Diary of a Midlife Crisis

Shut up!

2012-01-25T01:15:00.001-08:00

Had a lovely night/day with the Filmmaker last night/today.

(SIDE NOTE: I’m really enjoying how many of my blogs are starting with that statement.)

Oh, and by the way:

Dear Filmmaker,

If you’re reading this blog, please don’t freak out. This blog is the unadulterated, unfiltered things going on in my head. I hope you understand that and just take it at face value. I’m happy to discuss any of this with you, should you get past this point. You’re awesome. Luv.

Okay, back to the blog. Which, by the way, I had written and decided it was too long and too complicated and too much rehashing of stuff I’ve already said.

So anyway, cutting to the chase.

As I lay in his arms, supposedly falling asleep, I just couldn’t. And I know I’ve had trouble falling asleep at his place, which I’ve always put off as his snoring keeping me awake. (I apparently snore also, so…) And I thought I’d been getting used to it because I have been sleeping better, once I fall asleep. But I still have trouble falling asleep.

As I tossed and turned last night, trying not to wake him, I found myself getting more and more frustrated. I was very tired. I had worked hard all day and had done a bunch of work at his place that night. We both dozed off on the couch watching Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert. So I should be fine falling asleep.

But at 2:45 AM, I was still staring at the ceiling. And suddenly, I realized why.

When I’m at home, I fall asleep to the TV -- or lately, to Netflix and “Torchwood” or “Doctor Who” or “Firefly” or anything else in my instant queue. I always thought it was because my last few apartments have been noisy and the sound of the TV helps me tune out the exterior noise.

But last night, I realized it wasn’t the external noise keeping me awake, it was the internal noise.

Now, it wasn’t the usual clowns yammering away at me. This was a bit more disturbing because it was more like something out of the Screwtape Letters, where a senior devil is teaching a junior devil how to subtlely seduce their subject over to the dark side. It’s not by being big and loud, like my clowns usually are. It’s about being quiet and sneaky, not letting the subject know you’re even doing it.

So in my head, the Screwtapes were whispering things that didn’t seem to be terribly wrong at first. Just going over the evening -- in finite detail -- every single moment -- every single word. He said that? Why did he say that? No, that’s fine. He didn’t mean anything. And he didn’t spoon with you. Hm. That must mean something, right? Although he doesn’t always spoon so it shouldn’t be a surprise. But maybe it means something because he doesn’t always do it. What did I do to make him not want to do that? Was there anything else I had done during the evening? Probably not. But maybe we should go back and look at it all again… and again… and again… because somewhere in there, we’ll figure out what we did wrong because there must have been something done that was wrong because…

And on and on and on and on.

Nothing big and loud. Nothing obvious and screaming. Just a slow, steady, quiet whisper, trying to lead me down a well-worn path created by my family and most of the men in my life - somewhere, somehow, some way, I had fucked things up and he would leave. I would say good-bye to him today at the end of our time together and I would never, ever see him again. Because I had fucked it up. I had done something wrong. But if I could figure it out before I left, I could maybe stop it.

At 2:45 AM, I wanted to just scream out “SHUT UP!” but I thought that the Filmmaker might find it a bit disturbing to have the woman who’s sleeping next to him screaming out to something that’s not there.

But in my head, I did scream. I demanded that the whispers stop. I figuratively put my fingers in my ears and refused to listen. And instead of getting stuck in the exploration of my faults, I took a deep breath and focused on what had really happened that evening.

He suggested I come over and stay the night so we could make an appointment we had in the early afternoon. I could have come over any time in the morning but he suggested coming over and staying the night. He wrapped me up in his arms when I got there. Cuddled up on the couch with me for a while as we talked about… nothing, really. His legs over mine, our fingers intertwined. Lovely dinner. His embracing me as we snuggled up later to watch Jon Stewart. The casual intimacy that has developed and become easy. And even at 2:45, I knew if I snuggled up to him, he would instinctively snuggle back.

I did nothing wrong. I did nothing to make him run away. I did nothing to warrant the ridiculous examination that was keeping me awake.

I did nothing wrong.

Wow.

How is that possible?

All my life, I’ve been wrong. About everything. About everyone. I’m always wrong, I will always do something stupid and drive him away. Because the other men I’ve lost my heart to have done exactly that - run away.

But now, I’m with someone who wants to be with me. Who wants me to be pushy and let him know I care. Who wants to be right there, thisclose, right beside me. And who doesn’t expect perfection. Who just enjoys being with me, no matter what.

And I did nothing wrong. Because there is no way to do something wrong. As long as I stay open and honest with him and trust I can talk to him, there will be no wrong.

And when he does leave (because I’m not convinced he won’t eventually), it won’t be because I did something wrong. And he won’t just disappear. He’s a grown-up and I know he’ll be honest and adult when/if he decides he’s done. And I hope he’ll always be in my life, no matter where this current version of us goes. He’s taught me so much already, I hope to learn more as we move through our lives.

And when I woke up, before him, for a change, I lay in bed, listening to him breathe, watching him sleep, and enjoying the internal silence that had fallen. The whispers tried to start up again but I just turned my focus back to the evening before and the feeling of his hand on my hip as we were curled up on the couch and the look in his eyes as he climbed into bed with me at the end of the night. The whispers faded because they realized there was nothing they could say.

I’m not saying I won’t have other nights where the whispers will be loud and proud. But finally understanding that the Screwtapes are hiding in the shadows left by the clowns, maybe it’s finally time for me to begin shutting down those sounds and letting go of the lessons I’ve been erroneously taught. I know it’s time for me to focus on the lessons I’m learning through the Filmmaker and embracing the fact that lessons don’t always have to be a bad thing. Lessons can teach me how to be stronger, to be better, to just live in the moment. To stop focusing on what was and what it was and how it was and just feeling and living and being in that second, that moment, and feeling the touch of someone who loves instead of touching the feeling left by someone who didn’t.

"Mastermind" redux

2012-01-14T17:51:00.000-08:00

So, in 2010, I made a short film called "Mastermind" that premiered at Comic-Con that summer.

I have now taken the 40 minute film and have launched it as a web series. It is one of my favorite directing gigs ever.

Check it out. Spread the word. Graphic novel to follow soon...

http://youtu.be/0qW03e9W96k

Thanks!

Finding normal

2012-01-12T13:21:00.000-08:00

Is this what normal feels like?

After a highly dysfunctional lifetime with my family and two difficult marriages, I suddenly find myself in normal… I don’t know what to do with that.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the Filmmaker to turn into some raging, crazy, angry person, for my life to just blow up in my face, because that’s what I’ve been taught.

I haven’t been taught to accept normal.

And normal feels pretty damn good right now.

Normal in that I have two jobs that I enjoy, particularly teaching fine art to children at Mission Renaissance. Love this job. Love it, love it, love it. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher and now I’ve been a teacher for almost five years. Wow. Five years. The other pay-the-rent job is kinda dull but at least I can work at home in my pajamas.

Normal is getting myself back into directing, something I love more than I can express and something I lost for a while. But I’m back now, working on projects I love with people I love.

Normal is looking forward to going back to school in a few weeks and tackling more classes towards my art degree. Despite turning 50 in less than four months, I feel 25 again and really want to get my degree.

The hardest normal for me to accept is my relationship with the Filmmaker. And even that is finding its own normal.

Falling asleep wrapped up with him is a really lovely normal. Waking up to him the same way is almost pretty fantastic.

Spending time at his place, working on my stuff in one room while he’s working on his stuff in another room, is a wonderful normal. To belong there, to be comfortable, to be accepted into his life is a beautiful normal. Makes me less crazy when I have to go home because I know I’ll be back, I know that this isn’t the last time I’ll walk through those doors, sit on that couch, be with him. That’s a huge step towards normal for me.

My favorite normal is just sitting on the couch with him, whether it’s watching Jon Stewart or curled up next to him, listening to him play the ukulele and singing along, or just sitting together, hands intertwined, the casual intimacy between us while we quietly talk about what we’ve been doing, what we’re going to be doing. That comfort, that settled feeling, that sense of normal.

And it might be ridiculous to those of you who have had normal all your life but for someone like me, who hasn’t, normal is disorienting, is disjointed, is cause for alarm. Because my normal doesn’t feel like this. My normal is fucked up and screwed up and hurtful and painful and wrong.

But slowly, with help from my two amazing sidekick best friends, I’m learning to accept normal and I’m learning that I can let go of my expectations of disaster and pain and awful. That normal is normal and is what I should expect. And this blissful normal is what I should expect for the rest of my life.

So here’s to normal, here’s to simple, here’s to uncomplicated. Long may it reign.

Of course, then what would I have to write about? ☺

Oh, that's what I wanted...

2012-01-08T00:48:00.000-08:00

Okay, let’s try this again…

Started this entry earlier in the evening but it went wildly awry so let’s see if I can wrangle it in.

I realize why this whole thing with the Filmmaker is making me just slightly insane.

It makes me miss being in a Relationship. That’s Relationship with a capital R.

We’re currently in a relationship with a lower case r. Or maybe somewhere in between - a superscript R maybe?

What’s the difference?

A relationship with a capital R implies commitment, it implies consistency, it implies the idea that that person will always be there for you. They’re the one you go to when you have problems, the one you turn to when things break down, the one who you can plan with six months, a year, two years out without wondering if that’s going to freak them out.

A lower case R implies casualness, impulsivity, spontaneity. It implies that maybe that person will be there, if you really, really need them to be. If your car breaks down, they will probably rescue you but they may not be exactly the person to go to when your life breaks down. You plan maybe as far out as six days if it’s something really important. But the lower case relationship always feels like it’s on the edge of not existing, so it’s exciting and breathless and a bit scary.

A superscript R is where I am right now.

And it makes me miss the capital R relationship.

I realized this in the middle of the day yesterday. I had gone over to the Filmmaker’s Thursday night to meet him and go out to this thing at a comic book shop (yes, we’re both geeks, get over it). And then we were going out on Friday night as well. And we didn’t really discuss the fact that I’d probably be at his place from Thursday night through this morning (Saturday morning) but I packed enough stuff just in case.

And yesterday, I suddenly missed the capital R relationship.

We got up lazily, letting the morning wake us up. He had a quick, tiny shoot to do in the morning for a web series he does and he asked me to help. Then he spent most of the day upstairs in his office, working on plugging this little bit into the episode so he could meet a deadline. I spent the day on the couch, drawing illustrations for a children’s book I’m doing and then reading “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornsby.

And suddenly, I felt like we were in a capital R relationship.

We’ve gotten to the comfortable point where we don’t have to fill every minute with conversation. We fall asleep on the couch while watching Jon Stewart. There was the unspoken assumption that I would simply be at his place while he worked since we had plans so close together.

But we’re not there yet. Superscript R, not a full capital R.

And I realized that part of the reason I kind of freak out when we’re not together is that, at times, this feels like a capital R relationship.

And I miss that.

I miss being married. I miss being with that person, every day, all the time. I miss calling him to see what he wants for dinner and what we’re doing for the evening. I miss knowing that I will fall asleep with him every single night and wake up to him every single morning. I miss the just having him there, being there, being together always.

And I’m not saying I want to marry the Filmmaker. I don’t know that I ever want to get married again. Or even live with somebody again.

But I miss having that someone be there all the time.

Because my favorite thing is curling up with him at night, once we settle into bed, my head on his shoulder, his arm pulling me in thisclose, tangled up with one another. I love that when I roll over a bit, he now automatically cuddles up behind me, wrapped around me this time.

And I love waking up in the morning, when he slowly opens his eyes and realizes I’m awake and opens his arms up and pulls me in again, retangling, reconnecting, our bodies fitting together so well and so instinctively now that it’s effortless.

And during the night, when we’re twisted together and he’s almost asleep, his unconscious will pulls me unexpectedly closer, with just enough awareness that it takes my breath away.

And in those moments, all I can think is that I wish I were here every night, tangled up with him every night, and waking to his embrace every morning.

And I miss the capital R.

I miss knowing that he’ll be there (or someone will be there) when I get home. I miss the sharing of space and the sharing of a life. I miss that casual intimacy that comes from the capital R.

And as I lazed on his couch yesterday, drawing, napping, reading, occasionally going up to check on his progress and see if he needed anything, I realized we’re just shy of the capital R. We’re superscript. I was so comfortable there, feeling no rush to be anywhere else. I was not only welcome there, I was expected to be there. When he said he had a shoot and asked me to help, there was no assumption that I would go home during the long period between the shoot and when we were going out. Plenty of time for me to go home, for him to work, for him to pick me up, for us to just be lower case r.

But there was no expectation that I would leave between Thursday afternoon and Saturday morning. No discussion about whether or not I’d stay that long, no decision for me to leave, no feeling that I wasn’t supposed to be there, that I was in the way.

And I yearned for that capital R.

And I don’t know if I want that capital R with the Filmmaker. It certainly feels like that’s where we’re going but I’m trying not to expect that. Because this relationship is enough lower case r that it could all end tomorrow.

But that sense of belonging in his condo, that sense of expectation that I would simply be there felt so good and so right and so comfortable, it made me ache to be in a place where that was every single day. To be with someone with that casual expectation of being with them always, all the time, every single freakin’ day.

And I missed it so very much.

Because as bad as my marriage was towards the end, he was always there. And we fell asleep every night, spooned up, him being wrapped around me. And maybe at some time, maybe earlier in the marriage before we hurt each other irreparably, maybe it felt like it does with the Filmmaker - safe, warm, loved, effortless. Maybe his arms didn’t always feel like a cage.

And maybe that’s why it takes us so long to leave any relationship, because we live for that sense of belonging to someone, that sense of place with someone. Because if we leave them, how will we ever find that again? How can we ever occupy a space with someone again? So we stay and we live within that expectation of being there while at the same time, clawing to get out.

And that’s what makes me afraid of the capital R relationship. I don’t want to let that capital R take over my life, the way I’ve allowed it to before. Part of me wants to keep the Filmmaker a lower case r because then I can keep him out of areas of my life where I’m afraid to let him in. I can keep a distance and keep him at arm’s length emotionally and not invite him into the places I invited others before, others like the Poet, who I tried to share with and only ended up with empty spaces inside once they’ve gone.

And part of me wants to keep that distance because when this one ends -- and in my mind, it will end because others who I’ve invited in and who have gotten not even this close have always left -- this one’s gonna hurt like a mofo because he’s moved into the places I’ve tried to keep him out of. And if I let him in any more, I’m not sure I will be able to keep him a lower case r.

And I wonder if he feels this pull, this draw, this looming capital R. And does that freak him out a little bit, because sometimes I think he works very hard to keep us at the lower case level so he won’t have to commit, he won’t have to be there every day, for his own reasons, as deep and as complicated as my own reasons are probably.

But I miss it. And sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, it makes me miss him, my ex, because he was always there, whether I wanted him to be or not.

But for now, I’ll have to settle for those moments of capital R, those glimpses of what could be, if either or both of us would let it. And live for those capital R moments, when he holds me, when he’s next to me, just being, just living, just existing. And push away the desire for the capital and just embrace the superscript.

Resolutions

2012-01-04T23:04:00.000-08:00

Jane at Midlifebloggers.com had a challenge today for those of us who blog. The challenge was to deconstruct at least one of our resolutions for this year.

So here we go…

Last year, my resolution was to work on having a peaceful heart. That meant not letting the crazy get to me, to try to rebuild my shattered, busted-ass broken heart and try to make it healthy enough, after years of abuse, to maybe be able to let someone else in.

And I achieved that. I worked very hard in 2011 to keep focused on my peaceful heart and it’s brought me a very special someone who, through just being his wonderful, easy self, is helping me unlearn the lessons from my past.

And I think that’s my resolution for 2012 - unlearn the lessons from my past.

And there are so many lessons to unlearn.

The biggest lesson to unlearn is that I am always wrong. Between my family and my ex-husband, I’ve had it almost literally beaten into me that no matter what decision I make, it’s bad, it’s wrong and there will be punishment to follow, mostly emotional punishment but punishment nonetheless, usually in the form of being ignored or dismissed or treated like I don’t exist.

And I need to learn that I am not always wrong. Occasionally, yes. But always?

And I need to work past that idea of being wrong so that I don’t double and triple and quadruple guess myself when I want to do something as simple as text the man I’m dating to see if he wants to see me.

And I need to learn to trust my instincts again in my personal life. After spending years being told my decisions are wrong, my instincts in my personal life have gotten buried. I don’t know if what I feel is right because what I feel has been wrong before. And I’ve learned my lessons well - I don’t make good decisions.

And that simple lesson - that every decision I make is wrong - leads to so many other issues and emotional grenades in my life. It creates a huge tsunami of fear when it comes to everything I do personally (professionally, I have no fear), especially in this brand new relationship with the Filmmaker. Because if every decision I make is wrong, then there’s no way that this can last, that it’s just a matter of time before I make a wrong decision and he will vanish from my life.

And that simple lesson makes me afraid to participate in this relationship. It leaves me terrified about doing the simplest thing because, in the end, it will mean he will be gone, just simply vanish because I made the wrong decision.

But in reflecting on this idea that all my decisions are wrong, there is one decision that was not.

And that was the decision to leave him. Leave my husband of almost 15 years after finally realizing how deep the emotional abuse went, after finally realizing that if I stayed with him, I’d be dead.

That decision I made in a split second, totally instigated by my deepest, most primal instinct, is the one decision I know, without a doubt, was the best and most not-wrong decision I have ever made in my life. Because if I hadn’t made that decision, I wouldn’t be here today. I’d be dead, either at my own hand or possibly at his. That I do know, without a doubt, without hesitation.

So my challenge for 2012 is to unlearn that lesson, unlearn that I am always wrong. To learn that my instinct is strong and right and powerful. To learn that, even if a decision is wrong, it’s not catastrophic. And if a single wrong decision about something as silly as a text message is going to drive the Filmmaker away, well, then, he really isn’t the right guy for me to be with right now.

Not sure how to do this and not sure what it means but I’m going to work very hard to not let the echoes of my past not just interfere in my present, but pull me out of my present and drag me, kicking and screaming, back into my past.

And then maybe my peaceful heart and my restored instinct will let me move on to whatever the next stage is as I approach 50 and ponder the next thirty years of my life.

Please, sir, may I...

2012-01-03T23:57:00.000-08:00

Just when I think I’ve dealt with one thing, another stupid thing crops up.

I survived the Filmmaker being gone for more than ten days for the holidays without freaking out too much, which is a huge step for me. Like most men, he’s not very communicative when we’re not together and I’m learning that that’s acceptable. With others in my life, particularly CB and The Poet, no communication means that they’re done, our friendship is over and they’ve left me behind. But not every guy has that idea so I’m learning to let that one go.

And I was proud of how uncrazy I was throughout most of the time he was gone. And he had his kids for a good portion of the time he was on holiday so I didn’t want to bother him because he has precious little time with his children.

And he got back late Monday night and contacted me first thing Tuesday to come over. We had a really great, passionate reunion, spent a really good day together and everything was lovely.

And then today, I lost it.

Over a simple thing.

Over wanting to text him to see if he wanted to get together.

Totally froze me.

Because I’m not allowed to ask. Not by him.

No, wait, that’s wrong. My past has told me I’m not allowed to ask.
In fact, on Tuesday when I saw him, I told him to let me know when he wanted to get together again, as he’s been kind of driving that part of our relationship. And he simply said, you, too.

You, too.

As simple as it sounds, it kind of made me stop.

I’m not allowed to reach out because “I’m too much” and I scare guys away. That’s the tape playing in my head. Can’t tell him you want to see him because… well, the chickenshit men who came before couldn’t handle it.

But he can because he wants to be with me. Wow. That’s a change.

So I woke up this morning, realized I had nothing on my schedule for tonight. And I thought, I’ll text him and see what he’s up to. He gave me permission to do just that.

And then I froze.

And I couldn’t figure out why.

Just a simple text. A handful of words - “what do you have on your schedule tonight” to a man I’m sleeping with regularly and who grabbed me and held me so hard yesterday that I wasn’t sure he was going to let me know, who showed me in that moment how much he cares about me and how much he missed me.

And I couldn’t text him.

Because…

Because…

Because…

Because the echoes of my past have not left my head. Because I still have the residual of being told that every decision I made was wrong. Because I still am terrified that something I do is going to be wrong and I’m going to be punished for it. Because I have been taught well. Because I have been brainwashed well. Because I believed all the bullshit I was fed for more than 16 years.

I stared at my phone for a very long time, wondering what would happen if I sent a simple, silly text asking the man I’m involved with what he was doing for the evening because I wanted to see him. Baaaddd. Stupid. Don’t do it, he won’t like it.

Because…

Because I needed permission to do this. Which he gave me. Which is ridiculous.

But I agonized foolishly over this for about an hour. Seriously. An hour. Over a simple text message to the man I’m crazy about, who is crazy about me, because my abusive ex taught me to question every feeling, every thought, every decision and find them wanting.

I’m so afraid that I’m going to do something wrong and upset this beautiful, delicate balance that we have. The echoes bouncing around in my head shatter the seven years of confidence I have built up and make me go back to where I was when I finally left him - broken, afraid, terrified, destroyed, lacking the ability to make the simplest decision. He taught me well.

But I pushed past the echoes and picked up my phone. It was so hard to just type in, hey, you, how’s your day going? And then to type in, “what’re you doing tonight?”. And then waiting in terror for… I don’t know what. Something horrible. Something terrible. Something that told me I finally screwed this up, that I finally made the Filmmaker hit his limit.

And guess what?

Nothing happened. Or at least nothing catastrophic. He had to work with his production partner on their web series tonight. That’s it. Nothing more.

I battled back the clowns who were screaming that he was lying, that he was disguising the fact he didn’t want to see me, all the echoes and the recriminations from my past rising up to drown out everything.

And I shut them down and just replied simply, great, have fun.

Because, above the noise and the chatter and the clowns, I could feel his arms around me. I could see his face smiling down at me. I could remember how he held me after the passion yesterday, cradling me in his arms, holding my hand against his face, letting me know with every touch, with every caress that this is exactly where he wanted to be and that I am who he wants to be with.

And I hung on to that, marveling at how ridiculous I allowed myself to be over a stupid text message.

But that’s what years of abuse do to you. They make you question, they make you uncertain, they make you so broken that it takes years to put yourself back together.

And with each silly little triumph, like sending a text message, I build myself back together. The echoes get softer and the clowns die off, one by one.

And as this relationship grows -- or ends -- there will be lessons that will continue to be learned, but hopefully lessons that are less and less difficult and lessons that will be filled with growth first and pain last.

And so, I go to bed tonight, alone and a bit lonely, knowing he’s only across town from me. But also knowing that very soon, I will be back in his arms again. And that’s a huge thing -- a man who isn’t afraid of me, a man who can take the full impact of me. That’s a very, very new thing…

I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want

2011-12-27T21:59:00.000-08:00

Less than 60 days.

That’s how long I’ve been seeing the Filmmaker.

Wild how much can change in 60 days.

(SIDE NOTE: The Filmmaker wants to read this blog. Heart-stopping fear that he might actually do it cuz THAT won’t freak him out…)

And, of course, the clowns has been battling hard to circle their little clown cars and tear this thing apart.

Because I don’t know what this thing is yet. We spend about half the week together, very spontaneous, not a lot of planning. Comfortable, easy, simple.

And the clowns hate that.

They want to hang signs and define things because that makes it easier to say it’s not what it’s supposed to be. But if there is no “what it’s supposed to be”, how can they tear things apart?

But they’ve been trying. Kicking their little squeaky shoes against my heart, trying to break in and break things up.

And they’re really pissed because he is doing almost exactly what I want someone in my life to do. He continually surprises me, almost like he’s reading my mind. He does a million simple, considerate, thoughtful things constantly, which just blows my mind.

But the one thing the clowns have managed to sneak through is the word “almost”.

And that one single word gives me pause.

Almost.

What’s not quite there that makes me whisper “almost”? And is it really something that’s not there or is it my clown-brain trying to find something wrong so I can run back to my solitary life and go, “See? I tried. It didn’t work. Nobody will ever love me again and I’ll die in the snow.” (Not gonna explain “die in the snow” - way too long and probably not that interesting to you all.)

Almost.

And it makes me wonder, will there ever not be an “almost”?

I don’t know how to do this.

Sixteen years of emotional abuse and seven years alone have left me unprepared to be in a relationship of any sort.

I’ve spent the past seven years pondering what I would want in a relationship with someone. And here I am, with someone who is smart, funny (oh, my god, funny), kind, adorable, who treats me well, who thinks I’m beautiful, and yet, I sit here, wondering if it’s going well, wondering if it’s going to still be there after he gets back from his holiday trip home.

And thinking, almost.

We’re in that limbo between casual and serious. Spending so much time together. Lots of spontaneity. Comfortable enough to fall asleep on the couch watching Jon Stewart. Yet very little thought of making plans beyond the next day or two. Kind of touching on things we’re both doing in the future but not yet ready to say, hey, we’re gonna do this together.

Almost.

Maybe he’s just as scared of being something more at this point. He’s dated a lot. I mean, a lot. Of course, compared to me, the Pope has dated a lot. But I think he likes his life as it is, loose, easy, simple. Spends time with his kids without the complication of having a girlfriend involved in that. Having someone like me who’s there consistently but not committed.

Almost.

And part of me is also enjoying this loose, crazy, spontaneous way we are. The thrill when he does text me and say, hey, what’re you doing? And that he’s the one reaching out to me, not me constantly badgering him.

Almost.

And when we’re wrapped up in each other, his arms wrapped around me, pulling me closer if I shift the slightest bit away from him, those are the moments when there is no almost. Those are the moments of just pure honesty. There is no thought, there is no interference, there are no clowns. There’s his breath on my neck and my leg twisted up with his, his arms around my back, and there is nothing else. And the casual intimacy in the morning, when he makes breakfast and texts me from downstairs that breakfast is ready, and we just sit and talk and be, there is no almost. There just is.

But eventually, the almost sneaks back in when I leave and when I’m home and he’s not here.

And this holiday has been particularly interesting for me because he’s been gone since before Christmas. And he’s gone until after the first. Ten very long days.

And the clowns start whispering “almost”. And they want me to think about what’s missing, what’s not quite there, what’s “almost”.

And, like any relationship, it’s way too easy to find what makes it almost. And the clowns fool me for a second into thinking about what I want and that maybe this isn’t exactly what I want.

So let’s explore this.

What I want, what I really, really want.

A man who treats me like I’m the most beautiful, sexy, intelligent woman on earth. Um, check.

A man who is smart and curious and fascinated by the world around him. Um, check. He does the New York Times crossword and listens to KCRW and NPR and has an amazing library of eclectic books.

A man who knows how to laugh and how to embrace joy. Quadruple check. He plays ukulele and sings to me. He lives for funny, whether it’s movies or TV, anything that makes him laugh.

A man who is just easy, who is healthy, who is a grown up. Check.

A man who sees my broken, busted, chrome-plated heart and who knows how to handle it, without fanfare, without making a big deal about it, who can just cradle it in his hands and make me feel comforted. Not enough checks in the world for this one.

Of course, he’s not perfect. Nobody is. There are things about him that give me pause, just as I’m sure there are things about me that must give him pause. I am not easy. Sixteen years of abuse leave a lot of scars, no matter how well one learns how to deal with them and no matter how much they heal. Scars are scars and those scars are what can get in the way.

The scars that make me want to define this and know what it is so I know how to deal with it. The scars that make me want to hear from him every minute that we’re apart because I’m terrified of silence. Silence equals abandonment. Silence means we’re done. Silence means I’ve done something wrong and driven him away. Silence is not my friend.

Almost.

And maybe almost is what I need. Something undefined. Something lazy and easy and loose. Something simple and beautiful and organic. Something that doesn’t fit in a box.

Something that forces me to trust. Trust in the feelings buried deep in my heart. Trust in that moment when he pulls me closer in his sleep, not letting me go. Trust that silence just means absolutely nothing. Trust that, when he gets back home, he’ll come to me and there will be laughter and passion and comfort, and the clowns will vanish, taking their “almost” with them.

Trust that I can do this. Trust that this is healthy and normal and honest. Trust that he won’t just fade away like the other chickenshit men in my life who couldn’t allow themselves to be with me. Trust that he can handle the full impact of me.

Maybe I can… almost.

If Ever I Could Love

2011-12-21T01:15:00.000-08:00

I wear my heart on my sleeve and my emotions in my eyes.

But I’ve spent almost my whole life having my emotions negated and dismissed, to the point where I no longer felt. That’s the thing about emotional abuse. No one sees it, no one understands it. They don’t know what it’s like when every time you say something, it’s cut down and you’re told you’re wrong. Everything you feel is wrong. Everything you think is wrong. Everything you do is wrong. Every decision, every comment, every single fucking thing is wrong.

Emotions were not allowed growing up. My mother didn’t want to disrupt anything or have anything disrupted. I was told over and over and over and over again that I’m too emotional, that I’m hurt too easily, that I shouldn’t feel the way I feel because it wasn’t acceptable. So don’t feel and you won’t rock the boat.

My ex continually chastised me for feeling. Anything and everything. I was not allowed to feel. Ever. At all. If I was angry, he was more angry and would scream at me until I wasn’t angry anymore. If I was depressed, he would badger me until I wasn’t depressed anymore. If I was happy, he would undercut it until I wasn’t happy anymore. I learned to be numb. I was really, really good at being numb.

And with both my family and my marriage, I learned to do emotional algebra. Okay, if he comes home and he is tense, then I can expect one of three possible outcomes if I don’t make the right thing for dinner. So to eliminate one of those possible outcomes, I can do one of three other things. 3X multiplied by 4Y equals a whole lot of time trying to figure out the right answer.

And there never was one.

So for more than forty years of my life, I was taught anything and everything I felt was wrong. And I got very good at that lesson.

And with the Poet and the others before him walking away from those few chosen moments where I let my heart out and my emotions out, my feelings of love and affection have been added to the emotional algebraic equation.

So what does this have to do with anything?

The Filmmaker and I were at his place, watching “The New Girl”. It’s kind of amusing because there are elements of this show that parallel where we are in our budding relationship. The episode was about Jess (Zooey Deschanel) dating Justin Long’s character. They’ve been dating for a month. The Filmmaker and I have been dating just over a month. Justin Long’s character bursts out “I love you” in the middle of something. Jess is stunned and just says, “Thank you.” The episode explores the issue of when is it acceptable to say I love you.

And I’d love to say that we both looked deeply into each other’s eyes and professed our profound love for each other after less than two months. After all, it’s been so rom-com so far, why not this?

But this is real life.

And in real life, “love” is not an easy word.

Which got me to thinking.

Do I love the Filmmaker? Of course, it’s way too early to even ponder that idea. I adore him, I am crazy about him, he makes me feel amazing. Tonight, he gave me Sweden. (Very long story but fills my heart)

But love?

With spending my whole life having had my emotions discounted and dismissed and destroyed, can I ever really feel or understand love again? Did I ever understand it in the first place? Have I ever really, truly felt love? Can I ever really, truly feel that again?

There’s a Keith Urban song I’ve quoted before titled “If Ever I Could Love” and the way that the song builds feels like what being in love is. It feels me with optimism and joy and the hope that, yes, if ever I could love…

And at this point, I’m not sure I can trust the feelings I have. Is this love? Is this just passion? Is it something more than just responding to someone who treats me well and who is just simply easy to be with?

And can I ever let myself go enough to really, truly love someone again? Not saying that it’ll be the Filmmaker but how will I know?

I’ve worked very hard over the past six years to rebuild myself and to learn to trust myself and my feelings and my emotions. I’ve learned to sort out a lot of things about how I feel and have stopped (for the most part) checking in with my two best friends to see if what I’m feeling is appropriate or accurate or acceptable. I’ve learned to trust myself in other aspects of my life. But love…

I want to love. I’ve thought I’ve been in love. The Poet especially. But maybe it was wanting to be in love moreso than actually being in love. He felt like what I wanted but yet wasn’t willing to be what I wanted.

And now, moving into my first real relationship since my divorce, I’m wondering if ever I could love. If things keep going the way they have been with the Filmmaker, would I ever really be able to trust that my feelings are valid and that I could love him? Or anyone else?

The idea of saying “I love you” scares the shit out of me. Because it has never ended well. “I love you” became empty and shallow and painful. “I love you” became something to be deflected, not something to be accepted. “I love you” is big and scary and words that I’m not sure I ever want to say to someone ever again.

Because if I love you, I will lose you. If I say it, it will lose all meaning. If I love you, you will hurt me, beyond all reason, beyond all words. You will hurt me and break me and destroy me. Because love has always been used as a weapon. Love has always been wielded with lethal force and left me slashed and bashed and shattered. Love has never been what the movies make it out to be - full and beautiful and amazing and heavenly. Love has led me to hell and left me there over and over and over again. Why should I ever want to do that again?

“If Ever I Could Love…”

But I want to love. I want to say to someone “I love you” and mean it with all my heart and my soul, without hesitation, without fear, without carrying the weight of all that has come before. Just simply say to someone “I love you”. And hopefully hear it come back, filled with everything I could wish for.

I want to be able to love without coloring it with the past. I want to be able to love without fearing that my emotions are wrong and bad and unacceptable. I want to be able to love unconditionally.

But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that again.

My shattered heart is in hiding right now, afraid to peek out at this lovely man standing in front of me. And it’s tentatively reached out to see how he feels. And it wants to run out and scream the word “love” from the rooftops because, well, isn’t that what I should be doing? Immediately proclaiming my love for him?

I don’t know if I know what love feels like anymore. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to feel it without fear of retribution, pain, sorrow. Because that’s what love means for me.

All I can do right now is hope that this time with the Filmmaker will help me move a step or two closer to love. Whether it’s with him or with someone else. Without even trying, he has shown me so much in the short time we’ve been together and maybe he can help me not fear the idea of giving myself over to someone, even if it’s not forever, even if it’s just for right now. Maybe he can show me that feeling this way doesn’t have to result in hurt and sorrow. But even now, I’m preparing myself for this to end because it just simply can’t feel this good and keep going.

So…

“If Ever I Could Love”…

Becomes more of a question than an answer…

Never mind... :)

2011-12-01T00:38:00.000-08:00

The beauty of the Filmmaker is that he continues to surprise me in every single way.

Today, I had a long talk with myself after last night’s ramblings and had a series of epiphanies about why I feel so neglected and abandoned after not hearing from him for - gasp - almost 48 hours and how my own lack of self-esteem makes me crave that feeling that someone thinks I’m important to them…. And all kinds of other stuff.

And I decided today to let go a little more. I’ve been holding the hurt and the anger and the fear and so many other things so tightly for so long now that it’s become habit. And if I don’t let go and try to break the cycle, I’m going to be stuck in that cycle forever.

Luckily, the universe has provided me with this beautiful, effortless, amazing man who startles me constantly by doing exactly what I want/need/desire. And it’s helping the crazy go away because I’m actually in a healthy, easy relationship that is grown up and comfortable. And yet wildly, insanely passionate.

And his simplicity with our relationship is helping me realize that I don’t need him to validate me or make me feel important or worthy or whatever the fuck I think I need to have someone make me feel. I need to find that within myself, because it’s something he sees and is reflecting back at me, making me not need to seek it from him. Okay, did you follow that?

Anyway, I’m glad when the crazy results in some sanity. And I am so glad that he’s along for the ride, for whatever length it turns out to be.

And I’m glad he’s falling slowly at my side, looking for the updraft to take us away…

Falling...

2011-11-29T23:23:00.000-08:00

I did it. I fell.

I promised myself I wouldn’t, that I would just be, just enjoy, just go with it. Don’t fall, I whispered to my heart. Don’t do it. Just wait because we don’t know what this is yet. So wait… just wait…

But my heart is not patient. It is like a six-year-old child who just wants what she wants, everything else be damned. And yesterday morning, she grabbed her makeshift parachute and leapt off the cliff, screaming “whoo-hoo” all the way down.

And of course I fell. These past couple of weeks with the Filmmaker have been right out of a romantic comedy. Showing up unexpectedly with cupcakes, late night adventures 35 floors up with a full moon, wrapped in his arms. Showing up at my door at midnight, sweeping me up in his arms, so full of passion and desire that he takes my breath away. And he bought a nightlight for his bathroom so I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

And I was doing so well, just really enjoying him, embracing our time together, trying not to put any expectations on this, just letting it be whatever it is.

But something shifted yesterday morning.

He came over the night before, bottle of wine in hand, and we sat and talked for a long time, the first time we’ve been able to do that. Just sit. Just talk. Just be together without craziness going on around us. And it was lovely. And the rest of the night was just as easy, just as beautiful, filled with passion and desire. And wrapped up with each other.

And as he sat on my bed in the morning, getting ready to go home and face his day and let me face mine, something shifted. Usually, we’re both kind of rushing to tackle our day in the morning, at least when he’s here because I usually have a ridiculously early college class (four days a week, ridiculously early classes). So the morning is usually nice and polite and fine but definitely both of us getting ready for our day.

But he moved slowly yesterday. And I sat on the bed next to him and snuggled into him and he wrapped me up in his arms and just held me. And then he just looked at me.

And something shifted. And I heard that six-year-old child that holds my heart leap.

And I don’t know if it shifted for him. He’s a guy. You know how they are.

But for me, this is usually when it all goes terribly wrong. If only I could learn not to leap.

But it’s too late. I’m on the way down now, rocks looming, all pointy and jagged, waiting for me to fall all the way so they can tear me up when I reach the bottom.

And I know it’s just me.

Well, actually, it’s not just me.

It’s CL, who was one of the first I fell for in my new life. Who drew me in and pushed me to leap, only to run when I did. Who told me I was “too much”. Who posted terrible, awful, scathing things about me and who tore me apart because I never understood why. He just turned and left me to the rocks as I fell.

It’s CB, who I thought was something, who I thought was going to be something very, very special. Who saved me so many times in those early years of discovery and freedom. It’s you who saw me hold out my heart to you, you who almost took it, almost leapt with me, but then left me standing there as you faded away, without a word, without a sound. Just… gone. You, who still smiles when you see me and who probably still thinks we’re friends. Or maybe not. I don’t know. Big, fucking rocks tore me to pieces over you.

It’s the Poet, who promised me we’d always be friends, who was so much of an almost, despite his trying to deny it. The Poet who looked at me that way, who held me, heart pounding, and who has also vanished into the night. Who told me he’d never hurt me, he’d never leave, he’d always be my friend, my good friend.

You all leap with me and you’re all the ones I hear as I leap, making me sorry that I do. Because this leap means the beginning of the end. It means he’ll be gone soon because I’m “too much”, I get too close, I … I’m just always wrong. I’ve been taught that lesson well -- I’m just always wrong.

And the clowns are rejoicing as I fall because, suddenly, I can hear them. I can hear them mock me and torture me as I try to figure out what I’m doing. I popped up on Facebook tonight to say hi to him and the clowns belly-laughed, because they know I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have but apparently the clowns think I shouldn’t have. Because they think he’ll find it invasive, he’ll suddenly be afraid of me, suddenly feel smothered, because that’s what I do. Drive him away. I’m good at that.

And the leap makes me stupid. It makes me become the person I hate being - wanting, needing, pining. Questioning, that’s the worst part. Asking all the things I’ve been avoiding asking, setting expectations that I’ve been avoiding setting. Wanting more than I can have right now.

And the clowns have started to pick at this, starting trying to find the seams and trying to unravel it and me. They want me to only see the bad, not see the good. They want me to build unbearable scenarios and they want me to twist everything out of true so I’ll be heartbroken long before that’s necessary.

And I hate that my history drags me to this place, drags me into the dark despite my efforts to stay in the light. I hate that my immediate place to go is into the black. I hate that I can’t just let this be something simple, something easy, that all the years of abuse make me want to figure out the end game and want me to protect myself.

And I hate that, right now, everything in my being just wants to end this and run. Because it’ll be easier if I can stop the leap midway down and not fall all the way. If I can just not let my heart go this time, if I can just hang on to it and not put it in his hands, then maybe I can survive this.

And I hate that instead of living in this moment and embracing the passion and desire and joy that he brings to me, that I’m trying to figure out how to fuck it up. Trying to figure out how to get away from it.

But what I really want to do is just fall. Just leave the corpses of those in the past behind as the air streaks past me, whistling in my ears as I close my eyes so I can’t see the rocks at the bottom. I want to just float on the wind and not think too much about how I’m going to land. I want to trust that he will be different, that I will reach out my hand to find him falling along beside me. I want to believe that he will continue to surprise me and that, instead of landing on the rocks below, we’ll get caught up on the updraft and find ourselves soaring over the ocean, finding a warm place to land where we can just stay for a moment, wrapped up in each other, finding our way without expectation. Just be, just love, just us.

So despite the fact that my heart is fighting me, I’m going to close my eyes and try to breathe and try to say goodbye to those who have left me behind, let go of that pain, let go of that fear. I’m going to listen to the wind and not think about what’s going to be. I’m going to picture his face in my mind, and feel his kiss on my lips, and hang on to that, for a moment, I could see him falling with me. And reach out, heart in hand, and hope he catches it.

I want you to want me

2011-11-22T13:05:00.000-08:00

(WARNING - PG-13 - THIS BLOG INCLUDES THINGS LIKE HOT MONKEY LOVE AND SEX INVOLVING ADULTS WHO ARE NOT 20. SO IF YOU HAVE A DELICATE CONSTITUTION, STOP READING HERE. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED….)

I have never been wanted. Not in that carnal, primal, visceral way. Definitely not in my second marriage, where sex became mundane almost immediately. Maybe way back in my first marriage, when we were in our 20s and just raging hormones. But I have never felt wanted in that way.

Now before everyone gets on my case - yes, I know I’m attractive and all that crap. But I’ve never had a man show up at the door, cut me off with passionate kisses, sweep me up into his arms and carry me into the bedroom to make hot monkey love to me.

Until last night.

Okay, maybe there wasn’t sweeping up in the arms and carrying involved because, well, neither of us is 20. But the rest of it certainly lined up.

The thing with the Filmmaker is he makes me feel WANTED. He drove across town last night to be with me since we wouldn’t see each other for at least a week because of holidays and his kids and all that stuff. I had just accepted that we’d see each other next week. But he showed up at my door at midnight after a meeting he had just so we could be together for a few hours before the week got away from us.

Nobody has ever done that for me. Not made me feel like I am someone worth wanting.

Okay, the clowns in my head started screaming and complaining that he only wanted to come over for the aforementioned hot monkey love. And I countered with, and that’s bad how?

Sex has never been comfortable for me because I have very little experience with it. Before the Filmmaker, I had only slept with three men, two of which I married. So to be single after 16 years with one man, who was not the greatest of lovers (never try to play with food in bed with a compulsive-obsessive control freak), and to have so little experience and to know that so much of my almost-fifty-year-old body has become a victim of gravity, the idea of sleeping with someone made me want to just run and hide. Who’d want to see me naked? Really? I don’t even want to see me naked.

Maybe it’s because I’ve always been the smart one. My ex always said the sexiest thing about me was my brain. He never really told me I was beautiful, except maybe for our wedding day. I would wake up and find him watching me sleep, which was sweet, albeit a little creepy. He didn’t have the tools to express his passion, his love, because of his Aspergers. Or because he was an asshole. Take your pick. But I never felt desirable, never felt beautiful with him.

And with my family, my sister was the sexual dynamo, breaking world records at sleeping with guys. Maybe that’s why I backed off. I couldn’t compete with that. And she’s just sexy and hot and beautiful, whereas I was the smart one.

And I love being smart, don’t get me wrong. I love that I have a 4.0 GPA right now and that I am usually one of the smartest people in the room. I think that does carry a certain amount of sexy.

But all my life, I’ve just wanted someone to make me FEEL that. Feel wanted. Feel desired. Feel sexy.

And last night, this beautiful man showed up at my door and made me feel wanted.

And, sure, the sex is nice. I’d be nuts to say it isn’t. And it’s not just nice, it’s kinda awesome.

But what really makes me feel wanted is that after, he’s still there. He knew I had an early class this morning and he has his kids coming today and has a ton of stuff to do so he started to say he should go last night. But then he pulled me in close and that was it. We spent the night wrapped around each other until I finally climbed out of bed this morning to go to class.

I thought I’d never feel that again. Feel wanted. Feel that rush when that person kisses you. Feel that passion when it’s just right and new and exciting. I thought I was done with all of that, figured I’d spend the rest of my life with an empty bed and other ways to release tension.

Then this man showed up at my door.

And it doesn’t matter that we’re still figuring out our rhythms or that there’s usually a certain amount of giggling involved. And it doesn’t matter that neither of us is going to grace the cover of Sports Illustrated or Men’s Health or anything like that. And it doesn’t matter that this… thing… between us is undefined and open-ended and may not exist at any given point in the future.

What matters is right now, which is a huge step for me. I don’t know if we’ll be something incredible and together for a long time or if we’ll be just a short-lived, deeply passionate, wildly incredible fling. And right now, I don’t care.

All I know is that he wants me. Wants me in the same way I want him. And, for now, that’s enough.

Not almost

2011-11-12T21:17:00.001-08:00

I woke up this morning wrapped in his arms, not wanting to breath, afraid to break this moment. But then he shifted and pulled me in tighter, and I breathed out, knowing nothing would break this moment.

I’ve waited for a long time for this. Almost seven years of being alone. Almost seven years of wondering if anyone would ever hold me like that again. Almost seven years of almosts.

This is not an almost.

I’m not sure what this is yet but there is no doubt that this is not an almost.

The Filmmaker has surprised me in ways I didn’t think I could be surprised in. Even if this is all it ever is, the last 48 hours have been filled with delight and surprise and little, teeny, beautiful romantic moments that made me feel special, made me feel like I’m the most incredible woman on earth. There is no question about how he feels, no wondering if he wants to be with me, if he finds me attractive, if he just wants me. I can’t remember my ex ever making me feel that way.

I’m finding it kind of strange that, at almost 50, I have never felt attractive, really. Rarely has a man told me that I’m beautiful. And only my gay male friends have ever called me sexy. And I usually pride myself for being smart, not beautiful, because I know my intelligence with always win out over my boobs.

However, I’m still a girl deep inside. And when I got dressed at the Filmmaker’s place last night to go out to this event and I came down the stairs in my sexy black, thigh-slit skirt, my fishnets and my heels, and he stopped what he was doing and just whispered, “wow”, I felt like the most beautiful woman on earth.

In a hundred ways over the past 48 hours, he has made me feel so beautiful, so sexy, so incredible, more so than my ex did in almost sixteen years.

And, for the first time in these past almost seven years, I’m not trying to figure out who to be or what to do to make him want to be with me. Because he wants to be with me. No question, no almost, no wondering. Falling asleep in his arms last night clarified that very quickly.

The difficult thing has been the clowns trying to rally in my head and find something wrong. Something has to be wrong because this doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get to have the kind, sweet, not-seriously-fucked-up-and-afraid-to-get-close guy. I get to have the seriously-fucked-up-I-want-you-oh-wait-no-I-don’t guy. The one who won’t hold me, the one who won’t gasp when I walk into the room, the one who won’t even hold my hand. The almosts. That’s what I get because I don’t deserve the good, kind, grown-up man.

Until now.

And last night, the clowns tried to get me to leave, to run away, before things could go exactly where I wanted them to go. As the past 48 hours have become more and more what I wanted them to become, the clowns have tried to get louder and louder, to convince me that there’s something wrong because he couldn’t possibly be what he appears to be, that he couldn’t possibly be doing these darling things without there being an exit strategy, without there being some kind of mother-fucking whopper of a hurt on the other end of it.

And I almost listened to them.

Almost.

There were so many moments yesterday where I almost walked away from the absolutely-not-almost because I couldn’t believe that this was really happening. I fought the urge to call him and say, you know what, I don’t think I’m ready for this, kthxbai.

Even as I was sitting thisclose to him, his hand on my thigh, his eyes locked with mine, I fought the urge to run screaming from the room because this couldn’t possibly be happening. I don’t get to have this. I get the almosts.

And it wasn’t until he wrapped his arms around me as we lay in his bed last night that I finally breathed out and believed. Believed that I could have this, for however long I have it. Just today, last night, just that is almost enough. If it’s only another week, another day, another night, it’s almost enough. Because at least this wasn’t an almost.

And I woke up this morning, certain that the almost would return. That he would turn away, find an excuse, be a hundred miles away as we woke up.

Then he pulled me close, almost asleep, and snuggled in behind me and I knew he wouldn’t turn away. He wasn’t a hundred miles away. He wasn’t even inches away. He was present, he was there and there was no almost anymore.

(Sorry, I’m having a moment of “I can’t believe I’m writing this”. But I always swore this blog would be no-holds-barred, so here we are - no holds barred.)

And without a word, without explaining anything, without talking things to death, I felt safe. I felt secure. I felt no almost.

And that was just about as scary.

I’ve had such fucked up relationships in my life that I don’t know what to do with a non-fucked-up one. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop - and it may well yet - and it makes me a little sad that I have been taught to not believe in good things. That I have been taught to question what feels right, what feels good, and keep a distance there so I can’t get hurt again, to protect my heart, protect myself, so I can’t be destroyed again.

But if I stay there, if I stay where I cannot be reached, then all those years with him, all the hurt he caused me, all the ways he tried to destroy me will be valid, will accomplish what he (unintentionally) did to me. If I don’t let myself go and let myself fall and believe and just try, then I may have just stayed with him, just stayed where I was afraid and abused and empty. If I don’t let someone in, especially someone who wants to come in, then these last almost seven years have been for nothing.

So I will leap, I will embrace, I will let myself be taken away by this darling, sweet man who simply understands where I am. This man who will let me talk about where I am and how I feel and what’s gone on and just accept it and treat me with gentleness and care. I will hold my breath and try not to let the clowns get too loud and just be with him, without expectation, without planning, without trying to figure it all out so I can do it perfect and do it right and do it well, for once, goddamit. I will be present and be there and be moment to moment, knowing that he isn’t the only one who gets to choose how this goes. I get to choose, too. I can be there, I can walk away. I have a choice in how I participate. I’ve never felt like that before.

And I look forward to the next time his arms are around me, the next time he gazes at me that way, the next time I wake up in warmth and care and gentleness. Even if it’s only one more time or if it’s a hundred times. Each one will be treasured, because each one is real and true and not almost. It is just is.

Blatant, shamless self-promotion

2011-11-09T20:05:00.000-08:00

You probably have figured out by now that I am an artist.

Just in time for the holidays, I've joined Fiverr.com. You can get one of my trademark, b&w graphic novel style portraits for just $5. It's a steal. Here's the link.

http://www.fiverr.com/lifeonitsside

So get your order in now before I get swamped!

What this girl wants...

2011-11-06T22:16:00.001-08:00

What I want is this:

Phone rings.

Me: “Hello?”

Him: “Hey, it’s me. I just dropped the kids off and I really want to see you. I’m on my way over.”

Me: “Really?”

Him: “Really…”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. I open it. He’s there. He cradles my face gently in his hands and kisses me like I want to be kissed. No words, no sounds, just a kiss.

And from there, well, you know the rest.

What will happen:

Me, popcorn, “Dexter” and “Walking Dead”.

The thing is, I’m a bitter, cynical, non-romantic-comedy chick. I prefer watching “Dexter” to anything vaguely “chick flick”.

But deep in my dark, twisted heart lies a woman who just wants to be romanced. And I mean really romanced.

My ex knew how to play at romantic. He said all the right things, he surprised me once or twice with something he would say. He tried flowers, he tried gifts, all that stuff.

But he never really swept me off my feet.

And I realized, after spending time with the Filmmaker last week, my ex never told me I was beautiful, unless it was in response to a dress I wore. And maybe on our wedding day. I can assure you he never told me I was sexy. Ever.

And no one has ever expressed that they WANTED me in the way the Filmmaker did last week. He said things to me about wanting to take me home and how he would seduce me that sent my little heart into a tizzy. I still didn’t go home with him because that’s just not in my nature but, man, I wanted to, more than I have ever wanted to with anyone, with the exception of the Poet. The Poet was an exception to many rules.

Anyway, back to the Filmmaker…

And that set my broken, shattered, romantic heart spinning, building scenarios that can never happen, that never happen in real life. Scenarios like the one above, that only happen in sappy films that manipulate you into crying because that scenario is never going to fucking happen in anybody’s fucking life.

And that pisses me off just a bit.

Because I will never have that moment. And I want that moment more than I really care to admit. Although I did just admit it to at least 52 of you.

And it makes me ache that no man will ever do this to the woman he loves because, well, because they’re men. And men just don’t do that. At least not in my world.

And it makes me pine a little bit more for that kind of moment, that once-in-a-lifetime moment that I would carry with me forever. And really make me feel like the most amazing, incredible, beautiful woman in the world… ever…

And it will never happen.

Because it just doesn’t.

And yet, I still want it so much that I spend hours fantasizing about these incredible moments I want to have happen in my life, to find someone who will actually bring those moments to life.

And it will never happen.

And, really, the way my life has been, the one amazing night last Saturday with the Filmmaker will probably be the last one I have with him. My life is not wanton knocks on the door in the middle of the night by a man who just has to see me. It’s more like men telling me how amazing I am, how incredible I am and then vanishing into the dark.

So now I’m just waiting for the dark to swallow up the Filmmaker so I can add his head to my virtual wall of men who won’t date me. Because I am more certain that this will be the outcome of our encounter than the scenario that started this blog. I’m so certain that he’ll run that I’ll be surprised if he does actually make the next move, as much as I want him to make that move, whatever it may be. It doesn’t have to be showing up at my door, in the rain (rain always makes it more romantic), kissing me like his life depends on it. It can just be actually calling to see me again. Right now, that would be enough.

And while that may make me sound sad and pathetic, I accept that this is my lot in life. I thought I had romance with my ex-husband because he said all the right things, he brought me flowers and gave me all the little trinkets that are supposed to be romantic. And I couldn’t make that relationship work. And his romance left me feeling empty and alone, not loved and embraced.

And I have chosen to be alone and keep my protective guard up. I could have gone home with the Filmmaker on Saturday. And it would have been an incredible night, of that I am certain. But my dark, twisted heart would have been lost to him, no matter how much I may pledge that it wouldn’t be. So I chose to say no, chose to say not right now but thank you very much and let’s try it later. I chose to take a chance that this man will be a man and take me at face value, that his affection and desire for me is stronger than two little letters - n-o.

And if it’s not, then that was my choice to be alone. That was my choice to say no. That was my choice to protect myself and not get lost again.

And I’m not sure what I will do if he calls, if he wants to see me because I never have gotten that far, as far as someone actually wanting to be with me. It’d be so much easier if last Saturday was all there was because it would then be a beautiful memory of someone who wanted me once. Perfect and precious and special because it didn’t become something garish and real and wrong.

So what I want and what will be are eons apart and never the twain shall meet, in all probability. And I’m not sure what to do with that and I’m not even sure why I shared this with you. Just the ramblings of a single woman on a Sunday night thinking about a soon-to-be-lost possibility and hoping that maybe somehow, he will actually show up at my door, shattering all my cynicism and bluster with a single kiss.

Yeah, that’ll happen.

Oh, crap, what do I do now?

2011-10-30T21:53:00.000-07:00

I got kissed last night. I mean, KISSED. In the way you want to be kissed by someone you want to be kissed by. Good ‘n kissed.

It was nice.

It’s been more than six years since I’ve been kissed and that was by my ex-husband.

It was a good night of discovery and discussion as to what this new thing is between me and the Filmmaker. There’s actually something there and something going somewhere. Where, I don’t know yet but trying to just let it go and follow it and see where it leads.

It was a night of someone I really like saying all the things one wants someone to say. It was a night of gentle and sweet and funny and ease.

It was also one of the scariest fucking nights of my recent life.

The Filmmaker was sitting in this big chair, I was sitting on the arm, his hand gently stroking my thigh as he told me I was beautiful and I was sexy and I was fascinating. He held my hand and said all those things to me.

And the clowns in my head were screaming - “RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNN!”

Run because this might actually be something.

Run because it’s feeling so good and so awesome and so thrilling.

Run because it could be something amazing.

Run because it could end like all the others have ended.

Run because I want it so very much.

Part of me was fascinated, listening to the little bastards run around in my head, trying to distract me from the words that I longed to hear. Fascinated that I was afraid of this good thing, this wonderful thing, this darling man with his hand on my thigh. That all the disappointments, especially the recent one with the Poet, made me afraid to believe this gentle man and his gentle words. He couldn’t possibly be saying that he wanted me. That’s not possible. No one wants me.

I had a huge struggle within me, fighting the urge to flee, fighting the urge to gently pull away from his caress and go back into my quiet, isolated world, leaving him standing there, his desire hanging in the air.

And he gently watched me fight the urge, listened to me as I expressed the fear and the fright and the uncertainty of what to do, his hand never leaving my thigh, his eyes never leaving my face. And he finally smiled and just asked me what I wanted.

What I wanted.

And the clowns refrained, “RRRUUUUNNNNN!!”

But a tiny voice cut through all of that screaming. The teeniest, tiniest voice spoke out quietly, shyly, whispering softly from the corner.

“I want you.”

And I spoke to him in that tiny voice and explained that I heard him and, yes, it all sounded very good and I kept feeling his hand on my thigh and how good that felt.

And I didn’t run.

And, yes, I’m terrified. And I’m scared that this is going to be like the others, that I’ll be left on the side of the road, my heart nothing but roadkill, wondering how this all went so terribly wrong, how this wonderful man who I adored could be gone without a word, without a sound. And I’m scared that his sweet, gentle goodnight kiss will be the last one I’ll feel in a long time. I’m scared that it’s going to end in anger, with me broken and shattered and lost.

And I’m scared that it’s going to be none of that.

I’m scared that it will be right. That it will be something good, no matter how long or short it may be. I’m scared that his hand on my thigh will stay there and be as comfortable as it was last night. I’m scared that this might be something this time around, that this will be what I’ve been hoping it would be. I’m scared that my heart will open up and let him in and that his will do that as well.

But I’m facing that fear and instead of running away, I’m going to slowly tread into the deep, holding my heart out cautiously, to see what will happen if I let it go, if I let him take it. Because, for a change, this is a man who wants to take it and who is not afraid to say that.

And it scares the fuck out of me. In the best way possible.

Mourning has broken

2011-10-14T00:54:00.000-07:00

I feel like I have been in mourning the past few months.

Mourning for things lost, mourning for passions deflated, mourning for wanting that left me empty. Mourning hopes in every arena that were shattered and broken.

I’ve hidden my head and my heart and curled up to lick my wounds. I’ve been lost in the darkness, deeper and bleaker than I have been since I’ve been on my own.

It has been the scariest few months of my life since I’ve been on my own.

It felt so much like the last few years of my marriage, where I felt lost and afraid and alone, unsure of what I was doing, unsure of what I was capable of. Knowing that I wanted something but not sure what it was. Knowing I had talent but not sure how to use that talent.

For the first time in more than six years, I stared down into the abyss again, and it beckoned. And my toes dangled over the edge, voices from below assuring me that it was okay, just let it all go and leave it all behind. No one would say anything. They’d understand if I just gave up. After all, I had failed spectacularly so they would understand.

The multi-headed beast spoke with the voices from my past, tempting me, luring me, trying to lull me into complancancy because with complancancy comes compliance. And I’m so much more easily manipulated when I’m compliant.

But the little voice that lives deep down inside of me that belongs to my heart and soul wouldn’t shut up. It stood on its tiptoes and screamed, at first, silently and ineffectively. But that little voice wouldn’t give up, struggling to be heard above the noise of the multi-headed, very loud beast.

And finally, in the past few days, that voice is starting to be heard.

It’s saying, fuck the beast, get back up and get back out there. Yeah, you hurt and, yeah, you got kicked in the teeth, both professionally and personally. And, yeah, there isn’t the support around you that you thought there was and, yeah, it’s pretty much just you, without many hands to hold you up. But there is a lot of you and fuck everybody else. If I can’t hold myself up, there’s no point to all of this.

And strangely enough, the voices has been loosed by my art classes at school. Last week, we had to do an abstract painting using a variety of techniques. There was to be no plan, just basically throwing paint on the canvas board to try different mediums, different paints, different styles. But as I painted, I started to see my depression and started to see a manifestation of that feeling of running into walls and not being able to find my way. I almost cried as I finished up the piece. I don’t think anyone else will see that in it but a bit of my heart ended up in the painting.

And my digital illustration teacher cannot give me enough praise for what I’m doing. But lately, that praise has felt empty because I haven’t been connected to the work that I’m doing.

But this current project is a cubist self-portrait based on another artist’s style and I was struggling with what I wanted to show with this self-portrait. Who am I in this portrait? Lee, the painter? Susan Lee, the writer? Susan Lee, the director? Who am I?

I started out putting an easel and a canvas in the painting but that didn’t feel right. I circled around and around and last night, I realized something.

I forgot that I’m a director. That at the heart and soul of everything I do, it’s because I’m a director. Even my artwork somehow ties into that. Although the production nightmare of “Diary” sucked my soul out and made me debate about ever directing again, it is what my soul lives for. And I realized that I had lost some of that desire and wasn’t sure if I could ever do that again.

But today, as I got up and got ready for school, I read a quote by Daisaku Ikeda, the president of SGI, the Buddhist group I belong to.

The worst mistake you can make is to give up on yourself and stop challenging yourself for fear of failure. Keep moving forward with a firm eye on the future, telling yourself, “I’ll start from today!” “I’ll start afresh from now, from this very moment!”"

Hmmm.

Fear of failure.

Well, I have failed in a magnificent way this year and yet, I’m still here. What is there to be afraid of now? I can’t fail any worse than I have so I might as well get off my ass and get back out there, get things started again.

I won’t regret taking the time to mourn what I’ve lost this year. I won’t regret taking this time to ponder and retreat.

But now it’s time for me to put my boots on again and stick my neck out once more, to face failure and take it on full force.

And if I fail again, oh, well. That’s the choice I’m making. Because this is the life I chose - to be able to fail, to be able to succeed, to be able to make these choices for myself and not to give in to what is expected, give in to what’s easy.

My life has never been easy. So why should I stop now?

So stay tuned. Hoping to have some interesting things on the horizon. We’ll see where they take me…

All out of love

2011-09-14T21:08:00.001-07:00

I’m all out of love…

Over the past two years, I have thrown my heart and soul into a couple of key projects - “Mastermind”, first the play and then the short film, and the play version of this blog, “Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis”.

And I threw my heart into someone that was so very close to what I thought I wanted, what I hoped would turn into something. Held my breath and jumped.

And I sit here now, out of love with most of the things in my life. And I’m not sure where to go to fall in love again.

“Mastermind” was one of those very precious, special projects that took every ounce of creativity I had. Getting into Comic-Con with it made me think it was going somewhere that would… I don’t know what. Change my life, change my destiny, seal for me that I am something special, that I am capable of creating something truly special.

And then… nothing.

Cast and crew couldn’t have cared less. It was me. That’s it. Me. Promoting, pushing, building, creating, willing it into life. While everyone stood by and watched. And now the film sits on my hard drive, my will to do something with it completely and totally gone. The love sucked out of it.

Then “Diary”. Wow. “Diary”. Taking this blog and writing the play was so… overwhelming. For over a year, I lived and breathed these words over and over again every single day. Figuring out how to put them together in a way that would speak to people who didn’t know me and who probably didn’t care about my life. Trying to find a way to make it not masturbatory, make it real and honest and open. I fell back in love with my own words, my own writing. There are entries in this blog that I still can’t believe I wrote and things I wrote that I could barely hear read out loud when this show got up on its feet.

Lived, breathed, loved.

And then… it all crumbled around me. I cast someone who couldn’t handle the language. Okay, I’m not Shakespeare but I’ll admit that my writing is challenging. She gacked and blew my entire opening weekend. Crushing my heart, crushing my soul, crushing my love. Lost two other actors in unprofessional and disappointing ways. Had probably the most difficult rehearsal/production of anything I have done in my entire career.

My having to go on stage and replace my actress was bittersweet. I actually enjoyed getting up on stage for the first time in years and reveled in telling my own story. And maybe if I had planned to do that all along, it might have been different.

But by the end, I had been beaten and battered. And the resounding lack of audience and support crippled me.

I was left at the end empty and broken and devastated.

And then you.

You.

I get it, we talked, that’s fine. But even after we talked and I thought the friendship would live, you faded away, breaking my heart even further. I get that you didn’t want what I wanted but…

And now I sit, alone, week after week after week since “Diary” closed, buried in depression, buried in melancholy, trying to get back on my feet, trying to figure out where to go next.

And I realized tonight that I am out of love.

I don’t know if I ever want to direct again. I never thought I would say that. Directing has been the heart and soul of my life for more than ten years. But now, there’s nothing in front of me that I’m in love with, that’s driving me to direct again. And I’m tired. Tired of fighting for what I want, tired of building and building and never moving forward. I’m watching people who, granted, have worked just as hard, but they have incredible support around them and are moving forward in ways I thought I would be. And it makes me wonder why I’m doing this. What am I doing wrong that’s keeping me here? I don’t know if I’ve got the energy or the passion left in me any more for this.

My artwork still moves me but I can’t remember the last thing I painted/drew that I was in love with. I can’t paint right now. Oh, sure, I’m painting but it’s stuff I have to paint. A painting for school, life drawing class, illustrations for a children’s book I’m supposed to be doing. But nothing that stirs my passion, that drives me to the sketchbook or to the easel. While I was at Comic-Con this summer, I began to feel the stirrings of passion but they’ve faded away in the ensuing months.

And in researching the art school I’d like to go to on the East Coast, there’s no way in hell I could afford it, even if I got accepted. Grants and loans will only go so far and I can barely pay my rent, never mind find $20,000 for school each year.

And you. I really don’t want to feel that again. I don’t want to find someone and reach out and give away and feel that strongly again. I just don’t. Because it always ends this way - me, alone, even the friendship gone. And it’s so incredibly painful and confusing and heartbreaking. And I just don’t want to go through that again.

So I’m all out of love, in every single area of my life. I’m facing 50 next year, and I thought I had it all figured out.

And now…

Out of love…

Out of passion…

Out of answers.

Not sure where to go from here. The sense of loss is overwhelming right now.

Maybe it’ll turn around, now that I’ve put words to it. Maybe I can get some perspective and find that love again. Maybe.

I should have

2011-09-07T00:59:00.001-07:00

In the dark of the night
Now
Long after I should forget you
My one regret
Is that one night
That perfect night
When you had me in your arms
And I could hear the pounding of your heart
Over the pounding of mine
My one regret
Is that I didn’t kiss you
Because then
At least
I’d have the memory of that.

Missing

2011-08-02T23:58:00.001-07:00

Can you hear me
over there
if I whisper
"I miss you"
from over here?

Let go...

2011-07-20T00:33:00.001-07:00

I saw you tonight for the first time in a long time. And for the first time, my heart didn’t break when it saw your smile. And that made me a little sad.

But I guess I had to let you go completely eventually. It just took me a very long time because my heart refused to listen to my brain.

And now, it’s wistful and it’s sad but it held together.

I wish you hadn’t disappeared from my life. I wish you were still a phone call away. I wish.. I wish…

But tonight, I think I realized that I have let you go…

Though there is still a tiny place in my heart where you will live always…

Wishing...

2011-07-07T00:31:00.000-07:00

I wish I could tear you out of my heart, forget how your eyes looked into mine, how your arms felt around me, how close we almost got.

I wish I could not feel you so often and so strong, like your heart is reaching out to mine, despite your denials, despite your not being able to look me in the eye anymore. Despite the fact that when you do, there is still something there, something sweet, something delicate, that you choose to tear away.

I wish you could be strong enough to stay here, be here, not leave me behind. Be what you said you would be, let us be what we were.

Because I miss talking to you. I miss that. Just that. So simple. Just talking. For hours.

I wish you were more than a season, more than a lesson, more than something ephemeral, something to be lost as a sweet memory, something -- someone -- who happened once.

I wish I could tell you this because I thought I could tell you anything.

And I can’t.

Because I can’t. Because you won’t.

I just wish I could tell you…

… how much I miss you.

Only two weekends left of "Diary" on stage

2011-06-24T00:30:00.001-07:00

If you're in the Los Angeles area, check out the play version of this blog, "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis" Eclectic Company Theatreat in North Hollywood.

Critics say: "The writing is personal and hits hard...Her depth and sensitivity give her an individuality that few autobiographical characters have...Lee deserves credit for not holding back and not being afraid to tackle subjects such as abuse, divorce."

Oh, yeah, and not sure if I've mentioned it but I'm on stage as myself for the balance of the run. So it's also the last chance to see me on stage ever.

Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Canyon Blvd., North Hollywood
818-508-3003

Fri., Sat. @8 PM, Sun @ 7 PM

Mention this blog and get $9 tickets at the door!

Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb

2011-06-20T23:32:00.000-07:00

I was dumb enough to believe you.

Because I always want to believe.

Because I want it t be so.

Because I wanted to believe you. That you were different. That you would stay.

I was dumb enough to believe you.

But you lied.

And you left.

The same way others have before.

You snuck away, not saying anything, leaving me standing there, wondering what the hell happened.

You said you’d always be in my life. That you treasured me and you treasured us and that nothing would change.

And I was dumb enough to believe you.

And I can’t say anything because you’ll deny it.

But you have changed. You’re gone. You’re polite and you’re nice but you flinch when I touch you and you barely answer my calls and you have found new muses that expect nothing from you so they’re safer than I am so you answer their siren call and leave me at the side.

I should know better.

I guess I do now.

So when you get back from your adventure, you’ll find me gone.

But what breaks my heart…

You won’t miss me a bit.

Review of "Diary"

2011-06-08T23:56:00.000-07:00

Great review of "Diary", especially considering it was on the first weekend I took over the lead...

The Patch.com

"Diary" comes to life

2011-06-06T19:31:00.001-07:00

Here's a peek at the stage version of this blog, with me in the middle of my sock puppets:

Life imitating art imitating life...

2011-06-03T07:46:00.000-07:00

Because nothing in my life is ever that easy...

Turning this blog into a play has had its challenges in every way, from writing to the script to casting to raising money. Well, the challenges continue...

Through a series of circumstances that resulted in my lead actress leaving the show, I am now going on as... well... myself in "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", the play, starting tonight and for the entire run through July 3rd. Under any other circumstance, I would never consider stepping into a role in a play I'm directing, but since this is my life, it makes the most sense.

So if you're in LA and you want to see how this all turns out, get your tickets at Eclectic Company Theatre and see how it all turns out.

Fall in love again

2011-05-29T01:20:00.001-07:00

I need to fall in love with my life again.

When I first began this journey just about six years ago, I discovered a life that I fell in love with. I embraced the newness of what I found. I fell.

And for a long time, it was true love. Beautiful, touching, amazing. Discovery around every corner. Adventures. Love. Perfect in its imperfection.

But then reality set in and, like most things, love was fallen out of. And it got difficult. And ugly. And hard. And the love I felt once, so long ago, was gone.

And I’ve been not in love with my life for a while. I’m not sure when it happened but I turned around and there was no love there.

And I need to fall in love with my life again.

I need to stop shedding tears over what has been and what has been done and I need to find tears of joy for what is to become.

I need to find the music and the dance and the joy and the light. I’ve spent too much time in the dark, living on the edges, peeking around corners at life.

I need to stop waiting, wanting, needing, craving someone to share this with, someone who will somehow magically make it all better, make it all light, make it all love. I need to truly discover that I am enough and that I need to let go of the expectation that someone is going to be at my side and lead me into the sunset. The vision I had a few years ago of a window and a chair and music and love is fading. It was a beautiful fantasy while it lasted.

But now I need a new vision, one that is solely me. And for the first time in a long time, I can’t see the canvas that this vision will be painted on. I just see… me. Just me. Nothing else. No one else. That’s the vision, that’s the future.

And it doesn’t mean I’ll be alone. It just means I have to be able to be alone and be able to find the joy that way, not through someone, not because of someone. But just because of me.

I need to fall in love with me again. The me that made me leave. The me that believed I could be strong, I could be powerful, I could be exactly what I wanted to be.

I need to look around my life and be in love with every moment and every day and every second.

I need to be in love with this life because it’s taken blood and sweat and too many tears to count to build. And it would be wasted if I didn’t love it. It would mean that everything I’ve done doesn’t count, doesn’t mean anything.

And I need to be in love with me. Broken, battered, bruised, fragile, delicate, breakable, and all of that, all of the flaws. Be in love with that and treat that person with the love she deserves.

I need to fall in love with my life again. And right now, I at least have a crush on my life again.

Feature article on "Diary"

2011-05-26T01:59:00.000-07:00

So my play version of this blog opens this Friday in LA and an article I wrote about the production, this blog and all that goes with it is featured on the LA Stage Times website today. Check it out.

http://www.lastagetimes.com/category/blogs/

Photos from the stage production of "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis"

2011-05-19T00:20:00.001-07:00

For some of you new followers, you may not know that I am turning this blog into a stage production, which opens in North Hollywood, CA on May 27th.

Here are a couple of shots from the show.

If you're in LA and want to come see the show, check out the info at:

A long time ago...

2011-05-11T14:48:00.000-07:00

You were so handsome. Waiting there for me. I was so glad we did the tuxes and the dress and the whole nine yards instead of just a suit and a dress.

Everything was perfect. From the silly invitations we designed ourselves to the simple reception in the church basement. Simple. Personal. Perfect.

I loved my dress. It was exactly what I wanted and it was exactly what I could afford. I felt more beautiful than I had ever felt in my entire life. And you even said so.

I knew it was right. I knew we’d be happy. I knew we’d be forever.

Twenty years later…

You’re there and I’m here. We don’t talk - we can’t talk because I won’t let us. It got dark and ugly and brutal. It went from forever to fourteen years in the blink of an eye.

I never thought there wouldn’t be a forever, even when I told you I needed time. I always thought you’d be there at the end of that time. I always thought you’d be there along the way, figuring it out with me, taking your own time to see where your heart was.

But I guess you did.

And now we’re here. Forever is forgotten. And I’m not sure what it all meant, what it all means.

And I’ve lost faith in forever. I’ve even lost faith in fourteen years.

And I still miss you every single day.

And I can’t help but wonder if you miss me. And I mean MISS ME. Me. The me that was there at the end, not the one you imagined me to be.

And taking this blog and putting up on stage just brings it all too close, too present. And the emotions are impossible to sort out. Love, fear, anger, passion, pain, resentment, faith, trust… all of it. And I don’t know what was real anymore and what is just my clouded memory.

But I do know I remember that day. And I do know that I loved you more than I ever imagined I could. And I do remember how perfect and how beautiful and how much I looked forward to the next twenty years.

And now…

Here we are.

Not where I thought we’d be.

Yes, it's bad poetry time

2011-04-30T00:05:00.001-07:00

I'm so afraid
I broke us.
And I'll turn around
one day
and
you
won't
be
there.

I miss...

2011-04-21T00:23:00.001-07:00

...the hope of you.

And so it begins

2011-04-18T21:50:00.000-07:00

So Tuesday, April 19th, I start rehearsals for the stage production of "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", putting this blog on stage.

I'm very excited about this. I think it's going to be an amazing production. I have a great cast and the script has come together very well.

So be prepared for updates along the way. The show opens May 27th here in Los Angeles (North Hollywood, actually) at Eclectic Company Theatre.

If you'd like to contribute to the production fund and help the show out, please go to:

IndieGoGo.com/Diary-of-a-Mid-Life-Crisis

Thanks!

Not broken

2011-04-17T11:20:00.001-07:00

Thank you for handing my heart back to me without breaking it. Though I do believe a small, special, precious sweet spot will remain with you as long as you’re in my life - and beyond that - because of this.

You taught me a lesson, whether you knew it or not. You taught me that I can love just as fiercely and just as ferociously without being in love. That it’s okay to still love you that much and that you wouldn’t run away from that. You’re stronger than many men I’ve known in the past to stand up to my ferocious love and not hide from it.

And that you love me as much as you can, without being in love with me. And just the fact that you’re still here after what was said and what we said and how much was put on the table makes me know that you love me and that much is true.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish it turned out the other way. If I said I didn’t wish for the rom-com moment where you come to your senses and realize I’m the only woman for you. Because a part of me still wishes for that, still hopes for that. But I know it won’t happen because that’s not what life is about. Life is about hurting and growing and changing and discovering and surviving. Life is about tough choices and hard answers but that doesn’t mean it can’t be good in the end.

And I’m glad we’re okay - better than okay. I’m glad we never missed a beat after all of this. That we’re exactly where we were, without my ridiculous, crazy, muddled heart standing in the way. We have something precious and special and it has survived what has killed most in my life.

And I hope that we stay this way for always. Close, special, true. There is a quote from Brian Andreas from storypeople.com that always makes me think of our friendship:

“They came to sit & dangle their feet off the edge of the world & after awhile they forgot everything but the good & true things they would do someday.”

But I know so much in my life is transient and wayward and that you may not always be there, despite your best intentions. And if you decide to leave, just drop me a note before you do so I can say good-bye. Because I would let you go. I just need a little advance notice.

Almost... but not quite

2011-04-12T16:30:00.000-07:00

You were almost. Just so close to almost. And I was willing to wait, despite my many denials that I would. But you were so close…

And we were so close. Your hand on my face, your arms around me, the way you looked at me that one long night. So close. So very close.

And I was willing to wait to see how close we’d get, to see if we could get past so close and just be whatever comes after that.

Because you’d look at me that way, your eyes so full of your heart. And my heart would look back out my eyes at yours and we’d be thisclose. So close.

And I thought we’d get there. I really, truly did. Despite the red flags, despite the wondering and the waiting and the what the fuck. But we were so close.

Your heart pounding as you held me. The touch of your hand. All those little silly, ridiculous, wonderful things you said, did, showed me.

And I thought you were almost. Just so close to almost.

But you’re not.

Because you showed me that we’re not almost. We’re not so thisclose. You showed me by omission that I’m not in your heart or your mind. You showed me that I’m chicken soup for your soul - there when you need me but otherwise, out of sight, out of mind. Not almost. Not even close. Nothing.

It was a simple thing that a single call, a single text, a single email could have shown me that I was almost.

But I guess I don’t get to be that for you. And you no longer get to be that for me.

And I almost forgave you. Because that’s what I was taught to do. I was taught by years of abuse to be passive, to take what I’m given and make that almost. To be willing to be invisible, to be willing to be unimportant, and to say, thank you, sir, may I have some more?

And I went there. I forgave and was ready to hand my heart back to you and say, please sir, may I have some more? Because you’re almost…

Until I got my shins kicked soundly by those who see me and love me and know me. They made me see how not almost you are now. And how almost will never happen because you don’t choose to have it.

And you probably won’t even notice that almost is gone. Because I’ll still be there on the periphery. I’ll still see you and I’ll still talk to you and we’ll still be friends… almost.

But the almost will be gone. And the special connection that we had will be gone. Because I choose it. Because I don’t want any more, thank you, sir.

Because I deserve more than almost. I deserve someone who will make that call when it should be made. I deserve to have someone who doesn’t see me as chicken soup but sees me as something beautiful and delicious and wondrous to be savored and cultivated and cradled as often as possible.

And I’m so sorry you weren’t that. Because you were almost…

But I have to let go of almost and of you because I deserve more than.

And it hurts like a motherfucker.

Can't do it again

2011-04-07T00:17:00.001-07:00

I can’t do it again. I can’t be the one to fix and to hold and to solve and to help. I can’t look at you and see the wounds and want to heal them. And I can’t look past the things that are right in front of me that scare me about you, because I’ve done that before and I can’t do it again.

And it’s killing me because it’s so familiar and it’s so exactly what I know that I don’t know how not to do it. How not to be drawn to it and to you and to that.

I need you to want to heal me and to chase me and to solve me. And you’ve done that a bit, enough that makes me hopeful and hopeless, but I guess I want/need/have to have more. And I don’t know how to do that either. To let you know I need more because I’m not sure you can give more.

And I can’t do without more again.

And I adore you, and that’s familiar, too. And that’s what gets confusing and difficult and heart-breaking. I adore you. And when I get near you, I lose all my conviction and just fall into your eyes and into your embrace. And I adore you. And I forget about the flags and the warnings and all the rationales. I just see you and your eyes, looking back at me the way I want to be looked at. And I adore you. And there in your eyes, I see you adore me, as much as you can.

And you’re him and you’re the other him and you’re a bit of the other him and that’s just… too many hims maybe. And I got lost in their eyes, too. And I wanted to heal and to help and to fix and to hold and to solve. And I got lost in them. And they left me standing here, broken, alone, wanting, needing, hoping… and then there’s you…

And there are those moments that are so clear, so crystal, so present, where I’ve seen this in a future moment a while ago, where I’m where I want to be with someone I want to be with and it’s beautiful and it’s perfect and it’s right. And there are moments with you that are so clearly from that vision, from that moment where I saw it, and it takes my breath away.

But the echoes of the past blur the edges of the future and I don’t know what to do.

I want you to get lost in me. I want someone to get lost in me. And maybe I’m so afraid of that never happening that I let myself get lost instead.

And maybe this is where I learn to break this cycle, step away from the familiar, pulling my reluctant heart away from your eyes. Still care, still be there, but just not be all the way there. Stand on the periphery of you so you’re not left alone, because I think you’re very alone and I would never leave you like that, like I’ve been left. And I will continue to adore you, just maybe from a safe distance.

Because I can’t do this again. As much as I wish that I could… as much as I wish you could let yourself go and make this into something, take the chance, take my heart. But you won’t and you can’t.

And I can’t either.

Get the f**k out of my way!

2011-03-30T22:44:00.001-07:00

This has been an interesting week of discovery of how I manage to get the hell in my own way all of the freakin’ time.

As I’ve mentioned before, the years of emotional abuse have left me constantly trying to figure out all angles of any situation before I get into any situation. So I spend a lot of time just going, okay, so if he says this, then I’ll say that and then what if this happens and what if that happens, then I should do this and… and… and… and I get on the hamster wheel and run in circles, because there is no answer to any of it.

And because of a couple of men in my life who have hurt me in quiet and vicious ways, I’m so afraid of making the wrong move with someone I care about that I obsess and obsess and obsess over making sure I do everything just perfectly right.

Well, you know where that gets me? That’s right, hamster wheel. I run in circles and circles and circles. And you know what that running in circles does? It generates enough kinetic energy to wind up the clowns and set them loose.

And I found myself there the other day, running in circles, clowns hooting and hollering and circling their little clown cars. All because of a minor change in communication, which was totally understandable and rational, but clowns, when you’re on a hamster wheel, do not allow much room for rationality. So I allowed myself to chase myself into a very dark place, all because of… well… absolutely nothing. Just because he was busy this week and we didn’t talk as much. However, this is how a major relationship with a major OOMA ended - he just stopped calling, stopped returning my calls and emails and just basically faded away, taking my heart with him. It took a while for me to realize this because he was a master at it. But it left me afraid when I don’t hear from a man who I care about because, of course, I’ve been taught that I’m always wrong and everything I do is wrong. And so, I had decided I had done something terribly wrong and he would be angry with me and reject me out of hand.

But, wait. What?

I found myself circling the drain and then finally was able to stop and really think about what I was doing.

I was getting in my own way. Making decisions about what was going on without having any information from the other side about what was going on. There was a big clown-me standing in front of me, getting in my own way.

So I kind of screamed to that clown-me, Get the fuck out of my way!

Wow. Silence. The clown-me stood for a moment, trying to figure out how to fight me. But I pushed that clown-me out of the way and listened to the silence while the clowns retreated as well.

And you know what I heard in that silence?

Silence.

Just pure silence.

No mental math, no algebra. No hamster wheel. Nothing.

Just silence.

And I had a nice conversation with the me that was left. Told myself to just calm down. Just breathe. Just be real and be honest and be true to myself. That’s all I can do. In any relationship. But my relationships with men always seem to get so complicated by the clown-me. The one who’s been taught to complicate things.

And I just want to get out of my own way and be true. Just be me. Just be silent for a while mentally and really listen to what’s underneath everything. How DO I feel? What DO I want?

And really listen to him. Hear what he’s saying, whether it’s out loud or not. Just listen. No matter where this goes, listen to him. To his soul. To his heart. Because otherwise, what’s the point if I’m not listening?

Because if I can’t get out of my way now, when it’s just friendship, when it’s just the beginning of something maybe/possibly/hopefully, how can I get out of my own way if it actually turns out to be something?

I have to learn not to drag the past along behind me and start to let the past go, get out of my way. This relationship is its own creature. It will have its own voice, its own rhythm, its own time. And if I get in my way and drag this shit behind me, then this has no chance of being anything but what has gone on before.

And I want to see what this relationship may be, whatever it ends up being. Good friends, lovers, colleagues, collaborators, something in between all of those things. It almost doesn’t matter as long as I let it be what it is going to be.

And the only way it can be that is if I step aside and let it be, quietly, simply, honestly. Not try to figure it out, not try to force it to be something, just get out of the way of it and follow it instead of driving it.

Huge lesson. Hard lesson. Reeeaaallly hard lesson.

When I get out of my own way, I can hear my heart and my breathe and my soul. And what those pieces are whispering to me is just trust, just be real, just be honest. Don’t struggle, fight, figure, calculate, panic, freak out. His

And then I can hear his heart, his soul, in those quiet moments, sitting on the floor, listening to him talk about his life and his soul and his hurt, without saying it. And that’s as beautiful and true and real as it can get.

So get the fuck out of your own way, stupid, and maybe -- just maybe -- there’s a chance.

Fight or... let's get the hell outta here...

2011-03-27T00:29:00.000-07:00

I want to run right now. Run away. Away from figuring things out. Away from the inevitable hurt that’s going to come. Because I want. Because I need. Because I’m me.

I want to hide away, pretend nothing was ever there. Because I’ve been here before -- and again. And probably will again. And it’s always the same.

Because I want to run. And I usually do.

And tonight I thought, I need to pull away, run away, leave you there because I think that’s what you want… now. After all that, after all the close and the want and the pounding heart, I have now decided that you don’t want it or me or any of it and it’d be easier to just run and hide and pretend there was never a want or a need or pounding hearts.

But really, I have no idea what you want, need, whatever. Because you’re a guy. And you’ll never let on what you want, need, whatever.

So my instinct right now is to run.

But a thought invaded my carefully laid plan to leave you in the metaphorical dirt.

Why is it when it comes to fight or flight, I flight? Why don’t I fight? Why don’t I stand in front of you and challenge you instead of running and hiding? Why don’t I take a risk, take a dare, take a chance and just fight for what is hanging in the air between us? Why is fight not an option?

I dunno.

Because fight means that it means something. Flight allows me to pretend that it never meant anything. Flight means I get to keep myself protected and pretend I never even thought about what was there.

And I don’t know how to fight for whatever is there. Because what if there is nothing there and I’m just shadow-boxing?

Because you’re in flight. Because you won’t fight. Because you’re so good at pretending there’s nothing in the air - no want, no need, no pounding heart. Because you’ve had to be in flight your whole life because nobody ever fought for you.

What would you do if I fought for you? If I stood my ground and made you see it. If I just refused to let you flee. Would you fight for me?

I dunno. Probably not. Because no one has ever fought for me either.

I guess I’m tired of fighting for something that the other person won’t fight for. I’m tired of having my gloves up and protecting myself while the other person fights their way past me, leaving me in the ring alone. Because that’s where it ends up - me alone.

And if I run away now, at least I choose to be alone and it’s in my control. If you leave me behind, then it’s not my choice. And I’m left to close up the wounds left behind.

But why can’t I choose to fight? Why I can’t I choose to be the one to do something about the circling and the shadow boxing?

I dunno.

I don’t know a lot tonight. So I apologize if this blog makes no sense. It just needed to get out.

You may return to your regularly scheduled… whatever.

Guest blog

2011-03-25T23:00:00.001-07:00

Check out my guest blog on Her Film. I get to talk about being a female director who wants to direct like a man.

http://herfilm.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/we-can-do-that-guest-post-by-filmmaker-susan-lee/

Wildly optimistic heart

2011-03-22T19:12:00.000-07:00

I was listening to my Ipod on the way home from job #342 this afternoon. It’s been a long day and my butt is tired and I was looking forward to coming home and crashing for a bit.

Then my Ipod got the better of me, playing Keith Urban’s “If Ever I Should Love”.

Go to:

http://www.cmt.com/videos/shows/cmt-crossroads/529722/cmt-crossroads-with-john-mayer-and-keith-urban-if-ever-i-could-love.jhtml?artist=1161250

Then my wildly optimistic heart took over.

First of all, I love this song. There is something to the rhythm of it that just makes me twitch. And there’s a point near the end that is so beautiful, so full, so ridiculously wonderful that it almost makes me cry every time I hear it.

So I’m in my car, singing at the top of my lungs and, suddenly, my hands take over. I used to be a dancer, for those of you unfamiliar with me, although I haven’t really danced in probably ten years. Not even at parties/weddings/social gatherings. The closest I’ve come was probably in 2006 at karaoke. Some drunk guy was dancing with all the cute girls and kind of decided to dance with me at the last second. He was actually pretty good, considering how drunk he was, and we danced really well together, ending with him dipping me in the most fabulous way. When I stood up from the dip - which I executed with aplomb - he stood there for a moment and finally said, “Wow.”

But there haven’t been many “wow” moments since.

I also kind of resist dancing because, well, it breaks my heart when I dance. I miss it terribly. But for a lot of reasons, I just don’t really dance anymore. Occasionally, I do what I call “kitchen ballet”, where music will move me, usually while I’m making dinner or something, and I’ll bust out a couple of moves in the kitchen.

But lately, I’ve felt like dancing. My hands get started, marking dance steps, marking rhythm, getting my brain doing on what I could do to this music. And then my body starts to twitch and my feet start finding the rhythm.

The other thing that has gotten me thinking about dancing lately -- well, actually two other things. One is that, in turning this blog into a play (opening May 27th in North Hollywood), a number of dance numbers have erupted in the writing. A couple of fun jives, a waltz or two and a (hopefully) heart-breaking tango in the middle of it. So I’ve been thinking a lot about dancing, in regards to that.

The other thing is that a really wonderful man who is close to my heart constantly refers to me lately as a dancer. Not “oh, you used to be a dancer”. But “you’re a dancer”. Usually associated with me knocking something over and being incredibly clumsy (many things have been spilled in his apartment), since dancers are notoriously clumsy off the stage. But the way he says it… He sees me as a dancer. Period. And that makes my heart soar.

And right now, my heart has reason to be optimistic. So the lyrics from the song really speak to me right now, making my heart want to leap out of my chest and go running wildly through the streets. I feel so close to something wonderful, which I’ve probably jinxed by putting that thought out here in this blog, that I can hardly breathe sometimes.

The last verse of the song builds and builds and that’s what made me dance tonight. These lyrics:

“I was scared to love again
Feel the pain that came when she walked out of my life
I got hurt so bad I swore I'd never
Let another get inside this heart of mine
But you touched my hand and every plan that I had
Disappeared like a falling star
And there's a new beginning
And I'm movin' to the rhythm of a beating, braver heart”.

And I was thinking of this special person and how he makes me feel. And I was thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve really, truly felt this happy. And I was thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve danced. And I mean DANCED. Full on, no holds barred. Just let the joy out and danced.

And so, I got out of the car and my feet could hardly hold still. There was a little pirouette at the mailbox, I will admit, which I’m sure made my neighbors wonder even more about me. And I couldn’t wait to get into the house. Dropped my bags, tossed my jacket aside, reset the song to the beginning and danced.

And danced.

And danced.

My heart soared. I know, it’s corny but it’s true. Tears streamed down my face… tears of joy, of pleasure, of hope, of love. All the emotion I hang on to so tightly, all the passion I feel for this hope, this man, this heart let go and I danced. Like I haven’t danced in years.

I’m sure it was ugly. I’m sure it was clumsy. I’m at least thirty pounds overweight for dancing (or anything else, really). I have no idea what I’m doing anymore when it comes to dance. And I'm sure this love, this passion will all come crashing down around me, because that's what it does, and next week, I'll be back to my usual heartbroken, morose self.

But tonight, I danced.

And it was beautiful…

Upon a time

2011-03-14T21:19:00.000-07:00

03/14/11 - upon a time

Once
upon a time,
he cradled my face
in his hand
just as you did
last night.
Looking at me
with want
and pain
and true
real adoration.
He held me close
like you did
last night,
our hearts beating
together
together
just as ours did
last night.
And I’m so afraid
you’re going to
be him
and I’m going to
be me.
And I’ll be right back
there
then
again.

But I don’t remember
holding my breath
waiting
hoping
wanting
like I did
last night.
Praying
it will be
different
better
more.

But
I don’t know
if I can
do
it.

Fundraising round deux

2011-03-07T00:09:00.001-08:00

As time creeps closer to this blog turning into a play in Los Angeles, I have started another IndieGoGo campaign to raise the production funds needed to produce the show.

Here's the blurb:

"Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", written and directed by Susan Lee, chronicles her recovery as she rebuilt her life after leaving a sixteen year long abusive marriage. Based on her popular blog, http://diaryofamidlifecrisis.blogspot.com/, the play will be filled with discussion of abuse, the beauty of discovering lost talents, unrequited love -- and clowns. And sock puppets. And maybe some martial arts. And one beautiful heart-breaking tango. (And, no, Susan will not be performing in addition to writing and directing. She's not that much of a narcissist.) A percentage of any profits from the play will be donated to Sojourn, a shelter for victims of domestic violence - http://www.opcc.net/tabid/88/Default.aspx.

Here's where to give me your dough:

http://www.indiegogo.com/Diary-of-a-Mid-Life-Crisis-1

Any contribution is welcome - $5, $50, $500. There are perks at every step, from a simple thank you on my website and in the program to sock puppets and clown noses to an original oil painting done by yours chumly.

So if you've got a buck or two to spare, please toss it into the IndieGoGo fund and I shall be eternally grateful!

Thanks much.

A heart worth breaking

2011-03-05T00:36:00.000-08:00

You’re going to break my heart… and I’m going to let you. Because apparently I haven’t learned how not to let someone break my heart yet.

It’s the same thing - I fall, you say you don’t. Yet you do. Yet you won’t. But I will.

And I’ll dream and I’ll want and I’ll wait.

And we’ll do this … whatever this is. This limbo, this nothing yet everything. This thing that leads nowhere yet we can’t not do it.

And we’ll be thisclose and this far. And then thiscloseagain.

And you’ll break my heart. And I know it.

But I can’t wrangle the want and the need and the hope. They all lead me down that inevitable road, where there is nothing at the end but nothing. You going this way, me going that. We’ll smile, we’ll hug, you’ll say we’re friends and we’ll always be friends.

And you’ll be gone. But you’ll linger in the pieces of my heart, where the ghosts of others come before live.

And I’ll go on and you’ll go on. And maybe you’ll remember and maybe you won’t. But I will. I’ll remember the talks and the poetry and the food and the laughter and the want. And you’ll be held dear deep inside, whether you want to be or not.

So I’ll let you break my heart because I don’t know how not to. And maybe next time, I’ll learn.

“This time I’m mistaken/for handing you a heart worth breaking.”

Just to be safe

2011-02-28T21:57:00.000-08:00

Just to be safe

Safe
–adjective
1. secure from liability to harm, injury, danger, or risk: a safe place.
2. free from hurt, injury, danger, or risk: to arrive safe and sound.
3. involving little or no risk of mishap, error, etc.: a safe estimate.
4. dependable or trustworthy: a safe guide.
5. careful to avoid danger or controversy: a safe player; a safe play.
6. denied the chance to do harm; in secure custody: a criminal safe in jail.

Such a small word - safe. S-A-F-E. Four letters.

But so many meanings.

Safe.

To be safe. To feel safe.

Something we all want. To be safe, to feel safe. To be with someone who makes us feel safe. To make someone else feel safe.

Sounds so simple.

Safe.

I have never felt safe in a relationship. Neither of my marriages made me feel safe. My familial experience with safe is spotted at best. I thought that was just the way every relationship was - “safe” was a word that meant something but didn’t apply.

I’m not sure what would make me feel safe. I’m not sure I could ever feel safe at this point in my life. I do have people in my life who I trust -- mostly my girlfriends. But safe?

“Free from hurt, injury, danger, or risk: to arrive safe and sound.”

Free from hurt, injury, danger, or risk.

I want a relationship free from hurt, injury and danger. But I’m not sure any of us can have that. We all get hurt, we all hurt. Doesn’t matter our intentions, we hurt. That’s life. That’s nature. We hurt, we get hurt, we get injured, we injure. How can we feel safe if it is inevitable that we will get hurt, get injured and injure those we love?

I threw a life preserver (virtually) to someone last night, hoping to make him feel safe because I know that he doesn’t -- in any aspect of his life. And I want to be the one to make him feel safe, to make him feel secure and whole and valued and beautiful and loved. But I know he probably won’t let me because he’s been hurt and injured and he’s hurt and injured and maybe he thinks he will never be able to be safe again so he lives in the hurt and the injury rather than risk.

And I stand over here, pondering how to maintain a peaceful heart when all I want is someone to make me feel safe. Someone to throw me a life preserver - virtual or otherwise. But I know I won’t let them because I’ve been hurt and injured and I’ve hurt and injured and I’m not sure I can make anyone feel safe anymore because I’m not sure I believe there is a safe left.

And can I love even if it doesn’t feel safe?

Sometimes, I think safe is not trying to love, not letting someone in. If I don’t ever let him in, then I won’t ever get hurt. Or so I tell myself. And maybe he’s not the one hurting me, maybe I’m the one hurting me by not letting him in.

Safe is protecting myself and keeping my heart to myself. Safe is not letting him get as close as I’d like him to because then neither of us can hurt each other. We can stand at this distance, arms at our sides, heart buried deep inside, fighting the urge to risk, fighting the urge to hurt, fighting the urge to just not be safe for one single, delirious, beautiful moment.

Because that would be dangerous. That would be risky. And the definition of safe is “free from… risk.”

So how do we be safe and not safe at the same time? How do we do that? How do we put ourselves out there in the ether, praying it won’t hurt this time, praying we won’t hurt him this time? How do we risk when the cost seems so very high and when it feels safer to just stay home, just keep your heart tucked away, keep yourself and himself safe?

I risk so much every single day in the life I have chosen to live. I risk the system, I risk living the life I want to live. I risk losing everything every day because I can’t pay my rent and I can’t pay my bills, and I can’t even afford gas for my car this week. That’s risk. That’s danger. That’s pain and hurt and all of that stuff. But I choose to do that every single day because of love. Because I love my life. I have chosen a life I love and so I’ve chosen to not be safe.

But I can’t yet choose to not be safe with you. And you won’t choose to not be safe with me. Not yet. Maybe not ever. So we’ll both just stand here, at a safe distance, still hurt, still hurting, still wanting and aching and breaking and needing. But “safe”. Without seeing how unsafe we are not.

And maybe we’ll never be brave enough to let go of safety enough to be with each other as more than just good friends. Maybe there’s a safety in that that somehow reassures us and keeps us here. Occasionally, one of us risks the loss of that safety with a touch or a glance or a few moments of holding my hand, unexpectedly, overwhelmingly. Yet we retreat to our safe corners, to watch, to wait, to be safe.

Or maybe -- just maybe -- I say, fuck that and jump. Because I want the way it feels when it’s not safe. I want the risk, I want the unknown, I want the… everything that goes with not being safe. I want to feel. I want to live.

I want what this poem expresses so beautifully. But until I risk, until I stop feeling safe, I’m not sure I’ll be able to.

So I’ll end with a little e.e. cummings, who was never safe and always risked and left behind a legacy of words filled with un-safety and beauty. Because I already carry your heart with me now, whether you know it or not.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

Let It Be

2011-02-15T22:42:00.001-08:00

“Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be. There will be an answer, let it be.”

Yeah. I’m not good at that.

Letting it be. Whatever “it” is.

I have to know. I have to know what the answer is. I have to know what the end result will be. I have to know. I have to examine every situation from every single angle and figure out all of the variations that could come from any situation so I can figure out what’s going to happen in the end.

I finally figured out where that comes from.

My family life growing up was chaotic, to say the least. I never thought there was anything wrong or different. I thought everyone lived like we did. Fighting. Arguing. Mom throwing things. Mom being just a little bit bipolar so never really knowing how she was going to react to anything. Whatever I thought she was going to do -- bad or good -- she always reacted the polar opposite of what I expected. And the rest of my family, well, let’s just say there were other challenges within that dynamic.

Then with both of my ex-husbands, who both came from alcoholic families and had all the tendencies alcoholics have, I found myself repeating this pattern. I had to figure out every angle on everything so I would be able to be what they wanted me to be, to do the exact right thing and be the exact right thing. Maybe not so much with my first husband but definitely with my second.

R was volatile at the best of times but if things didn’t go the way he wanted, there was hell to pay. Now, emotional abuse is hard to understand unless you’ve been on the receiving end of a vicious, cruel, screaming tantrum. You live to avoid those situations so you become really good at figuring out how to walk the minefield that has somehow become your life.

So I’ve spent most of my life dodging minefields and tiptoeing through relationships. Trying to protect myself, trying to make sure that everything stays stable and easy and that I don’t get my head ripped off because of some tiny, teeny, little, bitty thing I missed.

“Let it be, let it be…”

But now, when I don’t have that crazy, insane, abusive life anymore, I’m still hanging on to one or two vestiges of that life. And one of those vestiges is trying to figure everything out. Which is not necessary when life isn’t crazy and I’m surrounded by people who love me and respect me.

But when it comes to the men I care about, the ones (oh, let’s be honest right now, the ONE) who I want to be with, who I want to invite into my life, I still cling to those old habits. Figure out everything, analyze everything, make sure I know every angle of every situation and try to figure out how to make everything work out perfectly, no matter what the response from the other person is.

The problem is, the man I am currently interested in is not like my two exes. Well, in some ways, of course he is because there is something in each ma I’ve fallen for that ties them together. But he is not abusive, he is not angry, he is not vindictive towards me. He is gentle and sweet and challenges me just the right way. This goes for all of the men I have fallen for in the past five years. They’re gentle, they’re sweet, they respect me like I’ve never been respected before.

Yet I still walk on eggshells. I’m still afraid that what I’m doing is going to be wrong, going to drive them away, going to end up with me being screamed at and destroyed and ruined, all because I’ve done something wrong.

So I still spend hours and hours and hours trying to figure out what every gesture means, what every word means, what every single interaction means. Because if I can figure that out, then I can make everything perfect.

Except I can’t.

Because there is nothing to figure out. For the most part, these men - including the current OOMA (object of my affection) - are pretty much what they seem to be. They have issues, sure, don’t we all. And some of those issues are complicated and do veil things but not the way my brain thinks it is. So I obsess and I lose hours and create heartbreak in myself because I simply cannot just let this be. I HAVE to know. I HAVE to figure it out. I HAVE to have an answer.

But there are no answers by doing this.

“There will be an answer, let it be.”

I’m trying to learn to just let things be. I cannot control anything but myself, as much as I want to control him. I cannot make him do what I want him to do, no matter how many ways I think about how to do just that. I cannot understand what’s going on in his head because I can’t. I have to just let it be what it is. Friends? Something more? Something less? Every algebraic equation I come up with won’t solve anything. Won’t net an answer.

“There will be an answer, let it be.”

I have to just let it be. In so many ways. Not just with whatever is going to happen with this OOMA but with many things in my life. I have to learn to let go of the patterns of abuse and try to heal that last, lingering part of myself and learn to just let it be. Chanting helps. Since I’ve joined Soka Gakkai International, a lay Buddhist sect, chanting has become a big part of my life and helps me let go some, let the universe know what I’m needing/wanting/lacking and trying to just let the universe take care of me. But I’m not good at that yet so I’m still pushing and twisting and bending.

“There will be an answer, let it be.”

Maybe once I learn this, I can leave the last of him behind me, the last of our life behind me. Maybe then I’ll be able to move forward with someone, whether it’s this complicated, enigmatic OOMA or someone else in the future, and be able to just let things be. Not try algebra for the simplest things, just let it be.

“There will be an answer…

Let it be.”

Thought for the day... or for life...

2011-02-07T09:52:00.000-08:00

I'm currently reading Nick Hornby's "A Long Way Done" whilst trapped on the LA
Metro (which on twitter has become lametro - lame-tro). He wrote the novels
"About a Boy" and "High Fidelity". Brilliant, funny, dark, moving writer. This
one is about four people who climb to the top of a tall building in England to
jump off and kill themselves on New Year's Eve. Instead, they form a twisted,
dysfunctional, poignant family, trying to help each other find their lives
again. I'm not quite finished with it yet so I'm not quite sure how it's all
going to turn out.

But as I am currently going through a very deep, dark peer into my soul right
now (that has nothing to do with "Diary"), there was a passage today in this
book that really spoke to me. Don't know if it'll speak to you but here it is
anyway.

The quartet are meeting for coffee, trying to understand why they each wanted to
jump off the building. They began to talk about what they would do differently
in their lives or what they would want back. If they had three wishes, what
would they wish for, what would their lives be like? Then there's this passage:

"We all spend so much time not saying what we want, because we know we can't
have it. And because it sounds ungracious, or ungrateful, or disloyal, or
childish, or banal. Or because we're so desperate to pretend that things are
O.K., really, that confessing to ourselves that they're not looks like a bad
move. Go on, say what you want. Maybe not out loud, if it's going to get you
into trouble: 'I wish I'd never married him.' 'I wish she were still alive.' 'I
wish I'd never had kids with her.' 'I wish I had a whole shitload of money.' 'I
wish all the Albanias would go back to fucking Albania.' Whatever it is, say it
to yourself. The truth will set you free. Either that or it'll get you a punch
in the nose. Surviving in whatever life you're living means lying, and lying
corrodes the soul, so take a break from the lies just for one minute."

I love that.

"Surviving in whatever life you're living means lying, and lying corrodes the
soul, so take a break from the lies for one minute."

Take a break from the lies of surviving life today and say "I wish"...

And make it a big one... or two... or twelve.

I wish...

Such powerful words.

If we start with "I wish", where do you think we can end?

I'll start:

I wish I left my marriage earlier, then maybe we both would have been happier
sooner.

I wish I could spend every single day directing.

I wish I had someone in my life to be a partner and a lover and to share this
difficult and amazing journey with me.

Now you go...

(share if you want to, don't share if you don't, but wish)

Dark of the night

2011-02-06T22:39:00.001-08:00

Bottom of the pit last night.

Very dark, very black.

Darker than I’ve been in a while.

Can’t quite make sense of it all… or of any of it.

Don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing.

Can’t figure out if what I’ve done means anything at all.

Dark of the night, dark of the soul.

Not sure I’ve quite shaken it today.

Maybe gotten to indigo from pitch black.

But the pit is still there -- tempting, taunting, teasing me to jump.

Just give up.

Just give in.

It’ll all be fine if you’d just…

Give everything up and just accept mediocrity.

It’ll all be fine.

It’ll all be easy.

Just do it.

Just
do
it.

Comfort food

2011-01-28T22:40:00.001-08:00

I am tired of being the human equivalent of comfort food for the men in my life.

I’m the girl they turn to when they’re alone, when they want someone to make them feel warm and fuzzy and loved -- with no strings attached. They know I won’t demand anything of them because, well, because I’m stupid. I’m so happy to have their attention, have their focus, even if it’s just for a few hours, that I toss everything aside just to be there for them.

The late night visits which, in someone else’s life, should turn into a booty call turns into watching “Thomas Crown Affair” and searching Craigslist for someone for ME to hook up with since apparently nothing’s gonna happen with Dude Boy.

The last call of the day from Dark Boy, who wants/needs/desires to have someone be just that, with long, wine-filled conversations and poetry, who thinks I’m amazing as long as I’m doing things to help him out. But when push comes to shove, I’m not the “spice” he’s looking for. But I’m comfy enough to spend time with… as long as someone else isn’t there.

I’m the one they turn to when they just need a warm fix. They don’t want sex. They want soup. I’m chicken soup. I’m warm cookies. I’m reliable and dependable and maybe I smell good.

But comfort food is temporary. Once you’ve been comforted, the empty soup bowl goes into the sink and then back into the cupboard, to wait for the next rainy day, the next cold, lonely night, to be brought out when there’s nothing else to eat.

But I’m done with that.

I will no longer comfort you, unless you’ve lost a limb.

I will no longer answer your last-call-of-the-night calls.

I will no longer be your comfort food. If you need comfort, find someone else. I’m done with warm and fuzzy and good-smelling. Well, maybe not done with good-smelling.

I am moving on to being dessert.

I am that gorgeous, delicious, indulgent cake you see sitting in the dessert case, beautifully lit, just waiting for you. But you can’t reach into that case unless someone lets you in. I am the dessert to be coveted, to be oogled, to be desired and wanted, only to be denied unless I decide to let you open the cupboard.

You have to earn me. You don’t just get to have me. You’ve got to plan and sacrifice and leave room for me.

You are going to miss me, I guarantee that. But I’m out of comfort for you. It’s time for some comfort for me.

Oh, but I thought… cuz you… oh…

2011-01-26T16:35:00.000-08:00

Oh, I thought that we were…

Because there was poetry once…

And the four hours we always talk…

And the food on the spoon…

And soup…

And you reached out…

And I reached back…

So I thought…

And we acted like…

And you treated me like…

And there seemed to be an us growing…

But I guess…

But I thought…

But apparently you didn’t…

And then you said…

And then my heart broke.

Single word

2011-01-23T21:05:00.001-08:00

A single word tonight, from either of us, could have changed everything.

But I think we’re both just so afraid of that single word that we just don’t know how/when/if to utter it.

Just a single, simple word.

Stay.

I wanted to hear that word, even though everything else was screaming it. I wanted to hear it from your lips, to see it in your eyes.

Stay.

Just that simple word.

You, over there, sleepy, beautiful, and, for a very brief second, vulnerable in a way I have never seen you be.

Me, over here, tentatively placing my hand on your leg, you not pulling away. My hand resting there, your eyes closed. The closest we’ve been. The closest we’ve let ourselves be.

I just wanted to hear that one word.

Stay.

And I guess you were saying it by just letting me be there, letting me connect, letting me in for just a single moment.

And I didn’t hear it. Until it was too late. Until I broke the silence and brought us back to where we were.

I heard that simple word just as I opened my mouth and took it all away. Screamed in my head to just shut up so I could hear that word that was hanging out there, unspoken but said.

And I wanted to just take it back, to go back to just being there with you, the simplicity of my hand on your calf, your eyes closed, the quiet of the room. That moment of time, just suspended, just hanging there.

But it was gone.

And I still hoped you would say that simple word. Even as I walked away, I wanted to hear it. I wanted my phone to ring and to hear you say, come back, stay.

But I guess we’re not there yet. And I guess we’re both afraid to say that simple word.

Stay?

Stay.

Because it is not so simple. It would change everything. It would mean everything.

And maybe we’re just not ready for that.

Not yet, anyway.

Blatant self-promotion post

2011-01-10T10:49:00.000-08:00

Huge news! "Mastermind" has been selected to compete for a $250 grant through Patron of the Arts to help with festival submissions. The whole thing is driven by Facebook so if you have a Facebook account, help us out!

Please "like" Patron of the Arts page:

http://www.facebook.com/patronofthearts

And then go to the Mastermind link and "like" Mastermind (near the comment box on the bottom).

http://www.facebook.com/patronofthearts#!/photo.php?fbid=486399397874&set=a.486398867874.260373.106420007874

Two quick steps, one quick vote, and you can help "Mastermind" take over the world. Please repost and help us out.

For those of you who haven't been following this blog very long, I am a filmmaker and "Mastermind" is a pet project of mine, which I shot last year. Last summer, it made its world premiere at Comic-Con, which was amazing! But I don't want to stop there. However, financially, it's expensive sending films out to festivals so this grant could cover submission fees, publicity, etc. So if you can help out, that would be awesome!

Mourning us

2010-12-22T22:55:00.001-08:00

I don’t think I really mourned us. The loss of the entity that was us. I felt my broken heart for me but not for us.

Because us was something special at one time. We came together to build a life that was full of potential, full of possibility, full of future. There was a “we”. There was an “us”.

But that entity took over our individuality and us became something big and dark and heavy. The potential, the possibility, the future got stuck in the void as we lost ourselves into the expectation of what we should be. We folded ourselves into us and left ourselves behind.

And when it ended, I celebrated the death of us because us had become excruciatingly painful. Us was the entity that ate my soul. Us was something I couldn’t wait to no longer be a part of.

I didn’t see the corpse laying at my feet, battered and beaten and bleeding. I stepped over it and ignored it, pretending that my footprints weren’t left behind in the leftover viscera. I left that empty shell behind and never looked back.

Until tonight.

And finally, I am mourning.

I am mourning the loss of what we built. The loss of forever. The loss of the us that came to be.

I am mourning that there is nothing left between us but emptiness and hollowness and pain.

I am mourning that you are not here. And that I cannot let you be here. And that I can never let you be here again.

I am mourning that we won’t grow old together and see all of our imaginings come to fruition.

I am mourning the death of the love we once surely must have had. That barely a memory of that love has managed to survive. That it wasn’t enough to avoid this inevitable demise.

I am mourning the loss of you and the loss of me. That we gave so much to something that could not survive all the pressure, all the pain.

I am mourning that we didn’t stop long enough to try to avoid the end, that we didn’t see it, didn’t acknowledge it. That we just let it come and watched as the us that was us died.

I am mourning the loss of you because there is still a hole there where you should be. And it will never be filled.

There is nothing now to do but weep and pine and rend something to signify the loss. My heart has worn the rend for a long time but now it has surfaced and become real.

But from the mourning, maybe there can be healing. Maybe it will set me free and let me let us go. I can occasionally lay flowers on the grave. I can occasionally pause to acknowledge the loss. I can maybe finally put us behind me and truly move forward as only me.

You'd think I'd learn

2010-12-20T01:11:00.000-08:00

I apparently don’t learn very easily.

I like to hang my heart out like a piñata and hand the current OOMA (object of my affection) a big honkin’ stick and just let them have at my heart with all their might. I get fooled into thinking that this time will be different, that maybe there’s something there, that maybe THIS ONE will be the one who won’t break it but, inevitably, they do.

In five and a half years of being on my own, you’d think I’d see the signs. They’re always the same.

Guy seems to dig me. Tells me how amazing I am. How talented I am. They stand thisclose and feel so near and so present. The connection is electric and literal sparks fly. This goes on for a while until there’s that moment - that one moment that makes me go, ooooo, here it is, we’re one step away from something wonderful and beautiful. And I hold out my heart, stopping just short of screaming from the top of the nearest building, “Here! Take it! I know you want to! Finally! Yay!” And I create beautiful rom-com scenarios of how it’s going to play out and how we’ll fall in love and how wonderful it’s going to be, because it’s right there. And I’m on top of the world for a day or a week or, this time, a month.

And then…

Nothing.

It’s gone. Suddenly. Without warning. I wait and hope and think, “Next time I see him, it’ll be magic. It’s finally going to be what I want it to be.”

And then…

Nothing.

Actually, worse than nothing.

It’s nice. It’s lovely. It’s friendly. Most people won’t even notice the change.

But I do.

And my heart does.

And tonight, my heart is kicking me in the shins for letting it get dragged around and fooled again. It’s pissed off at me for not seeing the signs and letting this one in. Being fooled by a brief moment of almost, fooled by language and words and this-close-so-close-but-not-quite-there-intimacy and one single night filled with potential that ended with hope, if not anything physical.

And my heart is wrapping itself up in steel and chains and barbed wire and a big fucking lock and hiding the key, refusing to tell me where it is. It’s warning me that if I do this again, it’s going to break for good and never be healed. It’s warning me that I’d better prepare for a long fallow period because it’s not coming out for anything - ever.

Because I have been stupid with it and it won’t let me be that stupid again.

Chasing (your name here)

2010-12-16T23:13:00.000-08:00

Just finished watching “Chasing Amy” for the… I don’t know how many-eth time. One of my absolute favorite films and my absolute favorite Kevin Smith film. The dialog and the relationships are so honest and true. I think the brilliance of Kevin Smith is that underneath all the cussing and the in-your-face rude beats the true heart of human emotions. When he gets it right, he gets it so very right.

The last five minutes of the film rip my heart out and throw it on the floor and then back up again and drive back over it. Holden (Ben Affleck) comes to a comic book convention (he’s a comic book artist) to have closure on his relationship with his former partner (Jason Lee) and the woman he was -- and still is -- in love with, Alyssa (Joey Lauren Adams). The conversation between Holden and Alyssa is so innocuous and nothing but watching Affleck and Adams just look at each other is heart rending. I think it’s one of the most under-rated performances Affleck has ever given. You can see how much these two want to be together, how much they regret their choices and how they have no choice but to move on and leave each other in the past. Crack - there goes my heart, breaking.

Because I’ve been there. Okay, I didn’t sleep with someone who was gay who decided to not be gay so they could be with me and then fuck up the relationship by suggesting a weird, twisted threesome. But that moment -- that moment with that person that you should have/could have/might have made something beautiful and perfect but somehow, you fucked it up and there’s no way to go back. And you both stand there, the moment hanging between you, the want, the need, the regret tangible as you talk about nothing. The desire to say, I love you, you changed me, you marked me for life. I will never forget you. I wish I could take you in my arms right now and that we could go back to before all of this. I wish… I want… I’m sorry.

But we never get to say that. We never get that perfect closure. It’s always held between you, with nothing and no way to ever close it. We just look, we just wish, we just let that breath, that moment hang… until it’s gone.

And you move through the door. You say, oh, that’s just some guy/girl I knew. And that’s it. Some person I knew. And the door closes and it’s gone.

And it makes me stop now, as I’m chasing again, and suddenly realize that it’s going to be the same thing that it’s always been. Chase, heart held out, crash, boom, bang. Door closing. That moment, that look, that breath filled with intent and thought but never expressed. Chasing (your name here)…

Some day I may figure out that chasing is a waste of time. There are those who cannot be caught.

Deja vu

2010-11-28T22:56:00.001-08:00

I don’t want this one to be like the other ones - me standing here, my heart in my hand, holding it out to you. You, standing there, looking at my heart, pondering it, making me think it’s yours to take. But I’m left standing there, heart out, soul out, with no one to take it.

I want to hope you’re different. That you’ll reach back, your own heart in your own hand, holding it out to me, letting me ponder it. Because I want to reach back to you.

But I don’t know if I can hold my hand out that long anymore. I’ve done it too many times, only to be left alone and empty.

So if you’re going to take it, take it soon. And if you’re not, then tell me know and I’ll put it away.

To hope again, the next time…

This moment

2010-11-24T00:02:00.001-08:00

These are the days I live for.

Got up this morning, too early for me, to teach Thanksgiving art camp at Mission Renaissance. I was glad I only had two kids because that means an easy day for me. I brought my watercolors with me so I could do a quick little painting while I was teaching. I do this so that I don’t hover over the kids and make them crazy. Great kids, really easy camp day. Couldn’t ask for me. Getting to do a job that I love is a great way to start a day.

The painting came about after a Career Success Group meeting the other night.

Okay, guess I should back up a bit.

The Career Success Group is a group I run that helps us set goals, figure out the big picture and what you have to do today to get to your ultimate goal. I started doing this with another group of friends a long time ago and we had to disband because we all got too successful to keep meeting. I decided to start it up again recently because I have achieved all of my initial goals set so long ago and needed to refocus and figure out where to go next.

We met on Sunday night at the wondrous apartment of the newest piece of my heart, Mark. He’s an awesome guy who played a dead body for me this summer during “Blonde Alibi”. He’s become a good friend and a great colleague.

After the CSG meeting, I hung around to clean up and he and I engaged in our traditional shot of Jamesons as we went over stuff from the meeting. We talked until the wee hours and at one point, we were pouring over a book of art by painter J.M.W. Turner. So beautiful! Mark then challenged me to find some inspiration in the book and lent it to me, along with a couple of plays to read.

Okay, so that brings us to today and the painting. I think it came out all right, for a quickie painting done while I was teaching.

Mark had also offered up his living room as a place I could come and write whenever I wanted to, since I usually write at a coffee shop because there are far too many distractions at home. So today was the first day I took him up on that.

I swung by his place, showed him my homework, which he praised very nicely. We chatted, he started the kettle for some hot cocoa for me (it was chilly here in LA today) and then headed into his room to work and I curled up on his overstuffed, very comfy couch to write.

Bliss.

Sometimes, writing at the coffee shop gets too loud, too noisy, too coffee-shop-y. To sit in a cozy apartment with no distractions, no coffee grinder going, and just write was amazing. Occasionally, I could hear Mark singing along to the music coming from his room and that just made me smile. I was worried about intruding but obviously, that wasn’t a problem.

Mark came out a couple of times just to chat and see how I was doing. The company was more than welcome. Then we walked up to the store, picked up some French rolls, wandered back and he made us soup. We sat and ate and chatted about absolutely nothing.

Finally, I decided I needed to head home. Quick nap. Quick shower.

Then I met Mark at our friend, Marie’s, script reading tonight. Marie is an old friend. I produced “Father Xmas” for her years ago and am delighted that she has circled back into my life. She is also a part of the CSG so we went to support her. Her script was awesome, part “American Werewolf in London” and part “Bill and Ted”. Funny, raunchy, very excellent. Mark and I laughed our asses off. And the other scripts read tonight were also very well written, great comments from the members of the group, strong actors. Mark and I both networked our little butts off. Mark walked me to my car and gave me a big, warm hug and good wishes for the holiday (he’s going home for the holiday - and he’s the best hugger in the world - next to Ranger Smith) and I headed out.

Home now, with a purry, feisty kitty tackled my hands. Feeling very satisfied, very loved, very much enjoying this life I’ve built. While I hope that some day I can let go of where I came from to get here, I hope I never lose the appreciation for the life I have put together. Yes, I can’t pay my rent (quite literally - probably getting a three day notice tomorrow). Yes, it’s a struggle sometimes and it’s certainly not easy. But on days like today, where I get to spend my time painting and drawing with awesome kids, spend a significant amount of time creating while in the company of a friend I adore and then share in someone else’s amazing creativity, I wouldn’t change a single moment of what I’ve done.

Melissa Etheridge echoed on my IPod - I want to stay here in this moment…

From 8/26/06

2010-11-10T20:50:00.000-08:00

For some reason, as I'm working on the play version of this blog, this particular post struck me as timely and relevant right now. So enjoy a blast from the past. And stay tuned, I may start posting either new blogs or reposting some of my favorite ones from the past.

------------------------------------

(From my blog, dated 8/27/06 - Titled "Crossing Lines"

Then, in trying to find something inspirational to send to Monica to wish her luck on her interview tomorrow (today by the time I post this – good luck, sweetie!), I found this on storypeople.com. Thank you, Brian Andreas.

“I have too much to lose, she said, if I cross that line. Like what? I said. She could not think of anything that day so she said she'd get back to me. Since then I've been thinking what I would lose if I cross my line & I haven't come up with anything either. There's always another line somewhere.”

We spend our whole lives avoiding crossing lines – picket lines, yellow lines, invisible lines we’re not even aware of. Those are the hardest ones, those invisible lines. What are they? Where do they come from? How do we find them if they’re invisible?

This ties into the all-consuming conversations lately about the men in our lives and all that goes with that, hence, all-consuming. My friends and I feel that there are lines there that have been laid down that we don’t dare cross.

But what if we did? What if we did take that bull by the ever-hesitant horns and vault over that line written in chalk on the floor? What if we smudged it a bit and moved it ever so slightly to a more advantageous spot? What if we ignored it altogether?

“What would I lose if I cross my line…”

That’s the tough question. I would lose my…

How about fear? I have begun to learn in the last year (2006) that crossing lines doesn’t mean finding pain and disaster on the other side. Of course, most of my line crossing has been fairly safe, mostly involving creative endeavors in my life. My biggest line cross was the end of June last year, when I saw a life on the other side of my line and I decided to leap over it and grab that life without worrying about crossing a line.

Fear keeps us all on this side of our line, not allowing us to even peek over that line in case there might be something we want on the other side. If we peer over that line, we might see another set of eyes peering back over their own line back at us, wanting, needing, begging someone to lead them over their lines. But the thing is this, we’d have to cross our own lines to reach out to those eyes – no matter how appealing – and we don’t seem to be able to do that. That line, though drawn in Magic Marker or chalk or by our own toes in the sand, might as well be a brick wall 18 miles high and as wide as a continent.

“What would I lose if I cross my line…”

Excuses. As long as I stay on this side of my line, I’ll always have an excuse for not crossing that line. It’s too soon, it’s too hard, it’s too soon, he’s too close, we’re too… the list is longer than I could ever post on this blog. That line protects me from being hurt, from being open, from being injured. Excuses allow me to hide behind that line, keep that line in front of me so that those eyes on the other side of the line won’t be able to see me and reach me. And maybe those excuses keep that other pair of eyes from reaching out from behind their line to help me climb over mine.

“What would I lose if I cross my line…”

My heart. If I cross the biggest line in front of me right now, I could lose my heart and maybe not ever be able to reach the eyes on the other side of his line. That’s the biggest chance of all – crossing your line, hoping that the person you’re crossing it for finds the strength to somehow grab you and be pulled across their line to join you in the middle. Because most people won’t cross their line. Most people live their entire lives behind that line without ever poking a toe over it. Maybe they’ve crossed it before and lost their heart to the middle. So they’ve gone back and hidden behind the line again, not ever daring to even venture a toe over it. There are some that seem to leapfrog over their lines when it comes to so many things in their lives but when it comes to their heart, that line becomes the wall again and their eyes disappear behind it. But if I never venture over that line, how can I know if he will venture over his? We cannot spend our lives peering across the lines, protecting our hearts, and hope to find happiness or love along the way.

“What would I lose if I cross my line…”

Nothing. Everything. It’s time to find out which…

See you on the other side.

Who are you and what are you doing with her?

2010-11-08T14:57:00.000-08:00

Okay, I realize I don’t really blog anymore but I couldn’t let this one go…

I was talking to the wonder that is Zadra the other night, bemoaning my continued ability to fall for men who really appear to want to be with me, yet won’t. Yes, once again, I’m in that spot, dear readers. Cuz I’m an idiot and apparently like to torture myself.

Anyway, Zadra peppered me with questions as only she can do. Her point was this is now the fourth time (well, maybe third cuz we decided one of the guys is an anomaly) that I’ve kind of fallen for someone who really, really, REALLY seems interested, all the physical contact, saying all the right things, and yet, no movement in the romance department.

Now, I realize most guys are kind of dense about this kind of thing, which makes me laugh. My guy friends will say, in one breath, if a guy likes you, he likes you and he’ll let you know. Then in the next breath, they’ll say, but we don’t always know if you like us so then we’re scared to make a move and sometimes we just are too afraid to make a move, especially if you’re a friend already, and then we get scared cuz what if we’re wrong or maybe we don’t see the signs… You get the picture.

But Zadra brought up a really interesting thing to me the other night. Despite the fact that these men all have very different personalities, they all share traits that I apparently find attractive - very, very smart, very funny, grounded, dependable, consistent, emotionally supportive, did I mention smart? All great traits and I understand why I want those traits in the man I’m with.

The other thing these men share - they’re all with what I would call the “Oprah Cult” - women who live and die by what Oprah says and which books she says you should read. They’re the ones who think “Eat, Pray, Love” can change their lives. The ones who accessorize by Glamour, only without the originality, and who are the ones whose lives will only be complete with the husband and the white picket fence and the dog, as long as the dog is the kind that Oprah tells them they can have. They live perfectly fine lives within their white picket fence world and they get down right offended when you point out that life within that picket fence is not perfect and maybe Oprah isn’t right and that “Eat, Pray, Love” isn’t about your life, it’s about someone else’s and your trying to bogart that experience isn’t going to enrich your life, just empty your wallet. They live ordinary lives with ordinary expectations and will look back in thirty years and maybe wonder, for a half a moment when Oprah’s at commercial break, if maybe there could have been more. But then Oprah will come back and tell them, yes, you can break out of the mundanity of your life, but only if you buy this book that’s on my best seller list. And they’ll look back and think, I did what I was supposed to do, was with the kind of guy I was told I should be with and I lived the way I was told I should live.

I know I sound harsh and I don’t mean to. These women are very lovely women. They’re sweet and they’re well-meaning and they’re always very kind and gracious to me, particularly when it comes to my hanging out with their men. They work very hard and they struggle with all the same crap that I struggle with. They’re perfectly fine women.

Well, “fine” to me is not a great adjective. In a writer’s group I used to belong to, if you brought in pages that were solid and okay and straightforward but maybe a little vanilla but not bad enough to criticize, they were called “fine”. Fine because there’s nothing really wrong with them but there’s nothing really right with them. They kind of exist and they don’t offend anyone so they’re fine.

I find these women “fine”. I know this because I used to be one of that cult. I was “fine” for a long time. I was what I was supposed to be. A good wife because I cooked dinner most nights of the week. Fine because I supported my husband and made sure he came first. I read Oprah’s magazine and took all her advice. I did accessorize a little better than Glamour and always stuck to my own style so I deviated from the cult a little bit. But I tried to do what I was “supposed” to do and be who I was “supposed” to be, whether it was by his expectations or my interpretation of what a woman was “supposed” to be.

But I left the cult because it almost killed me. I discovered I had more to give than good chicken dinner. I had more I wanted than just being a pretty accessory. I had more to say than just “yes, dear”.

And maybe that’s why these men find me attractive but maybe a bit scary. Part of me is that woman who will make dinner and take care of them when they’re sick. Part of me is that “fine” woman who is what she is “supposed” to be. But the other part of me is the scary/sexy/attractive part. Maybe a little dangerous. I’m a woman who does what she wants and doesn’t necessarily “need” a man to hold her up and carry her along. I don’t need you to tell me how to run my career, I don’t need you to tell me how to cook dinner, I don’t need you for all the things that society has told women they need men to do. And that’s maybe a little scary and daunting and exciting for a guy. A woman who doesn’t have windshield wiper emergencies. A woman who can hold her own in any room. Yet who can be kind and gentle and loving. And who really needs them just the way the "fine" women need them, but maybe that's not quite as obvious.

But I’m not comfortable, maybe, for most men because of this. I don’t feel like the other women they know because I’m not like the other women they know. I’m like the bad boy that women are drawn to - different, exotic, thrilling but just a little scary.

So these men, while they may be drawn to that weird, different, uncomfortableness that is me won’t ever step outside their comfort zone to be with someone… well… uncomfortable. We’re just not made like that, I guess. We see something different, we desire it, but we’re afraid to go after it because it’s different.

Then Zadra asked me about why I’m drawn to these men. Yes, they’re smart, funny, talented, sincere, grounded, all that stuff. Is that my comfort zone? Am I looking for something familiar, something comfortable and missing something unique and exotic and scary? Am I doing the same thing, looking for something safe instead of something I want?

That’s a hard one because I want - I need - someone stable because I’m not terribly stable. I need someone to ground me, but I also want someone who’s ready to leap off the cliff with me, maybe pausing to grab a couple of parachutes and some rations for when we land.

I know I’m comfortable with these men and they make me feel safe. But does that mean they’re “safe” and “fine” and I’m not willing to step out of my own twisted version of the white picket fence? Am I seeing what’s on the other side of the fence, something that is maybe not so white-pickety, that may be a little scary, a little different?

Hmmmm… I’m not sure. I’m not seeing many options other than those standing in front of me so I’m not sure I’m missing something. But Zadra’s comments made me stop and think about sitting in my comfort zone and whether or not I’m just following my nose to something familiar or are these men not familiar?

The hardest thing is the new guy who won’t date me has raised some red flags in my head. He’s so similar to my ex in so many ways, I should avoid any contact with him at all. Zadra sees it, too. But most of the familiar things are the things that attracted me to my ex in the first place, although there are a few of the deep, dark things lurking there. However, he also has many traits that are not like the ex, which is the saving grace, I guess. But it brings me back to am I attracted to him because he feels like someone I’ve been with, something I know? Or am I attracted to him because I’m just attracted to him?

I have no answers today. Not sure I ever will. But it got me thinking and it’s something I will have ponder more…

Help "Diary" come to life

2010-10-23T22:41:00.000-07:00

I'm changing tactics on fundraising for the play, "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", opening May 2011 in Los Angeles.

I'm using IndieGoGo to raise money to cover a deposit for the show in May. So if you've enjoyed reading the story of my life over the past few years -- and god bless you for continuing to follow me -- please take a moment and toss a few bucks my way. Any amount will help - skip your latte and contribute $5, or send $500 and get an original oil painting from me.

If you can't contribute, I completely understand. Times are very tough. But help me out by sharing the IndieGoGo link on your Facebook and encourage your friends to read this blog and contribute if it speaks to them.

You know the whole reason this blog is being translated to stage? Because of your encouragement, my dear devoted readers. It's going to be hard, it's going to painful but in the end, I think it'll all be worth it.

Remember, 16% of profits will be donated to Sojourn, a shelter for domestic violence victims.

Oh, yeah, the link:

http://www.indiegogo.com/Diary-of-a-Mid-Life-Crisis

Thanks!

Update on "Diary"

2010-08-27T13:13:00.000-07:00

So I've decided to donate a portion (16% to be exact) of any profits for "Diary" to Sojourn, a center for domestic abuse survivors in Santa Monica, CA.

(Those of you who are friends with my ex, you can stop reading here because I'm sure you don't want to hear it.)

When I talk to people about my marriage, even those who knew my ex, they are stunned by the level of emotional abuse that I endured. The constant battering about how everything I did was wrong, how I would never succeed for a variety of reasons, how he undercut everything I did, from what I wore to what I directed. Every decision every day was tempered by what amount of rage was going to be generated by that decision. No one should have to live that way. I almost didn't, almost choosing to end my life one night rather than continue on the way it was.

And while I was able to leave and create a new, amazing, incredible life, many women are not able to leave, whether it's because of financial issues, fear or fear for their children. Sojourn provides a place for women to go for counseling, for financial and emotional support, a safe place for their children to be. They are advocates for these women and their families to be able to start again, leaving the pain and the anguish of their life behind them.

While my ex never laid a hand on me, the scars are still there and still deep and powerful. I want to give something to those who are seeking a new life, a new way to become the women they should be. And if it's only $10, then it's $10 more than they had.

The opening night for "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis" will possibly be a fundraiser for Sojourn. Working out the details for that since opening night will be May 27, 2011 but I hope to be able to present them with a healthy check not only that night but at the end of the run.

For more information on how you can help get "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", the play, off the ground, check out http://kck.st/bBkMi2.

Thanks for your continued support.

Contribute to "Diary"'s production!

2010-08-04T15:47:00.000-07:00

"Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis", based on this blog, will open as a play at Eclectic Company Theatre" on May 27, 2011. I'm very excited and a little daunted by the prospect of putting my life up on stage for the whole world - or at least the neighborhoods around North Hollywood - to see.

I've launched a Kickstarter account where interested parties can contribute to the production fund to help put this show together. You can donate as little as $5 or as much as $500. There rewards for every level. Please check it out and donate if you can!

"Diary" on Kickstarter.com

Let me know if you have questions!

Full circle

2010-06-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

So today, five years to the week that I decided to begin this mid-life adventure, I just found out that my short film, "Mastermind" has been accepted into the film festival at Comic-Con. This is so huge I can't even wrap my brain around it. We screen Thursday, July 22, don't know what time yet.

This is why I chose the life I did. And this just puts the pin in it.

Check out info on "Mastermind" at http://mastermind.lifeonitsside.com.

First art exhibit

2010-06-06T20:15:00.000-07:00

My "Mastermind" graphic novel images have been invited to exhibit at a gallery in Downtown LA starting June 10 and going for one month. This is the first time I've been invited to exhibit instead of just creating my own show. I'm so excited and nervous! I've been painting like crazy since the images the gallery rep was interested in only really existed as either sketches or in my computer. But I have completed five paintings to exhibit and we hang them tomorrow. I'll post pictures once they're up. In the meantime, here are the paintings in progress...

I'm always ahead of the curve

2010-05-29T17:13:00.000-07:00

Here's the pre-promotional postcard for the play:

Opens a year from now.

Life imitating art imitating life

2010-04-28T00:55:00.000-07:00

This blog is going to become a stage play in May, 2011. "Diary of a Mid-Life Crisis" will be produced at Eclectic Company Theatre, written and directed by yours chumly. Have to start working on the script!

Thanks to all for your support and encouragement to make this into a one woman(ish) show. Not quite sure what form it's going to take but stay tuned and I'll let you know.

Oh, and speaking of "Mastermind"

2010-04-09T14:20:00.000-07:00

Check out the trailer on my website:

http://www.lifeonitsside.com

"Mastermind" has been submitted to Comic-Con for their film festival. Cross your fingers.

A birthday of my own

2010-04-09T14:19:00.000-07:00

For years, my birthday has never been my own.

While I was married, anything that I planned had to be approved by my ex. He actually threatened to not come to my birthday party one year because I wanted to go country line dancing and he doesn’t like to do that. Hmmmm… thought it was MY birthday. I always acquiesced and did what he wanted to do. Most of the time, I didn’t complain too much because I usually found something that I didn’t mind doing that made him happy. But my birthday was always a fight and a struggle. My last birthday in our marriage became a week-long argument over the fact that I wanted cupcakes instead of a cake. Yup. A week of arguing over cupcakes. Including on my birthday. Phone calls back and forth - “you sure you want cupcakes?”. I got my cupcakes.

In the past five years, I’ve had some fantastic birthdays. However, I share my birthday with a number of folks, who I love. Patty Jean in particular is my favorite birthday twin. We’ve shared many parties, gone to Disneyland, among other things.

This year, however, I decided I wanted my own birthday.

I was struggling with this birthday because I’m 48. The “8” birthdays always hit me hard. Makes me go, “Oh, my god, I’m almost (30, 40, 50). What the hell am I doing?” So I didn’t want to make a big deal about this birthday. I had invites out for drinks but they conflicted with others who share my birthday and I would have ended up sharing this birthday celebration with others. Not that that’s a bad thing. I just wanted my own birthday.

So, due to a lack of funds, I basically spent most of the day alone, working on cleaning up the “Mastermind” edit. Not a bad way to spend the day. Friends emailed, texted and Facebook-ed happy birthdays, which was lovely. Monica even left me $10 so I could go to the movies or whatever.

I finally decided to go to an Artwalk in Downtown LA. All the galleries stay open late and it’s a fun night. I was going by myself because everyone either worked late or had plans for my birthday buddies for the evening. But I was looking forward to the Artwalk.

The one thing I wanted to do is something called The Drink and Draw Social Club. Put together by a group of established and successful comic book artists, I couldn’t wait to go and see what it was about.

I had the best birthday in recent memory.

I sat next to Bob Layton, who re-invented “Iron Man” to what we know now. He’s an advisor on the films and was regaling us with stories about Robert Downey, Jr. and other things. The guy next to me, Dan Panosian, is currently working on “Wolverine: Origins” amongst others. Oh, and the girl who’s working on “Tron”. I’ll give you a moment to geek out.

I was completely intimidated by the two dozen or so incredible artists around me. I had brought my sketch pad but was too intimidated to draw. I shared some of my fine art stuff and they ooh’d and aah’d over it, which made me feel better. They were all very encouraging and lovely and, in the end, I ended up doing a “Mastermind” sketch, which I am quite happy with.

I sat there for about two and a half hours, listening, absorbing, laughing and drawing. Watching them draw. Listening to them talk. Having the time of my life.

It was a birthday of my own. A birthday I didn’t share with anyone, doing something I would never in a million years have imagined I would do. I came home tired, deliriously happy, creatively inspired and a tiny bit more confident in my ability.

I will be going back there every Thursday that I can manage and hope to get to know these folks more.

For now, gonna keep this birthday very close and very tightly to my heart. Despite being alone, I never felt more myself, more happy and more satisfied than ever.

Pieces of a life

2010-03-04T17:27:00.001-08:00

There are days when I am able to see the life I want. I see the life I left my old life for. It’s not perfect yet. It’s a long way from where I want it to be. But moments like today show me the possibility of that life.

Today wasn’t anything really special. I’m getting over a head cold that luckily didn’t manifest into anything more than just a couple of days of feeling yucky. The guy that I thought might be interested in me is apparently just not that into me. Typical day. Normal day.

Beth came over and did some ADR for “Mastermind” today. The film is slowly but surely coming together and I think it’s gonna be really, really good. That’s the beginning of the day I want. To be working on a film that I am wild about with people I am wild about. To be putting my energy into something extraordinary that feeds me and fills me.

Then Brad came over to finish up his part of the ADR for “Mastermind”. (For those of you not from Hollywood, ADR means automated dialog replacement - replacing dialog that’s hard to hear or distorted by something so that a film has clean dialog) Both of them have been doing a great job with this part of the production, which is kind of dull but also scary because they have to reproduce their performance vocally without being able to play off each other and do it line by line. It’s tough. But they’re great.

Brad’s ADR was short as we had already done the bulk of it the other day. So we had some time on our hands and we sat on my porch, in the sun, cool California air blowing around us. We talked about music and art and “Mastermind” and teaching (he teaches fencing, I teach fine art). There were moments of quiet where we just enjoyed the feel of the sun and having those precious few moments where neither of us is going 1,000 miles an hour.

Brad then asked if I wouldn’t mind saying a gongyo with him. Gongyo is the liturgy for our Buddhist practice where we recite part of the Lotus Sutra and then chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo. He introduced me to this practice, which has changed my life. I rarely get the chance to chant with him just one-on-one and I really love it when we do. We chanted and he gave me some direction on how to improve my practice. And then he left to go teach, giving me a warm hug as he left.

I’m now waiting for Beth to return to finish her ADR tonight. Then I have a ton of work to do on “Mastermind” to prepare to enter it into Comicon for the film festival this summer. The deadline is March 15.

But as I said good-bye to Brad, it struck me that this, for me, was an almost perfect day. Doing what I love with people I love. Sitting with someone I love, sharing just a perfect moment in the sun. Yes, I know I can’t have him. He’s got a beautiful, talented girlfriend whom he loves. But I can still love him as the amazing, caring, beautiful friend he is to me. And those moments of intimacy, those moments of just being will hopefully be shared some day by someone who loves only me. But for right now, I’ll take this moment with this friend.

This is the day I can see in my future. A life filled with love. A life that is crazy and hectic and insane but crazy and hectic and insane in all the right ways. A life where I can find someone who will sit beside me on the porch in the sun and the beautiful California air and just be with me. Just love me because I am who I am. A life where my Buddhist practice becomes the routine of my life, not just a side note that I can squeeze in when I have time. A life where there is peace and joy and contentment. Clowns are banished. My old challenging, difficult, painful life is nothing but a memory - a memory to learn from and grow from, not a memory to be dragged tragically along behind me.

A few years ago, I had a glimpse of a life, which today seemed to be a sliver of. It was a vision of me, sitting in a comfortable chair near a window overlooking trees and maybe the beach beyond the trees. Beautiful, cool California breeze blowing through the open window/patio doors. I knew I was working on a film that I loved. I knew the evening held the promise of spending time with people I loved. And the man that I loved was nearby, singing from the other room, the living room filled with his guitars and maybe a piano. And I could almost see his face and the thought of him made my heart leap. I couldn’t wait for him to come into the room, carrying the music with him, because I knew he would come to me and sit with me and wrap me up in his arms, singing and laughing and loving.

And for a moment today, I could see that actually happening. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But today, I know it will. Because I want it to. Because this is why I left that world behind.

For days like today. For days like the future. For me.

Good morn... wtf?

2010-02-06T08:41:00.000-08:00

This is what I came out to this morning. Got to love California in the rain. Well, I guess Bette Blue needed a bath...

Four years ago, life began...

2010-01-29T11:17:00.001-08:00

Four years ago today, my new life began officially.

I got my tattoos, which I still adore to this day. Destiny on one side of my wrist, and a Buddhist chant for blessing and enlightenment on the other side of my wrist.

Oh, and my divorce became final.

I don’t know why this day - this fourth anniversary - is so heavy on my mind.

And I don’t know why this quote from (god help me) “Xanadu” keeps running through my mind: “Well, maybe just one moment. Or forever. I keep getting them mixed up.”

One moment or forever.

That’s what it feels like.

It feels like just yesterday that I sat in our home office and said that I needed some time. Just time to figure things out. Just a moment to look at where I was, where we were. Just a moment.

Or forever.

Just yesterday, I sat in a tattoo parlor in Las Vegas with my best friend, my mom and another friend while this adorable guy tattooed my wrist. Just a moment, such a perfect moment. Beautiful moment.

Or forever.

I never thought we’d divorce. I still don’t believe that it happened. I never meant for it to be like this, like that. I never meant for us to be done. Not for a moment.

Or forever.

And four years have gone by so quickly, so strangely, so remarkably. They have been four years full of productivity, creativity, beautiful friends, tragic loss, heartbreak, and wonder.

Four years where I have done some of -- no, have done the absolute best work of my life.

Four years where I have found some amazing friends, worked with brilliant actors, created incredible memories.

Four years.

Or a moment.

And for four years, I have dragged you around behind me, as a memory, as a lesson, as an excuse. It kept me protected, it kept me captive. It kept me from living the rest of my life. I kept falling for those I couldn’t have because the memory of you kept me from being able to really, truly believe that I could fall for someone who would want me back. It was safe. It was easy to hide behind you and say, no, I’ve been abused, I’m battered and wounded and hurt so I’ll keep myself hidden and locked up. I built huge walls around me so I wouldn’t have to feel, so I wouldn’t have to try again. At least for a moment.

Or forever.

Well, forever starts today.

Today, I leave behind the corpse of us. Or at least, I’ll try. I won’t use you as an excuse anymore. In fact, I’ll try to never mention you again. Because I need to get that power back from you.

I need to take this moment to get to my forever.

Opening weekend

2010-01-17T22:47:00.000-08:00

Great opening weekend for "The Jamb".

I love my cast. It helps to work with two of my favorite men on earth - Kerr Seth Lordygan and Brad C. Wilcox. They are not only great men and great friends but amazing actors who bring intelligence, grace and dignity to every part they perform. I wish I could play with them all the time.

And Garrett Liggett and Kenlyn Kanouse are just icing on the very wonderful cake that is my cast.

The play by J. Stephen Brantley is full of amazing words and amazing characters and gave me so very much to work with. It was great that he was able to come out from New York and watch the first two performances of his play.

This is why I make the choices I do, to continue to do work like this. I hope you get a chance to check it out if you're in LA. http://www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org

Another opening...

2010-01-15T01:13:00.001-08:00

My new play, the world premiere of "The Jamb" by J. Stephen Brantley, opens today - Friday, January 15 at Eclectic Company Theatre in North Hollywood, CA. Featuring Kenlyn Kanouse, Garrett Liggett, Kerr Seth Lordygan and Brad C. Wilcox. Directed by yours chumly.

Tuffer (Kerr Seth Lordygan) and Roderick (Brad C. Wilcox) are turning forty. Neither wants to face it.

While Tuffer continues to smoke, snort, and screw his way through Manhattan's much younger gay male population, Roderick's gone as straight as possible for activism and martial arts. With the arrival of Tuffer's latest boy toy Brandon (Garrett Liggett), Roderick can take no more. He insists that Tuffer accompany him to sober up at his mother's house in rural New Mexico.

When Roderick's mother Abigail (Kenlyn Kanouse), a formerly successful folk singer, throws the guys a very organic birthday party, twenty years of tension comes to a head. The foursome find themselves in a spiritual exile on the high desert, each on the verge of something, almost somewhere, in the jamb.

The title of the new play, The Jamb, comes from Tuffer's observation: "We grew up between the old shame and the new show. Post-Stonewall, pre-Will & Grace. We weren't exactly stuck in the closet, but we hadn't fully entered the room yet, either. We were in the doorjamb. Of the closet."

Susan Lee directs. Her previous stage directing credits include the recent well-received production of "Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde," "Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You," "Lloyd's Prayer" (L.A. Weekly Pick of the Week), "Keely and Du," "Afterplay," "Juche Rules" (winner of the USC MPW One Act Playwriting Festival) and much more. She produced, wrote and directed a feature film, "Cinderella Drives a Pick-Up." Her production experience includes stints at Simpson/Bruckheimer Productions, The Ladd Company, Cruise/Wagner, and working as assistant to John Kricfalusi at Spumco Animation.

Originally from Texas, playwright J. Stephen Brantley resides in New York. A graduate of the NYU Experimental Theatre Wing, he is a devotee of Kabbalah. His previous plays include Distortion Taco: Analog Hunger in a Digital World (Village Voice Pick of the Year), Break, Struck, Gatos Locos and the Ave Maria, Scoptopia, and Someone You Know Is Starving Tonight.

Get your tickets now at www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org

Please note - adult content. Not suitable for children under 18.

Tickets $18

Blackout

2010-01-11T00:11:00.000-08:00

“She laid her heart and soul right in your hands/but you stole her every dream and you crushed her plans…”

Keith Urban on an endless loop tonight. “Stupid Boy”.

I almost let you back in. Almost. This close. Was going to send you an invite to the new show, thinking that maybe I should reach out to you, try to close the gap, try to let you back in, in whatever tiny way I could. Let you share in my life for a second, see what I’ve done, see what I’ve accomplished, who I’ve become.

“She never even knew she had a choice/and that’s what happens when the only voice/she hears is telling her she can’t/Stupid boy.”

Then I remembered why you aren’t in my life anymore. Why I left almost five years ago. Why I chose to live without you.

Because you tried to suck the creative life out of me.

Right after I left you, I found a script I had started when I was with you. It was a script that I knew was good, that I knew could be something special. I wasn’t far into it but I could see it.

You couldn’t.

You didn’t even bother to read it. Just criticized, just tore down, just desecrated it before really reading anything. I was writing it wrong, you would write it this way. On and on and on and on and on until I stopped writing it because I couldn’t hear my characters over your voice. Just stopped.

“You stole her every dream and you crushed her plans.”

I forgot I had written those pages. I stumbled on them when I was searching for something else. I thought I had written less than a dozen pages, nothing worthwhile. But I had written 30 very strong, very solid pages. Pages that sat dormant because your voice drown out mine. Because I would never been good enough.

“So what made you think you could take a life/And just push it push it around/I guess you build yourself up so high/You had to take her and break her down.”

Then tonight, I found another. An entire script this time. I don’t even remember writing it. Well, maybe it came back to me a bit as I read it but I really, truly barely recalled putting the words down on the paper. Eight-eight pages. All it needs is the last few pages and it’s done. Sitting dormant.

Because you convinced me I wasn’t good. I wasn’t a writer. You made me doubt every word, every sentence. And when you couldn’t find anything wrong, you simply tore apart all the minutia until I just finally stopped letting you read what I wrote.

“It took awhile for her to figure out she could run/But when she did, she was long gone
Long gone, long gone.”

And there’s a script I wrote - with your “help” - that I still can’t read today. In my head, it’s terrible because the number of henchmen in one scene is wrong. I know it doesn’t matter but that’s all I hear in my head when I read it. That the number of henchmen in that scene is going to ruin the entire script.

“Oh, you always had to be right but now you've lost/The only thing that ever made you feel alive.”

How much abuse does it take to block out entire chunks of my life? Works that I have put my heart and soul into that I cannot even remember creating. How much does it take to make me forget and deny and ignore what I did to the point that it didn’t exist in my memory until I actually opened up the document and read the words I had created?

My roommate asked me what you thought was wrong with what I wrote. And I realized what my mistake was.

I am a better writer than you.

And instead of being a partner and a husband and someone who wanted the best for me, you had to tear the life out of my work and leave it empty and pointless and abandoned so that you could somehow be better than me. My ability to create made you so afraid, so terrified that you simply could not allow me to create.

And I believed you.

I believed you when you diminished my talent, my ability.

I believed you when you made me feel like I was stupid and lacking and weak.

I believed you when you told me that you knew everything and that I knew nothing.

I believed you when you screamed in my face that I had to change the number of henchmen because it would ruin my script. Ruin it. Nobody would read it because the number of henchmen was wrong.

I believed you… until I didn’t believe you anymore.

I stopped believing you when you said I was stupid.

I stopped believing you when you said I was lazy.

I stopped believing you when you said I would never succeed.

I stopped believing you when you found fault with every single thing I did, whether it was making dinner or choosing a movie or directing a play.

I stopped believing you when you screamed in my face about all of my shortcomings, occasionally listed either alphabetically or chronologically.

I stopped believing you when you told me that you knew everything and I knew nothing.

I stopped believing you when you said you loved me.

Because you could only love me if I wasn’t equal, if I wasn’t on par with you. You could only love me if I didn’t exist. You could only love me if I cowered in front of you and obeyed your every command, including changing how many henchmen were in my script. You could only love me if you could destroy me.

And you almost did.

Each pill I counted out that one dark night was because of you.

Each pill had a supposed fault, a supposed fragility, a supposed weakness of mine attached to it.

Each pill represented each word that landed like punches on my soul, tearing my heart out and battering me from the inside.

And finding those abandoned words tonight made me realize something.

You don’t get to come back in.

You don’t get to share anything, to be invited to anything.

Because you don’t deserve that chance.

“She laid her heart and soul right in your hands/but you stole her every dream and you crushed her plans.”

Because I can’t risk letting you back in, even the tiniest bit. My life is fragile and it’s delicate and it’s precious. And you cannot be a part of it because I can’t afford to black out sections of my life again. I can’t afford to let you steal my words and my ideas and my thoughts and hide them away so you don’t have to be afraid of them.

“It took awhile for her to figure out she could run/But when she did, she was long gone
Long gone, long gone.”

Proof

2010-01-01T22:47:00.000-08:00

Prove that you love me.

That’s the phrase that kept going through my mind in the dark of last night. “Prove that you love me.” Don’t know where it came from but it crippled me and kept me from really being present in the middle of a great night.

I participated in a 24 hour theater event at Eclectic yesterday (and the night previous). I love doing these things because they keep me sharp as a writer and make me think differently as a director. And I love working at Eclectic because the people there are incredible.

Madame H, Ranger Smith and I wrote an outrageous, Judd Apatow type script (only smarter) and had a blast. We haven’t seen much of Ranger due to his Beautiful Baby so it was so much fun to write with him, however briefly.

Then quick sleep and up at dawn to get my play as a director and work all day. Long, boring stories about a producer who didn’t know what she was doing, crap I ended up doing because she didn’t, exhaustion, frustration, etc., etc. Long, long day. But the performances were quite good, for 24 hours, and I had a good time, all in all.

But suddenly, in the midst of the partying to celebrate the shows and the upcoming new year, I got bitch-slapped by clowns. Again. They’ve been very quiet lately. I think they’ve been plotting in the darkness.

I stepped away to the dressing room to get some quiet time because I had been going like crazy all day and thought I just needed a moment or two of peace to pull myself together. But the longer I sat alone, the more melancholy I became. And suddenly, that phrase leapt out at me.

Prove that you love me.

I wanted someone to come back to the dressing room and find me and beg me to come out and be a part of things. I wanted someone to come back there and tell me they loved me and how wonderful and important I am and all kinds of bullshit like that. I wanted these wonderful friends who are so loving and giving and supportive and amazing to “prove” to me that they loved me by…. I don’t know what.

I don’t know what they have to prove to me. They have proven over and over again how much they love me by just the presence of their friendship. They have cajoled and encouraged and supported and praised me more than any other set of friends I have had. They have been there for me at other dark times and have surrounded me with more love than I have ever had.

But in the dark of last night, I needed proof.

The intellectual part of my brain was trying to be heard over the cackling of the clowns. It was telling me all of this - that these folks love me and demonstrate that quite often and what more could I possibly need to feel loved? But that part was drowned out and finally gave up and faded into the background.

And my beautiful friends did what they could, which should have been enough. ET kept checking on me, poking her head in, asking if I needed anything, not letting me be alone too long. Then Kerr stuck his head in and insisted that I needed to be out on the stage (where the party was) at midnight so I could kiss him at midnight. Okay, he’s gay but I adore him. And he would not take no for an answer. And I’m glad. I went out, greeted the new year, kissed him and a few other friends and started to feel better. I thought I had gotten through the worst of it and the rest of the night would be amazing.

Boy, was I wrong.

I saw the current OOMA with his girlfriend celebrating the new year and that sent me off again. I want THAT. Of course, I want him but I really would like what they have. Someone to wrap me in his arms, kiss me, hold me, make me feel like a million bucks. And I was off to clown-land again.

And again, the refrain - Prove that you love me.

That clown in particular has my mother’s voice. Which is interesting because my mother has never uttered those words. But I think that’s the root of her craziness - prove that you love me. I’ll do outrageous things so that you will have to prove that you love me. I’ll be crazy and out of hand and obnoxious so that you will have to prove that you love me. I’ll say terrible things to you to get your attention so that you can prove that you love me.

Life with my mother always seems to be filled with landmines and booby-traps. You never see them coming. They just appear in front of you and explode. And then you’re not quite sure how or why or what actually happened but you’re suddenly missing a leg. And she’s petulant because you didn’t demonstrate how much you love her as your leg got blown off.

And I spent most of my life with people like my mother, who demand that I prove that I love them by sacrificing parts of myself. And that’s probably why I don’t like that there is that part of them in me, the part that screams “prove that you love me” when I’m feeling dark and moody. I feel like I’m lost in a tsunami of emotion, not sure what I feel or what’s going on, and I just want to stand and scream, “someone rescue me, someone prove you love me”. And I hear my mother in that voice and I don’t want that.

I don’t want to be my mother. I don’t want to grow up and be her particular type of crazy. That’s one thing I am definitely learning. I don’t want to be my mother or my sister or my brother, particularly. I’d like to be more like my dad, more zen, more laid back. But even he has his own crazies, as I guess we all do.

Monica gave me some interesting insight tonight that I am hoping will help kill the “prove that you love me” clown. She works with Zadra, my best friend, at a company that deals with gifted children. For the past few years, when I talk about certain things or issues I’m dealing with, Zadra will teasingly giggle, roll her eyes and say “gifted child.” And then help me out with my issue. Monica brought this up tonight. She read me this quote -

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, their very breath is cut off...They must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency they are not really alive unless they are creating."
— Pearl S. Buck”

This kind of stopped me in my tracks. I realized that many of the times that I find myself buried in the black is when I’m in a social situation that is big and loud and crazy. What Monica explained is that they find that gifted children cannot handle situations like that because they are overly sensitive to input and stimuli, and therefore, situations like loud parties become intolerable because they’re taking in every single sound and sight and person and things and it becomes intolerable.

That’s exactly what it feels like. I’m almost drowning in a tsunami of input, of stimulus, and I’m not sure what to do with it. It feels emotional but it may start out as just overwhelming input. Then I just can’t function and maybe I need someone to “rescue” me from the overwhelm. That’s maybe where the need to have someone “prove they love me” comes from. I need help. I need rescue. But I can’t ask for it because I’m incapable at that point to ask for help. So it translates weirdly into no one loves me because no one is rescuing me from my own self-imposed exile into blackness.

So, after losing yet another night to unnecessary and inexplicable blackness, I realize that I need to get a handle on this “prove that you love me” thing. I need to lose the idea that someone needs to “prove” that they love me and just accept that I’m loved and help those people who love me find a way to help me out of the blackness. Give them tools to reach out to me when I’m deaf, dumb and blind in those moments to rescue me from the blackness. And maybe with giving them those tools to help me will give me the comfort to know that the people who love me will absolutely rescue me and, thereby in a weird way, “prove” that they love me without my demanding it.

But I did realize today, in the middle of all of this, that I am deeply loved. I was overwhelmed by that and it made me angry with myself that I let the clowns distract me from that love. So I hope to take these tools that I gained today from my awesome roomie and beat the living hell out of this particular clown. And then maybe find more tools to beat the living hell out of his buddies.

Alone but not lonely

2009-12-22T01:02:00.001-08:00

As the year creeps to its inevitable close, I have been feeling very lonely. I had hoped by this point, there would be someone in my life to share my life with, even if it’s just a Saturday night at a time. Someone to hold me and love me and… yada, yada, yada. I’ve been wading in self-pity - not yet wallowing but that was coming soon. Bemoaning the lack of love in my life, whining about not having someone special. Yikes. How could you all stand me?!

The past few days have shown me otherwise.

Simple gifts of grace have touched me in small and silly and wide and wild ways.

First, my new Buddhist family (Soka Gakkai International) have embraced me and made me feel so very welcome. From the simplest thing - Christine lending me a book about the Lotus Sutra, which I was trying to rush through to return to her and then her telling me that it was a gift and to keep it; the way that I was greeted when I walked into the meeting this week, like an old friend; Brad lending me a really great magazine on how to start this whole new adventure, which, again, I thought I needed to return and he generously gave to me. Silly, I know, but those little gifts mean a lot.

And the simple generosity of the kids I teach. Many hugs, much praise for how much they love me as a teacher. As much as I wish I made more money, nothing pays you back for your work than the look of pride on a nine-year-old’s face as she puts her heart into a Sisley duplication and she knows that she’s making a masterpiece. The smiles on my students’ faces today as we painted and draw and colored and played cannot be cashed but it made me feel like the richest woman on earth.

The gift of my beautiful, talented, brilliant cast on “The Jamb”. I know I say this about many of my projects lately but, to me, it just shows that I am making better choices, not only about what I direct, but where and with whom. These actors and crew fill me with pride and passion whenever we’re together. Half the time, we end up just hanging and talking after (and occasionally during) rehearsals. There is this sense of not wanting to leave because what we’re doing is wondrous and pleasurable. They make me feel loved.

And then, out of the blue, the simple generosity of someone who I am not very close to brought me to tears. She knows of my financial struggles and my family struggles and tonight, she gave me an envelope, saying merry Christmas. I opened it later and was stunned to find $50 in the envelope and a beautiful, touching note about how she had been thinking of me since we had a discussion a while ago about how I couldn’t pay my bills and about my family and so many other things and how she felt compelled to help me. Her gift will allow me to actually drive to work this week (I am teaching a lot this week and have to drive probably twice as much) without watching the gas gauge and trying to figure out how to sell a kidney to get to work. I can buy a few groceries. I could even treat myself to drive-through as I head between studios tomorrow, working a 12 hour day. She may never know how deeply her gift touched me, I think mostly because it was so unexpected.

So in this moment, this hour, this day, I feel surrounded by protective forces, which is part of what my journey into Buddhism is about. I am blessed with incredible friends, both close ones (Monica, Beth, Brad, Kerr, Zadra, of course, and so many more I can’t even list) and those not so close. I am blessed with a fascinating journey of discovery through SGI and Buddhism. Not sure where it will go but I’m certainly enjoying the scenery. Blessed by being a member of a company like Eclectic Company Theatre, where my talents are appreciated and supported and fed.

I may not be close to my family but I have an amazing family here. I don’t promise I’ll remember this tomorrow when I wake up and things may be ridiculously wrong again, but, for now, I am alone but not lonely.

Tough fit

2009-12-15T01:03:00.001-08:00

I am 47 going on 25.

I don’t want to dress like Diane Keaton and Meryl Streep.

I am not a cougar. I have no desire to date a 25-year-old, despite the fact that I feel like a 25-year-old.

I want to wear styles that are featured in the junior’s department. I just would like longer sleeves to cover my upper arms and maybe a little longer cut to cover my slightly pudgy belly. But otherwise, I like the curvy cuts of those t-shirts, as opposed to the t-shirt cuts of what a woman my age should wear.

I can’t read another self-help book. “Eat, Love, Pray” got thrown across the room due to its ridiculously unrealistic, unrelatable, totally fantasy approach to mid-life. Mine isn’t being spent running around the world, trying to find myself while living lavishly, with more money than God, apparently. I found myself. That’s why I left my marriage. I don’t need to go and explore and find me. I’m right here. So don’t tell me what to eat, how to love and how to pray. Tell me how to pay my rent and how to re-start a life practically. Tell me how to go back to where I was when I met him and before I threw away my life on him. Tell me how to reconnect with that misfit 25-year-old that seems to have reared her beautifully coiffed head in my heart.

I can’t see another Nora Ephron, Nancy Myers mid-life movie. Yes, I admire these women greatly and I know they have paved the way for women like me who want to make movies. I love their sense of humor and how they stick to their guns. But I won’t be putting my $6-$12 down to see “It’s Complicated”, despite being the ideal demographic for it. Why? Because I just can’t relate to those women, those films.

In my head, I’m 25 again. I remember being this excited about life at 25. I remember looking forward to the next 25 years of my life. These books, these movies about these women have them looking back at the last 25 years of their life and trying to justify it. They never really seem to look forward at their lives unless there is a man they’ve found to save them from being alone at 48 and having to spend the next 25 years trying to figure out how to live without a man.

At 25, I thought I would never love again. I had determined that I would be single the rest of my life because I would never love anyone as much as I loved TS. And I still hold that true. That first love is the purest, most powerful love you can ever have in your life. And I’m not sure much can top that.

But maybe at 48, after having two failed marriages, maybe I can find that love again, that pure love, that “first” love. However, the entire focus of my life isn’t searching for that love. Yes, I want it. Yes, I am so incredibly, ridiculously lonely some nights that I can barely stand it. Yes, that leads me to unceremoniously throw my heart in front of the proverbial romance bus and get it run over. But my life isn’t hollow and meaningless and empty because there isn’t a man in it. My life is full and blessed and beautiful, maybe because there isn’t a man in it that can fuck it up.

Let’s talk about the men in my life for a moment. I have been lucky to have had some amazing men in my life over the past four and a half years. Some of them have left me behind as they’ve moved on in their own adventures. And that makes me sad. I miss them so very much - my dearest Chairman (probably miss him the most), AJ, Peter. They saved my life when I was first on my own. I guess that was their purpose - catch me before I fell and made sure I landed on my feet. I still love them so very, very much, even though they are so far away, even in the same city. And I always will.

There are new men in my life. Ranger Smith. I smile every time I think of him. He loves me, regardless of being married and having a beautiful daughter. He still loves me. He makes me feel like a billion dollars. He is a walking hug on two feet, that man. Ranger. Hehehehehe… Kerr, who has been an amazing friend and collaborator. Almost as ambitious as me, totally ready to jump off the cliff creatively with me. Talented, funny, twisted, the best kind of man. Brad. Wow. Brad. Possibly the most talented actor I have ever worked with. Now that’s saying a lot. Facile with his talent, generous with it to everyone he works with. Powerful, delicate, exquisite. And that’s just his acting. Beautiful man, inside and out. I wish I could order one of him on HSN and have him delivered to my door.

I will probably always have great men in my life because I love great, talented, brilliant men. I won’t lack for male company as I have always had great male friends. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel the need to go all Diane Ephron Meyers Lane Keaton on my life. I don’t “need” a man to make me complete because I have so many around me who make me complete without making me crazy. Okay, so maybe one or two make me crazy in different ways. But mostly, these men fill so many emotional gaps that I don’t have to spend my time and energy trying to find someone who makes me feel beautiful and talented and amazing and funny and smart and sexy and brilliant.

Okay, sorry, sidetracked by the men. Always happens.

Most of the people I hang around with now are at least ten years my junior. A few are a bit less, but most are around 35. I don’t think I have a single close friend here that is my age.

Maybe because I don’t know what my age is. Or what it’s supposed to be. Or I am defying what it’s supposed to be.

I don’t want to wear baggy, bland, boring clothes and spend the next 25 years sitting around, waiting for someone. I don’t want to be a soccer mom, yet I am so terribly, desperately regretful that I never was able to have children. My biggest, hugest, worst regret ever. Although I guess God didn’t want it to happen. And it’s probably for good reasons. And I don’t know how I would fit in with soccer moms anyway. The mothers of the kids I teach sometimes confound me with their lives. Is it wrong that I think a 45-year-old woman should not be as caught up in “Twilight” as the tweens I teach are?

Yeah, I can’t do “Twilight” or “New Moon” or whatever drivel they’re coming up with next. I can, however, do “Sherlock Holmes” and “Iron Man 2”.

I now drive a killer blue convertible. I guess it’s required for mid-life, although it’s not red and it’s sexy and adorable and perfect. Bette Blue. Love her to death.

I am often mistaken for anywhere from 28 to 38 but never, ever, ever 48, which I’ll be in four months. I had a Mary Kay consultant inform me that her $150 cleanser set would make me ten years younger and I kind of laughed in her face. She thought I was 35. Thank you, $6 Oil of Olay.

So what’s the point of this?

The point is that, while I love my life and it’s beautiful and amazing and incredible, I still don’t know where I fit in.

No, wait, I do.

I fit in when I’m in the director’s chair, figuratively. Driving to rehearsal for “The Jamb”, the new play I’m directing (check out http://www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org for more info) with the aforementioned Kerr and Brad, I realized that, maybe more than anywhere and any time in my life, directing is where I belong, where I fit in. I have grown into the director that I’ve always wanted to be. I no longer really second guess myself when I’m working on a project. The work gets deeper, as does the pleasure of doing the work. When I’m doing a show, all I want to do is that show. I hate that I have to go to work and actually stop working on the show while I do the pay-the-rent thing.

I looked in the rearview tonight as I was thinking about this and I liked the woman who looked back at me. She was someone who didn’t care if she fit in because she couldn’t be fit into a box. She doesn’t belong anywhere yet she belongs everywhere. She doesn’t care who’s around her, as long as they’re funny, smart, talented and just plain good humans. She loves her car, her dark hair, her twisted sensibilities. She embraces her quirkiness and her masculine/feminine struggle -- actually, she doesn’t struggle. She knows who she is and it doesn’t matter what anyone else sees.

And that’s the fit. I love standing in that woman’s shoes. I love the way that feels. I love the way the men in my life look at me when I’m in those shoes, in that place.

That’s where I fit. That’s where I belong.

How does that apply to the rest of my life? I don’t really know. All I know is that as long as I’m growing and working and creating as a director, I will be happy. The real me, the woman in the mirror, lives for that state. And as I learn to be comfortable in those shoes and not really care whether they’re in style or not, then it will no longer matter if I fit in because there will be no “in” to fit into. There will just be me, with my beautiful boots, my boot cut jeans, my men’s shirt and my long dark hair standing here, standing now, making my own space to fit me.

As best we can

2009-12-02T13:10:00.000-08:00

You loved me the best you could. I see the evidence of that occasionally. The little porcelain boxes I unpacked today showed me that you loved me as best you could. The overflowing basket of flowers that I threw away when we left the apartment that last time showed me that you loved me as best you could.

Looking through the photos as I moved them showed me that we did the best we could. We tried to be happy. We tried to do what was right, what was expected. We smiled when we thought we should and we put the face on that people wanted to see.

We lived through our struggles and we tried to get through as best we could. We tried to talk, we tried to laugh, we tried to live as best we could.

I loved you as best I could. I tried to be what I thought you wanted me to be and tried not to feel the pain that doing that cost me. I tried to perform as your wife as best I could. I hope you see that in the moments, in the times when something brings on the memories, the echoes of our life. I hope you can see that I loved you as best I could.

But the best we could wasn’t enough. We were missing the tools, the power, the… something. Something that could help us not hurt each other. Something that could protect our hearts as we struggled to find our way through the hard times. Something that we could use to get us through the “as best we could” times and get us to the other side of that. Our families, who did the best they could, left us without the ways to fill in the holes, fill in the blanks, and understand how not to destroy that tenuous, delicate, fragile thing that love is.

And now…

We live as best we can.

Um, wow.

2009-11-30T00:46:00.002-08:00

Warning - I'm not sure this post makes any sense at all. Read at your own risk.

It’s been a day.

I became a Buddhist today. Not exactly sure how that happened. It kind of sneaked up on me. My darling friend, Brad, introduced me to chanting over the summer. He’s a Buddhist and I’ve always been fascinated by it so I was excited to learn how to chant. He and his friends who were there also explained the philosophy behind the sect of Buddhism they belong to and I was intrigued. He finally invited me to a meeting, as did his friend, CJ, and I went today just to check it out. Brad wasn’t there because he was out of town all weekend and overslept but CJ was there as well as one or two other faces I knew. The meeting was amazing, stuff was explained and folks shared. Okay, oversimplification but I’m really, really tired and have other stuff to talk about.

At the end of the meeting, Christine, one of the district leaders, was talking to me about my chanting - how often, what benefit, etc. When you chant in this particular sect of Buddhism (SGI - http://www.sgi-usa.org/), you chant to a sacred scroll called the gohonzon. I wish I could explain more but I’m a baby at this. Check out the website for more info. Anyway, Christine asked me what I chanted to and I told her I usually had my laptop in front of me because I was using the audio guides on the SGI site to help me chant. She asked me if I’d like my own gohonzon. Huh? I had this idea that I had to earn it or something. Not that it was just given to me when I felt ready for it. I thought there’d be a test or an initiation or something. Nope. I said, sure, not entirely sure what it all meant. Next thing I know, there’s a little ceremony going on and Christine and CJ and Brad are planning to come to my place to enshrine my gohonzon (yes, there’s a little shrine involved) tonight.

Tonight.

Have I mentioned I’m moving? Just across the courtyard but still. And I have to be moved before 8 AM. I’ve been moving for the past week. I’ve hit the “holy cow, where did I get all this crap” stage today. Had to find folks to help move the 52” screen TV and the couch. The place is a disaster because, hey, I’m moving.

And you want to enshrine my gohonzon tonight.

I could have said no. But then Christine offered to help move my couch and I was in.

Okay, kind of selfish but I needed the help!

On top of all this, there is a myriad of emotions coursing through me today. Moving always sets me off, as it does everyone, I’m sure. But it’s made me miss my folks. My dad is not doing well and I miss him terribly. Mom sounds like she misses me and that makes me miss her. And finding a batch of their stuff just made me sit down and cry.

And somehow, I feel like a failure on this move. I couldn’t afford the old apartment - FAIL! I should have been able to - FAIL! Etc. You get the picture.

And finding stuff from RJ, which makes my heart break all over again. Photos of us, smiling at the camera, arms around each other. Were we really ever that happy? Were we just good at posing as happy? Again, EPIC FAIL! How could those people in those pictures not be together. Look at them!! They’re smiling! They’re happy! It must be love.

And feeling terribly alone. Monica had her boyfriend helping this week and he’s been awesome, not just for her but for me. He’s helped move a ton of stuff and even bought us a coffee table because we desperately needed one. He’s a great guy and a terrific boyfriend.

And I don’t have one.

It’s me. All me. Just me. Monica and Brian helped but it was still down to me. Made me feel very alone. Very no-boyfriend-y. Very never-gonna-ever-have-a-boyfriend-y.

Which lead me to (stay with me now, I’ll get to a point eventually) the current wonderful man in my life - Brad. I guess I’m blessed that I always have wonderful men around me who make me feel giddy and terrific and amazing. But they always seem to come with one thing I can’t overcome - a committed relationship to someone else. I can love them, I can adore them but I can never have them. So I’m back to very-no-boyfriend-y. I’m trying not to let my heart get carried away with this one, although it’s way too late. But the sensible side in me is winning out lately and I’m trying to reign my heart in before it gets shattered again because I’m dumb and have lost my head over someone I can’t have.

So, back to tonight. I agreed to let the Buddhists descend on my disastrous apartment. I’m glad they’re gonna help me move because it took me two hours just to clear off and dismantle and reassemble the giant Ikea bookcase in my living room. A nice group coming - CJ, Brad, Christine and me.

I have to evaluate why I’m doing this before they come. Am I doing it to impress Brad because I want him to love me? My constant fault. I’ll do anything, become anything, just to be loved. But I am learning, with men like him and Ranger Smith in my life, that it is possible to be loved by someone without having to be their girlfriend or wife or significant other. They can love me just because I’m me. Broken and battered and emotionally damaged. I am their friend and they love me. Wow. Um. Wow.

I realize I am doing this because I want to do this. My grandfather was a Buddhist and I have always wanted to know more about it. I had gone to a Buddhist wedding years ago and was fascinated by the chanting and what it all meant and how it all worked. And here was this incredible friend offering this to me. Of course I’m going to do it. If I don’t like it, I can stop. Doh.

Brad arrived before the others and we discussed the placement of the shrine, etc. I was suddenly overwhelmed again because I felt like I somehow didn’t deserve this honor. After all, I’m just starting. How can I have my own shrine? I chant at a snail’s pace and don’t really understand what I’m doing. How can you honor me this way?

Because that’s what Buddhists do.

CJ and Christine arrive with the small wooden shrine -- which I can paint and decorate any way I want -- and the four of us kneel in the space beside my bed as CJ sets up the shrine. We begin to chant and it’s amazing. Just the four of us but I was overwhelmed by the sense of love and beauty coming out of that chanting. They weren’t here just to chant. They were here to help me and welcome me and share with me this beautiful, special moment. I had tears in my eyes as CJ unrolled the gohonzon in its new home in my plain and simple shrine. Then we sat and talked for a while about what this meant to me.

Christine then asked the loaded question. What am I chanting for?

Well, duh, finances. Can’t pay my rent, can’t pay my bills. Don’t need to be filthy rich but need to survive.

Then I tried to explain that, while I want to leave no-boyfriend-y land, what I really want is a peaceful heart. I want my heart to stop chasing what it can’t have and find its own peace. Whether that means someone in my life or accepting the solitariness of my life remains to be seen. But I want my heart to stop running, stop hiding, stop being restless and just be peaceful. That’s what I truly want. And until it’s peaceful, I’m not sure I can share it with anyone else.

I had to stop there because I couldn’t talk anymore. Too much emotion, too many thoughts.

I had started out the evening feeling very alone and very solitary because I had so much to move. Monica was definitely moved out although she was wiling to help but she was at the end of her tolerance for moving stuff. I had been standing in the old place by myself, thinking, this is it. This is my life. Me. Just me. This may be how it’s supposed to be. Having men in my life like Brad and Ranger Smith to love me without hurting me, without breaking my heart like the OOMA did. Maybe solitary isn’t so bad if I can be loved by these amazing men. But even that felt lonely and empty.

And then the Buddhists descended (bushel of Buddhists? Battle of Buddhists?) and surrounded me with love and blessing and beauty. And added to that, Beth was able to come by and help out. And Monica, burned out though she was, carried her fair share of my shit tonight.

And now, I am alone again. Sitting on my bed, nursing my aching body, afraid to look at the piles and piles and piles and piles of crap I have to now organize and find places for. So I shut my door.

But though I am alone with only my purry, barking cat with me, I’m not sure I am that alone. The love that filled this room just hours ago hovers in the air, like beautiful incense, just enough to let you know it’s there. Maybe solitary and alone aren’t the same thing. One implies emptiness and hollow and nothingness. Alone. The other says standing by one’s self but with pride and fortitude. Solitary.

What’s my point? There probably isn’t one and I’m sorry I’ve dragged you all the way to the bottom of the page without one. Wait. Let me make a point up, so you’re not disappointed.

Loving and being loved can take many forms. I guess I have to figure out how to love in those different forms so that I won’t be hurt by my expectation and so that I won’t drive away the men that I love. Be grateful for the love that I have, because I do have a lot of it. And find ways to return that love that will let the recipient know that he is loved, not in a crazy, oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-stalk-you way, but in a you-make-me-happy-you’re-in-my-life way. And I think I’m making huge steps in that direction.

More "Mastermind"

2009-11-24T23:22:00.001-08:00

Here are a few frame grabs from the film. I love the way it's looking. It's the hardest I think I've ever worked on a shoot but also the most fun and I think it just might be my best work to date.

Mastermind and his evil laugh:

Mastermind in all his evil glory:

Liz Lasseter, intrepid girl reporter. How will she get out of this?

The start of one of the greatest -- and most twisted -- love stories of our time:

More to come... stay tuned...

2009-11-23T15:15:00.000-08:00

So we wrapped the “Mastermind” shoot with a marathon weekend of filming. I think it was about 20 hours in less than 36 hours. Now, I’ve done my fair share of 48 hour films but this weekend really pushed me hard.

And it was sooooo much fun.

The pleasure of working with people you love and admire and who love and admire you right back. I would say it wasn’t work but it really was. But at the end of the day, no one really wanted to walk away. It was a bit melancholy to put a pin in this project because it’s been so special for all of us. But I know it’s just the start of something special because this project has felt truly blessed.

The biggest problem was a huge lighting issue on Sunday that set filming back by four hours Lighting is not my strong suit and so it took probably twice as long as it would have for someone who know what they hell they were doing. The other problem was that I had to be behind the camera. I’m pretty good with it but I’d rather have someone else shooting so I can concentrate on my actors and get the performance on camera instead of getting the shot. And I’ve had a great cinematographer for the first three weeks. Oh, well. I think I got what I needed. And it’s all gonna be comic book-y and blown out so I think it’ll be fine.

The biggest entertainment of the weekend was interacting with Brad Wilcox as Mastermind. He had warned me that it might be a weird weekend with him in character and it was a bit. It was fun, though, to see Brad behave like a six-year-old who was wearing his mother’s bath towel as his cape. Yet as soon as the camera rolled, the villainy and the power came out.

Highlights of the weekend:

1. Watching Brad and Beth bond. They are connected in this project in a fantastic, twisted way. I loved the moments when they would just either reach out and embrace each other during the first part of the shoot, when they were Liz and JD and needed to be connected, and the way they stood toe-to-toe, challenging each other as Liz and Mastermind. Whatever they did worked. Their chemistry is amazing.

2. Going into the parking lot at Swordplay to get Brad to come to set. Usually, he and Beth would hang out at the table, smoking, talking, working. No Brad. Look around the parking lot, it’s 2:30 AM, and I look up the staircase next to the door and there is Mastermind, backlit like Janusz Kaminski had lit him, grinning down at me with his best evil grin.

3. I’m setting up a shot at Swordplay, Beth is deep in her preparation for the shot, I see Mastermind sneak up behind her and scare the shit out of her. She smacks him, calls him a dick and they just grin at each other like preschoolers.

4. Beth really enjoying handcuffing herself to the chair.

5. Giving notes to Brad in Mastermind mode about making sure a bit of his alter-ego, JD, comes out on one particular line to make sure there is an emotion and depth to the character. Mastermind just shakes his head at me and says, very quietly but very intensely “no.” I say “yes”. Brad tries not to smile and insists, “no”, putting on his best Mastermind face. I smile right back at him. “Yes”. I poke him in the chest. “It has to come from here”, and poke harder at his heart, “and not here” and poke his head. He shakes his head and pokes his own chest. “There’s nothing here.” But his grin says otherwise.

5. At the end of her part of the shoot, the look on Beth’s face when I tell her she’s wrapped. As she’s getting ready to go, I gave her a big hug and realized how sad I was that we were done and that she’d be gone. The set felt very empty for the rest of the night.

6. A small, private toast after everyone was gone with Brad and my flask of Jamesons.

My favorite shot of the weekend:

All in all, a wonderful, exhausting, incredible shoot that I think it going to result in an amazing piece of film.

Now, on to build the plan on how we’re going to conquer the world…

Who put the bar all the way up there?

2009-11-21T07:27:00.000-08:00

Some day, maybe I’ll learn how to not set ridiculously high goals for myself.

I’ve spent the last few weekends filming “Mastermind”, the one act play I directed over the summer about the amnesiac who thinks he just might be a supervillain. It’s been going incredibly well. Beth is so beautiful and feisty and incredible as Liz. And Brad as JD is by far one of the most talented and vulnerable actors I have ever worked with. They have been breaking my heart as I edit and making me so excited to get this project out into the world for everyone to see.

However, we got behind because I set very high goals as to what we could get shot and we fell short. Not unexpected and not unusual. And we’ve been shooting with natural light so we are victims of the sun. Last week, we needed just one more hour of sun and we didn’t get it.

So today, we shoot that last hour, break, then start at 8 PM until god knows when, nap, then setart again at noon in Mastermind’s lair (which I can’t wait for!) and shoot till we’re dead. We also have some short promos to do to get y’all excited about seeing “Mastermind” in all its glory.

I had an amazing rehearsal with Brad yesterday as the new and improved Mastermind on crack. I’m excited because he’s really ratcheted up the creepy, scary, crazy factor without going too far and I think it’s going to translate beautifully on film (video).

But I’ve lost my director of photography to a paid gig. He was amazing and shot so quick and got to much it’s incredible. I’m short of crew. Don’t have the “hostages” I need for the bank scene. Kind of the usual stuff guerrilla filmmakers go through.

But what has me up and writing this morning is that I’m scared. And I realized that I’m not afraid of not finishing. That’s not an issue. We will finish… somehow. The cast and crew may not be happy with me when we’re done but we’ll be done. I’m afraid about shooting it myself because Los did such an amazing job and I’m not sure I can match him.

But what’s really making me afraid is that I’m afraid I’ll disappoint. I’m afraid that this is going to be the one that I’m going to absolutely tank on and be proved for the fraud that I am. That without a brilliant DP, I’m nothing. Without someone else calling the shots and guiding me, I suck. And that I’m going to let down mostly Brad and Beth because they have put as much into this as I have. Maybe more, in some ways, because as actors, it’s their hearts and souls that are up there on the screen.

I’ve been trained that to disappoint is the gravest of all sins. Fail, sure, that’s expected. Drop the ball, well, duh, that’s what you do. Disappoint. Oh, shit. The world will come to an end if you don’t outshine, outsmart, outperform everyone else.

And with every project, that fear grows. With every project, I work with people whose talent takes mine up a notch. Which just makes the expectation even greater and the potential for disappointment even higher.

This project is one of those special ones. The play was the sentimental favorite of “Hurricane Season” at Eclectic Company Theatre this year, if I do say so myself. And it worked so well and was such an incredible experience that I feel like I have to top that. I have gained two fantastic friends out of it and they have put their trust in my hands. If this project comes out the way I want to, I think it could be something truly amazing.

But the clowns are circling their cars and honking their horns and screaming obscenities at me. Who am I to expect that something I do will succeed? Despite recent evidence to the contrary. I am going to let all these talented people down and, as always, I will be left with no one there. They will leave me, as all the other wonderful, talented and special people have done. Because I will disappoint them, as I apparently have done with the other beautiful people who are no longer in my life. I can’t possibly live up to this expectation.

And it’s also the thought that I’ll disappoint Brad. There’s something about the men in my life -- the truly special men in my life -- that makes me even more afraid that I’m going to do something wrong and disappoint them. Because that means I’ll lose them, which I guess has proven to be true. I let both my ex-husbands down in some way, otherwise why we would not still be together? I’ve somehow disappointed the OOMA and the pieces of my heart because they are no longer either. It terrifies me that I am going to once again do something and lose this muse, this very talented, beautiful man and lose him as a friend as well.

So I’m trying to not let the fear eat at me today as I go. I have to teach three classes before we start today so I’ve got all that time to obsess on how much I’m going to disappoint everyone. I’m not sure how to battle that. I’m trying to just metaphorically keep my head down and stay focused, just looking at one thing at a time instead of trying to absorb the entire weekend. Just breathe and focus. Breathe and focus. Breathe and focus.

We’ll see how that works.

Climbing up from the end of the rope

2009-11-10T21:51:00.000-08:00

It’s been a tough couple of weeks. Money is non-existent. I mean, truly non-existent. I had to take home toilet paper from work the other day to make sure we had a roll at home. Once again, can’t pay my rent. Haven’t paid for Bette, my new convertible, and the woman who sold it to me is so tolerant. I owe the wonderful Beth money she lent me over the summer.

Drowning.

Drowning.

Drowning.

On top of that, I’ve lost two classes a week, cutting my income by $400 a month.

And my father has been given three to six months to live.

Fuck.

Hard not to throw in the towel. All I could think is that this is how soccer moms end up having sex in their SUV for money because it gets that bad, that tight.

All I could think is that I don’t want to work at Starbucks. I don’t want to work retail. I don’t want another pay-the-rent job. I want directing (or writing) to be my pay-the-rent job. But right now, it seems so incredibly far away.

Once again, I find myself thinking, I’m 47 years old. I should have a better handle on my shit than this. I hear the voices in my head screaming FAILURE!

I had some hard decisions to make today. I finally broke down and called our landlord, who had offered us another two bedroom apartment in the same complex but it’s $200 less a month, which means Monica can afford to pay half the rent, dropping my rent to $725 from $1,000. And I need it because I can’t sleep. I’m incredibly stressed because I’m so behind on bills and payments and everything else. Luckily, our landlord is amazing and gets it. So we’re moving by December 1.

FAILURE!

I should be able to pay my rent. I should be able to make money. I type 100 wpm. I have mad skills. But I want my days to allow me to direct, otherwise there’s no point.

I’m frustrated that I don’t have the life I want. I hate constantly facing choices that seem to want to pull me away from what I feel I am destined to do. Maybe it’s what is supposed to make me stronger and make sure I am doing what I want to do. Maybe it’s just the universe fucking with me. I don’t know.

And on top of all of that, the shoes are still on my floor because we had to extent filming another week. (FAILURE!) So Brad’s shoes are at the end of my bed, feeding the longing to have someone fill them. It seems so far away to me that I might find someone to leave his shoes at the end of my bed. And right now, I could use someone like that. Arms to hold me, whisper good things in my ear, all that stuff. Make me feel not so alone.

The one glowing light is that the “Mastermind” shoot is going really well. The crew is amazing. I have a DP who knows what he’s doing, who I don’t have to explain everything to. He just picks up the camera and shoots these amazing pictures. The handful of folks who have come out to help have great attitudes, great enthusiasm and great passion for what we’re doing.

And my actors. This is my greatest joy.

Beth. Girl crush.

She looks like a movie star in this film. Her eyes are exquisite and she just leaps off of the screen with her honesty and her soul on her face. She is beautiful, she is talented, she is gorgeous. The chicks are going to be lining up for her after this. On top of that, she brings a core and a groundedness to Liz that is incredible. I’m so glad we did the show over the summer and that she had the time to really grow this beautiful, complex, wonderful character.

And Brad. His heart in his wondrous eyes breaks my heart.

Takes my breath away. His JD is so complex, so complicated, yet so incredibly vulnerable and fragile. He’s taken what he brought to the stage and deepened it and make the character even better, if that was even possible. I can’t wait to see what he does with the supervillain, Mastermind, when we start to shoot that next week.

And Brad and Beth together are breathtaking.

Monica watched some of the footage tonight and it took her breath away. Which makes me happy because that’s what I wanted. I want to have your heart touched by these characters, including Mastermind, when we get there. I’m very happy with my vision and happy that it’s coming true right before my eyes. It’s what’s gotten me through the past couple of weeks of pain and torture and stress and anger. It’s what’s gotten me to keep hanging on to the hope that I am doing what I should be doing. It’s what’s stopped me from just throwing in the towel and giving up and finding a “real” job and just living.

And Brad’s shoes at the end of my bed.

I’m hanging on to the knot at the end of the rope, hoping that this change today will bring relief and release, letting me focus on getting my life back on track. Hoping this change will move the energy and help me to bring someone into my life who will not only leave his shoes at the end of my bed, but maybe leave a little piece of his heart behind with me whenever he is not present. Someone who will want to leave his shoes at the end of my bed and leave the pieces of his heart with me.

The Power of Shoes

2009-11-02T18:49:00.000-08:00

There are men’s shoes sitting at the foot of the bed. That was enough to send me into a really weird place last night.

I was shooting a web series/short film in my apartment all day yesterday. It’s based on “Mastermind”, the one act play I directed over the summer that I absolutely fell in love with. The original actors are returning, the writer has given his blessing and I have a fantastic crew involved.

The shoot went great. Had some issues, which every shoot has, but nothing huge or panic-inducing. Just ordinary production crap.

At the end of the shoot, my lead actor, Brad, was packing up his stuff. He asked if he could leave his wardrobe here since we’ll be shooting again on Sunday and he thought it would be easier to leave it at my place than haul it back and forth. Made sense to me.

Everyone packed up and left. I crashed for a bit and took care of a few things before finally hauling my butt to bed.

As I was getting ready for bed, I tidied up the production stuff left in my bedroom, because we had been shooting in there the latter part of the day. Once everything was cleaned up, I was left with two pairs of men’s shoes at the foot of my bed.

That stopped me.

Men’s shoes. At the foot of my bed.

I miss that.

Men’s shoes.

I opened my closet to put something away and Brad’s wardrobe was hanging in there - a button down shirt, pair of pants, a thermal t-shirt. Men’s clothes. In my closet.

I miss that.

Doesn’t help that I adore Brad, as does everyone who knows him. He’s a wonderful guy and has the best, most amazing energy. But he has a girlfriend so I just am glad he’s a part of my life and that he’s become such a good friend.

But his shoes were at the end of my bed.

I sat on my bed for a long time, staring at those shoes.

Yeah, sure, in another world, I’d love to think that this incredible man would be the one to leave his shoes nightly at the foot of my bed but that’s not gonna happen. But it made me miss having someone leave their shoes at the foot of my bed on a regular basis.

I miss that masculine presence in my life. I have amazing men in my life like Brad and Kerr and Ranger Smith and many, many others. But I miss that specific presence, that specific man, who will leave his shoes at the foot of my bed.

And it made me wonder if there will be someone in my life to leave their shoes at the foot of my bed. Someone whose shirt will hang in my closet. Not someone just to date but someone to bring that masculine energy back into my life.

I think sometimes I manifest that energy and am maybe a little more aggressive than I need to be because I don’t have that outside source of masculinity in my life. I love my guy friends but there’s something about having that specific, intimate energy that I miss.

I finally put Brad’s shoes in the back of the closet where they will rest safely until they come out to film next week. I had initially just meant to leave them on the floor but I don’t think I could look at them every day between now and Sunday. So they and their energy can hibernate until they need to come out.

I look forward to the day when the shoes of someone I love can live on the floor beside my Chuck Taylors and my Santana boots. Hopefully, they will belong to someone as amazing as the men I have found special in my life over the last four and a half years of my life. They’d have to be to stand up to my shoes.

Darkest days

2009-10-29T14:13:00.001-07:00

The darkest days are these ones, the ones where I think it was all my fault and I deserved the treatment I got. The days where I have to fight picking up the phone and calling him, being casual, saying, hey, let’s get together, let’s talk. The days where I want to beg him to take me back, for us to be us again.

The days when I think maybe I made up all the bad things. Where maybe his treatment of me wasn’t as bad as I make it out to be. The days where I wonder if I just blew things out of proportion and turned him into a monster so I wouldn’t have to take responsibility for the things I did wrong.

The days where I think that there is never going to be a day where I don’t think of him, where I don’t wonder if I should have stayed, if I should have tried harder, if I should have… fill in the blank.

The darkest days are the ones where I am just simply and totally alone. Where I think being with the man who tormented me and verbally abused me daily and who made me come so close to no longer being here would be preferable to being alone. The days where I’m ready to just give up everything I’ve worked so very hard for just to have someone’s arms wrapped around me, even if they’re his arms.

The darkest days are these - full of creativity and projects I love and friends I adore. But feeling empty and hollow and shallow without someone - without him.

Embracing my dark side

2009-10-20T22:50:00.000-07:00

It all started about a week ago. Brad, one of my favorite men, was sitting on my couch, talking to me about the “Mastermind” shoot coming up, working on translating the character from stage to screen. The fireplace was lit, it was very quiet in the house and our conversation meandered from the shoot to just whatever it is that two friends sit and talk about. Brad has the most calming personality yet he’s not afraid to talk about whatever is on his mind -- or mine. And we talked long after we were done with business. When he left, I could feel the absence of him in my living room.

And it made me miss having someone to just sit with, to just talk with. Just be with. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s very cute.

But I realized that the main reason I was lonely was that I had spent the better part of my adult life having someone on the other end of the couch. Dysfunctional, abusive, angry, bitter person but still a person who I talked to, who talked and/or shouted back and who, on occasion, actually listened and talked and tried to share to the best his ability. You’d think that four and a half years later, I’d be used to a metaphorical empty couch by now. And I thought I was.

But -- and I know this is going to sound stalkerish and creepy -- after Brad left, I just kind of wanted to curl up in the space where he had sat and -- I don’t know what. Remind myself of having someone? This is not a man who is available and we have a great friendship and a great working relationship that I wouldn’t want to fuck up. But I was just feeling so lonely after he left, after he took his presence with him, that I felt the hollow he left behind.

That really sent me into a nosedive over the last week. Feeling so alone and lonely. Feeling so absent from parts of my life. Feeling so incredibly empty. I kept looking at the end of the couch, trying to imagine what it would be like to have someone sitting there and I just couldn’t see it. I couldn’t imagine someone sitting there. The couch was empty and it was going to remain empty for the foreseeable future.

And I kept thinking about my ex this week. Feeling like I wanted to go by and see him. For what reason, I don’t know. I just sold my wedding rings recently for a whopping $35 and maybe it was residual sentimentality. But I felt like there were things I wanted to say to him, although I didn’t know what. And I know I could never say the things I wanted to say to him and I know I wouldn’t hear the things I wanted to hear. So his presence has been maybe metaphorically sitting at the end of the couch, taunting me, fighting with the positive energy Brad left behind. Making me wonder if R should have been sitting there, not Brad.

And through the past couple of days, I’ve been sad and lonely and depressed but couldn’t figure out why or what caused it. Yeah, post-show blues always happens and “Gross Indecency” was so wildly successful and beyond what I had ever expected for it to be that a let down could be expected. And I’m between projects, which is never good. But we’re working on Mastermind and just started work on “The Jamb”, a world premiere play opening in January, which I am thrilled to be doing. So the blues weren’t making sense.

Until tonight.

As I was driving home from teaching, I was thinking still about the empty couch and the seemingly empty life I was feeling. And I started thinking about R and our life. I realized that, sometimes, I miss that life. When it was good, it was good. He could be sweet when he wanted. We shared a lot and we created a lot. And I learned a lot. I missed our old apartment - this incredible loft space that never quite felt like mine. I missed the comfort of the dysfunction because it was familiar and it was known to me. And it’s always easier to be with what you know. It’s less scary. It’s less frightening. It’s less everything.

And as I thought about that life, I started to get angry. By the time I sat down to write this, I can feel this anger growing. Not in a wild, out-of-control way, but just a deep, seething anger that I don’t ever allow myself to feel. Because I’m not supposed to be angry. I’ve never been allowed to be angry. My family, my exes never gave me permission. R would mock my anger. He would diminish my anger. He would walk away from my anger, leaving me feeling powerless and pathetic and stupid and wrong.

Well, I’m angry.

I’m angry that for sixteen years, he made me feel stupid and lazy and weak and untalented and defenseless and unloved.

I’m angry that he said he would never, ever, under any circumstances, ever, ever let me go. And he let me go two weeks after I said I needed some time. Two weeks. Sixteen years together. And it took him a whole two weeks to figure out that those sixteen years weren’t worth never, ever letting me go. I got whiplash from how quickly he let go.

I’m angry that in a year of counseling, he was never able to let down his guard and say anything honest and real. It was always my fault, never his fault. Even the counselor acknowledged that in one of our last sessions. He became Spock and refused to participate emotionally.

Yeah, I know he has issues and problems and a side to this as well. And I know his family is fucked up, particularly his bitch of a mother, who laid the bread crumbs for his to leave his never-ever-leave-you wife behind. But he never really, truly tried. Because he didn’t love me enough. Because he didn’t love us enough. Because he didn’t have the balls to face his faults and really, truly fix things. And that makes me particularly angry.

I’m angry because it cost us a life. A life that could have been great. A life that had potential and that should have led us to success and beauty and wonder and all the goals we ever had.

I’m angry because I am terrified to ever let anyone get that close to me again. He left his mark on me as deep and as dark and as permanent as he would have if he had cut me or beat me or broken something on me. The scars and the bruises and the breaks are just buried deep inside where they’re hard to see. And I don’t know if I can ever let anyone get close enough to see those scars, to try to heal them because I’m afraid that those bruises and breaks will only be the beginning of another set of injuries, another set of punishments, another set of batterings. And I know I won’t survive that.

I’m angry because he left me with an empty couch when he could have chosen to stick it out and be on the other end of it. I’m angry because, deep down inside, a part of me wants him to be the one on the other end of the couch because he is all I know. I’m angry because the size of the hollow on the couch is immeasurable and I don’t know that anyone will ever be able to fill it.

And I’m angry because my heart still breaks over him and over us and over the life that has been lost.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Meandering thoughts

2009-10-18T01:05:00.000-07:00

I’m restless and moody tonight. Wow, how unusual.

On one hand, I’ve had the most amazing couple of months of my life. “Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde” was hugely successful, critically, creatively and financially. I have never had such a successful piece and something that was so well-received across the board. I had an amazing cast who took my basic direction during our extremely limited rehearsal period and ran with it. So much of the credit for the success of the show lies with them because of what they added to what I saw in my head. I couldn’t be more proud of the work I have done.

It was amazing to sit back and see all the things I had envisioned with this show over the past six years actually come to fruition on stage. And Kerr Seth Lordygan, who played Oscar and who shepherded this show through Eclectic Company Theatre with me, was a great partner-in-crime and a great Oscar Wilde.

At the end of the show last weekend, I realized that I wasn’t as sad as I had expected to be. I expected to be overwhelmed and depressed and blue because that’s what always happened at the last theater company I worked at. With them, I never knew when I would get a chance to direct again and I wasn’t really treated with much respect when I did direct, despite doing excellent shows. I realized, as we closed the show, that I wasn’t as sad because I knew exactly what I was going to be directing in the next year. And the joy of that knowledge is that I get to work with the actors/friends/people I love and people I respect and who respect me right back.

Next up - filming “Mastermind”, the one act play I directed this summer. It’ll be a web series and it will star the feisty and talented Beth Ricketson and the brilliant Brad Wilcox. We’re in blocking rehearsal right now and plan to start shooting beginning of November. And then I am directing “The Jamb” by J. Stephen Brantely, a wonderful New York playwright, and will be starting rehearsals mid-November. Oh, and I get to play with Kerr again and Brad again and Kenlyn (who did “Flawless” for me last year). Yeah, sure, make me work with two of my favorite men/actors on earth as well as a very talented actress and throw in another cute, talented boy and my head just may explode.

There are other productions as well but more about that as they fall into place.

Creatively, couldn’t be happier. This is why I changed my life. To create. To do what I want and be able to own it without having to share obligatory credit that didn’t really exist. This show is mine - good, bad or ugly, it’s all mine.

But with all that success, I find myself feeling a bit hollow. I had a great cast to share this with and good friends as well. But I missing that one special person to share it with. Someone to have endless discussions about the trials and tribulations, about my fears and my happiness. That one person.

I drove tonight to have drinks with a couple of the folks from “Gross” and found myself almost not wanting to go because there would be no one there to hold my hand and be the other half of me. To be the one beaming at me and just being there for me.

And I realized that I’ve never really had that at all. R had moments early on but even then, most of his praise was qualified. He could never just say, what a great job. I’m so proud of you. In fact, I don’t think the words “I’m proud of you” ever came out of his mouth. Maybe “I’m proud of you but”. Always a qualifier.

My family is a laugh. I sent them the reviews of the show, foolishly thinking there would be a response from them. Crickets echoing in the distance was the response. Yeah, I’m important to them. Yeah, I matter.

And S. Well, we were so young and so… young. And I hadn’t really done anything to be proud of or to share with him at that point. But I wanted his praise and his approval and I’m not sure I ever got it. I don’t know what I wanted it for but I wanted it.

And now, I’m trying to find the pride and the approval within myself and I got a little closer to doing this on this project. And the fact that actors I adore like Kerr and Brad and Beth are lining up projects to do with me fills part of that hollow.

But I wonder if I gave up having another part of me so that I could have this part of me. Does having this creative life and this creative joy and this creative everything mean I have to sacrifice having someone to share my life with?

And I’m not sure I’m ever going to be ready to really, truly let someone in ever again. How do I trust again after two men who were supposed to be the loves of my life destroyed my life and left me to find my way alone? How do I trust again when the one man I thought was going to be the next person to share my life with has faded out of my life without a word, without an explanation, without anything, taking a huge piece of my heart with me. And the others who I’ve thought, maybe this one, maybe this one, have turned out to not be the one.

Maybe there is no “one” left. I’ve had two that were supposed to be it but weren’t. Maybe I’ve used all my cards and there are none left.

Four and a half years alone. Four and a half years of wildly creative life. Four and a half years without someone tearing me down and making me feel so much less than. Four and a half years without someone.

Not really looking for an answer tonight so don’t feel obligated to post platitudes. I know, I get it. “There’s someone out there,” “just put yourself out there”, “give yourself time”, “you’re not really looking,” yada, yada, yada. I know the Oprah/Dr. Laura/Dr. Phil self-help bullshit crap that I’m supposed to know. And I don’t need that right now. I think my heart is still trying to heal and trying to put all the pieces back together, despite a few pieces still being MIA. And platitudes and encouragements and self-help logic won’t help fill in those holes. I’m not sure what will. A rotating group of OOMA’s (Objects Of My Affection) is obviously not the answer.

Maybe there is no answer. Just more questions, more seeking, more bitching and moaning.

At least my cat loves me. Mostly.

Reflections of...

2009-09-20T10:20:00.000-07:00

I saw someone in the mirror yesterday morning as I was getting ready for a very long day.

It was the woman I want to be.

She is strong, confident, with a quiet power that doesn’t need to shout out, “look at me! See how amazing I am! Acknowledge how amazing I am!” She doesn’t need that because she knows who she is and what she is capable of.

She is mature in the best way. Knows she doesn’t have to prove her maturity by meeting others’ expectations. Knows she shows her maturity by pursuing what she wants and accomplishing her goals without compromise. She has the kind of maturity that allows her to laugh outrageously and not be embarrassed about it and play rigorously, knowing it doesn’t make her any less mature.

She is on the verge of beauty. Not the kind of beauty bought in a department store or the kind of beauty that comes out of an expensive jar with an unpronounceable name. But the kind of beauty that comes from deep inside. It’s not the kind of beauty that can be taught or bought. It’s beauty that comes from knowing who you are, what you want and knowing that you’re on the path to achieving what you want. The beauty that comes from peace of mind, from confidence in self, from letting go of fear and embracing life.

She caught my eye in the mirror, looking elegant and strong, watching me back through the glass. Her eyes were full of the knowledge I seek and level with the confidence I fake. Her eyes studied me for a moment, like looking backwards at her own progression. Her eyes and mine are the same but I saw, in that moment, where I could be.

Then she slowly faded away and I was left there, staring at my own reflection. But, for a change, I wasn’t critical of what I saw looking back at me. I saw the potential for who I could be, if I just stay on my path, if I just keep doing what I love and keep true to myself. If I stop using everyone else’s yardstick to measure myself against and just trust in the sound of my own voice. If I just trust that woman in the mirror and follow her example. Eventually, that woman looking back at me will truly be my own reflection.

Becoming Susan

2009-09-13T11:32:00.001-07:00

I was talking to someone last night after “Gross Indecency”, discussing my vision for the show and why I chose to stage it the way I did. All very positive, all very wonderful.

And she asked me a simple question, something about where I got my vision and how impressed she was at my commitment to my vision. And somehow, we it seemed appropriate to say that this was why I had changed my life just over four years ago, to be able to be true to my vision. And it hit me in that moment, this play is the culmination of why I changed my life.

I read this play probably six years ago, when I was just beginning to direct at the Ark. I immediately put it on my list of plays I wanted to direct eventually.

When I started working on “Lloyd’s Prayer” at the Ark (one of my favorite all time pieces I have ever done still to this day), I started aggressively pursuing “Gross Indecency”. The rights apparently were not available, although I’m not entirely sure how aggressively the rights were being pursued on my behalf. I saw this play in my head, one particular moment especially, and never quite let it go. I was a baby director back then, just really beginning to find my way as a creative entity. “Lloyd’s Prayer” was the first time I looked at what was happening on stage and thought, that’s because of me. I made that. It was also the first production that my ex was truly not a part of. He didn’t attend rehearsals, he wasn’t producing it with me. It was mine, all mine. And he hated every minute of it. For the first time, I didn’t really care.

We were in therapy then, trying to save our marriage. I told him in therapy that I just needed him to be by my side, to be able to say, yes, I think she’s great and she’s done a great job, without bringing himself into the equation, without any qualifiers as to what I had done, without making it about him. That’s all I asked. Be supportive. Be my husband. Don’t be an asshole.

Opening night of “Lloyd’s Prayer”, he sat in the audience and said nothing. After the show, he gave me perfunctory appreciation and then literally sat in the house during the after-party, not at my side, because he simply couldn’t just be my husband, couldn’t just be supportive and couldn’t just say, wow, you did a great job. Instead, Carlos, my lead actor, and Chairman, who was such a dear friend at the time, and Peter were the ones at my side, singing my praises, telling me what a great job I had done. The supposed partner in my life, the supposed person who was supposed to be my rock, my love, my life chose to sit this one out.

Since then, I have grown as a director. I have done things I am so very proud of - “Afterplay” was one of my favorite because of the opportunity to give Chairman a beautiful role he would normally not be offered and his performance still warms my heart; “The Change-Up” short film because it was my truest Tarantino moment as a director and it placed top 5 on Famecast.com and I got to go to Austin to represent it; “Juche Rules” which won last year’s USC MPW one act playwriting festival, such a triumph because this was the third one I had directed and the previous two should have won; and, capping it off, “Mastermind”, another one of those very special productions that touched me in ways I can’t even begin to describe and the sentimental favorite at Hurricane Season one act festival this year.

“Gross Indecency” is the capper of my growth as a director. I feel like I went from a toddler to maturity in a matter of four short years. I could have never directed “Gross” without doing “Lloyd’s” and “Afterplay” and even the god-awful “Godislav”, possibly my least favorite production ever. I learned so much from each of those shows that led me to be able to tackle this scary, challenging and very difficult show.

But the biggest element that has led me to this success is the lack of my ex in my life. His ability to diminish me, his ability to make me question everything I did and everything I thought robbed me of my ability to create without him. I thought I knew nothing. I thought I was an amateur, a hack and that I could never do anything without him there to tell me what to do and make sure I didn’t fuck anything up.

“Lloyd’s” showed me I could create without him. And I don’t think I’ve looked back since.

One of the things I wonder about and ponder on the dark days is the fact that I feel like I had to choose my creative life over having a personal life. I miss having that partner, as fucked up as our partnership was. I did learn a lot from him, despite his inability to let me fly on my own. I miss having someone to sit with and discuss my thoughts and my choices and my concerns and my fears. I think that’s why I enjoyed coffee with Justin so much a week or so ago. It felt like talking to someone close, having a partner to share my thoughts, my feelings with.

Sometimes, in those dark, cold, empty days, I wonder if I chose correctly. Should I have stayed in my abusive marriage, tried to fix it, tried to make him see how he was hurting me, try to find ways to cope and re-configure our relationship so that I could stay with him and still live the life I wanted to live? Should I have just sucked it up and stayed with him so I wouldn’t be alone, I wouldn’t be just existing from production to production with no one in my life in between? Should I have made it work so that I wouldn’t be alone for the rest of my life?

On the dark days, I think, yes, I should have. Having a great show doesn’t make up for more than four years of life alone every single night. Having a great show doesn’t make up for not having someone there opening night, kissing me and beaming at me. Yes, he could do that for me - usually when he could take credit for something on the show. But maybe that was worth the sacrifice, give up some of my credit and accolades to have someone there for me. Creative freedom for an empty life, what kind of a trade-off is that?

It’s the best kind of trade off. This whole process with “Gross Indecency”, from committing to some very controversial choices such as casting Kerr as Oscar Wilde to the way I’ve staged it and going without a curtain call, has been very scary. Kerr has been a great partner in producing this and a great friend along the way. He trusted me, he trusted my vision, he trusts that I know what I’m doing and just gets out of the way. He’s there when I need him and not there when I don’t. He treats me with respect and treats me like a professional, something I am really not used to.

When the reviews started coming out, it was weird to see my name and see praise for what I had done. And there was no voice telling me that they were wrong, that I had somehow still done a bad job. There was no one telling me that maybe I should really look at the critical reviews and learning from them, which I do anyway. There was no one there to make me feel bad about my success and trying to take away any joy that I was getting from this moment in time of success.

And last night, while talking to this woman, who said she just wanted to meet the person who had such an incredible vision for this show, I realized that that person was me.

This production is the culmination of the two sides of my life finally coming together. Yes, I’m alone and that’s not likely to change soon. I’m a powerful, creative, successful, determined woman, which is attractive to men from the outside but most men don’t want to live with that. And I don’t want to be with anybody who can’t handle my success and my creative life. So if that means I’m alone, then I’m alone.

And I realized last night, for the first time in just over four years, that alone is just fine for now. Because by being alone, I’ve been able to shape my vision, sharpen my creative teeth and learned to trust those voices in my head that are not clowns, but are the creative muses who live there, whispering to me in the best and worst nights.

So if the trade-off means that I don’t have a date Saturday night and that I sit at home and watch “Snatch” on my 52” TV by myself or with my roomie, but I get to create things I am truly proud of and truly own, whether it’s a film or a play or a painting, then that’s the trade-off I’ll take. My heart is lonely and still in pieces but at least there isn’t somebody trying to hack it apart every time it starts to come together. And I have to trust that when and if someone special comes into my life, they will fill out my life, not try to take it away from me. They will know who I am and that will be what attracts them and they will become a part of my life, not make me fit into theirs.

And if it means that I get to create these amazing shows like “Lloyd’s” and “Juche” and “Change-Up” and “Mastermind” and “Gross” and get to step back and be proud of what I do, then it is absolutely worth the empty, lonely nights without someone. The pleasure and the joy and the pure sense of worth that I get when I step back and watch something I’ve created come together so strongly, so perfectly, is worth every moment on the couch by myself.

And I realized that last night, in talking to this woman, that I wouldn’t be here if I had not chosen to leave my life behind to find my new one. This show is the last of things to come back into my life that I tried to do in my old life and now its fruition maybe marks the true beginning of my new life. All the old debts are paid, all the leftover remnants are gone. After this, it’s all new, it’s all fresh, it’s all pure.

And it’s all mine.

Here's what critics are saying about "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde"

2009-09-10T09:52:00.000-07:00

This play has been my primary focus for about five years. I've been trying to put this production together for that long. Now, it's a reality and it's getting great reviews. I am very proud of this show and hope you get to see it if you're in LA. It is the most mature work I have done to date. I have an amazing cast and had a terrific production crew to help build it and a great stage manager, Amanda Peterson, who is half my brain most of the time. Please check it out.

Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Canyon Blvd., Noho
Reservations (818) 508-3003
Tickets available at Brown Paper Tickets
Runs thru October 11 - Fri, Sat at 8 PM, Sun at 7 PM

LA Weekly
“Susan Lee directs with brisk, efficient clarity.”

“Darrell Philip and Dean Farrell Bruggeman score as the rival attorneys.”

“The notion of casting women (Casey Kramer, Allie Costa, Beth Ricketson, and JC Henning) as Oscar's "rent boys" seemed initially perverse, but they provide deft characterizations and sly comedy”

Stage Scene LA
“It is powerful indeed to see the broken man Lordygan (as Wilde) has become by play’s end.”

“As Lord Alfred, Grant does lovely, nuanced, deeply felt work.”

“Best of all among the supporting players are the superb Kramer and Henning, who zip in and out of costumes (and accents and gender) to stunning effect.”

“Lee’s direction is inventive, and she has a good visual sense.”

“(Andrew) Hagan is particularly good as the coarse, brutish Queensberry.”

SoCal.com
“Insanely well-cast in their roles were Kerr Seth Lordygan as Oscar Wilde, Joshua Grant as Lord Alfred Douglas and Andrew Hagan as the Marquess of Queensberry, Douglas’s indignant father.”

(Kerr Seth Lorydgan as Oscar Wilde)

“The chemistry between Lordygan and Grant as lovers was just as undeniably convincing as the hatred between Hagan and Grant as father and son.”

Review Plays.com:
“Wilde’s story is gripping and sad and “Gross Indecency” is worth seeing. “

“Wilde, who is brilliantly performed by Kerr Seth Lordygan.”

Edge Los Angeles:
Susan Lee, the director...has successfully managed a moving and involving production of this play with a talented cast capable of cutting to the truth of each character. Her approach seeks to answer the question of who or what dictates morality.

Although Kerr Seth Lorygan doesn’t resemble Wilde, his portrayal in this play is compelling so much so that his persona has you believing all that Wilde encompassed.

This production is worthy of a wonderful presentation that effectively serves Kaufman’s play wonderfully.

Are you lonesome tonight?

2009-09-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

Feeling lonely in my tiny, self-centered world today.

I know, I know, I have amazing friends, incredible collaborators, yada, yada, yada.

I had coffee with one of my favorite guys, Justin, yesterday. Justin is an amazing director, a wonderful actor and just a terrific guy. And gorgeous. And makes me feel like I’m the only woman in the world when he’s talking to me. Of course, he makes every women feel like that and that’s one of his charms.

We talked on and on about our projects, what we’re working on, what we’re excited about, challenges with what’s going on in our creative lives. I loved having someone to talk to about how scared I am of “Gross Indecency” and how challenging this production has been and to have him understand that and share it with me. And make me feel okay about my fears and not diminish them. And I have others around me who do that so it’s not just that. It was sitting with someone who I enjoy very much and who has a certain connection with me who makes me feel like we’re really talking, really connecting, not just doing the pat on the hand thing.

And I guess today I realize how much I miss having someone special in my life to share things with. The good things, the bad things. To share the fears and feel comforted. I think that’s what it is. Somehow, Justin made me feel comforted, not just -- I really don’t know what the word is I’m looking for.

I miss having someone to just be there, make me feel like I’m not alone in the world. That there is someone who hears me and understands me. Justin’s just a friend - a married friend - so I know it’s not that I think he’s the man for me and all that crap. I think it’s just that he listened to me in a way that not too many people have and it made me miss having someone listen to me that way.

So in the midst of being surrounded by an incredible roommate, good friends and great collaborators on “Gross Indecency”, I sometimes feel like I’m standing all alone in the center of the storm, people swirling around me, activity and motion, but I’m just standing still, alone, naked, scared, empty. And I just want someone to stop for a moment, wrap me in their arms and whisper all the things I want to hear in my ear. Make me feel comforted. Make me feel warm. Just make me feel.

But for now, I have to make myself step into the storm and try to keep up until I can find that person. Or get used to the wind and the noise and continue to try to find comfort in myself.

"Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde" opens Sept. 4th

2009-08-27T00:13:00.001-07:00

If you're in LA and you're dying to see some great theater, join me for my new production - "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde".

A co-production with Eclectic Company Theatre and Life On Its Side Productions.

An engrossing examination of the three trials of Oscar Wilde, "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde" explores how not only was Wilde himself put on trial for his relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas, his art was a key factor in his prosecution.

Written by Moises Kaufman ("The Laramie Project" and "33 Variations").

Produced by Susan Lee and Kerr Seth Lordygan.

Directed by Susan Lee.

Featuring Allie Costa, Dean Farell Bruggeman, Joshua Grant, Andrew Hagan, J.C. Henning, Casey Kramer, Kerr Seth Lordygan, Darrell Philip, and Beth Ricketson. Presented by Eclectic Company Theatre in association with Life On Its Side Productions.

Opens Friday, September 4th at 8 PM
Run Friday, Saturdays at 8 PM
Sundays at 7 PM

Runs through October 11th.

Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Canyon Blvd., North Hollywood, CA 91601

Tickets are $18
Purchase tickets at http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/77200 - choose "Discount" and enter the word "Wilde" for limited $5 off tickets.

Tickets also available at Goldstar.com.

Or call 818-508-3003 for reservations.

We won!

2009-08-23T21:14:00.001-07:00

"Mastermind", a play I directed recently and one of the absolute favorite plays I have ever directed, won best actor (Brad Wilcox) and best playwriting (Michael Patrick Sullivan) for Block One of Hurricane Season at Eclectic Company Theatre.

Hurricane Season is an annual playwriting competition/festival at ECT. This year, nine plays were chosen out of more than 100. "Mastermind" was selected as one of the top six best plays and was sent (with the other five) to an outside panel of judges. Unfortunately, it didn't make the top three chosen by the panel of judges. The nine plays were then split into three sets of weekends (Block One, Block Two, and Block Three). The audience got to vote each night on their favorite actor, actress, overall production and playwriting.

I am proud that we won the awards we did tonight. Michael wrote a play worthy of Joss Wedon that had both clever, brilliantly funny dialog as well as deep, complicated personal relationship issues. He gave us plenty to play with!

And if you've talked to me at all in the past few months, you'll know how crazy I am/was about Brad's performance.

I think this role challenged him in new and intriguing ways and I loved his commitment and the depth he brought to a comic book character that could have just simply been played on the surface. But he was willing to dig below the surface and let me explore his inner villain as well as his inner self.

That being said, I also think that Beth Ricketson deserves credit for giving Brad a great foil to play off of. She stood toe to toe with one of the best actors I have ever worked with and never backed down, no matter what he threw at her. In fact, I think she threw some of her own back at him. The two of them humbled me with their talent and their performances.

I am proud of the work we accomplished with this play. I am immensely proud of the work that I did with this play.

And I am looking forward to the afterlife that "Mastermind" is going to have with a planned short film version as well as a series of webisodes, once we work out the logistics.

So stayed tuned... bwah ha ha...

Moment to moment

2009-08-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

Depression can reduce your life to single moments followed by single moments.

I had a very bad day today. Nothing in particular set it off. Just kind of the usual - lonely, my family, my finances, lonely, missing someone I have no business missing, etc., etc., etc.

I could not get off the couch. I have a ton of things to do for my new show (another post on another day about that one - it is going very well), a ton of things to do for my life. But I laid on the couch.

Today got reduced to moments. I’ll get up some water when there’s a commercial. I get a glass of water, lay back on the couch. I’ll send the emails in five minutes. I send the emails, lay back on the couch. I’ll get ready for the Hurricane Season cast party when Mythbusters is over. I force myself to dress cute just so that I do something other than lay on the couch.

I could only go moment to moment because I couldn’t deal with anything else. The thought of trying to figure out tomorrow was not even in the picture. I figured if I survived today, that was accomplishment enough.

I know depression can steal your life away. It stole a few years of mine. I spent a lot of days just sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, unable to find the moment to moment momentum. Just stare. It ate my life.

So when I am engulfed in the lonely that is so deep and so hard that it seeps into my cellular structure, I know I have to keep myself moving, even if it is a moment at a time. Otherwise, there is nothing but pain and sorrow and sobbing and loss. If I can get through this moment, this half hour, this TV show and not get lost, then I’ll be okay. If I can keep myself from giving in for this moment, this minute, this hour, then I’ll be okay. If I can just keep myself going…

Today, I made it from moment to moment. I got a few things done, I even went to the cast party (small but that’s okay). Now I’m trying to keep myself focused on getting through the next little while to get ready for bed and face tomorrow. I can already feel the sucking pull of the black hole, trying to get me back. But if I can get through this post and wash my face and force myself to chant, then maybe I can get through the rest of the night and leave this all behind tomorrow.

If not, then tomorrow becomes moments and I hope for the day after.

Harden my heart

2009-08-07T01:54:00.000-07:00

I have to take my heart off my sleeve and put it back in my chest, where it belongs.

It was pointed out to me tonight how obvious my recent affection is. And the fact that that affection could not/would not be returned.

And I was embarrassed to grasp that this was all to obvious to the entire world.

Except my little heart.

I need to learn to keep my feelings a bit closer to me, not let them run wild. And I’m not saying shut down every emotion I have and join the land of Stepford.

But when my heart finds itself drawn to someone, it tends to be a big, huge, loud beacon saying, look, I’m going over here! And I’m going to show the entire world how much affection I have for this person! No, really, I get that there’s no future and that my affection is probably not returned in an equivalent way. But that’s okay. I need to be stepped on publicly and share my torment publicly.

I need to learn to not give my heart away when there is no hope in it being returned. There is no heart out there, pining for me, and I have to learn to keep my heart where it belongs, safe and protected, quiet and silent, inside. Away from the public eye, away from the pitying look and sympathetic gaze of those around me, like the ones I got tonight. So I don’t have to apologize and feel shame at how I feel.

I knew I was making an ass of myself in the midst of this. I always do. But I just don’t seem to be able to stop myself. I convinced myself that really no one other than a few close friends could see what an ass I was. But I was wrong. Big old ass in front of the entire world.

A pattern that I have to break and stop repeating ad nauseum. Maybe this is the slap in my face I needed to learn this lesson. Maybe next time I lose my heart ridiculously, I can kill it before it makes an ass of me again.

These are the days...

2009-08-02T23:33:00.001-07:00

My car broke down this week. Probably fried my engine. Woo-hoo.

Somehow, the car breaking down led me down a very dangerous road - wondering if I should have left him, wondering if this would have happened if I were still with him, wondering if I really am doing the right thing with my life.

The clowns have been very loud in this regard, as well as others.

The clowns in my head have been fairly tame lately, occasionally shouting out from their cages and their hot air balloons but I have been able to pretty much ignore them.

But they apparently have figured out how to escape.

I have circled the barricades but they seem to be able to heckle from a distance.

The heckling goes something like this:

You should have never left him. At least there’d be someone to hold when times get tough like this. At least there’d be someone to help out at times like this. At least there’d be another income. At least there’d be -- you get the idea.

What the clowns don’t seem to want to acknowledge is the other side of staying with him.

There would be anger. A great deal of anger. And accusations. And ridicule. And defamation about all of my personal attributes. I would be reduced to hanging my head in shame and tiptoeing around, trying to be the perfect wife and the perfect woman and the perfect whatever he wanted me to be.

And probably by this time, I would be dead. Either by my own hand or his. Okay, so I don’t think he’d kill me but his anger and his irrational lashing out would probably have led to serious injury at some point. There were many times when we were together where things flew and luckily did not connect. They were theoretically not aimed at me but sometimes aim doesn’t matter.

So the clowns change tact and tackle the other things I’m doing in my life. Chanting? Really? Buddhism? Really? You’re just trying to impress the Chanting Guy. And you know that’s a dead end so why are you doing it? It’ll just end badly with heartache and pain and… So just stop it. It doesn’t matter. He’s not impressed. He never will be. He has a gorgeous, YOUNG, THING girlfriend, things which you are not. He doesn’t care, just like all the others. You’re making an ass of yourself so stop it.

They don’t acknowledge the other side of that, which is, I have been interested in Buddhism since I could spell it. I’ve always wanted to explore chanting and see what it does and how it feels. My grandfather was a Buddhist, which has somehow seeped into my soul. And I choose to believe he cares, because he has shown me such. And it doesn’t matter what our relationship is or may be, I am glad he’s in my life for this moment, in whatever way he is in my life.

And then the money issue. You suck with money. You should be a grown up and stop screwing around with this directing thing. You should give up the art thing because, really, that doesn’t really do much for you because you don’t make enough money at it. Get a real job with real money and just do the directing thing when you can. After all, it’s ridiculous to think there’s a living to be made out of it. Be a grown up. Stop kidding yourself. And if you had never left him, you would not have been distracted by all this stupidity. You’d have a real job and a real life and a real husband and all of this would never happen.

But, again, we’re back to there would be anger and I would be dead.

But the hamster wheel in my head is hard to stop once the clowns get it spinning. You should have never left him is the litany that repeats over and over, all the other things splintering off of that.

And lonely times like this make me want to see him again, want to be with him again, want to just give up and admit that this life is not what I thought it would be. That maybe the biggest mistake I’ve ever made was walking away from almost 18 years of a relationship. Just because it’s familiar. Just because I know that relationship and because the clowns can be very convincing when they’re this loud.

I have to stop and check in with reality. Yes, it’s tough. Yes, I’m irresponsible with money. Yes, I don’t make enough money. Yes, I’m alone. Yes, Chanting Guy probably doesn’t care for me as anything other than a friend and, yes, I can’t compete with a young, thin, gorgeous girlfriend. And a lot of the other points that the clowns make.

But this I do know. This is my life, hard or easy, empty or full, heartful or heartbroken. I know what I love in my life - my art, my directing, my writing, my creative soul. A soul that was smothered and almost killed in my previous life. I have a strong, caring, amazing group of friends who have rallied around me to try and help me through this current ordeal so I am not alone. And they feed my creativity in a way that no group of friends has ever fed me before.

And, yes, while I may never have Chanting Guy in my life the way I’d like to, I think he’s going to be an amazing friend like Ranger Smith - someone I can love and someone who loves me for who I am, without trying to change me, without trying to qualify me. Someone who accepts my affection for them without running away and pushing me away.

So while I chant tonight before I go to bed, I’m going to focus on sending those chants to the clowns, to drive them back to their cages and their hot air balloons and replace their negative, angry “these are the days” thoughts with Keith Urban’s song --

My grandma was a wise old soul
Took me by the hand not long ago
Said, "Son, what's your hurry, boy slow it down
Taste the wild honey, listen to the sound
Of the wind that's blowin' through the trees
Rivers flowin' to the sea
Yeah they're all headin' home just like you and me
Life's for livin' child, can't you see?"

These are the days we will remember
These are the times that won't come again
The highest of flames become an ember
And you gotta live 'em while you can

These are the days we will remember
These are the days we will remember
These are the days we will remember
These are the days we will remember

So take 'em by the hand, they're yours and mine
Take 'em by the hand and live your life
Take 'em by the hand don't let 'em all fly by
C'mon, C'mon now

Ooo days go by
Yeah, just like a hand out the window wavin' in the wind as the cars go by
Days go by

Take that, clowns.

Take another little piece of my heart

2009-07-20T16:53:00.000-07:00

I got to fall in love.

For a handful of weeks.

With an amazing man.

Who I can’t have.

So what else is new?

He makes me feel great. He makes me feel special. He looks at me and it’s like there is no one else in the world.

I’m sure his girlfriend feels exactly the same way.

And like all the men in my life that have taken a piece of my heart, he will probably fade away and vanish from my life, maybe slowly, maybe quickly. But, without a doubt, he will probably be gone fairly soon. I’ll have memories, I’ll have pleasant thoughts, I’ll have pictures from the amazing work we did together. But I won’t have him.

Because I don’t think I’m ready to have someone. That’s why the pieces of my heart vanish. Whether it’s their choice or mine, my heart seems to not be ready to get given away to someone who can do something about it.

I think because the years of it being battered and broken and trampled on are still imprinted on it. The wounds are still raw and bleeding, the bruises still fresh and purple. Sometimes, it still hurts to even breathe. The lingering effects of almost 20 years of having my emotions abused and bashed and negated make me unable or unwilling to let my heart be open for more than a moment in time, to let me let myself be open to someone who could hurt me that way again.

I don’t know when -- or if -- I’ll ever be able to let someone into my heart in a significant way again. Because I won’t survive another relationship where I lose myself again. Where my very being is taken apart and never put back together again.

I’d like to think I would make smarter choices now. I’d like to think I will draw someone to me who won’t kick me in the heart and stamp on my spirit. I’d like to think I’ve grown over these past four years and can see the red flags coming a mile away.

But to find that out, I have to be vulnerable. I have to be open. I have to be willing to let my heart off its chain and let it get broken a little bit.

But there are so few pieces of it left.

"Mastermind" opens this weekend!

2009-07-09T07:12:00.001-07:00

My new directorial endeavor, "Mastermind", opens this weekend.

Part of Hurricane Season, the annual one act playwrighting festival and competition, "Mastermind" by Michael Patrick Sullivan, is a comic book style love story about a female reporter, Liz, trying to help her amnesiac boyfriend, J.D., find out who he really is. Of course, he could be a supervillain so that complicates things.

Featuring outstanding performances by Beth Ricketson and Brad Wilcox, this show will surprise you and touch your heart.

Also features new graphic novel artwork created by yours chumly.

Six performances only!

Friday, Saturday, July 10 and 11th at 8 PM and Sunday, July 12 at 2 PM.
Friday, Saturday, July 17 and 18th at 8 PM and Sunday, July 19 at 2 PM.

Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Canyon Blvd., Noho
Tickets $15
Reservations (818) 508-3003
Tickets available at https://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/71273

Also playing with "Mastermind", "Lovely Day", an adorable children's fable, and "Master of None", directed by my dear friend, Kerr Seth Lordygan.

Join me, won't you?

Get "Gross & Indecent" with me this Saturday!

2009-06-09T10:53:00.001-07:00

If you're in LA and you have $10 to spare, come by and check out this event!

"Gross & Indecent" - a 24 hour theater event
See what happens when writers and directors only have 24 hours to create theater!

What happens when writers have no time to write and directors and actors have no time to rehearse? Why, 24 hour theater is what happens!

Friday night, June 12, the writers get assigned a line of dialog and draw a cast out of a hat. They then scurry off to their local coffee house and tap away at their keyboards until early morning.

Saturday, June 13, the directors and actors arrive early in the morning, get together and go off and rehearse.

At 8 PM and 10 PM that night, the show goes on, ready or not. It's a fine line between train wreck and brilliance.

Admission - $10

TWO, COUNT 'EM, TWO SHOWS AT 8 PM AND 10PM.

C'mon, you know you want to see how it all turns out!

Make your reservation today at (818) 508-3003.

This event is a fundraiser for "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde", which opens September 4th at Eclectic Company Theatre.

Saturday, June 13, 2009
8:00 pm and 10:00 pm
Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Cyn Blvd.
North Hollywood, CA

Just needed to know

2009-06-05T14:40:00.001-07:00

I just needed to know that you loved me. Not that you loved me because I behaved or because I did what you wanted me to do. Not that you loved me because I met your expectations or your unintelligible requirements. Not that you loved me because you had to or because we were married.

I just needed to know that you loved me.

Loved me.

Flawed. Failed. Floundering. Depressed. Ambitious. Determined. Fragile. Strong. Defeated. Difficult. Successful. Powerful. Weak.

Loved me.

It’s pretty simple, actually. Just love me.

I tried to love you that way. No matter how damaged you were, no matter how much you made me tremble in fear, no matter how much you hurt me and wounded me. Loved you.

Loved you.

Maybe that wasn’t obvious to you in the last few years of us but I did my best to just simply love you. As much as I could.

Maybe that’s what you did - loved me as much as you could.

But for all the times you said it, all the times you wrote it down, all the times you told other people, there were so very few times when I felt it. That you just simply loved me.

And in the end, I had hoped that that simple fact would win out - that you loved me. You told me over and over you would never let me go. You’d hunt me down, you’d bring me back. Because you loved me. Loved me that much.

But your pride won out over your love. And it showed me just how difficult that one simple request was. You couldn’t just love me. It had to have limits, it had to have rules, it had to have your mother’s approval.

It makes me wonder if that simple request is even possible.

Just love me.

Just me.

Just love.

Just love me.

Fundraisers in LA for "Gross Indecency"

2009-06-03T12:31:00.000-07:00

If you're in LA and want to support my fall production of "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde", check out one of the fundraisers below. Or go to my Paypal account and drop in your $10! susan@lifeonitsside.

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"GROSS AND INDECENT - A 24 HOUR THEATER EVENT"

What happens when writers have no time to write and directors and actors have no time to rehearse? Why, 24 hour theater is what happens!

Friday night, June 12, the writers get assigned a line of dialog and draw a cast out of a hat. They then scurry off to their local coffee house and tap away at their keyboards until early morning.

Saturday, June 13, the directors and actors arrive early in the morning, get together and go off and rehearse.

On June 13th, at 8 PM and 10 PM, the show goes on, ready or not. It's a fine line between train wreck and brilliance.

Admission - $10

TWO, COUNT 'EM, TWO SHOWS AT 8 PM AND 10PM.

C'mon, you know you want to see how it all turns out!

Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Canyon Blvd., Noho

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Join me for an incredibly fun evening of bingo and drag queens and help me raise money for "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde".

Legendary Bingo in West Hollywood will be hosting the event, featuring one of their fabulous drag queen bingo callers. My special guest caller is Apollonia Kotero, an amazing and generous lady!

$20 buys you your cards for all 10 games. Fabulous prizes will be given away including an evening of wine tasting, free sword fighting lesson, tickets to Disney and Universal as well as a whole bunch o'cheesy crap.

Hamburger Mary's
8288 Santa Monica Blvd., West Hollywood

Wednesday, June 17 at 9 PM

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Thanks for all your support!