If you think about how the brain functions and you read Oliver Sacks, there’s a complex neurological system that governs how we perceive reality. We have to agree, most of us, on a basic level. Death, the oldest storyteller, doesn’t necessarily exist within that structure. You could mistake a table for a cat, anything, so. It’s amazing what keeps us focused here. It’s all connected.
When I reopened my life, I went through disbelief. It was called a fiction in real life and I felt time bend on top of it, which I understand is quite a statement but my father had Alzheimer’s though it was Parkinson’s first that he denied. He was diagnosed when I was ten years old after my mother gave me away to a total stranger when I was four years old and manipulated her…I lived in her house for four years because he accused my father of being a child molester. I come from “one of these stories.” So I’m developing a psychological fiction about what it means to heal from childhood trauma and really find a new beginning.
I never went back through my childhood; I never wanted to, but I started writing about my life, just wondering what I could do with it, and it turned out to be quite an adventure. There’s Maria the adult, the inner child that she isn’t connected to, and Death. Take the film What Dreams May Come. Annabella Sciorra’s character commits suicide; she’s in hell. If I remember correctly, Cuba Gooding Jr. tells Robin Williams (as characters) that she can get out of hell, hers, but it’s hard. That would require Death in one way or another, I think, so I”m going on an imaginary adventure called life with the ultimate guide…Death. Since he cannot change that “it” exists but what’s possible from here to there….even in thinking about how deeply one can change, in thinking about….the things that never seem to change.
Everyone recognizes Death, right? In Meet Joe Black, you know…you know who I am. He does. Death in this context = awareness. I gasp. He has been a part of every story ever told, which is a true idea, regardless of its classification: fiction, nonfiction, fantasy. He exists. There’s an end, even if the story never ends, which is another idea that we have. The end is a new beginning. “The world keeps on turning.” In this story, Death sits on the brink of dawn. I was comforted by the idea that there was such a thing as an end since I struggled to move past some of these stories that were rooted in problems. Once I cracked this story open, my feelings about myself shocked me—I was “the biggest bitch that ever was” at four years old.
In thinking about the wisdom of death as the oldest storyteller, all of a sudden, for example, this character walks through this woman’s door. I was reaching for myself at a future point, a wise woman somewhere out there who might be looking back on this life, this moment, and there were many “future mes” perhaps…that I could become. I got in touch with someone who was resolved, who really went through this since this story is about coming out of repression. “Death” plays this role. He, she, they is “the oldest storyteller” as Death changes forms…he is every human, every living thing; there isn’t any discrimination. It’s an equalizer; no one can argue that Death does not exist. What it means….is another question.
I was staring at the rainbow colors on the walls of the foyer cast by the crystal chandelier during a lambada party. Just that. The oldest storyteller stood there. ”It’s time to go home now.” It was a new perspective dawning in me. He approached me as a four-year-old who ran off through the bodies dancing, the kitchen where the rum cakes were coming out, the attachment that I had to this house. Death doesn’t have to move. As he came closer to me, I expected him to tell me what an awful person I was or I don’t know, but instead, he was kind. I had to take a minute. “The sound of lambada…” Thoughts flew—well, four years later, or everyone tried their best; I couldn’t place what my feelings were. But I was bad, she saved me, I bit her daughter’s hand. I felt totally responsible, and I was just beginning to see myself at this age and not only hear what I was saying. I couldn’t even feel what this was like for me given the story I had; I had to get through layers. It was a journey. And the oldest storyteller didn’t rush me at that age with rainbows in a curve across the wall. He asked questions and responded to the story that I had—I never dealt with any of it and it was brand new. That brought these “characters from my life” into the foyer, any room, to defend the point of view which I could feel, and it was chaos for a while, and like a blade, Death sliced through them. It was as if all these ideas I had about myself—do I feel this way, no I don’t—presented themselves. But it was his manner, the way he treated me at that age with gentleness and respect that shattered me, as soft as a feather, since I was an adult taking it in. I wasn’t at my house. Didn’t occur to me.
We watched this lambada party, bathed in the feelings that filled the room since, in a manner of speaking, I never left this party; these nights. I didn’t think about why I was there, what was happening. I never asked for my parents—I’m pretty certain. I was a part of this, and the way Death could regard me way down there, which was the visual point for a while, and I finally asked as an adult—why are you doing that? “You’re small.” Oh, I laughed. I suppose I started opening up to myself. I was “a part of this” but I didn’t have to be, too; so I’m going through my internal monologue, even if I was a tiny person who this character didn’t belittle. I saw that it was possible. Some of my “look on the bright side” and “find the love in it” and “see the world” and “take what you can get” came from this very young, tender (I guess) age. It was magical, even, hilarious. I was watching a family and group of people unite on the words of heartbreak, and I felt the truth in it. I decide to leave though.
And I had to really dialogue with myself, but—but, you were here for these reasons. There was nothing healthy about this, even though it was better than my house, and that was not a clear reflection either…it wasn’t healthy. Did this build me up? From a certain perspective, I had to become my own advocate, and Death could listen to a person who was totally confused and it was physical—it’s not all this, it’s that too, and this character, which was funny to me, could role-play with these characters as someone who was there, with it, and dealing with a child—roar. “After everything she did for you,” this character could pull the words out of me that I couldn’t say since this was a whole new point of view. “This was complicated.” But from that perspective, he could take a position, which made me feel better, of how young a person could be sentenced, even. Right? The professional, having seen it all, not really, and settle with the feeling…ah, the unknown, what we want to hear, not hear, in one sentence. I left. I could take what was meaningful, figure that out in time, just to keep it simple.
After that scene, I had to take a walk, sit and stare, deal with the story that I had—which sometimes defended itself quite intensely, and Death did not lose his cool nor his speed. I was dialoguing with a new point of view…an idea that had a larger, deeper set of eyes with which to look at a human being and the world they inhabit as a system of ideas. That soothed me since some of these feelings were sharp and the questions would be as well. I took that character with me to think. So, I, my feelings could make me feel blank, and why did I think I deserved meanness? Because I was a bitch? Death doesn’t really curse, which made me laugh, but I could get caught up in the “what I did” and “I have to see it from their perspective” and this character would—it doesn’t matter if I was on the page or not—stand in these four years and say “this is what was happening…” but “did it?” I mean, even that. “Yes,” we could go to the tennis club to “my undercover investigations” and look at what this woman told me my whole life. Forget my parents, a moment. That idea ended up supporting me since my story was changing. Death was “here” strictly for me, you see. It was step-by-step, but the oldest storyteller had been a part of every story ever told, so what wasn’t possible?
It wasn’t linear, because I could grab for the old understanding and all this character had to do was present another point, if not a larger one about what can happen to a child before they are even born, in a sense. Is it true? Is that why you should hang onto this ridiculous story? It affected your whole life, and it wasn’t that—see them rush in—I was bad, wrong, or blah blah blah. Time to raise your standards. It lifted me up. It was between me and me, right, since “what real reach did you make? Why? Why? Why didn’t you?” Because I didn’t want to. I decided to go to NYU and live in Paris because I felt TIME BEND at nine. It’s true. There’s nothing wrong with someone’s choices necessarily, it was more about getting to the heart of what I wanted, and that required some reframing. Death, I know, the oldest storyteller…
On the ride home from these four years I spent in another house, Death was in the backseat, and I suppose I was listening to my internal monologue—there was a deathly silence between us the entire ride home. And, I don’t know what to say, but there was someone, me, who was there supporting me moving through this. I just liked this idea. He could talk to this eight, nine year old, since I didn’t know how old I was, exactly, in the front seat—pay attention to the signs. He assured me that there was such a thing as a “a proper end,” even gentlemanly, though I am not attached to gender, and taking a breath, neither was Death. I learned to take them—deep deep breaths. I don’t know how I felt in that car, well, and we pulled into the garage and the house was exploding. This scene took some time; I was shocked. I didn’t know what was happening; he takes a seat in his office as I continue to this on and off shattering that shook the house, which would grow in intensity as an image, and this idea is even telling me how to condense many times into one time. Continue. It makes me laugh. Death was clean; he wasn’t getting “you can’t do this” since I did, and I was going through it, but finally, I fell down on the stairs. “Death!” This was me at nine years old. “The walls are exploding!” I had to hang on. And they were, and I shouldn’t be afraid of feeling; this is a different dimension, so up the stairs. At the time, I just floated; I was stunned to arrive at some eaten t-bone steak that she left. Men were smashing mirrors off the walls, tearing them down, and lifting these jagged pieces over their heads to bring them down against the edge of trash cans to be able to keep breaking them to throw them away like they didn’t matter. Her office had already been cleared out. So, later, people asked me “did she call? She didn’t…pick you up?” I laughed at Astor Place, in college, since I could pop into different points in time; Death could even have a large cup before him. For a while, he just sat there, and the room was fluid, colorful, I think because it was taking shape. There was an edge behind my “no,” since people could, naturally, follow up with another question. She didn’t…and I wasn’t experiencing these questions since “normal” didn’t apply to me. Again, with a hand, we always have to concede that there are many people out there who come from all sorts of stories. It made me feel better, and it was true. There was an edge to my “no,” if not an underlining rage to my lightness of being, so. She was who she was.
I didn’t have to feel, did I? This had nothing to do with me? But I was, I was feeling something now. I couldn’t really trust that for a moment or even extend a hand of understanding, and I didn’t want to have a perverse attitude as if feeling made me pitiful, or even feeling for myself was so complicated, but I came from this situation. And Death isn’t abandoning a soul, haha, in a sense, in that, my character continued to be met with love and understanding from the perspective of “every story, ever told.”
I came home to this. Were there worse stories out there, sure; was that a reason not to feel? You understand? So this was what it was. Through my nerves, I feel a dull sharpness today, but I can stand with an awareness and also let it go. It doesn’t negate the conclusions I made at that age, but it hurt, nodding, you know, I suppose it did, regardless if I understood that she had problems, and I would continue to question all this. And Death, this character, kept on saying “you’ve arrived at the rest of your life” many many times. I grew up. I think, putting myself in my shoes as a child, there was something about the presence of such a character in these scenes that gave me the courage to begin to open up, since it represents what it does, and I wasn’t trying to say I went through the most terrible of circumstances; it was confusing. He turned out to be sick; he kept it a secret, he couldn’t communicate, and I went through another mind-bending experience. I just stuck to the adopted narrative…and once again, the whole things would be reframed from this foundation. “He’s your parent.” What can I say? It made sense.
Denied dementia; what begins to happen to a house since it represents the self, the psyche, and he could begin to tell me a story as the walls weren’t as solid or warped, or something. I just never told anyone about it. So memories began to resurface, and as a character, he’s not “oh my God, really?” He’s not shocked. He’s not going “oh, stop,” or “oh my God, a man’s story is changing,” as if there was anything new about it. This was my life. And it turned out there was a lot going on with me, since I doubt the feelings I was going through were, in a sense, made up. My mother was a pathological liar, as I concluded as a rookie psychologist, which she was, too, and my father turned out to be a severe denier, and both of those people could be framed in “the illness did it.” Questions, questions, from these characters from my life—was it that bad? Maybe you couldn’t really tell? Well, not true. So, off we flew, to sensational flashes, of me landing here and there dialoguing with this man about his memory, etc. I felt terrible, on the one hand, because his illness was a growing realization—that took time, though I said it.
I went through more of an awakening than a breakdown, but it was intense; joy and despair, too. I was letting go, forgiving myself, which Death even didn’t even comment on whether or not that was merited. With a character like that, his regard is rather—relationships, what it means to be connected to this thing, and what brings us together. He could cruise with a child who became somewhat studious; what is this thing called life? Sure, onwards. I laughed, getting to know myself, and having a perspective “uh huh uh huh” looking at me “as a mature child…so adult.” What about this? That. I wanted to hold onto the idea that people tried to support me and it fell apart. It was more the compassion for myself I began to feel as I realized that my parents were sick, both of them, and that there was only so much I could do and forgive myself for what I couldn’t. I got to a point in my life when I had to say stop. It wasn’t disastrous, per se, but family was. It was. There’s a point to make—just what it was. Not one note; a symphony put me in a field of instruments and notes—some were not helping this composition. I suppose it depends on what your intentions are, but some of it didn’t have to be there, anymore. I wasn’t exactly building a sustainable if not thriving existence though it was beautiful, even, and gave me much to make out of it. I was changing the ideas I had, at least the ones that held me back, in a way.
I was just dealing with my childhood, it turned out. I was repressed for a long time. If you hear my story, it makes sense that I might have suppressed these experiences. The topic sentence of my life finally landed when I started writing about it. This comes out of Hannah Arendt; the world that held me up even if it was “bad” held me up regardless. A story broke down, for sure, as I began to awaken to my feelings, which is what happened, and I’m developing a psychological fiction inspired by this experience. I had no idea what they were. I mean, “gasp,” and I did sort of blink and take some steps, just putting together that none of these people knew each other…that conclusions were made…and I was the age that I was. Sometimes, at these moments, that voice could carry me across this whole story…so, in the narrative that I went through a break-down, also to this character, what does that mean? “I could emerge.” I thought, damn. I had a focus—it was just for my benefit, settling this stupid, not stupid, past, and moving on, for real. And if someone were to question that—why? I had to learn to be a parent for myself through that; that seemed to be the journey, and insist that I would never abandon myself, or stop loving regardless of what happened. If someone were to question that? Why? The characters in my life…I began looking at them like something was off about my relationship with myself since there was nothing wrong with me, literally nothing. I had to just let that go. I was just writing a story and I had the power to do that. I had a vision, type of thing, and the put me in touch with what was, I guess, and I had to say a lot of goodbyes, too, and that’s from my perspective.
And now I am here. I just liked the fiction that was born from the real process I went through, and it supported me as I did. I ended up in spaces, psychological scenes, of being in the dark in another house…since I would stay up late contemplating the American Dream in total silence. This is what I mean…Death stepped out from the shadows. We stared at a shopping bag that became a real stocking, which I did; it was a joke, I was just there, but as my understanding of my life began to shift, I blinked. In reality, I sat down on a couch covered in sheets at the Chelsea. “Did I want parents?” Did I wish I had a parent? Well, Death couldn’t really answer that question for me. Huh. Is a man with denied dementia…a parent? What was that like? I collected myself and I went home since that’s what I didn’t want to do, though that was complicated.
The oldest storyteller represents a higher perspective, so the idea that death is evil or is out to get you is not my vision. It’s an awakening, a coming out of the dark, and taking a deep inspiration or breath to embrace my life fuller, whole. It exists, also, as a real point in time, so how did I want to look back on all this, too, and what did I really want to create? Death was not trying to prevent anyone from fulfilling themselves, and why would a higher perspective take that point of view? I thought that was moving. As a nine year old, I decided to befriend this concept called death because I saw my father’s fear of it as being the real root in his condition though I couldn’t grasp that. So I was that kid, thinking that healing that relationship in some way could make an impact. This idea was born from my childhood, in other words.
We will all pass through that door, and no one can argue that it exists, even the atheists. What it means is something another question. In real life, I had a father who was sixty years my senior, and he had a terrible time. He was depressed, ill, and he had an anxiety disorder, and I don’t know what to say, because it all got messed up. My Neapolitan relatives didn’t even hear me—well, how is he supposed to tell a child? Well, then tell someone, you see, since that’s a serious condition that affected me…I was the problem; I had our conversations memorized where I could “you took the apple and then you said this.” No, I didn’t. I found out, after all that, at twenty years old that he had been diagnosed when I was ten, and had to deal with disbelief, like why would I lie? About this? These were my parents. I needed professional help for them.
And I don’t know what to say about my very early years, it’s just what do I include, what do I leave out, and what does it look like when I begin to simply put it together? If it quacks? Is it a duck? And there is more that I can’t really talk about. I didn’t want to be in this position. It made me laugh to hear “how dare you?” or “not good enough” or “reach for a higher love, babe.” I am not perfect, obviously, but I had to let that go. I would rather make a reach not to be, in fact, and share more of me, and be able to live in a reality where someone doesn’t say “well, don’t say anything to your cousins because you don’t want to disturb your fragile place” sort of a thing.
Life is a gift, I think.
I understand our relationship to the unknown and God and the Gods can be fantastical and our relationship to power, especially, can be terrifying. Death doesn’t care about power or how many of us even approach it, so. I had to adjust my relationship to it, all the same. Not everyone is right and I’m not always wrong; there’s a space we meet in-between, but some of this “you’re creating your own reality” business, which is true, very true, and that’s what I was contending with, also included others. We’re meeting, sharing, and we’re supposed to, hopefully, enrich each other’s lives. I had needs, a desire to connect, and to have that fulfill me…no? If there’s imbalance, I had to balance it out. We can try and heal wounds in old familiar places. I let some people go; I suppose I could fight, now; that’s just all I did with my father, so I had to work that out, even understand that my parent was sick, so what was the reality? What was I seeing? It wasn’t like I didn’t have relationships, or I wasn’t loved, but once I started seeing my childhood for what it was, that evidently changed how I was approaching my life…how I stayed safe, what scared me, too.
My way of operating was clever and complicated, very, though I was “so easy.” One’s cleverness can work against them. No one is clever to Death, but he is not a superior character or doesn’t have to adhere to “corruption.” It’s an incorruptible symbol that could set the record straight.“ I am neither above nor below…” And today, I thought that kind of perspective was refreshing since we’re all going to die, so what are we doing? What are we trying to create as a collective here? I even thought, oh, sure, I could push this story more toward the fantastical—Death does not care, you see, about the genre., the divine is like—send in Death. Let’s cut across. I battled between these lines; if I could create a fiction out of my real life, or imagine other worlds, even, and now, I can. “Do we need to go back to your house, or can we just put it over there, so we can more easily move to the next scene? Does it even have to make sense, do you have to explain all this?” A story has its own intelligence, which is magic, too.
Death cannot help that it exists; that’s it.
I reached a turning point in my life since I could frame it that way. Honestly, I don’t know what to say about that moment in my life because I could feel that something was coming to an end, but I wanted to write a story about my life, so that came with its revelations and complications. Trauma can affect the body. Repressed anger, even, is not healthy. I had a lot. I would get in touch with how my repression affected me. I had mantras and phrases, too, like “when you’re old and grey and full of sleep,” because “time bends,” so there were probable futures, and some were more probable than others, but it didn’t mean it couldn’t exist. “Alive and well.” These are positive affirmations, to begin with, and I had to trust myself in having a dialogue with some of my fears or what was in my way, exactly.
“Time is bending” came into my head at nine years old, since my perception of time changed twice the year that my father was diagnosed. I just happened to make some big life decisions, but I saw “probable futures” as points of light ablaze generating energy as ideas first. It was an awesome experience, so that became a central visual around which the story turns; it’s about what my character can create from here. I suppose that includes points in time in general since new ones opened up and took on new if not greater meaning. “Your whole life flashes before your eyes,” that’s an idea we have about what happens before we die, and to Death “what does that mean?” This is about meaning.
Your life is supposed to inspire you.
I went through the decisions I made as a child and came out the other side feeling freer than I ever felt, and what held me back in the past doesn’t anymore. Healing from trauma seems to have an architecture; the body has an innate healing intelligence. I would begin to access “my contribution” these sorts of very real ideas. How we navigate through time is fascinating, in that, probable future events can affect the real past, so I suppose I had a vision of a story that reached for me. I trusted the feeling I had. I tapped into my wisdom as an older woman looking back on all this. I could align with that future. What did I want? It was a feeling, though I had specific goals, I suppose. I meditated on that. What I experienced was at times miraculous, truly. I wanted to have a successful journey to look back and say “I did it.” What that means to a person, I don’t know.
Storytelling is a form of medicine, a Native American ended up telling me. I found that to be very true. This facet of Death leans on the ancient power of narrative itself. There’s nothing more human. Change your story, change your life. My story even came to my support. This is a master storyteller, too, which is what you want. I worked with plant medicines so this character comes out of that time as well.
I had storytelling as wisdom I could rely on, and now I am at another goodbye. I suppose that’s why I was thinking about this character last night. I ended up in Istanbul. I took off…I’ve been living abroad for a year and a half and this story was part of my real healing since I dealt with some tough dynamics and I had to recover from a large therapeutic event, in the end. I hung onto that lie quite tightly, and no one really heard what I was saying, though that was confusing. All the same, I could sit with that story afterward and it didn’t really abandon me, either, so that was that. I’m not going through it again. Step by step, right, just step by step.
By that point, I was on Christmas in Naples is a Sport, so even this story came into a new light. At the end of this draft, just the “Was I hungry?” I can ask that now, but I saw myself at four coming into this lady’s house…and contending with neglect…that really broke my heart. It shocked me as a thought, if not “the question.” At the time, I got a couple of indirect messages from my mother, also, which hurt, I can say that now. I never heard from her practically my whole life, and I was on the cover of Vogue Italia. I started blocking her. Never did that. No, I don’t really want to hear from you, ever, though I tried, at least, even if it was a few times. I can make peace with myself, and if that changes something, then I will cross that bridge, but I’m not playing the same games. Hearing her escort, just Jesus, who saved her from total destruction after these four years, telling me “After everything she did for me?” What planet are you on? My story was one of these–what? Who’s the escort?
We don’t know. He just came out of nowhere, but I wasn’t living at my house at the time. “She was a genius,” that’s why he did what he did.
I can tell you the story, in other words; I can say “this happened and then this happened and then this happened” but at least in this context, we’re searching for meaning–what did that mean to me? I suppose it doesn’t matter, I don’t know; I can put it together and have the reader make the meaning for themself, but in the sequence of events, a story amounts to something, unless I’m writing Arnesic and Old Lace which is about insanity. He discovers in the end; it’s not even his biological family. I’m more in that place now…since Christmas in Naples is a Sport is about reuniting with my relatives, but I was dealing with this narrative about the adopted families, and even my life up until that point, since my story didn’t exactly go away, whatever it was. But once I put that story aside, a minute, that dominant story I was telling…basically went away. I still deal with the reality of those relationships, but it’s not the same, I’m not going to remain attached to this conflict, if that makes sense.
I don’t know if I even care to write my story, quite frankly, at times. Do you know what I mean? It’s a new world, and I would like to find the connecting point between it and a larger truth that resonates since I’m not exactly just trying to write my story for myself, though there are plenty of people who do and they want to share it. Why this story now? That’s a basic question. The Oldest Storyteller as a story, a character, reflected my success. The story was finished; a book closed. “Architecture,” he says, in an exquisite mosque, and I was thinking about that on the journey. Just what holds us up, Death in the middle of many many people. I don’t know where the story ends, that one, since I am still on the journey but very much at the beginning of a new chapter where I see more doors opening as I keep closing old doors, even this one. I could put that character on another journey entirely, it was just an idea that gave me courage to just get through this…. I can’t really change anything that happened back there, but the present point is a seat of power. I can embrace a fuller expression of myself. No matter what you’re dealing with, you can craft a path, technically. You can envision a future. “The future is a point of focus,” he says. Death had even seen many miracles.
___I like the Oldest Storyteller. Healing is a current subject, so it fits into a larger discussion that’s happening and the spiritual element of it feels like it provides something that many are thirsty for, even if there’s conflict around “spiritual” versus “religious” which Death takes care of since he exists regardless of what you believe. Health and wellness is a section in every paper, and mental health is the topic of conversation, and I was such a particular kid in conducting these psychological experiments and felt time bend…and this idea sees nothing but use in all this. It’s true “what does that mean?” Meaning feels pretty on point. Someone who is making meaning in this world, facing that point in time, in a sense, to direct the rest of her life not from a place of trauma, though I wasn’t just traumatized, but from a more empowered position. Like, it could go this way, actually, and maybe I did see something that implied not only health and abundance but beyond my wildest dreams. At times, I thought, wow, you know, I don’t know what to say about that psychological set-up—my mother was quite mad, and my father was quite sick, and I was clever, and I really didn’t want to become them. I didn’t even want problems, you know; I was fine to just be in the world. Writing changed my life even as an exercise.
The story begins at the last original apartment at the Chelsea Hotel—enchanted, buckling at the seams, a waterfall through the pantry, paint chipping but it’s exquisite if not important to preserve. It resonated as a setting for Death, since that building has arguably been destroyed into a modern hotel, and this is it—the last space. That debut spoke for itself, the warm and animated blue on the walls with the dark wood which at night turns a shade deeper like the subconscious emerging even magical, at that, because it’s not navy. He can help me with my storytelling problem, even, if not open up a path, in some senses, since he cannot help that he exists, which is true, but I can connect to what I want. I would go through some, what felt like, deep healing experiences, since I had pain and I don’t anymore. I figured I’d learn more about the body later, and I say that because I feel so much better even if I’m starting over, and that’s not that special. Many people have. And that’s what I loved about the storyteller, the figure who has been a part of every story ever told, that there’s a role in The Giver sense. There’s very little that appears impossible to such a character. It’s true, it was mysterious, because…did I think that something was coming…and that character could look at me…I don’t know? Is it? What’s coming? You see? I’m here regardless. I think on that journey I could see how some of the ideas I had were not exactly constructive.
It’s grand, historic, and I ended up in a palace in Morocco surrounded by the cosmos. I suppose if I was going to have a breakdown, even, in coming to realize what I did, I suppose I made some decisions as I began to take this journey that directed it. I was rather disconnected from all that, which was, I swallow, clear. It was more of a set-up that assisted me—like “here I am walking through the door” in this insane story, hello? Kindness, how groundbreaking. I didn’t necessarily think that it would be the story, if that makes sense, but as I continued forward, I liked this fiction, even if it opened up the real past.
Now, I’m at the unpacked penthouse uptown, and I wrote hundreds of pages. I was reading it, and this character popped up. There was one parenthesis—that’s what he pointed to. (I had a child psychologist from 10-12. We got pizza.) It was the first couple of years into my father’s secret diagnosis. It hadn’t landed yet; I didn’t remember any of this. I spent time sitting in that room, and I trusted that idea since you cannot really lie to death, no? Okay. “Just sit.” My mother’s pathology, which was a word in my vocabulary, wasn’t mine but there were so many lies that I had to learn to trust myself, I suppose. I told her about the “toilet flushes” with my memories that I was having sometimes. I picked up on it, but according to some psychologists I spoke with, that wasn’t surprising. I said “time bends,” and the hypnotherapist said, “oh, that was the Alzheimer’s.” I was a sensitive child, but all the same. I argued with my father. I tested his memory. Yet, “huh,” I’m having these weird occurrences. It made me feel better because the time-bending situation was anchored in other symptoms or experiences.
That’s a fiction, but it’s true. I don’t know what I did next, but I took twists and turns around the reality of his illness—the papers I stacked around my homework room…which I did because I didn’t want to forget my life…and my aunt even threw them all away after my senior graduation. I could anchor these pieces coming together in “she said that,” she did that. The papers are real; no one is going to call me a liar. And it was amazing in these moments; that character could direct my focus to support me in whatever order. “Why do have that tape recorder?” At nine. Was it strictly about that, maybe not, and I would have a freak out—he would say “don’t,” later. “Why did you become a recorder, then?” I suppose I reached for honesty. But there were moments when that character was faster than fast. Now I picture him on the black leather couch seated, settled. It was a strict focus through the chaos— a thread in moving me forward and making these connections. His illness was challenging, mind-bending. Nice New Jersey family over here. I wasn’t adopted, you understand, but I was taken in, and that mother, in particular, became more and more involved in me, so from my father’s perspective…there was that moment. He was sick, Maria. What was I supposed to do? I wouldn’t call our relationship pleasant. I performed a break state to end our physical confrontations which worked.
I don’t really remember how I talked about him in the past, but this Brazilian mother sided with him after deciding that he wasn’t a child molester, and I was the problem not the innocent person in this situation. He was the older, poor man who had been wronged by her, too, and that didn’t seem to click…he said he thought I hated him and he didn’t know why—”vicious lies,” but I guess he didn’t want to put that on her since my mother was insane. He didn’t want to be “the bad guy,” he said. I don’t know what to say about what happened, but just taking his behavior, something was already off. I suppose I could just say, again, “this happened, this happened, and then, she decided this,” but for myself what’s the journey here? Where do I end up? For the time being, Istanbul. I said some final goodbyes, in a sense, with a flock of seagulls soaring outside my window…
“Time flies…”
I don’t want to stay in Istanbul any longer. I can “go home” now even if I don’t really know where that is. “Remember me,” I heard it in my head at four and it was the key. I’ll get to an ending, though you can get through anything and I’ve reached a new beginning. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I feel freer of the last of the ties I had to that old story, which is to say that we all evolve. My hope is to be able to manifest this little dream of mine, so I can tell this story from a point in time that I envision. I ended up here one day and the oldest storyteller walked through my front door and I took a look around at a house I couldn’t even have imagined was mine. I tend to sink into a feeling rather than get too attached to an image. A house implies a lot. I could become more than a writer, even, and I’m opening up to what would really fulfill me or make the best use out of me, too. Shine.
I’ll probably head back to New York, first, because I don’t know why I’m in Istanbul, though it’s a remarkable city, but I wanted to be close to Naples. I’d prefer a city where I could possibly step into an acting class since I wanted to do that since I was a child, I just couldn’t do it, though I didn’t really let it go, either, and now that I’ve gotten all this out of the way, I’d like to see what it would be like now. That’s been turning me; I’ll keep writing, that’s not changing. Did I really want to do that? In some capacity? I’d like to find out.
I pictured my old acting class in Hollywood…coming in with scenes when I was eleven…here. “So you don’t know if he’s a child molester,” and “you don’t know that she said that you were but this woman has shut the door on your face for three years. (Christina Ferra’s large tea). Your child doesn’t live with you anymore. Now, her mother has bounced and left the kid on you. It’s big,” or has the potential to be, right? Who knows, maybe he called in reality, but bring the drama into the house.
Is she attached to me in some way…at the end? Well, in reality “no,” and ouch, you know? But “why haven’t you called me?” Well, didn’t think of it before, but “shit got crazy.” When it comes to keeping ties, I don’t know what to say there, but she remained a part of my life until we had a massive falling out in college and my father was sick. What am I supposed to say about this relationship? Now, I would have handled that differently, like if the doctor had informed me on any one of his phone calls…I wouldn’t have washed my hands of him since I got whiplash through ten years when the doctor told me. I couldn’t even call him back, and I didn’t even connect oh, freshman year, he kept saying “I’m going to another doctor” since neurologist after neurologist said “Alzheimer’s.” Three. I guess I didn’t have the capacity to register that. I didn’t know what it was and God knows with Gabriela, if I said something was wrong with him, but I probably tried, and I was the problem since I was four. Going through this, it was more like “what the hell am I doing?” Left and right. I had this family in New Jersey since it was the point of my life with feeling—lol, the oldest storyteller—when it didn’t have to be. I didn’t say anything to them. There was no connection being made at that time. Another “oohhh…”
Second family falls apart.
And then, there’s another mother, of course.
It’s not even that I don’t appreciate these people but it didn’t help me solve my fundamental problem, and in a drama at least, it gets resolved or it doesn’t or so, someone told me. That’s why I go back to Naples…ready to go through this adopted narrative one last time…do you call your mother on Christmas Eve. You don’t call your mother? And where was your father? Though I said the basics sort of confused. Now, I might not have the words exactly yet but something feels resolved in Istanbul. Do I need to tie every loose end, not necessarily, but I can turn a page—the last. I like that image. It’s in front of me as a separate entity. Going through my story opened up doors to others….I’m not attached. I just like the oldest storyteller as a psychological fiction through this. It’s a strong and original idea but I could reference The Giver, What Dreams May Come, but it also could be a real adventure action-packed feel even if there are spacious moments. “You can emerge,” just that line. Based on what happened, I can fictionalize it further and put “a special girl” in great danger in one way or another…Terminator—Death is coming back in time as he did to get Maria through it. That works. I can turn my friend’s “kill a politician plot” that wasn’t serious into another real problem in reality for her (even in advance). This “return of investment” email exchange that occurred the night before I got this stupid message on my website propelled me into these two terrible final months about my bank being shut down…it wasn’t so much anything that I was writing about that did it, though it seemed like it was rooted in my early childhood. In any case, I could bring that fiction up that it was sent by these people (and more), and they are all involved, whatever, to turn this story into a more action-packed adventure, if that would be more appealing…
Right now, it’s a story about healing, and the wisdom of Death, “neither above nor below,” but what that story could be….there are different ways I could see it going that could be super interesting, depending. “New ideas must be born, now,” lol. I’m just playing with ideas right now. Since Death—that kind of character is really compelling, I think. It was all about that character, for me, though my story showed me that it was a good idea. There was so much that came out of that year and the last couple that enabled me to conceive of what I could do. I appreciate that ability to expand and that doesn’t present a problem. A female Joker, sure. Gotham City rises, falls, triumphs or wins—sure. The Joker’s Daughter, sure. British doctors innovating medicine in Silicon Valley? I hope so.
I just started pitching articles and I’ve sent in shorts. I’m figuring out this world and finding a remote job. Am I in the right place? Even for my story ideas. I gotta get something to eat. I’m just figuring out my next steps. I gotta start selling, find a job, or take out some money out to get back to the states. I’m there. So, thanks for reading.