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.