So look at “another morning” photo

So at work, quickly, a thought. I was thinking that perhaps this section of my blog is more interesting. I like the photo — I like “Psychic, Rising” a title like this. What IS a book? I like the investigation, for sure, but it might be more interesting to me to write a book along these lines instead. I’ll see how that thought goes. Just because I’m here now, namaste. The ghost of Barbara Harris a real question in all this. Maybe Goddess Rising.

Another morning

I’m sitting on a bench, softly crying, overlooking the Hudson. I woke up without any money, and I’m thinking about what a nice life my un-special friends have as I was “special” in the guru’s mind though I didn’t have a problem with that, HE was. Just the priority that became the priority, or feeling like I wasn’t thinking, quite simply, about my life as a real thing. I have a problem with a shaman, still, who still can be INSIDE my thought process with me. All of it gets better. I had a problem with how I was treated. The guru disrespected me from day one. My ex brought me into plant medicines incorrectly, he even admitted it. The guru felt he had a right to invade my privacy as a supreme being with superior psychic senses. That’s how he carried himself. A psychological thriller this one. But then, people aren’t always aware as to what is motivating their actions. It might appear one way, but beware of appearances. I wouldn’t make the same choices, again. So I made my choices, most definitely. Not the same girl. WHY — remembering these people — would I want to be?

I was not seen. I mean, I can see myself clearly now.

I’m weary and on guard if anybody comes into my orbit, it’s a real lesson, discernment; it truly is. What I came to learn is — I had to be real careful. But I’m not thirty anymore, a hot young thing? I feel like I look great, actually, but these men wouldn’t have gotten involved if I hadn’t been young, I don’t think. They would have kept their distance, I’m almost certain of it, besides, I wouldn’t have gotten mixed up - literally - with them if I were the person I am now. Even my cousins, now, that whole episode would never have happened. The second they said “that didn’t happen,” I would have been up and leaving. “Arriverderci.” We all know what that means, a firm and final goodbye. They would have changed everything because in fact, giving people room…isn’t always the wisest choice.

What about a house? This Hero’s Journey of the guru’s left me with nothing. I met false aide, not helpers, and be forewarned that YOU can only help yourself, so if you find yourself confused, “why is this happening?” That might be the cue to leave. “Why does this sort of always happen?” Leave. I hated that help shadow, hated all the esoteric psychic games with the Seth books thrown in I got wrapped up in. The one truth. It’s always the same. Just the utter inutility of me being on a Hero’s Journey because I was writing a book, psychic, Alexander the Great, according to the guru’s posture. Just looking at the Slytherin trying to help me, wishing I had gotten up that day, and said to myself, “I’m not sure if any of this is going to help me in life.” And I have to let that go, that I couldn’t recognize it.

I needed me. I know I’m not alone in feeling that way. It’s not the biggest deal — being a writer. I didn’t succeed. Nothing I did worked, not even France. That’s on me. In my heart of hearts, I never pursued what I actually wanted. I didn’t think I wanted it, actually, but on the other side, maybe I did. I would never suggest to someone to just move somewhere…I get angry I belittled myself, and I allowed myself to be belittled by others.

I have no money though and I had money actually but no one saw that I did, which I say, because some people seemed to assume because I knew where to buy clothes that I came from money. Which I didn’t. Or I was pretty. Another one of these points I don’t understand. Some people resented me because I inherited some money. Other people treated me like I was poor. But I was actually lucky, and the plant people didn’t see that I was bleeding myself dry. These people were not on my side, in fact. I look back and go, why am I doing this? It’s not just the plants as I didn’t do them that often, I think, but it was my whole life set up, and it appears so glaringly obvious to me now, and I’m younger than any of them. They were supposed to know better, theoretically. They were supposed to working WITH ME as I saw that they had clients? People they worked with? I think about my ex boyfriend, why did he bring me into this? The Slytherin wanted to do drugs, so whatever, and I don’t even care. I was not the person, Jesus Christ. Even thinking about these peoples beliefs about me. The psychic woman in this group never even told me that I was psychic. If I’m that psychic why are you, guru, speaking indirectly, giving me mixed signals, and why are you guys giving me drugs?

Imagine Jeffrey Allen reading this - my problem was that I was too psychic. I had trouble manifesting because I was too psychic. Someone hear me, please. I went through a shadow realm. And there is always shadow. Probably even the shaman would say, “yup, no one saw you, and I mean, nobody.” I wasn’t one to treat casually. The Chelsea was one of those shiny hooks to say — no. Just because this idea that I should use my money at all made no sense. No sense. “Get real.” Looking back, it’s easy to see a help shadow. It has nothingto do with ANYONE else.

I’ll keep figuring out ways to alchemize all of it. I believe in that, but I believe in sitting in it if that makes sense, to process it out not push myself to reframe since that will happen on its own. There is no rush. That, I think, takes care of itself.

I’ll develop a psychic character who uses walks through “life” on the phone with her clients. “Her methods are unorthodox but extremely effective.” Into a coffee shop, “you’re missing an important detail. You’re getting stuck in corners that are indulgent and unnecessary.” Ouch, the beans getting crushed, “you need silence.” The supermarket is my target.

So that’s one idea I have. “Hold on, my spirit guide Barbara Harris is interfering and needing to add a point as I also connect with the spirit realm to bolster my gifts. I want my clients to know that they are getting a whole experience.”.

“She’s a bit more direct than I am. He’s a loser. That’s what she thinks. I don’t know WHO he is, but that’s the message.”

Wow, they’d say, wow.

“I don’t want to talk about,” tapping my head. “What’s going in here.” Pausing, “I want to talk about what’s going on…” tapping my heart, “in here.” And drawing the lines of connection between us, “do you even know what that means?”

“We’ll take it slow.”

It’s true though, some people have never even felt their own heart. And why is that? This is part of why I want to turn this wretched period into something useful — why did I feel so invaded by the guru? Why did I feel so crazy in my heart? Is that because I opened up too much? I was manipulated, look, taking off my aviators, Angelica Leibowitz believed she was manipulating me for my own good as well, that she KNEW what the story was. She believed my father was a child molester because he started acting guilty. Okay? Nice detail that she conveniently erased when shit just got crazier - my mother’s breasts, etc., at her door.

As we say, “no worries.”

The joys of awakening.

Looking for a parent, just to have someone I could see eye to eye with — I was four. Not fourteen. I wasn’t even at that level of awareness and reasoning. Sure, I can speak as to what it was like to be four, which makes me laugh. I believed I knew what was going on, I believed I had a sense of what was happening, but that was disjointed.

What I do is give myself space to imagine what makes me happy, joke around, invent characters and maybe good ones, I can try out the fake psychic routine. I can imagine standing on the Oscar stage, making psychic predictions based on the shit I’ve heard about these people that’s just not true, not true at all. “And of course, the house I bought recently on Lake Como, I thank the Clooneys for reaching out to me personally to offer me first dibs on the, uh, house for sale.” Next, “there will be another sex scandal, most definitely.” I struggle with online public spaces because no one is actually there. It’s much easier standing on a stage and dealing with real people.

I was feeling so terrible this morning on a beautiful day, it’s quiet, leaves rustling, and I got nothing. I don’t feel like dealing with sunshine, if you would, or Instagram wisdom. So I’m going to be in my own corner, giving myself some space. There’s nothing wrong, thinking about my current mother, with feeling.

I’m ready to become an on-call psychic. Of course I am. A phone psychic…I’m at the hardware store as a Neapolitan psychic, you see. “Look, everything is so hard here, okay, the problem is so basic it’s stupid.” Staring at a pitcher to water plants, “hold..I do not attach to what I see, I allow the image to develop, these idiot amateurs attaching to what they see as if it’s that interesting.”

“I believe that your plants need watering simply.”

“No no no no, they need more water. Trust me.”

That makes me laugh. Or, was the government if you would unable to handle a joke?

The psychics are on my side, I believe. I’m getting a call, I knew it was coming, “this one.”

“Okay,” picking up, in the moment, “for life keeps going… regardless of what’s happening… sure, it’s a matter of urgency…”

“So you don’t know where you are…” looking around at some random stop in Queens. “I’m going to a party…”

“Good news.”

I never thought I would ever deal with hate, and I do now sometimes. I don’t know, I never wanted to feel this way. I never thought I would have to systemically get these plant facilitators OUT of my thought process. It helps to just say that. With the shaman, the main one, I’ve had to practically make peace with his presence in my thoughts. But I’m also conceiving of a psychic character that he might one day enjoy in the future, since the future writes the past, to the guru, and his mignon, that I should reach out to “future audiences.” I get it. A goddamn mess.

I don’t hate my parents actually, because they were ill, which, to me, sorry, was the basic point, not so much all the feelings that didn’t relate to me - meaning YOU, the other person got affected - they were ill. You know? WHAT was I supposed to do? Cry a river? Was it unfair? Look, taking off aviators, let’s take a trip to the courthouse. “This is not my story.” Maybe it could have been, I don’t know, but my parents were sick. And so, I seemed to have to come to terms with it, as awareness is the name of the game here, generally, and that’s it. It was simple.

If I went through an emotional experience after that. “Cool.” Obvious. Just go through it. Regardless of where one comes from, they have to be able to get through it. You know? Not treated like some special thing, like a divine being, even, as this guru called me divine, literally, and full of potential to become amazing vaguely. Or, because I came from a sex scandal. Unclear. Or I was full of talent in which direction? Hilarious to me. So, I would say, “you are amazing now, here,” if all that is necessary? You see what I mean? I didn’t get this guru’s approach. Was it necessary to conquer the world? In a sense? To become “the great man? The writer?” You know, looking at all this with OPEN eyes?

A real wiseman might say, “wow, I’m so taken by you. I respect you, so much, I can’t wait to see what you do…” and leave it at that. But he can’t SAY that, because it would require revealing himself. Which he cannot do. He can’t be honest about his feelings. “You’re special,” he said, over an I-TANYA DVD, “you cannot disappoint me.” Isn’t it a lost DVD? I look through time, of course I do, at instances where I tried to show up for someone, and this seemed to tell me — don’t do it. That relationship confused me so deeply. I felt like I had hard lessons to learn, and I’m the one who paid the price, if you would. I thought some of these relationships I got into the past decade felt unfair. Just, at the outset? Like you’re pointing at me across a room? Telling me what life is about? Or, you’re giving me drugs… when you know you’re doing something sort of risky? I’m fine, now. I realize I made decisions.

So that sucked. Is your boyfriend supposed to be your sort of therapist? No.

The psychic thing was SO unnecessary. Giant stop. No. I am the authority. Not you. Them. My ex. I asked him explicitly to stop with the psychic shit. “I disagree.”

I do hate the guru but more so I hate myself for getting involved with someone so crass, insensitive, and unsafe. I always find the other side. Always. It took an hour. I dislike being corrective, I dislike speaking like an instagram post. I really had to sort out my head, heart, my, uh. You know. That’s why called a specialist - that’s what my friends don’t understand. That was crazy. It was hell.

He wasn’t self aware at all. He wouldn’t have done what he did if he were. So I write often, it’s all I have, and all I want is money, I don’t even care about the book.But, you know. I thought I was smarter than that, so I guess I can be smart now. I’ll keep on establishing goals and keep working to meet them. A house, a man, I don’t know, vacations? I might not end up with a house on Lake Como, or something, but I don’t know, I don’t know what made me great, actually, why these people got involved, honestly. I have no clue. What made me so special? Gifted? Beyond the psychic stuff? No offense, at times, it felt a bit like, a way to keep me involved. If you think about it, during integration, how am I going to APPLY that to the outside world?

It felt belittling. At times, I might have put on a nice show. I don’t give a fuck.

Did that sex scandal make me special? Because that’s what it was. A little sex scandal. “You are divine,” literally the guru said, “because you were born to parents who weren’t really there.”

What kind of comment is that? He finally threw out book title number 6, and why was that necessary? It was Extraordinary Men, and I acted like a fool, a holy idiot, which was my proposed title, and what was wrong with it? “Not bad,” he said, “what about…” He sent me down a psychopath, for NO reason, I mean, I would NEVER do what he did on the other side of the line. Never. The red flags were waving if not slapping my face. Holy Idiot.

“I think I know what I want my life idea to be,” imagine? That’s what I said at that point when I was in so much pain in my hips I almost passed out.

“Extraordinary men.”

“Well first,” he said, what a disgusting man, “you have to become the extraordinary man.” Why was this NECESSARY???? Then, that fictional character somewhere in this mess, is a really good psychological device, and words aren’t my primary form of communication. That’s what this guru said. He felt I could rise to “greatness” in the way Trump uses that word, “make America great again.”

But now I guess I could, so time to whip out the phone and start posting to social media about it. Truly speaking, I would NEVER do what he did. What I did, that was an harrowing abyss. I was shocked at this man.

I feel like I’m in Babette’s Feast where the young soldier confronts that there are some things in life that are impossible because the preacher’s daughter - a cult leader - will never love him. Their relationship, impossible. So he decides to succeed in the world to understand in the end that it was all for vanity though he discovers that’s not exactly true. My favorite character. He’ll come to find that some things in life are possible, at the end of his life, or later on, a moving reversal of concept.

The guru makes me want to become a decorated man so I can incinerate him. All these characters I met, I’d like to embody, even, for the full range, too, since that’s what makes a good character study. The world is vast. I think, on this bench, for the moment, I’m going with, a relationship is not my sole responsibility. Isn’t that what couples do, share? Something. Call each other out on their shit? I like “reality happens between us,” that one for me — that makes sense.

“Look,” as the phone psychic, walking up the steps, “how many times do I have to tell people,” you know, “I can’t see the goddamn future because there are so many, and it might be like an uphill climb right now…you’re tired, you’re exhausted. You made stupid decisions. Be real. You need to begin at step one in order to move to the next step. Sure, tomorrow, Alan Jay Lerner’s helicopter might whisk you away to some goddamn yacht, but you gotta move forward. Continuity is bullshit. Sure. You still build over time. I hope for you, as the psychic talking to NO ONE in reality on the other end, I am only pretending, as you are me, and I am you, that something amazing will happen, like a shot of lightning, of course, will strike, like Babette, she wins the lottery, you get an opportunity, but I think most people listening to me would go, wow, that’s a lot. But there are many windows and many buildings and you could end up in any one of them.” Sure.

“Where you go from here, there’s a story for everyone,” it’s really true. “People have lost everything, made it back, um, I’m sorry, quite simply, that you had a rough time…” so I’ll just take a moment to take a breath. I’m supposed to look on the bright side, but that was never my problem.

I never expected to be this person because I thought everything was going to work out, that wasn’t a problem, and yet, nothing did. Luckily I have some savings, it’s just I don’t have much left, and I haven’t been able to even get lucky. Like the Korean revolutionary, he like invested in crypto and made 200k. I invested - with the same guy - and I lost all my money…when the wiseman would have said “don’t do this.”

You see, the guy who brought me into plant medicines — he was an ex, and Jesus Christ, did I look like I was ready for a relationship? But of course, the GUY I got involved with, everyone saw that. Not the time. But no one extended me the same courtesy or understanding actually. NOT the time. Forget that guy, I have NO idea why I even went there? Ridiculous.

I needed just ONE clean exchange. Just one. Not mixed up.

So I wish I never got involved, but it’s easy now, saying, look, I don’t know what happened back there anymore, if there was abuse there, and both my parents were mentally ill, ill, so I’m not sure if I should take medicines… isn’t that fair?

Couldn’t do that. “Tell you all about it when I have the tiiiiime,” Aladdin. My man. “Make way for Prince Ali,” Barbara Harris the genie, lol. “Make way for Prince Ali…” and of course, she’s playing all the characters and getting Academy Awards.

Wow, just wow, if I felt psychic, honestly, I might have had my moments, that might be different. If I ended up in a profession that was successful rather than hearing “you have a hard time manifesting because you’re psychic,” if I had cultivate a real relationship, you see, that would be different. But I didn’t. This way made me worse. Now, if that means that I was not AWARE — MAJORLY, of my past, well, I should receive nothing BUT understanding. But none that mattered to my so-called friend, ex, the fact that the psychic routine was harming me. If anything I did led me… to psychic balance, emotional balance, I wasn’t imbalanced previously. No, literally.

I’m wiser at 39 than any of these people, but I’m looking at myself, obviously. So I suppose I can try to imagine a story in which, Jesus Christ, I met all my demons, I lost everything, but I’m fine, sure, and I might have been cyber attacked, abused somewhere, and misjudged and misunderstood completely. But I turned that around. I’m better than ever, etc.

It was time to wake up. I came from where I did, again, it wasn’t the story to get panties in twists about. Go to foster care if you care about the “issues” so deeply. Invest some money and care there—that’s to the guru, there are plently of DIVINE beings there. Pointing at ME the first time we hung out like that was weird. Not appropriate. Didn’t have that awareness.

This other sort of male mentor I had in my 20s thought I was trying to relive my years abroad with my father. Exhausting. He had dementia the whole time, to begin, so these were unpleasant years, they were full of confusion and pain. But whatever this MALE- older MALE motif I had — needed to be eliminated. Mixed up. I can’t even go there conceptually because of how insensitive and even mean these men were. Our friend in common even said, “that was an unhealthy relationship,” so why would I go back? There was nothing healthy about it. He reached out to me recently - like kicking open my door after ten years, our relationship a tense strain most of the time. Throwing around “I love you” at me, didn’t even say, “how are you, you were in the hospital?” No gentleness at all. No love at all. I mean truly.

In general, there’s no real care if you go through anything mental health related, okay, trauma included. No one will see it. They will only see: MENTAL HEALTH as a phrase - some blockheaded phrase that they are experts over. In some cases, you know, the shaman did tell me this. “Forgiveness doesn’t necessarily mean you need to get back into a relationship with them.” I’ll take that. You see, on the most basic level, would I want to be in a relationship with my parents?

No.

Wouldn’t that question be understandable? What a mess.

Honestly, in looking around these buildings, as my focus changed, I’d like to experience how far I could go, experience buying a house, wishing I had followed Common on instagram sooner in all seriousness. Kept my cash. Said “you’re a weirdo” to the guru, gotta go, I wish I called Sam and said. “Listen to this shit.” And I wish I followed COMMON on instagram encouraging people to become homeowners. That’s what I’m talking about. I would have, with a shaman smile, taken some distance from my closest friend, because LOOKING CHIC is sort of bullshit, owning a home isn’t. Again, my choices. It’s not the amount of money I spent. It’s a direction thing. You’d be surprised. I was in fact lucky. I had some capital, you know what I mean? I didn’t LACK anything, for the love of God. BOO HOO, you see, that’s me the psychologist. “BOO HOO you. BOO HOO. Go around and say BOO HOO until you start laughing.” It’s amazing, because I wasn’t aware, I didn’t actually feel that way, but I got all wrapped up, and now that my boundaries are in check, NONE of that would have even happened. Would have been fine. BOO HOO — BOO HOO — too much specialness, coddling, and too much “she came from a story” that became “she’s psychic.” That’s exactly what it was.

But hopefully I will become a star, lol. Hopefully I will rise in the ranks - somehow - as the MOST TALENTED PERSON IN A HALLWAY. As the X-MEN, the real protegee of Professor X in a goddamn helmet that isn’t fastened. “Doo doo doo,” singing the ditty, on a skateboard and Birkenstocks. I’m fighting invisible enemies. “Doo doo,” singing the ditty dancing down steps. The shaman would laugh, I think. “Very good work,” he’d say. “Doo doo doooo do do…” in an apartment building. Checking in with Common’s Instagram, “Japan, nice.”

“Do do,” I’m still going, down a hall, punching down, singing the X-Men theme. Look, man, a clown’s work is a clown’s work, and my Russian mother would nod, nod regally, “this is true, very true.” She, too, is “a light being…” in her words.

Maybe there’s hope, afterall.

I might need to work on all these character sketches, especially the poor man’s X-Men, but it could work. That excites me. It was a bit too much…looking at Barbara Harris’ picture.

I made a choice to not want to succeed in the world, you see, and now, I’m like, “why????” I didn’t care, I really didn’t like all this stuff, and I walked right into it, the second I thought, okay, let me try writing, it’s so true, about myself. That story was tough to shake off. And look man, my father was a total wreck. Denied dementia AFTER the sex scandal??? Looking at ME disappointed because I don’t want to talk to Angelica? This is…the woman who brainwashed me. And then sprinkle in some other mothers unaware of all of it. Oof, that one was a tough one, because, in a sense, I had to assume the position of a parent, and sitting there in all these living rooms, “what exactly is going on?” Right? There are two feet, they are yours, and you gotta learn how to use them, regardless of where you come from. I wasn’t a toy, or an unreal person, I can’t help that I form attachments, that I am supple, that I am a person. So — think about that. Only because “help” is one of these extremely tricky ideas, like there are PAPERS written about it.

“Do do do do…” the X-Men. Walking down empty corridors in a cloak. “The Assassin’s Creed.” So I might have some fun. You shouldn’t take ideas like that too seriously, I think. My mother was a Joker, she really was, and I had to make peace with a real villain, was she always, was she in fact? I don’t know what to say… but I sort of had to embrace that, and think, oh, maybe I could play a villain, and that would be even healing. So that’s what I did when I was on the floor of a goddamn hospital with so MUCH going on in that area of my body, that I was like, wtf is this? I felt like I was going to give up. But then, I saw the Joker, and I thought, oh, oh wow, she was such a Joker, and I could maybe work on that one: a Joker. Me. Hilarious. So I got up, and I got through that night. I don’t know what that means, you see, and no, I didn’t need friends who confused me further.

I wrestled with that lie so terribly. And all I needed, really, was someone to say, “are you feeling stuff down there,” and I would have taken it from there. And of course, that would have changed EVERYONE’S REACTION — we just thought you…just went through a mental health event, and I still would have stopped being friends with all of you. That’s basically it. Too many lessons. So again, I don’t know what the body of this is, so I’ll figure that out. There’s probably a support group, something.

Today, I could have walked into my first DIOR store, you see, and went “okay, uh I’ll get a fucking bag.” I made it. Now, I can’t even barely afford rent. It’s fine, you know? When you feel a bit too short-sighted? Because I’m only 39. I’m laughing. I’ll be fine, but I made my choices and I met enablers - for sure. I canned all the clothes, DISPOSED, shivering away from my mother, because clothes became my thing, which is fine, but they ended up being kinda all I had, in terms of possessions, you know what I mean? Like I was lugging this closet around. I didn’t find it charming, cute, or magical. I was watching myself… what is this? Who are you doing this for? You know? Sure sure, let your professor call your mother a fucking sargeant. Give me his number. I am the Head of the goddamn PTA.

So many ideas, rich rich character ideas. A military man is behind me, by default, very tall. “People…”

So a parent might be able to relate to me right now that I had a fucking headtrip. You know what I mean? Some girl - me - who was acting all over the place. Ever have one of these convos with your kids???? Like, what are you doing? I raised you better than this, didn’t I? Well in my case, no, so. “I wanted to go to weddings child, make alliances. I wanted fortunes to grow not diminish. I wanted to see you get awards. Not uh gurus.” Leaving church, with a husband, “sure sure the possibilities of it all.”

I have to laugh.

Sometimes I get so terrified about where I am. And that shaman— so he still can be so “sticky,” according to the Korean revolutionary which is, like, this was much more than I needed, so I have to use it since he comes to the forefront of my consciousness when I process all this, sometimes. I have to use it, I have to make a character to just get this guy out of my system. I have problems when I think, sometimes. It gets better, um, but it’s really really annoying. The guru — these people, it sort of felt like they took over, type deal. So I had to work them out. For the most part I have, I just did, by mocking, using, doing something with it.

If it turns out, which I don’t know what to say, that these couple of people I wanted to get my money back from did actually send me that message at 5 AM, AFTER I asked for my money back, and the guy farted on the phone at me after I got out of the hospital, our friend in common even confirmed he could treat people in unspeakable ways, um, he couldn’t have picked a better time to do it as I was processing all this. With the GURU saying I called it in from the ETHER to deliver “the final blow,” imagine? WHY? The FINAL BLOW? When this guy had no awareness of himself. The thing is, with these money men, why was it necessary to have someone facilitate the exchange of money? And I mean, if it were me, I would ask, “I do not understand why you’re scared, I don’t understand why you’re acting like this. WHY am I necessary? Why do I need to accept the money for you when I have Breaking Bad reruns to watch?” Why was this necessary…if it wasn’t true? Why was a middle man called in? “Why are you freaked out?” Why wasn’t this asked? Instead, all good, normal, didn’t want anything to get…out of hand…

“Uhhhhhhhhhh me too.”

Sounds a little guilty.

All I did was write an apology email. Odd. Sure. But weren’t we friends? They never responded to the apology email. They called at noon. And I said, call you back, and I didn’t. And all they had to do was say, “cool, hope everything is alright, you sent a weird message, as if something happened, and we’re confused, but just let me know where to send the money…” but instead, HE called, a middle man, acting as if there was nothing strange about being freaked out. “What is going on, actually?” He didn’t ask that. “Why am I on this fucking phone call? I have better things to do. Why are you freaking the fuck out? I’m confused.” But all I did was write an apology email. That’s it.

Again, I’m not the same person, I wouldn’t have been here from STEP ONE. Everybody’s got good intentions, really. I’m just saying that based on how they reacted, I don’t know if they sent that message or not. And then, that long and hard fart after I got out of a hospital. Unreal. And the thing is, I can just reverse it. Whatever hatred that is. Which wasn’t deserved. I came from a background, and that guy should be ashamed of himself, he can deal with it on his own. The Slytherin. That was a weird phone call. Again, I think, what I don’t get, if it’s true, why do it if you don’t want the person to know? Because…? And again, I don’t know if that relates to anything, but I did receive that message physically in my stomach. That took years. I still have stomach stuff, though it’s light. And is there plants mixed up, I don’t know. I went through a specific bodily event.

So that was a doozy. Was I abused somewhere in there? The specialist and I will… unpack all this. What a nightmare.

Anyway, water under the bridge, could have died, in some capacity. But who cares, right? Life and death, no worries, the line is arbitrary, the guru said, which is… not true. Death is very real. The military is behind me on that one.

Another day, another way. I’ll be fine. I keep sorting my head, stomach, heart, and sort of thinking that I might “just make it after all…” with my X-Men persona. Soemtimes I wonder if they did it, because of how weird our friend in common acted afterwards. I don’t know. But the specialist thinks that they did it, basically. So, I don’t know what to say, but regardless, that didn’t go well at all. I deserve that. I deserve to be happy, succeed, and a life with real love in it. To sort out that tension in my stomach.

Morning after thoughts

Yesterday, what I thought, actually, was beginning the fairytale, or her diffusing the lambada to me, at a point later on in the story, when I reopen it, or when I start to question everything. I still don’t know how I want to structure this book. I have to keep reading. Because, was it true about my father?

I like the sports and the investigation at the BH tennis club, so I’ll keep going with what I have for the moment, rather than starting over, because I just don’t know enough yet. I had a thought yesterday, about what I last published on my Sensitive Content Warning blog. Just that it might come later on?

I might want to start with the lambad and have the love songs as a thought throughout, and arrange the sports around the songs and dancing from the beginning.

I just took that scene of her driving me over to her house and reconsidered it. It’s almost as if, I can’t explain it, but even my mother’s mirrors, as that’s what drove my undercover investigation, I was thinking whether or not that would be more effective later on once you’re in the story…

So I woke up today, frustrated with myself, because I don’t have to make any decisions too quickly, so I’m thinking order, so it tells a better story, but it’s not clear yet, what it is.

I have this doc where I just took the last thing I published and just expanded it, and so now I’m going to keep going with what I have. The interaction beween the love songs and tennis is strong, as well as the bodies moving in space.

It’s like, I am a woman in love, would that be more impactful as a song that’s driving Nicole and I as we put on these outrageous spectacles for my father, sentenced to stand at the door? Acting guilty, yeah. Shocking. Throwing our fists, “you know I know how you FEEL…” evidently, I think, the laughter through her wailing, the forced laughter, “over and over again!!!” Might as well start breakdancing, me, so skilled, somehow, at five.

It’s hard not to make an association between her ectacsy in teaching the songs, the spectacle we put on for him, with sex. Crazy, it was crazy to me… “over and over again,” thinking about the lyrics, as I think ideally I would use them. “Another night, another show…”

I keep wanting some big breakthrough to land, which makes everything clear to me, but I have to give it more space, I think, because I could make all these elements work together a little more in the prose. So I have to hold off a second and keep digesting this content, what do I want to do with it?

That’s my morning address.

I don’t get the sense that anyone reading this is going to assume that my father wasn’t guilty, in fact, or that… it wasn’t a question. I don’t get that sense. So that’s strange, but the investigation was launched when I thought it was a lie, and I might pray every day that it’s a lie, that I might have been taken advantage of elsewhere, it’s just… that story is crazy, my parents acted totally nuts. And should I expand into the fairytale of it — “you create your own reality” the Twilight Zone I ended up in? “You’re psychic…” OVER AND OVER AGGGGAAAAIN. Picturing me skillfully dancing, with rhythm, taking a step at four, “seriously, you’re psychic.” It’s a riiiiiiight I defend. I had to joke, I had to crack jokes, put all these images together because it was just ridiculous. There’s something to say about a track coming on because they’re iconic songs, and the game, or the players, movement being in sync to it, that I like. And the investigation… unfolding with all that already at play.

I’m trying to break out of the literal… like, she’s driving over to my house to Barbara Streisand, to that opener, rather than hang onto Julio Iglesias, though it’s funny, unless, I find a way to transition from her bedroom to her car… driving over… because I’m not sure if the conversational format is the best choice if I want to showcase prose, writing, and I think I’m good at it, actually, when I let myself go — and let the different elements marinate in the writing…

Anyway, learning how to take a thought, I had one, but I don’t know what that means yet, so I’m not going to start over, I’m going to keep on going, so I can keep taking in the whole story, with the public in mind…just because I had no idea how to take any of it, how it read, I mean, just the story itself and what happened? And I’m more so telling the from this perspective that I have now. So just putting it up on a blog has helped me to crack through the fairytale I went through to get here with psychics, gurus, and geniuses mixed in, and friends — ignoring me, shutting me down. You know I know how you FEEL! Around that topic, specifically, and I’ve had a hard time personally, because I would not emulate any of these people’s behavior.

So I’ve accepted that, I have some friends I can talk to if I want to, but I’ve sort of let it go because I don’t really need to, there was just so little care or even follow-through, that I just thought, okay. I don’t even know what to say about my friend, like I basically had to tell her that I need someone to keep up with me right now, but she totally ignored what I said about not knowing whether it was true. I just lacked a caring friend, actually, though I spoke to one, which was fine, I don’t know if I need people calling me all the time, or something. I was just reading The Tell, and her friends, a couple, were really there for her. I keep moving on from that. I’ll keep going and getting myself set-up so I can keep working out what I need to, working on what I need to.

I felt like I stagnated a little, hard to explain, I tried to listen to myself and take some space, actually, to settle, as it sucks, it does, I do not want to be at this point because it wasn’t necessary, and the advice I got from arrogant men, particularly, didn’t assist me an inch. That’s fine. I didn’t want their assistance to begin with. One of these help shadows I hated, truly. So anyway, I gotta refocus and get back in the active position of pursuit, but the job question, the lack of funds I have, that’s really weighing on me. That’s basically it, all else is fine, I just have to keep on motivating myself to keep going even if I feel uncertain.

So today, I have to read my book as I’m still reading for my book proposal.

I want to go to a few open mics. Check.

I need to set up some more dates with musicians, and specifically, with the one where it’s already good, so I need to text him.

I keep trying to think of where I could go as a writer that would be fulfilling as well as a good opportunity.

I’m getting headshots taken tomorrow. That too. I have a make up appointment before I go. It’s just a one look headshot that came with this class I’m taking that’s about learning a method for contacting agents, so I’m throwing myself head first. My roommate just handed me a coffee without me needing to ask… him… or go somewhere for it. How sweet is that? I kicked myself off the — uhhh — what do I do from here? My work stuff is so up in the air, but I suppose we all have moments when we need to take a step back, so I did that and I’m feeling energized again about — really grabbing this moment by the horns, there’s nothing I can do, the book is taking its time.

I’m in a better headspace as to how to tackle it conceptually, so I’m just reading, that’s it, learning how to slow down. Ideas pop up. They do. I’m learning to sit back and go, “okay,” let’s not turn the wheel and plunge into another direction. For my headshot, I have one free look, and I had no clue what to do, because cinematic headshot is the way to go? I thought fresh face, even if I’m older, as I think I have one, a fresh face. That’s what I’m going to be with, I’ll show a little skin, actually, instead of a t-shirt or a tank, I have a dress that might look like, blue color, looks good on my skin. So I’m almost there. I’m getting there. I need to probably take out money, so I might just take out a bit so I can get into an acting class.

I had a thought yesterday, sort of thinking about the great actresses of today, that, I might feel an affiliation with a couple, why, I don’t know, but I get MY LOOK might not relate to them at all. And I thought, maybe that’s a good thing. Meaning, I have been thinking so deeply about point of view, as if that’s really what it’s all about, having one. And so if I think about the actresses I really like, and watch my “cast ability” maybe there will be a good meeting. “Huh, interesting choice,” for that person. Jim Carrey is one of them, as I’m trying to capitalize on my face, as I have strong features, and I like his perspective on mask. But I also like Harris, Barbara Harris, though I don’t know her process, of allowing a character to emerge… something mysterious and natural… sensual.

So I’m so happy I could cry, though I am sometimes, in the moment, so unsettled and unclear, but I found a good apartment, obviously, good vibes, and I will be comfortable here, though I have to keep in mind I can be a little too comfortable no matter where I am, type deal. Bigger dreams. Bigger reaches to make. I gotta keep that fire going, I gotta keep a focus, drive, intention, like all that.

Again, you know what I’m going to say, the psychic crap was really really challenging, mentally. The making pictures in my head. I don’t know what to say about visualization. I’ll get back to you once something happens that allows me to say… that it works. I had a vision for myself, though, I’m trying to continue using that sense: picturing it, picturing me moving into a house, it’s not an inconsequential goal. I’m picturing myself at auditions, I’m picturing myself getting better as a writer and finding my way through that because I chose it, regardless, and it’s a skill I have now.

But I can’t quite find the right job yet. I gotta go figure that out. I have a couple little jobs, at least, I had to let this other one go, I don’t know what to say, but it was messing with my head, and I don’t know why. I feel a lot better that I’ve let that go, and I need to keep figuring it out. The Barbara Harris book project is so touching, moving, and refreshing for its thoughtprovoking theme, of what it means to take care of someone, I mean, even with a mental illness, yes. I’m proud of that one, even if I am not done with it, yet, but all I’m going to do now is: read books, you know? Try and complete these proposals, because I should be able to move a little more quickly now that I understand the basic way to go about doing this — yikes, I’m a little embarassed, perplexed, luckily I have Dave Chappelle in my head to make me laugh with the facial expressions I attempt to achieve, but I am the… random girl who happened to have the most bizarre scandal or something, weird exchange with a Hollywood type… where I don’t know, even today, in looking at Instagram, what people believe to be true, but some guy playing guru or psychologist with me is so exceedingly strange. Not sexual at all. At least as far as I know.

“The theme here is nourishment,” he said. And there you go, maybe I wasn’t fed, according to his psychics senses, when I was a baby, with no tenderness at all from him, like a statement like that is normal, to de delivered in guru phrases, I mean, truly. Anyway, I have open mics to attend, getting back in, I have to go out there and get a job, and I’m bringing my computer along, and I’ll work between, I’ll get back — but I’m proud to be hitting that note: tenderness, it’s true, it’s needed, and if I didn’t go through this crazy ass story, I’m telling you, I would not be that person who went to meet Barbara Harris. I know it’s a script, that I know, even if I do mixed media for the purposes of a book, but it’s a script, that’s what it is, movie. Specific. And how funny would it be, I really hope it can go as well as I feel it can, but I would absolutely love to see her be acknowledged and remembered — she is, but it would be so wonderful to see her presence, lol, “playing the CLOWN,” the way she says it, “trying to DROWN.”

I thought about doing that monologue for this NYU grad audition, for filmmakers, only because vulnerability, that’s a gift I have, but maybe I should do something with rage, something with real emotion behind it, where I can show that in flashes, so maybe I’ll look up Meryl Streep, and see if she’s got one of these— that can really show what I can do, on the brink of tears, something, so I’ll be looking around… I can’t even tell you, the joy I feel, the sheer curiousity I feel to be… looking at this profession of acting with… um, nothing but a clear road… I mean, no blocks, no nothing, so I’m giving myself a shot, I don’t give a shit. And I’m going to give what I felt, inside, I had to give. I can get there, and that’s thriling to me.

So thanks for reading, time to embrace the day.

A note about Sensitive Content Warning—I'm starting from the top

In my Sensitive Content Warning blog, hilarious, I was in a sex scandal, you see, sure, rated “PG,” please, just hold off, don’t judge me yet. What I’m saying simply is that my mother wrapped me up in a sex scandal when I was four. I had problems.

I’ve been learning how to give myself more space, more time, as a book happens over time. I wish I considered that earlier. I would not have treated it as my sole profession, not until —or if — it became that, only because in my case, that was unnecessary. Space actually works in your favor.

I left it. I took a long walk out there in the world, engaging with it, when I got hit by a stroke of lightning — a clear thought. Giving myself more space is allowing me to just take my time with it, and think about how I want to construct it. I’m beginning to understand that approaching it that way might just bridge the gap of time… so I’m getting into a better relationship with it, which I’ve needed to do, as I had mysterious events where my experience of time changed. I was nine, ten, consequently, the year that my father was diagnosed with his secret dementia, as in, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s and did not tell me, anyone, no one, literally, I was ten…just coming out of these years on Miracle Mile. I found out about that diagnosis when he took a dive ten years after that, when it was unavoidable. I already found a new family by then, and it was “Alzheimer’s?” His doctor echoed back to me on the phone, “they said Alzheimer’s…” he got angry, “Parkinson’s! I told him ten years ago! That he had onset Parkinson’s!” In the back of a UHAUL, I never recovered from the shock of that statement. “What?” It was my junior year of college. I couldn’t even, wait, my head spinning, I was right? I was RIGHT? Something was WRONG! All along? He denied his illness to an unbelievable pitch, he told me to change, when I was in a sex scandal, asshole, when I was four, and the rock hard of sentiment I had to break through, to arrive at that statement. Yeah, asshole. Do not be ridiculous, that was unacceptable, not sappy, unfortunate— ridiculous. I could not believe that statement, wait what? His secret illness, a goddamn joke. I would have appreciated being informed. I got out of a sex scandal, and then, he got diagnosed with dementia, some form of dementia, and he didn’t say anything, completely insane, sick, whatever, I couldn’t tell the difference. Reflections, sharp angles, Angelica Leibowtiz fell for another sob story now from my father. Why would I like him, listen to him? Think about it. This was a mad king. I came from madness, wake up. She treated it as if it were normal, his pity parties, and all things considered, she wasn’t sure, that realization, sure if it was a lie about him, in fact, as she had decided that it was, because this situation got too crazy. You see, the question: when did it become a lie? That changed my life.

That realization, as sitting down to write a book about these years woke me up to them which irrevocably changed my life, was, like, getting a column blown off, like, there’s a column? You mean, you weren’t sure, which brought her entire response to this debacle to a nightmarish pitch. What once held up my world, not the only column, but a fundamental one was knocked out. The sharp awakening, of hearing the exchanges between this woman and I, and going, “I’m sorry?” I was eight, nine at the time. “You weren’t sure? You weren’t sure if my father wasn’t a child molester?” Grasping onto this story, not understanding why it was looking as though, wait, no, it could not be, could this true? On that road to get here — I got knocked down, knocked down by people who acted as if they didn’t know they were trying to take me out with bowling balls, nicely, even, erase me, even, but if you’d let me tell me the full story, it’s going to make sense. But no one asks a question anymore. People tried to deny me out of existence, and it was so easy, and they didn’t care if they killed me. If I died… I learned that. I went down a strange road, but I got to the other side, cypress trees, mountains, I find myself in the mountains on a pleasant overcast days, where the greens are richer, the bark is wet, and there’s an other side, of a journey, indeed.

I’m having a fun time now finding my voice, I just felt like I was running up against roadblocks, only roadblocks, so I’ve wanted to change my relationship to writing, something, so I could feel better about it.

So now, I spent some time — as that’s the gift, not the thing that’s running out — with what I’ve published thus far. I decided to, oh what a crazy idea, to take two days off, a week, even, because the journey to get here was exhausting, I’ve been trying to find more spaciousness. I ended up feeling like something clicked, came together, and I’m rethinking Miracle Mile. So I’m starting it elsewhere, actually.

I’m going to go with the fairytale, as a book is a formal exercise, too, and I’ve defintiely struggled with it. So I’m now taking the time to refine my idea and reorganize what I’ve done thus far. I’ve just been learning how to slow down, so I’m spending time with what I’m published on my blog thus far, and that’s given me the space to conceive… so I’ll start over…I’ll start with the lambada, because she translated it to me as if recounting a fairytale. I’ll begin in her bedroom, formal, this is about sex, I mean, I was in a sex scandal. Rated PG, of course, no worries. This was definitely a story suitable for children.

That’s what I’m going to work on for Monday as I publish a section on Mondays on my blog. So now I hope I had a breakthrough, having thought this through, and I can move forward, having had the simpliest thought, actually, somewhere around 14th and 8th, like, it’s writing, not snapshots of what you see in my head? Tough nut to crack, writing. It’s writing. I just took a brief moment to reflect on that basic idea, forget images, scenes, think language. I felt like I wasn’t approaching it correctly… I thought about Napolitanos advice, about not writing what you know but what you like to read.

It gets easier if you actually give yourself the space to figure out how you want to do. I’ve found a blog useful, because in fact you’re never really ready, if you catch my drift, so I just put it out there, even if no one is reading. There’s something about putting it out there in publict, as it is, and thinking about it being received by a public that’s helped me think about it, as I want someone else to read it.

So now, I have a formal idea, it’s about something, I thought about that. This story, whatever it is, is about something. So I’m starting with the lambada in her bedroom, this fertility sex goddess from Brazil, even hilariously, the woman who took me home for four years to get cash thrown in her face as well as talk of child rapists… a nightmare, just a true nightmare. Imagine, as a parent? You have kids already, and you take a four-year-old home one day to play with one of your kids, and you soon get cash thrown in your face and talk of child rapists. “Protect my child, please…here’s thousands of dollars…” you let crazy into your home…and you have a very small child… in your home… and your wife…is Brazilian? Your husband is Jewish?

It has amazing ingredients, just thinking about these living room dance parties, and what the tone is. It’s not so much the literal song playing, as this song from Barbara Streisand is it. It was the lambada regardless of the song, and it became about so much than sex, it was life, the force, it brought all these people into the world, so it was the closest thing you could do to sex with your clothes on, so dangerously edgy in thinking about why I was there, and yet, though this story sliced me to pieces, there was so much wisdom in it, there really was, and I reached for a future, I’ll be honest, I did. Public, the public eye in my case… was a light at the end of a long private tunnel, because I knew that this story would be received differently in the public eye than it was in the private world, only samurais, wanting to take me down, not wanting it to be real, but I didn’t know it was, either, you see, though I did, I just went through such a revelatory experience that it changed me.

So I have to tell the story emotionally, with the love songs, the short snippets of conversations from those who heard this story along the way, as I got hit every step of the way by people’s questions anytime I opened my mouth. So now, formally it makes more sense, and I’ll let it be what it is. Once Upon a Time on Miracle Mile. A love song.

“Everybody needs a little time away, I here to say, from each other,” the piano keys, “even lovers need a holiday…far away from each other…holdddddding on, it’s hard of me to say I’m sorry…” Chicago. Picturing this sports family — taking off across the lawn,six kids, and they now have a seventh to deal with that came from Crazytown…child molesters? Cash thrown in their face. The drama, the absurdity of the story. The woman can’t call child services, because foster care is a crapshoot, a mythic place where the fate is uncertain, even sexually for a child, as they are at a higher likehood of being abused, somehow, and my story was so impossible to people, when that’s just status quo. Apparently. And I thought I just saw a reflection of it so sharp, so dangerously close, that wasn’t true, but now I don’t know that, that’s the journey… in a sense, but I’m speaking from a new place.

But already, the premise is strong, this is about a sex scandal I was in and how I woke up to it, and in opening up the book, I have the opportunity to make a strong choice that isn’t so on the nose, even, as I was trying to start with the central drama, at the BH tennis club, where Angelica tells me what my mother told her, but I think opening with her singing me the lambada and beginning in her bedroom — with the dance — might be a solid place to start, so I think about this ride, or story, as emotionally gripping as it was. I thought that the last scene I posted, that might be better towards the end, or something, as I’m still figuring out how I want to do it.

I feel better about it now. That wasn’t that hard, but that took time to get to, I got wrapped up in psychic shit for sure, when all I needed to do was — take some time, read some books, and just think about it, post on my blog, figure out what my process is, make it work, find what works. I need this to work, I need it to work better, I need to find more enjoyment and money, too, but figure out what works, what I’m good at, basic basic. I didn’t need to become an X-Men, which is what I became. Someone actually told me that I was a portal, channel, and antenna traveling on multiple planes of existence, but my psychicness handicapped me, also, I needed a helmet, type deal, which was retarded. No offense. Not me — you. How the hell did I get sent down this road? Insane. Into the netherregions because of this story, on top of it? I was vulnerable in a way that shocked me. Standing on a public stage, the comedy stage, that clarified wonders, it did, as to what is ethical and correct, like I heard some crazy shit back there that these people wouldn’t ever admit they believed publically, even standing on a public stage and saying, I was in a sex scandal, that changed my life, so the public stage ran so true and clear even in expressing my utter surprise in how my circle responded to me… seriously not knowing if that was true about my father, which was heartbreaking, terrifying, and revelatory.

So that’s it for the evening. I’m a bit tense, as I can’t quite find a job, but for the most part, I don’t feel worried. I think things are going to go well for me, but I have basic kinks to iron out. I’m trying to open my mind to ways of making money that might fulfill me, I wanted to open up to my gifts, and figure out my income, so that might mean something else besides writing, I do not need to do this all day, not at all. Anyway, I’ll start over Miracle Mile on Monday with the new debut, the lambada, and think of it as a fairytale of sorts. I think the Beverly Hills Tennis Club is definitely in it, but maybe not the first scene or the governing structure—it’s about the dance, her bedroom, a stronger image related to the theme. Once Upon a Time on Miracle Mile. I think I feels right to me.

Thanks for reading.

A brief interruption from Barbara Harris

Barbara Harris is back. I went down a tangent last night picturing Robert Altman jumping over people across this parking lot to capture this hilarious interview between us because it’s so real, really. She didn’t know, I didn’t know. But she knew some things, I knew other things. In the end, we weren’t really sure, though.

I happened to end up on her page on my website yesterday, and I just spent some time on Day II, which expanded, but it’s fun, I don’t know what that is yet, and I’m working on something for a magazine, so read it. Barbara Harris just might be what the world needs right now, people in Turkey confused, “who?”

The world might need to hear “reality happens between us” more so than “you create it your own…” I made an unusual choice, inspired by her, to be vulnerable, to reveal myself first, even, as I understood how this exchange could be strange. I tried to be thoughtful to her mysterious mental illness or sci-fi conundrum that made for a real genius. She was the woman with many people forget personalities inside of her. So as an interview with one of the greatest actresses of all time, as she was introduced to me, it’s memorable and touching, I hope. She was.

It’s an interesting portrait of a person who could not be public about whatever the heck mental problems she had among clever phrases on towels about how fucked up you can get on alcohol — who’s crazy?

My family story ends up mirroring her story to open up new perspectives on her, I could relate to her, strangely, angles.

I’ll keep updating her page, because I still don’t know what I’m doing with this exactly, but the inclusion of the landscape, the theme being connection, really works. It’s insightful about mental health and what the problem is. Reality is connection, the connection between us, we cannot forget that. Picturing Cher tossing the bouquet…

I look forward to fully being able to work on this book because it’s so unusual, from the perspective of the interviewer, as I call this the “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” of film, of scripts, hilariously, as I was dealing with an unusual subject, and the way I played it was thoughtful, came from real experience, in what it means to engage ethically with someone — famous, mentally ill, genius, pick the word. They will all come into play.

I mean, I hope I’m right that I have a good feeling about it, and I’ll say that the “star energy” could sometimes confuse me. I want to respect her…as a sci-fi conundrum, supernatural performer, and yet I don’t… always understand it.

I, too, became supernatural, in my real life, for mysterious reasons, because of my background. It’s interesting to note what we pick up on, most certainly, but I had to recover from the “psychic period” as I got involved with people who believed that I was psychic, even to my demise and detriment. So Hannah Arendt was instrumental in understanding this strange problem I got into as well as Harris’ case. She was a psychological case, meaning, she had a remarkable psychological profile, I mean, people spoke about her as if she could contribute to that field. Or was all that talk somewhat unreal? Apparently not. Apparently, her ability to change personhood appeared like a magic trick, and she was quick, she changed states, she could.

But the idea I’m contending with is vulnerability. She was vulnerable. I was vulnerable, first, as an approach. I thought about it. When I plugged my ears, so I wouldn’t hear her personal details, yes, she was vulnerable, which could make people I knew even cry, but how that affected her in real life could be overlooked and forgotten, but I also don’t know enough about her inner circle. It’s less what they told me, it’s more that I didn’t observe them relating to her. It’s not to say they aren’t telling me the truth, I just don’t know enough. Relationships can be tricky. I experienced it myself. She might not totally know what she’s doing, all the time, I don’t know. But this exchange with the public, and that’s what the press is, which is funny in my case, as I was not the press, was not easy for her due to her too visible to not mention mental health struggles that were too easily forgotten as having played a real role in her ability to deal with her success.

I’m sitting at AJs, eternally, with a stuffed baby elephant. It was a meeting between the stage and real life, and at times, it was rather brilliant, an intuitive design, though I don’t know if that’s totally true, but it did appear that there was truth in it.

I’m just trying to make a big break, no? Find that, I keep telling myself that I’ll figure out the way, it’s just, my mind sometimes returns to old passageways, because the guru harped so much on ME MAKING IT, IT BEING POSSIBLE, JUST MEDITATE ON IT, all that, so I find myself in these loops that feel manic, when I didn’t have a problem with it…and also that relationship made me forget life, so, sure, maybe I’ll include some of my experiences with “stardom” that wasn’t real at all. I even, listen to this, just please. A screenwriter, a friend, that’s it, he said, sure I’ll read your pages, and my closest friend went off the rails… he was talking about my character behind my back, claiming it, “I thought I would play him,” and “a woman can’t play him?” And then, he said he wanted to kill a politician, and then, he’s calling himself my manager. I did not DO anything that required a manager, so with talk of wanting to kill someone, I got freaked out, but if I do decide to get back into acting, and it goes well, I ain’t calling him. You see? It was Altman. A fame shadow. I got out of the hospital, and he said, after the movers were magically not coming after a pretty bad phone call faking it with this moving company, another point I didn’t understand, that I should write the movie — in a tone — about what happened. Is it? Is the highest compliment? Is it the best thing that could happen, considering, and here’s when the difference between “just mental health emergencies” and “trauma related emergencies” really really piss me off, that I was struggled with abuse? Write the movie about what happened. Imagine? Sure, I thought, I could probably write a good movie about that, if I ever get there? I liked that idea, of going into that arena, but I found all that starry heightened energy to be a bit maddening where my closest friend didn’t see me as real. And listen to Adrien Brody, he’d be the first to ask himself, “but you’re not even famous…” truly! And I saw the dark side of fame and the ghost of Barbara somehow, even as a really good joke, helped me through this. But whatever, that was then, and this was now, but I did engage with a fame shadow. So, unreally, truly, I became psychic, also, on the brink of acting superstardom with movies spontaneously being made within minutes, not years, Tom Cruise getting rejected because my friend did a better job at that audition, even, “no worries,” my story is being shot to the forefront of everyone’s to-do list. What a crazy moment I had.

Meanwhile, my eyes shifting, Barbara Harris… didn’t want to be famous. “Uh oh,” picture her ghost, in the fiction, where she’s like, “what are you doing with that?” And then, “uh oh.”

“Now who’s this?”

This girl is in trouble.

I got the impression that some people believed I was a movie star, or a star, but why, I didn’t know, I was vaguely gifted, psychic, and everyone is one, so no one is really special, but I was special, I was specialized, for sure. You can keep it. Interesting were Harris and I met, and respectfully, where we truly differed. I’m not getting onstage and changing worlds basically. Maybe I could, I don’t know, but Harris was… the real deal.

I’m excited now, as I’m going to get back into it, I’m going to try and just see what happens. I have an audition next month, hey, for NYU grad, so I thought that was a good move to audition for the next generation. I think more so than anything else, I don’t have any of these blocks anymore, so I just wanted to see what it would be like, and I’m a smart person, I can make choices, and think about what I’d like to play, could play. I’m excited about it because she helped me gain that confidence. I might not feel like I’m where I belong, but that feeling is more available, and I’m trying to go in that direction.

Even that CD cover, right? Just picture Harris and I… and Arendt looking down on us, lol, somehow.

Isn’t she perfect though? She’s a difficult woman, she’s rebellious, she’s the cutest, she’s mentally ill, she’s a genius, she’s a comedy legend, she’s groundbreaking even today. I just thought, her whole, I’m wearing FRUMPY sweater for YOU “press agent” coming to “set” strangely “to watch me and try to talk to me,” I thought she’d be some kind of hero today… on the cover of glamorous magazines really not in it for the fame. I can picture her whole looking at the public in disdain being received as refreshing… so I hoped she would resonate as I got the sense that she very well as someone who was uniquely herself in a world of the same the same the same — soriginality isn’t exactly anyone’s best friend anymore, as yet, she was, a real original, and a unforgettable one. Be you. Charming. Reading her pick up lines by the melons…and she’s touched. The way she looked at me at the fridge.

Another thought about the guru

What sucked about this story? The one about the, uh, child molester? The one, uh, about being given away to a total stranger which made no sense as a sentence, if you were actually listening? My mother Dr. J wrapped up a mother Angelica Leibowitz and her family in a sex scandal, that’s what that was. Okay, what sucked about it, was, as some unreal tragedy, sort of, not really, hard to place, people got…affected, not totally self-aware, (I wasn’t), but then, when “shit got real,” if you would, these people were nowhere to be found. When it was a lie, people wondered, is it? When I asked that question, people said, “no no, it can’t be…” it was a nightmare.

This guru I met from Hollywood, truly speaking, made all sorts of judgments about me based on nothing, based on an elementary if not sophomoric understanding of things. I am clear on my perspective. It might seem strange, but I just reread this article I quoted from the NYTimes, about a man who got an A.I. avatar created of himself, to leave behind for his family. I did not come from this set up. I might not have the same FEELINGS about it as YOU, meaning him, might have himself as we did not come from the same background and he was not a psychologist. Sure, any showcasing of vulnerability around it, just forget it, can’t do it, because perplexingly with all this superior talking of feeling my feelings, since he concluded I was repressed? He had none. No vulnerability, no concept of it. This was “my pain,” something he enjoyed telling me, at his stupid computer the second time we hung out.

All because I opened my mouth and told him what I was writing about.

I did not have feelings of affection for my parents. Is that surprising? I felt for them, I suppose, but they mostly made my life a living hell, if you would. You know? Secret dementia mixed with possible child molestation — who knows — with a insane mother wrapping me up in a sex scandal when I was four, bringing in some other problem in some woman — a Brazilian mother — into my life to question my goodness, question whether or not I would turn into my mother, a horror show, so no, I might not FEEL you see, like that. A disgrace this man. I was better off being given a bat, a real bat to fend off these lunatics. You see the difference? My father acted like a guilty retarded person. I mean retarded too, and it’s not directly towards who are handicapped, it’s directed towards these assholes — my parents. Retarded.

That sex scandal was ridiculous, outrageous, a waste of time and space and even resources since my mother was the queen of taxes…skipping through meadows, ripping blades of grass like that’s money to her… wee…and throwing it around this hot Brazilian mother in a tennis skirt… over an abused four year old, apparently. These were fun and games to Dr. Joyce Rebhun. Let it be known—her name. Disgrace. Dr. Joyce Rebhun. And she comes with a little business/life manager, probably with something to hide, I don’t know, as he could never speak of what he did, didn’t want to go into his government affliations, (looking at Obama in my mind), claiming he works for “the government” in Paris, France which has its own goddamn government. The French one??? Which one??? This guru, he even told me, “don’t mention the escort,” just leave it. A coward. Obviously, that’s where you’d put pressure, idiot, because he clearly had something to hide. He did nothing for my mother, I suppose she was able to get back to taxes, sure. I’m an adult now, so if my partner or family member was insane, I’m sorry, I would kick this escort out of my house — first. My father acted comically, like, acting like he doesn’t KNOW what’s going on, he’s just a nice guy…

I gotta get to this part in the book, as I’m going to wake up through the experience of writing about it, which is what I did. Honestly, when I was dropped off at home like an object, I was seven l, not seventeen, and this jerk of a manager — who appeared out of nowhere — dared to introduce himself to me, imagine? Imagine if your home now has been taken over by some stranger with his mail on your step. I got up from the master bedroom, a chilling silence, as I did not have my own room in this house, you see. I was as clear and calm and I walked over to her office and cut every single phone chord, I took white out and painted over every key, you see. Doesn’t that make sense? It was a rage spell, but I was floating over clouds. And then, I was playing handball, and this business manager comes roaring down the steps with this slappable woman, Dr. J, looking at me like she’s angry at me? With the Confederacy of Dunces — my father — looking sheepish and strange if not disappointed in me? And when I got to this part of the story, waking up inside a nightmare, I had no idea what I was looking at — am I not LIVING IN ANOTHER HOUSE MORONS because YOU said HE was a child molester??? Now with some man from Iran erupting at me because of it? Insane. I thought, staring at these jerks, my parents, was this true? Why are you acting like this? Like nothing is going on? This woman wrapped ME and Angelica Leibowitz in a sex scandal! I was seven, eight standing there, not seventeen.

Angelica Leibowitz, you see, can you imagine? Couldn’t even DROP me off because crazy shit happened, now with this third party in tow—Ghomi. The, uh, money ran out, my mothers, as she paid this woman 11k a month in value between 1989 and 1994, about, to protect me from my father. Angelica didn’t know what to do, as I had to put this all together myself, as the sordid nature of this story made them all act real quiet, real quiet. This was my family…now with this guy, who apparently was bringing down Osama Bin Laden, according to Dr. J, who communicated to me that he worked for the government in a paranoid fashion. I’m reading this NYTimes article about how sad these people were because their father was dying, and they couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to ask him questions… and I’m going, not my story. I wasn’t given away… that’s what I used to say… I was wrapped up in a sex scandal by THESE lunatics. This stupid manager, he supposedly saw “potential in her business” up in flames because it might serve him in some capacity. That one took me too long to grasp, though I can’t speak factually on that one. This was my family.

And my father cried to me over the years, ohhhh, so upset, Nick, so upset, thinking we’d be best friends, when best friends don’t WRAP each other up in goddamn sex scandals. This man pitied himself, complained about me to Angelica, a man with secret dementia, on top of it, as he got diagnosed with Parkinsons though it became Alzheimer’s in the end, when I found out about the first diagnosis. This woman, Angelia, fell for another pity party again, this woman just kept falling for a fucking sob routine. Ridiculous. She should have kicked my father out of her house. “Duh idiot, your wife accused you of being a child molester…and you stood at MY wide open door, idiot, and watched a spectacle… that I organized, meaning, I told your daughter, idiot, to dance like a maniac even to that song from flashdance, practically, with my daughter, for years, and I slammed the door in your face, so do you think she’s going to LIKE you? Do you think she’s going to want to spend any time with you??? Think idiot.”

This man called her house, acting like the Confederacy of Dunces, the title, not the content. The UNITED STATES of idiot. “Oooo, dee dee, no worries, my child is living with you now, but I’m a nice guy, I assure you, for no reason, and I was wondering, um, if my daughter could accompany me on vacation…” no wonder this Brazilian mother lost her mind. But “poor Nick,” what she did to him, not what she did to me, since we were on the opposite ends of the same situation. So if it was a cake walk for me, why wasn’t it for him? Gender favoritism. And, her star athlete girls, the blond in particular, as blonds are lethal, she said it, “you favor Jose!” She did. She favored males. These people. Am I suppose to whine, wallow, and give these lunatics an inch of woundedness talk? Woundedness talk. No. Judge Judy. I want Judge Judy on the bench telling my parents off.

So, imagine? I’m trying to find “the poetry” in all this, you see? Writing a book… about how I launched an undercover investigation into this situation I was in between the ages of 8-12 if not 9-13 at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club, as Angelica’s family was a member, and she became a lifeguard once her husband passed away. And as an adult, I woke up to the entire thing. Was it a lie? Angelica decided it was a lie, I gasped, I did, based on lunatics. She let in lunatics via a very cute four year old.

In her words, so stirring, “imagine? Imagine!”

I alerted her, she happened to come over to pick up one of Dr. J’s lovers tax returns, and she offered a playdate, “one day,” and she got cash thrown in her face and talk of child rapists.

Looking at Obama, in my mind, remembering the speech he gave about the young woman who was raped. Remember? It’s the time to get angry, not say, well you know, she wanted it to happen because it did, guru. On some “meta reality.” That’s what this guru would say — behind closed doors. It’s the time to call it a disgrace. No one in the history of my life — got that. It’s not the time for sentiment and going on some disturbing esoteric jaunt on an UBU ROI chair, man. This guru was ridiculous. I had sentiment on me like GAK, remember Nickolodeon?

Just remembering how this guru turned to me in Beverly Hills and called Dr. J — J stands for JOY, even, as that was her personality—smart. He called this woman smart. He said that her escort, okay? Not sexual, I just call him that, as she was never seen again without him, he was her business manager. He said he “gave her a chance.” I disagree. That took thirty years to get to. “I disagree.”

My classmates at St. Jerome’s — they know. There was a bat in the back of my trunk. I was in the mafia, according to them. Truth. They know — watch out, Casper, also Irish, has a bat in the back of a ‘81 Cutlass Supreme. I was so angry; these people who called themselves therapists and wisemen practically this past decade that I almost didn’t make it out of. Absurd. There are lines of appropriateness. All mothers are not “crazy” like that. Or “gifted.” This so-called shaman called my mother “gifted,” really? Was she gifted? Did she not know how to “navigate her experience?” Thinking about this ex boyfriend of mine. Thinking about this slytherin I got involved with at the Carlyle, truly, “make less sense,” he said. Slow clap. This slytherin farted on the phone at me when I got out of the hospital over all this. Disgrace. Even this female faciliator, what? She didn’t get the message? That I unsubscribed to her emails? She signed me up again? Maybe I didn’t hit the button correctly. I took care of it. Stay away from me. I know one woman in Hollywood who knows exactly who I am talking about. So back off. All of you.

A bat.

Jason Soares AKA Taye Diggs is tossing me the bat.

That’s where I am with all that. Just a giant no.

Thank you, to those of you who have read this, for making a space for my anger. I hear female rage is all the rage these days, I have to laugh, in my case, because I had a right to be upset. I’ll go on the journey, thank you. So that’s it. Enough.

I’ll go have a really really fun time now. Just a great time. I’ll find my bounty, you see, my thriving self — with a bat. One things for certain — if crazy shit happens to you or your family (I’m laughing as I write this by the way) you know who you can call. Me. I’ll be there for sure. With my bat. I found redemption in this character idea: “I am the Head of the goddamn PTA.” I’m inflitrating your school as an action star— running through a classroom and just jumping out a window — boom. It’s time to stop somebody. I’m training these kids to eliminate the shooter, you see. I’m teaching them anatomy. “Right here, this is the target kids.” I’m telling you this isn’t coleslaw… I’m telling you… with the PTA… getting extremely upset… that this is NOT coleslaw. “Get the pitchforks.”

I only met one person, one psychologist who was also a zen master, actually, Jewish originally, who made a real case for rage. “This is your problem.” I learned that the hard way. I didn’t want to know, you see, I didn’t want to project that story out into the world, and I regretted being so imbalanced in my thinking. So I took a moment to just evacuate this past decade because it was ridiculous and harmful, and no one, not one single person in my life — supported me, truly! They forgot the story, and the way I told it, did not help.

New attitude

I had a bumpy day at work today because this writing job I have just isn’t working. It got off to a weird start, and it’s clear that it’s not going to work. It’s not even worth emoting about, it’s just a goodbye. It didn’t work. I’m making my exit and making room for something else, something that brings me bounty, not a scrap. I’m reenvisioning my life because I came to a point in it when I thought, this can’t be it. This can’t be my life. I felt like I didn’t recognize the life I was living was mine, like, it can’t be this, and so, I’m shifting to go find out what that looks like.

It’s challenging thinking this way, literally speaking. I have a challenging time actually thinking sometimes because these gurus who came into my life sort of channel through me while I’m thinking, or, performing a mental processing, which is deeply infuritating. I didn’t have this “problem” to work out before, as their belief system can imbue my thoughts, and I have to ask them to leave, in my mind, which I learned at an energy workshop or battle a little between their belief system I took on and what I actually believe. I disagree.

I didn’t see this coming, and it’s still shocking, looking back on it, that I gave these people the time of day. So, I’m still processing… processing this out…just whatever influence they had on me. It was just terrible. I felt like I waltzed into a room where I met only enablers, people or situations that only brought out the worst in me. I’ve never felt that way before. I was only in my thirties, but even this guru telling me that thirty is a “baby,” was, un-useful. I was not a baby.

It helps to be stark naked about it, brutally honest, because these people messed with my head, heart, soul. But now I’m here. I have to be grateful that I am, I have to love myself more deeply and envision a future for myself even brigther than the last dream I had… I have to make a reach, rather than shrink. I just didn’t need to be here. I could have bought a house with the money I had. I look at these men I got involved with and feel like a fool. What a stupid choice I made.

I keep meditating on this idea that there is always a way though I didn’t want to be in this position when I could have been buying a house in Sorrento with the money I had. There is always a way. Even if it’s a long shot, or highly improbable, there is always a way, theoretically. Theoretically, a way always exists, but what that way is, now, that, that, I do not know…I do not know what the way is, so I’ve been experimenting with holding that thought in mind and allowing myself to be at peace with it, allowing ideas and thoughts to come to mind. I came back to New York because I felt like I, in my heart of hearts, wanted to be a performer of some kind, so I’m reflecting on that. That’s first. I never took action on that dream, and I arrived at a point in my life when I thought, I do not want to regret my life. I had decided not to pursue that in the past, and I might have really wanted to, so I came back to land, ground, anchor down, and hold on tight — somewhere, anywhere, and not let go. I have to remind myself of that sometimes because I just got back two months ago and I’m 39 not 20, and so, there’s so much uncertainty in it, and I’m figuring out what the way is, and I’m not even married to anything… I’m just trying to find abundance, not regret. I never even knew I could regret! I don’t care in which direction that takes me, even, I’m thinking about businesses I could start, new ideas as nothing I’ve done thus far has really taken off.

In that vein, I ended up at Sip and Guzzle this evening.

I stopped by Pisellino for a panini and Negroni first. I had met with a musician earlier, a guitarist. I’ve been jamming with musicians lately because I want to sing again and get gigs—that’s a goal I have right now. Afterwards, I stopped by that tiny corner bar, Pisellino, and then, headed to my friend’s bar which recently won a prestigious award — Best New U.S. Cocktail Bar Spirit Award — which is the Academy Award of bars, apparently, something like that. He totally deserves it, because the Japanese fusion cocktails are amazing. It used to be Cornelia Street Bakery, so the brick is exposed, and it has a neighborhood bar feel but designed, and the cocktails are spectacular. This time, I got a drink that tasted like mint chocolate champagne. It rained today… but it was warm out, so the air was muggy and humid, but it felt more like a warm blanket, not hot, but a bath, a bath you didn’t want to get out of it. This cocktail sounded so intriguing, and I couldn’t stop drinking it. Anyway, I digressed.

I went down a tangent about Steve’s bar, Sip and Guzzle. To bring it back to the subject — nothing I’ve done has really taken off thus far in my life, and I happened to be sitting next to a woman who handles Employee’s Only social media and a young man who lives on the block, Cornelia Street. Nice people. He designs games for apps. They’re both 37. She happened to stumble into doing social for bars, and it was like a domino effect, where it worked out, one thing led to another, and now she gets to be creative all the time… and I’m sort of looking for that effect.

I was telling them that I was restructuring my life, so I was relinquishing writing a little bit because I don’t want writing to be my 9-5 job. I didn’t even know how I got here, but people go into professions and decide later that they wanted to change careers, so I’m contending with writing being that for me. And honestly, in my case, I think anyone hearing how crazy that road was, the weirdos I met, some shaman telling me “despair” was within me (lol), I think they would understand why I’m wanting to flush it all down the toilet. Like…uh, nevermind. Didn’t want to be a writer that bad. I don’t know if the Hero’s Journey talk was necessary.

If I wanted to write for The New York Times or The New Yorker that would be one thing, or if I had a beat that I was passionate about, so I’m sort of thinking about that, but I don’t know if writing was my true dream. They got that. So, I’m trying to figure out if I want to let go of it besides writing books, as I’ve surrendered to the fact that nothing I’ve done has worked, and that writing books might be a slower burn. I hope I’ve corrected my thinking, approach, as even telling ME that I was intuitive messed me up. Not the point. I’m from goddamn Jersey, also. My family is from goddamn New Jersey, we don’t give a shit. You want a psychic? I can picture my Aunt Jane… being hilariously disgusted with all this. “These people telling you your psychic…”

I’m trying to conceive of another direction that would please me when it comes to writing perhaps. Like, if I started a business, then I could write content for that business. That’s what I mean. Right now, reading books and thinking about how I’d like to approach a book is fun, easier, now that I’ve gotten rid of the “the most successful version of this exists…” like who gives a shit? I’m thinking about how to put my story out there on social media, but that feels like a nightmare, quite frankly, because who wants to talk about child molestation? Who wants to go, so “both my parents were mentally ill,” you know, “and that took a lifetime,” and so, am I trying to be Jay Shetty? Mel Robbins? Am I trying to diffuse wisdom? I’m feeling into that.

People hate their families, that I know. In Italy, that’s funny. To my cousins, that’s amusing and perplexing. “What do you mean, Maria?” And then, you have to picture my voice BLURTING in broken Italian. “In the journals of today,” meaning newspapers, “IN America,” emphasis on IN, to which they’d cascade, “in Maria IN? In Maria IN?” Giggino would NEED to know more. “SI, IN America, the people speak of this, before Christmas, it is written that you can survive your family during the holidays like this… with one, two, three, four suggestions of surviving your family… at Christmas…” that silenced them. “What are you talking about? People don’t like spending time with their families?” Drinking my wine, I shook my head no, “no,” they didn’t believe me. “No, really, people in the United States DO NOT LIKE their families…” My cousins called it “Dante,” again, “this was Dante,” because they believe I am Dante, for real. I went through the “USA family Inferno” in their minds and that was part of it. I had to laugh. They found it weird even. People not liking their families…

I’ve been looking at accounts where people play characters, so maybe I can play the characters in my family story, as I’m looking to put on a show, actually, and I woke up this morning feeling a bit defeated because I didn’t want this story to dominate my life. No offense. The way people could respond to me was very strange, confusing, and troubling, but here’s the point: you’re not the only one there, people are self-serving, you see what I mean? This you create your own reality routine, this guru, I’ll never forgive him, for ACTING superior when he couldn’t have been more harmful, thought that’s not entirely true, evidently. I needed people who understood what relationships were. He did not. This was not his strong suit at all, and he knew it.

Now, I would have gone out, tried to meet someone, and let it be. I don’t know if I NEEDED TO SUCCEED only in one direction, according to this guru, like WRITING THIS BOOK WOULD CHANGE MY LIFE. There’s no point in saying it, but I look back, the day this man walked into my life, wishing I had never opened my mouth. That took me down a road that isn’t filled with any real connection, as this man didn’t know how to, nor love. There was no love down this road. None.

I tried to be open to opportunities that came my way, when I wished I was much more focused. Being told by this slytherin to think like Joan Didion, but then, while I was crossing Washington Square Park on my way to Sip and Guzzle, I thought, well, maybe I should read her. Maybe I am Joan Didion inside, and I need to accept it, lol. I hope to do well, it’s not that, it’s more so that I haven’t done well thus far. Sure, I want to help myself sell books or build a platform for myself, but how to do that? It’s not quite clear to me. And no, please, unless you have a track record, do not share your opinion. Especially given the content that’s in my story. Think. Aretha Franklin—you better think. Think about what you’re trying to do to me. She’s not saying, I better think about the reality I’m creating… and why I drew you in… lyrics like this wouldn’t resonate with anybody, “not good.” These lyrics suck. There’s no poetry in them, even. I’ve been feeling, speaking of spiritual support, the Jane, the one and only Aunt Jane supporting me because that was… a dark road I ended up on.

It’s easy now that I worked out these strange kinks I had, but being subsumed into another family, I would have rathered kept my distance, quite frankly, and pursued acting… it’s very simple. But my father was sick, you know. I admire Leonardo di Caprio because he was so young. He did what I couldn’t do. Now, it’s true, I might be struggling with regret a bit, but only because I want it out of my system. And I’m not wasting any time, regardless. It’s easier for me to put myself out there now, as I’ve had to not shrink, but assume people want me there, assume the position of speaking…I speak more clearly now… all of that is progress. Interacting with normal people, going to bars, all that… that’s more of the direction I wanted to go in, not drown in “self development,” basically. Steve would agree. This guy, his own brother left him to die, and he woke up in a hospital after being in a coma for a month, so his career in the military was DONE, over, dashed, and he walked into Employees Only and found his path…and he’s one of the top bartenders in the world, with many bars thriving out there… he loves what he does, he’s behind the bar, all the time.

He’s my inspiration. He’s also my movie idea, wink, one of them. He came back from the dead, literally. He gets money from the VA due to his head injury, and he shared how he had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation as it had been ten years, something like that, and he cried, and he thought that part of his life was over, but it’s still with him, which surprised him, and I found that to be brave. Forget “arrows,” or whatever this guru was trying to say vaguely, about feeling arrows… and how hard it is for a man to feel. I’ll stick with Steve, lol. That was NOT my problem, exactly.

I was definitely ethereal, by the time I got to my book, for sure, I had no idea what to do, I approached it as an intuitive, and I had no idea why I was drowning. And the thing is, these people didn’t care that I was drowning, they didn’t even cared if I died, only that, I was psychic. With this slytherin assuming that I could even like the male I got involved with, after all that. Stupid. He just looked like a crazy person. So it wasn’t exactly disturbing… in the way he might have thought it was. He just sounded disturbed. Telling me after I left this job he hooked me up with, because of racism, that he didn’t want me to go through anymore pain. That was rich, all things considered. Wow. That was deeply disturbing, for sure. But “sure, cool,” just get out.

I’m just trying to cultivate abundance in my life. I want to meet someone, but I want to meet the one, even. You know, there are people who have met that person, who really feel that way. I suppose you never know in life, so that’s not my problem, but I’m looking for that person. Maybe I’ll have kids, if I can. Like now, I would have had like six, maybe, lol. I had a lot of love to give, actually. I know that I can figure something out that would fulfill me and bring me the success that I know if possible. That’s not a problem. I didn’t need “help” like that. I didn’t need people getting involved in my life. I didn’t need “support” like that, I didn’t need some guru shoving me into “getting a new family” AGAIN with my cousins who are not interested. I am a cousin, and even that line got blurred AGAIN with two of my cousins. Crazy.

Leave me alone. I am not a toy. Go check your own emotions. So THAT royally did not work. And this guru — dancing around like an idiot in his mind — telling me to “go back to Italy,” was retarded, even, literally, because I AM NOT ITALIAN for the love of God. I am AMERICAN. I was born and raised in AMERICA. Ever go on vacation? Meet some cousins? Jesus. Ridiculous. “Go back to Italy.” These gurus were so stupid, like, would THEY appreciate if some cousin showed up to their house after they got out of the hospital????? Would they be opening up their house??? Think about it. Guess what? People don’t give a shit. That’s true. Not their problem. His brother? Not the right person to talk to. Fuck free, it’s called— get a fucking job and take care of yourself. This guru only encouraged weaknesses.

Even if he INTENDED not to, but think. Aretha Franklin. There’s POWER behind the words for good reason. “YOU BETTER THINK.” It’s easy to say all this when you are in a position of choice. When you’re in a clearer relationship with self. When you’re not interested in some MALE’s power play, no offense. Jesus, just boundaries, just “who gives a fuck about your story?” That took a second to get to. “Who gives a shit where you came from?” So you’re writing a book about it, big whoopie! You have joined the thousands doing so… I’m not precious, I’m not sentimental. You can fuck off, that’s the attitude (lol). I’m sure you’re a genius, I can even bet MONEY on it, you are a genius, you know things…superiorly. I’ve seen it before.

“Weird men,” Gary said.

I have to get a job, fast. That’s first. I can then get into acting… as I seek to do… try that out. I’m not concerned with writing, the book will…finish itself, I’m working on the book proposal exclusively right now. I don’t know what to do about money, but I’d like to feel smart. I felt so stupid, Jesus, wow. These men all had money, so it surprised me that they took the perspective that they had. Like, if a girl is living for free in an apartment, does that look like she’s smart about money? Putting all her eggs into one book basket? Because it will “change my life.” Whoosh. Poor advice right there. So putting myself around these men with money taught me nothing.

Is there a business I could start? I have a Substack and Medium page, but these aren’t working for me in any capacity, so who cares? So, now, I’m taking a step back and assessing what I can do that would work. I’m trying to think creatively as to how I could generate an attractive income for myself. I hope that I’m right in some capacity that I want to perform, and that will bring me what I desire, of course, it’s just life is bigger than that, too. I’m building that over time. I gotta get back to the mics, keep on developing material, but I slowed down a minute so I could take breather and settle my immediate need, which is money. I hope I get this job at the Marquee, because I think, at least, I could make real money there. I’m thinking about my point of view as an actor, or just what I’m interested in doing. Maybe I’ll be pleasantly surprised, I don’t know, as I seek that domino effect, I seek to find that ease.

Yeah, no offense, writing wasn’t that big of a deal, to the slytherin, who took himself to be a touch too genius, I’m sorry, and to the guru, he cared about my story in a very strange way. He clearly isn’t in touch with his feelings. He clearly can’t take responsibility for himself. His choices. Because he’s an almighty meditator who made some movies… I doubt Spielberg would have… done what he did. He wouldn’t have the time… even if he did. Perhaps he would enjoy gardening… and I would have enjoyed watching him trim his roses then talk to him about my story. Just to be brutally honest. Just trimming roses. No talk. Maybe I’d offer him a glass of lemonade, something simple. But I guess, to some, I had something to work out, because I ended up in these corners. I keep just letting it go… I don’t even need to analyze it. But that last decade totally side-swiped me, like, where I lost the will the live, even, just because, my life got blown to pieces. That wasn’t a constructive road. It was destructive. And that’s what the guru is. He was a destroyer.

I don’t know if I was abused back there, somewhere… and I need to fix my money problem to be able to keep seeing this specialist who thinks I might have been based on what I was saying. I’ll take that step by step, because I don’t know what to say about my parents now, so writing a book, no offense, but who cares? I’ll get there. It’s beyond terrible, look, to not know if your own family abused you? Come on. Disgusting. So “how am I doing?” Um, depends? That goes to my friends, you know, like, it’s a bit touch and go since I had to totally start over. Totally.

So, this musician I played with — wow, he was bad, sorry, I’ll just say that quickly here. But that’s okay, that’s par for the course, that’s just getting out there and meeting a world. I sound good, though, and this guy, I don’t know why, but he’s more of a punk guy. It was fun singing Blondie, though she’s not punk, or Kiss Me by Sixpense None the Richer, sure. Why not? Every time I go and sing, it’s my birthday, more or less, even if I didn’t have that much fun, and he didn’t treat my money with respect. I paid for that rehearsal space, so I expect you to be on time, as I would have been if you paid for it. So that’s that. Easy. Thus far, you see, the pianist I played with was so skilled, that it made the guitarist stand out as not as skilled as this man. So that’s good, I found someone, and we’ll take it to the next step… I need someone serious and polished. So that’s fine, I’ll meet with some others, but I need money, literally, to continue, so I will hopefully hear good news this week. I need to.

I’ll keep going, obviously. I do not want to meditate, not really. I keep reminding myself without any need for “help,” as it’s usually around these thoughts, that the guru and co. can appear… like I didn’t need help in my thinking… not like this. So, I asked them to leave. I suppose I feel like I’m on track, like I can successfully navigate through this tight spot, as I knew it would be, and I don’t think I’m limiting myself by being real, like I didn’t have any money, I didn’t have a support system out here either, though I have friends, who I’d like to keep very very very far away from this story, as it tends to change their perception of me, which is really not fun, so there’s no point in it. None. You gotta learn. Being against the world, in a sense, doesn’t help. Just don’t do it. So I keep strict boundaries—tall walls, very very tall walls. And no, I have no interest in letting you in. I can direct you to a TV. Have a nice time. That’s what it’s for. Glad I’m touching, looking over at Barbara Harris slightly confused, but that turned out to be… not that fun.

So, now, I’m probably going to let this blog go. I’ll start something else if there’s any point to. I need to spend my free time working on what I am, a piece about Barbara Harris, reading for my book, researching businesses I could start, or the material I’m working on at these open mics. It’s easier, I feel better even, when I think in the direction of performing than the writing one, though there is a way to better conceive of this portion of my life. There is. I know that.

I do feel better being here, in New York. So, that’s settled. This delusional spin of traveling. As a tip, if someone gets out of the hospital, they should probably lay low for a while. Since the THERE IS NO LIMITATIONS TO THE SELF sounded even cruel, come on. Be real. I was going to have to recover, that was not the time to see my cousins, sorry, they are conservative Neapolitans who have no idea what any of that stuff was, trauma, even, this isn’t their arena. They’re not my family like that, which was painful enough, quite frankly, to realize in that state when I didn’t even want to be here. This was not the way.

So now I have to wait for them to clear as, their thought forms begin to bother me, as “we telepathically communicate?” “As the future writes the past?” You see. They aren’t “helping me…” they are just thought forms, not psychological devices, just please. Do people actually believe in what they believe in? It was always my question. They are just thoughts in my head as I had to work through whatever I absorbed from this guru, this arrogant prick, suddenly back the roses, with Spielberg. He’s chill. I need a minute. Maybe I’ll go to “Color Me Mine,” remember that, and just paint pottery, for the love of Christ, just to focus on the present moment. The only real thing there is, really, though Jim Carrey comes to mind because he believes in manifesting. That’s not my problem, obviously, and no, my psychicness doesn’t cripple me, and that’s to my stupid ex. Stupid.

So you can get bad advice, therapy, folks, from people who don’t even have a license to practice. If the guru and his brother were in love with me, as their sister thought they…might be…?? Which is strange as a sentence to begin with? Shame on her. That’s what my friend said, unless she was lying. Sam. “They were going to fall in love with her,” and no, it’s not funny. It’s creepy. Ever feel like a goddamn eight year old with a goddamn mushroom cut? Like I was just a fucking kid? That’s how I feel sometimes, like I was a kid, jerk, before I was an “attractive woman” to you? Since I cannot even read through all this, given his pompous attitude. I think he deserves a real cold hard slap across the face. Wake up. All safe in his Bel Air house. Spielberg is… moving on with his day… lol… not getting involved…

Is it really Spielberg, is he really going to come into my life? Is it NOT — guru — about the image but rather the FEELING? Just ridiculous. Remember Only You 1994? “I’m getting a name…”

“His name,” in an accent, “is Damon Bradley.”

I’ll try and play a psychic, I will, on the phone — with clients — as I move through the world. I’m wearing a fanny pack, going to Ralphs, and responding to what they’re saying to me via what’s happening around me. Like someone knocks into a rack of magazine, “uh oh, this isn’t the just path.” I have “a special way of working, of communicating with the divine…as the divine is found in the every day…” so regarding boxes of flour… “it’s time to make something of all this, it’s time to find the BASE ingredient in this adverse experience that will allow you to RISE… this is what I am seeing…” maybe I will work on it. Just me, handsfree, fanny pack, going through my day and speaking to people… “there’s success in this,” picking up a mag carefully, even, “there seems to be, but it might not look like you think it would…” So, excuse me, I have to pay for my gum. as I just “let the spirit move me… where I must go…and in this case it was Ralphs Supermarket.”

When I think like this, I tend to feel better. As these people called me THE MOST PSYCHIC SO PSYCHIC person, that within 20 minutes of meeting me, they’re saying I’m psychic, they’re saying I would have spoken to animals in the 15th century, like go jack off… elsewhere. How dare you, what an insulting comment. Anyway, there’s redemption in the pain, evidently, there’s gold in the psychicness, especially me using the supermarket to help people on their path to their best lives. “So this,” looking at wood, “look, you’re almost out, it’s not the time, you’re thinking, oh, there’s some gorgeous fireplace in this house where there’s no such thing, hunny, this is not where you are, you are making shit up that’s not there. This relationship only burned you, there’s no… point, really. When you get to the end, sometimes you remember the beginning, when it smelled so good, and it seemed like you found home, I know, but it’s just not the way. There aren’t countless bags of wood before you… like you made a mistake… no, you didn’t. You gotta just keep walking out… leave.” And I leave. “Trust me.” Now, looking both ways, “don’t be an idiot, running out and forgetting that people can slam into you, at this time, be careful, you’re getting into the vehicle, you’re taking your time, making sure everything is set up properly… and then, you leave, calmly, with a sense of where you are going…” no worries. Driving into the sunset, “there’s another day, beauty that awaits you in the breakdown, of course, as we learned from that song from Garden State.” And truly, maybe, someone would pay me to do this, lol.

These are my true dreams, now. I never thought, you know, that I would be psychic, it’s not something you can predict. But I am, and I want to use these gifts to help people, people like you. (whoever is on the phone.) So I might make videos, try to, or keep working on how to… turn all this into gold, needing to study Jim Carrey or work on the mask. My face. The psychic at the supermarket, no? I was being pulled into the supermarket to help this person through this break up. “A carnage, child,” looking at the red meat. Butcher. “Yikes.” But there are “other sections, bounty…” looking at produce. So I’ll keep working. I’ll keep letting go of what I don’t actually care about, ever feel that way? Like you’re holding onto scraps, because you can’t see other options? Writing felt that way, in the end, when…maybe I’ll have a better time now that I’ve cleared my mind of this strange road I took…

Being like, “why are you creating the reality of…” that’s so confusing, when it’s easier to just say, “maybe you don’t really want to do this?” Is it that big of a deal? Can anything and everything work for a person? I don’t think so. I had a problem with focus, for sure, so hopefully I worked out those kinks.

And if it’s true about my father, that sucks, that’s a terrible thing to not know, not have to realize that some Brazilian lady you didn’t even KNOW, so there’s another realization that Spielberg — just tossed to me — from the roses… who the hell are these people??? Jesus. She didn’t even know how my mother handled me, and please, is there someone with a heart? Do you know how utterly shocking and heartbreaking that is? That my mother is whipping her breast out (lol because I have to) at kids parties, and behaving inappropriately with me — in front of a woman. I get, “Well, you know, there are no reliable narrators here…” hm. In any case, my parents sucked, sucked for real. And this sexual trauma specialist is just taking notes. “This woman didn’t even know how SHE handled me, I mean…” I needed a second there.

So with a fire extinguisher — boom, I’m releasing the white shit all over these men… all over. Stay away. You were a moving fire. If, again, this was necessary in some capacity, so be it. I can accept that. I made these decisions, evidently, it was more coming to understand that I am not the only one there, I’m not the only one in my relationships, and not wanting to be. I want to be with people who understand, at least, basically, what a relationship is. There’s you and me in it. Is that fair?

So that’s it, wish me luck at the club, today, I’m going to dress a little sexy, which makes me nervous, only because I hope I’m hitting the right note. I’m going to laugh if not. But I just got a shorter dress. Maybe I’ll wear the white slip, if that’s more lowkey. Anyway, I’ll figure this part out. I have to get ready, and worse comes to worse, I’ll have to take out my rent… which costs me money, as this is an investment firm, so everytime I do, it costs me money. Luckily, I cut off that bastard, the guru, like spend your IRA money, what a ridiculous suggestion. It was unnecessary.

I was in the hospital. Not the time. All I want to do is just hug myself, like stop, this man is toxic. All these people are toxic. And they were. They only enabled me. So I went through something like that, a clown show of enablers, and I wasn’t quite hinged right, obviously. Again, manifest destiny, absolutely. I could throw a cocktail in the guru’s face. So — moving on. I am not going to get back at them, not like this, but I needed to clear my heart and head and body… and imagine fun videos of being psychic… out in the world… the great big world… a for sale sign goes up…

“Okay,” I say, not too sure, but open to it, “okay, keep going, tell me more…” driving through a neighborhood, “uh huh,” sure, “I’m a bit confused…” lol. Maybe I should make YouTube videos, instead. These segments. Looking at sprinkles, confections, back in the supermarket, “this feels decorative to me, this feels… like,” not too sure about it, “unneessary. This isn’t where you are… you need to get there… “

“I know, but there’s NOTHING to put this stuff on…”

So—onwards. To more characters, monologues, ideas…

On break

I’m coming to understand more and more that I think I really did meet a psychopath. It’s the construction of the word. This was a psycho-path. Even this man acting like he didn’t do anything when he most certainly did is heartless and cruel. He decided to intervene, he decided to “help me” when all he did was create more problems.

He made a whole “to do” about me as if I could BECOME the ONE literally, and I didn’t know it. That spun me round because who cares? I mean when it comes to being a writer. I didn’t think it was impossible. Nothing was holding me back, I had only just gotten to Los Angelese when I had met him. YOU COULD BE “IT” WITH SUITORS AT YOUR FEET. You could get the Lamborghini or become JK Rowling, basically, but none of this had anything to do with what I was doing. He spoke with such authority, he presented himself as if he were a guru, truly, and why I fell for this I have no idea. Maybe because he was successful, maybe because he lived in Beverly Hills, but nonetheless, that was shocking to me looking back… with him, I had to take it back to step one, because I was just a girl in a cafe who caused him to stop short, I saw him out of the corner of my eye, when he saw me… I was nervous, but I wasn’t in touch with my inner signaling system, because I had a lot to work out — but HE didn’t understand that HE was it. He was one of my main problems, that is, the outside world in relation to this story, and that I had to assume the position of authority. Tell people to fuck off, quite frankly.

The whole Hero’s Journey “you’re the one, could be” caused me deep stress, the success obsession. It wasn’t my problem. I was a star in his eyes, but he didn’t exactly treat me like one, which my friend Gary wasn’t surprised by, “weird men.” He kept referring to him as a weird man, and he is. He acted weird. He didn’t act normal with me though I suppose he had his moments, but everything about him feels manipulative. It was unnecessary pressure to put on me. It seriously messed with my head. And it sucked because I came from a real background, if he had any interest in my opinion, I didn’t think it was unfortunate, or something. I mean, I don’t know how to approach that. It’s more than that, this was the end of a short lifetime, in that he ENCOURAGED me in a destructive direction. This was not a constructive relationship. I didn’t need to talk to a wannabee psychologist, get all confused about how I felt, and BE TOLD, seriously, HOW I FELT BY SOME DUDE FROM BEVERLY HILLS. No offense. There’s nothing wrong with being from Beverly Hills, but he doesn’t look good. I was made to agree, you see. People TOLD me how I felt, should feel, what the story meant, and the joke was, no one was listening. I was in a sex scandal. Why are you acting like you understand what that is? Have you been in a sex scandal? Over a child? It’s not the type of story to act as though we’re skipping in a meadow… sure, let me help this young woman… when he had no right to.

But I could do it, make it, um, okay? I was trying to do that, but he made this a problem… and the more I think about it, the more I think that this MAN — this boyish man, he was attracted to me as he confessed his love to me while role playing some version of my father over a lost DVD, forget which one, and, excuse me? He made me feel like some cheap amusement. Forget my “power.” This man had no interest in my power. My biggest regret over the years was — getting involved where I did, to be frank, and not telling people like him to FUCK OFF — day one. “How dare you?” The first night I hung out with this sorry excuse for a man, he pointed to me across a room and looked and sounded like the catepillar from Alice in Wonderland, this is what I mean about how he “acted like a guru.” “KNOOOWWWWW WHAT DO YOU WANNA KNNOOOOOOOW…” Life is about what you wanna DOOO, not what you wanna knowwwwww,” still pointing at me, “what do you wannna knowwwww?” I fell for it. I had no idea what this was. I literally just met him.

Listen to this.

He’s acting as if he can see through me—danger. He’s acting like he has superior senses that’s he’s finetuned with meditations, forget life experience, what life experience has this man had? Sure, he “made it,” which he said, haughty, cocky, in his stupid leather chair. But what right did that give him to treat me like this? There was not an ounce of respect in his approach. Not one. But now, I got roped in, like the next time we hung out, and most people wouldn’t have stayed after his impulsive outburst, a family trait, in that, his father slept with any woman who walked into a elevator. I just can’t believe this man. The second time we’re hanging out, his “knooooow” comment had struck me somewhere, but nowhere with credibility, literally. None. That was a bad move. We got on a computer (gasp) and looked up my mother, and I look back on this horrified, and he could feel “my pain,” he said, when I was just being vulnerable, what a jerk, because it actually happened to me. He wouldn’t be the first who would confuse the two. He has no vulnerability, he doesn’t even know what that means. This man sucked the life out of me the second I got back to the United States, I had just gotten there, and this man thought, I know, let me take control.

He took “the book” out of his head, (this is what he did), and he called it a “psychological object.” He’s not saying, “read books that relate to what you want to do…” he’s saying “the most successful version of this book already exists in a probable reality - literally - the future.” Is that even fun? That’s so flat, as an idea. I got sucked into it, I mean, of course I want it to go well, that goes without saying, but what a strange way to help someone write a book when it’s not that complicated. It wasn’t that complicated. This man exhibited no self awareness, in that, he said “DRAMA equals problem” because he’s a screenwriter, but he had no self-aware that he was obsessed with problems. He was obsessed. He projected nothing but problems onto me. And I don’t know what to say, because, well, when I was in grade school, people spoke about boys, as this man was not a man, as being mean to girls they like. But this man was hard to pin down. I ended up laughing a lot because he was impossible to connect with, impossible. I tried to get him to talk, but that’s not what he did. Finally, years later, he wrote me a birthday card, which was filled with too sentiment, like “I’m mailing your birthday card,” who cares? Awful. He said, “thank for letting me teach you things.” “Thanks for ruining my life.” Teach me things—teach me what?

Now, as I’m on break at work, I’m just reading books right now, like, that’s all I had to do. That’s it. I could have skipped the entire relationship for the simplest piece of advice, as I was writing without thinking about it first. I’m getting over this horrendous period with a truly offensive man, who made me life harder, worse, less accurate even, because what the hell does he know about psychology? His father was a prominent psychologist, apparently, and looking at him, he appeared to be a troubling man. Scary. But this is…why he acted like he was a psychologist, because his father was one? I didn’t get he or his brother’s obsession with their “spiritual greatness?” Or their supposed genius in this field? This guy gave me The Seth Books to read, (though he’s never admit it, which makes him a bigger coward than he already was), so he was of the type that believed I needed channeled material? He said, “forget the costume,” but picture me delivering information — to you — in a clown suit. I think one might not want to forget the costume. I’m giving spiritual advice in a clown costume. That one is easy to mock. I didn’t need this shit. Why they were geniuses, I don’t know, but they handled me stupidly, both of them. All I had to say was fuck you. Being told within twenty minutes that I was psychic by his brother. WHY this man knew so much about psychicness, I don’t know, but they both acted as if they had superior senses that enabled them to skip the real part: getting to know someone. But this relationship with the guru was such a bad idea at the start that I don’t even know if that’s “who I was” since that was such a strange, manipulative relationship. There was nothing normal about it, and he thought, “yeah that’s going to help her…” someone who didn’t need HELP. I did not need HELP.

I could make it, this was his perspective. He believed in me as an artist, when I didn’t not believe in myself, exactly. I don’t know what to say because he really really fucked up. I thought, he must really love books, because he’s… presenting himself as a guru expert who has a gift as a psychologist… with complex cases… looking at his family… is that true??? He hardly has even read books, it turned out. He doesn’t even read. It matters, in fact. This man wouldn’t have listened to me if I began trying to help him be a screenwriter as a book writer. He would have gone “I don’t have time to play a stupid game.” If he could PUT himself in my shoes… really really do it, like, I looked nice in a dress, I was some stranger — key word — stranger in a CAFE and this is what he does. Can you imagine? We had a weekly lunch date, and I told him that I was met a chef, a guy, and he goes, “the theme here is nourishment.” And I’m like, “what?” “I’m always FEEDING YOU,” in a manipulative tone. I thought we had a recurring lunch date. He became obsessed with me being fed. It was so disturbing.

When he decided to “mentor me” on my draft, and why? Again, he’d never even read a book, practically. I’m totally confused by this point, I was unable to see ANY OF THIS. Of course I was a mess. This relationship was destructive. He’s a destroyer. He started throwing titles at me whenever I did completed one. “Try this, try that,” and what was the point of that? What was wrong with the original title I proposed? You see what I mean? I said HOLY IDIOT, which, right? I was. I was an idiot. This relationship made me feel like an idiot. Like I wasted years of my life on some manchilds disgusting game. It was disgusting.

That was the first title I proposed, and he goes “not bad what about…everything flows?” I can’t remember the exact order of ALL the titles, but there was quite a list, where he’s just throwing titles at me, and I’m RUSHING to finish the next draft in like two weeks - which, first of all, doesn’t make any sense. As a writer he should know that. It was crap, that’s all he had to say. Instead, he’s not saying anything on the phone, like nothing. He’s saying “words aren’t your primary form of communication, feeling is…?” But this okay for… words aren’t your primary form of communication. You see, this disgusting man coupled with the disgusting psychic talk pushed me to the edge of sanity. How did I get here? (And was I abused? I’m going through physical experience through this…)

And the thing is, he chose to help me, that’s what he wanted to do for reasons…that escape me. That’s all he wanted to do, strangely! He’s telling me to meditate on the final product, he’s throwing titles at me, but not asking me any questions, at all. He’s not helping me at all. He’s not kind, at all. I started rattling on “you create your own reality” because he was so obsessed with this concept, that I had absorbed it, as if my wheels were spinning internally but with no action, you see, as he eliminated the “do,” as in, you gotta “go out and DO it,” and Jesus Christ, there’s more to life than a fucking book. I never hated a person, but I hate this man, and I won’t let it go.

He was a psycho path.

So now, taking a breath at this restaurant, I’m just reading books. That’s it for a while. That’s all I needed to do. I didn’t need a fucking guru. A shitty one. I’m trying to picture Spielberg, um, meeting a young woman who, I don’t know, he was taken with? As he clearly was? I think for that man, a real giant who makes this guru look more like a speck, let’s be real, he would have said, “your story is interesting,” you see, this guru couldn’t admit how HE FELT, and he’s telling ME to FEEL my FEELINGS????? In this aggressive tone. Because that DRIVES reality. When I didn’t HAVE A PROBLEM TO BEGIN WITH. I don’t think Spielberg would have had all these problems. “Ever thought of film?” Because that’s what he does. “I can help you with a script, in that, if you want to try writing a script, I’ll read it, but that’s…what I’m qualified to do…” you know what I mean? I would have loved that, truly, an opportunity like that. Someone who was appropriate. This screenwriter, this Hollywood screenwriter, was not appropriate.

And the thing is, it makes me want to smile, because he really really acted this way, he really really said these things, and from the first step, just step one, I shouldn’t have taken another step. Is he a liar? He is, I’m almost certain of it.

Like now I’m going, okay, so let me read a book that has movement in it as there’s a lot of movement in mine and that might be an idea to develop. This was not rocket science. This was not the Hero’s Journey. “The most successful version of this book exists…” and I couldn’t believe it either because I met THIS GUY. And I didn’t even see it. I ended up asking him what he thinks I should write. What sense does that make? None. And he became obsessed with feeding me, that they feed me, my cousins. I’m telling you, this relationship brought out a side in me I had never seen. But of course, I was involved with this plant medicine group, in that, they, too, believed I was psychic — these were people in the same realm of thought. He was just like them, and more harmful, even. I’m going to work on an impersonation of him, of course I am. Tyrant. A tyrant.

His interpretation of me, my story, was ludacrious. All I had to do was say fuck you.

I’m almost over the whole thing, in a sense, I’ve accepted my position right now, but that sucked. It really sucked. I was blamed for all my parents problems. Absurd. This man was absurd. Ubu Roi. Just the name. Who cares if I read the fucking play? It sounds right, that’s who this man was. And he was someone who solely went off his FEELING, hands behind his back, acting like a guru. Once, in BEVERLY HILLS, even the setting is… poignant, I was leaving my current family, right? I called a meeting. He had this way of raising his arm… like he were Jesus in that Caravaggio painting… and pointing at me… like Sir Ian Mckellan might need to play this man, it’s hard to explain. “You do not have to manage it,” he said. (Not a friend, this man). “You do not have to manage the shift in reality.”

“You like a meeting,” he said, when, looking back on this: why are you pointing at me like that? Why am I talking to you about this? And I said to him, “what about responsibility?” He thought that was “interesting…” he could talk in SQUEAKY CLEAN tones, but also, and I’m appalled, he could also come on the phone acting like he were “dashing,” saying his full name to me, like he didn’t know it was me? I don’t know if this man had a personality disorder, or something, but that relationship seriously harmed me. “FEED YOU FEEDING YOU I LIKE HOW THEY FEED YOU…”

Like he can’t give a note on the draft? Like, this isn’t a draft? Like read a book? Unreal. All that real stuff, you see, was unnecessary to him. I imagine if I were to go back to his real life, what he did in his real life, his sick interests, okay? As this man wasn’t well, he didn’t act well even if he’s sort of a good actor, I can’t tell, evidently, you know? I just did not need that. He was so insensitive, it was insane. I don’t even think this man ever had a girlfriend. He “loved someone once,” in vague tones, but she kissed another man… he caught her, whoever she was… was that me? You see? This man was the opposite of loving. So— terror, a M. Night Shyamalan film. And I have to let this go, because I was, really, a nice young woman… who just didn’t understand how people could react to this story…who needed to work something out, most definitely, because WHY, WHY was I even here to begin with?

And the beauty of it? If he were to lie, that says it all, so WHY did you do it? If you have to lie about what you did? What you said? Because the world “is not ready?” Does not understand “how it works?” The best part, his brother, he showed me how energy works, so “you’re red,” and they are “yellow.” He showed me where two auras meet, or their energy field, so you’re not seeing red or yellow, which is how his brother acted, literally, “you’re seeing something in between, orange.” He should give his brother a lesson, though I wonder if his brother actually respects his brother, in that, he would LISTEN to him… or he wants to play UBU ROI. Ridiculous.

I thought a show about the psychic period could be good, but I want to try Miracle Mile, I have to watch Fleabag. I cry, I cried so hard, because I was blamed for all this, this man was so cruel. I think, thinking back on my parents, like was there abuse there? Maybe. It hurt me, so deeply, that he treated a person so casually. AGAIN, all I have to tell a person is what he did AT STEP ONE. Warning sign, someone pointing at you… shaking his pointer finger at a stranger… knooooooow what do you wannnnaaaa knoooowww….

Firstly, life, I think, is about action. There’s a real mental health component. I did not need esoterisim. And here’s the good part. This man believes that I am Carl Jung, imagine? Played by Barbara Harris in stupid glasses, just stupid. Too big for her face. She doesn’t know it. She could play me, no? In this scenario? Because it’s horrible and comical. He believes I am Carl Jung. Since I’m writing a book about my investigation into this, I became obsessed with psychology, I don’t know what parallel to draw… did I meet my demon? He was such an idiot this man, because in looking back on my father, the image gets even more terrifying. I wondered if he had some fetish, this guru, yikes, in being the guy girls talk to? I don’t know what this was. He pounded on me before I could barely speak. And admittedly, when we were getting a drink, I felt uncomfortable, he made me feel uncomfortable, but I didn’t have these signals worked out. He’s not asking me questions, normally… he didn’t act like a normal guy…

He could, at times, but it all felt like a manipulation game, actually. Most of the time.

-

I wake up on another morning, and I keep on evacuating this horrific relationship. A true horror. I didn’t need help. I didn’t need to be his brother’s guinea pig, whatever. I didn’t need to be in this relationship at all. He shouldn’t be “teaching,” he shouldn’t be acting like a psychologist. He was the opposite of what I needed. And maybe that was my father. Maybe there was… abuse there… as that’s what I’m working out now. This guru, it took me YEARS, truly, to work him out of my HEART space. Why? I don’t know yet. I went through enough sensations down there, okay? For me to contact a sexual trauma specialist and work this out. But no longer, finally, thanks to just getting this out, does this guru inhabit my body, practically. And even taking in that he thought I was psychic? Looking at his brother, as well, what sense did any of this make? I don’t understand why they are so obsessed with reality creation when they live extremely contained lives. What exactly did they “create?” The thing is, watch out, because his brother told me this story, and it broke my heart later, because this screenwriter, his brother, took his hand, his brother’s, and starting punching him with it, when they were young. “Why are you hurting yourself?” And so, I got involved with the type of person who would grab your own hand and start punching you with it, wondering why YOU were doing it? And his brother told me this as if it were wise…

So that’s who this man was — in a nutshell.

He could convince even his own brother that this was wise.

That he wanted to be punched… or else it wouldn’t be happening…

So, now, think about my question of whether or not I was abused by someone…?

He would be the type of person who would argue, behind closed doors of course, that the woman wanted to be raped, because you create your own reality…. when that goes TWO ways, and people ABUSE power. The Seths book, no offense, contain deep deep flaws. This was a woman channeling information… think about it. It’s this kind of thinking that fits right in with much needed critique about how we think about “reality” today, this otherworldly word, somehow. This was the dark side of manifestation. And it’s all over social media. I’m critiquing it most definitely. So, anyway, another day. I still have to work through “the future writes the past” at times, all the while trying to hold a vision for myself… I guess. I suppose “anything is possible” technically, I guess, I just wish I didn’t meet these people because now I have additional problems I didn’t have, need. I started over completely. I can’t do anything, you know what I mean? I can’t go after this man… legally. I can mock his character onstage, in rich robes, coming to teach you, with brows, wise brows… how to “CREATE,” in manipulative tones, “your own reality.”

And I just might.

“This is a psychological object,” talking down to you. “What?” Someone could ask.

“Doesn’t matter,” he’d say—in private.

I don’t know what to say about the whole debacle I went through, the physical experiences I started to have, but once I get my money sorted, I can keep consulting this sexual trauma specialist, and I’ll really go into it, because I was such a mess, my body was. Already, I can tell you, which is funny, because I read this recently, that the brain and heart are connected. Sometimes our stupidity over the human body and how it works is astounding. If I didn’t have to deal with you know where, you know which body part, after the hospital, I don’t know what I would write…as I went through enough down there to question…maybe something happened. I was awakened down there, even, it was harrowing. Like, I went to Naples a couple months after I was in the hospital, and imagine? I called this guru, and I hardly even spoke to him during that time, and before I can speak, this is what I mean, about how dangerous he was, he’s using his FEELING to draw conclusions. He needs to be taken down many many notches. He deserves a slap across the face. A real slap. “You wanted that asshole, didn’t you?” I wondered if he were a type to go to a dom, you know. Anyway, he goes “i’m concerned,” after all that, after his disgusting role in all this, yes.

“To me,” he says, without anything real… to go off of… “it reminded me,” in guru tones, “of Carl Jung’s The Red Book.”

“Did the RED BOOK taint Carl Jung’s reputation?”

And then, his brother thinks, “oh yeah, I’m the person to… assist her…” seriously. He has no credentials. These men were stupid, I’m sorry. For geniuses they were stupid.

So, now we’re here.

I wandered the earth for a few years, I worked on separating myself from this total lunatic, and as months went by, as I was the one who called, compulsively, once a week, a mess, of course. He started sending me… weird photos… as if fishing for me to say hello. He couldn’t even say hello to a friend… because I wasn’t a friend to him. So again, how was this supposed to help me? Finally, he sent me some stupid picture, of a couple of people in a stupid car. Finally, I was able to break all ties, but I did send him some outpours I did, emails, as I really really woke up to what a utter disgrace this was. And I don’t care about public scenes, you see. Making one. What he did was outrageous. That was…the worst relationship I ever got into. I wonder about his “one true love” routine, whoever this woman was…

You never know, you know, sex, all bets are off. It’s really true. You think, “nice guy,” as he had one of these routines, as well, just like my father. I wasn’t sure where these two people met, and I don’t know if everything has to relate to one’s past, but I didn’t see this coming— a destroyer, death, yes, as he inspired “Death” to arrive in my draft, this fictional character he thought was “a really good psychological device.” “Helping me through my childhood.” And like, his brother thinks, yeah great, what a good idea…? “The ultimate guide.” It was a fiction. That’s the lesson. He called a fictional character in my draft that he inspired “a really good psychological device.” I told him, he would make a really good Death. He thought that was funny, amusing. So there’s a little snapshot.

Again, I was vulnerable a way that surprises me… I don’t even know how I could have gotten into this relationship… except, I heard all sorts of crazy shit, I heard all sorts of nonsense, also, around my stupid childhood.

Just nonsense.

I had to work out a whole life, stop talking to people, clarify my relationship space, and of course, tackle the question of my parents and whether or not I was sexually abused. OH, right, so I went to Naples.

I went to Naples, and my stupid cousins who got all wrapped up in my stupid story, again, and started acting like parents, I’ve since stopped talking to them to do a little course correcting as this got WARPED, confused, and HARMFUL TO ME, I had feeling down there…I was activated down there, and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t talk about it, obviously. Not in my head. In my—you know where. You see what I mean? I had no idea what this was.

Was she jealous? Why is he telling me I look bella? Nice? I went through a whole event down there, which, no offense to my shitty friends, but when I say “physical experience” I mean it. This guru’s brother, he was an idiot, jumping down my throat — as everyone did — when I tried to talk, because he had said, “oh yeah, there’s no body in mental health,” and when I voiced to him that I didn’t know if I had been abused, he didn’t even think of asking me about my body, truly speaking.

I had terrible dreams, I would wake up in terrible states, not often luckily, where I would have to walk for hours and wrestle with all this… unable to even state… how I felt. Finally, when I did, state to myself that it might have happened to me, I calmed down. I couldn’t eat, but I got this weird message sent to me in the middle of the night as I began having these odd experiences, by the slytherin, who I met in the plant medicine group, I’m pretty sure, ths sexual trauma specialist was, who might also be a Gryffindor, as that’s even his last name. I did not need some weird random threat coming through my website at 5 AM at this time.

So, I’m sorting through all that.

A terrible decade.

And then, Angelica Leibowitz, please, I called her recently to broach this stupid story, of how I lived with her for four years because my mother said my father was a threat to me in some way… and she said, “we had fun.” Not really. So I flipped out at Nicole, especially because of my hips. Interestingly, I had a flare up yesterday and once again it went away… and today, I’m fine. The cranial sacral therapist told me, because I asked her if sexual abuse might manifest like that? It can, she said, vague, but it can, she can’t speak definitively, but I’ll continue to see her… she teaches at Columbia. In any case, anything that works the central nervous system is heaven. It really is. It’s the gentliest relaxer, I couldn’t recommend it enough, cranial sacral therapy.

And you gotta hear the lambada or lambador through this entire story as that was my first music. Hers. Angelica Leibowitz, the last name is important, and it was more or less unseen by “most,” which I’ll put in quote. Like, um, it speaks for itself. I would have appreciated meeting someone who did well in their lives, as the guru did, sure, who would have asked “no offense but why are you doing it this way?” I imagine JCO, Joyce Carol Oates, would have asked me that. “Stop writing. Just think about what you wanna do, and find books to…help you conceive of it?” NOW, that’s clear. So I’m reading about books that happen in one location, like Fierce Attachments, or books that have movement in it, so I can make my writing better…. evidently. I just didn’t know WHAT I was dealing with.

It’s totally amazing, right? Just the lambada, what a sex goddess she was, and a family dancing sensually, PG, in a living room… Jose Leibowitz or Ben Stiller as it was a role made for him… in a kippah, being latin, also. I mean, what do you do with it “all?” You know. The whole experience. We performed Jewish prayers, too, so there were moments we remembered sorrows, to Jose’s voice offkey, lol, we danced the night away… I don’t know what to say about what people believe it possible. And waking up to all this was… an ordeal. Like, why is he acting like that… I don’t know what to say about what people believe is possible — they would rather believe, regardless if it kills me, that the pieces could fall incorrectly, but it was how the pieces came together… but we’re dancing…

And I went through a whole sensational event, for years, too, needing to sort out my head, yes, in the midst of all this, because of this ridiculous talk of me being psychic. So I danced, I took it, just to expel fear, as I went through a lot of it, the discomfort, and that’s what I did. I moved. So that’s true, I looked up, calmly, at my day job, nothing abnormal, no need for meditating 50k into existence, books that deal with dance a way to deal with sexual trauma, even, “okay…” I thought, “okay…” Jim Carrey a kind of anchor… I thought about him so much… I mean, his work and how I could approach doing a show — even just the inner body, like I looked like “this,” but “this” was really my body: some unnatural shape. Put a hat on top. And you’d think, “uh oh, all that needs to happen is…” something that makes the whole amazing, in some respects, structure collapse. Like “here are drugs, sure…” and why not “become psychic? Because you always were…” and now I go cross eyed, wearing a winter coat, being given a mirror to reflect back on myself, you see? “And maybe, it was because I was pretty?” I truly don’t know what to do with that. Absurd. I did not need that. I’ll figure this part out, “the poetry…”

But when I get to this part, which is moving forward, I get excited, or enthused by being able to pursue what I thought I didn’t want to pursue, but maybe I did. At the end of the night, I can get tired, worried, I think this future-thinking can get wrapped up, I had to hold my head on my break, in this guru’s obsession with me being able to be Timothy Chalamet, lol, “his IDEA,” he said, one day on the phone, “is irresistible…that’s his IDEA… poke on it,” as he believes everyone has an IDEA and they are POKING reality… they are POKING the subtance of, and making waves ripples across the fabric of what is, and generating that reality into being… right? That’s what he actually believes. I will comment no further. But he believes, I think, that’s way he took me to see Little Women, you see, I couldn’t FOLLOW where I was, industry wise? Did he think I could be… Greta Gerwig? At that point, just pick up a phone… no? Get someone on the phone, “look, I met someone you should really meet…?” You see what I mean? Am I supposed to make connections between movies and me? Am I supposed to be an actor??? I truly… did not understand. He’s not going, “you know, you should read — this person…” because “you sound like them,” because I hardly wrote anything for a minute. I wrote interviews, that might have been my best arena, I don’t know, I just didn’t like the construct of fame, if that makes sense, it felt weird. I didn’t know this world. Now, I’m fine, I’m over that part. I got a little weirded out. Everyone is a person to me… and I’m seeing flashes, Angelica and I holding hands during Mr. Toad’s Wild Adventure, as we couldn’t get through this ride without thinking about Dr. J.

It was — hard. Too real.

It’s just, that was A LOT of roundabout logic.

Thinking about Joyce Carol Oates…hearing all this…makes me laugh. “I’m irresistible, poke on it…”

I don’t know what to say about that.

So sometimes, when I think about anything, I can get a bit thrown by NEEDING TO SEE — SEE — SEE — the OSCAR in my HAND, when I just want to figure out if I can act, again, if that makes sense. I don’t have a problem dreaming of the best case scenario, I just didn’t need these problems. I don’t have a problem. I have to keep telling myself that. Please. It was part of the reason why I didn’t pursue it, I found this arena to be very confusing. I found my friends to be confusing, even, who wanted to do it, who never did, and I never thought I would be this person. But I thought, hm, maybe I’ll skip it because it can get a little weird. Now, I’m alright, I’m past it, I like comedy for it being a very real space, it can be. So that’s my plan… I’m trying to dislodge a bit from the writing path…I took… because I think most writers would be like, “whaaaaa?” To the whole thing. “Especially the talk of lamborghinis…” though “it wasn’t about the literal lamborghini,” sure. But I could rule the world, Madonna style, I get it. To the guru that’s “a poke.” She wants to rule the world and she got there.

Anyway, these thoughts aside, I don’t want to be a server, to be frank, I have to remind myself I’ve only been here two months. I said I could move fast, and I am, so I don’t know what to say about that, but I’m at least trying to go places where I can make decent money. I went to a fine dining restaurant, very nice, and they were very nice, and I went to an Italian restaurant, also high volume, and I have an interview at a club. I bought a sexy dress, lol, for this interview, thinking that’s basically the point—is she sexy? I thought that would be good. I am told I have a nice body, so, okay. If I can make up to thousands in a weekend, sure. Working three nights a week from 10pm to 5am, that’s fine. I have a financial goal, you see, having a real marker like that…helps.

I’m meeting with another musician today to jam with someone else. I’m seeing a few over the next week or so. So there’s that, if I can get a gig, to start, there’s a little more money right there, and I’ll keep MEETING people, too, though all the musicians I’ve met are guys, but that’s perhaps par for the course. I’ll keep that going. But I’m really trying to solve the money problem as fast as I can so I can sign up for an acting class, just because I haven’t acted… in a long long time, and I can see how that feels. I’ve been thinking about this agent’s class, where we write an email with a package attached, so I have to find SCENES, and work on those, and clarify my point of view, simply put. And then, I can start signing up for these One on One classes so I can just meet…casting directors. That’s the plan. Have no idea. Just going to put myself out there. I’ll take it from there. Maybe find a hobby, I don’t know. Get back into working out gymnastics, something. I want to both save money and be able to invest in that as I’ll have to. And I’ll keep working on the book…

I like xmas in naples, it’s just, I have no idea what that is, and I would have to restart my approach and go read… for a while, dialogue heavy books, or decide if it’s more about the event. With that one, I don’t know what to say, because my cousins still have no idea what my story even is…and that concerned telling them about the “adopted families” in a state worthy for an Academy Award winning actress truly. WHY? Why did I end up in all these families? No one heard the first sentence. Didn’t believe me either. So no, for the moment, I don’t want to talk to them. That’s where I am at, personally, but it’s a good story, for sure, I just don’t know what to do with that yet, or if it would just make a better film. I kinda have to publish something, you know.

I have to rethink this writing space, just how to make this work for me. Those scenes are great. That scene where I just try and tell my cousins what happened, and they tell me no, it didn’t, and look, do you think — I’m talking to them in my mind — that I don’t already know…that you’re going to tell me that you didn’t do this? That you didn’t go on and on and on about how “it didn’t happen.” Just please. I practically remembered this dinner VERBATIM, luckily, to Sorrentino (lol) as my cousins believe that we would “understand each other.” So they vaguely know that some personal tragedy struck us both, though I might not totally see it that way, but they will, in the next breath, deny that.

I ended up getting up and opening up invisible cages. I would never do this again, but it’s a great scene. The Christmas is great. The family around me. It’s a good idea. I don’t know if Sorrentino does comedy, you know, but he would get this… for sure. “The American cousin,” that none of the Neapolitans see as American, so he would probably wonder, “who is this person?” Comes…back… after a long disappearance… with this story. Throw in a band, Carmine’s band, so I know there’s potential in that idea. I think as a modern Neapolitan story. A good one. It would make a great sitcom. I sound so funny in Italian, it’s true, that it could really work.

“IO?” My Italian persona, my Neapolitan persona is respected even. My cousins were amazed that I was so Neapolitan. I might be “one of those Neapolitans, like Toto, Dante, someone like this…” but “it’s Neapolitan most definitely,” they call my hands, as they always were, “art. This is art. It’s Neapolitan abstractionism, but of a museum quality.” I’m respected as a truly remarkable gestural artist, but they don’t get I don’t SPEAK Italian, which is where all this is coming from. I’m impersonating them. I’m MEETING them. They’re just so fun.

So “IO” I begin in a tone. “Maria IO? MARIA IO?” Egging me on. “IO? Maria, io?” “Si si, io Maria…?”

So, to pause, my cousins will enter my mind while I’m writing this, for example, and no offense to the gurus, I got all confused, is that the future?????? You see what I mean? They’re saying yes, but do you know what a mess that is? Is that really how they’re living their lives? They aren’t reading this. Will it all work out, in a sense, at “some point in the future,” and is that what I am “navigating towards?” Sure, I guess, but my head was a goddamn mess. Feelig pulled by unreal ideas, like I hope it goes well for me, Jesus, but I didn’t need externalized forces internally pulling me… around. Where I’m supposed to “reach for my future audience,” all this crap.

I still have these moments.

I’ll work on that material at these open mics, too. I have a lot to develop. It’s more just needing to get to a real step one, break through. That’s basically it, I’m just finding GROUND again. I’ll try to trim the fat, if you would, so I can figure out what to do with all this. I mean, in looking back at the guru, it seems like he wanted me to act? That’s where I get confused. But I have to ACT to ACT. I’d love to tackle this family play, I just don’t know what that is, given the story, but it’s a good idea. I mean, I would have to seriously work on my character, you know, because that was complicated indeed. Aware, unaware, on dangerous territory… this story, specifically. The guru only proves why. I did not deserve to be ripped open, Jesus, or a source of entertainment, you see. AND, and, at the same time, these people were the first to show real concern over what I’m saying, but they are confusing me further. I also don’t see what I’m doing, because I can’t just say — fuck off. Angela said it, “you gotta learn how to tell people to fuck off, vai fanculo.” And she’s pressing the pedal to the metal — up the cliffs. But the ROCKY meets Christmas is great, no? That’s basically what it is. I’m training just to get through this XMAS. I’ll get there.

Here I am, another day. I knew there would be rough patches. And these gurus, why don’t they get a job in a restaurant as a server? Just to try it out? If they think everything is so easy…? Could I make a PDF with Erin Wendt, general manager of Balthazar? A lesbian. Sure. Could we make 600k a month? Maybe. Can money come in, with Jack Nicholson’s face in the Shining my inspiration, from unexpected places? Sure. For the moment, I don’t know what to say because that didn’t get me anywhere. But sure, the goal is 600k a month on a PDF, of course it is. To figure out how to make money online, somehow. Just because I’m very broke. AND I didn’t HAVE to be. With all this — diluted logic that I could MAKE it, when I had money… not A LOT but with the right thinking, you can make MORE money with it. You see what I mean about being ENCOURAGED in directions that MADE NO SENSE?

I did not need help. This help shadow was the death of me. Idiots in geniuses, slytherins meets Gryffindor as that was his last name, the man who farted on the phone at me when I got out of a fucking hospital. This guy. Sure, let’s “journey together,” just — retarded. Once again, I came from a background. Was that HARD to see? But of course, he wanted to do drugs, no? With someone? This selfless man? I didn’t dislike him, actually, I would, today, go, “we can get a coffee sometime?” Just please, my mother wasn’t NORMAL either, just to make sure that’s clear. “You wanna get a MEAL?” Too much genius. Genius, helping me bullshit. Left and right, male geniuses, just please, thinking about Dr. Roger Berkowitz, taking this in… not knowing what to do with it…

That man is definitely smart. He knows he’s smart. He’s read everything. I mean. So — no offense to people’s needs or problems, but let’s be real. This is the phrase that could be applied across the board. Be real. Please. I don’t have a problem with drugs, but someone in the theater world, someone reputable even said in the middle of a journey, as that’s how you generally hung out with this Harry Potter character, and he happened to be in town, “it’s the same thing,” he said, he’s seen it before, different “stuff.” Same idea. I just wish I were never here. Or I was… on his end of things. Not getting INVOLVED, exactly, but sure, I’ll be there, once. I don’t know. Hard, hard to look back on myself, the ethereal space I was in, and only Hannah Arendt to rely on to help me through my embarrassment. It was not funny, cute, actually, nor something to encourage. And this thinking made me well, just to make sure there’s a real difference drawn here. I had different spaces I could exist in, probably like anyone else, in a way, but this enchantment came to be seen also as “charming.”

Not to me. Not fun at all, actually. This theater artist, he saw that. I think, or I ended up thinking that he did.

But, good news — all worked out. YOU go be ethereal. YOU go be charming in this way. I will do something with it, maybe, but I will no longer exist there. I wasn’t always that way, but you could call it escapism, maybe, I don’t know. Not the person to call psychic. Just to… give me two cents. I mean, this man, the syltherin/gryffindor, told me that the shaman, the leader of this group, told him that he was basically just a glorified drug dealer, and was that true? Or was he just saying that? I think what I learned, more importantly, is that, when boundaries dissolve, one should keep in mind whether or not they are doing drugs. Just because I happened to be around drug users, quite simply, not knowing that. I did not need to be here. Bringing me into this… looking at my ex, that was not necessary. NONE of my friends, no offense, got that involved. But I had boundaries issues, where I would go all in, in general, which was not that hard to correct. The guru represents that, as well.

When you’re in the driver’s seat, in your car, your life, it’s a different experience. And, I myself, was surprised by what I came to learn. So…thanks Hannah Arendt, really, truly, and I got through that mess. I do nothing, now. Nothing. I didn’t do anything outside of this context, but I was a marijuana smoker, but I don’t even smoke, anymore, just that whole decade, um, even watching my best friend become more lured in by all this, without any judgment even in the user, occassional user, this is NOT my problem. It’s just a no. I’ll be drinking a glass of wine, over here. My best friend threw himself a 40th birthday where he had every drug under the sun available… and my other friend went and called me to tell me. “Wow…” riiiiiight, I thought. So no. Even just smelling weed on every single person that walks into this restaurant, truly, there’s weed everywhere in NYC, it just turned me off. I was like, hmmm, no thanks. I’ll see for CBD, sometimes, as I can get so nervous, but I was always a sober person, in fact, and my cousin, Kristin, she got into weed in high school, and she smoked A LOT back there, it’s true.

No thanks, no thanks, no thanks. Good for you.

I’ll be drinking a couple Japanese inspired cocktails with my friend Steve Schneider, or Jonathan Tucker, lol, as that’s who would play him, and steering clear of the rest, generally. I didn’t want to get into drugs, simply. I just stopped too, I didn’t find these addictive, in that, I NEED them, it wasn’t that. It was more, these states aren’t that comfortable, and I wasn’t treated appropriately. And of course, I could be shaman, that’s the development starring George Clooney as shaman. “You could be a shaman…” I had “gifts,” in this regard, and perhaps it’s true. I could be a plant medicine facilitator, that’s what I was told, and what people believe. That I am truly a gifted psychic. So there you go, food for thought. I could have been the one showing up… and leading you through all this… and who wouldn’t want me to be there with aviators on? Who wouldn’t want to see ME as their shaman? It’s basically Barbara Harris showing up… in a flora jumpsuit she would never be caught dead in.

In other words, I’m adept at psychological states, I guess, and talking to people about problems, or whatever, as a safe person. I don’t know if I have a problem with shamanism, I don’t, I was surprised that I was here. I liked the shaman, I’m trying to work on my shaman persona, it’s not working in public yet, but I’m working on “Maria the shaman,” I need to get in a rehearsal room and channel Jim Carrey, evidently. “But I am a shaman…” that routine went well on the comedy circuit. People laughed… when I said, “imagine you’re seeing shit… and I’m the one who arrives in the middle of all this, somehow THERE and also HERE — to lead you through: Blossom, from the TV show. “I’m a shaman…” though maybe more on the clown end of that idea, I guess. I just can’t even with my clown thing, no offense, I just want to get married and have a nice house. That’s basically where I’m at.

I’m a bit too confused, bit too confused in the multi-verse, with Dr. Strange, somehow, there, you know, the character… bit too confused with bending reality this way, that way, um, just too much. And I believe shamans would back me up. I’m sure I can use social channels to BE the shaman, BE. As is. No need to be anything OTHER than Neapolitan. My cousins would laugh. “Sure, you want a shaman??? They could find you a shaman in Naples pretty quickly.” I am a wise person, lol, apparently. A true wiseman. So I will attempt to ACCESS the shaman within and speak from here, to you… smiling… as this is the arena of society… the shaman knows. I have to keep developing it… the persona… as I can sort of impersonate the shaman, which I think could be so funny—even to him. Like he would laugh. “Many doors,” he carefully lays them out, “are opening…which one will you choose?”

Again, I don’t have problems around the utility of drugs, evidently, as people use them all the time… it’s more… where I ended up within this… world. And, not everyone responds to it, heck, the shaman doesn’t even… take these. So there you go, the last decade. Whoa. Onwards… but none of these people were there for me at all, when I started contacting them in a state of emergency, clearly. Not any help at all. Nothing. Just nothing. So I do not like them, I do not buy them, and their response to my experience was ridiculous. The shaman told me that my experience in the hospital had to do with “belonging…” really??? Not one question about my body, not one. And this ex of mine, what a joke. What a goddamn joke, speaking of facilitators, just get the fuck out of my way.

The guru, listen to this. The guru and the slytherin, they both spoke of betrayal…? This is about betrayal, when I just got out of a hospital, does this make sense to you? Don’t I need reassurance? Kindness, tenderness? Betrayal? What betrayal??? Jokes. Who was betraying me? No one could just be real? Like real, for real, like “this is what happened in CLEAR language?” This wasn’t ethereal. I’m sorry. I was appalled. And like, to be honest, that word, I was thinking about it last night.

You see, it was my ex’s idea, to put me on the phone with the slytherin after the mysterious message came through my website at 5 AM, randomly, and I acted… strangely no? A fact that they did not share with my friends who came into the equation later. Why? And then, he farted. So it was premeditated? Meaning this was discussed beforehand? He had to prepare for that fart, most definitely, probably eat a good helping of something because that fart was long, hard, intentional. Riddle me this, no? Why did he put him on the phone, when I was royally, clearly, freaked out? When I was obviously freaked out? After that message. A couple of months later, I ended up in the hospital for a day. I received this message in my gut, like physically, but I was also under a lot of psychological tension, maybe obviously. And I think most people would be on my side. I had a right to be freaked out. You see what a fucking nightmare this decade was? So, it was true, wasn’t it? Doesn’t it sound true? That he sent me this threat that my banka account was going to be shut down, AFTER I discussed getting my money back? Call it an emotional move. Meanwhile, these GURUS are telling me I CALLED THIS IN from the ether to “deliver the final blow…” whatever the fuck that means…

I was a GIRL at a CAFE—to the fucking guru from Hollywood.

So fuck all these people. I got the message, regardless from the slytherin. I thought of writing him a little note. I just might. The almightly slytherin. I do not fear him or his tyrannical moves — that he can make, apparently. He boasted of those. Organizing protests… for example… acting as if he had a right to do so.

I can’t prove it, obviously, who sent that stupid message at 5 AM, but him farting on the phone was enough, obviously. And he just looks like a loser. Not me. AGAIN, to state it from the tops of buildings with a goddamn microphone — I was in a goddamn sex scandal when I was four not fourteen. ALL OF THIS wasn’t therapy. It was not my responsbility to go assist this man, looking at my ex, when he took too many drugs. Fuck you. The zen master sybil was right. This was the problem. Angela, too, an empath, for real, like step aside, this woman is the real deal. It’s not that you feel everything, that’s not exactly it.

“Fuck you.”

She doesn’t even know she’s an empath, “what?” That would be her response. But just because you feel everything doesn’t mean you’re ACCURATE. Something to keep in mind. Too many feelings. Too many feelings not enough IN BETWEEN, questions, connection, yes. I have a Brazilian mother within me, and watch out, she could take you out most definitely with her magical whip.

And luckily I am Neapolitan, because they know, they’d help me, IN PUBLIC, you don’t even know, and TRUMP would watch, even, laughing, as we go APESHIT in PUBLIC — and kill HIM, you, doesn’t matter. We’ll drive to your house. If we must. This isn’t a problem to a Neapolitan. Fear of death, it’s not ancient, it’s modern. We want to revolt, break shit. That spirit or force at least helped me expell all this, reject it, revolt— on a matter of principle in this case. Like you’ve got to be joking.

I needed to expel all this, I really did. I definitely did not deserve all this. And of course, right, I stopped calling a blond, in this group, always a blond, lol, as a joke, because, you see, they all care for one another, if they get into an argument, if they don’t talk for a while — I got the picture. And it doesn’t apply to me. So fuck you.

When you break up, more or less, to my ex, it’s called — it’s over. Meaning, stop calling me. Coming to Paris, with drugs, WHY??????? Fishing for wives, when I do not live there. And then, I don’t know what to DO because I don’t LIVE THERE, and then I move back to bullshit. And the beauty of it? The beauty of it? I don’t give a fuck about your side. Share it with your therapist. Because, this is why, I worked out my issues with power. You see what I mean? Go fuck yourself. And now what? Taking a breath, once again, I came from a background. A sex scandal. I’m aware… now. And you? Why did you do what you did? So I used the f bomb a lot, but that was… the therapy that actually helped, what can I say? It sucks to have to say that to your own family, but that’s what I needed to do in my case — a giant fuck you to my father, my mother, Angelica, Nicole, that whole family, my cousins in JERSEY, especially this white bitch, no offense, and of course, my mother now and her family. And my cousins, but that’s a bit less, and pointed at two people. F you, F you, the ghost of Barbara Harris and I have work to do…

Luckily, I met an actress. You see. I know who you are. I know that an actress can haunt you, you know? I can say that on a comedy stage. It’s sort of true, it feels, like people know that. An actress can haunt you. It is in her power. I do not know for the males. But an actress can haunt you. And luckily, she did for I had material on her person… right? As we spent these four days together, and is that literally true? You know what I mean? This line has gotten really muddled. And I felt the public stage sort of makes that apparent. It’s a joke. But then, people believe in… energy, life after death — none of it is my problem.

Nonetheless, it’s true in a sense. (I’m laughing). So, if you have information about an actress, she may haunt you… and she may help you, if she sees you’re in trouble. So we got through it, we did, and now I am free to pursue what I’d like to, what she felt upon seeing me, that I might be an actress. She believed in me in that way after spending some time with me. She didn’t understand the writing… but then, I’m not bad, I could write my own stuff, she did. Harris did. That’s what they all did. So I’m behind an actress, you see, I fear not her power. I think that’s funny, actually. Just hiding. She is my shield. Just watch out.

Anyway jokes aside, it helps to just let this go… joke around a little bit since that was so terrible and unreal. That guru should not fancy himself a gifted psychologist, and why that would be insulting to him I don’t know, nor should he act like his philosophy might directly apply to someone he cannot relate to, even. Be real. That would be my Jungian advice to him. Enough. I wouldn’t be there at step two, for sure, though cutting me off at the cafe, and telling me “not that’s not it,” as someone else did to me once upon a time, would never fly. These men probably wouldn’t even want to hang out with me because I wouldn’t put up with even a pound of their bullshit. And that includes the Romantic professor of my past. Just an Arendtian understanding of things. And it’s not bad. Like I said, she really helped me make sense of all this. “So she meets a Romantic professor in the true sense…”

“A true Romantic.”

And I pursued a relationship with him, unreal to me. A friendship, but now, I’m like, why?

I would never do any of this again. I’m not redoing any of this, which is the point. I would have never gotten close to him. He’s my professor, cool, he has a mystique, persona, who cares? I’d been to Europe more times than he had by the time I was fourteen. Cool…continent. Sure. I’m from LA, which tells you “everything you need to know,” grow up. It was just a reflection of me… for sure. With the guru, that got scary. With some of these characters, that got frightening. Like if I were to see my ex, I would politely ask him to not approach me. “Portal channel and antenna traveling on multiple planes of existence? Please stay away from me.” Like that. Like these people didn’t even care if I lived or died, only that they insisted on their truth, and that’s really true. And the shaman might even agree. Who my ex doesn’t even talk to anymore… so. Thanks for the ride.

All this obsession with feeling, I’m telling you. I’m still working that out. It’s way too much. And it’s everywhere. Everyone I know, with my French friend, it’s un petit peu, it’s very small, is giving their feeling of something… based on what their picking up on a bit too soon… everyone since everyone wants to tell me how EVERYONE can relate, here, there, when some differences, some respect could be re-introduced. That’s what I would say “to everyone.” I do not do that. And I’m the most psychic of them all, apparently. My writer friend, he doesn’t do that. I know people who don’t do that.

That was definitely not a good idea. And it is clarifying to talk like this.

So— I could probably write a dissertation about what I went through, and perhaps one day I will. For the moment, it’s time to go about my day, and keep letting all this go. In the end, I can’t forgive myself, for ending up where I did, no? Forgive myself for “what I did?” Looking at all of it with new eyes, most certainly, still able to move in and out of who I was and who I am becoming… so I hope I worked out what I needed to, even if real life can feel hard, sometimes, but I’m working on that, sure, trying to find more ease, but that was a hard ride, through the unreal. But I’m happy I’m here, I did that without much assistance at all. I don’t have problems with states outside of some of that future thinking, which can stir me up, because I sometimes think about what I’d like to work on… comedy wise… or something… and that spins me up, where I think, sometimes, like that thinking is going to POKE reality in some direction… but it’s only a treadmill, so I have to stop, it’s getting better, I did not have mental problems, if that makes sense, not like that, it was these real people around me, obviously. I have to go into a rehearsal room. I think about it sometimes, but I gotta tell you, all that stuff was so confusing. I don’t know, if that’s going to help me… if you would… but having a positive mindset, sure, that’s gotta be helpful, and I don’t think that was my problem, though being too positive, that wasn’t always positive, obviously, thinking I can’t get hurt, that I can’t meet weirdos, even. Okay, I’m here, and I’ll think about how to realize my vision… and make it, sure, looking at Hannah Arendt, who doesn’t get the “big deal.”

Read books.

Try and meet people.

Find a boyfriend.

Sign up for an acting class. I need to practice a bit.

Work on a show. Find a production company? Stuff like that.

That was a real mess. But I guess my family was a real mess. That too. I still have to clear my body of these “governing principles” I’d call them… but for the most part, it keeps clearing. On that end, being in a very real place and talking with people has helped. Just a job.

This guru infected my heart

The guru infected my heart. I can’t even think sometimes without this guru flooding my mental processes, though it’s related to my heart, when I’m trying to speak from there or drawing conclusions about things. He will flood me. I was manipulated by him, most definitely. He had psychic senses. He FELT everything, he — and this activates my heart — he manipulated me emotionally. “THEY FEED YOU,” he kept saying to me, about my cousins in my draft. Just saying they feed you with — emotion, he spoke like a manipulator, I think. What the hell was he thinking? He got it in his head that I wasn’t fed as a child…what a gross man. But he didn’t tell me that directly… he suggested it, implied it, over and over again.

I keep trying to work this person out, which works, but it has taken years— and it’s horrible. My heart hates the guru, hates him. I hate this person. I think what he did was childish and stupid. Acting like a guru. I absorbed this person. He acted like he knew what my story was. That’s why you don’t act like a psychologist, you don’t impose your belief system onto someone. Congratulations — you have one. So he plagues my heart. There’s nothing that hating this person is going to do, I know, but I want to confront him, I want to. I can’t let it go. I want to show up at his sister’s house. I do. I don’t want to let it go. It helps to state that. “The psychic period,”as I call it, as even he believed that I was psychic, it still messes with my head. This is what I mean. All this talk of telepathically communciating, like I did not need to absorb that, and that’s for his brother, too. I keep relinquishing this idea that I am psychic, but this idea clutched onto my body like claws, partially because different men, strangely, told me this. I don’t totally know what to say, because the degree to which this man in in my body, now I’m better, but it startles me, as I am working with a specialist over whether or not I was taken advantage of…

Looking back on our initial exchanges in person, they were disturbing.

I hate my life right now, just to get it out. I cannot believe that I’m here, as a person. I was not unfortunate, but I made stupid decisions. Like, getting involved with the guru. That relationship royally messed me up. Now, I’m struggling because I don’t know if I can even get a waitressing job, as I figure the next part of my life out, because I’m having hip problems. I greive, a lot, because these men came into my life, presenting themselves as experts who had psychic senses, when I was better off on my own. I didn’t have any problems “manifesting my reality” ten years ago, and now, I’m angry, because what I needed to do was really really simple. I struggle, stiil, on some days.

I don’t know what to do, I’m still sore, and I have to work today on this floor again that made this weird pain flare up again. Ugh, I know I will make it through this terrible episode, I just feel like I wasted my young years, meditating like who gives a shit? I had a positive outlook, so I don’t understand why this guru wrapped up me in nothing but problems and then put that on me. That person should be kept far away from any women he might find attractive. He did confess his love… in the most bizarre fashion. He gestured to himself, “you have my love, you can’t disappointment me,” which was wrapped up in some I-TANYA dvd he let me borrow and my roommate lost, by accident, and that’s what he says. He called it a psychological set up — manipulation — and then proceeded to tell me that he loved me, ???, role playing some version of my father he had in his head, as he had identified (and I’m like, why am I here) that disappointment was the feeling between my father and me… when I was never disappointed in life, ever. Imagine? NOW, yes, I’m beyond disappointment, I’m devastated. Why was this necessary?

So I have my moments of feeling wronged, yes, taken advantage of, yes because I came from… a tough couple of parents, mentally ill parents. So whatever, I have to move on regardless, for the moment at least, I don’t know HOW I’m going to contact his sister, Leslie, because what does she care? But I will. That was crazy. Does she believe in their new age stuff? I can’t believe that. Does she know what they believe in? Apparently, my friend who introduced me to these people told me she said NOT to, don’t introduce her to them, not even one of them, but them, her brothers. So why was I? So, maybe it will make me feel better to say, I will be heard one day, I will reach out to them, I will be treated with respect. Yeah, I think he does owe me some money, in fact. I could have died, practically, with him telling me that a fictional character in my head was a “really good psychological device.”

“FEEL YOUR FEELINGS.”

I mean, malpractice.

That’s my true feeling, just to state it. That he engaged unethically with me. He crossed a line. And line. And I came from the background that I did, so that’s my reason, so what’s his? He disturbed me. My parents were disturbed. Anyway, another day, just continuing to let it go, and keep on envisioning where I’d like to be, as I never expected — I don’t know how to put that — that I would have taken that turn that would have robbed me of my joy, robbed me of sanity, I mean, this man, and his brother, telling me that in the fiftteenth ccentury, I would have been the one to speak to animals? That I was psychic within twenty minutes of meeting me??? Giving me channeler tapes? And then he thinks he’s the person I should talk to…after I get out of the hospital? That guru didn’t call me once. After all that stupid talk, speaking to me like a dog, commanding me “I’m HERE,” over and over again. What on earth was this man doing? He manipulated me. That’s probably why I feel messed up in my heart. It helps to speak to this way, it does.

That’s it. I hate this man. He was worse than my own parents.

Let's recap my last two months

Since everyone is obsessed with manifesting and I got so so wrapped up in this guru and his brother and others who really believe in it, I’ve been keeping track of what I’ve been doing as I’m trying to envision what I want my life to look like.

It’s August 8, 2025. I got back to New York on June 11. This is what I’ve done in two months. I’m trying to move fast.

I put down my bags in a — I don’t like being rude — shithole, sort of, an apartment that ended up having bugs in it. It belonged to an old painter, he had health problems. His painting station was in what could have been the living room, so there was no place to sit down, and he clearly sectioned off this living room to make himself a little corner so he could rent out the two little rooms. The bugs didn’t, luckily, live in my room but they were…around. Going into the kitchen at night, I shone a light on the ground, and there were roaches…not the monstrous ones, luckily, but the smaller ones. I flipped out. I gave up going to the bathroom at night. Forget it. He kept fans going constantly because it apparently scared them away — hmmmm, yes and no. I knew that my re-entry was going to have rough patches, but I keep telling myself that I can move fast. I felt like I was seventeen, just moving to the city, type of deal, so I chalked it up to that, and started looking for another apartment — really fast.

On June 12, I went to my first open mic off Washington Square Park. The day after I got back, that was launching a spear into the ground, I mean what I say. I was jetlagged, who cares? I just needed to rip the bandaid off.

I crossed my old campus, NYU, laughing at myself, trying to forgive myself. NYU was not my dream, being a performer was, and here I was… just going to an open mic twenty years later. Passing this college on by… I made peace with my journey, though I admittedly struggled with it and still do, but I feel like I just passed through another door this evening. I felt lighter.

Like I said in a previous post of mine, my current compass is: “there is always a way, I just do not know what the way is,” which is the important part, I think. I know there is always a way…I just don’t know what it is, so…what is it? I want to know.

I’m trying to turn this moment in time into an experiment to keep myself on my toes, get more engaged, active, clever, hungry. We build over time, that’s another idea I’m thinking about, so I’ve mostly been giving myself s p a c e…

Comedy had popped up when I wouldn’t have ever thought that I could do comedy, but it presented itself, and I started to see a way, like maybe my family would do well up there. I know there is a way, I just don’t know what it is, and are you willing to meet it? Real life. What I have in my head might not exactly work in real life… so I’m translating something and I’m not going to be able to do the end product the second I get up there… I decided to give it a shot.

That’s my state of mind right now… allowing the way… to present itself… meditating or being in a thoughtful state… I’m building over time… and the beauty in it, thus far, I’m beginning to get in touch with my own potential…

I am 39, too, I have no contacts, I’m starting over. So — I’m not 19, I’m not the ingenue, anymore, though I could probably play a mermaid… with the ghost of Barbara Harris haunting/helping me. But I have to be realistic, on the one hand, age appropriate, um, generate my own material, stuff like that.

I set a goal of going to an open mic once a week when I first got back, and I figured that if I enjoyed it, it would take care of itself. I’d just go more often. Between June 12 and August 8—I must have gone to about 20. I wonder if it’s more actually, only because I’ve been going almost every day. I take days off, but I’m going regularly. But I’m dealing with a lot of moving parts, so I knew that I’d be slowing down one…a week, picking up speed another… as I’m building over time…

I had to just find whatever job I could find, which I found at the end of June, and I started in the beginning of July. I kept my writing job abroad, so I get up between 4:30-6 AM. I have a tiny other writing job, but they don’t pay remotely enough to live in New York City. So I got a hostess job off Columbus Circle because it was the first thing I could find, which doesn’t pay me anything either, and, after my first real week of working, I had to get cranial sacral therapy. I had hip pain but in the bones… I ended up taking the week off… so that sucked… the floor of this restaurant is harder than concrete…and I made sure to ask many people today if they agreed, and they did. But…I aim to move fast…

I’ll pause here because the guru might say, why are you creating this reality? But I much prefer seeing it slightly differently because I see psychology as structural… so I’m back and building, so I might run into little problems because I’m figuring out how to build…for the most part, it’s been pretty smooth, though last week, I finally moved into a new apartment because I arrived and I had to get out of my apartment as soon as possible. So I was depressed a couple of days—just landing after these horrible years of traveling — exhausted. I needed to accept where I was at, and I felt weighed down by everything I was trying to do…

So August 1st, found the apartment, in the neighborhood I wanted to be in, and I’m right next to Central Park, so I did it. I wanted to be uptown rather than be in Brooklyn or Queens.

By July 11, about a month in, I stepped out on a comedy stage and fluidly spoke for 5 minutes… I wasn’t nervous, I felt I had progressed a little. And in the spirit of finding “help” along the way, as I thought, now that I’m aligning to what I thought was my true calling, I should get more sensical help, no weirdos, you see, though my radar is up for sure. And this comic said “Rodney’s…” and I thought, I’ll go tonight.

I went to Rodney’s, that seems to be the spot these days…? Next to comedy cellar, I forgot, next to The Producer’s Club, a spot I like too, brings together a real crowd, and they’re supportive but not liars. At Rodney’s, that’s a nice space, a real club, cool decor, a place I’d go to watch a comedy show. It was at 7:45 pm, so later on at night, and the later mics are typically more crowded, and yes, that’s the goal, I want people to come, I want to perform for a lot of people… it helps me to think about…

Okay, how am I going to tackle this. Right now, with the sex scandal routine, telling you about my family, I’m still figuring out how to deliver it, and the logic end of it, I don’t even know what to say yet. The psychic stuff, actually, I think is pretty good, but most of my material is puzzling you see. lol. But I finally, I did an open mic at the cool spot next to Producer’s Club, and I finally got a laugh on “and then she accused him of being a child molester…” and I was so excited. “Finally!”

And through all this, I’m consciously digesting these experiences, thinking about them, and getting inspired. As my job doesn’t require my mental functioning at all, it’s very easy to spend time thinking about the show I want to do without being that married to any set idea. I wanted to do a show about the sex scandal I was in, a comedy show, like Jesus I need a drink. I need a stiff drink. But then, I have other ideas, so I’m mostly trying to have fun and explore.

Now, at the same time, I’m trying to get back into singing. Goal one: just get a gig somewhere, like at a restaurant, but I have to find a musician as I don’t play an instrument…

I started singing again about a couple of years ago. I started in the park along the Bosphorus, poetic, I was between two worlds. It was going to take me some time to get back into shape, honestly, so that’s the beauty of time, you build over time. I pretty much warm up every day now, at least, though I fluctuate, but I want to sing again… so I’ve been working on that too. Now, in having fun with this idea that “there is always a way,” I figured, nothing in my life has worked out thus far…

And don’t hestitate, admit it to yourself.

I felt like I met false helpers this past decade, false helpers when I started writing, and now that I’m working out the kinks, and my family is out of the way, I hopefully aligned with my dream, and if this is what I’m meant to do, then I should get help, finally, along the way… that makes sense. I feel like you should start seeing results quickly, in a sense, if you’re in a flow…

My roommate who moved out pretty much when I arrived who had just arrived himself was a musician—experimental, exclusively. (He said, “the bugs are here.”) He gave me a link to a Facebook page for musicians, he gave me some tidbits of information: the jazz world is clicky and exclusive, boom. The country music scene might be a good idea because it’s smaller but there is one. And I can sing Dolly Parton, I can actually sound like her, but I have to keep working on it.

So around mid-July, I have to look up these dates, I went onto this group page. I saw some man looking for a singer. Okay, I think I’m ready, my voice is at a sufficient spot, even if it’s not, I’m trying to stay on top of the wave… I’m not ready so I’m on my toes…allowing that sensation to propel me forward— get a little uncomfortable. I had to make “demos.”

I spent a week, a full week, working on a few songs and trying to clarify my point of view, which I think would be the best piece of advice to give someone wanting to be an artist. I’m trying to think strategically, like, what would sell, what would I like to sing, and what material would be… a smart choice. Again, there is always a way, but when ideas start presenting themselves, do you have the courage to meet it.

I wasn’t expecting it, that’s what I mean, because doing comedy was never even a thought in my mind though I’ve watched a lot of comedy. Or, enough. Funny enough, I had a daydream with Dave Chappelle… literally speaking. The comedian Dave Chappelle suddenly appeared in my mind (as he’s the reason why I pursued comedy) and he looked at me as if even he were…taken aback. “You can sound like Michael Jackson sometimes…” and I gasped, “what?” And I went running to my computer, and I thought, wait a minute… I sort of can. But I was going to have to work on it. Should I? Dave Chappelle was…pretty sure…how funny is that? So I started working on Michael Jackson, and by God, it’s true. I suppose I heard glimpses of it unconsciously, but that apparition of Dave Chappelle really made me laugh.

So I mostly have been listening to him and Dolly Parton, and I ended up hovering around soul music, actually, as I have a clear voice, and I have soul, it seems, but I would have never thought of it… but I was actively trying to think, what would work? And people all automatically suspect that I sing jazz, which is hilarious, when I’m singing PYT. This is a song I can sing, hilariously. I have to work on it, but it’s coming along. I’m learning from baby Michael and adult Michael. And I can sound like Blossom Dearie, so I want to do standards in her style, sort of.

So I’ve found myself in the unexpected, left and right, and I’m delighted by what I’m coming to discover about myself.

So, it took me a long week to make these demos, who cares, I’m not in the best shape as a singer yet, but I sound good. Sometimes, I even sound great. I got those done, I sent them to my first couple of people in July. One was in a band needing a singer, the other was a pianist who disappeared. We haven’t been able to re-connect, but I didn’t want to sing that music.

I’ve found on this journey to find a way, to figure out how to make it work, I’ve found that I’m actually not saying yes to everyting. I’ve been saying no a lot. No distractions or getting muddled.

By the end of July, so July 30, I went to my first singing open mic at Soho Playhouse at like 9:45 PM, yikes, I finally got on at 2:30 AM. Thanks to my experience going to comedy mics, I was less nervous, but it doesn’t matter, I’m not going to sound like anything. So I got it over with, but it was hilarious that I sang “You’ve Got a Friend” at this event…but that’s the thing about Barbara Harris, as it was sort of in her universe as a choice, even if she wouldn’t have made it, heartfelt in other words, and that, interestingly, isn’t the choice that anyone is making. Lol.

But I needed to sing it to myself. I needed tenderness. Just because my friends really broke my heart, on this one. I just needed to get the first open mic over with.

My eye is on the clock, the calendar. I’m definitely tracking my progress, I’m definitely scared, but I’m trying to find ease, so I can just take another step.

And you know, though I have less than I ever have, I find that I enjoy what my life looks like… I ended up at this cute little Italian restaurant nearby Soho Playhouse, so I sat down on a terrace and had a good bowl of pasta, I don’t know. I find myself liking the neighborhoods I end up in, and I’m discovering the city that way.

I ended up in a hotel to work between looking for more work, so I sat at the bar in Chelsea, and a band began to play in the lobby. I turned and thought, they figured it out, so I should be able to, even if it takes a second. I’ve been taking note of where I see musicians playing.

I put up a post to fish for a musician that first week of August. sI have four sessions scheduled this weekend and next week, so August 8 today. I found four musicians who enjoyed my voice, and a band, even, that’s already been rehearsing that’s looking for a singer. They want to get gigs around town, so however it happens, who cares? I’ll be going to sing with them next Friday in Gowanus. And no one seems to know who Blossom Dearie is, which surprised me. That’s the style I’m working with.

I’m at month two and going into my third. I have to solve my money problem. I have to get another job because I can’t do this floor. I bought special shoes, insoles, which helped, but this is a no way. That floor is insane. And everybody agrees. They speak of their pain, a lot of pain. One of the servers said he gets home and his knees are red and swollen. The other hostess today was kicking her feet, bending, visibly uncomfortable. Good, I thought, just in case. So that sucks, I don’t know what’s happening here… but the truth is, this area of my life was a mess, sorry. Hannah Arendt just popped up in my mind and supported me in saying that, lol. So, this might take me a moment. I need to find more writing jobs… I tried to reach out to hedge hunters, I have to do another round, but I also don’t quite know what to do in this area of my life, so I’m figuring it out. I have a financial goal, though, so it might take me a second to get there, but I have it. I have to keep looking for work, but I’m trying to cultivate ideas in that regard as well, how could I make money…?

Today, I mean, I could start a YouTube channel, and that could bring me an income. So I’ve been researching ways to make online and meditating on… a possible avenue… I took a step back from publishing on Substack, Medium, because it isn’t helping me. I don’t know how to make these platforms work for me…like, probably this genre of writing would do better, but I would have to make it bite sized.

I’m sort of exhausted with the thought of looking for a writing job… I’ve surrendered to the course with the book. I’m mostly working on the book proposal, so I have to read a number of pages a day of books in my genre… I’m going through what I have in my draft and publishing a section once a week to keep that moving forward. I find writing a book to be extremely difficult. I could say, “I should be telling myself it’s easy…” it’s easier to admit it’s hard. It’s hard, I find this hard. I’ve let it go a bit to give myself some more space…I’m in no rush. Writing this book put me through an intense experience. I’m no longer the same person though I feel much closer to myself, I feel that I’m thirteen sometimes, I’m in touch with myself as a child, as if there’s cohesion and sense. It’s sort of strange, sometimes. Feeling on track… like I had the right idea early on…

So that’s where I’m at.

I need to find another job—now. I have to get good at making money. There is always a way, I just don’t know what it is… so I’ve gotten ideas, beauty popped up as a beat, but it might fizzle out, that’s par for the course.

I’ve begun thinking about the next step… I want to get into acting again, now, that’s part three to my plan. I have to settle my finances first, so I can get that going. I’m doing this class that’s focused on getting an agent, this career coach basically figured out a way to reach out to agents that can actually work. I took it first so I could approach it as a business… what’s your castability, how are you selling yourself, what do you want to do…? This has taken a second, I’m just absorbing. I’ve begun thinking about that…mostly about what my point of view is. Barbara Harris inspired me to come from the heart, essentially. I’m playing with a particular state these days, a heartfelt state. I’m thinking about vulnerability. I’m thinking about Jim Carrey, though he’s another one of these appearances that I would need to work on…but I love him, for being able to exit realism, as I’d like to develop characters. So now, soon, I’m going to have to get into a rehearsal room and work material — comedy, characters, and even my singing voice.

So the next step presented itself. I have to get into rehearsal space soon even once a week. I don’t know how much it costs, so I’ll have to wait and see.

That’s the thing, I took this apartment, I have to remind myself, because I wanted to be able to make room to invest where I need to… that’s where I’m at. Once I get my finances settled, I’m going to sign up for an acting workshop that’s designed for people getting back into it. I’ll take it from there. I’d like to find an acting class that meets in person, obviously. I’d like to do one online too since self-tapes is apparently how everything is done now. I gotta figure out which One on One classes I need to go to, I have to sign up for Actors Access, I guess, so that’s a big content block, that’s going to take a minute, but that’s the beauty of time… I’m building over time…

I’m writing this, so I can keep track. I know I can move fast, that’s a skill I have, so I gotta move fast. I can’t work at this restaurant any longer, pretty much, not on this floor. I’m going to just get another job tomorrow, I gotta figure that out. I would love to have a cool job… maybe I’ll check out some non profits, or something that would entice me to write… but that’s what I mean, to find the right job, I’m going to have to look around, but in the meantime, I just have to keep myself afloat as that’s where I’m at. The faster I get that done, the faster I can get into that acting class, and the faster I can propel that forward.

I’m going to leave it at that, because I can’t foresee beyond that… it’s a bit more like bird by bird, in that, being future focused didn’t yield any results in my life… like, the future, in my mind, does not write the past. I still find myself in these awful headspaces where I’m living in the future, and it’s so awful. No offense to that guru, I’m not manic, or so swingy, but that really threw me off. Seeing the book as a complete thing didn’t help me at all. Just take it bit by bit. So I still struggle with it, because it’s also so seductive… like, I can imagine this unreal future that’s stirring me up emotionally to be — let down. Not really. I’m trying to embody where I’d like to go, but I am trying stay present and build step by step.

On the subway, I was reminded of a story that guru told me that I enjoyed, about how the Pacific Islanders got to Hawaii. Apparently, they had a system of navigating the sea with palm leaves (?) and they mapped the currents, and based on their advanced understanding of the ocean, they could tell something was way way out there… a mass of land…which is hilarious considering the distance they would have to cross. “Well, no problem,” they thought, all they have to do is put their boats into the currents, and they would arrive there… eventually. But they knew, because of how currents flow, that they would veer off course, and sometimes way off course, as the currents do not move in straight lines. But they would still be on course… they would get to Hawaii, and they did.

I have those moments… when I went to the singing open mic, it felt a bit like I was in left field, in Soho, too. I met a weird guy. I sang for the first time, and I didn’t want this man around me, or be around people. I ended up in Times Square 3:30 am, wondering why I even did it. The next day, something came together. The guy from the night before gave me two useful pieces of information as he also does comedy: “logic and delivery…” I pocketed that. Then, he said the same old line that everyone says, and now it’s a warning sign, “do you know who you remind me of?” “Uh huh.”

“Someone really important to you?” I finished his sentence. “Yes.”

“Everyone says that to me,” I smiled. I’m dashing dreams for sure.

But I thought about acting. Okay, so I’m the person who reminds everyone, it seems, or a lot of people of someone they loved in their childhood, like, their dearest friend, I don’t know, lol. The thing is, I’m tuning in, in a particular way. I’m meeting people, listening, learning. I’m trying to. And I thought, in that moment, maybe I should get on social media. Comics put videos up, so maybe I can do that in my own way, so with that, I decided to exercise the same approach I applied to open mics … all I have to do is do it, basically, without any pressure, and like anything else, it will naturally fall into place. But I saw that a woman got an agent, she was discovered on social media, so why wouldn’t I use it…? I don’t want to close doors because I, personally, do not like social media, and I, personally, have been running up against my friends, annoyingly, so so annoyingly, here and there… like, no offense, and I mean that really, I don’t even want to follow you on social media… and vice versa… it’s a public platform. YOU might not use it that way, but that’s how it’s used, and Jay Shetty started in an attic? You build over time. If you can’t lay down the first brick, you won’t get anywhere.

So, we’ll see, I know that there is always a way, but I just don’t know what it is… so what is it? It takes a second sometimes. And again, this is a conversation, because you, I, might come to be surprised as to what ideas begin to come up… really? Me? How about that? I’m going to change, you see, as a result of taking a journey… over time… so I’m on that road right now, getting in touch with what wants to come out of me, what’s being pulled out of me, as I’m communicating with what works, what’s really going to work, what makes me an artist… that’s been fun…

I want to do well, that’s the basic idea. I want to succeed. I want to sell books. I want to put my stories out there. Whatever I need to do or can do, I’ll do. I want to fulfill my greatest potential too, so that’s what’s driving my thinking, so I’m going, “okay, should I work at a mental health center,” maybe not, but I would like to align myself around interests and gifts. Maybe I’ll figure out some people to pitch my services to that way, too. I’ve been reading a lot of Medium articles, so I know that that type of content does well there.

So that’s where I’m at. I think I feel solid about it. I need to find a way to generate real money, for the love of…

That’s it for this evening.

How to move forward

Here’s the thing: I understand that I am Joan Didion according to the slytherin I got involved with, and that I should think like her. I also understand that I am Carl Jung, according to the guru…and a portal, channel, and antenna traveling on multiple planes of existence according to the plant medicine facilitator, seriously.

I would have appreciated being able to talk with someone who heard what I was actually saying. Just because, I feel like a child molester story can repel people. Just with my circle alone, I’ve had the worst time —the worst.

Do not expect sympathy or understanding, just don’t, if you come from a sex scandal of any kind. Probably people won’t believe you because you were four at the time, and people made decisions before you could cognitively grasp that…

AND they’ll believe that they are experts on this issue, they will act like they know, it was always the case, even when it was a lie.

But then there’s The Lovely Bones. That’s darker, stranger. In my case, Barbara Harris is haunting/helping me as I grapple with having been in a sex scandal when I was four and how to move forward now that we got through the worst of it.

It’s much friendlier and heartwarming.

In any case, I would have appreciated being able to strategize beyond Joan Didion and manifestation techniques - in that, these men created a mystique around me, the guru in particular, and I’m getting past it, but I find myself struggling with the residue of all this.

I could be successful, they said, I had what “it took,” I could be a star, a successful writer, but the tone was dramatic. It’s just now, now that the fuller story is coming out, I look back at these men confused. Is that what they meant? I was in a sex scandal so I had the type of story that could make me famous? Do you see what I mean? Was there skill? Was this insulting? Like yeah you were in a sex scandal… and it’s not like any of these people told me — you’re an amazing person, even. “Be amazing,” the guru said, “if I choose to be…” he wrote. So I wasn’t amazing, but I could be…? Can someone explain that? As I’m writing about a sex scandal I was in, you know what I mean? I could join the ranks of “the greats” in some capacity. Okay.

Sometimes, it sounds a little weird, because I don’t get the impression that anybody heard what I was saying, so I feel a bit confused. This guru said, get on social media, figure it out. It just feels weird, like I suppose I could look up and see if there’s anyone diffusing content around this subject, but I wasn’t aware that I was going to get to the place I am now… as I came to wake up to all this, meaning, I was a sex scandal, you see, and it feels weird to be diffusing that on social media… because this guru told me to…though he didn’t seem to hear what I was saying… like is this what I should be reaching for in my life? To become a public figure…because I was in a sex scandal.

Look, I mean, I’m working on a show, I would like to keep developing personas etc, especially my “tough mom” persona in aviators. I’m the head of the PTA, I’m training these kids for the school shooter— “this isn’t about avoiding the shooter kids, this is about killing the shooter, fast, you see. So let’s study the shooter, let’s study where’s he’s coming in from, and we’re—taking him out, fast. Real fast.

Picturing some cute kid with glasses having a hard time looking through the lens.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I’m passing out knives, sharp ones, I’m teaching them anatomy, where to strike to kill—fast. “This ain’t the movies kids. No suspense. Strike: here, here, and here, if you must, just take out the feet.” I’m teaching them how to get a gun prepared. That’s basically it. Chewing gum. I’ll work on that character.

It’s less that I have to talk about the stupid sex scandal all the time, but I have to put myself out there…as someone who came from a sex scandal…who just might be Josie Grossie, the real one, who gets a second chance to return to high school. I’m eyeing every teacher, I’m eyeing — every human being as someone who came from a sex scandal. Sure, I trust you. I do, I really do, come closer even. I have a knife on me, all times.

Head of the PTA. And yes, the ghost of Barbara Harris has assisted me in developing the idea. It’s really the truth. So I’ll work on that tomorrow as I’ll be going around to open mics tomorrrow. I still have to breathe and surrender to time and just keep moving everything forward. I just want to do a show about the sex scandal, but I have to work on my skill, actually, I have to keep figuring out how to tackle that, and what’s the best way of going about it.

It’s the social media platform, or navigating how to present myself and it without feeling sort of bizarre… given the subject matter…

Head of the PTA. Imagine the drill? All these kids — boom — Navy SEALs — station their weapons across the windows. “Very good.” It’s poignant even, because why the fuck are kids in this position to begin with…? So lets… in the chem department.. let’s make something that’s going to sting, real bad. Maybe eat through the clothes, something like this, any ideas? We’re going in hard for this one. Me jumping out a window.

Anyway, I feel better after I finished this post. It’s fine, I waiver a bit, because I feel rather alone, but not in a bad way, and I don’t want to present the wrong picture, if that makes sense, but I was in a sex scandal, so. And like, according to statistics, apparently this is a touch too common… right? So I’m not alone out there? Even if I’m struggling with WHERE it might have happened, etc.? I’m trying to think of it that way, I can’t help that I get comic about it, because that’s where my story existed, quite frankly. It’s just the comic dimension has range… it’s not just funny…

It’s a Joker card, I thought, that’s what this story is, and if I play it right, it could go well. Just trying to see a way for myself… and begin to create an identity and help myself build a platform? Isn’t this what I am supposed to do? Like, it doesn’t hurt? It’s just, I can’t help that the story would make someone cringe… if they heard, “she gave me away to someone else because she lied about him being a child molester…” wait what? Um, I mean, “I was in a sex scandal for a few years and I’m picking up the pieces now…”

“And you too can overcome intergenerational trauma…”

Alright, off to work I am.

I hope my hips don’t hurt.

Apero under the empire state building

And so, I saw my friend Charlotte this evening from Paris, France — she has a cool job at Google, she bought her apartment in Paris, and she gets to travel and stay in high rise apartments with views of the city…

I always love seeing her because she turns apero into a mini-meal of snacks: dips and chips, edamame, wine and beer and more. We sat on her roof, inside, and faced the wall of windows overlooking Manhattan.

I couldn’t help but reflect with my rosé, Charlotte didn’t have to deal with psychic talk, that she was a star outside of a context, (as she’s a star at work, yes). She didn’t have to deal with strangely belittlingly talk of being special. She just has a nice life.

She’s met some weirdos, sure, but she even tests at the genius level, even, and she still didn’t attract strange men into her life…wanting to help her…and she was better off, she’s not interested in being “a star” of some kind. And thinking about Joyce Carl Oates, with her fingers resting elegantly on her keys, ready to swiftly write books, I imagine her eyes on these men… “are you talking about my writing?”

“Is this what makes me a star?”

So I might have bumped up against men who liked how I looked. My personality caused problems in my life as well, as I had an inherent nervousness, partially because I didn’t understand why people reacted as they did to me, that story, and I lacked the ability to get over that and tell them to leave me alone, even. I’m in that postion now. “Fuck off.” And that, that simple shift — nobody got that.

How stupid it was, spending what I had inherited from my father, it wasn’t millions of dollars, that was the problem, I didn’t inherit a trust fund, where I wouldn’t have to work for the rest of my life. That was not my situation. But people either resented me for having it, which I didn’t understand, and others encouraged me to spend it. That hurt. It’s like, one year, two years, that turns into more, and we’re talking 15 years, not a few, it’s not that I went wild and spent it like crazy, it just was so stupid. And nothing I did worked, you see, so I hoped now I’ll be able to build, now that I can stay in one place, even, but spending that money was unnecessary. Who cares if I’m Joan Didion? Who cares if I could have a Lamborghini? What about, how are you investing your money? The money that you have. I wasn’t unfortunate, people.

The slytherin and the guru were so obsessed with grandeur, making it, that the BOOK the BOOK would change my life. Sometimes, I want to give up writing entirely because in tackling a profession like that, I ended up bumping up against that kind of energy which was so annoying. Was it not large enough a dream to want to buy a house? She has a great apartment in Paris, maybe she’ll buy the one next door and make two apartments in one. I was so so happy for her.

And here I am, older than she is, in some room.

I was surprised that money wasn’t real to these men as they had money. I got involved with men with money, thinking I might learn something from them, and I really didn’t learn anything except what not to do. None of these men, these geniuses, had the caring thought of saying, “don’t spend your money.” It’s just not necessary. The joke, the real joke was, the slytherin, he thought I was “good with money.” He fancied himself a psychic, like he had powers, too. Between him the guru, I was up to my ears in “specialness.” But he was really off the mark there.

I would have rather stuck to my friends, you know? They might not have millions and millions of dollars, as these men had, but that had a wonky effect. It’s funny, because I talk about “meta-structures” in my book, and gender would be one of them. These men might not be aware of their attitudes towards women, even one that they both found to be beautiful, though of course, they would never admit that directly. Another super annoying point. Cowards. What hurts me, personally? Like I gave a shit about my looks—obviously.

I curled up in this chair with a breathtaking view of Manhattan after gorging out on TJ’s snack and rose, I love the French, I love these long aperos, and she invited me to spend Christmas with her and her family, so I’m going to go, and I’ll spend a few days at her apartment, alone, because she’s going ahead of time to spend time with her family — so I’m going to take her up on her offer. She even bought me a book, an American in France who created a stand-up that did extraordinarily well, and he got a book deal. I’m going to read it. It was sweet of her. I told her I was looking for creative ways to make money. She suggested giving French people tours…

Brimming with ideas, I sat back and listened to her. She’s a generous person, thinking about these strange men I got involved with, where I couldn’t even talk to them about an idea I had, that was the guru, which is part of the reason why I wondered if he ever had friends… so I’ll think about that. I don’t really want to give tours, though it isn’t a bad idea, I feel like — I want to build a career of some kind, not be a tour guide. I don’t get that, the guru said once, in this field of you can make it, why didn’t I read the stories for the New Yorker, or something, like is that really what people believe? That’s the best I can do? Am I someone who doesn’t have a real gift?

I take that to mean that he liked my speaking voice, like I might be able to get into voice over work? I’ve heard that, that I have a nice voice. Charlotte was so excited that I was going to sing again, that I was trying to do that. I told her I was meeting with a few musicians this week, so we’ll see. Her psychic feeling, this thread, was so slight that it didn’t bother me, but if I hear, one more time, any words coming from that state of mind, I’m eliminating it. You and everyone else act like that. It’s not special. Not to say I don’t respect her feelings about a situation, they just don’t mean anything, necessarily. Not to me. I don’t do that to people. I don’t respect it, not anymore. So I don’t know what to say, because — I can’t quite graze who I was to people, as I went through such a profound change in self, so some of these suggestions from people don’t match the bitch that I am. I am a bitch, now.

Read stories for the New Yorker, um, okay?

My book, the one I’m working on, has given me a boost of confidence, but I hated smarts, I hated people like this guru, in fact, I held no respect for arrogance, as my mother was ridiculous. I ran into problems because of it, right? I decided to put myself aside to uplift others — what the fuck was I talking about? I laugh at my younger self. I’m a smart person, so I went against myself. Who I was, you see, wasn’t really me, that was an accumulation of decisions I made based on where I came from. These were “angsts,” that’s what I call them, and I see them in people, and they don’t even realize they are the ones holding themselves back. It’s like an annoying teenager, even if I was younger at the onset, it’s like a goddamn annoying teenager. Angsts. It’s young. “Go ahead, get our your boxing gloves…”

As I make fun of you…

You think you know someone, in other words, but you might not. With a child launching undercover investigations and showing such sophisticated thought processes, would you suggest to them to read stories for the New Yorker? Would you suggest being a tour guide? Even a writer. I wanted to be an actor, right? I wanted to be in film in some capacity because I could direct these characters and experiences into stories… that’s why I didn’t become a psychologist, because stories could reach more people, there was an empathetic quality built in. It wasn’t stupid. The connection and empathy, as a mini psychologist, was the most important aspect of it, especially for someone like me, I thought. I just lost myself…and it was hard to see how young I lost myself… I was better than any of these men’s small dreams. “Think Joan Didion.”

The guru believes I’m Carl Jung though, so why he dared play games with one of the greats though he’s controversial and simply the one everyone knows — I do not know. He was so beneath me, in this regard, sorry. I care too much for people to placate this man, as he actually harmed me in a real way. “I’m special, please,” just get the fuck out. Joan Didion, lol. Ugh, I have thought about going into psychology, I have, as I think I have real gifts in this arena, working with people too, as I think that’s what the tour guide means, though I would also be performing.

It’s just, looking at myself, I don’t know why, but Barbara Harris is a reference, because I see that I have a touching quality—which really got me into trouble, laughing with her in my mind —yikes. This “gift,” you can sort of keep it. “It’s yours.” I do not want it. That brought me major problems, major. My cousin in Italy, he said, “this is your primary quality…” and he didn’t get why I didn’t know that. Well, people don’t know that, you see. Not everyone wants to be touched.

But there’s a place I can direct it, meaning, I didn’t need people to make me MORE vulnerable in my real life. It’s just a quality, and for whatever reason, it really touches people. Someone vulnerable. I’m also working on letting a character emerge from the circumstances of the scene — that’s her, that’s improv. It wasn’t that supernatural, though she might have been, in that she had a condition of some kind that was really fascinating, and I mean that. The women of “many selves.” But I’ll get there, that book, now that I have a clearer idea as to how to go about conceiving of a book, quite simply, outside of “Hero’s Journey” logic, of not blocking the ways “it” could come in. I just have to get through one book proposal. I’m in nonfiction.

And if someone contacts me…in the meantime…that’s great.

I’m marinating on how to get back into acting, so I told her about my plan. I’m still struggling with the basics, though, so I have to keep adjusting my priorities. But first, open mics, because it’s the easiest way to just get up in front of a group of people and perform. Do something. Conceive of a one-person show. Now, I wanted to find a musician or two who wants to go out and get gigs. And then, because I’m going to need to invest on the acting front, I’m going to need to sort of my way of making money, so I can support that effort over there. I’ll need to take an acting class, I haven’t acted in… beyond YEARS. But that’s what I wanted to do…

And it’s Hannah Arendt’s hand that I use in presenting that information.

I don’t know what she’d say to “life is your idea…” I don’t think she’d like that, though Rahel Varnhagen might touch on “her life idea,” and Barbara Harris had one of those: a life statement. “Confidence comes from belonging…” so touching, and she doesn’t get it. Mine might be: there is always a way. Not “family.” We’ll see, there has to be a way, right? That’s what I’m trying to make real.

Like I said to Charlotte, I want to feel smart. Like, what I’m pursuing makes sense in that it’s bringing smart ideas out of me… I see a way. Writing feels, still, I have to admit, like a world I don’t understand. It hasn’t worked, and I believe in searing honesty, too, it helps, I think. Not like it can’t, but what I’m doing, I was telling Charlotte, working for these couple of publications, it’s sooooo not what I want to do. I would let go of them… even, just because I really didn’t want to write in this way. I feel so mediocre. So, no offense, the people I got involved with, I wish I never did.

That was strange.

But your world can configure itself to keep you locked in, in a way, so I got rid of that problem.

I do believe there is always a way, staring out into this cityscape, so I’m trying to think strategy. That’s what Charlotte does for Google. I have to keep developing and clarifying what I want to do, as an actor. I might be a character actor, that’s what my cousins believe that I am, so I have to see myself up there, right? See myself. What kind of roles am I playing? Where am I appearing? You see, I don’t need to be number one, I was never like that, so I like supporting roles, that might not be a bad idea, and I have to work out the rest…

I was watching No Country for Old Men, with that stunning vulnerable monologue that actress gave before Bardem kills her or the vulnerable monologue in that wine movie, you know? I don’t feel like looking this up right now, sorry. I have, but I just woke up. I could play a victim on SUV. I’m just riffing off what I think my gifts are, or I’ll keep working that out. What I’d like to do…

Being an artist might really comes down to having a point of view. That’s what I’m working out right now. What my point of view? As the sun sets over the city. A French person is always appreciating these moments. A good view. I have to keep reminding myself that I came back to really, actually, give myself a chance to perform… it’s just, today, I don’t think I have to struggle financially, I just don’t know how not to do that, given where I am.

I thought about an online course, I thought about digital products, maybe giving tours, it’s just, giving tours… doesn’t sit quite right. I should be able to figure something out — something smart. It’s like, these gurus, I suppose thanks, because I learned a lot from you, meaning, money is a bit of a game, I guess. But you want to make MORE money, not lose it. That’s a good idea to have. Don’t lose it. People do, I know, they lose everything, build fortunes again, I know. I know there’s a story for every person…staring out into the city. So I lost it, cool, I’m coming to accept that, and the way I did might bring people relief because it was so silly. They might laugh.

Especially as I turn to you in aviators, pour frosted flakes into a bowl, and tell you “you’re Joan Didion…” The flakes in the bowl, “all you gotta do is meditate… meditate the money into existence…” and like, looking at this Guru, “are you for real?”

In my case, I spent years meditating and that seriously hurt me, because basically speaking, I was not working. I didn’t need that approach, not someone from my background. I closed in on myself. Go out, learn how to pursue something, and not just writing either, as you might meet someone… even… who might be able to love you and support you even…? Your life can unfold in different areas… you can build elsewhere and that will support the rest of it…?

This is what I mean about having a narrow focus. This is what I mean about SLAPPING some method onto someone without the proper credentials. NOT seeing a world as a real entity, like this GURU came like Godzilla and knocked down columns — destructive. He was a destructive force. He might not have meant it, but in seriously looking back at his choices, it’s hard not to feel like he wasn’t that benign. Ridiculous. This relationship was absurd.

I have to always think of Barbara Harris, though I don’t know how her world functioned, but it was a WEIGHT — mine — most definitely. She’s haunting/helping me right now (lol), that’s what it feels like. And with bright eyes turning towards cowards who would never admit what their beliefs are, “is it real? Is it really Barbara Harris? Back from the dead?” I’d ask them. “Is it real?” I didn’t want to be a private form of amusement, no offense.

Like Jesus, woman, looking back at myself in aviators, “can’t you just meet a guy who wants to sleep with you?” Something simple. “Wants to get to know you…respectfully?” Isn’t giving you drugs in a hotel room claiming this is therapy or some kind of consciousness work? I felt like such a fool. I got so so hurt. Watch out, listen ladies, watch out for “experts.” Really look at this person — are they? Is this person…a good idea? At STEP ONE, that was clear, and I’m the type of mother, as I had to become a fierce one with someone like me, who’s getting up into your face. Enough of this nonsense. Pure nonsense. It’s not my fault, my mother was pure nonsense, my father was absurd, to begin. But that kid, me, okay? Put me through a lot. I mean, stripped me down, so that sucks, so.

When I was a kid, my child psychologist wanted to take me out of my house, when I was twelve. I was scared to bring this all up, you see, I was scared because I had problems I didn’t understand. Was I going to do well with normal parents? Who say, no, who sometimes limit what you could do in life…the possibilities of it all — again, that wasn’t my problem. So I had to become a tough mother, sure.

That’s a mother. I’m flying to YOU, in Chartres? If I am psychic, lol, I’m definitely finding you, I don’t give a shit where you are. I’m calling your friends, “where is she?” I will find you. I’m sending texts to my husband on the train— “absurd. She met a plant medicine facilitator who giving her drugs in hotel rooms.” I’m laying it down, I’m dragging you back to get help. Who the fuck is this? Psilocybin? What the fuck are you doing?

I’m not a cool mom. Not when you come from a sex scandal. I’m the head of the goddamn PTA. This makes sense. Let someone tell me to “work on something.” Like, you gotta “loosen up…” progress.

I was not a fluid type. People put that on me — I came from a BACKGROUND for the love of God. It’s called a BOUNDARY. I got involved with IDIOTS. Fluid, lol. Barbara Harris was. I just don’t know how much of that was drugs, too, since she was on drugs for most of her life. But she was, she was a real fluid, but a boundary, that concept, would have taken a lot of pressure off her. I just don’t always get the obsession with chemicals, when she had structural problems, a perfectly legitimate entry point. Boundaries. I just didn’t think about it in relation to myself.

Now, I think because of the plant medicines, though I can’t totally track all the goddamn factors that contribued to my world end… but NOW I deal with a bit of a fluidity that I just did not need mixed in with the “future writing the past,” and this story that I could become “a star,” when these people might not have known what the writing world was… it’s hilarious, I’m sorry. They hardly read anything before encouraging me to become Joyce Carol Oates. Maybe just write a book, first?

You know, like, “no worries…”

Another former friend of mine, he believed I was a movie star, you see, and I didn’t want to be one… but like, do you want to be an actor? I was so confused. But there are people out there who believe I am “a star…” and I sort of…want to sit somewhere… and make people laugh. So I guess some people had very strong feelings about me… so????? Strange, looking back on it all. My mother was a fantasy person — her eyes in the stars— she was in the stars, took herself to be A GENIUS THE GENIUS OF ALL GENIUSES — so this shadow followed me.

Again, looking at my friend Charlotte, who might be a genius, in a sense, in that, she tests high… she’s not dealing with all this. I get the sense she likes me better, now, even my toned down way of dressing, my long hair — I’m telling you, if you have curly hair, just watch out. Watch out. Play AGAINST type, that would be my suggestion. Sure, I’m on the ground floor, and she’s doing really well, she built well, the evidence is in her life, but I can change that. She asked me if I’m liking NYC, and I do. I’d rather be here, now that I’ve stopped operating nonsensically.

She travels for her job, she might move to London, she’s got a cool set-up. But these men I met the last decade, absurd, in how they encouraged me to my doom. Figure out what you wanna do, what you want your life to look like? Before blowing someone out with drugs… wanting a wife…even…through this… like WAKE UP IDIOT. This is mother Maria — getting out of a car — I know where you are.

“Does this WOMAN,” pointing at me, “LOOK like YOUR WIFE lad?”

She’s got PROBLEMS.

“Get in the car.”

My husband and I will have fun. “Ridiculous!”

I had to get warrior on my ass. A sword. “Ridiculous!”

“Who the fuck is this?”

Before you administer drugs or insist that your world view is correct, be a kind person and LOOK at the person in front of you. “Is this a good idea?”

Just this guru, I want to ZORRO this man, like coming in with talk of ABSOLUTE TRUTHS when that’s so not true. Is it TRUE IN THE ABSOLUTE??? Ever been on a goddamn plane??? Seen another WORLD, “OHHHH, WOW,” it’s not that hard.

Only you know how it works. Not like I haven’t found interesting pieces of wisdom out there… but only YOU can FIGURE OUT how YOUR life works. I would suggest leaning on action more so than mental processes… get active. Action solves everything, I think that’s a good line from Rockefeller.

As an Arendtian, as I am, I think I shut down as I reached college because I could not appear in the world. The active man, that’s what she writes about. That’s what the political sphere is about, so what happens when someone CAN’T take action in the world due to systemic oppression of some kind.

In this case, it was annoying, because it was about child abuse or shameful family problems. People didn’t SEE me as real. No offense. These gurus did not see me as a real person. Terrifying. ME looking back, this so-called psychologist I was working with? Just please. Money-hungry. Surrounded by really really nice art. No offense.

If you’re not qualified, as she admitted, don’t practice. Admit it, I’m not someone who is qualified to work with someone with these complex family issues, you’re going to want to find someone who is. Because, in a sense, lady, her client was a drug addict, sure he’s a genius, so he has special needs, but let’s be real. WHY are YOU here? “An elite experience.” This slytherin called me “elite” I just needed to get into the right rooms. “Cool.” Hand on my heart in aviators at some exclusive club in NYC with an impressive library. Lots of wood, portraits of hunting.

I’m laughing at WHO my husband would be… as I emerge from the shadows… with all this crap around me.

“Cool.”

Again, thinking about Charlotte… she didn’t have to deal with this shit.

“You’re elite…”

Charlotte would not know what to do with that. “Why?” She comes from a good family, too, so I suppose I didn’t, right? Is that the “class thing?” I’m sort of in the wild wild west, my friends, my family supersedes class. I’m chill, on that one.

It’s nice, it’s funny, but I… found myself in…these situations.

I was…”above my station,” I believe…? But I would need an in. Sure, I guess, wondering — why is this important?

Now I’m trying to find the right rooms, ones that make sense. I hope I get there. I KNOW I’ll get there. I got that tip from a manifestation person. Sure.

I’m still working on my movie bible about these years, as I think it would make a thrilling picture, unusual, Heavenly Creatures, something, so — I think there are a variety of directions one’s life can go, actually, where a person could do really well…

I’m just trying to tune in, yes, and feel into what feels abundant. And be careful, it’s less the person in front of you that’s consciously wanting to keep you locked into some old idea, but I find myself saying “no” a lot.

You just want to make sure the person is operating basically speaking. I didn’t mind the slytherin, actually, but, hm, handing me drugs, or looking for someone to do drugs with, no thanks.

Not cool.

I was NOT the person to treat casually. Be real.

I would never be here, you see. Sure, you want to get a coffee sometime???????

The guru was — an automatic no. After the first time — that was a “no.” That was a boy who needed the video game controller taken from him. I don’t get what happened there, but that got dark. My friend, an empath, yes a man, could feel it.

“There’s darkness here.”

So that’s my thought for this morning. I am no longer a slave, lol, to some weird routine around me “being a star” or “above my station” or “some fantasy girl,” or whatever that was. Hannah Arendt at least would feel relieved… like people lose the thread between real and fantasy. I suppose there’s Dr. J in there. If my means of operating brought me results, that would be one thing, but it didn’t…

I want to have a nice life with a house, someone I love, like it would be cool to have a mansion in Malibu, sure, Charlotte would come visit, but I don’t know… if that was...it was the future obsessed navigation and not building from here. All the “magical stuff” that could come in, I have no problem with. Charlotte might end up with a house on the coast, sure. She built well, over time. Bezos: broke, sure, for a while, and then he made it big, baby, he really did. Congrats. I hope I’ll do the same.

But didn’t that sound so confusing?

I think about Barbara Harris, I really do.

I hated what I learned about mental health, about patriachal power or constructs, about how real the world is. It’s not always empowering.

“So, now, we know,” bowing to you at this NYC club in aviators — “I’m just a very white woman… nothing that dramatic here.”

“Thank you, but not, don’t take it personally, for getting affected by my family story and my touching personality…? My OBSCENELY large talent…? Though we don’t know where or how it applies? My looks? Unclear, sometimes. Psychic, though, I was psychic—that was for certain.”

Not the slytherin. He was the real psychic. No worries. Good for you.

Charlotte might be a slytherin, I believe.

I’ll be, uh, going now.

The guru believes I’m “divinely inspired because I was born to parents who were not there… ”

I’ll leave you on that note.

Starting over

I thought I might include where I am in the present moment as I build this book about the four years I lived with another family (Miracle Mile) because my mother accused my father of being a child rapist, on the blunt end, not just a child molester. I laugh, I have to, because child molester was the lesser evil between the two.

Tough, I felt so unlucky about what happened when I decided to write a book about these years. I struggle with the past decade more so than I do with the distance past, my family. Strange men, specifically, strange older men came into my life, and they shattered my sense of self. They hurt me worse than my own parents.

Telling anyone about Miracle Mile — it caused me nothing but chaos and confusion. People did not grasp it conceptually. They THOUGHT they did though, even though I didn’t always make sense…that was a piece of feedback I received. “This makes no sense.” It didn’t. I can’t help that it might make more sense if the accusations were indeed true.

I struggle, today, not because of this story, though I do, but mostly because of the men who came into my life in my thirties, as that decade turned out to be the worst time of my life. I made stupid decisions, which is fine for me to admit, it’s more that these men were even stupidier, though they presented themselves as gurus, psychics, and geniuses — these men.

Help was a real shadow. I avoided it by staying outside of the United States, to get specific, as I only encountered this problem in the US. People who want to help, what I would say, there are tons of articles about the subject, since it’s a tricky idea. How do you help someone? Why did I need help? I was confused, looking back on the past decade, why did I need help, specifically? Yours? Why are you giving me drugs?

How was this supposed to help me?

Stuff like that.

First, I met this guy through a friend, and he turned out to be plant medicine facilitator. He brought me into this world—unnecessarily. He heard a little about my story, but these people didn’t hear it, didn’t treat me correctly, so — looking back on it now — why are we doing drugs, basically, in my apartment in Paris? Wasn’t this a therapy thing? I’m not against drugs, I cannot even get into this subject. I was not LOOKING to get into drugs in my thirties, to be frank. And even he admitted that I wasn’t brought into this “work” correctly. I did not need that. This was not therapy in any way shape or form. Not for me. Both my parents were mentally ill. Not to say that I was, but I came from a situation that necessitated extra precaution. And of course, in this loose group, I met the drug addict or daily user. Again, I came into this equation as someone from a real fucking background. So if the past that I wasn’t aware of… began to surface… I had ZERO care or assistance. I think that’s what hurt me the most, I had zero care zero assistance. Who gives a shit about Maria? She’s fine, whatever. I am not a fan. One of my friends, Nate, he didn’t like this man who brought me into this “work,” and it’s been a real struggle for me because I was vulnerable in a particular way. I wasn’t aware I could get hurt, for example. That was not in my vocabulary. This Slytherin, I call him, I mean, these were all Slytherins, but he, jokingly, looks like a Slytherin. I got involved with a Slytherin—a drug addict, genius — just like Dr. J. He was looking for someone to do drugs with, obviously, though he wanted to help me, too, one of these “helpers…” when, why did I need help to begin with? WHY?

This goddamn shadow.

That group, this plant medicine group, sent me down a track that was not necessary. I can’t HELP that I was living in a daze, I was not SEEING what was going on. I was not AWARE that there are real drug addicts, for example, because I had not fully realized that my mother was one. I didn’t want to project this story out into the world, which was a problem, so I did not know…and I needed to make a fundamental shift in thought. Discernment. My boundaries were not secure. This was not the right direction for someone like me, at that time. And this group helped me to deplete my resources, on top of it, as I spent my money with them. It was so maddening, because my ex even said “you’re the poorest friend I have…” so why am I here? WHY am I the one paying, while richer people don’t??? I was not poor, actually, sure, I wasn’t a goddamn millionaire, but that’s the sort of LOGIC that harmed me. I was belittled, my ex treated me like I had no one…when that was not true. I was encouraged in the wrong direction—generally. That was not CONSTRUCTIVE.

If you’re not a psychologist, don’t act like one.

I woke up early this morning because I am struggling with where I’m currently at, like I lost money, I was stripped of my sense of self… but that goes to “the guru.”

At the same time that I was getting involved with plant medicines VIA a boyfriend, sort of, long distance relationship, as if that was even a good idea, I met a guru…a wannabee guru in Los Angeles. He heard ONE line of my story, as that’s what I was writing about, and the first time I hung out with this real dick, he pointed to me across his living room — arm outstretched. He shook his pointer finger at me.

“KNOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW….” He sounded and looked like the catepillar from Alice in Wonderland. “KNOOOOOOW WHAT DO YOU WANNA KNOOOOOOWWWW LIFE IS NOT ABOUT WHAT YOU WANNA DOOOOO BUT WHAT YOU WANNA KNOOOWWWW.”

I just met this person.

Do I even need to tell you anything else?

Most people in my shoes would — stare at him, nod, like I don’t know what you’re speaking to me like this…and leave. No way, no way— President Barack Obama would not stay for tea. I needed to rely on President Barack Obama spiritually to help me through this — there’s no way President Barack Obama would allow anyone to speak to him like that. “I’m sorry?”

And the abyss, the gaping hole I felt when I woke up…to this. Why am I here? Why didn’t I get up and leave? I, unfortunately, could not bridge an essential gap because of how I was treated in the past. WHY do people do this to me? WHY do people start acting strangely? It struck me, but where? I got lured in. The next time we hung out, we’re speaking about my mother?? My PAIN? HOW and WHY am I here? WHY is this man getting a hard on… over this terrible ordeal I went through? This man, this guru, was the worst thing that ever happened to me.

I showcased vulnerability, as, well, that story actually happened to me, and he mistook vulnerability as he has none, he was a heartless man, as pain. I’ve run into that comment before. I can’t show anything, you see, when I tell this story, which then gets me another comment, and President Barack Obama might be able to complete my sentences at this point as “the public” is a real beast. “Why aren’t you…not okay?” Um, “because I am strong…” I don’t know what to say.

That’s a snapshot of the main players that came into my life in my thirties. My decision to get more involved with these people only harmed me. I did not get anything out of it. I became psychic, what? That’s where I ended up, which hurts me, that I was disrespected to this degree. I had problems with power, it was a specific type of problem, one I had to seriously re-structure.

I was trying to tell my friend about it yesterday, and “the psychic period” exists in the same psychological spectrum as the sex scandal I was in, where someone can’t even really place themselves in it. “Psychic?” It’s otherworldly. I was flabbergasted by this supposed therapeutic approach?

And, was there abuse in my childhood? Was there abuse that I went through with one of these…unsettling groups of men…? Nothing about them, even the little I told thus far, would make someone feel safe. I wasn’t with safe men.

I was told I was special, Joan Didion (without any pages read), and even gifted… psychically and vaguely—the guru KNEW, as he had superior feeling senses, so he acted as if he were psychic, that I was SPECIAL. He kept saying that word, in a manipulative tone. Did I not KNOW I was special in his mind? Not a direct communicator. He’s deciding without any real need for my imput.

The guru was not associated with the plant medicine group, but they were all psychic. These men were the most psychic people telling me that I was psychic. They thought, “yeah totally, Maria came from a shitshow, let’s put this psychicness on top of her…” in short, this was the most unnecessary detour I ever took. This GURU — it sucked to come to terms with this later—was so slimy. He wanted to help me… by giving me meditation techniques? I’m looking at this hypnotherapist, going, why the fuck are you giving ME channeler tapes?

In the end, I was horrified. I developed an emotional attachment to the guru. I became unrecognizable to myself unable to place myself. I started disconnecting from him years later, like seven. I just held back.

He sent me, a couple of times, a random picture on social media as if trying to hook me…get me to say hello to HIM, as in, he couldn’t even say hello to his own friend, supposedly? I was blown away by this man. He shattered my sense of self, manipulated me, since he acted as if he didn’t even need to ask me a question to KNOW who I was. He acted like a psychologist, a gifted psychologist who happened to not go…in that direction… when this man had no right. No right at all. He disrespected me the first time I met him.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

What he did was unethical. I was not a game. I was not on “The Hero’s Journey” as this guru acted as if I was…because I wanted to “be a writer.” He was ridiculous. I lost everything. I was a mess after this decade. I pretty much hate these people. To be frank, this stupid family story only caused me more problems. This guru, in particular, embodied what I mean.

I tried to voice that I didn’t know if —it was a lie about my father anymore based on what I went through, as I ended up in the hospital. I was ignored. I cut off contact with one friend because of it. I’m negotiating with others.

This guru only projected problems on me that I did not have, originally. He was obsessed with problems. He psychoanalyzed me over an I-TANYA DVD, so I could write a psychological thriller about this, most definitely… about a girl who comes from a real background and becomes endangered because of it. The guru got a weird hard on over my story, heartbreaking— he was a truly troubled individual. If he thinks that — that was the safest move to make with a nice girl, meaning, a very nice person, someone who worked very hard to not project her story out into the world, he’s insane. He put me at risk so he could play a role because he was bored.

I GET that he thought I was SPECIAL.

I just don’t understand why he thought I didn’t KNOW that.

Who gives a shit? You feel me?

All I did was open my mouth.

And I’m the one who paid the price, I’m the one who had something to lose, not this guy. I wrote him even. I would have to explain to a jury, in this case, if we were in that context, why I got involved with you to begin with… as he raised red flags the first time I met him. I didn’t even know, at that point, that I would have been able to end up with manipulative, mentally unsound people. Like, the Slytherin.

My ex, our friend in common, he said, “he’s crazy,” he said that. This is the plant medicine group. He said that “sometimes he treats people in unspeakable ways…” forget that this guy was a drug addict, why didn’t my friend, my ex, tell me that at the beginning.

“Do not get close to this person.”

I came from a background. Who gives a shit if I was pretty?

I already CAME FROM, I’m so angry, a situation that I couldn’t SPEAK about… so why did I need another problem that I could not speak about? My stupid psychicness. So I stepped onto a comedy stage. Stood there, good and comfortable, as I have nothing to hide, and I have begun to tell people about what happened.

“I became psychic.”

“You see? The trajectory: I was in a sex scandal when I was four, and by thirty, I became psychic.” I did not need that.

The sexual trauma specialist doesn’t know WHERE I might have been taken advantage of… but I’m pretty sure that I was.

I knew my return to NYC was going to be rough. I mean, I don’t have any money, which wasn’t the case ten years ago. I got a job as a hostess in NYC because my writing jobs aren’t enough, and I just got back into town. The guru said that, sure, spend your IRA MONEY, spend your MONEY because I could MEDITATE the money into existence, literally. Now, I can hardly scrape by, though I just got back to New York, not even two months ago, so I’m navigating as someone who was broken down. I was broken down, as a person.

“Words are not your primary form of communication,” the guru said. I don’t know if he has split personality, or he went off the rails… I don’t know.

The Slytherin, I believe, he sent me a message through my website at 5 AM in 2021, a threat, even if it was empty. I had asked him and his associate for my money back. The message was a threat about my actual bank was going to be shut down… no ask. I was struggling with the physical experiences I started going through, hanging onto “the lie” that my father was a child molester, coming to wake up to the fact that this total stranger, this Brazilian mother, decided in the end that it wasn’t true, because she found herself in a nightmare that did not get better.

I got out of the hospital after that, after spending a night on the floor struggling with whether or not I was abused—in that part of my body — and the Slytherin got on the phone with me… why? I don’t know.

He said, “you’re a really good friend,” and then, he farted… long and hard on the phone. “He sometimes treats people in unspeakable ways,” my ex, our friend in common, said about that. So I GOT the message, if you catch my drift.

I’m just doing a freewrite today… I need an outlet.

The sexual trauma specialist said, “are you asking me whether or not your mother could have really put you in this situation?” Meaning, the years I spent on Miracle Mile because she accused my father of being abusive. “Yes,” he said.

I hate this guru so much some mornings, and I’m trying very hard to let it go, but I felt mistreated, truly. I felt like he crossed LINES left and right…and I did not see it because of where I came from — and that relationship harmed me.

His wealth is infuriating, like he can go hide behind Mommy and Daddy, this mean boy, as he is a mean boy. His brother told me, which I realized later, as I came to wake up to my whole life, so that includes the past decade, that the guru grabbed his hand when they were boys and started punching him with his own hand. “Why are you hurting yourself?” That’s who I got involved with. His brother said that to me…as if it were wise. The guru, as a boy, took his hand and hurt him with it, even if he didn’t hit him hard.

So I got involved with a person who would take someone’s hand and start punching them with it, believing that they wanted that. Can you imagine? That’s the type of person who would rape a woman believing that she wanted to be… you see? That’s the logic that disturbs me.

I have to find a job, I have to start over, and luckily, I have such a positive outlook, as I always have, that I know I’m going to be fine… I’m just angry that I got involved with lunatics. I want to sue my mother, actually, for damages, as her little sex scandal actually affected me. I want to sue everybody, actually, to be honest, but I wouldn’t be able to…but I would love to watch the guru lie, I would LOVE to watch him lie.

He would have to, an “evolved person.”

As they were all men, one might assume that I had problems with my father…I don’t know what to say about that now… they weren’t sexual, as far as I know, except with my ex, but the guru might have been in love with me…unclear… as he said, in a deranged fashion, “you cannot disappoint me you have my love,” because he weirdly decided that — why this was a PROBLEM I do not KNOW — disappointment was the “base feeling” between my father and I. This relationship wouldn’t make anybody feel safe.

So I don’t know what to say, because the guru had emotional problems, that was clear, given how he delivered this — disturbing comment. I was not in a “father play?” I was so shocked. Why are you role playing…? And mixing up love in it?

My mother was the genius, she was mentally ill, she was the drug addict, and even the type of person who made this mother who took me home for four years…question her handling of me, sexually.

Just please.

This guru’s brother, another spiritual leader? Of some kind? These two men: tweedle dumb and tweedle dee, that’s what I call them now. WHY they are so wise, WHY they take themselves to be spiritual practitioners, I don’t know. What exactly was their life experience? Where exactly is this wisdom coming from? Picturing myself sitting on their sister’s couch in Bel Air… unreal. My friend, the one who introduced me to this family, she told me that their sister said “we should not introduce Maria to my brothers, because they,” as in they, not one, “will fall in love with her…”

Given what happened, I don’t even know how to tackle that statement.

WHY was I introduced then? If that’s what she said?

The guru I hate. I hate that man.

I just moved into my little room in NYC, so I’m sensitive, I’m going through a tough move in. I don’t think that I need CORRECTION REFRAMING when it’s simply understandable. No offense, but the obsession with wisdom, the Instagram wisdom, is a touch too much.

Now, I have hip problems, which caused me to flip out, literally, because I went through so much pain… physical pain… in my hips… a few years ago to the point that I passed out, and then, it was gone. But it reappeared, which startled me, because it was real.

I traveled for the past few years, but I worked on this harder than hard floor at this restaurant, and I had to go to a body worker. I don’t even know if I can take a job that requires me to be on my feet… with a stupid friend, a so-called friend, knocking me down because I couldn’t believe how she reacted to me telling her that I didn’t know if I was abused back there. Didn’t even ask, “how are you doing?”

I don’t know why… she doesn’t even know the full story, and yet people generally acted as if they did. The guru did, everybody did. I have no interest in speaking to anyone I knew.

I think to myself— I should be able to find a good job, but I haven’t been able to yet, but now that I got rid of these superior men, I can hear myself think. I don’t know if I wanted to BE A WRITER. I think I wanted to work on books. The experience I had when I decided to try this path out was so terrible, truly terrible, that I hardly want to do it, anymore. It angers me, really, that I got whipped up in psychic talk, when I don’t even know what my gifts are, I mean, the ones I can USE in the world.

Look, as a tip from the wiser though I am younger, someone might not know what they want to DO, yes, DO, after they work out… their whole life. I was not a game. I was not a toy. I can’t do it yet, but I will let their sister know. That’s a plan. What did she know? What did she hear? Did she really tell my friend not to introduce me to them? Does she know they have issues like this?

I started performing again, since I’ve been back. I’ve been open mics, as I would like to develop a show about Miracle Mile and the psychic period. I thought the guru might make a stellar character to present to an audience.

“The book,” taking it out of my head, “is a psychological object.”

“You’re,” taking it out of his head, “taking it out of your head…”

Again, WHY am I here? I was just a girl at a cafe.

I’m meeting with four musicians this week as I’d like to sing again, so that makes me happy, but I have to take care of my immediate problem, money, because I’d like to get back into acting, actually, but that’s going to require an investment. I went over to Trader Joe’s even, to get a whatever job, but I’m worried about my hips as I woke up with minor soreness, but I don’t want it to get worse. I didn’t want to be here.

I struggle with hate. It’s my heart talking. Not my mind. My heart aches with hate for this guru at times. I heard “you create your own reality” 14,000 times. I got the picture. It was disconnected. I didn’t need more shady characters.

I’m going to spend today seeing if I can get on one of these writing platforms to see if I can bring in work another way. I’m so stressed out, I’m so heartbroken, like, I always loved life, I never saw anything as impossible, I couldn’t believe this guru. I couldn’t believe I fell for it, really, but he presented himself as an expert, and he was a good actor, though maybe not, actually. I don’t know.

He actually harmed me. His involvement, his understanding of my life—harmed me. I did not deserve to be treated casually, I did not deserve to be treated as if I weren’t a real person… his desire to teach someone what he knows, whatever that is, seriously hurt me. And he can’t admit what his beliefs are, that’s the thing. I know that. So WHY did he bother me with it?

I want to end up on his sister’s couch, you see. I imagine, even meditate on it. I never had hate, I really didn’t want to have to deal with hate. What this means in looking back on my childhood, “no,” I did not want to be a play thing. I was four. I did not a choice. And for some of us, smiling at this stupid excuse for a psychologist in this guru, that’s a journey to get to.

He had no idea what he was doing.

Telling me, listen to this.

The first time I hung out with him, he pointed his finger in my face to say “life is your idea” rather than an active exercise. So he “helped me along,” sure, and I was looking back on this like, I don’t understand why this is happening. “If there were chalkboard here,” he began in a belittling tone, “I would write family and circle it.”

Okay, that one, that one caused me enough problems. First of all, WHY am I here? Why is this man inserting himself into my private life?

Family was not my “LIFE IDEA.” I’ve spent my life trying to work out my family… so he was wrong.

Here’s a thought, as this man believes I am Carl Jung? That’s what he said. These gurus act like the world isn’t real. Dangerous. I came from a world. He knew nothing about traumatic patterning, nothing.

The guru also believes that I am “divinely inspired,” by the way. That was his brilliant piece of feedback about my draft. I was “born to parents who were not there…which sounded divine to him…” a crazy statement to make.

I sound like — don’t I? — like I was in a cult.

That’s what my friend said yesterday, “shit were you in a cult?”

“Sort of.”

Laughing, “I was the only one there though…”

Can you imagine reading that sentence in a book…?

“A wiseman said that I was born to parents who were not there, and that made me divine…” what was he trying to do? I am confused. Do you know how disturbing that sounds?

I want to drive this man over to foster care — go ahead, big shot, go ahead— tell these kids that they are divinely inspired. It sounds cultish. “I was special,” he said, and it sounds like I was being manipulated.

All I did was state what I was writing about.

I told my friend yesterday, I’ll conceive of a show, where these characters will live and breathe and even thrive — I need to alchemize these experiences into something that brings me plenty, something that amuses people, shocks people. And I’m just dealing with the statements that these people literally told me.

“That sounds divine to me…” so this person lives in a world with magical powers, you understand? Sure, spend the most money you ever spent in your life on rent, because “it doesn’t matter,” he said, because I could ideate the money into existence.

Ridiculous.

I cannot believe that their sister would even agree.

But sure, I can build wealth, sure, AGAIN— why am I HERE?

Anyway, I keep getting through these moments, but if you’re a pretty girl? I’m PEERING through these years, searching for reasons why I deserved to be belittled, disrespected, and put in harm’s way… by people who presented themselves as knowing better. Anybody, look, they’re going to tell me I was stupid.

Watch out.

If you’re a female, watch out.

No one gives a fuck that you were a kid once.

But why would someone take advantage… of someone who might have been abused when they were four? Why would you give that person drugs… while trying to marry them, sort of? Mixed up. These people were mixed up.

I started thinking about — a field of possiblities of what I could do now, but I have to solve an immediate problem, and I feel tender in my hips today, so I don’t know what to do. Luckily, I have a sliver of savings left, but a sliver. So I can’t really use that.

I read about crazy things that have happened to people without rhyme or reason. It happens. It, admittedly, along with the revelatory experience I went through when I reopened these years, knocked me sideways. What does my life even mean? If a guru, this horrific person, would treat me like that? I got the sense that his sister might not have been all that aware… that he couldn’t really be open about our relationship? Why? What’s the problem? If we friends? What was he worried about?

Being perceived as un-benign? Why?

Today, a lot of people talk about manifesting… it was never my problem. Why is everyone so obsessed with manifestation? This positioned my pursuit already in a problematic framework. I did not think it was impossible… becoming a writer? Are you joking? I hate to say this because I’m not like this, but the guru smells of stupid priviledge. Stupid.

I keep trying to, I suppose, rely on my intuition, as I find myself with problems now that I did not have originally. I hope that I’ll keep, I guess, garnering the courage to talk about my story on social media…it’s strange, come on, “so child molestation…” you know? I’d like a career, now, as I wasn’t that interested in it before, but I just don’t know what that is…

As the guru represents, it was mostly people’s reactions to this story that propelled me forward to write about all that… when I actually don’t care that much. Other people did, weirdly. It’s not like I’ve gotten encouragement from my friends, at all, in putting myself out there. What my family now does not understand, I’m pretty sure, is that they don’t look all that sound. That situation doesn’t look sound…

Picture someone asking me publicly about it. “Tell me about them.”

Lots of changes, deep deep changes, a new life. I know, in a real way, I can reach success, I’m alright. I can turn these experiences into something, so I’m going to open mics. I’m taking a deep breath and beginning to think about producing content from a place of what I’ve learned. To me, honestly? Looking at my friends, sorry, I’m grateful to Jay Shetty’s recent kick of telling me, personally, to walk away… no, he’s saying, these are not your friends… as I’m going through this… which made me laugh. I don’t care that much about social media. Meaning, who cares if I try and USE IT as a CHANNEL? Jay Shetty, he’s a monk, he started in his attic, I think, and okay, I might not be a monk, but I did come from a story that typically grabbed people’s attention.

I was in a sex scandal when I was four. Both my parents were ill. Even that, that was the grand revelation of my life, which might bring me “crickets” from any audience member, like, “good job, Maria.” Very good job. Slow clap. I used to say that I was — sort of adopted by all these families — with my parents as loose, disconnected entities. No, I got the first sentence sorted out.

“Both my parents were mentally ill.”

And that’s why everything else happened.

Sure, my father was diagnosed secretly with Parkinson’s, a couple of years after the sex scandal, but that is not soothing…. he kept it a secret, and his “secret illness” even sounds like a joke, until it became Alzheimer’s…

So, in short, both my parents were mentally ill and throw in secret dementia.

I feel that my experience might make me a good candidate to diffuse my ideas and learning on social media… sure, it’s in my pocket, and plenty of people have started out that way. I’m getting there. I don’t know what the F “brand” means…

Barbara Harris just popped into my mind at AJs Supermarket…

But there’s something I can do, for sure. I can play these characters, I can play what it has been like for me personally talking to people about the sex scandal. I can get to a video where I am STUCK in the LOOKING GLASS. I am a real girl, for the love of Christ, not PINOCCHIO. I can figure that part out. More so than social media itself, I hate people’s ATTITUDES about it. It’s a goddamn TV channel in your pocket.

Anyway.

I get through one of these blog posts, and I tend to cycle out what I need to. I’m just working on my book proposal right now. I publish a section of the book once a week. When I re-read them, I think I can discern that someone might call this “stream of consciousness,” which isn’t what I’m going for. But I have to get the ideas out, so I can organize them in the end into clearer chapters. So that’s where I’m at.

The description of Dr. J…

Amazing, no?

She was a real case. One for the books.

“The whitest woman I have ever seen…” that, I hope I’m right, sounds Grimm.

It’s unorganized right now because I don’t know where to put her description yet, and I’m developing it, so I’ll just keep going for the moment. She was a Joker, truly, and it amazed me to come to that realization on the floor of a hospital. I could write an iconic villain. The seeds were always there looking at her figure and her personality… I saw her as prescient, somehow. But I arrived at that conclusion later on, that she was a Joker, or could become a thrilling villain — I could turn a despicable character into a positive object — a villain. I found the key to continue, to get up off a floor of a hospital with pain in my loins, not knowing why, because I embraced the villain. I never thought I could even play a villain, but maybe I could.

My whole world collapsed, my whole world concept, as I was writing this. I came to wake up, literally, to what Angelica Leibowitz was saying, that she wasn’t sure, actually, if it was true about him or not… I was eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, when I conducted this undercover investigation that grew to include the Catholic Church as an organization.

I don’t know how to structure this book yet, as I do not know how to structure one. I know that I will come to question the lie that my father was a child molester, but the problem I have, is the feeling that no one reading is going to question whether or not it was true… so I don’t know what to do with that. They’re going to go, “wait what? When did it become a lie?” Oh no.

With descriptions such as these.

The sexual trauma expert, I haven’t gotten to him yet, but he stopped taking notes. He was worried about Dr. J, because she sounded so sexually unhinged. So WHERE I might have been abused, he didn’t know, only that, by what you’re saying, he didn’t understand WHY I was asking him, “could she have really done this to me?”

“Could she have really done this to you?”

“She already did.”

I’m not in a rush to complete this book, which was a problem in the past, rushing against the clock with limited funds, wanting to yell at these so-called geniuses — that’s what makes me so angry — for encouraging me in a destructive direction and PRETENDING like they KNEW what my story was! I get that I was stupid. But why were you? If you’re a genius? If you’re a…book writer? I was looking back like, why exactly are you helping me? Absurd.

So now I have problems, for sure, in that I have to figure out how to make money, in that, I struggle even, knocking down my stupid family. Did you say you’re concerned about my mental health? Did these people not hear me? I said, imagine? Imagine! Angelica pointed at me. “I said I do not know if I was abused…” so don’t give me some crap about mental health. I truly got angry at this so-called family.

The book is not that big of a deal…all I had to do was get a job, learn how to operate basically speaking, and will I come to learn that — oh no — it was true about my parents? Please, I need someone to hold my hand not knock me down. My friends don’t realize it, thinking about Nicholson’s face in the shining, but this time, you see, it’s Dr. J’s face — Joy. I know there’s a really good idea in Dr. J being a Joker and even me, “The Joker’s Daughter.” It’s hilarious for sure. How true it is. I’m eating a banana, even, right now, as I type this: “I am the Joker’s Daughter.”

Tee-hee, sex scandal… Dr. J is rushing to the IRS…

I’m trying to get to the point where I can just play that card — the Joker card, as it’s one in my life deck. And I only feel support and encouragement, hilariously, from the domain of art, in developing that idea. What a good if not inspiring (funny) take on a sex scandal… or just a villainous mother. I’m not exactly against all the reactions I’ve gotten in calling Dr. Joyce Rebhun a villain produces.

“What’s your problem with it?”

“Is there no such thing as a villain?”

I’ll let that one float……

It’s cool, even, “we tend to think of the path of the villain as a fall from grace, but Joy showed another way was possible,” thinking about this hero with his “novel idea” that “another way is possible.” It’s not that new, hero. So that’s solid. I do think there’s real truth in it. Joy. Not a spot of darkness in her. Not exactly true, but to start, as she was a symbol of disconnection… with her eyes as strikingly blue as the sky.

“Joy,” that’s my idea for her Joker name. I thought “Dr. J” was good, even chillingly perfect, but Joy is better…as that was her signature trait. Her wrist like a flimy hanky — her life and death involvement in the IRS—rushing to put out emergencies — the life and death of it. “The Mother Teresa of the Tax Industry.” She’s a businesswoman, chicer than chic, saving the world! She looks as if she stepped out of a magazine page…she doesn’t have a scratch on her face, so the Joker today, in my humble opinion, would not be typically disfigured. I describe her as a picture-perfect grotesque with her real but fake red wigs. That’s the performance style. I cannot help that the words are the words, that she was grotesque creature with the physicality to match. I cannot help that my former theater teachers would be proud of me… coming up with that phrase that has resonance today… picture perfect grotesque.

“It’s good.”

They’d say.

“Clear.”

“Even true.”

I’ll get there.

I get knocked down, sometimes, because of the men who came into my life, and because my friends more or less ignored me nicely, of course, when I said I didn’t know if I was abused, which is, no offense, grounds to say goodbye for life. I’m frustrated that I don’t have money right now, that my hips hurt, today, so I don’t know if I can take restaurant work. I went to Trader Joe’s even to get another whatever job, as I’m looking for a better job, more writing jobs, something new, even, but today, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. The restaurant I’m working at only scheduled me for two days this week, after I had to take a week off because of their floor. On my day off, too, so I’m frustrated with them, frustrated with myself. But it’s more the extreme pain I went through a few years ago… when I went through experiences I couldn’t explain. It shook me. Like, what happened? Was this true? I worked out a lot, I ran a lot in my youth, it’s just, I went through real pain… that went away, completely, and now, it presented itself… again.

I haven’t seen the sexual trauma specialist again. I have to make money first, so I can keep learning from him.

I didn’t need to be here though, and it was stupid, look, it was stupid. It’s more that these men were stupid. A waste of my time.

Mostly, I feel like things are going to go well for me, so I’m just having a tense moment right now. I don’t not believe in the possibilities of it all, or that something magical couldn’t happen to me, you know what I mean? That wasn’t my problem.

I’m trying to think of creative ways of making money, but I don’t know how yet. I’m going to let go of this post, and I’m hanging on because I am struggling financially, and I just didn’t have to, and no, I don’t think that acting like I can make money magically appear — was the safe or productive approach, and when I think about how much MONEY the guru has, it bothers me so deeply because what did I do this man? What did I do? He comes across like a gross rich guy. To this man, now, looking back on it, what was he thinking? I couldn’t believe it, because it seems, in retrospect, mean-spirited.

But sure, I’ll try, I’ll try to make money magically appear… as I’m moving through the city, looking and thinking, what can I do? No problem. No problem there. I want money to come in a box to my house. At least 50k. If not 150k. For sure. A million dollars, even. Delivered to me, tax free. Please.

Anyway, thanks for reading.

Christmas in Naples is a Sport

Rosa called it “Christmas in Naples is a Sport” holding a killer hand of cards between burgundy nails on the 25th of dicembre also known as MEAT. She was gambling at the time, her lips the stance. The dinner table became a musical casino in my absence, I see. Standing at the bottom of the steps, I didn’t even make it through the meal. And hardly anyone does.

*

Earlier, as the car ascended into the cliffs of Sorrento at a sharp left, I asked Carmine, in pain, if he was even hungry. Giggino blasted noise at Emilio, his youngest born. His owl eyes shifted. “This is not the point.” Giggino started interrupting our conversation. Carmine did not lose his cool, he did not break, he never does. I wasn’t going to make it, Carmine, I wasn’t going to make it. “MARIA?” “Survival is not the point,” he wagged his finger, instructionally. “MARIA?” “You cannot survive Christmas.” “MA SCUSA…”

“This is not the point.”

Funiculi funicula! on the stereo.

I saw not one but two lasagnas descend from the heavens up above—bianca e rosa or white and red — with bechamel, even, that move blew me away, with fresh mozzarella and fior di latte, nutmeg, and then, of course, tomatoes cheese and meat. We were at “Il Secondo Round,” Carmine told me, as if we were at a boxing match, also known as MEAT. The lasagne took up the whole plate, even at a slight incline — right to the edge. Blew me away. I had eaten 20 courses of FISH the night before at “Il Primo Round,” Carmine said, so I didn’t know that we would be feasting today as well—at noon. I didn’t know, at the outset, that Christmas in Naples was a sport, a real sport, even impressively. There was no way I was going to be able to do this, and we were nowhere near the end of the meal. I had already eaten several, still on the pasta course.

You see, the tricky thing about Christmas in Naples is that the appetizers fool you into thinking that this is all there is, except that’s not true, there’s always more, we’re always giving more. That’s the sports mindset. We get what the goal is: abundance. The end, that’s just a chance to reach immortality. As Vico says, “marathon was a man.”

I could feel the darkness descending, getting up from the table, I lost my ability to construct sentences, operate, by the end of the first act. People were clapping, bravo was firing like canons…along with questions, comments, and reservations. “OLE OLE OLE OLE! I saw DIEGO MARADONA!”

I had eaten for at least three weeks straight, fearfully, but I lost my nerve in a bustling kitchen brimming over with talented boisterous girls buzzing around Assunta in lipstick and chunky jewelry, chic in navy. I didn’t want them to think that I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t going to be able…

Long behold, if not “hark,” Giggino was sitting right in front of me, my main antagonist, my personal coach through the season, my comedic foil, the father who dared to confront this absurd story I came back with after a long disappearance. “You don’t like it?” He asked, right on cue. The chandelier of glass tulips was swirling. The darkness was coming. “What’d she say?” Please, please, do not attract any attention to me. He did.

When the roasted meats hit the table, one stuffed with prosciutto, the darkness descended, I had fever, it was done. I had no more space, literally, within me to think, I shot up upon sight — left — didn’t even say goodbye. Up the tight squat staircase reminiscent of the Bolero print on the wall along with family portraits, I barely reached Rosa’s room upstairs. I fell flat on her bed, cheek squished against the sheets, forehead damp. Passed out.

There’s a print in Assunta’s staircase, before I forget, the cutest person, of a sensually plump woman smoking a long thin pipe, very fine, high art.

My mother gave me to a total stranger when I was four, except, that’s not really the topic sentence of my life: my mother wrapped up a stranger in a protective scheme against my father who she accused of being a child rapist when I was four. That sentence alone: a meaty, hefty content block to digest, an animal. Her name was Joy.

I woke up in the dark to a family singing and laughing. I was in pain, truly, I was about three weeks telling them this epic of what happened to me from that point onward at Christmas which I had not anticipated. Emma made me laugh through the hazy heaviness. I needed effervescent aspirin now.

I tried to come early, “il PRIMO DICEMBRE,” I fired at Giggino on the phone back in Paris a few months prior. My story didn’t go with Christmas, so I decided to go early. I knew the questions were coming. “The first December,” I said. “I COME THE FIRST DECEMBER.” Little did I know, though, that Christmas in Naples is a sport, it typically begins round then. “After summer we are free to put up the decorations,” my friend Marco said, as I even dabbled in a bit of journalism, by investigating the sport. He clarified over octopus and his mother Teresa’s adoring gaze, that “Christmas doesn’t really end… there is no end…”

The 25th of December? Players start going down on this day—it’s a bloodbath, a double feature, and we must, we must, rise again — we must, despite the obstacles. That’s why we watch sports. But could I? Make it through? Alive? With this story in tow — the story was an obstacle course. I could not help that I had it, unable to move.

Yeah, I got really into “the sport” of Christmas here because it was true beyond my wildest dreams, forget my feelings — the Christmas warmth I felt, at the miracle that I lived, over the course of this spectacular season. They rose to their feet, once again, to applaud and cheer beneath my body. Perfect timing. Bravo. Brav. That’s “bravo” in the Neapolitan dialect. We don’t do ending — we elbow that shit right off — it isn’t round or soft here, we’re not those types of Italians, we’re boisterous and HARSH.

Out of bed, head like a wet brick, stomach on emergency closure, my fever had broken a little. I couldn’t see a thing next to her shelves of family photographs, only a multicolored light around the edge of the door. Was I hallucinating? A little. I took a deep breath. I had to pump myself up that evening—Christmas. Putting it in my hips, lightly, I remembered her, though I was tighter back then. I never knew what to do with her.

She was from Brazil, the unsuspecting stranger who got wrapped up in a sex scandal over a four-year-old. Me. We were always dancing. She was. Love, love, love, life was a dance, she danced through life, space, that was her way.

Down the steps, the sounds grew louder and moved in waves of warm colors, my stomach, too. I tip-toed, not like I needed to. The glass reflected bodies in a blurry Caravaggio behind Vico, the family dealer, singing and selling cards. Dessert round had been cleared, the dining table freshened up with fresh clementines from the farm in a field of liquors: Grappa di Chardonnay, Sambucas, Barricata Privata, Pantelleria, Genziana, frosty strawberry, cherry, blueberry, orange, limoncello (for shits), walnut, laurel, and a box that read: in life, in everything that you do, no matter what it is, put your heart in it.

“Maruzzella!” They announced my return as Assunta, the cutest person, put down a plate of fruit as if it were just, another plate, unassumingly.

Vico held up cards for auction. His nieces and nephews taunted him by tapping their wallets and getting sneaky and manipulative. Rosa counted cash in a Christmas white sweater with a bullish hot confidence. The baby dragons, Gennaro and Persephone’s three boys, were flying around. The eldest, Frankie, as in Frank Sinatra, slapped a twenty on the table, and baby Marco was crawling underneath the table, his little hand appearing over the edge of the table from time to time trying to snatch bills from his family’s hands. And the beauty of it? Nobody cared. They didn’t even notice. They’re just twisting their wrists, carrying on with their conversations because, well, let me put it this way: Silent Night? Not happening here. This is the time for anthems— these are the big leagues round here: Christmas. We’re singing “My Way” by Frank Sinatra, you see. Remember the goal: immortality. The end is just a chance to reach it. Bravo. And I’m not even joking, it’s really like that here. Remember the siren, we trace our origins back to the siren that attempted to lure Odysseus.

I collapsed into a chair next to Rosa with a killer hand of cards between burgundy nails — the star gambler in the family— as if I had washed back up to shore. Nettuno as in Neptune was barking — one with the darkness outside the glass doors reflecting the crowd. A black pup with floppy ears, he insisted to be let in. He broke off the leash again. In a perfect trio, women broke out from the chorus and fired “Neptune” in a cascade, as, by God, the Neapolitans naturally and even instinctually become a Greek chorus when they are in groups: they are truly one and also one body. This is what I mean: they inspired me to desire to become the Bugs Bunny conductor — conducting the symphony of them — a Greek play, classic, yes, but Aristophanes. We do all have our point of view.

Bills tucked under rocks glasses and flutes, their tips caught the light from the tulip chandelier. They appeared to be gambling with tarot cards: a distant cousin of the pack. Vico was in the center of it, the dining now gambling table as the singing dealer, eyes glittering. I was underwater. I needed aspirin. Vico and Giggino shut it down. No, I didn’t. Gennaro appeared, or Hades, as I like to call him, with eyes like green laser beams: you will be judged for making such a request. I was dismissed. I did, though; no, they said outright. “No you don’t.” They ignored me. Could I go to the farmacia tomorrow? The farmacia? It’s the FEAST of la la la la…

Excuse me? I flashed them eyes.

“A FEAST DAY, TOMORROW, SANTO…” Now that, that right there, space warped into some light show — was I hearing things?! I was not expecting that! “SANTO WHAT?” My eyes CRAZY. “WHAT?” Giggino looked away like “seriously?”

“It’s a FEAST DAY TOMORROW MARIA — THE FEAST OF SANTO STEFANO…”

“CAFÉ!” Emma cried with her grandmother’s silver tray.

Rosa checked me out with cards in hand, her lips the stance: my face of shock, confusion, fear… Another festa? I looked at the cash in a pile on the table, Frankie slapping down bills. “It’s true, Meri, it’s really true,” Rosa said in full-featured agreement. “Christmas in Naples is a sport. A real sport…” And that’s when I saw the light break, “yes, Rosa, yes… it is, it’s a sport,” I knew it all along, my eyes desperate to be seen.

“Si Meri,” she said, “a real sport.”

Suddenly full of hope, beaming with recognition, I knew it, I knew it the moment I got here ROSA: this was ancient shit. Remember the siren; these people trace their lineage to this creature. I even needed to train to be able to keep up with them— I mean physical exercise. “You need strength for eating,” a random Neapolitan told me miming pumping weights. “Not exercise,” he flashed me a smile that could steal my money from me on the sly.

I approached the season as if it really were a sport, you see, a sport that never let me down, not from day one, December one, we rise as one, then, she said it here and now on the 25th of dicembre as we gambled as a family — the curtains opened and let God in. “You were right, child, you were right.” I took the news with joy, my mother’s name. Fist in the air. “Sensa sord!” I saluted the family. “Sensa sord!”

“Ahhhh,” they all jumped in. “What’s the expression Meri?!” They taught it to me earlier in the season, and I could not stop repeating it like a good little soldier. “Without money!” I demanded that they FINISH it — FINISH the family motto “WITHOUT MONEY?” What do we know, what don’t we do? Without money, what are we definitely not doing? “Nobody sings in church,” they answered as one. “SENSA SORD!” Fist in the air, once MORE. I want MORE. MORE. “WITHOUT MONEY!” “Here here.” “Go Meri!” I got nothing but crowd support and applause. Without MONEY nobody sings for God! Nobody’s doing nothing, yeah! I celebrated the idea, one I genuinely loved, and money was the first hook that caught this unsuspecting mother, so there’s always shadow, what can I say? How true it is. My mother’s name was Joy.

Merry Christmas.

We meet Giggino and Diodora: where are you? who are you? where have you been? The questions start coming

A faint sound of a canary tweeting a sweet unceasing ditty echoed in a stairwell. A window in the shape of a half-moon with a gate of squiggly diamonds brought in light through mandarin trees onto grey and white marble steps. It emitted an immediate aesthetic, feeling. An enchanted stairwell. But Naples has a charge in the air. It’s alive. We’re on a super-volcano so it’s fertile.

Taking a confident seat, he held his thought, brows raised.

I froze with wide eyes and my neoprene boot in the air.

I looked down at the carpet. 

 “Oh scusa,” I went to take off my shoe. I should have foreseen that, whispering. He looked to the side like why was I whispering? He patted down my fumes with a furrowed brow.

“With calm, Maria, with calm…”

Untying his black boots, he signaled to the shoes by the door.

“One must take off their shoes,” he said with a blunt tone. “When they come into a house. The dirt from outside, shoes, a clean house…” 

Not thinking I understood, he repeated the tale, as I was taking off my other shoe. 

I waited politely to follow his lead up a wrought iron staircase with a vintage wooden handle. The stairwell gleamed clean and modern with these old touches and paintings of ruins next to bodies of water on the walls.

I spoke softly.

“Tweet…tweet…”

“Filippo…

“Ah–“ 

A canary.

Out the half-moon window, the same architectural skeleton was still there, a parking lot, I figured, that had barely gotten started.

It was just as I remembered it, the house.

The eggshell door so shiny it looked wet had a carving of a diamond inside of a square. All the doors to the floors were kept closed at all times due to the draft. I always found this doorknob funny and nerve-wracking; it was built too close to the threshold. I had caught my fingers in this door, or almost, whenever I had tried to close it. I had had a habit, sometimes or often, of not closing it properly, which meant the doors were sometimes or often open––

“Maria?”

I turned.

“Who is?”

An antique door framed Carmine, a coat rack with brass hooks and an oval mirror. A Santa, I squinted, hung on the central hook—a little early for decorations, no?

Carmine signaled for my coat.

When my friend read the first draft of this book, she was nervous about this part. I hadn’t even stepped into the house yet, so a house, a family, wasn’t necessarily safe from the perspective of my friends. Maybe not all of them but I didn’t know what to do with that. She said, “considering your life.” I just beginning to. 

I threw my coat at him.

“Bello,” Carmine was impressed with my navy and white polka dot sheath, sort of transparent, twenties in feel, I think, with a large sailor collar.

“Vintage?”

“Si,” I was dismissive. I became known for my style but I didn’t want to appear like I spent a bunch of money on clothes so I had to apologize. That was my mother, Joy.

“Are those silver balls,” he looked, “on your ears?”

“Si,” I said.

Diodora rang.

“Marrria?”

Her nasal capacity was cartoon-worthy; it was clearly a cavity, you know what I mean? She rang your name with a very clear tone. I was a child once.

It stunned me, a little.

“La bella DioDORA…” echoed up the stairwell, a half-moon on each floor bringing in soft, gauzy light. “Go, go,” Carmine said.

I came ashore onto her living floor the color of sand. A window by a Christmas tree flooded the linoleum floor with a bright light like a lamented beach. White lights wrapped around a Christmas tree—wasn’t it a little early? I turned. My mouth dropped. Diodora was in the same outfit as fifteen years ago! A fitted-neck cashmere sweater, black house pants, and platform slippers. Carmine took after her the most with darker olive skin and brown eyes and hair. Holding green olives in a plastic bag, she ran to embrace me, beside herself. Tiny and fit with foulard, her dark eyes became slits when she smiled behind cat-eye frames. She was always an honest, rugged person with a tight haircut. She amazed me. I did not have the ability to say: you have not aged a day. “Eternale…?”

She spoke with ellipses built-in so she could remain agile in conversation, knight-like in her verticality and playful sparring. She could be flirtatious but tough, restrained, Diodora, with a gaiety to her. A trickster, also. She looked at me as if she could see a child in me, which was odd. She had a way of holding her hand, very satisfying, as if it were a turtledove.

“Um,” I gestured to the Christmas tree.

“Why…” is this here.

Energetic and scared — I switched thought very fast. I had to keep that in mind as I moved forward with this story. 

“You is, are 20 years.”

I stuck my thumb in the past, taking a couple of steps into it.

“Passate,” I said. Past.

Carmine raised his brows.

“Learn Italian first.”

Diodora was gracious, formal, adjusting her glasses.

“No,” I refused him.

With his hands on his hips, he paused next to his mother before telling her that Maria wants to learn Italian and Neapolitan in, his turned his finger, “one month,” and “ah,” she punctuated, wasn’t sure if that was going to happen. I tried to let it go—my attempt to make a sentence. They wanted to know, though, what did I want to say? “Go, go,” Carmine said, somewhere else. “Tell us Maria,” Diodora even got languid like Carmine could. After a light round of charades, Carmine got it, the effect of the lighting too.

“Eterna,” he mirrored the ball I made and put it into the space.

Without words he asked me why…?

His mother laughed.

“Maria, eternale?”

“You, no ago? No years on…” your face.

Getting flirty, jabby, she flashed her brows, does this mean she looks good? Maria? She was a close combat person. My hands were always very, she conjured a little magic with a smile to seal the deal.

“Un po’ fantastical.”

I blinked, put a little bend in my knees to pop up.

“Vero?”

“Wow,” she said, “si si,” si si, Carmine echoed, I was always like this.

Her “si si” was legendary, musical, could sear cutlets.

I looked at her. Really?

“Wow, tu, you have changed…”

I nodded, also.  

“Maria,” she rang to signal my attention, touched the bag very nicely.

“These are olives…that I made.”

“Wow…”

“Ma,” Diodora strained yet casual placed a little olive tree at various points in the distance.

“Maria, olive trees are everywhere…tante tante a Napoli…”

She hushed tender words that I didn’t understand.

“It’s been so long…I can still see you, si, si…Maria, look at this dress, it’s chic.”

“You look bella,” she put up an ok sign and enunciated. 

“Maria, wow…”

“I like…clothes…”

I shrugged in the Neapolitan. She laughed. Two fingers pointing at my eyes, I went searching for pieces because each one was “a story.”

“They like you also,” she shrugged.

I thanked her.

In his white coat, Giggino slid open the mirrored door from his office like an old lady searching for good gossip with a round belly protruding a little more than it used to. He kept his crew cut tight, clipped like his cash, with a salt and pepper suave wave.

“Maria!”

He trilled the “r” so forcefully, it took the feet out from under me, which I demonstrated. “Wow,” Diodora said. “Si, si, always like that.” “What?” Even that. “I was?” Carmine said I studied mime or something. “Mimo, Maria?” She rang my name like, seriously? Bello.

Giggino greeted me like a cousin with two kisses on the cheek. He offered me a mountain of fried mini dough balls with honey and sprinkles on top. Giggino is a bulldozer but an alligator so he’s gentle at heart. He only chomps the endings of all words. His accent was legendary swishing, swashing, sweeping, chucking, to throw me down. “Where have you been?” 

Giggino moved his body like he was joking but not, taking me in. He was concerned already. He was ready to bust my chops, anyone’s chops. He complimented my dress. Si, si, vintage. I started saying things I couldn’t really say. They were surprised when I picked up. Why?

“Where have you been?”

“Um,” I went blank and it would work to my advantage, sometimes, acting like I don’t understand. Eager, bright, I said it was crazy, just crazy.

“You’re nervous,” he saw it immediately. “No.”

“Siii,” he said as if I were a baby.

He tipped his head into my resistance. Still had some fight, alright.

Giggino handed me the plate, screwed his cheek, the Italian gesture for tastes good.

“Buono, questo, Marrria.”

“No grazie…I don't want questo adesso.”

“Questo adesso…”

“This isn’t even food…”

He gestured to the mountain of tiny fried balls.

“These are just little fried balls of dough.”

“Do you eat? You’re skinny…”

Diodora tipped her head to one side.

“NO,” I snapped.

“Me? I am muscle…”

He sizzled, I was skinny, I wasn’t. I took a superman stance. Giggino. He gestured to Diodora as if it had to be taken care of immediately. He was being dramatic, so I stepped into the kitchen even more dramatically. The window that opened from the wall like a door. A curtain of embroidered daisies: Diodora.

“Do you like curtains?”

Giggino mocked me.

I hurried over to the door.

You’re skinny, I am muscle, no, yes, how was your flight, where have you been? How are you making money? Eat, Maria, eat. AHHHH, Diodora rang. What the hell are you doing, goofy guitar playing man? Carmine never moved his face, also strategic. This guy, his father indicated. Why is she laughing?

Orange and mandarin trees from the garden below met a terracotta patio.

Giggino was funny, that’s why, ready to BUST CHOPS, boom. Boxes of nuts, bowls of fruit, leafy greens exploding out of crates on a white plastic table. Taking his position on his bench: the radiator under the window, Giggino was assessing my “wow” attitude already. Didn’t expect that.

“Do you remember?”

Diodora tipped from the stove with a stalk of pasta in her hand.

“Si…”

I said with a bright smile, because I did, I did.

“Barbeque,” I said with an Italian accent for Giggino…

“Sull’escalier, um, the stairs” leading down to the garden.

“Senti,” Giggino honked into the pressing subject at hand.

“IO,” I said with fist, “imparar’ Italian rapid.”

“Oh?”

Carmine began in a state of suspension.

Giggino rocked himself immediately forward about our “tweet tweet” secret language. I snapped wide eyes, amazed, like “you remember this?” Scratching the top of his head, careful about germs, always, the urologist made two little birds chirping at one another, “tweet tweet.” He wondered what my grand gestures were about but he remembered that I was always like this, even fondly. Right, assessing me.

“Really?” He looked at me. “Do you still do theater?”

“NO?”

“What the hell do you then?!”

I ran to Diodora. “Can I help you?”

“Who the hell is this? Help her? What the hell are you going to do…?”

“No, no,” Diodora said, adjusting her glasses. “I don’t remember you having curly hair…”

My eyes grew wide.

“Si…”

“No.”

“No,” Giggino said, simply.

“SI!” I felt bad. I looked down. I forgot that I forgot. No. “Si,” remembering, confirming. “No.” “Si!” “No.” “ES—” I grabbed my hair. “SI,” they insisted that I didn’t have curly hair. I forgot that I forgot. “SI.” I had to fight, you see, this is Naples. It’s my hair. NO, no it’s not. I had this! “SI.”

“Di,” Carmine corrected me.

“Regulare?”

Who’s this? Giggino snapped. I paused because I shouldn’t say that. Carmine paused. I didn’t want to say that I forgot, that I forgot that I forgot. Laughing already, si, clapping, Napoli, “si, curly hair! LANGUAGE,” I thrust through the difficult. “Rapido. The most rapido possible.” “The most rapido possible…” Giggino looked at me through gator eyes, at the side of his head. “Is it regular?” “TEE TEE,” Giggino barked at my “TEE TEE” energy. “Si, it’s regular,” Carmine said. But what did you forget……Carmine communicated without words.

“Tweet, tweet,” Giggino made two little birds tweet-tweeting with his thick hands,  hilarious. Putting his chin into it, crossing his arms, “artisti…” artists, the bane of his existence, though he would use “cultured hands” around the word “arte” as if you treated it with respect also. Oh my God, I forgot that I forgot. My hair, everything. Wow, they remembered me, I said, awkwardly positive, looking at Giggino like “wow.” I didn’t have…I ran over to Carmine, clearing a basket of walnuts. Giggino visibly stared at me as if he lived in a magical world. VISIBLY. “Why are you nervous?” “No, si, no si, I CAN SEE your NERVES!” “Can…” I pointed at the nuts. “SI,” Giggino’s eyes were wide. Diodora didn’t have to turn around. “These are local Maria…” Giggino and Carmine told where the nuts came from at the same time. Diodora came in at the end. “MARIA EAT THE NUTS!” Giggino barked; I became suddenly scared, not wanting to disturb anyone, holding onto my hands, retracting. “You don’t eat!” “Si!” I came forward. “IO EAT.” He pointed to his eye as if I were a baby. It wasn’t what he was seeing on my figure. “I do sport!” Giggino judged that. “MOUSSE puro,” I slapped my my biceps. Diodora congratulated me. “DIED, Maria…your father? HE DIED? HE DIED?

Naples requires quick footwork.

Through the murky waters, the smooth white bums: mozzarella. These are just balls in a bucket to us. We don’t have special packaging here. I was gleeful. I was skinny. The LASER BEAMS, Giggino indicated, suddenly the Hunchback of Notre Dame, coming from my eyes should be directed toward the FOOD, Giggino pointed with wide but beady eyes. “Good, food, it’s good,” he assured me as if I were a baby. “NON SONO UN BEBE.” Diodora smiled with flirtatious eyebrows.

“I remember you always loved bufala…”

“Si? Really?” 

Giggino collapsed a little, looking at Diodora. “MARIA, don’t you REMEMBER? Are you trying to be a comedian? She has a quality though doesn’t she Diodora?”

“Si, si,” she said.

I laughed.

“A little magical, no?”

“What?”

Giggino tipped, gave me sparkly fingers. 

“QUALITA.”

Palm open, Giggino was confused. Making his way to the large ceramic bowl with kaki and clementines at the patio door, I insisted that I could not eat first, even proudly, like I got the point a long time ago. He let me have it low—Maria, eat. He wasn’t eating. Everyone made fun of his “dieta” which always remained a theory. “Non,” I was final. I could not do that.

A quick glance at the cheese, Giggino about to begin his interrogation into the case of me, Carmine cut into his mozzarella with precision, a formidable bite, and broke a bit of bread. I cracked up. They thought I was joking. No, it was their reaction. “La politesse,” it was French. Then, I said police, short-circuiting, cracking up, “when you…the language,” I loved speaking like this, wanting to tell them. Free, bold, so excited! Language. Bufala! “IS THIS NOT BUON?” Gesturing to Carmine in the formal fashion, I could proceed. I took a bite…my eyes closed.

Creamy, touch of stank, a delight, I was pure, renewed. I rubbed my fingers together though there was no reason to. Giggino caught it…asked me what I was doing, delighted at my play, so confused as to what I was doing with my life! If not THEATER?

“Wet grass, green, earth, hooves, cow hide, a cool bath thick of cream. FRESHK!”

“FRESCO…”

“I speak Neapolitan!”

“Brav.”

“MA MARIA,” Giggino perched himself on the radiator — directly in front of me. He wanted me to SEE him. “Does FOOD not have taste in AMERICA?”

“Fa freddo,” Giggino shivered.

“Yes,” Diodora said with a warm smile.

“Good, Maria?”

“It’s not…(that)…cold,” I teased him.

“Oh?”

I opened my fingers, trying to find a word better than good. “You’re seeing green, right? Is that what you said? You’re talking about the grass…” Carmine said. “Ahhh,” Diodora said, “it’s good, Maria? Good?”I pressed my fork into its flesh, the liquid, the water. “Buon,” I rubbed my fingers together, but the word was not good enough. I threw my hand — for MORE. “A qualità superior,” I pressed my fork, again, since the — aqua — says everything. Giggino told me to stop PLAYING with food! EAT IT. THE WORD FOR WORD, MAN, I did not have it.

“HOW YOU SAY…”

Taking a deep breath, all forehead, “SAY WHAT MARIA SAY WHAT?” Giggino.

Pasta released steam under Diodora’s stirring, the cockles salty on the nose. Giggino drew his hands to the classic, Italian triangle—about to go in for me. Siiii, I gazed at the glistening, slippery noodles piling on my plate.

“Where’s Benedetto?”

“Verona…”

Giggino spun it up in the future. “He will come…” he tossed it. “Next week.”

“Pesce?”

“First pasta,” Diodora clarified.

Carmine’s brows were raised. Giggino was disturbed.

“I cannot eat…” Carmine cut me off. “She says this…”

“OH?” Giggino interrogated. I was laughing. “Next week. Ma MARIA…“

“Niccolo?”

Diodora chimed in with a bowl of lentils with green olives and her gluten-free bread, it turned out, for I became keenly interested in the LOAVES. Pointing, frowning, she had a machine to bake her little loaves. “Niccolo sta a Roma…he’ll come closer to Christmas…” Sizzling, clenching his jaw, what’s the meaning of this? He tackled the subject with a deep brow. “YOUR FATHER.” I got noodles in my mouth— quick. Al dente. Everyone jumped in to support me except Giggino twinkling his little head around like I had a cute song and dance. “Piace?” She lifted her brows with a smile. I sucked a cockle, a tender, warm, salty babe. “Maria,” Giggino frowned. “What about the lentils?” Carmine wanted me to eat the lentils as well. I demonstrated my chewing mouth! “Brav,” Giggino was just checking—my fight. Si, si, good, normale, etc. Geez, he crossed his arms.

“SCUSA MARIA,” Giggino blurted.

“I do not speak Italian!”

Everyone disagreed. I could not help but laugh. “Si, my father…obviously…” my hand extended in the formal fashion. “MOURIR,” in French. Giggino cast his gaze downwards and put his nose into it, sincerely. He was sorry to hear it. They all were. I wanted no sympathy. They misunderstood. “Maria,” Giggino said as if I were a kid, “he was older…”

“I KNOW,” I snapped.

“She’s a nervous wreck,” Giggino punched me out of the water, emotional. “She doesn’t eat, and she cannot speak!” Eh, they made sounds. “Of what?”Breaking her bread and throwing chunks into her lentils, she remarked again. “You did not have curly hair.” No, Giggino came in fast to kick me down. “YES!” No. “YES! I HAD THIS! THIS! NO YOU DIDN’T. No… I started laughing. “What’s funny?” Giggino on his bench turned his cheek. I clapped my hands at him.

“YOU — WANT? SAPER? WHY I poof,” I made a poof with my hand. Giggino pointed. “YES. Exactly, just like this.” Now I was on his page. “Poof,” he looked at Diodora like I had something, something of value which he expressed with refined hands. The poof. “What is,” I made the poof. Diodora made “ehh” sounds. Si si they GOT THE PICTURE. I pinched my fingers at them and did not have the word for word! “PER THIS!” I poofed. THEY GOT THE PICTURE, goddammit! “Si…” Diodora slid. “Maria,” Giggino frowned. “What about the lentils?” Slippery pasta between my lips, I demonstrated my chewing mouth! She doesn’t eat, Giggino illustrated. “SCUSA MARIA,” he blurted. Diodora came with more cockles. No, what, who, no, ONLY FISH?

“I…” unable to see straight, I snapped at Carmine with his owl eyes. “When you don’t have…” I could do that. “I didn’t have your number…” I made a phone. “Couldn’t communicar.” With “BIRDS?” flying out of my hands — il papier! Where it is WRITTEN NUMBERS. “MARIA?” Giggino rang. And suddenly, on my feet, Carmine simply following me — I did not have — I went searching PER — PER PER? — the number, putting a phone to my ear. Giggino honking, Diodora confused, Carmine looked side to side as I patted my figure down, WHERE? WHERE? “You lost?” YES! PERDRE, FRENCH! Pointing, happy, electric, to Giggino cringing. Tweet tweet. ARTISTS! He honked.

“Of what? MARIA? OF WHAT?????????”

Back in the game.

Diodora broke her gluten-free bread and threw chunks into her lentils.

“ALZHEIMERS…?”

“ALZHEIMER?

“ALZHEIMER?”

“Is it…?”

“Si, si the SAME.”

“THE SAME. THE SAME.”

Giggino ripped the ending of “eguale” right off.

“EGUAL.”

A whole fish hit the table.

“Bello!”

“MARIA, have you SEEN a FISH?!” 

Diodora sat down to de-bone it elegantly. “Giggino,” Diodora said, and he defended himself. I cracked up. I told her it was alright, less because it was, but because I could take it! I assure you, chief, ehhh, that’s right, just having a little conversation here…

“When,” Giggino pressed, “WHEN did he get Alzheimer?”

“When I was ten…”

I made a slow-motion explosion. They got it immediately.

“This was my life…”

“Explosion? Maria?”

Giggino pressed.

“Everything has exploded?”

“Tutto boom.”

“Tutto boom?” Giggino echoed. “Tutto boom?” Diodora did as well. Carmine did not.

I was sorry— WHAT?

“Carmine,” Giggino did not move his face. “Why is she using this word?” He had never been more concerned. I made a nice, slow circle with my index fingers.

“My life, globally,” I froze, was it? What was it? That didn’t make sense to them—no matter where I started, it never did. “Piano piane, Maria, piano piane,” Giggino rocked. I laughed. “Piano, piane?”

“Pia-no, pia-no, Maria,” Giggino rocked on his heels, “piano, piane.”

“Softly, soft,” he assured me in the Neapolitan that it would unfold in time as if I were beginning a song. Nothing about Naples was piano piane.

UP NEXT:

IN A QUARTET we headed for the suitcase.

The Neapolitan at Hogwarts drives me home

A VOICE RESONATED across the stereo. What a voice! It sounded like a passionate siren had just arrived robust and riding a chariot along a sparkling sea, wind in his romantic hair, in love with it! Carmine nodded, neutrally. He agreed that my silly thrusting upon the moment was “giusto” or just, true, it’s in the song, Meri. It has that inspirted feeling, yes.

“I am with you? The sea. You with me?”

“No, no,” Carmine wagged his finger. Hand on my heart, this siren stunned me.“It is his wild abandon, Merí, in his heart…”

“It is the love in his heart that brings him to the sea…” He gave me his chest, drily. I looked at him. “Do you understand?”

“Eh,” he held out his hand as if it had dirt in it, weight. His brows raised slightly, no inflection, he, superiorly, breached the impossible topic: music. “It was impossible for me or anyone to truly grasp the complexities, ‘the layers’ of the lyrics. There’s what we see on the surface,” he tapped the dashboard, and what is beneath it. “Tante tante layers. No, I didn’t understand.” He rubbed his palm with his fingers when he was thinking. He tried to explain it, sincerely, which was touching about Carmine. Seriously, with owl eyes, music sprouted “here,” he pointed, like plants and trees. Fruits, “as many of the trees are fruitful.”

“WHAT IS?”

He created a brume with his hands and stick-shifted. “Allummato,” he said, “you asked.” Pinching his nose, “it does not mean the city is illuminated by let’s say the sun, moon, or street lamps…”

“Si, si,” I imitated his furrow-browed shrug.

“I under…”

“Allummato… signifies something more…like you.”

I looked at him. “Io?”

“Si si, like accendere…” Striking a match, he was neutral and wide-eyed. He lit the freeway on fire, and he became thrilled, but chill. He swept his hands briskly in the air and communicated it as best as he could. To get carried away by excitement. Did I grasp the concept? Doing a quick etymology, I got the flames. He kept explaining it. “Are you recording?” I sat up. “Si. This is my strategy. I give language course,” I put my chin into it. “Really?”

“Say again…The word for this. “You remember…me?”

He blinked. “Cosa?”

“On, about me?”

“In this sense,” he adjusted his seat. “Napoli is ignited from within.”

“Wow,” I was touched. No one remembered me like that, not in my life anymore. “Thank you…”

“Thank you?”

“Si,” I shrugged, wishing I hadn’t started this train of thought. Breaking into a little laugh, he wondered without words — why was I thanking him?

“Sorry,” I shook my head.

“Sorry?” He asked. “Why are you…”

“How do you say a person but contrast a person? When there isn’t a person? Nessuno, si, si, thank you. No one stays? Left? Meaning, still here? Tutto ciao?” I cracked up, jittery. I went to turn the stereo up, but I was scared that I overstepped my boundaries, so I started waving my hands at him like I didn’t mean to do that. This confused Carmine further, which made me laugh. He had no idea where we were to a peppy melody and a booming voice and the wheels of the car spinning down the highway. I mimed running away on the chorus fearfully.

“No,” Carmine wagged his finger. “Not fleeing Naples.”

“He is going towards it. Here, here is Naples.” He was neutrally taken by the sight, full of understated passion. I tipped my head from side to side.

“Don’t you know Roberto Murolo?”

“No…”

“Your father didn’t share the songs with you?”

“Your grandfather was a musician.”

“He was?”

“Si,” he paused. “You don’t know?” We would have to confirm that with the others, gentlemanly, he communicated, pinching his nose, but he believed so…

I pointed at his long fingernails, well-kept, cared for. “Muschichi…” I couldn’t say musician for the life of me. He looked at his nails.

“Musicita.”

“Moooo, how do you say this animal in Italian?”

“Musicita, Maria…”

I was so excited to be back — Napoli!

“La musica,” I said with feeling out of the window. “Vesuvio!”

In the backseat with Carmine as a kid, I couldn’t believe that people would choose to live on a volcano. I was in an aqua ensemble from the United Colors of Benetton. Little Carmine pushed up his glasses with owl eyes, swinging his sandal.

“Vesuvius va boom, Meri.” His sweet voice. Vesuvius goes boom.

Big, humpbacked, and unapologetic, no matter where you go, he’s there: the volcano around which this entire region turned. The region is on a supervolcano, and I could feel the electric current instantly. That was home, actually. My cousins call me “electric.” That was my mother, actually, she was. Not my father. I could connect to a current beneath the soil, in the air, as if it were in the blood, nonetheless. Family was one big catastrophe, I gotta admit.

“How is Vesuvio?”

Carmine stated that he was doing well.

“You’re a musCHICHIS…” I pointed to his fingernails.

“Mu-si-”

“SHE…”

“MUSI”

“SHISTA…”

“CISTA.” With an okay sign, Carmine, a conductor, also.

“Wow!”

“No è wow,” he said.

“Are you in a band…do you have EP? Tour?” I was firm. I wanted to listen to them.“Yes,” he was in a band, but immediately, we dove into the problem.

I raised my brows. He made sounds “eh, ma, eh” that spoke sentences. “Ma, ma, ma…what you say?” What could he say? “There is no money in music. Franco…” He adjusted his glasses and seat referring to his father up ahead. I gave him a look. “This is Naples, Meri, everyone is a singer, musician.” How to communicate what music meant here? “There is no separation, eh eh, between the land and music, it was profound. Music is considered food here — you eat it every day, no? So it’s not the biggest deal…”

A smile on my face, “sure,” sunlight bounced off the window. He kept talking about music, needing to rephrase his sentences because he thought I didn’t get it, I couldn’t, I couldn’t understand how profound music was, here, it’s basically a fruit tree. A source of sustenance. “No, no,” he insisted that I didn’t understand. “This is FOOD,” he put it in his mouth. “Food that you eat. Ehhh,” he trailed off. I was overjoyed. Naples, music, it’s mythic, even, to us. Hills rolled outside, graffiti appeared on aqueducts, social housing, and abandoned masserias; rusty red in color. I gave him a palm that laid out the situation from top to bottom. I was not pleased, not in agreement with Franco already.

“There are no jobs here,” he defended his father’s point of view. I didn’t know the word for “play shows.”

“YOU, this group…” I made a small circle with my finger, graining away.

“Do the music for you only…” I scanned the world outside with index and thumb.

“Or for the population.”

“Si, si,” he furrowed his brow. He didn’t laugh at how I talked, which made me want to press the pedal to the metal. “We play shows…” I took note, excused myself, haughtily now, before I said something really stupid. I got angry at Franco already.“But,” he didn’t know what to say, “Maria, you’re a singer…do you still sing…?” Our eyes caught the others wide and blank, the song too enrapturing like a cinema. Swinging his hand with dirt in it, though there was one, he tried to rephrase the question.

“SING,” he sang into an invisible mic. “No,” I threw that away, shocked, laughed. He paused. So was he. “What are you talking about?” I wasn’t expecting that. Neither was he. “That’s all you did…what do you mean you do not sing?”

I was a writer now, “bello,” but “because you write, doesn’t mean you can’t sing,” he tried to rephrase it, thinking I wasn’t getting it, which itched me a little under the skin.“I write now…”

“That’s what you did, that’s all you did. You wanted to be a singer…”

“Sant’Anastasia!” I pointed to the sign. “The…” I struggled to find the word, “the firma…”

“Firm?”

“Farm!”

He patted my fumes down. “Meri, we’re all good, it’s ok…ssi, ssi, you remember the farm? “L’altro Franco,” he punched altro, referring to Vico. “I remember,” I waddled in my seat, “walking with…” “Ssi, ssi, with the buckets, right…”  He nodded, “of artichokes and broccolini and tomatoes…”

“Plums,” he guessed. You loved.

“What?”

 “Plums, you liked plums,” he paused. “You liked plums…”

I could have heard a ringing in my ear, um, okay. I got a flash that ripped right through me of running to a plum tree when I was four. I liked plums? I hardly ate a plum.

We turned off the exit, I still recognized it. Olive trees came into bloom, which I gasped at, sincerely, as they passed. “Ottaviano!” I shook my fists. “Don’t blink.” Carmine thought. I got it. “Really?” He asked. “The expression” you can’t flap your eyes open and close.

“Existo in English.”

I exist, I said, in English.

“The same, the same, the same,” the same expressions existed in all languages. I ended with the “prayer hands” to punctuate it. Speaking in Italian always cracked me up. I got him onboard — stat — I needed to learn the language as fast as humanly possible. He wasn’t sure that it was possible. Carmine, brows raised, is my duo because he’s taking me 100% seriously. We’re going discuss it as a real idea. There was no way…I can’t speak anymore. “Sure, you speak well,” he told me, tensely.

To my surprise, he felt the change in my temperature as we turned down the street that we would then turn right at up ahead. I remembered that, to arrive to the house on the left — down a street almost as wide as an alley with facades of faded blue, green shutters. Some were apartments, some were houses, like theirs. Vesuvius was visible between the apartment buildings at the end of the block.

Persimmon trees coming into view, a few citrus groves patched here and there. The suburbs are poor, but then, I haven’t found a person who isn’t rich when they belong somewhere. I feel a little weird saying that but it’s true. Their neighborhood is like an island setback in an unused landscape.

“La palestra…” I read a tiny sign on a diamond-shaped fence. The palace.

“Si,” Carmine threw a dart–“Tha gym.”He showed me the square I could run around — after the permission tree. Watch out for the dogs, I think, he said.

The Neapolitan at Hogwarts picks me up at the airport

I SMELLED THE RINDS of a clementine cupped in my hand. It was the first thing I grabbed. I always loved the scent of its remains, sharp and sweet like a quiet day down the shore long ago. Here we go, I thought.

The glass doors opened to a blue sky, the color of my mother’s eyes, a bite in the air. I came into the light with a bright smile, my mother’s: Joyce. “You’d never think that I came from a story like that,” people told me, though I never knew what to do with it since they clearly knew no one who did.

I didn’t know I came from “a story like that,” you see, did I? It was the personality that came along with it; spritely, I guess, out of the box, and happy to be alive, genuinely, and that was an obstacle. My genuine joy, my mother’s name, was an inheritance, and it was either impossible or too “touching,” I think, which is what…Carmine, the man of the hour, I call him, making his approach, called me.

“This is your primary quality.” Was it? I didn’t know.

I hadn’t wanted to be seen in the hugest Mongolian fur coat you have ever seen with a mop of curls on top, big bird, my former friend had picked it out. I had tucked myself away behind a trash can beside the glass box of the airpor with a cappuccino. I smelled the rinds, like I always did. I didn’t want to stand there waving like an idiot, “remember me?”

I always felt some real root here, even if it was small. That tart freshness, Naples. A chilly December day. A shot of color in black stone. Contrast, high contrast, and I guess that’s me. I really didn’t know, as the world always appeared a vast place to me. In most people’s eyes, my story appeared to be like arriving in a foreign country, but they didn’t necessarily understand that I had told the story before. It wasn’t my first time as the tour guide.

Gliding through the lot with hair like black silky sails, my cousins sent Carmine to pick me up. He could understand me when no one else could. I remembered that, right. He wasn’t my cousin, he was my partner. We were a duo. We had a magical ability to communicate, which, evidently, they remembered, despite no real words having been exchanged. Peculiar.

It struck me. He was no longer a boy. His cheeks were my favorite feature back then along with his signature owl eyes behind his round glasses that eliminated any possibility of discerning what he was thinking. They weren’t round anymore and neither was he. Had a beat in his head. That is why I called him “the Neapolitan at Hogwarts” because that’s who he truly is.

The Neapolitans exist in the Harry Potter universe, it’s an enchanted group of people who still believe in enchantment, mystics, mystery. They trace their origins to the siren that attempted to lure Odysseus, which, uh, we were fine, she was our siren. He’s that boy with owl eyes and his cute round glasses and cheeks who would “channel the siren” to bring “V” to his knees. “Harry.” In an Italian accent. He would be the special foreign student. And the funny bit? His whole family would agree, especially hot Rosa.

A friend of mine from Genoa remarked that the Neapolitans were “the actors of Italy,” if you can simply take that in. She snickered at my accent in Italian because it was Neapolitan. So Neapolitans in Italy are considered to be their own entity. I have regular Italian cousins, so I can tell you that they truly are. Cool, matter-of-fact yet poetic, he’s going to become an opera for you with owl eyes as Neapolitans are “the actors of Italy.” He mastered the “not acting” technique, which is a real approach to the craft, and he’s worthy of awards, in my opinion.

Subtly stunned to recognize me in stride, fist over his mouth, how to cross fifteen years? He did it because it wasn’t a dense material to him, and I couldn’t move. I also had luggage. I moved my hands like the storm, the storms! He had no idea what I was saying. The years flew with his steps, ages flickered across his face. I searched for the words. He hugged me. A direct hit. I wasn’t expecting that, that fifteen years could be so easily crossed. He pulled me in front of him with a firm grip as if to feel the reality of me.

“Merí, your hair…”

“Merí!”

My coat was “totally enormous.”

I forgot that they called me by that name — Merí. I masked that with a bright smile. “Yes,” he nodded. “This is you, Merí.” I took this as an opportunity to practice the letters of the alphabet. “Not…” He nodded. “Mary,” I cut it short. “Baa baa,” I made the sounds for lamb; he found my coat “bello, is it vintage?” But Italian lambs do not make the same sounds as English ones. “Mangiar.” I patted my hands, moved around “l’animale…” with hair that you shave to weave. He thought I looked “bella.” I got uncomfortable, he noticed, which made me respond strangely. “You! You look.” He reached for my giant suitcase, I felt bad, so we did a pas de deux over who would take it. “No, no,” I didn’t want him to take it. I packed for a month. He dismissed me politely. He wasn’t going to let me…I liked taking my own bag. I was strong, brightly, too! I meant it. I did not…He stopped.

He adjusted his glasses, a stone pine behind him. What was my fidgety insistence about? He spoke with a blunt tone. Just like his mother. No inflection. Nasal. Though his mother is cartoon worthy, and that’s a compliment. I did a readjustment dance, he got it. “Work…” as in “job…”

“Ah,” he was sincere, “agnello.” And with two claws going into the subject, “this,” I said. He patted down my nervous fumes. I didn’t remember the word for “lamb.” Everything was okay. That was first. Taking in my hair, my coat, my giant beat-up suitcase, my pristine ostrich carry-on….

“Si, si,” he said flatly, “you were always like this.”

I had to laugh at his tone. “What?”

My hands were always “imaginative.”

“What?”

“Si si,” no change in tone, my hands were always creative, even a little fantastico…

“Vero? True?”

I asked him with a bright face…I arched my thumb into the past.

“You, you, know, this? Me?”

Carmine said, “si, si. You were always like this.”

Uh, laughing…really? I cast my gaze toward the ground. It was a compliment, he lifted me up since I appeared lost. His owl eyes shifted. He didn’t make fun of me, Carmine, that’s first. “This is a quality…“

“You,” I gestured, “you think this, you know this, you,” I made an arch backward with my thumb. “Si, si,” he looked away. He rubbed his palm when he was thinking though his face rarely changed. I interrupted him in feeling. I understood what he was going to say. Shrugging, it was obvious. He looked side to side as if it say — isn’t it? And then, with a small shrug, if not a stare, it would be strange…I got it before he had to say it. He didn’t care. We shrugged back and forth. It’s just a little song and dance. Everyone has one here, it’s just my way. I was so excited! Suddenly. He was unmoved. Napoli! I froze. Too fast. I got self-conscious. He rang to signal my attention. “Meri — ”

“We must hurry, it is time to eat…”

I froze in fear. His brows rose, his eyes owl. “I cannot eat…”

He didn’t know how to take that with my cracking up at his straight face and blunt tone, a little nasal. “What do you mean you cannot eat? You are not hungry, or you cannot eat because you feel sick or tired or something? Are you okay?” Uh, no, yes. I didn’t have the words. Looking at me as if I were strange without moving his face, he broke into a slight smile. I laughed. He rolled on with my bag.

“Mama, lunch-time, let’s go…”

Slowing down my steps to delay his, he whistled like he knew. If there was one thing I couldn’t forget, it was how much they ate.

He wagged his finger as if he remembered me more and more with every step he took. I caught up with him, the wind through his jacket, his fair. His chest affrontedthe seas once more. Carmine was sensitive to the shift in my feeling, but he didn’t know what it was, I could tell, but then, who knew what he knew and what he didn’t? I was nervous, for sure, though I wouldn’t say that I was totally aware of that. My bag was a little awkward. I lunged for it apologetically. Like a sharp conductor, he paused in suspension, his eyes large and innocent. “Be careful.” I didn’t want anyone to do anything for me! It was my responsibility, sincerely, Carmine shifted his eyes from side to side, to take the large bag. I packed enough for a month. Yes, yes, I did well. “Why are you apologizing?” I acted like a dumbbell so this moment would pass and threw my hands around my mop of curls. I was “tired,” yeah. Claws for hands…um… he rolled on. I inserted my hands where words should have been. “I loved!” With a fist. All this! Speaking like this, with fists, not knowing the language, cracking up. “Ti!” My steps quickened, emotional. I caught his nails — they were longer — he played guitar! I beamed and pointed. “Muschi!” I stumbled over a curb in my black suede boots.

“Musician” was not an easy word for me to pronounce. “MUSCHI.”

Carmine threw his hands at a silver car, attempting to go around the parking kiosk by accelerating up and onto a grassy median we were crossing. “HO!” He kept moving as if there was nothing abnormal about it, me, because there wasn’t. Stopping at a white 90s Peugeot, opening up the trunk, I pointed to it. Plumping onto the pavement, the silver car booked it.

“Hey! Franco!”

“Si si,” Carmine was smooth with his keys. It was his father’s old car, “si.”

“We were children in the…”

I saw little Carmine in the backseat swinging his sandal in the summers, just the cutest, with slick hair, too. We were always together, a duo, more so than cousins. We began turning our fingers towards the point we would never arrive at like the “wheels.” His eyes owl. But, that’s the thing, we always did to the amazement of our family. “Maria’s talking about Zeus,” he’d say. He saw the swan; that’s the funny thing about Carmine. I tried to describe the swan Zeus became, and he got a picture of it in his head. “Ugly when baby?”

“Yes.”

“Also ballet?”

“Yes.”

“Si si,” he had the cutest lisp when he was a kid, subtle. His cheeks. His eyes. He was a baby owl. “Who becomes beautiful Meri?”

Yes, Carmine nodded with a furrowed brow on the driver’s side of the car. A handsome man, now, good-looking. His eyes went side to side — si. No, he got the picture. I wanted him to see the past in the car. He did.

“We did questo!” Remembering our turning, mine, I guess, fingers.

He turned my wheels towards the present — the passenger seat I needed to get into, putting invisible food in his mouth. I laughed. He made sounds as if the deal had been made. I proved his point. He got into the car.

Naples, just a place I longed to return to, yeah. On guitar strings, we took off down the autoroute.

Please don't adopt me

PLEASE, I THOUGHT, DO NOT ADOPT ME. I told myself to stop it. That’s ridiculous. Just go in like a blank slate. What did I know? I had to think about it, though. My family saga somewhat dominated my life but then some people I knew might say that they didn’t know. I didn’t even know. I was tied to something that I didn’t understand, that I didn’t want. I had a different family than the one I started with, and when people asked a simple question about my family, it provoked a strangely revealing, if not funny, response.

“Which one?”

So, before we even begin, this is about identity.

My parents didn’t exist anymore by this point. “My mother is a teacher…” when she wasn’t originally. Mexican, even. She called my first mother, whose real nickname is Dr. J, “Cruella De Vil from 101 Dalmatians.”

This was all beginning to dawn on me since my problems didn’t exactly go away though today, as a totally different human being, so I don’t even know what to say about that sentence. What problems? People could get attached to mine. My last family mirrored the first touch too closely, but I couldn’t grasp it, as if awareness were more of a layered experience. We might even inhabit different times at once, in fact, but in the end, I had to question everything I thought I knew to be true. Okay… here we go, I said something weird about time again, because my story also brought “gurus” into my life, a wiseman, as this is a Christmas story, who heard the first sentence of my life: my mother gave me away to a total stranger when I was four, and suddenly, I was getting “help” that’s not helping me, again, but I’m supposed to be grateful, the only one at fault, the only one in a relationship, and I’m hearing things like “You are Carl Jung.”

I was “special,” in short, because I came from an otherworldly story; I do not know; maybe it was exclusively my good looks, though I don’t tend to present myself as an attractive woman as I wasn’t always treated like one. But I came from “an otherworldly story,” so I became “magical.” I was basically Tinkerbelle. Or something. I don’t know. It depends on who you talk to.

At the window, in Paris, France, I had to think about going back, and looking back, I feel like I’m speaking from several different points at once, speaking of time, how we recall, as we start getting older. This was one of these moments that set me into the next decade of my life, which I almost didn’t survive.  

This draft, this book, would mark the end of a life that began at four “if not before” which became the joke in this draft and my life because it changed unimaginably when I was four years old.  I lived in a Brazilian-Jewish household for four years, beginning then because my mother, Dr. J, told her that my father was a child molester, rapist, and a beater, generally.

The saga that continued isn’t the subject of this story. This epic, this very Greek epic though Naples is its own specific character, is the story of where I ended up toward the big 30 mark, and going into that decade, as this story took ten years to make my way out of. “My Way,” by Frank Sinatra, a Christmas carol in these parts; this is what Christmas is about to us. Not Silent Night, not happening here. We don’t understand…silence.

I made the decision to go back to Naples to go through this story one more time to learn why it never ended, more so than wanting to reconnect with my roots at first. I loved Naples so much, and I longed to return but I never could because of what happened, but then, it’s hard to say.

I don’t know what I was aware of and what I wasn’t at that time as my whole understanding of my childhood shifted so deeply in these ten years. I don’t fully know what even happened anymore. And you will understand me.

 It didn’t go with Christmas, my story, and trust me on this one, already, since I experienced “oh, she’s probably exaggerating,” too many times. Just too many times. It didn’t. The story itself posed me with more obstacles, it seemed, than the actual experience that I went through. Usually, once I started talking, it usually came with a lot attached that…that I didn’t really want, and I can say that now, it was partially how I approached it, and you know what they say, you can’t change the world you can only change yourself, it’s just the way it goes.

I was stuck.

It wasn’t the type of story that people listened to and said, “Oh, okay. " It always came with questions, which I welcomed, though I didn’t have to. People had such strong reactions to my childhood, so I thought that meant there was a deeper chord that the story struck, especially Dr. J, my mother. J stands for Joyce. Call it an inheritance. Another problem.

I felt on some level that I had a duty to tell it due to the larger themes it touched, questions such as “do you think she knew what she was doing?” My mother. “Do you think she knew?” And all I heard was the justice system. “Do you think she knew what she was doing?” Having stepped my foot into, hm, a weird area. Speaking of the subject of awareness. Not everyone gets that benefit of that doubt, which people know, too, but not in every context. My mother was severely mentally ill. That took 30 years. And you will be surprised that it took me that long. But, the audience, I must admit, was a beast.

I was a bit obsessed with learning back then. I was here “to learn” even though this story: a sport, like I had to put myself through this. But if I was going to go back, the questions were coming, that I knew. That’s all I knew, at the time. The questions were coming. I couldn’t lie, either, because of the catastrophic lying that passed between my both my parents.

And due to where I was at, I had to — out the window. Think. I lived in Alexander McQueen’s old apartment in Paris just off Places des Vosges. It was, at 30 years old, a new dawn. My father recently died. I was free. And now, I’m in a hostel in Thailand in a cute dress somehow, almost 40. I totally restarted.

At the time, I wondered, why hadn’t these “problems” gone away? Looking at the phone, at my current adopted family, my brother who confessed his love to me, etc. It didn’t go away, what happened, in fact? I got adopted more like taken into different families? What? I was at the dawn of another waking up, and it felt like that, a series of revelations to get here. This old narrative was just beginning to surface into the foreground — I was sort of adopted but I wasn’t. I had this adopted narrative, and it never made sense in English let alone a language I didn’t know. Perfect.

HE SAID come for Christmas, I had to think about it

HE SAID

“Come for Christmas.”

I had to think about it, whether or not I would pick up the phone. People lose touch, stay in touch, who even knows? I was living in Paris though American. I mean, from the United States of America, just to specify. Long-winded. I had disappeared to my cousins when I was about thirteen along with my father. It had been fifteen years. They knew nothing about what happened. I didn’t even know. I had reached a point in my life though. I better start figuring it out.

I picked up the phone joyous, apologetic.

He was happy. He wasn’t expecting me to pick up. Why? He had never tried before. No one knows what happened to you? What happened to you?

Oh, Giggino. It was just crazy, crazy, sincerely, even. He wouldn’t believe it, but why did I do this? This is what I mean. I didn’t make sense in Italian. I could take sudden turns in my discourse not wanting to be closed off. Open and positive, I could hit the breaks. I was resolved. I lived with a lot of guilt especially when it came to family; disappearing was a theme.

Come for Christmas.

Oh, I laughed, my story didn’t go with Christmas, but I wanted to go back. So, go early, I thought, allow ample time.

“DECEMBER,” I began.

“PRIMO,” I laughed.

“OSPETALE…”

(It’s ospedale in Italian.)

Giggino was at the hospital. 

“SCUSA MARIA?”

“December 1? I come December…”

“PER,” for, “December.”

I didn’t know the word for month.

“Four weeks makes?”

I couldn’t be polite so I apologized.

“…Si…”

He didn’t understand.

“I don’t speak Italian…”

I didn’t know the word for “anymore.” I started over. He cut me off.

“Maria, tutto okay, si. December…”

“Si? Vero?”

Vero means “true.”

Not speaking the language tickled me, made me bolder.

“Si, Maria, si…”

I repeated it. 

“I can come DECEMBER ONE? Settimana UNA, non?”

Number one week.

I gave myself fists for using the feminine appropriately. 

“Si, MARIA, si,” he sounded as if we were saying the same thing.

“Okay…perfetto!”

I thanked him. I circled my fist around. “We…”

“Si, si, we’ll spend some time together, this is good, Maria, this is good.”

“Okay…”

He cracked up at my “okay” in an Italian accent.

“Okay…”

I thought I was impersonating them.

“Grazie…”

He trilled the “r” in my name tight and fast and blasted.

“MARIA NorMALE,” etc.

“I am happy,” I said like a mascot. 

“Si, also us,” he said.

“Si?”

I was strained.

“Maria, si,” he was confused.

“We all are…”

It was a little hard to believe.