have much money right now. I would GO OUT, sure, but I hardly have clothes, imagine? I am on Facebook marketplace, and these places trying to assemble a few outfits, just so I feel better about myself. So I’m feeling rocky this morning, because it’s like, should I not do that? I’m 40, not like I couldn’t meet my guy, my friend LIZ did, she did, in her forties, she’s in her fifties now, but I’m looking at myself in the mirror going — okay, look, I get that some people found me attractive, what I’m SAYING, is that I wasn’t exactly the type where everyone in the room was looking at me? I don’t know what to say! Because these people in my life would SHUT ME DOWN, oh yes, they do. NO! No they don’t! I’m looking at the celebrities on the psycho spiritual plane for support here, please. Please, please, tell these people. I have been through enough! Diane Kruger, giving her face for a selfie. Cool, bye.

I was not that person. Not exactly. But let’s see. Let’s see what I LOOK like on camera, which is a different exercise, depending. Diane Kruger looks different when she’s the actress than when she’s actually acting in that role. So, I think I’m going to take a deep breath and keep setting up my room so I feel together, and I’m going to just keep doing what I’m doing, a moment, even if I’m stressed and sad right now. I can’t help that. It’s not the time to fluff me up, or whatever, like who gives a shit if I’m going to SAG screenings? I’m not going to premieres, as my friend texted me, “OHHHH things are looking up?!” Artifice, my friend. Artifice. I’m just going to events with a sag member who happens to be on the nominating committee this year. But it ATTRACTS attention. ME up on that screen? Yup, things are looking up for sure. Until then, it’s a bit of a — uh oh— gotta steer in my spaceship, now my financial advisors in it with Joyce Carol Oates as we — sail through shooting laser beams as the guru believed I was Luke Skywalker. Destined to be a writer. Joyce Carol Oates is LAILA. She would be arms crossed, sort of pinched about that, I imagine. So she’s eternally JCO. And we’re — battling the forces of darkness…

Oh man, I’m feeling better, though, generally, even if I had to start over. I put that screenwriter in this theater, for real, Liz and I BOTH regarding him on the psycho spiritual plane… okay, and we’re just watching a TV show, eating milk duds, and going, “wow, that was a lot of fantasy around me…” um, I guess I inspired him? But like, he SAW me as a very weird person, like, I really didn’t understand his perspective, like he saw SUITORS — picturing Diane Kruger, confused — RUNNING IN, to date me, because I wrote a story about a sex scandal? Because I was SO AMAZING despite these circumstances? Or would it be my humor, Dave Chappelle, which would touch people? Wasn’t too sure there. But there I was, in his meditation, in a suit, in the back of a limo? Looking at Joyce Carol Oates… playing the field… my eyes SHIFT to Diane Kruger once again. Okay, cool, I’m just trying to readjust to life on Earth. “Your suitors came to me during a meditation…” ????????? Instead of, “hey yo, Maria, wanna PUT YOURSELF OUT THERE? FIND A MAN?” You know? You see the difference? ONE DAY versus there is ONLY TODAY MARIA! So let’s hope, let’s hope my BEAUTY, not knowing what to say, will HOLD one more decade… let’s hope I knock something out of the park — where the audience of SAG will rise to their feet — WOOOOO, she did it! YAY! “MORE MILK DUDS FOR ALL!” I would CRY because I can. (Sorrentino laughing, because, by God, I am a Neapolitan, able to rally the people in numbers…politically, yes). Let’s hope. I just have to figure this one out.

So I don’t know HOW to package this so I can help or support others to avoid false help, like if this were Hero’s Journey, what would I say? I didn’t get HELP, exactly, along the way, I got enabled… and you might have to INSIST — pointing to the GURU like he pointed to me, as if we were in Lord of the Rings, and in my case, FRODO, step aside, as I climb onto a ROCK and take a stance in a FUR and POINT — to the ghostly walkers, whoever, and simply knock them down with a beam of electricity shooting out of my finger. “NO.” That was bullshit. Do not come to me acting like what YOU DID WAS KOSHER, hunny. Your psychic senses, I can’t stand this shit, aren’t SUPREME. I think JLo, you know, just thinking about Jlo, truly, like, who gives a shit if Angelica Leibowitz becomes Puerto Rican, the sag audience cheering — YEAH! “Who gives a SHIT!”

“YEAH!”

Whatever, anyway, I’m going to figure out how to pick up my dresser. Bye. I’m back to myself, I don’t know WHERE I went, but I disappeared somewhere back there, and I’ve sort of accepted where I am at, right? And I’ll see what happens. Let’s see, Diane Kruger behind me, somehow, if I can be one of these people who — “wow,” Oprah goes, “wow, you really came THROUGH there, victorious…” right? Let’s hope. I just feel like going through my childhood photos, let’s all, just check in… with who Alexander the Great is. I get that ANYONE CAN BE OBAMA, not knowing what to do with that, I GET ANYONE CAN BE THE ONE. I still don’t know why I had to get this, when I had just arrived in LA, and I didn’t have a problem, except I did, and he reflects that. That story ATTRACTED problems. I’m reading this editor’s story — and he had a tragedy befall upon his family— he’s not talking about it. Nope. A smarter man than I was. Not with his friends, nope. Nope nope nope. So, he was not vulnerable. Not with shit like that.

Went to a screening of little disasters

The God of film continues to send me to events. I say “the God of film,” because I’m Greek, so “the Gods” are everywhere and they oversee every domain. I have some family in Naples, Italy, and they believe I am from Naples, for real, not the USA. They believe, for real, that I was born in the USA as a Neapolitan for spiritual reasons, to go through what they call “the USA family inferno.” Naples is one of the oldest cities in the Greek world, so it’s the time of Sparta. It’s pre-Sparta, I think. It’s Jason and the Argonauts time. We’re the “siren people.” Odysseus killed our siren, and we vowed around her dead body to RISE A CITY OF MUSIC that COMMON will come to. She did not lure him, whatever this nonsense is. She was just a singer, a healer, a baker. This man had PTSD. That’s what The Odyssey is really about. We can’t even get through the chapter about the Lotus Eaters. RELAX Odysseus, Jesus Christ. The man had PTSD. If you read the text, for real, that’s exactly what he’s going through. The epic is home. We’d shrug at you, superiorly.

In any case, I like to joke around that “the God of film” have been supporting me through this new chapter in my life as the Neapolitans wouldn’t even bat an eye at that. Yes, yes, of course. Maria is going to comically bring this in. The God of film was looking down on this relationship with this screenwriter…and saying to himself — that had to hurt. He magically sent me to a wine bar in Istanbul where I was swept away to a production office the next morning, truly, where I had a meeting with a producer. The God of film gave me the gift of this experience, so I could continue to get to the understanding that this screenwriter was inappropriate at the beginning. This producer in Turkey did not get involved. He simply thought, make a movie bible. Easy. No talk of manifesting, no psychoanalyzing me, no talk of me being Alexander the Great, no talk of bending reality… or spending my IRA. The God of film hath spoken— time to buckle up, get back into the Mercedes, cross the bridge, and get back to Istanbul.

He continues to guide me to projects to support my process.

Over the weekend, the project concerned an absurd piano teacher. She hilariously reprimands a 12-year-old for not practicing, which has nothing to do with the piano, but her ability to embody pain, as that’s what music is about — so, the scene spoke to my fears, spoke to my experience getting chewed up and out by cowardly men? And my future, as a woman, to be left alone and suffer in a basement in Brooklyn. I got to assume the experience, laugh, a lot.

It was now time to tackle the subject of motherhood. He sent me to the chic European cinema on the Lower East Side, Metrograph, for a screening of Little Disasters — wink, from the God of film as I came from a little disaster orchestrated by a mother, for sure. He even made it so LIZ would be at the front of the line, and that the staff let us in early, because it was truly freezing cold outside. The space has a speakeasy undertone. The poinsettias for Christmas added an understated holiday touch to the warm and cinematic atmopshere with production stills from the show tastefully placed on the walls even by the elevators in the dark, basically, so you couldn’t even make them out. European. Relax. The God of film hath spoken. Relax. Enough of the hype. Let’s go back to the basics—candy in boxes.

They set up a brightly lit section as if it were a little store where we picked up our popcorn, boxes of candy: raisinettes, dark and milk chocolate, milk duds, sour patch kids, and soft drinks. How it should be.

In the show, which films in Budapest and London, Diane Kruger plays a mother suffering from postpartum depression. I’m going to keep watching it because Kruger — who doesn’t give a shit about personality, just to say — said her internal experience was going to come to the forefront. I’m interested in seeing how they treat that on film. And anything concerning motherhood makes me laugh, considering my mother was a joke. But there it is—THE TOPIC, not exactly COOL, you know, it’s complicated, but things are changing.

Afterwards, it was just Kruger up there, who briefly spoke about how, at the scheduled end of the shoot, there was no overtime, it was PINT time. Time to hit the pub. She laughed. That’s not what an American production is like. She was home…for dinner, every night. I thought she did an excellent job, capturing a multi-layered story. This woman is hiding secrets, or is she? What? The doctor is her former best friend who calls social services on her, and why? She’s going through mental health issues. She’s not telling the truth as to what happened to her little baby.

The God of film said — look, this baby wasn’t even two. You were four. It’s totally possible to envision yourself on this screen. My mother would be utterly distinctively entertaining, horrific, for real, and practically evil — this would be a Joker flick, and it may even be groundbreaking. But WHAT? What’s the GENRE? What’s the SCREENING like, Maria? THINK. Where on you on TV? We might have to do it somewhere funny. MoMA, something.

We had cocktails and hor d'oeuvres upstairs in a candlelit lounge bar… I have to laugh, looking at Kruger over there in a fur and suede coat. Whatever. The guru believed I was the most special person in the universe. I am Lady Gaga meets Joyce Carol Oates and Carl Jung’s The Red Book with a dash of Barbara Harris — someone Ryan Gosling would not believe could even exist — I’m smiling at the members of SAG as they pass with their cocktails—vodka, strawberry, prosecco and mezcal, two choices — catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror lit by candlelight. I have the ability, picturing myself relaying this “information” to Kruger, as I can “download books from the future, Kruger, I can downlown the information and make money appear at my doorstep… in Amazon boxes. I meditate on my full name, location, time of day, the outfit I’m wearing, the headline for the day, what Clooney said, what Jay Shetty said, and throw in some ridiculous line from FOX NEWS, TRUMP’s twitter feed, Brad Pitt fan page, Amal Clooney’s outfits, I repeat the mantra, as the guru told me to do, and the money just appears, and now I own multiple properties across the tri-state area. Throwing up my hands, sipping my cocktail, it’s easy. My future is secure. I did not have to DO anything.

I get so scared sometimes. I felt pangs of fear while watching Kruger lose it on TV in a really really nice house. I have no money, and I have no idea how I’m going to make it. Harry Potter was a phenomenon, and everytime I write Harry Potter, the magic in the name resonates, as if the font changes slightly. I get there is a REALITY that already exists in which I AM Harry Potter, but meditating on achieving that seems to be counter-intuitive to the idea — she was just a woman who had a vision. Better to leave the woman alone, if you catch my drift. I think, I don’t know, I’m back at square one, actually worse that square one. But it’s the best moment to be alive, of course, it’s the BEST time for me to — became Vera Wang, or one of these women who succeed in their forties.

Imagine if I called Diane Kruger “the hot girl…” I laugh, I do. The gurus said in passing to me one day in the car, that I was “the hot girl,” which is sort of crass. That would probably inspire some women to go, “oh really? I’m the hot girl?” To you. They would never call Diane Kruger “the hot girl…” they would show her more respect than that. They didn’t say, “the beautiful woman.” Because that would be sincere. Imagine, if Diane Kruger was in the passenger seat of this car… they would not use that language with her.

But the good news is — no more psychic paranoias. No more picking UP on anything. No more future oriented navigation as if I could write my life backwards by projecting myself to a future point— That’s all gone. I grieved the loss of it, too, as I tried to believe that you could actually meditate success? I don’t know. I don’t know how to describe that, other than, tears. I am not someone who has complicated thoughts, in fact. I have a clear mind, I like to keep it that way. I do not like esoterism. I hated the BRAIN AS COMPUTER, with Carmen San Diego soundtrack, where she’s at the Eiffel Tower, stealing it, and you have to — where on earth can she be — fly across space to REACH your future… tell me where is Carmen San Diego…

Tell me where is Carmen San Diego — oh! Carmen San Diego, where on earth can she be.

I had a fun night. I genuinely enjoy going to these events, speaking of…what I like to DO. I enjoy events. I enjoy night life. I enjoy meeting new people. Maybe I’ll try and get involved in events — avoiding ANYTHING that has ANYTHING to do with FAME, ART, etc. Maybe. The guru killed that shit as I magically jump and spin into the sky and latch onto the fluffy long dog from Neverending story just as he is passing to fly away… “wooooo!” as we SOAR through a tunnel of CASH. Euros, dollars, I mean all currencies. I want multiple bank accounts.

Anyway, fantastical imaginings aside AKA “the work,” as the FEELING drives all reality into existence, NOT THE IMAGE, the FEELING BEHIND THE IMAGE, the IMAGE I JUST CONJURED makes me FEEL RICH, imaginative, and fulfilled — I like film. “I’m on top of the world!” Leo, Titanic. (Or a set.)

I keep thinking of Good Will Hunting as my shrink…taking THAT in…as a piece of literature, telling me to figure what I like to do, and we’ll tackle the career in the next step. So that’s what I’m doing first. I’m reading magazines, looking for what I like to read, where I see myself. I’m following this mag I’d like to get into — as story writing interests me. I gotta hustle, picturing him holding a football, telling me to go long… I gotta make money. Here, I’m going to have to think. I am scared, right now.

I hope to see myself on that screen in one way or another. The God of film hath spoken, this baby is two, a car, in a dream, sure, smashed into the stroller, social services called.

Through the years! When everything went wrong, together we were strong! I know that I belong right here with you…. it was their family song, on Miracle Mile. Picturing their family shots… appearing on screen a touch and fading away… a psychological thriller Barbara Harris could be in. Through the years! Heartwarming, somehow. I was in a situation that necessitated calling them.

And, in the end, that was dangerous, in fact. I was touching, and this put me at risk. Brought me strange attachments. Truly, sitting there, if the guru saw me NOW, he would say, “that’s just a chick.” Not that I AM NOT AMAZING SPECIAL OMG DIANE KRUGER — but come on. Am I Beyonce? This other dude, unbelievable, told me I was a channel, antenna, and portal traveling on multiple planes of existence… it was not a joke, and no, it was NOT the same person who said that in the fifteenth century I would have been the one to SPEAK to animals—imagine? THAT’s where I ended up. Sucked. It really did. Embarassing, insulting, a waste of my time. But, sure, looking to the side, maybe I, too, will have a show up there. It would NOT be insulting if I indeed came to play this person on the screen… Professor X’s protegee. IF THAT happens, I’ll be the most psychic person… gladly.

And with my mic, lifting it to my mouth, “yes, as we know, I really went through this experience…”

OH MY GOD AMAZING! HILARIOUS! SAG FAVORITE. “You know this really happened to her,” cue the musical about the film as audience members snap their heads side to side, “did you know?” “Yeah totally she was in a cult run by a Hollywood janitor…” as the game of telephone would confuse the hear say. “She’s gay,” for sure, “but hiding it.” “Janitor?” “I heard it was…” “And then, Brad Pitt psychically tuned in because he SICK AND TIRED of the INTERFERENCE.”

“Jesus Christ, who the FUCK is this?” Putting on his cashmere shirt that he dreamed about, and then his energy worker friend did to, and she went up to him and suggested they start a business. That’s the KIND of psychic I’d like to be. That doesn’t not happen to me. Brad Piit thinks, “I need t shirts,” and then, a psychic goes, “hey, I had a dream about t-shits, green,” which is what he requested psychically. This is what I heard as he lounges…

In any case, psychics aside, I don’t think that mocking an idea is sending out some message to the universe… etc etc. I believe the divine is on my side, and they will reward me for poking fun at all this. I just hated the pressure that line of thinking put on me, like, if it’s not happening, whatever IT IS, it’s because I haven’t figured it out internally… I have no interest, and Diane Kruger — out by nine pm, okay? She doesn’t either. I’m pretty sure. I’m pretty sure she would have SKIPPED it. No one is telling Kruger she’s downloading info from the future, speaking to animals in other centuries, unable to make real progress in her life because she’s too psychic. Diane Kruger has bodyguards, sort of, and she’s…taking pictures with fans, sure, no problem, on her WAY OUT. Peace. White heels. Nice. Camera zooms IN OUT really really fast.

Be real, people, be real. The God of film hath spoken, funny enough. “Be real.” This is the message he is delivering to me… as he moves me through this sector… ME, a person the guru believes had a divine birth, because I was born to parents who were “not there,” AKA mentally ill. Okay? I was a biblical chapter in a curly hair bonnet. Surprise. Jesus wore sandals. It must be said. The confusion must be cleared up. The God of film hath spoken.

I made an offering of fresh fruits from the farmer’s market to the God of film upon my return — to thank him tying my personal journey to the larger mythic landscape, as we entered into the theme of evil motherhood this evening, and for helping me to produce my vision and to heal the wounds from the relationship that almost killed me. In ancient talk, in ancient worlds, most people almost get killed at least once, if not twice, before their 13th birthday. From disease, famine, murder, etc. No big deal.

So thank you, God of film. I will invent a name later to allow the BACKEND of these sorts of stories to remain transparent, a moment. This is Behind the Bible.

I wanted to explore this arena, and I got back to New York, and magically, I had a friend who happened to get on the nominating committee this year…it’s a coincidence, if not a touch serendiptious, but I’m writing like this, because the gurus I met would say “I am spinning up the reality…” you see, as I want to get into film, so “this would be an EFFECT.” It’s NOT a coincidence. Not to them. It is INDEED a product of my INTENTION. Which is fine, whatever.. I believe in making THIS idea a reality. Let the GOD of film continue to demonstrate his power and humor, yes. In my curly hair bonnet, he believes I am Lucille Ball, so I will work on Vitameatavegamin as a monologue. We will see if a genius does indeed exist within me…

So perusing before this screening

I’m about to go to another screening — fun. I’m just going to read and follow New York Mag’s family of pubilcations and The Atlantic. I saw that Nicole Chung published an article about adoption a couple of months ago. Where exactly do I fit? I’m not adopted. I can’t talk about those issues. When it comes to “writing about family,” what exactly am I going to say? It might not be the Family section, it might be health and wellness. My parents were mentally ill, ill, like, have fun with that adjective. Sucks, it sucks right now, because ten years ago I had money in the bank… I don’t HAVE a family. I can’t talk about parenting, or community issues. Maybe I can research “in-betweeners,” children who didn’t go into foster care, but it’s more of a wellness story. How I survived my family, yikes. At this point, I don’t know exacty what to do, but that’s where I got to, today.

I’ll keep reading. I’ll keep finding my way. It’s just, right now, job wise I have no idea what to do. I’m going to keep reading Epic’s work, since I can see my ideas working well in that direction— Barbara Harris? Sure, they’d be down, I think. She was one of the true legends of improv. Christmas in Naples, sure, this crazy epic Christmas told as if it were the Olympics.

It begins at breakfast. You gotta make it to lunch, you see.

Deep breaths, just reading

Wow, I am taking a moment, because I just need to keep letting go of the last decade. I really did see the dark side of manifestation. I got lured, in a way, into this screenwriter’s thereotical universe. Meditate. Your LIFE idea. All I was doing was sitting at a cafe on the Ave of the Stars working on a book, trying to at least, about my crazy childhood. I made the fatal error of communicating that to this total stranger, yes, and the tale, though the meaning of that word gets confused because this was a true story, like a drug inebriated him into becoming a guru. And now, needing to nurse wounds I didn’t even need to inflict upon myself in the light of his so-called teaching, I’m just reading now, which was all I had to do, beside avoiding this man like a plague, because he diseased my life.

So, that’s all I have to say this morning, as I have to direct these emotive posts into formal ideas I could possibly pitch, but right now, I am not a journalist, I am not a writer, exactly. The suggestion by two wisemen, because I didn’t just meet ONE (imagine?) to randomly “practice writing” like it didn’t matter how I did that — I baffle at my own stupidity, you understand. Forget these so-called wisemen. There’s nothing I can do, and I hold these Epstein girls in my heart, what they endured, specifically Virginia Giuffre who committed suicide, because, all I thought, in contemplating her decision was — she came from an abusive household. She was vulnerable. And though I didn’t at all suffer what she did, I found that, more so than grappling with whether or not my parents abused me? The thought, you see, halts my ability to finish a sentence.

Beyond the startling, obliteration of self I experienced when I reopened my very early childhood, coming to feel my world, my psychology, you understand, that’s what psychology is to me, fall. I can’t complete a sentence. Still, I have to act like everything’s okay with my friends who are forcing me to pretend, and yet, what to do, bleeding and bruised and limping but move on…? It was a freight truck, a turn of the head, hurtling towards my sedan.

So, where was I? Oh, whether or not “the lie” about my father abusing me was indeed true, whether or not my mother was a threat to me, sexually? I’m sorry? Listening to what this random lady told me, and was she random? Nothing but questions, not complete sentences, veering through space as I type. This woman was paid to protect me when I was four years old from my father which turned into four crazy years. Okay. I was four at the time, a fact that gives me pause. I ended up in the hospital, and no one in my life even remembered my real story. A nightmare.

Beyond that, the basic gist, even, of my entry into this thing called life as four years old is pretty much step one, and it did not bode well. I hope you laughed at that because it’s obvious, isn’t it? It did not bode well. Coming from that kind of story, my relationship with this Hollywood screenwriter cut me too deep — that threw me over an edge. I became a joke. I became some wannabee guru’s pupil? THAT made me want to kill myself, along with how everyone in my life reacted to my crisis, you see. So, luckily, I didn’t actually want to kill myself, because what would that do? But, you tip the scale more extreme, and all I wanted to do was — run, fast, as fast as I could towards these girls. How could you not want to kill yourself? Now, let’s hang on. It was the fact that I was vulnerable, that’s what almost killed me. I was vulnerable in a way…

And, magic, you know, people love to talk about the MAGIC of life, how events can seemingly unfold effortlessly. “I was walking down the street and an agent said, ever thought about acting?” But they can also turn towards winding dark roads into the black, and I felt for them, I did, because they came from worse background than I did, and why, out of everyone and anyone I could have met, why them? Ghislane’s puppy. I’m telling you, I think about this fucking puppy, and the innocence of the babe, its tail flapping at her feet, it’s disgusting. Give her a snake, instead to contemplate. Give her mice, make her feed the snake. Okay? That would be more appropriate. That’s what she did. A puppy.

I subscribed to New York mag, and I want to cry, I do, so I can spend some time just reading articles, not meditating, or being psychoanalyzed by a dickface from Beverly Hills, and see where I fit, where I could fit, and in these lines, I am beginning to see something, so I’m going to keep doing that. I’m going to sign up for The Atlantic, too, so I’m going to focus on a couple of publications, and quite simply, get to KNOW the fucking industry. Right? The simpliest fucking advice. That’s all I needed. I didn’t need to meditate on the feeling of grace, okay? So, I’ll begin there. Fuck my LIFE idea, imagine? Sorry, I’m being crass in these lines because it’s my personal blog. “Your life is your idea…” this guy goes off practically the second I met him. And look, right here, I don’t know how to pitch or formulate an article idea but that piece of so-called wisdom ruined my life. It’s not theory. “FAMILY,” he said, “I would put family and circle it.” And I look back on this moment, in horror, the freight truck, like, why is he acting like a teacher?

Family. Maladapative pattern. And I feel a springboard under my heart, as if it took a leap, not knowing what the fuck it was doing, and it launched itself into the ground, because there was no water in the pool — idiot. This man had no idea what he was talking about. So, quite simply, I’m now reading to connect with what I enjoy, forget the sappy, sentimental shit. People’s obsessions with family, I was stuck in a goddamn Lifetime Christmas movie, where people discover what they mean to any other to cheesy music. Enough. Enough. I have been through enough. And the thing is, I didn’t think I went through much, to be frank, not until I reached my thirties. The complications that, just the story, it brought me put me through more than the story did. Not unless, and here comes the question, I had actually been abused… and forgot heated chases across the house… I mean, sexual. Was I abused sexually? I don’t know.

Anyway, I’ve started to read the EPIC editors body of work, less so the pieces they’ve published, because I’m read a few of those, so I’m going to sit with theirs. And I’ll keep figuring this one out. I keep returning to the KID investigation at the BH Tennis Club, not knowing what to do about it structurally, but not wanting to get rid of it, and wanting to include the imaginary voyage, but it’s not imaginary, but the break down I went through. Because, hunched over myself in her kitchen — what?—in my mind, yes, I was clutching onto DISH SOAP. “You weren’t SURE?” You see the horror? My world fell. I felt as though I was inside my body back then, blinking, “why is he calling like that? Why is he acting like this?” And the gasp, “he didn’t know.” He did not know what was being SAID. And I would lose the thread, blank, my face blank. I couldn’t keep the thread. But wait, grabbing onto it once again. “You did not know! So why are you acting like this?”

Was it the dementia? And here came the years of comments, suggestions, ideas to develop it in a different direction… from people who don’t KNOW what they are doing. They just think, “must erase, must erase, must manipulate this out of existence…”

I want to tell that one, because, I don’t know what to say about Amy Griffin, and this didn’t concern a member of her family, but the psychological process I endured — literally supported, encouraged, by a fucking screenwriter — was enough to make me want to kill myself. Just please. In the end, this guy is going to call me Carl Jung’s The Red Book? Ever met a demon? I have. I really have. I met my demons. “Words are not your primary form of communication,” this man told me. Imagine? In Angelica Leibowitz’s words: imagine? I called this bitch, after all these years, because I had no idea if it was true and she said, “we had fun.” Uh huh.

Anyway, I’m recovering, I’m avoiding any articles about being a woman in her forties, even if I’m just 40, right? And I’m starting to get out there, I’m going to social events, and I’ll keep swimming my way to better ones… this guru was insane, truly. I don’t even give a shit, in this case, about pointing fingers. What the hell was that? I can tell you, I had to face myself so completely, like, “what are you doing here?” As if I were a mother who couldn’t even handle it. Like I give a shit — damning all these “surrogate mothers” to hell— what you do, I love you forever. Holy shit, I’m telling you, becoming a mother was the most imperative step, psychologically, like I give a shit about wisemen. So, I had to learn hard hard lessons. My mother was truly crazy, she came from a truly crazy family, and I don’t need to meet them, and I have memories I don’t know what to do with… but I basically have a KNIFE at this woman’s throat. For real. A knife. Sharp.

I’m here, I am going to keep reading, not writing, a moment, and really consider WHAT I can pitch, why now, around all this. I don’t know what studies or references I can make to support whatever POINT I’m trying to make. But I did unfriend some people on Instagram, because I can’t stand the “meaning making machine.” And, I thought, taking a deep breath, since everyone’s doing it, let me think about what it is I learned. And it’s true, very true, you build over time. I went through a collapse in my thirties. I didn’t HAVE to, but if I had HEARD that from someone who knew what they were talking about, not weird ass psychedelic-takers who thought I was PSYCHIC? I’m telling you! I became psychic! Mad, and hear that word in a British accent: “this was MAD.”

“Madness.” Let a British Shakespearean actor to make it generic, land on it, in a new way. “Madness.” And let this actor communicate the truth of it. “It was madness.” And I got out of that shit, you see, looking back on my world — I always knew it, I always knew it, I do not care about base thinking. My sole objective is to get you out…. alive and well. People might not understand, you might not understand, that was confusing. I mean, relating, interacting, how people responded, didn’t. I did not HAVE anyone. And I shun this so-called adopted mother of mine — away. Be gone. I am the mother here. Not you.

So I had to do that, you know, even if my adopted mother and I are — cordial, on speaking terms, because it didn’t even matter to begin with, you see? Alright, just coming into my life, my real life, at 39. Oh. 40. I just turned 40. Ever got lost in the infinite? There are billions of people out there who chose to live their lives as they want to, that’s not the point. Me, you, family: longevity. Legacy. Values. And my heart broke, it did, in seeing someone I actually thought had a lot of offer as is! Like this guru, I’m telling you, saw me as strangely unfortunate, or “I could make it,” with all this GUCK attached.

Sentiment, my utter disgust. I disgust sentiment. And like, I wish I could talk to the “best psychologist” on earth, basically, and go, “what’s up with all the sentiment around my father?” I don’t know anything about this. There was nothing BUT sentiment with this man. Sentiment. And look at this photo of my parents. I took it out, when I saw Clooney on TV, laughing, because Amal and George Clooney are always holding hands… and my mother wanted to be HER, in fact. She’s not. I mean, forget it. But these are my parents. Look at this bitch Dr. J, unreal. You see?

I hope it’s not true, obviously. It’s more, the whole ordeal. Not knowing what to do with what I actually went through. I’m getting used to just looking at them, being able to look at a photo. That’s gotten better. But here they are…I can’t stop laughing at Dr. J.

Anyway, I’m off to continue going about my day. I’m going to be as social as humanly possible, I’m going to sign up for every APP, you know, to keep building community, networks, and I’ll keep going. You build over time — this isn’t a — guru weird fantasy flick where I’m walking out the door and someone says, “hey… are you a writer, perchance?” “Um, yes…” “it’s so funny,” this person begins. It’s not to say that serendipity doesn’t exist, but I don’t know if I’m living my life as if it’s one serendiptious experience, and if it’s NOT, then, what am I doing on a META level? To prevent me from running into the man of my dreams, the next big opportunity I couldn’t even have PREDICTED, you see? I didn’t get that.

I’m picking up my crutches, as, I was truly hurt. I almost didn’t make it through that, needing to wrestle with my mind over the psychic bullshit, and now, I can walk, I’m fine, but at times, it’s like, the simple steps to — get out there in the world and discover what you like to DO — and look, it was all me, that’s not the problem, it’s more so — the world I was stuck in, and how it continued to develop. I made it to this point, where I can perch my crutches, I can make it across this apartment, and I can read articles… I’ll find a better job, that’s fine, I can keep figuring it out… it’s more the journey… because my heart, it was truly shattered. I never experienced anything like that, and was that the psychedelics… years later? If I was repressed? I don’t know how to tackle that one. But this guru had gotten INSIDE my heart and I was a fucking mess. How to describe this, my HEART was an over active, scrambling, beating, screaming ORGAN. The connection between brain and heart? Please. I had a haywire ordeal. And we’re back to square one, almost. I’m no longer picking up on God knows what, or spinning over what people MEAN when they say something… my heart is better. I had heart problems. So we’re okay. We’re getting there. You don’t go feeling around people’s insides, like slime, and you don’t just give drugs to people. Enough with the psychic bullshit. If ever a psychic darts to approach me — expect arrows, sharp ones. A man, truly, at a book opening, came up to me, “you’re from another dimension, aren’t you?”

“Look,” turning around now, as I stood there, stuck on a line, why do people talk to me like this? “I was in a sex scandal when I was FOUR you dipshit. Now, do YOU honestly BELIEVE in other dimensions?!” The world is MAD. I would obliterate this person. I’ve found the lines, okay? The psychic lines, I don’t know how to describe this yet, to have gotten REAL BLURRED. There’s a different between THEORY and real life. We’re all from the SAME DIMENSION. We’re on Earth. I don’t know what’s so terrible about it. We have one life. Forget “bringing multiple selves into existence,” forget “the line between life and death” being arbitrary…that’s what the GURU said, and look, since he believes I’m divinely inspired. He said that to me. “My birth was divine.” WHAT was this supposed to do for me? Picturing the old music boxes with the twirling ballerina.

Ever want to eliminate an idea? What about that for a movie idea? God sends Maria, yeah, this bitch, you think you know, in her blue veil, except she’s an assassin. Damn the Seth books to hell. Like that. It’s just a working idea. The angels, the archangels, yes, Michael, he’s with me. Destroy. A woman does not want to be RAPED, enough. That’s from GOD, yeah, he can’t STOP ME — I’m MARIA, goddammit. He’s just lettting me go. Enough of the final judgment, this OBSESSION. Everyone in the christian belief system is OVER it. I’m hanging out with Muhammed, I assure you.

In any case, funny ideas aside, I had a great time at this comedy club, and it was helpful being in a room of just, you know, regular folk, and thinking — okay, I might be moving too fast, as I pictured, “hey yo,” which would be funny on TV, “I was in a sex scandal when I was four,” just trying to tackle this… with people… who came to laugh. I can get there, right? Can you IMAGINE? But I might want to start smaller, I don’t know. I keep thinking. I have to keep going. Some women is splashing around periods, masterbation, female sexuality. It is what it is. She stomped through the discomfort. I just need to keep moving. “This little bitch,” picturing Dave Chappelle, talking about “the screenwriter…” making a FART facce, the mic dropped. “Of course.”

“Of course.”

“I had to meet a Hollywood screenwriter…”

There should be a checklist, “if you’ve been in a sex scandal, expect…”

A, b, c. “Gotta keep quiet about that shit. You can go around talking about sex scandals expecting tenderness and understanding.” ONLY shut down. “Delete, delete delete.” I need to get back to gymnastics, just picturing me in a tuck jump falling into a shoot… beneath the streets. Picturing my friends — NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. I’m fighting them off, avoiding the “hey how are you do you want to go shopping?” Turning round that, flashing a look at some shoes, however. Later. I need to get through this first.

Imagine? The silence. “Hello darkness my old friend…I’ve come to walk with you again…because a vision softly creeping…left its seeds while I was sleeping…”

In any case, comedy, even the idea of it always makes me feel better. I’ll keep working through this. But I’m on a better track, generally, and it was TOO easy, not possible, what can I tell you? So, the crutches are over there, so to speak, and now I’m able to walk again. Just, turning to this woman, as I’m still jumpy, who simply wanted to strike up a convo at this comedy show, I was just there, you know? I’m going to a rock orchestra tonight at the Beacon, why? Well, these are chicks singing songs. I could possibly work on one this week. So, again, I want to have fun, a good time, honestly. This is what I like to DO. Not THINK about. I would go anywhere, do anything, type deal, like, come on, girl.

I’ll go see more comedy. I’m going to try and catch Jerry Seinfeld in Jan.

Anyway, off to eat, clean my apartment. I’m going to take a breather, and I’m going to try to keep my hands on the WHEEL a minute, steady, and make a definitive turn once I understand what I want to do… I can’t stand my work week, right now, because I work in a restaurant at nights, thurs friday saturday and I work at 5 AM saturday sunday, so it’s a tense moment. I’m trying to hold steady.

I don’t want to teach kids French, I’m sorry, this ugh, Sound of Music persona. I think I could have played Maria in the Sound of Music when I was young…I’m not in that movie anymore. I could have played that character, and Dave Chappelle, yes, the comedian, would see it, understand it, and might have wished to see me play her…

“Let’s start at the VERY BE-ginning…” skipping around in these outfits.

“When you read you begin with?”

“When you sing you begin with…do re mi…” right? “The first three notes,” just letting it all go, “do re mi…” falling in love with the Captain, who would be…? George Clooney, someone, who knows? Who cares? Benedict Cumberbatch? Who cares, really.

I could have played this person. I’m not that person though. I might be able to get it, actually, but I’m not exactly qualified, if that makes sense. I got stuck being a kind of teacher when I truly speaking couldn’t care less about teaching. It’s a better job though, but I’m not so sure if I want to operate like I did in the past, if any of that thinking even applies — like, what it means to make changes, and how that affects your life. I’m not even sure anymore if ANY of it matter. I think I might BREATHE, accept, keep looking for better jobs, for sure, but mostly keep reading… and try and STEER.

Get back on stage.

I’m going to try let’s get loud, Jennifer Lopez.

In front of my mother's car with a plate IRSHELP

Look, I remember when this photo was taken. I was scared. I put 2 + 2 together quickly. So did Dave Chappelle. I’m pretty sure. Letters were pictures. HELP looked like that, you know what I mean? I got the HELP. And when my father said the IRS ensures we work BASICALLY SPEAKING, I was blown away. So, in this picture, I’m trying to COMMUNICATE in the best way I can. I don’t understand what’s happening, and I am scared. I did this consciously. If I put my hands up to my face and pull my scared crying face through, maybe someone will be able to read what it is I’m trying to communicate.

Uh oh.

Now, another important point about me. I’m this newborn baby. First picture ever taken of me. I was positioned for this photograph, which didn’t matter to me, at all. I am mesmerized by whoever is in front of my face. Wow, I just got here. It’s pretty simple. That’s always who I was, you see. A “whoa” person. “What’s that?” In every photograph, I’m sort of stupid, okay? Smiling, doesn’t matter. Happy to be there. Remember the sign of WISDOM is a “beginner’s mindset,” so was I a new soul? Not so sure. That’s an old soul, sure, I HATE the talk of old and new souls, it’s NOT a divine idea, I don’t think.

I see you, Man, I do, you and your obsession with hierarchy. You’re old, I get it. But I am a NEW SOUL, the song, got the Apple commercial.

You kinda have to read this piece of "news" I wrote about fake bacon

Picturing Will Hunting once again — he becomes a psychiatrist, like Robin Williams, though I don’t know if he was just a psychologist. I don’t know. But, let’s say, Will Hunting does what he has to.

Read this, and picture Will Hunting’s response. We’re laughing at this GURU — telling me I’m Alexander the Great, the next American writer. I could be! But this is who I am, you see, like I can’t help that — lol:

https://realitysandwich.com/fungi-bacon/

I pictured Hannah Arendt following the course of my life, and reading THIS, as well. It made me laugh so hard, it truly did. I can get there, people challenge themselves, try new things. I could picture Joyce Carol Oates saying, generously, “I don’t know if I could write that,” lol.

You know what I mean? These men told me it didn’t matter WHERE I started, type deal, like “you need to practice writing…” and it’s not necessarily that I don’t take myself seriously, I had a point of view.

“LET’S GET LOUD,” remember, I was wrapped up in a sex scandal with Jennifer Lopez singing this song. That’s who this woman was. I can’t help that. “LET’S GET LOUD.” The Brazilian Jews and I were dancing ALL DAY LONG.

Anyway, I’m just laughing, because I’m searching for “portfolio pieces.” Again, I’m not a bad writer at all, actually, like, it’s just, now I’m going to read what I LIKE. And hopefully, this will translate well onstage… “let’s take a look at some of my writing…”

It’s not that BIG of a deal, guru, this guy. Do you laugh? Can you crack up? Whoosh! He’s seeing my laughter as some PURGE, which, yes, sort of, and also, have you ever tried to connect with someone and it’s impossible? That guru doesn’t know how to connect. Not with me. He isn’t the type who gives himself. It isn’t even a critique, it’s a BE REAL with yourself. And I didn’t know — you’re trying to get something from him that he’s not going to give… it’s not working. But I could, I mean, again, it’s JLO LET’S GET LOUD, he just has no fucking idea what BRAZIL is. Not this woman.

That’s the sex scandal, hunny. “Wow,” that’s me, a little girl at her. Was it monstrous? Yeah, at times. I guess. I don’t quite know how to approach this because I was a FOUR YEAR OLD. I just got here. There’s NOT THAT MUCH happening. I had deep thoughts, I did, I was full of wonder too, of course I was… but I’m not an adult processing the situation. I’m not necessarily SCARED in this house. Not the right perspective. My HOME was frightening. My mother was. I wasn’t exactly ASKING to go home. I wasn’t exactly happy either, sure, but I wasn’t thinking about “mommy and daddy” like that.

Not as far as I remember.

Jennifer LOPEZ, please. “LET’S GET LOUD.” And soon, as we all adapt, you know, we’re designed to do that, I’m throwing my FISTS down on this living room dance floor… becoming lord of the dance. She’s laughing at me from beginning to end. Because, there you go, there she goes, the wonder of children, she’s going to soak this all up. I don’t know if I needed to get CRUSHED, if you would.

I picture my face, appearing, I had a nice smile, too, you know, in the Stanford hall, I know who he is. Will Hunting returns. So maybe I’ll end up thinking about something like that, I just don’t know what that would entail… would I have gone through a kind of break down? I don’t know. But when a MAN is telling you THEY FEED YOU THEY FEED YOU THEY FEED YOU, I mean. I don’t know if it’s true, or not, anymore, right? And I can’t make sense of what I went through. But my mother was most certainly SEXUALLY off the charts. And because of how we deal with sex psychologically, you see, this caused me nothing but problems. People don’t hear it. When it was a lie, “was it true?” They asked me, and when I asked that question, “no no no, can’t be.” A story like that, too, like it wasn’t a fiction on TV, you guys. Drove me nuts, these fucking people.

If anyone cared to know — that was a, to me, looking back, as a “Carl Jung??” according to this Hollywood screenwriter? I had a lot of stuff around me… like it was going to take a second. That was a piece by piece thing. That wasn’t a “that’s what it is,” or “that’s how you feel,” or “that’s not it.” I think a psychologist wouldn’t KNOW what they were looking AT, in all honesty. But holy shit, my facade, that caused me problems. Even in thinking about this psychologist I worked with, like, “no no no…”

Will Hunting? If I’m coming over in outfits? “What are you doing?” Showing her my clothes on the sly… oh, look at this one, because she liked clothes. All I see, honestly, is someone without any focus. “Are you a fairytale?” Nothing wrong with clothes. “But if you can’t wear them outside, WHY do you have them?” And one of my former friends was all wrapped up in my sense of style, which, coming out of that experience, I have NO idea what to wear. And I’m not LOOKING for help, either.

That was a —

“Is it?” Hunting.

“Is that how you feel?”

“How do you feel?” I could probably change my mind 14 times. Time. “What do you like to DO? With your time?” A funny question. I did not know. In reality. “Right?” Because you’re supposed to guide yourself that way. “Figure out what you like to DO for fun…”

Because, I got a bit, again, you could probably see it, I think, looking back at myself, which took time, you know, that was confusing, because my family was ill, and in my mother’s case, especially, she was so mentally ill. I don’t know what to say about FAMILY problems, only that, they are real. I don’t have a mental illness, even if I went through a crisis, that’s the thing. However, I disappeared…

Who knows, but it was a place I thought I could play around with one of these journies. Just because, I could agree with people, when that was so far off… to the point that the years before… in the place I am now… I shrug. I have NO idea what happened to me. That wasn’t me. I don’t know why I was hanging out with that guru, oh my God!

This guy said, disappointment was the base feeling with my father, whatever, as he believes feeling drives reality, when look dude, unless you have EVIDENCE of your beliefs in PRACTICE, why don’t you exercise some HUMILITY?

MEANING, have you EVER WORKED WITH SOMEONE before? No. That’s the FIRST point. So I had to go AROUND the fucking world, like I got attached to this person. UGH!

In time, this specialist said, hopefully, you’ll keep unpacking it, and you might come to a conclusion… that’s basically it. You don’t tell me, someone like me. “You might never know…” or “nooo, it can’t be,” don’t be ridiculous.

So whatever, I’m going to chill today, and keep updating my content portfolio. This bacon piece…I heard, in a silent room, Amal Clooney start to laugh in my dreams. I was charming, right? Funny. I can’t help that. I mean, I think so, I hope so, at least. So I’m going to say “no,” right? I’m not putting this in my content portfolio, the ghost of Barbara Harris and I — wearing glasses and picking out “the good ones.”

“What about…”

“This one?”

You know that Instagram trend with “I unfortunately like?” No clue.

Pop music. I know that. I’m listening to pop. Not classical, though I do too. FILM soundtracks. I like film soundtracks. “Do you even like to go shopping?” Picture Will Hunting. He would see my funny four year old — flipping out at tennis instructors for singing me love songs, because Dr. J taught me — SASSILY — that you would be RAPED at my age. I made Angelica laugh constantly. I’m throwing fists around her, dancing morning noon and night. I’m watching her, “wow.” I’m growling at people, striking fear into their hearts, and this family is in a chassee (Angelica) jumping along the perimeter as I go running and JOSE Leibowitz has to deal with my fits. I BITE.

I’m going to write this piece about fungi bacon. Will Hunting comes from the tradition of — who gives a SHIT if you’re special? You see what I mean? WHO CARES? That’s Robin Williams character. So I went through a breakdown, but that was a “piece by piece…” thing, with someone who doesn’t GIVE a shit about my personality, who isn’t affected, truly. And now, I can barely put together an outfit. So I’m taking it step by step. I’m thinking color scheme…basics. And I do really love pop music. My version. I like all types of music, but I might have been more of a dancer, you know, something…

So I’m going to go out and see if I like to do that, “like go have a good time…” which is what I’m trying to do now. And Will Hunting? But this is my learning, obviously, he’s going, “go out…and try to meet someone Maria…” and there, honestly, since I’m just concluding this epic decade and wanting to really pursue a life, this decade, because in the end, that’s what feels good. I had a hard time there.

Look, I had to be SO deeply honest with myself that I don’t have time for people who don’t understand what that means. Don’t come up to me with superiority, because if YOU HAVE truly faced yourself, I promise you, you are only humbled. It’s not like that. If you’re not getting what you want, if you’re disappointed, I don’t know if MANIFESTING is going to help you, but getting acquainted with yourself… for real, you’ll see just how deeply unconsciously we operate and you will be humbled…not approaching some CHICK you met at a CAFE like you have a big dick because you meditate and you made a few films. So here’s to the “divinity” in us all, Angelica Leibowitz turning with a snake.

JLo, “Let’s Get Loud.”

Another Sunday

I had to take off work this weekend. My 5 AM job, my night job, my lack of a job is really starting to get to me. I was feeling terrible, sick, just spiraling. I needed to sleep, I needed to think.

I ended up having a hard time later in life because I acted like an idiot in my youth. And, it bothers me, when people try to PAT PAT me with padding, like stop. I understand my attitude has to evolve, it’s not going to help me move forward, but I came to a rude awakening. Leave me alone. You can’t relate. It pissed me off, like, okay, I understand, today, everyone wants to relate, but the friends I have cannot relate to me so don’t put me in some mythic framework. I understand that people’s lives begin and end, that people come from all sorts of backgrounds. What I’m saying IS — my parents were mentally ill, YOURS? Can you relate? Then stop acting like you can. I do not know if I was abused by my parents, now stop.

I’m the type of person that “the celebrities” might even listen to…because I came from a particular life experience. I’m trying to build up the courage to try and step out onto a comedy stage, again. “And then he said, this Hollywood screenwriter, I DID IT BABE I DID IT I MADE IT, now let me SHIT all over you with my wisdom” when I did not ASK for it. Jesus, I’m looking at George Clooney on the psycho spiritual plane, on the sly, of course, as I became the most psychic person in the universe… so I can telepathically communicate with Clooney. You see? The logic? Clooney would, I think: I was in a SEX scandal when I was FOUR, and around the 30 year mark, I became PSYCHIC.

And the MAGIC lovers, the people who LOVE magic, you see, will look and go, wait what? It’s — a “trajectory,” yes. Psychology. Surprise. I was from ANOTHER WORLD no? And then, I literally become surrounded by people who actually believe in other worlds. It’s like the ALIENS. “Sure, they exist,” nodding, “for the LOVE OF CHRIST I do not have A PROBLEM WITH IT.” The aliens exist, fuck off. They’re hanging at Clooney’s house, watching him on press tour with Amal Clooney…

I’m looking at clips of Clooney on tour, right now, for Jay Kelly, wondering, do you act like this Hollywood genius? Another one. I’m picturing Amal Clooney, who is, isn’t she? Isn’t she ridiculously smart? I picture her shaking her head. I want to make a video of me, at OXFORD, my face popping up behind a bush as she’s just trying to get to class — “do do do do,” I have my own action theme music. I’m jumping over bushes in a tuck jump (a spring board behind the bush for extra height). I’m rolling across the grass, battling invisible forces while she’s…walking to class. I can be somebody. I can write a book, Amal Clooney. Be a writer.

Backflip. Slow motion.

About this screenwriter I met, who I call “the guru,” as that’s how he acted. I saw this poster for a TV show about cults on the subway, and I grained away, because if I wrote a story about a cult, I would cast him as a cult leader. He would make a GREAT, with the emotional emphasis of Barbara Harris, cult leader. A channeler. He’s not going to say that, though, he’s going to keep his beliefs quiet, publicly, but, sigh, not with me. I’m not INTO “the world isn’t ready for how it really works.”

Look, exhausted, I’m opening up the DOOR to NASA… Matt Damon is there, throwing both fists into the air. “YES,” he’s clapping because they REPROGRAMMED Voyager 1 from a billion miles away. He’s going to show me the interactive map of the solar system, “cool, right?” With comets flying around. He’s going to explain, with mechanical hands, how they ricocheted Rosetta across the known universe. It was, hilarious to me, because SPACE isn’t that CRAZY. They have to BEAM a message to this spaceship a billion miles away, they have to FIGURE OUT how to get Rosetta around Jupiter, using the gravitational forces… to spin her faster…

Like, are we going to be able to find the magic zipper somewhere around Saturn, where we’ll be able to HYPER SPEED through the universe? I don’t know. It’s a bit too much. “Consciousness is the technology…” huh. It just is. Ths guru was playing a video game, where his consciousness is really a computer (That’s your brain) with wires plugged into “reality,” as a mothership board, Dave Chappelle the OPERATOR.

“YES HELLO?” He’s over this. “It’s called A SHRINK,” that’s who he’s connecting this guy to. “Just a moment please.”

To me, Dave Chappelle IS SUPERDAD. That’s the movie I’m writing for him. That’s who he is to me. Enough with the people who do not understand him. Super-Dad. He can throw his palm out, convincingly as well, and SHOOT CARE through all this. Please, please do. I could have died.

The guru haunts me, he does, but it gets better, it’s only in the mornings and evenings… where I’m look around the real world, like I really came from Wonderland, you see, I really did. I don’t know what makes me special, I don’t know why this was at all important, how this was going to help me directionally? I was a special person? Well, it’s time for really really blunt talk, that didn’t bring me NICE people. Real love.

That was dicey. Telling my Black manager. I’m telling you. In a fucking server outfit, when I didn’t need to be here. I could MEDITATE my way to success. Imagine? I met THIS person. And this guy, Danil? A guy who’s been managing a restaurant for ten years, that’s it, he’s in a better position than me, at 42. Not special, just sexual. This guy has strong sexual energy… it was a bit destabilizing in the beginning, not because there’s attraction, but he’s a flirt, he has energy… he’s a nice guy.

I feel like the guru was sent to me because I was cursed or something. I don’t know what to say, because Tina Turner was in a terrible relationship and she just turned the page— go. I’m having a hard time, not exactly turning the page, but I didn’t have a strong career path or talent already, like she was a singer. She always was. What she did was amazing, impressive, to be admired and commended, because everyone thought she was done, and she — whacked it out of the park. Home run. “We don’t need another HERO.” Thinking about the UNREAL amount of MEANINGFUL posts that are on INSTAGRAM.

That’s my anthem. Just her album. I’ve relied on her. Relied on her music. “What’s LOVE got to DO got to DO with it?” I say that across the board. It’s to…everyone… in my family. “What’s LOVE got to DO with it?”

This guru, while I was pulling away from him, which took TIME, it’s not that he ever called me of course, and I’m running in the opposite direction, he sent me, not a hello, but a video of Hopkins talking about condensing time: delete.

I’m looking at George Clooney on my feed. He’s not talking like that. He’s a very real person. “You spent your twenties chasing after a career,” he said, with his arms crossed, okay? He’s just a guy. He’s older now, he feels he has some wisdom to share because he’s on tour, and he’s had a career. “If you’re smart, you try and balance life and relationships,” because further down the line, that’s really what matters. He has friends who didn’t do that, so they’ve struggled with that as they’ve gotten older.

Well, guess what? I’m struggling with the WHOLE package. Didn’t chase a career, nodding at myself, because I have NO IDEA who the fuck that even was. I’m talking about ME. What am I doing? You see IN REALITY, I’ve worked in restaurants, and I’m minorly wrote, without direction… and I’m looking at my co-workers right now, going, “whoa.” I had no idea what I was doing.

Can you imagine? “I moved to France,” and listen to this, “with 500k,” as my inheritance. What the fuck are you doing? This old professor I got involved with, he believed I could marry a Duke? Like, as a woman, I could aspire to that? It’s so sad. I was heartbroken, you don’t even know. I wanted to, “yes,” a mother, as I had to BECOME one, “live an experiential life,” except GUESS WHAT? I didn’t even DO THAT.

Honestly, I only HOLD this part of myself, my younger self. I started to disappear in college. That’s it. Hannah Arendt was my best friend, and she still is.

But then, none of the friends I knew from college, with a couple exceptions, chased after a career AT ALL. I was shocked to find that I was them. I was against ambition, hierarchy, I’m so tired I can’t continue. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in myself exactly. Personally? I was told I was a piece of SHIT when I was four. And YOU?

I hated the world, and its pompous bullshit, and the hilarious turn of events was—THAT’S EXACTLY WHO I MET. DICKS. Who wanted to “help me…” you know? George Clooney would go, I’m pretty sure, “why do you need help?” Doing WHAT? Being a writer? I mean, just ridiculous. “Manifesting reality?” Generally basking in the GENIUS of this guy who lives at the Carlyle? Unreal.

Anyway, I’m not going to waste my time today, but I was utterly destroyed, left for dead with old friends not knowing what to do… so it was like, I needed a real hand, and there was no one there. I mean, like a REAL HAND, the HAND. Here, I got you.

“I was in sex scandal when I was FOUR,” little FOUR fingers, you see? To JLo’s in Let’s Get Loud. That’s Angelica Leibowitz. I found it, last night, the SONG. The average American doesn’t understand what a Brazilian mother means. It’s Jennifer Lopez: Let’s GET LOUD. This is the woman who came over to my HOUSE — this was the song of the sex scandal over a four year old. Nothing but dance parties morning, noon, and night.

Brazilian and Jewish. “This was the song of the sex scandal.”

I’m struggling to find a job, literally, because there was no CAREER in what I was doing — you know? Now, I write for a Science Mag, end of life mag, nothing came of this. And I shuttered, I did, when the guru LIKED my post about it, like DELETE him fast. He pitied me, he felt for me, and he wasn’t self-aware enough to understand what he was DOING. He told me, indirectly, without any heart and soul that I wasn’t FED as a child? PLEASE. He was a demon.

I have to keep on figuring out my exit, I am 40, working in a restaurant. I’m going to spend my time reading for a while, and the FEELING that there’s a way, it’s just… a useless entreprise. There is, it’s true, but I gotta spring into action here. I’m going to read for a while because I find writing really really hard. I don’t think Clooney would add MORE weight to me, like, “why are you telling yourself that?” I think he would say, “maybe it’s not for you?” I’m contending with failure, but in a way that made me feel like a joke. But, it’s fine, I need to read and figure out what I like to read… what I might like to write about.

Fuck family. Fuck my family story.

Like, okay, guru, I was pretty, but my manager last night, a manager of a bar of ten years, he’s going — get dressed up, come and sit there, it’s not that I’m not pretty, he said I was. He’s not calling me the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. I’m just saying. It’s not even that I’m not beautiful, but WHAT I attracted made me feel so unattractive. For sure, I could have been an entertainer, or something. BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I DID. And could I have been an entertainer? Because I sang and dance inside a house? It’s like, ugh, I was so stuck. Really stuck for the majority of my life.

And now, I have no money, I live in a room somewhere, and I did not want this, not at all. I wasn’t thinking. I was listening to a man who told me to SPEND my IRA money because I could meditate the money into existence. “It takes care of itself.” Imagine? Clooney hearing this. “It doesn’t matter,” I picture his face, “what the rent is…” Nodding at that, because, “meditate,” he said, “on having so much money you can’t close the closet door.” Uh huh. “You fell for this?” I mean, I have to imagine he’d ask me that, like, “come on, Maria.” And the thing is, “I KNOW.” NOW. I was blown away.

You know? If Clooney gave each of his friends a MILL, this son of a bitch could give me the same for fucking ruining my life. That’s my perspective. Honestly. His ideology ruined me, and I came from a background, you see, and unfortunately, I didn’t exactly see it. Now cut the SAPPY girl music, or whatever this is, this weird narrative I can’t EVEN identify like, do women cue violins? I don’t know what this is. I am not from this world. I do not understand why WOMEN would want their fathers, EW Freud, GROSS. YUCK. Oh my God. No no no. I don’t know understand what the problem with a woman who has actually been through shit…is. I’ve been through, graining away, using my psychic sense here, some real shit. Now, BOOM— Samuel L Jackson, I call him to the forefront of the psychospiritual plane.

“Shut the fuck up.” Fast. Let’s NOT RUN OFF with CURLY SWIRLY TAILS into the universe taking that statement to new heights when I am ON THE GROUND. Next to Samuel L Jackson. Relax. I’m not saying I went through the realest shit, I’m not saying… ANYTHING. What I’m saying is that, it was a REAL JOURNEY to get here. You see? It’s very simple. Let’s not get inventive. Just to SAY THAT.

“I was in a sex scandal when I was four…”

Standing next to…some other little girl…in a living room… as my mother RAN IN like a lunatic to ignore me in some aria to fawn all over this woman’s daughter, and her mother is thinking, “is she doing this because her father is molesting her?” Sex scandal. She was paid to protect me. You see? It’s when I woke up to this moment — turning to this other little girl standing next to me. “We’re stationed side by side?” Uh oh. Sex scandal.

That’s Dave Chappelle. “I’m standing next to a GIRL…” in a set up.

Maybe it’s a funny sex scandal, and so, there is use in it. It was a sex scandal rated PG, I THINK. I might not be able to KNOW the rating because I was pre-rating, generally unaware, though I knew what rape was, as a four year old. I thought my mother had been raped, younger than my age? Just based on how she acted with me… scary. She was a scary scary lady, and it was Dave Chappelle who gave me the courage to call her what she was: scary. When he said “scary,” a squeamish four year old inside of me felt it. “He’s super dad,” I thought at that age. He’s going to — SEE Dr. J, I assure you, from far far away. I was pretty sure. If HE were to SEE Dr. J, even a photo of her today, he would be shocked. That’s not how my friends responded. He’d go, “oh my God.” He’d get on stage, maybe even address this. “Did you see this photo?”

“Damn.”

“Is that real?”

Gasp. “Oh my God, it’s a real witch…” he’s seeing THAT. I pictured tossing photo after photo. “Tell me what you think of this…” I pictured sending Dave Chappelle into the Carlyle Hotel. “Let me know who you notice, if you notice anyone…remarkable…”

“I saw a slytherin?” He’s seeing it. “That man looks like a slytherin.” We would be able to discuss it. “That’s him.” Not the guru, something else, another fairyland creature, for sure, and Dave Chappelle would be the one to see the truth of it.

I felt it, I did. I’m Dr. J’s daughter. I would have tugged on his pants, as a four year old, and he would have HEARD ME. I believe that, I do. “Her name is Dr. J.”

That’s all he’d need to know. Super hero.

Anyway, I had a rough weekend, as I felt SO knocked down. I can’t even go into it, this man telling me to SPIN up energy, “can you handle it?” I mean, it was insane. Again, Amal Clooney is… opening her briefcase, I’m pretty sure, taking out papers… stacking them. Just real shit. She’s approaching a microphone in a courtroom… she’s… not spinning up energy. Some of this stuff, you guys, I’m sorry it’s a bit too crazy. If you were extremely lucky in your life, congratulations. You know? I do not care. If you grew up in fortunate circumstances, congratulations. That’s not where I am from.

But I got pegged as lucky, imagine? Because I didn’t go to foster care. Because these families helped me? I needed to reframe my whole life. “It’s not that all these families went above the call of duty to save me?” No. Fuck you Angelica Leibowitz with Let’s Get Loud. Jennifer Lopez and I dancing in my dreams… fuck you. This woman presented herself as a savior? Getting paid 11k a month in value? Fuck you. Major, “you fucked up my life.” You did that to a FOUR YEAR OLD, and WHY? Dunno! Nightmare.

And then, there’s Frederick Douglass, as I’ve read his biography, some of it. He is born in slavery, okay? A strict difference. And this is what…happened to him…this is what he was able to do… so, look, looking back at my life, that wasn’t who I was. I didn’t overcome all odds, literally.

So in terms of me, “slow clap,” being…well-adjusted? That’s so puzzling to you? The guru thought, “why not FUCK HER UP.” And the thing is, I was lucky in ONE regard: I inherited some money, and NOBODY saw it. I mean, no one BENIGN. For real. Like you don’t have a trust fund, obviously, so what if you have nice clothes, ever GO TO A RESTAURANT? I mean SEE a server on their NIGHT OFF?

I would love to get lucky, really, I was thinking about Matt Damon, because he always felt lucky. You know, I felt that way too, you know. I really did. But holy shit, I was not lucky, in the end, at all. I had money in the bank, and none of these people saw it, these men only saw me for what I did not have….just like everyone else.

And so, at 40, I felt like, man, I wish I had someone who did this to me at 17. Like, “I got you,” okay? We’ll talk on Saturdays. “You gotta GET through this part, just listen to me.”

“You gotta FIGURE LIFE out.”

“And don’t listen to bullshit, just, you gotta figure out what works for you…”

“And beware, literally, of WHO you hang out with, take a REAL look around.”

You understand? “You’re not alone,” but you’re going to have to figure it out. Like this 2nd mother of mine, she’s handing me cash, buying me presents, like how the fuck is this supposed to help me bitch? You wanna play a sentimental game? And this is where, I go, “listen white lady.” I have those sides, I do. Time to put away the Kenny G. No offense.

I have these moments.

My Mexican mother? Unconscious gears. She’s been mothering since she’s been 7. She can’t let it go. And already, I feel like I’m a better psychologist than hers. If you catch my drift. I’m wondering if this was my true talent. I’m saying that to her — after A LOT OF THOUGHT AND CONSIDERATION. Not at HELLO. NO.

Anyway, I was in a sex scandal. This Brazilian mother CHOSE to be there, complications ASIDE. My mother said my father was abusive, and GUESS WHAT? He started acting GUILTY. She was in a totally insane situation that necessitated calling child services, necessitated it. I should have been taken OUT of my home, not SENT back with my FATHER. If it was just an illness, if you would, as he was diagnosed later, “okay.” But that MAN, who would keep his fucking illness a secret, even, made my LIFE harder and TOLD ME how much I put him through? Was this son of a bitch in a sex scandal?

Then, this stupid screenwriter, right? Enters the stage as if he were a supreme being… thinking he’s an expert psychologist, imagine? I couldn’t with this guy.

I woke up feeling terrible, truly terrible, terrified, needing these men at work to just tell me — get on this app, sit at this bar, don’t give up. I wasn’t LOOKING for anyone, actively, if you would, in the past. Not understanding what YOUTH IS. I wasn’t exactly getting stopped in the middle of the street, or something, not to say I didn’t have affairs and relationships, but… I had SHIT to work out.

I can tell you, try to tell you a story, about someone who got BLOWN AWAY, left for dead, left for dead by this stupid guru, too, who put an unnecessary amount of PRESSURE ON ME, just a chick. I could ROAR and destroy his house. We can all RISE TO GREATNESS, SURE. I was JUST a fucking pretty girl, apparently! I hate this man with a passion. Anyway, is she dead?

Not is she going to need a minute?

Will she be able to recover?

Yes, of course, I met a man who became a lawyer in his 50s… sort of going, I met the strangest people in this so-called artistic “milieus.” Because of it, I want to RUN in the opposite direction. I want NOTHING to do with an occupation that TOUCHES fame or GREATNESS is ANY FUCKING WAY. It’s a big big fuck you to this guy. This Hollywood screenwriter. I can still meet someone, it’s not the same for a woman, as it is for a man, I mean, I’m not JLo. Not like I COULDN’T BECOME JLO, but like, be real a second. So I struggle with HOW to move forward.

Was I singer, like Tina Turner was? No.

What exactly was I GREAT AT? Ugh, my head, these Sundays. The guru acted as if he were TEACHING, and is he a teacher? Does he know how to DO that? Alexander the Great. That’s who he thought I was. WHY? Because I came from a fucked up family?

You cannot CHANGE A PERSON! I can’t HELP who it is that I AM. “You COULD be great,” imagine? He wrote this to me on a fucking birthday card. It sounds like a stupid woman, going, “oh if only he…” you can’t change people. WHY did I need to CHANGE?

You just have to picture Barbara Harris as the actress playing me, inherently comical as a premise. But Barbara Harris was AN ACTRESS PERFORMER with an unusual quality, and though I can’t RELATE, meaning, I do not KNOW who this bitch was OFFSTAGE, her transformation was SO EPICALLY unbelievable between one and the other that it was hailed as a GENIUS, literally, within her.

I’m NOT in a context where this is happening. I might have had a QUALITY, for the love of God, that some people recognized as HERS, but THIS DID NOT GET ME ANYWHERE. It ONLY brought me more problems. Am I so innately talented? It’s crazy? AT WHAT? It’s totally 100% crazy how this Hollywood screenwriter RESPONDED to my early years, I’m sorry — cr-azy. And now I gotta deal with all this SELF HATRED because — it was SO obvious—that this guy was BAD NEWS BEARS. I can’t let go that HE thought pointing at me as if I were in a fucking SCI FI, shaking his finger at me, “what do you wanna knowwwww…” was at all appropriate.

“Life is not about what you wanna do,” OUCH, please, hear me, “it’s about what you wanna knowwwwwwwwwwwwwww…..” just because I told him what I was writing about, and it was a sex scandal, in fact.

Okay, so maybe there, I’d say it like Dave Chappelle did. “I studied you in Social Studies.”

If I talk about this onstage. I’ll say it like Dave Chappelle, something. “I know you,” right? “You’re the catepillar in Alice in Wonderland…am I correct?” smoke rings, a chain smoker. An addict. “Yes, Maria, that’s exactly who I am.”

“The catepillar, Alice in Wonderland.” And I’m like, “whoa,” like a baby.

But Dave Chappelle is WORRIED. He’s calling this man CREEPY at meeting ONE.

“This is what we call a creep,” and why I didn’t see that? My mother was a creep. My father was a creep, I’m sorry, that was insane, what my father did, how he reacted to that situation I was in. I couldn’t quite accept what my life experience was: I didn’t want to project it out into the world, and because of that, I BROUGHT THEM IN. Hear me.

So anyway, I appreciate seeing George Clooney out there, because he’s a dose of a real person. I gotta tell you.

So I’m going to read today, as I think I can turn my writing life around… into something that works for real. I just don’t have interests, you see. I gotta read and think, WHERE do I go? WHERE is my audience? Am I writing about coming out of a fucking crazy family, and you see in my case, it was necessary to say fucking crazy.

Forget TAP DANCES with Clooney, one hand on his stomach, one hand out, taking it back in slacks and a fitted t-shirt, old school… “like she was wounded…” or “aw,” this wasn’t a “poor Maria” situation. These dances. These sappy dances… This required outrage. Insane. Fuck mentally ill. I do not feel bad for these people. My parents.

It’s just, it’s not exactly aligned, this word, though it’s not against, either, it just doesn’t apply to me — with this, airy fairy logic. Look, working out my intergenerational trauma, if you would, was hellish experience. It was hell. And it took my life to get here, and I’m struggling with the choices I made, so.

I need to spend time reading and REALLY — not MEDITATING — contending with where I’d like to GO as a writer. Direction is GOOD. Or, I gotta find a beat that I enjoy, and direct myself towards a real job.

With my dreams of entertainment, man, that one, you gotta really — jump in, but of course, my topic isn’t the easiest. I had to take a deep breath, and imagine it? Make a Lovely Bones joke. I tried. “The Lovely Bones is my favorite book,” I said, as someone who was in a sex scandal when I was four. What a weird book. I couldn’t get past the beginning. It was a “no thanks.” It reminded me of Dr. J, a little bit. She would write that book, something. Terrible things can happen to you, it’s really true.

I think about myself now, what I look like. Barbara Harris was CUTE, too, a death wish. A Black man behind me, a flirtatious Black man behind me, someone with strong sexual energy… it’s fine, it’s just there. My manager always looks at you, sort of, like he could make a move. He’s smooth. He’s a nice guy. He’s 42, he said, “I KNOW,” but he’s a MAN. I know girlfriends who met men in their forties. I’m positioning myself that way.

I’m more saying, to my younger self, “this wasn’t easy, was it?” The real world.

He’s ordering me a PANACEA, to heal my wounds.

“UGH, this screenwriter didn’t even want to sleep with me, you understand, not as far as I know, but he’s going to confess his love for me… over a lost I TANYA DVD which is a psychological game I’m playing to disappoint him because my father disappointed me?”

Imagine? Imagine. This is what this man did.

“OUCH,” my male co workers. “Maria, no….” I cried I did. “You met a total weirdo,” and my male friends have been the ones to hold a space for me. I was so shattered by the SHEER concept. THAT’s who I “naturally brought in…” so that hurt me so profoundly that it’s been hard to get up. Fuck my father, fuck if my mother handled me inappropriately sexually, imagine? Just please! THAT GUY was the worst thing that EVER happened to me. And could he be, exhausted, and so would my Black co-worker, “the best thing that ever happened to me…”

“That would be the task…” he’d nod, in his expensive blazer, dark burgundy. A man who cleans up nicely. “I don’t even have clothes…you know?” Like I had to rebuild from the ground up. This guru was a shitty boy at school who acts MEAN to the girl he likes. That’s exactly who that guy was but manaical, or someone who needs the SPACESHIP steering wheel taken out of his way. Someone who needs to be KEPT away from women. I never judged a book by its cover, never, and in my case, that’s really really true. To a fault.

So, I have no idea what I’m good at, I get that talent doesn’t necessarily matter that much? Or something? But I’m starting over so completely… it isn’t easy, but I keep going, I’m not stagnating, I’m more, gliding sometimes on the ice with DANIL, lol, and going, “where next?” This guru, he doesn’t GET IT, he was NOT THERE, this guy. He doesn’t know what it means to be in a relationship, be real. What intimacy is.

CLAP CLAP CLAP. “Let’s GET LOUD.”

I reached crazy. I needed years to clear my head, I had to WRANGLE myself down, because I was a fucking mess, am I psychic? I took a sword, man, a lethal sword, I backed up into GAME OF THRONES as an idea, as this guru was obsessed with the REALITY of the IDEA, and I unleashed Ned Starke upon him — A Lanister, by the way, if you must know. I am a Lanister, not a Starke. I had so many debts… looking up, flipping out in their garden, the father holding space. That’s all this man would do. “A brunette amongst us now. Go ahead, tire yourself out.” I mean, it was MAD, it always was. My mother would have been a legend even in that series. A true mad woman.

I had to GET A GRIP, I am not PSYCHIC, I couldn’t think, move, without being PULLED in directions because I FELT SOMETHING? AM I PICKING UP ON SOMETHING?

I could throw tomatoes at these brothers.

I couldn’t believe I ended up in THESE CIRCLES. Truly speaking. The cultish kind…

And so, in moving forward, now, I’ve need to SIT and evacuate how doing ANYTHING triggered my MIND to EXPLODE in GURU TONES like navigate to the point in the future, find Dave Chappelle, FIND Ben Stiller, FIND… walk three steps, into the library, you will see a meditator with steel blue grey eyes… I wasn’t FAME hungry, I wasn’t obsessed with success (THEREFORE FAILURE, you understand) like that. Climbing trees, like a fucking lunatics, “look! Look! It’s money…”

“Those are leaves…”

I’m telling you.

So I’m better, day by day. The channeler shit, I must admit, and I’m shitting all over it, no offense, I could have died, okay? The channeler shit was sticky… channeling energy… NO. I look back on these Beverly Hills MEN?

“Are you BORED?”

I hope to be able to reach a POINT, assholes, where I can get into a state, sure, and act, or perform a character. I do not want to CHANNEL anything. But sure, I suppose you can take it on, whatever. I just did not need this shit. Channeling the future…

And why everyone is so obsessed with manifesting, I don’t know.

LET’S GET LOUD. That’s my theme song. I see myself — victorious (a joke) — in a Victoria Secret lingerie get-up, waving at you as I step onstage… in the end. This is success. I still look good. It’s Carnival.

That’s what I want. And everyone is applauding.

So I’m off, I need to plan my days off. I gotta get back on the comedy stage, as I think I can do something, but I’m going to have to really go for it. And I gotta move FAST — see if I can properly align this writing pursuit… in a direction that works, for real. I need money, that’s the thing. I don’t make anything as a server, and I don’t want to do it more than 3 days a week, it’s not permanent, it’s just a necessity.

I want to go in there, chill, and these people are my friends, basically, and hang out, meet. I gotta get social. I didn’t need EMOTION. I didn’t need MORE PRESSURE. Ugh, I needed a super realistic person who’s not looking at me like I suffered the greatest tragedy, or something, because — what the fuck was that supposed to do? I needed support, yeah, thinking about what that MEANS. A phone call, every Saturday, when I was young. “How’s it going?”

“I’m about to explode.”

“Well, I guess you better find a new job…” right.

“What do you want to DO?”

My family just kept falling apart… I sort of hate my second surrogate mother… like, um, lady, why are you buying my DORM ROOM? Here’s another thought. “Defer your college for a year.” Move to NYC. Make your own money. You’re going to HAVE to do this regardless. My parents were ILL. CONNECT, GET IN THERE, get yourself a good psychologist, and grab life by the horns. That would be the advice I’d give to myself…

“The dream is not NYU, Maria, the DREAM is to be an actor.”

“If you can’t DO IT,” literally, because who gives a SHIT about the IDEA, you see, this stupid guru was a disgrace, “you gotta pick something else.” That’s really the truth. this second surrogate mother getting all “oh NYU is her dream…” like she would talk like that to HER DAUGHTER, don’t bullshit me. She was full of shit.

As they “always were,” we have our attachments. Exactly. And some of us have to just walk away. You know? So that’s all I have to say about that, to end of Forrest Gump, as I had this vibe, somehow? I was so confused.

“Do you know,” emotionally, my father, too emotionally to NOT be comical. “What I sacrificed for you?” Dude, you’re 70 years old! I’ve only been on earth for 10 years! What the fuck did you sacrifice for me? MONEY? LOOK, DUDE, I was a fucking NINE year old, who didn’t give a SHIT about his issues with the word DUDE. “YOU DECIDED TO HAVE A CHILD,” and I spoke to this lunatic like that. “NOT ME. A CHILD COSTS MONEY,” looking at this idiot. Telling me at NINE to get a job. “I can’t…legally.”

“This isn’t the GREAT DEPRESSION!”

And there he’d go, “you can sure say that again.”

You know? I cannot HELP that a CHILD costs money. And I don’t KNOW exactly what you’re SACRIFICING? My parents were the ROCK BALLAD with orchestra, you know? The symphony with electric guitar. “AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERSSS…” just like the guru was. Theme song. “IT DOESN’T MATTER.”

“It doesn’t MATTER how much the RENT IS.”

That’s him. “Do you KNOW how much I sacrificed?” Nothing, really.

Italians love this song.

“NOTHING ELSE MATTERS…”

Jesus, if I had a DIME for everytime the fucking guru said, “it doesn’t matter,” I would have made up for all I lost.

And the thing is, it’s a classic, but the VIDEO about the MAKING of the song, the self-importance of it — that’s the GURU too. “YOU CREATE YOUR OWN REALITY…” that’s the title, even belittlingly.

Now if it turns out I an CONAN the barbarian IN Raquel WELCH — so be it. I will take a prehistoric futuristic BATON and SWING at you goddammit.

This is my plan, so I’m going to get back on the comedy circuit.

I just finished filming

I always feel relieved and rinsed after I perform a scene — they loved how I said “abandoned by cowardly men,” to the 12 year old, like can you even believe it? Taking a bite of a bagel. These men who abandoned me were cowards? In the end? Imagine? “Like, are you joking? Oh my God,” this girl’s blank face, “they were Don Giovannis?” I just loved this monologue. How real it was. “Only to end up TRAPPED in a flithy, dirty apartment in the basements of BROOKLYN.” Whoopee cushion, that’s what I pictured. “The pain of a Thursday, trying on clothes that no longer fit.” You have no idea.

I almost didn’t make it through this monologue without laughing. I had negative apparitions, moments when I judged myself, but the response was easy — who cares? Who cares if I suck? Big deal. A Columbia scene? I’ll just get better. That’s the whole point. I thought, now, I might as well take the plunge, in this character’s words, go down some spiral. Really go for it: I suck, I really suck, I suck so bad at acting, it’s like I should just give up, right? I suck so hard. Okay “cool,” I went down that spin…

Now what?

I didn’t understand this strange paranoia, because it doesn’t feel like me, exactly, but it’s attached to someone I am no longer friends with. A strange visceral sensation. I felt that he, in reality, might have not wanted me to succeed at writing a book because it meant I was going to be an actor? Strange. He called himself “your manager…” with a belittling hand when I didn’t DO anything that required a manager. I was writing a book… not understanding his strange regard on me — “you’re really a movie star?” He’s… in a fantasy world, where he’s my manager? Putting me down? And he would maybe want me to SUCK? Strange fears. So I just SUCKED hard. Dispelled this shit. I sucked so hard until I started laughing. Moving on. Dusting myself off as JOS would.

I just want to give myself a chance, I’m not spinning in a fantasy. This friend of mine ended up really freaking me out. Especially with the talk of wanting to kill someone, for real. That’s what a politician is, first. A person. THEN he said, “as your manager.”

It’s like, he projected himself in a movie, before I could even finish a book. “Oh I thought I would play…” this character of mine that doesn’t EXIST. I’m just a CHICK tapping away on her computer. “And a woman can’t play him…?”

I’m sorry? Were you discussing my character in a shitty draft with some chick? Isn’t that amazing? Like you’re going to play them? In what universe? Sure, one day, I have dreams, but getting attached? Hm, not really.

While I was sitting at this piano, I thought, okay, as I got ideas after we finished a take. I’m still getting comfortable basically speaking. I know that. I’m trying to learn as much as from these moments as the past keeps slipping, fading, away… Am I feeling discomfort because that’s the character, so I need to bring it to the surface… project? Or am I not totally in my body and present yet?

Film is stop and go, it’s technical, and they’re also learning, and so am I. I have to learn how to work in this way. Keep the energy up. I watched Leonardo di Caprio working, briefly. He’s in action before they call action, of course, so I used that.

I still don’t quite know how to work with my Lecoq training… my body. It’s like, she put candies on the piano, and it’s the first time she ever did that, so I tried to communicate that physically. I’m still working on these kinks. Like, take a second to really look at these candies… orange, chocolate? These moments. Like, should she? The pants don’t fit, right? It’s evidently not my problem, that’s the other thing. I’m a 00 in most clothes. So, from which year are these clothes? I have spent a Thursday alone, trying on clothes that don’t FIT, anymore. That’s different. It’s fit, as in your too fat, Lisa. Picture it. Imagine? What that must feel like? This is what despair is.

So I wondered if this was a delire of hers, though yes, there are flashes of the personal…I did find myself in here, for sure, as she sort of wants it, you see.

So she might take half, right? The candy. If she’s, thinking about the pants. But I’m not thinking about the pants, really. I might, um? Lisa? She turns, don’t forget the torment, don’t get sweet on me, that’s not this song. But we did the touching ending, where this is personal. The absurd, to me, looking back, has to do with a system of thought.

Right? No no no, Lisa, I see this candy. Don’t forget the torment, I’m a teacher, she just proved my point. Think. About. It. Often. I’m trying to instruct you as to how to play this piece. That’s my thought afterwards. Kids, you know? Yes, I know what despair is, most definitely. I know that the DESPAIR comes from WHO did it, Lisa. WHO betrayed you, who abandoned you. WHO these types end up BEING. She’s 12.

And the person typically gets broken down in the absurd, we see their process. Maybe I don’t know a fucking thing, I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. But since she said ABSURD, I’m reflecting what I learned it was. Ah ha, the candy, once again, Lisa. It’s the first time, sure, nice defense. Looking at these candies, “do not forget the torment.” This isn’t personal, Lisa. I don’t know, I just found it funnier, “look Lisa, when you play something, you must feel something,” anything, really. It’s about pain, though. That’s what music is about. So the candies, why are you giving me candies? I don’t know. I’ll keep working on it. I’m not going to eat these candies. Just a shot of my hand. “Lisa.”

“Same piece next week, don’t forget the torment…” like here we go again, in a sense. “Do you see?” Giving me kisses. It exists to communicate PAIN. It’s simple. Turning a page. We did a touching ending, where I “spoke a little too freely,” so… not exactly an absurd logic, I don’t think. I’m not sure. I’m just thinking about it now.

Anyway, I had a blast. I’ll see myself on camera, like I don’t even know what I LOOK like. Am I too pronounced? We’ll see. It’s a good scene.

I’ll see myself on camera, for real, who knows if I look crazy? I tried to distill. At times, I didn’t know why I was crossing a room, so next time, I’ll probably have a fit around this piano, spend a moment getting out of my head, taking strong stances, listen to her play, looking here, there, listen. Act silly even, who gives a shit? I would probably next time, run around the space, just dance, whatever, you know? “Oooh look at me approaching you…” all the ways I could stand there and judge her.

It went well, but I’m AWARE of unconscious behavior. I know what that IS. I know that trap. You don’t GET what you’re doing. It’s fine, we have those sides. It’s annoying to me because not everyone is aware of that, like my friend acting like he doesn’t like that I’m changing, but he wants parts in movies that do not exist. Stop. So there are unconscious behaviors… I can see that, in myself, in looking back. Not a big deal. But I see you. My old self. I believe in myself as an actor, actually. You weren’t AWARE that you didn’t take it AS seriously as you could have. Get in a rehearsal room. I’ve been doing that for MOTH performances, so what happened here? Stuff like that. It’s the hardest to see within the self. “WHY?” I lost my nerve, a little, though I felt more comfortable with this super emotional scene I did as a parent the night before. Not a big deal. I worked this scene. But it had a monologue, and I wish I worked that monologue JUST a touch more. Good idea, different, came from my actual experience — unreal, LISA, the cowards abandoned me. I didn’t know that they were. And they were obviously so. That’s it. I couldn’t DO it, which annoys the fuck out of me now, but now I can. It’s just to say because I’ve been having a hard time with some people around their unconscious behaviors. STOP. Driving me nuts. Don’t ACT like that. ANYWAY, so there’s me, pointing out a bit of that, like who gives a fuck what this man thinks? This ghost of my old friend. Who the fuck is he? This sort of judgmental shit, drives me crazy. And now, I’m a fucking demon, man — I’m Dr. J’s daughter and I SAW Sam Rockwell deliver an enlightened monologue about fucking Asian boys, girls, as a girl, whatever. Enough. I’m on his end of the spectrum.

I’m thrilled. I’m thrilled to be here, I’m thrilled to be able to see — I don’t care so much about the thought form of it — this “am I good, bad” dilemma, I guess, GO away. I’m just going to keep on growing, getting comfortable, and better. Make it masterful. You know what I mean? That’s the unconscious behavior, right there, circling it with a laser beam. The script arrives, LOOK IT OVER RIGHT AWAY. Do you SEE a monologue? Type deal. Don’t wait. But I’m also working a lot, just trying to find my rhythm.

To me, this line of thinking is like a MOTHER, I’m slightly ahead of you. I want you to succeed. I want you to succeed BEYOND my success, rolling my eyes at my stupid mother. I just needed to make this switch. I didn’t need a wiseman.

So like I said, I’m staying REAL present, real present, and I’m taking time after these scene to THINK— what happened here? Why aren’t we leaving this room going, “FUCK YES.” You see the difference? So funny. I did, too, you know, I thought, I filmed something, but that’s how you keep improving, by staying really honest…

I’m proud of myself because I’m doing it. I can’t wait to keep working that monologue. I would totally use that scene. I’m not ready to make a reel quite yet, so I’m still in an exploratory phase. I literally just started.

I’m not in an acting class right now. Columbia keeps inviting me back for the moment. I work on a scene a week, about, and I’m just going to get better. I hope they’ll keep inviting me back. So, now, I’ll go into a rehearsal room ahead of time, as I wish we had a rehearsal ahead of time, even between the two of us. It’s less because it’s a student thing, but I think she’s quite good, I like her. I hope we get to work together again. I hope she was pleased with the result. I wish I went to Lecoq now.

I had all this material, for a buffoon, a melodrama, a clown piece but more like a Joker piece, I have, now, my whole self. It didn’t even OCCUR to me to WORK on anything, idiot. Me, idiot. But I can’t help who I was. I’m not the same person. So I sometimes get stuck about writing a book, or writing a story, which is fine, but I also feel like — I’m this 12 year old. I WAS HER. Like I shed some skin that wasn’t mine, exactly, and I’m back to myself after quite a ride… that almost killed me, practically.

So why am I writing to begin with? WHY? I’m confused. You know? But I can’t quite let it go, because I spent so much time on it, stupidly, because this screenwriter was suggesting I DOWNLOAD the book from the future, just to make my life MORE ridiculous, and I don’t know what to do now.

I didn’t want to go through revelations of this magnitude. But, I have a chance, actually, to live — my life. I’ll keep working on the story of it, I just find WRITING really challenging, like this. I’m going to spend some time reading this week, and problem solving, because writing, right now, makes me feel mediocre. And it’s not I have a real job, you know? I have two dinky writing jobs. If I could figure out a way to make this aspect of my life WORK, for real, it could enable me to make my own schedule, tour, whatever. But I don’t know how to do this yet.

I’m going to probably force myself to go back to open mics, and try to find the comedy in the sex scandal, because it’s there, for sure, especially if I can nail Angelica Leibowitz. Especially how she moves to Me Va Me Va — and she’s moving the set, it’s an extravaganza, this sex scandal. I’m back at OPERA starting next week, so I’ll be back in the rehearsal room. I tried telling my story as a British person… imagine?

“I was in a sex scandal.”

I had a fun time, laughing, at a British person getting OUTRAGED at what happened to me. “Absolutely not.” It was an automatic shut down. They did not stand for it. So, I’m going to keep going IN THAT DIRECTION. I practiced my British accent in reciting my article about the film Field of Dreams. A British person is telling you about this movie. “Let me try,” I’m needing to work on the accent. Anyway, that’s what I’m doing this week. I’m getting back in the rehearsal room. I need to find Brazilian women to hang out with so I can ABSORB the accent. I just don’t remember WHERE she was from, exactly, but it was particularly nasal, I think. Doesn’t matter that much, at least, for where I’m at, right now. I need to take a lambada class, go to a lambada party, just so I can work that character — because she’s a singing, dancing machine… a bull, a STORK, specifically, cartoon, and a mother hen. She’s got a nice assemblage of animals, I can work on that…

Keep going. “Take us away…” I have to be able to dance really sexy… because she was amazing… she really was. I watched her, I was impressed. I could picture the back up dancers.

I just need to figure out money.

So, this week, I have to work on this story, as I won’t give up, but I can’t get too sucked in. I don’t care that much. I wish I approached it more like a hobby.

I need to get back onstage, these open mics, it’s just, not the easiest topic to break the ice over. I’m not sure if I should talk about other things… so I’m still figuring that out, but I’ll go back. I have to get social, meet people, as I have a personal goal — to have a big birthday celebration next year… and I’ll keep that going, every year, as I never, in my adult life, practically, truly, threw a birthday party for myself. I’m a bit embarassed about it. When I see a large table of friends— I think, that’s what I want. I’m going to get very social. I need to see shows. I need to, I guess, keep letting writing go, take a step back, which is what I wish I did ten years ago…to assess how to make this work, what I would enjoy writing about, what I might be good at. It’s a mediocre existence.

I mean I got involved with crazy people, ten years ago, so there’s that, so I’m trying to envision making it work. And looking at this stupid story, I couldn’t care less. I’m on a better track, so I’ll take it as it comes…I just wish I hadn’t put all my energy into this because NOW I’m in a BIND, because of it. I didn’t have a beat, like, maybe I could write about family? I don’t know what that means. I don’t have a family. WHO is going to relate to my problems? With a family?

It’s like, “write for the New Yorker,” this guy said, “okay, don’t lots of people want to?” WHAT about MY WRITING, literally speaking, is telling you that? It was ALL FEELING and INVENTION. But I sort of feel that there IS something I can do, that I would enjoy, and that could work, NOW I just need to figure out WHAT that is.

I saw this job pop up, it pays well, and I could probably get it, teaching little kids French… it’s more so the feeling that I’m just GRABBING at whatever job, and it’s ridiculous. So I thought, “no,” actually. I’m in the place I’m in, which bothers me sometimes, and I don’t want to work at a restaurant. I want to move fast. But I might chill, stay still, a second, and assess how I can make a decisive step forward… I’ll figure it out.

That’s my week coming up. I only work three nights. SOCIAL SOCIAL SOCIAL, meet people, make friends, join running groups, who gives a shit? I’m going to every art opening there is this week… just passing by… and, um, I’m going to spend my time reading, mostly, and assessing what I can do, job wise.

In Columbia directing class

This is it, surrounded by church windows as they hold directing for actors at Riverside Church uptown. No color, clear, a bloom. The fluorescent lightning kills the space, though. I know a couple of people who would bring lamps. They would honor the sacredness of the space even if it’s on the 12th floor, and it looks like a cheap rehearsal room. I would Peter Brook this shit. For sure. S p a c e.

It’s about the space.

I love hearing this student talk about how nervous she was working with actors. We’re this weird entity — “they gotta understand the FRAME, the STRUCTURE they are in.” Deep. That touched me deeply, that comment. Now imagine this directing teacher giving this monologue in relation to my life right now as it applies — about seeing a first read, “I didn’t do what I needed to,” the student said, “but we got through it,” the teacher said.

The scene went really well. It’s so nice, so encouraging to feel myself dusting off the old shelves and really giving it a go — and feeling I’m getting better, literally, as though I’m already good. I’m improving. I wanted to see what it would be like to act now that I don’t have all this shit holding me back because I thought, maybe this was what I really wanted to do… why I didn’t, I’m telling you, I don’t know. I just love it. No more nerves. I took care of those, that was the easiest hurdle, it turned out. She’s hurt, not cruel. That’s it, that’s all I needed to know.

And of course the line that so resonated with me personally which was, “we didn’t think we’d be living here for 25 years, we thought we’d move somewhere better by now,” and here we are with you fucking up. I worked all day and night which was true. And LARRY, there’s so much in a name, it turns out, “what are you doing on the computer?”

I was successful in really communicating the reality of it. I thought I would be somewhere else.

There’s a blond student always smiles at me, so happy to see me, whenever I am in this class. She thinks I’m amazing. And, for the first time in my life, almost, I said, “thank you.” Because I wanted to be. It doesn’t matter if I’m in a class, you know. It doesn’t even matter if I’m not exactly amazing yet. That’s what I wanted. I think I’m good at this. Please ask me to do more of this…

The teacher said I reminded her of this actress who played the mother, just forgetting her name. So I’ll watch what she’s done. “A young” this person. I keep getting that. “A young x.”

I saw a job listing for teaching three year olds French, I might be able to get it. It’s a small gig, but it pays something, Jesus, and maybe it will be funny. As a scene.

“We are in a SPACE.”

“This is a room.”

“This is a wall.”

“This is a door.”

lol.

Picturing how I would teach these children French. “Time to dance!”

“J’aime bouger! Okay!”

I’m going to be exhausted as I work tonight, tomorrow morning, and I’m filming a scene tomorrow morning at 8am. I’m up at 5am on the weekends and I’m going to need to work extremely fast. I should have asked for it off. I’m just terrified I’m never going to have any money ever again. Maybe I’ll text them tomorrow that an emergency came up. Maybe, when I’m leaving work. I need to nail this one. It’s a good scene.

She was in class smiling at me too. Alice, she wrote a hilarious scene between a piano teacher and her 12 year old pupil, and she goes, “is it the pedal?”

And I’m like, “the pedal? I told you to THINK.” Why am I not thrown into a world of pain? She told her to THINK about the wounds tormenting her soul. All these hilariously intense thoughts. And then she gives this hilarious monologue that I could seriously relate to… abandoned, imagine? By COWARDLY men, it turns out, and betrayed by cruel DON GIOVANNIS? Coming to discover that?

I need to see BUG, Carrie Coon, so hot right now. And I have to think, how am I going to make money? I wonder if I can find another way. I really didn’t want to talk about my family, to be honest. And the guru’s response really really demonstrates what a nightmare it was. For me. So I’ll figure it out, not meditate. Or try to find ease, because sometimes the best ideas come when you’re not thinking.

And the thing is, writing isn’t the worst idea, but I don’t know how to make this work for me. It doesn’t work. My approach was off. I can see, “oh look at her,” right? “Oh,” in a good way, “look at her…” writing for X, and she’s figuring out how to act…

It’s just — what? What do I want to write about? I have no idea! What are my interests, and this is where Barbara Harris and I hang out— we do not KNOW. We have no idea. “Um,” we get self conscious, sincere about “how nice it is to meet people…” but I’m going to take a deep breath and figure out what it is I like to read. Like, sure, I can talk about “crazy family problems” but what does that mean practically?

I’m going to spend some time reading the pieces these editors have written, as they are true story writers. But they’ve reported too. That’s the thing, I looked then up, I SAW what they did, and it was NOT what I did. I suppose I needed to work out the help problem, lots of things. It does not help. You might not be helping.

And all these influences that once crowded my mind and soul are practically gone… thank God. I wish I could find an expert psychologist to talk to about that — it was my whole life. And I picture myself bursting into a room in the throes, turning to Jared Leto: “is it true?!!!”

“JARED LETO —“ loud and clear — “is it TRUE?!”

I’ll finish this story for EPIC, but I’m needing to read, and just assess what I like, and how to write about my experience…if that’s what I want to do, but it’s not really about me, not on that one, if there’s something in it that could benefit someone, you know? That’s the point, or it contributes something to the convo. So I’ll see. Gotta go work in a restaurant now. It’s not bad. I just don’t want to be here. It’s fine, I just need to keep moving.

I'm having fun with this scene right now...

LOOK man, this chick at work, she’s in her twenties, and she has health problems for real. She’s always sick, for real. She has back problems, for real, you can see it. She’s in urgent care right now. Always health problems. This was NOT my issue. Luckily. No one would give a SHIT about her. Concentrate on what you have. Not what you don’t.

So, when it comes to my so-called family, looking at my AUNT wanting to claim me as her daughter, over here, with her daughter in law over here, now with Julianne Moore in the backseat, like wtf is happening? I couldn’t function… and these people think, after TEN YEARS of spending my time with a SICK person, that I was going to be able to react well? Like I was doing something maliciously, or what? I couldn’t FACE IT?

Here’s DRAMA — here’s some BLOND BITCH driving through the BLIZZARD, okay? To pick me up from fucking NYU. My professor handed me a jam jar with wine in it… and I was stuck somewhere around TISCH. The THEATER BUILDING. “Get in the car…” it was THAT desperate. Yes. I couldn’t function. It was malicious. My father STOOD at a wide open door for years and watched his daughter PUT ON HAPPY CRAZY SPECTACLES of JOY to ignore him…

Because, apparently, according to him, “you hated me and I didn’t know why,” emphasis on why. My mother BOUNCED. These people were INCAPABLE. NOW, sure, I am able to — do what I need to, I wouldn’t BE here. THEN, his family shoves papers in my face as to what they did for their own family member’s funeral… THEN, she comes into the church as if “all is forgiven…” and I’m…just trying to TAKE THIS IN. THEN, in the end, what began our rupture, or at least took it to new heights, she gives me the exact amount of money I originally took out that bothered her. I did not understand. THEN, my friend and I are emptying my father’s room, and I get invited for Christmas… and I can’t quite take this in because my father just died.

Picturing Reese Witherspoon PISSED — where is she??????? Through the snow. Only because she’s blond. So again, it’s more fun thinking about what to do with it. Just, my mother and her escort, this despicable man. They left me for dead. Why my mother was so cruel to me, I do not know, but that was a delusion — of an unparalleled degree. Like, they came, randomly, and saw me in a show… I watched her from the wings… just staring off into space with tears rolling down her cheeks. A twisted, delusional entreprise. THEN, suddenly, they want to PAY for my loans. Fuck you. And NOW, THIS WOMAN, my cousin’s wife, resents me, it’s obvious — in the SCENE. She FORGOT. CRAZY people.

And then, DEE DEE DEE, my fucking cousins in ITALY want to play PARENTS. Telling me left and right it’s not true. WHY would I want to SPEAK TO YOU?

I look back, I must admit, totally amazed. I couldn’t HANDLE any of it. THEY, those people, were my family, you see. So now, I’m like, “whoosh,” what a mess that was. So yes, I will play this piano teacher, and I will do it — to the best of my ability. And then I will put it in a REEL, and I hope to be able to DO something… I dream of the day where I’m able to — tell them to fuck off. That’s a final note from ANGELA, a true friend. “You gotta learn how to tell people to VAI FANCULO.”

Imperative.

And I go, was that TRUE DR. J???? Because I don’t GET THE HATRED. My mother was a disgrace.

This scene I'm doing is TOO good, I love this woman

I can say this for real. I can’t get through it without laughing. The PIANO teacher. You need, to a 12 year old, FEEL DESPAIR! It’s the cowardly men, like really? That’s what they were? Oh my God! You mean, they were COWARDS? And this one was a DON GIOVANNIs? No way. The slytherin (that’s what I called that guy.) Like it’s DAWNING on her, like, I’m on the freezing streets of WARSAW? A land far away (in Turkey, for me). Only to END up in a FILTHY, dark apartment.

Maybe I'll write a movie for Julianne Moore—now.

She will play my “second surrogate mother…” at the age that she’s at, receiving a BRUNETTE, you see, where’s SHE’s at. “40…” and with EYES, this woman, “YEAH,” the scary age. Totally annoyed. Maybe I can write a movie for Julianne Moore — who comes and gets me. “Psychedelics?” Just her saying that. So… annoyed.

“I’m sorry? Did you say FUTURE POINT? Download the information from a future point?”

Imagine Julianne Moore dealing with these outbursts.

“Jesus, I cannot even WRITE!” Her face, what? “Without CHANNELING…” my face of horror. “Channeling?” She might come to the couch, genuinely interested.

I’m telling you, it makes me want to throw the computer out the window, I didn’t need help…from the future, I can’t stand this sometimes, I mean truly. Like I’m downloading information from the POINT, that I have a job. It ruined my life.

Maybe she suggests seeing a Buddhist? Hilariously. A meditator, to clear my mind? With a hand, “ho,” I say, palm lifted. “No.” I’ll start writing scenes soon. That’s where I feel I can play out these internal dramas I’m having.

I do not KNOW who that was, and my second surrogate mother—COUSIN— putting a PIN in it — wouldn’t KNOW either. If my friends described who I was, she would be confused. If she saw the outfits I was wearing, she would be confused. Nothing but confusion.

My mother was severely mentally ill, you know. I don’t know what to say, about the rest, but my parents were ill, so I didn’t need the cultish LA shit. I could have, at least, but didn’t happen — because I wasn’t in the driver’s seat — simply grabbed hold of the wheel as I was fine, and GONE in the direction I am going in NOW.

Again, the JOB IS: you gotta figure out what WORKS for YOU. Julianne Moore is making a RIGHT — about to attack this guru. We’ll see. I don’t know… “is that him?” We’re in Beverly Hills in a super nice car, to blend in. She’s wearing sunglasses. I have to figure out the build. What happens.

Anyway, that’s one idea I had this morning.

Could be good.

I am a respectful person — Julianne Moore’s character saying okay? I do not want anything from you. I don’t have to be the richest person. I can’t stand agendas. I just felt a bit eaten alive. I don’t want anything from anyone, looking around, and she doesn’t know WHO… Some dramatic scene here. I’ll think. She’d say how much I hurt her. Since this would based on my relationship with MY COUSIN, “JESUS.”

“Sorry,” on that point, Julianne Moore would be able to make us laugh.

It’s more the BLANK stares — the inability to even CAPTURE, “THEY WERE SICK.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

“I was a kid…” at the time. “I have literature…” like I had to come with supporting evidence. She’s not going to read that.

But maybe there’s a good story. I’ll think on it. I’m still learning scripts.

It always makes me feel better thinking in terms of DRAMA.

Julianne Moore looking at this picture of my “adopted family…”

“You got another family?”

“Yes, it happened AGAIN…”

“Unconscious gears…” she would see.

“And now,” wide eyed at her, “um?”

An old fart, cousin, drinking coffee. “Wow.”

“Right?” Jersey. New Jersey. That’s where my family is from. “But I was magical…” and I would say it in a way that would make their heads fly back. Her daughter LAUGHING. I wonder if I like that idea. Anyway, I’ll get there soon. You know, I wasn’t really married to the story, but I thought I could probably distribute it…

I don’t care… taking a deep breath. I wasn’t THAT — PEERING THROUGH THIS — SAD? Confused. I wasn’t that DESPERATE to tell this story, I just thought, wow, people really really responded to it, so it’s gotta hold some larger meaning. People RESPONDED, I mean. The guru pointed at me as if I were in a SCI FI.

I had ONE convo with him. And I do not SEE that I am not COMFORTABLE with him, you see. I do not know what’s going on. YEAH, imagine Julianne Moore? “You’re supposed to listen to that…” confused by my basic problem? And I’m on her page, it’s MY PAGE now. This wasn’t my mother, but someone who considered me “her LIKE kid,” which got weird. “Like,” looking at HER, “WHY ARE YOU BUYING MY DORM ROOM? Think about it.”

Julianne Moore, a mother, woman, person, yes, I’m aware. “WHY ARE YOU buying me PRESENTS and making sure I don’t feel like I’m different from your own daughter?” You feel me????? What’s happening???? That’s what I mean.

I was STUCK.

And then, I became someone… I never thought I’d ever become. Like, my ex, he believes he channels, as well. “I got involved,” gasp, Julianne Moore. “No.” On that one. “Channelers.” Nodding, in New Jersey. “SHUT UP.” She used to do that. “SHUT UP…” she’d say. “Yup.” “Channelers? Really?” So, she would say “shut up,” then, she would mouth it, and then, she’d swing her ponytail as if she were a girl… I studied these people. Their every move. I was like a recorder. She would mouth it, stomp her foot, then say it, then swing her ponytail.

Connecticut, homemaker, that was me. She’s affective because she doesn’t show her feelings, but she can’t help it, through her eyes. She guards those. But they shine from her. She was caring, of course, she was, but THIS got me into trouble. As if, not to get GENDER about it, MEN didn’t typically… picturing her husband, get emotionally involved. They couldn’t, because it would look weird. But, yikes, watching the GAME, a football player getting CRUSHED.

Just a mess. One HE CAN’T TOTALLY comment on. Listening to our conversation. He might crack. “LOOK.” I was LOST in a sea of women… CARING… oh my GOD. The latest mother isn’t like that… but she’s geared, to mother. She has been mothering since seven, so I got caught up in that. Caught up in ANYONE showing ANY consistent, normal care like calling me, and I can’t call her, and it’s like, HM, she was just a woman from your neighborhood…

I couldn’t quite function…

NO, be real. She was a woman who drove you to high school. She knew your parents in church. But that was brief. And, here we go, again. THE DIRECTION WAS — YOUR OWN LIFE. Forget these families. Cousin. Christmas. Phone calls. Sure. Except they never called me. I’d call them from time to time, but it didn’t matter. So months would go by… that ended up being confusing.

It just felt a bit delusional.

But had it been CONSCIOUS, that would have been a different story. If she TOOK my DREAM SERIOUSLY of being an ACTOR, for real, THIS WOMAN. She would have said— GO BE AN ACTOR, do not go to 40k a year school… but the DREAM was NYU. NO, it wasn’t. So, I’m like, uh huh, okay. I’m here now. I do not CARE if I am not the YOUNG INGENUE.

I don’t even know if I WAS that person.

Scripts are scripts, like drama gives a SHIT what I look like, actually. So we’ll see, I’m figuring it out. Just because I might have a home there, like I have somewhere to put it that makes sense. So we’ll see.

It was a young mechanism…like maybe I didn’t have to judge them, only admire them. I loved characters, I did. So maybe there’s something I could do. At least, in a sense, actors are always looking for good scripts, so. It’s very positive, it’s not FAME, as I can get queasy… like entangled, lol, picturing performing the entanglement for Julianne MOORE, going, “YEAH you see?” They thought I was entertaining. “Does,” looking at her, “that make me an ACTOR?” Hm? Looking at HER? If I am an entertaining person?

Looking at that footplay player getting CRUSHED because someone said, “you run good.” I have to laugh.

So we’ll see. It’ll take a minute. I see different people in this role… who cares? That’s not my problem. I’m just looking at good actors these days. Thinking of going in THAT direction. And what the hell do these people care? They know they EXIST and people WRITE scripts for them. This isn’t NEWS. So we’ll see. I keep thinking about it. Always makes me feel better. I just don’t know anything about dramatic structure yet, but I’ll get there — if I do. Anyway, here I am…

I would play this song in Jersey… this was the VIBE apparently I gave off— a sex scandal, FAMILY. Dancing with this Brazilian woman… in the dark… and in a rush, I could do ANYTHING, be a star… I saw my mother everywhere. I WAS SKINNY AND PRETTY. Able to communicate with Tom Cruise. Psychic. RUDY— making the GOAL. YES, Tom Hanks, in other words, eating chocolates.

“You never know what you’re going to get…”

My child psychologist? The one who wanted to take me out of my house? She contacted me like THIRTY YEARS later? “You were always a charming girl…” I have NO IDEA who I became. Truly. She saw nothing wrong with me, you see, like I was fine. Even the idea that I came from a rich family? She would… cock her head at that. “Are you joking?” Looking at my cousins. Right?

And like, luckily, I don’t want to kill myself, like I would never do that. But this relationship with the guru — if I wasn’t as resilient as I am, I could imagine how he might tip someone else over the EDGE. That relationship HURT ME. He was like a boy truly. I want to — sometimes — throw shit at him because his future shit. He was part of a mechanism of ACTION set to destroy me though he wanted to HELP ME — you see.

He wants me, to this song, SLAP a CHECK on this table as Jim Carrey did. So I will. I’ll start low. “A MILL…for a script.” That’s what I want.

One of these mornings

I was sitting with Miracle Mile, these years I lived in another family’s house because my mother paid a unsuspecting Brazilian mother of six children money to protect me from my father, who she said was abusive, which turned into four miraculous years. I don’t know what adjective to use, but with a title like Once Upon a Time on Miracle Mile, you’d expect some qualifier like that. And it never landed, given the initial sentence, which I would begin with “lie.” She lied. That was a nightmare, in reality. I mean, talking to people about it.

And I woke up this morning again feeling so normal. The degree of normalcy I feel…I look back on this Hollywood screenwriter who wanted to get involved and be a guru, frankly, that’s what he wanted to be. A manifestation guru. Was it my youth? That story, or my youth, had a shelf life. I always knew that, which is why I didn’t exactly appreciate it, or I wasn’t getting caught up in a fleeting moment. In any case, now, I find myself almost on the other side of ride I wish I hadn’t been on.

I was watching Tom Cruise. He’s saying, “I have to learn how to crawl, then walk, then run.” The guru says, “don’t think like that.” But in looking at the real world, now, as someone who was almost at risk, strangely, looking at this guy, because she happened to come from a bit of a story, with a heartfelt cinematic soundtrack? Meaning, I was Barbara Harris? And I’m looking around like, I’m not entirely sure if you’re in the right movie. I guess it would be, I’m not giving up on my love for life, or something? Since that was so remarkable to people? I don’t know what to say there. My cousin said, “you’re a touching person,” well, that got me crushed. I was crushed.

I’m looking at job descriptions, simply. Forget the meditation exercises. This guru. And I don’t know what to do because I got involved with a couple of older men who presented themselves as experts, like “you should do this…” when I don’t think they knew what they were talking about. Like, the guru was so obsessed with my family story, like, at that point, you might as well make a phone call. But of course, I was a beautiful woman TO HIM, which, is exhausting sometimes, because people who find someone attractive assume everyone does. That’s not true. “Everyone was in love with me…” and, honestly, I’m not experiencing that. And I wouldn’t even let that statement touch you… bother you… I would walk away from that and put yourself out there to find the one who really does. I wouldn’t even… sure sure sure. Water under the bridge.

I can’t help where I came from, type deal, and it’s not an emotional statement. It’s simply a statement of fact. I’m looking at job descriptions, like there’s a good job at Disney, for an anchor/reporter. But I’m not going to get that job. It’s exhausting, feeling like I got sucked into older men’s games — where all I had to do was think direction — what JOBS are out there? I might have come from AN AMAZING OTHERWORLDLY adventure which rings odd, doesn’t it? But there’s nothing wrong with moving through the real world. Like, people thought I was going to marry a Duke, or something. Which is fine, it’s bizarre to me, but now I’m going, “okay, I need reporting experience.” It was simple.

Me thinking about MY LIFE IDEA being family… which was, if ever there was a point in time I wish I could reverse, it was the guru, because he felt like he could help, when I didn’t need HELP, wanting to spread his wisdom…your life is your idea… and I’m sure there’s a number of psychologists who would shake their head, like, oh no. Your life is your idea. It’s so ethereal. It’s a theory. And I needed ACTION, I needed to get into the DANCE, speaking of this Brazilian woman—fall in love, hold on, build. DO. the operative word here would be “DO.” Not “IDEA.” So, and there’s nothing I can do, so I thrashed about, hating this man, he arrogantly intervened into the life of someone he wasn’t qualified to mess with. Just that. Your life is your idea.

And an Arendtian, to Hannah Arendt, would remark that statement… and go, “how did Maria even MEET this person?” It was amazing. Just because, “your life is your idea” would not land well with her, a true genius. “It’s a nice theory.” Honestly, Hannah Arendt wouldn’t even entertain it. NOW, I’m looking at JOB descriptions, and going, “shit.” I tried to be intuitive, I tried to listen to this guru who was more like a psycho path, to bring in his love of the Seth books, as he liked to break down the literal word: psycho path. Because, this guru, he functions… I don’t know how else to put that. But for me, he was toxic, even considering his personality. He was triggering. He’s thinking I wasn’t FED as a baby… a child? He thinks I was repressed. And now, I’m like, do you mean sexual abuse? No, he meant neglect? Where is he getting his theories? HIS FEELINGS.

Every psychologist on earth is like, “what?” It was as if he got a whiff of a drug, and when I started freaking out, in fact, he just didn’t do anything. Just awful. He doesn’t understand what a relationship is. So anyway, I’m looking at JOBS, and nodding, like, that was the LAST thing I needed. Now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know HOW that note I struck, back then, if that makes sense, LANDS in reality. Cinematic heartfelt piano…

I’m trying to figure out how to turn it all around. I had a dream with Tom Cruise last night, he was busy, actually, like driving 2 hours to do this, to turn right back around. It didn’t seem THAT glamorous, other than his ability to meet me in San Francisco to discuss all this. I have to laugh. I have this running joke to demonstrate the guru’s theories. If Tom Cruise reads my story, that IMPLIES a lot. That’s a guru move. It MEANS that, probably, I have a literary agent, I have a following. Tom Cruise happened to pick up the book… and there you go. I’m not expecting a phone call. But the FUNNY thing was, even my closest friend, he seemed to have gotten stars in his eyes because this screenwriter was reading some pages? He called himself my manager, when that would imply that I can’t get AROUND? That I’m an ACTOR? Do you mean ASSISTANT? Right?

So Tom Cruise, personally, he was going to hear about this story, and clutching onto his jacket, as he could do as one of his characters, he’s going to point to me… I’m the one. You see? So the guru would say, “yeah totally, meditate on Tom Cruise..” so I laugh because he appeared in my dream to discuss it, not anything crazy. He’s a nice man. I do not understand the fame machine, always. I have to laugh. But that’s the sort of SETH logic we’re talking about… where I’m trying to succeed by meditating on an idea. Arendt would, MAYBE laugh, but that’s pretty much what this guru believed in doing…

And Tom Cruise, since I got wind of a piece of advice he gave on the red carpet, wondering if that’s a new thing. Like, actors are being asked to share wisdom, as social media, it’s so much meaning, like this is what life is, that I can’t really engage with it, anymore, because I got eaten alive by that shit… he said, crawl, walk, run. And now, I’m contending with, the reality of being in the REAL driver’s seat. What ARE my skills?

Writing a story, admittedly, I went around the world and back, like, intuiting — I do not know why I got pegged as an intuitive? I do not feel that way. I needed a psychologist, a real person, who’s going to say, “you’re too far out, already.” All of this, to me, indicated someone who was SEEN as otherworldly because, and Arendt would not hesitate to fire, as if it was actually the kindest line of action to take, I came from THAT story, which people saw as otherworldly, and I turned out to be pretty, in a way. And here we go, “pretty people,” thinking about Arendt taking this in, “can’t come from…a fucked up family?” I mean, I felt comical, as a figure, because I proved everyone right — people judge you by your skin color, yes, by how you look and dress, yes. I had a look. And this look developed over a short period of time because I met a fashionista, a man, and there was an allure around me that now, I truly do not understand.

This was not me.

I went through a structural collapse. And luckily, I did start reading Arendt, because she wrangled and wrestled this madness DOWN. I imagined her peering through the lines at this guru, how he was acting with me… like, why is acting like that? How on earth did you get here, darling? And so, I came out of these years, my entire life, feeling so normal, it’s a relief, it hurts, many things. I wasn’t expecting it. So, now I must contend with what I’d like to do… and I’m looking at well paying jobs, like at DISNEY, an anchor, reporter, and going, I can’t apply for it.

This guru said, “I would think you would POKE,” as he’s POKING at the substance called reality in his meditations. “On creativity.” I would keep his THEORIES to himself. That seriously harmed me. I did not come from his background. And I’m trying to figure out this story, sure, but it’s taking a second, which, ten years ago, I could have found the right psychologist… who could have helped me dismantle the story, simply, and no one ever thought of doing that…amazingly, right? This one so-called psychologist I worked for, and there are different kinds, was too money hungry to simply say—this is NOT in my wheelhouse. “You need a structuralist.” Someone who understands STRUCTURE.

So, I’m not going to give up on telling THIS STORY THAT AMAZED A NATION THAT NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT. I mean, I HOPE the story goes well, but it’s taking time.

Unfortunately, the FUTURE OBSESSION, the CHANNELING information FROM Tom Cruise, specifically, to GET to the literary agent, (lol), or producer, and I can’t stop laughing, that messed with my head so much… because I’ll go in one direction to then get pulled in another… so, this guru was obsessed with FEELING.

Honestly, it felt almost like a drug. Like, IMAGINE if I were as successful as Tom Cruise. That makes me feel grounded, like I could buy whatever house I wanted to right now, which evidently makes me feel better about my life… like I wish I could buy a house right now, but apparently, that’s supposed to then resonate INTO the world… and reality will begin to configure itself towards the POINT in the future in which I create that reality based on that feeling.

I’m saying, not TOM CRUISE, personally, but specifically, his monetary success. That is the reality that I am seeking. And I am PUTTING the guru’s theories in this way because it mocks it, a bit. That’s how this man suggested I live my life. Apparently, if I meditate on the feeling of groundedness, financial security, that Tom Cruise has, I’ll move through life — as you create reality from within — and MAKE DECISIONS that are going to lead me to security.

It’s funny. It’s a funny way of living.

And now, I’m LOOKING at job descriptions and going, “shit.”

“Where do I want to end up?” A physical location.

Like, his brother always spoke of me writing for the New Yorker, when, WHERE was he getting that one? It’s just the one that everyone says, it’s tired. Hannah Arendt would be the first, (and she’d appreciate my blunt honesty), Maria, at that time, did not WRITE well enough at all. Not like she couldn’t IMPROVE or something, but LOOKING at Maria’s WRITING, literally, NO ONE would say that. Okay, if I wanted to write for the New Yorker, that’s a different question. I suppose I could capitalize on my family story… I could get a degree in psychology, which I would almost need to, and write seriously about that journey. That’s one idea. As I have to make MOVES.

Fuck family, Jesus, cue the senitmental piano music that Tom Cruise and I will move through, in a moving choreography, I assure you. We will move you, dancing like Angelica Leibowitz. The story was affecting… which it might be… I’m sort of just trying to find the right tone. It’s taking a second, because, here we go, “is it heartfelt?” Well, now, I restructured it to BEGIN with the lambada. That it’s Once Upon a Time on Miracle Mile, not “my undercover investigation,” even if it will come into the play.

I’m thinking EPIC — get to EPIC — this is a destination. These people KNOW what a FAMILY pic is, or something. The world of DRAMA, luckily, doesn’t care if I’m like Bette Midler or something, singing about “the wind beneath my wings…” yes, they get that has a place in the world. If I’m singing THAT kind of song, about this family that took me in. They were the perfect family and THIS came into their life. I follow that. I THOUGHT that I had ideas that would work well on film. It’s just getting attuned to — that. And she’s teaching me to dance, the lambada, and wow, it’s a dance about sex, and it’s going to become innocent in a way. Little girls, ruby slippers.

It’s more EMOTIONAL than my PI investigator routine, which is funny, but I can’t quite make it work AS IS, so I’m striking a different chord, in the beginning, to see if that opens it up. It as 1989, the year that the lambada hit the airwaves and seized the world…don’t know how to put that. But this woman is coming for me in a state of dance… a celebration. And that might make my undercover investigation a touch more affective. So we’ll see, I’m listening to a semi-cheesy piano tune right now, not like I’m trying to make it cheesy, but — heartfelt, a different kind of drive.

But THAT’s separate. I’ve let it go… I’m not scrambling to BE A WRITER. Regardless, I have to figure out the rest of my life: like, love, really, I’m trying to go out, I have to. I need to build a group of friends. I just don’t know what to do right now, and what JOB I should try and get, also because, well, my whole life was reframed… because I feel as though MY SPECIALNESS had to do with my looks and personality… which is strange. Not my TALENT. This story, specifically, which was so weird. I was a good person? You know? Like, congratulations? I’m working that out, feeling like the most normal person in the universe who made nonsensical decisions, not knowing it, and now, I have to deal with it. Coming out of a dream, here.

I’m trying to think creatively, too, like, am I supposed to… put myself out there as someone who has been through a lot, or a specific NICHE of an experience, and resonate from there? Because that’s basically what all this TALK would imply. Meaning, my approach wasn’t wrong, I just needed to work out a basic personality problem. A basic problem: do not trust people, not with that story. Be careful, look around. I don’t know if I needed to go through “MY FEELINGS” I don’t know how to approach the guru, because he fucked me up, more so than helped me. Like, “don’t you think you were scared, suddenly living somewhere else?” Hm, I’m not sure if that was the experience.

But my genuine TAKE on it was never RECEIVED. The PUBLIC did not LIKE it. Not in real life. Tom Cruise is ready to move, I’m pretty sure, and dance in this living room and cry and laugh with me. “Can you imagine?” I became LORD of the Dance. She would FIND me in corners, right? “Hey girl,” she didn’t say “girl,” but I like it. And with all that emotion underneath, you understand, she’s bringing me to dance… and sure, we’re putting on dances for my father who’s just standing in a wide open door. But it struck many notes. AND I COULD NOT HELP IT, JESUS.

But then, the joke was, “is this true?”

I’ll figure it out. I wondered if this story could do well, because of the ingredients, as these types of stories, and here’s the THING: watch movies. I don’t know if I need to MEDITATE on Ben Affleck, like “give me the information” necessary to get to you, as a director, EVEN IF that leads me to MANGOLD, who CARES about the literal image? But I was hoping it had a quality that might resonate. That’s what I’m thinking about. But again, this is a longer conversation, and I didn’t need to meditate or get wrapped up in this guru, and unfortunately, I did.

I’m trying to solve a basic problem which is — which STEP am I taking career wise, now that I understand… so, I’m like, “I need reporting experience?” NOT to work for a start-up MAG in psychedelics. These gurus saying “you should practice writing,” imagine? It was so nonsensical to me, it’s shocking, and the POINT IS: I had a shadow. It was HELP. This damn near killed me. WHY are people HELPING ME? Didn’t help. I refuse to be grateful for this shit. That was a step I had to take personally — like fuck you, all of you. With your cue the VIOLINS routine.

Lost in SENTIMENT. I look back at my second surrogate mother like — eek, why did you do that? Oh man, look, honestly, I’ve said this, I had to mother a tough entity inside of me. But I understand that what means. I needed ASSISTANCE. Not help. I needed conscious assistance. Both my parents were ILL. Can’t HELP that. I get I was pretty and NICE. My parents blamed ME for literally all their problems. I was not able to withstand the SHOCK of hearing that he was SICK for ten years, not after what those ten years had BEEN. YOU, this family, started looking really really nightmarish.

“Do you know why I let you run around in these different families,” as if I were cheating on him, “because I pity you.” YOU, this second surrogate mother and co., in my REAL HOUSE, you guys weren’t exactly the sweetest subject. The guy was deranged. So, great, here we are. HOW? In what way was he deranged? And now, we’re entering into am AREA, SEX, where it’s like — could be, can’t be, who knows? A dance. Just a fucking nightmare. So I’m off to look at JOB descriptions, so I know where to go FIRST.

SURE, someone could FIND MY BLOG.

And go, hey, you know? YEAH, I KNOW. That would be AWESOME.

However, in the MEANTIME.

HERE, now.

I don’t have a beat, and I don’t know what it means — to “write about family” for magazines. Look at the Atlantic? I’m telling you, the sentiment around family was… like, it means a lot to YOU. I just happen to come from a SUBgenre. I could write about what it means to work out your family problems. I don’t know how to go about doing that, as I just got here, and this guru IS indeed mixed up in it. This weird help thing, how this story was received in the world. It’s not FAMILY. I had problems in the WORLD because I came from THAT story. Angelica Leibowitz dancing SEXY, regardless.

She’s getting turned on… and I can’t stop laughing.

I want people to stop helping. This is my new mission. PLEASE LISTEN TO ME. There are academic articles written about it. Is it ABOUT YOU? More than it is about ME? And for the most part—yes. The point is to be able to CONSTRUCT. Life is a constructive exercise. Who gives a SHIT about the DECOR, the sentimental DECOR? You know? The Christmas baskets with pine needles and ornaments? The sentiment. Who gives a shit about the apple CRISP? That’s what I mean, thet ALLURE of me. Fireplace crackling.

You gotta be able to — construct. I get so sad, because family always had to get so messed up. I liked all these people. And the other point is, I can’t help where I came from. I mean, my mother was INSANE. Truly insane.

And foster care kids? At a higher likelihood of being abused, so don’t give me some whitewashed sappy feeling bad for me. I was like, in an in-between world. There are all sorts of reasons why kids end up in other scenarios. I needed someone presidential, with a higher vantage point. And I’m the one who suffered. Not any of these people. My second surrogate mother — my cousin’s WIFE, OKAY? That’s a REAL psychologist. “Don’t go there.” She said, “you,” as in me, “really burned a bridge there.”

“YEAH SORRY.”

That bitch burned a bridge a long time ago. But it always FALLS on me. Because I can’t even SEE where the fuck am I.

But God’s grace is infinite, one of these lines. That would make Angelica laugh, sure. She’s coming in closer, you see, a real bitch: “BREASTS MARIA,” tell the people. “YOUR MOTHER’S BREASTS AT MY FRONT DOOR.” Like, I OPENED THE DOOR, and she did it, magically, and she saw BREASTS.

I can’t stop laughing. And my mother passed out on her guest bed. Maybe hit on Jose on the way, why not? That basically captures it.

“All Night LONG,” all night… it’s Lionel Richie, another party. That was my choice, for her, and she’d look off and laugh… “when you get started…” because her love of sex was so hilarious, it dashed all the evil in it to pieces. So of course, I was going to become a kind of clown, through that, where I’m seemlessly integrating myself into the line of children born to dance… and we’re breaking out in subsets. I’m putting on LIONEL RICHIE… bringing the cool… nothing wrong with making love.

So anyway, I have to get back to real life. I have an performance today at Columbia, and I have a taping I’m doing tomorrow, so I have to be ready for that one, so I can possibly use it in my reel. “Once you get STARTed…” and you know, music, it’s not personal, but music can really move you, the way the song builds, as I love that song, and there’s the feeling that you might actually GET somewhere in it… but it’s just a song. Sure, you can find HOPE, but in thinking about this guru — I didn’t need the delusion. A musician is like, “yeah, it’s the progression of the cords,” I don’t know if they’re getting EMOTIONALLY involved, in a sense, which is what happened with my story… it’s just, once the song is done, these people don’t give a shit. And I’m left with that.

Not fun. Not fun at all.

Though, who knows, it might be fun, on screen. “All night long,” clap clap clap, me. And it’s hilarious to THEM, I can dance. Of course I can. I’m dancing… I’m going ALL OUT. “ALL NIGHT.” Angelica knew, I was going to absorb her. So there you go. That’s the basic gist.

Anyway, turning my arrow towards entertainment…it’s probably going to take a minute, but I think that’s where I’d like to GO, and YET, people do all SORTS of things… you see. Which is my point. So I’m working out of a PICKLE. And in some ways, I wish that they fucking adopted me, just because THEY know, knew, what the fuck I was dealing with. These SPORTS STARS — like I needed THAT level of dynamism, you see, to get me through this. Lethal weapons. Mark Wahlberg, giving instructions to his 14 kids — “through the window,” fuck the drugs, “get the baby.” I needed a team.

Anyway, so I’m looking at job descriptions, and thinking, where do I want to go? What would be step one? Basically. A good step one. What even interests me? I don’t know, I’m in a new world. So it’s like, should I write Frances Ha? You see? A story about ME — coming into the world, sort of Jim Carrey, and feeling STUPID? Doing a dance, yes, it’s almost mandatory. I’m hanging out with a sex worker that I read Pretty Woman with. Dancing in some club somewhere. Learning to live life again. So, there you go.

I could try some digital products — or try to create content for my demographic. But straight writing articles, it doesn’t come to me naturally. I don’t think like a journalist. I’m trying to, but I don’t have an interest. A genuine interest. Family = nightmare. And the GURU didn’t SEE himself — a total stranger, YES, a 100% total stranger, who’s going to get a WHIFF and ACT deranged. I’m trying to be open? Trying to show people that you can be affected, yes, but okay. That was the basic premise. Didn’t read.

Vulnerability = bravery.

And in my case, stupidity.

“Do not be stupid.”

My NFL coach personage returns, throwing a crumpled DIXIE CUP towards the FIELD, getting UPSET— “NOT IN A DRESS, idiot!” Imagine? AN NFL COACH — listening to me. “I want to be vulnerable.” “Wrong.” “I wanted to show the world.” “Nope.”

Benched. Just sit down. “You’re going to get fucked up out there.”

And so, I’m off. It’s NOT that something can’t FALL from the sky, but what’s the point of living life that way? I’m going to read some of these editors pieces since they write in first person, all that, and I’m going to try and get a job. Or, think about a direction… and start writing articles on my own, something. Gotta rehearse lines.

I give up, relief

You know? I wasted a decade of my life. I give up. I’m letting this go. I, looking at this guru in my mind, this screenwriter, “wow,” as a single white female, one who didn’t need help, that person took advantage of my vulnerability. And apparently, that was the trait you weren’t supposed to take advantage of. Ruined my life, that guy, his “channeling” and “reality creation” obsessions. I became a joke, psychic.

Be careful who you get involved with. Especially if you come from what we call “a background.” There are predators and there are prey—Zootopia. I did a scene. I was the bunny. The dumb bunny. But now, I get to let this go, let go of “being famous” because of this story, or “making it” as a writer. I got entangled in all this stuff that I didn’t understand at all. I am not interested in channeling. That was not me…it is not me. If I was a good person, that didn’t bring me real love, so I’m not getting attached. She’s dead. The old Maria is dead.

I was blown to bits, I have no idea if I was abused, and now I don’t know what to do. But I’m here now. I’m going to work on peace of mind, finding purpose, getting “channeling” out of my body. I hate these brothers. I’m telling you. I need to work out my mind, man. I get to let go of this awful story. I got nowhere, and now I have to figure out what I’m doing with the rest of my life. I’m telling you David Weisberg, that guy was a weirdo. A real weirdo. I need to get this logic totally out of me. No future. No nothing. I think those two brothers would have been ogres in another century, take your pick. If I was the one who could talk to animals in the 15th century? In all seriousness.

I’d like to let go of the image that I’m in a limo, playing the field, over this story? I couldn’t believe this person. Over being a writer? “YOU CAN MAKE IT,” yeah, I knew that, theoretically. I hadn’t done anything yet. I wasn’t battling with whether or not I could? I just didn’t understand. I would have rather fallen in love, simply. Who wants to get a card, “be amazing if you chose to be…” I would have rather an engagement ring.

I’m going to take some time. My time with the guru makes me want to run as far away as possible from any kind of profession that comes with fame. No Fletchers, no BIG MEN in the ARTS. Please. I would rather pursue a path that doesn’t have anything to do with it. I wanted to make it, sure, but I didn’t have a problem with it. Nope, right? Me? No interest in making it, nope. I’m good. I’m just buying a house, over here. I’m chill.

I have too much going on internally when I write, like “future audience members,” that channeler tape in particular. I can’t deal with their obsession with FEELING driving reality, I didn’t want to live inside a movie, sorry. I don’t get manifestation, because I don’t have a problem with it. I don’t get the obsession.

I’m amazed at these people who produce books, you know? In the time I can’t figure out one story, I know a person who’s written five books. It’s nothing against me, and you’re not supposed to give up, I understand, it’s just, “cool,” good job, “so you published a book…” now what? My closest friend thought I would be seen, simply, and I would become an actor…who needed a manager? Hollywood would halt all production schedules with Academy Award winners, attached, like Academy Award winning screenwriters, story writers, for my story that he was going to be in?

I couldn’t even finish a book. I couldn’t STEP back in the USA, without these hotshot men wanting to “help me.” Think about that. Because I had curly hair. Because I was a “good person.” Because I came from “a background.” I had resources back then. But I get to this point, which is, I got that family story out of the way. I can’t deal with my last adopted family right now, because, how did I end up here? So, I don’t know, for the moment, I have to let this go.

What I thought, through this, I’m not a power person, I’m not personal, either, I only want you to succeed. It’s just, a rare type of person, and sometimes I wonder if I should go work with people. I did not need help. I did not need these men. I had to make peace with some real world shit.

All I had to do was get a job, just like anyone else, think HOUSE, read, play around with notecards, not meditate on a future point. It wasn’t that complicated. And that sort of killed it, being told that a fictional character in my, simply speaking, BAD DRAFT, was a “really good psychological device…” I’m going to need a minute. Like, now, I re-read this so-called first chapter of the book that this screenwriter read and thought, “if only the whole thing could be like that…” it’s not a good chapter. I just have to sit down with myself, “I’m so sorry honey, you really had no idea who you were involved with, you just got disturbed and confused.” Looking at this apartment I was living in, in the Chelsea Hotel. “I’m so sorry.” That was a fucking mess.

When you feel like you became a bad M Night Shyamalan film in real life, that sort of kills it. I have the rest of my life to write a book. I was not looking for advice, help, to be the ONE, NEO, type deal. I didn’t need attachments. I had to go through a lot loss to get here, but I am here, I feel that way. What people believe in, it always astounded me. I think, the job, is figuring out how life works for you. I’m a nature person, there are many beings out there, they have their way. Some feed off others, which was never my way.

That person, the guru, really triggered me, and I wasn’t able to understand that. Now, I am available. I can meet a man. I can build a stable, meaningful life. And I can just set aside the unnecessary “making it” over… I don’t know. I lost everything, you know? It was a touch too sentimental. Like, other people got weirdly struck by that story. I couldn’t be okay, not okay, I wasn’t a piece of clay. You know? Go to foster care… there are plenty of…stories there.

I’d like to find my voice, what I DO, forget KNOW, that feels like singing…I mean that, purely. I’m going to have to find the will to really live now, now that I’m on the other side, and all these unconscious gears aren’t turning, I found my mother an utter nightmare to work out, whatever that was, and my father too. They were ill, you guys, at least!

I need to keep shaking off my age, the psychic crap, the —future that wants me to get there, like it’s a terrible aspect of my experience now, and it gets better, but it wasn’t necessary to think like that. I did not need controversial logic that sounds like a joke to me. There are plenty of successful people who are not into life as sci-fi. THEY are fine.

I don’t think that I had to go through such a harsh end, I don’t know, but I have no idea WHO that was, back there, and I don’t who I am. Honestly, I go, “okay,” you know? I made those decisions… And people’s responses to me not knowing if I was abused — heartbreaking. But the thing is, if I were to end my life, which I don’t want to, that’s not a thought in my mind, but people’s responses were heartbreaking, and I don’t know if this story will MAKE THE NEWS and everyone will apologize…

I don’t get why the guru was so obsessed with me, I’m sorry. I really don’t know. Why is he looking at my Facebook page? Making comments? “Your suitors came to me during a meditation.” I mean, what the fuck was the point? I mean, I look at Barbara Harris, and I go, “did you have to deal with this type of shit because you were touching?” It’s like, Lerner, right? This journalist had a thought event… while watching her. “Um, you care about her?” It was pretty simple to him. I’m telling you, people “caring about me,” that wasn’t positive. Whatever that was.

I’d like to meet a man that I love, who loves me, who doesn’t give a shit about this stupid story.

It’s like, if the guru was in love with me, David, “you cannot disappoint me you have my love…” dramatically? That’s not love, you see, not psychoanalyzing someone who can’t simply ask on a date. I don’t know why I was there to begin with, but I was struck somewhere, and I’m embarrassed. It wasn’t even my role. I wasn’t the person who wanted to be a star, you see, that wasn’t my desire. “I believe in you as an artist,” when I didn’t DO anything. I was so confused, why is he doing that? Because he finds me attractive? I get that I was “special,” like cue the music, but HOW? What made me special exactly?

It wasn’t benign.

I could sing and dance a little? I mean, truly. I was entertaining? I really don’t know what to say, but for the moment, I need to let this go, because this isn’t working. I’m going to go figure out my life. I’m letting this go. Not until there isn’t a single thought form that’s left, and there isn’t all this stuff attached to my story… that wasn’t THERE ten years ago! If I could eternal sunshine these people, I would do it immediately. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. And everyone in that movie WANTS me to be able to get that procedure done. It’s not even erasing a lover. It’s erasing a GURU. Picture me, getting NICE and COZY in this seat, “let’s do this,” clap. And I feel lifted, staring across the beach, like a million bucks. And I’m never seeing that person again… so it wouldn’t even matter.

So that’s it, I’m letting this go until there’s nothing PULLING anything out of me…