Take another little piece of my heart

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!

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!

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

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"

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

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

Thanks for all your support!

You can't take that away...

I have spent my life trying to do/be what others want me to do/be. Well, I’m done.

I’m done trying to impress you all with my dazzling skills and all my accomplishments because you just don’t care. You don’t see it. You think I’m wasting my time with all this “stuff”. You think I’m being indulgent and ridiculous. You think I’m playing at my life because it’s not the life you chose for yourself. And you resent me because I chose to live the life I want, and not to live a life that is ordinary.

You can’t take anything away from me that hasn’t already been taken. You can’t possible undermine me anymore than you already have. You can’t make me stop and do things your way because, frankly, your way is as ridiculous to me as my way is to you.

If I were an athlete, a position that is acceptable in your eyes, then you would appreciate and understand all the work I am doing and that I have done. If I were an athlete, the hours of rehearsal and study and practice would be worthwhile because it would lead to me being a better athlete and maybe to something more. If I were an athlete, you’d leave me alone.

Or if I were 20, you’d roll your eyes and tolerate what I’m doing because I’m young and I’m exploring. If I were 20, you’d pat me on the head and say, go, explore, but you’d always end it with, but make sure you can get a job when you’re done. If I were 20, you would just pretend I had a future doing something useful once I got done with this silliness.

But I am an Artist. I have always been an Artist. And an Artist is an athlete in many ways. I have muscles I have to train, I have strategies I need to learn. I have game plans and goals and injuries, just the way an athlete does. My end goal requires just as much time and dedication and sacrifice as any professional athletic endeavor requires.

And, no, I’m not 20 but I am starting my life over again. And I’m only four years into it. But one thing I have learned in those four years is that I will not give up being an Artist for anyone. It is my life, it is my soul. It is what I excel at, whether you can see it or not. It is what makes my heart beat and my lungs breathe. It is what drives me and keeps me awake in the middle of the night It is what I wish I had embraced when I was 20 and was listening to too many other voices that told me to deny that Artist, to be something ordinary.

So do your best. Take away everything you can from me because you can’t take away the one thing that I live for - my art. You can’t take away my writing because, as long as I have a pen and a piece of paper, I can write. As long as there is one actor willing to stand in front of me and let me tell them what to do, I can direct. As long as I can find a crayon and an surface, I can draw. And you will never, ever be able to take that away from me.

Virtual fridge - new oil painting

Finished this the other day:

The Ugly Part

I teach fine art to children at Mission Renaissance (http://www.fineartclasses.com). I love my job because it allows me to teach, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I can remember. But, occasionally, I find that these kids teach me.

I have an eight-year-old girl I teach, I’ll call her “F” to protect her (that’s why I also won’t put up a picture of her here - too many freaky people out there). F is a funny, shy, smart little girl. She’s just moved into “master duplication” at my studio, which means she is learning not only how to reproduce master painters like Manet and Monet, but she’s also learning why they painted the way they do. Teach them how the painter painted so they can learn techniques they can apply to any other kind of painting as they grow older and figure out what they want to paint.

So, the struggle with F has been the struggle most of us have. She would get to a certain point in the drawing/painting where it was just ugly. There’s always that point, where what we’re creating is just plain ugly. It’s usually about the middle point, before the fine tuning has happened and while the whole thing is funky-looking. F would always break down at that point, crying, frustrated because her art wasn’t perfect yet. In the end, she always ended up liking what she drew/painted, once she got through the ugly part to the polished, pretty final part.

Working with her during spring camp, I finally got her to stop breaking down at the point where she usually did. We talked about how the artwork always hits the “ugly” part. I made her laugh while we talked about the ugly part and she ended up letting me take a picture of her making an ugly face when her painting hit that ugly part. She has, in fact, kind of embraced the ugly part. Today, as she was working on a Manet duplication (eight years old, remember), she hit the ugly part. She had a moment of starting to choke up but I saw her catch herself. Then she kept painting. When I came up to her a few minutes later to check on her, she smiled up at me. “I’m at the ugly part,” she said, “and that’s okay.” She continued her painting, not noticing how much it touched me to hear that. Then, when her mom came to pick her up, she told her mom, “Look, it’s at the ugly part. But it’ll be all right next week when I get past the ugly part.”

I’ve been struggling today with nothing big. Just the usual. Money is beyond tight, as in, I have about $6 until next payday which is a week from Friday. I’m overwhelmed with projects, which will sort themselves out shortly but a bunch of things are happening with all of them right now and it’s challenging keeping everything straight. I’m alone. I’m overweight. I’m (fill in the blank). So today has been a tough mental health day.

But as I was driving home, I was relishing the revelation of F and the fact that she’s embraced the ugly part of her art. Then I realized something.

I’m at the ugly part.

I’ve begun the work of art that my life will be. I’ve spent the last few years getting the sketch in, making sure the lines are correct and that everything relates the way it’s supposed to relate. I’ve laid down the tones, making sure that it all fits together. I’ve even done the scrub (the paint under everything that tints the canvas to the right tone) in preparation for the painting. I’ve started laying down the colors and starting to flesh out the painting.

And now I’m at the ugly part. The colors aren’t quite right, the tones are a bit too bright, the shape of my original drawing is getting wonky and out of proportion. When I step back to look at it, all I can see are the things that aren’t right, that need work. The edges are harsh and rough, nothing blends together, everything crashes together in a riot of colors and angles and brushstrokes without making anything recognizable.

But beneath the ugly part, there is a masterpiece. The foundation is solid and it just needs some adjusting and cleaning up. I need to remember to step back to take in the whole thing and appreciate the elements that are right and correct. Find the lines that are clear and clean and the tones that make the shape of the painting itself. Know that, eventually, the ugly will yield a masterpiece, if I can just keep going.

So, for right now, I will accept the ugly part, as much as I don’t like it. I’ll let you know when the masterpiece starts to emerge.

Missing a part of me

I spent the early afternoon watching one of my favorite movies - “White Knights” with Gregory Hines and Mikhail Barishnykov. Directed by Taylor Hackford, who is currently directing some friends of mine in a show about Louis Prima and Keely Smith, which will probably be a feature film very soon. But that’s another story.

This film has always been a favorite of mine because of the sheer passion and joy in the dance numbers between these two men. If any guy ever says anything about dancing being “gay” or not athletic, just check out the dance number with both men, competing but sharing, just brilliant choreography, physical, powerful, athletic.

And there’s an amazing “folk” number Barishnykov does to express his pain and anger at being trapped back in Russia, while Helen Mirren watches, her pain evident on her face. Makes me sob every time I see it.

Okay, the point. The point is this.

I was dancer once upon a time. What feels like a hundred years ago. I studied ballet and jazz. I taught ballet to five to ten year olds. I got on pointe. I loved every single second of it. Couldn’t get enough of it. I loved the way my body felt when I danced. I loved to just let go and let the music fill me up and make me move.

One of my teachers told me (as happens again and again in my life) that it’s a shame I didn’t start dancing as a young child instead of as an adult because I had talent. I had skill.

Ballet was my favorite. I could dance jazz effortlessly but I loved the feeling of stretching into an arabesque, unfolding my leg into a developpé. Feeling every muscle respond to unconscious commands, reaching, pushing, going past where I thought I could do and stretching a single inch further, bending a single inch lower, reaching a single inch higher.

I can’t watch dance anymore because it breaks my heart that I don’t dance anymore. And not just dancing, like, hanging out and dancing. But really, truly dance.

I first gave up dancing because of my first marriage. My first husband seemed to be very threatened by my ability and constantly made me feel like I was doing something wrong when I did something I loved so very much. Somehow, I convinced myself that dancing had something to do with our marriage ending. I know, don’t know why that seemed important then but it did. I danced for a while after that but because of the negative connotations, I never enjoyed ballet as much as I did before I made that weird, irrational leap.

I danced a bit when I moved to LA, took some classes. Again was told I should have started when I was younger as I apparently had some skills. What good does that do when you’re 25? I also am a bit broad and a bit tall for ballet, although I could have gone into music videos and stuff, I guess.

But then I danced in “American Tail”, a live show at Universal Studios, and that ruined my hip and my knee. I couldn’t take any kind of dancing for a long time. I continued to dance in the show long after I should have and really ruined my already stressed hip and knee. An injury when I was puppeteering on the show tore all the muscles in my back and added to the pain and problems.

After that, I never really danced again. My second husband never encouraged that part of me to re-emerge. When I did try to dance again after years of therapy and acupuncture, he discourages me from continuing because he was afraid I was going to hurt myself again. Valid reason, although I resented it. But I could have chosen to continue. I didn’t.

I pretty much stopped dancing altogether. RJ didn’t like to dance socially. He didn’t like to go where people danced, like clubs and such. Didn’t like to dance at weddings or anything like that. So I didn’t dance. I longed to go country line dancing for my birthday year after year as I thought it’d be fun. We could laugh at others making fools of themselves as we did ourselves. But he would have none of it so I had none of it.

My body ached every time I saw a movie that featured dancing. I stopped watching anything like that because it made me long for something I left behind so very long ago.

Now, I’m 47. My hip and knee have long recovered from their injuries, thanks to a brilliant acupuncturist who saved me from a hip replacement. I haven’t had any pain or problems in more than 10 years.

And I still don’t dance.

I think part of me is afraid. Afraid I won’t have the skill anymore. Well, duh, it’s been 20 years or more since I’ve really danced. Haven’t taken a class in that long. I’m afraid I won’t love it the way I did. Afraid I’ll hurt myself again if I try to take a class.

I just know, watching “White Knights”, the 20-year-old in me cried out, wanting to know why I left her behind, why I ignored her all these years. Why I let her become dormant and atrophied. Wondering why I gave up something I loved so much and that I was so good at.

And I have no answers. I can only say I won’t ever give up something I love so much again. No man, no woman, no person is going to stop me from doing what I want, what I love. I don’t want to look back in another 20 years and say, I wish I had never given up (fill in the blank).

Maybe I’ll be foolish enough to try a ballet class again. See if I still have a move or two in this old body. Maybe just a simple ballroom class. My friend, Shelley, has been encouraging me to tango and that sounds like a blast. Maybe it’s time to find that 20-year-old again and let her loose on the dance floor, see what she can do 20 years later.

Are we there yet?

I was talking to someone tonight who I’ve just gotten to know through the Eclectic Company Theatre (www.eclecticcompanytheatre.org) and giving him the mini version of the last four years of my life.

And this thought occurred to me:

Am I there yet?

I don’t know where “there” is but I’ve been wondering lately if I’m ever gonna get there.

Yes, I know, I’ve done amazing things, I have a great life, yada, yada, yada.

But do we ever get “there”? The “there” that is what we changed our lives for. The “there” that is the dream life - the significant other, the perfect abode, the perfect job, running on the beach without sunscreen, eating but not getting fat. That “there”.

I do know how much I’ve grown and changed in the past four years. Talking to someone new and giving them the Reader’s Digest version of things almost always puts things in perspective.

I think I’m at a rest stop on the way “there”. Maybe about mid-way. I can look back and see where I came from. Yikes. I can feel how many miles away that other life is and can look back at it with some perspective and some fondness now. I’m pausing to pee and get something to eat and just take a breath, maybe pull out the map, see how far behind me the other life was and check out how far ahead of me the new life is. Make sure I know where the next rest stop is so I can make sure I don’t run out of gas and know when I can pee again.

The map is sometimes easy to read. The broad roadways jump out and I can figure out which way I’m supposed to go.

But sometimes the map is like the Thomas Guide we use here in California. It’s an encyclopedia of different areas, different freeways, confusing symbols and the teeniest, tiniest writing ever. The freeway I’m on starts on page 2 but ends somewhere at the cross section of E4 on page 138. That’s a lot of pages to flip to play connect the freeway dots. Those are the times when I have to pull over and ask for directions because I can’t figure this stupid thing out.

But sometimes, it’s like it is now. I’m between two crazy projects that have and are going to eat up my time and my life, in the best way possible. I’ve been driving at 90 mph for the past three weeks and now I’m stopping at the vending machine, laying the map out on the hood and making sure I’m not in Alaska instead of LA. No right turn at Albuquerque for me.

And I’m looking down the road into the sun, which blurs the road in front of me. Yes, there’s the map and, yes, the AAA trip ticket. And even a full tank of gas and a bag full of goodies.

But that sun-blurred road is a bit scary and I wonder if I could live at the rest stop for just a little while. Just until the sun goes down and maybe makes the road easier to see.

Although that’s no fun.

So, after I’ve caught my breath, used the restroom and checked the map one last time, I’m climbing back into my imaginary Mustang convertible (hey, it’s my fantasy, I get to have the car I want), shift into first and aim towards “there”, wherever that may be.

And maybe getting “there” really, truly is about the journey, not the destination. Without the journey, there is no “there”, just endless alleyways and turnarounds. And there are wonderful sights on the way “there” that we may never see if we don’t try to get “there”.

So, I hope to see you all at the next rest stop. Grab a Coke and hang out with me for a bit. And we’ll figure out where “there” is for you.

Tonight's fundraiser

Too tired to write much. Will write more tomorrow.

Had a great fundraiser tonight for "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde". Didn't sell any paintings but had a good turn out of folks. Raised $200. Yay! Only $3,200 to go (initially, anyway).

If you want to donate, you can go to my Paypal account, enter my email address and donate your $10... or your $20... or your $100... I can keep going, you know.

Photos to come soon...

Art show/fundraiser this Thursday

If you're in LA this week and want to help me out, come out and see some fantastic artwork by some of my friends, have a glass of wine, maybe buy a piece or two, and help raise money for my fall production of "Gross Indecency, the Three Trials of Oscar Wilde". Oh, and maybe wish me a happy birthday!

Featured artists include:

Myself - you can see some of my work under the photo albums on my profile here

Rachel Pitler - http://rachelpitler.com - fanciful, whimsical and delightful!

Micheal Hsiung - http://www.michaelchsiung.com/ - quirky, off-beat, old school editorial inked work.

Jacqueline Myers-Cho - http://www.myerscho.com/ - Unique, collage-inspired artwork

Also featuring abstract artist Chris Baylor, sketch artist Justin Baylor, and fine artist Maria Galloway.

All artwork will be for sale. 25% of all sales will go towards funding "Gross Indecency".

$10 suggested donation at the door. Wine and cheese will be served.

If you can't make the fundraiser but want to contribute your $10, please go to Paypal and use the email susan@lifeonitsside. I'll take your money any way I can get it.

Eclectic Company Theatre
5312 Laurel Canyon Blvd.
North Hollywood, CA

I painted my heart out tonight…

…because I didn’t know what else to do.

To look at the painting, you’d never know that my heartache and my heartbreak went into it.

Tonight, all the heartbreak, all the heartsick, all the emptiness overwhelmed me. Not surprising, with a birthday only days away. Birthdays with seven are always hard for me. Too many questions about where I am and what I’m doing and why I’m doing it haunt me. At 17, my parents struggling to stay married, being in a relationship with someone I knew I didn’t want to continue to be with, one more year of school. At 27, between relationships, had met my now-ex-husband but wasn’t sure where we were going, unsure about what my life held and about having moved to Los Angeles. At 37, knowing something was wrong but not ready to face it (that would take six more years), beginning to really embrace my directing career but uncertain about what to do about it, beginning to drown and not yet understanding it.

Tonight, the seven struck again. At 47, where am I, what am I doing, all that stuff.

I was sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, sobbing over “Sex and the City”, the movie, at the moment where (SPOILER ALERT) Miranda and Steve get back together. Wishing my ex would have done that, come back for me, say he would do anything for me, wishing that great love I thought I had had been true.

I made myself get up and put on my painting apron and pick up my brush. I have an art exhibition and sale in less than two weeks and wanted to finish a couple of paintings before then but work and rehearsal for “Gothmas” (wait, here’s the plug for the show -
http://www.plays411.com/gothmas) have gotten in the way. So I stood for a moment, not really feeling like putting brush to canvas but willing myself to just paint for an hour. Then I would give myself permission to climb into bed and wallow for the rest of the evening.

Every stroke of the brush contained all that hurt and all that pain. I painted the deep reddish orange, imaging that this must be the color of my heart right now. Okay, so it’s actually water surrounding an Irish castle, but it made sense to me. The dark mountains were the memories of my marriage, the years of anger and rage, the years of silence and stifling. As I dipped my brush into the turpenoid, it washed away the memories of that hurt, that sorrow.

As I painted, I began to accept that this is what 47 is about - this painting, that painting, this play, that short film. As I painted, I saw my talent and saw that every stroke brought me closer to my soul, to who I really am. I saw that I couldn’t have painted like this without all the pain. I couldn’t have discovered this without the previous difficult “seven” birthdays. I couldn’t have found the life that truly is what I think I’m destined to have without all of it.

So I painted tonight and let my tears turn from tears of sorrow and anger and loneliness and everything else into tears of joy that God blessed me with this talent. Tears of appreciation that I can put brush to canvas and pour out all that emotion and turn it from the negative to something elegant and beautiful and, in truth, simple. Simple because a painting doesn’t require explanation or justification or logic. It just is. You like it, you don’t like it, you get it, you don’t get it. That’s it. Hopefully, the emotion put into it touches someone but the important thing is that it touched me.

So here’s to 47, the year I embrace and enhance my life, the year I accept and enjoy my talent and my gifts, the year I just let go and wait for 48.

BTW, here’s the painting.

What will I be?

I’m afraid this is it - this is the life I’m going to live for the rest of my days.

Not that it’s a bad life. There is so much about this life that I love and that I appreciate. But the biggest hole in my life is a partner.

Now, don’t inundate me with “don’t worry, you’ll find someone” crap. I know, I know. It’s just right now - this moment - I feel like maybe I’ve had the love of my life and I missed it or I fucked it up somehow. And that I don’t get or deserve another chance at it. That I will spend the next 40 years of my life with my cat, my dear, dear friends and nothing else. Because I had that love, that soulmate, and managed to somehow lose it.

I think that love was really my first husband. I loved him in a way that I don’t think I’ll ever be capable of loving someone again. In the way that only a girl turning into a woman can love the first man she truly, totally, completely gives her heart to. That one man who is the “forever” man, the one we expect to spend the rest of our lives with. That man who makes your heart jump and your face flush when he walks into the room. That man who takes your heart and will always keep a tiny bit of it with him no matter how old you get or how far the distance is between you.

That is a love that can never, ever be felt again. It’s an innocent love, before your heart is broken into so many pieces that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could never put it back together again. When you believe in forever, when you believe there is a forever to be had.

My second husband was the grown up love. Mature. Sensible. We fit together so incredibly well that I thought that this was what I should have been seeking all along. Someone who was like a twin brother rather than a lover. Someone who anticipated my sentences and almost read my mind. I thought he was the soulmate, the other half that I was supposed to have. He felt like forever just because he was determined not to ever, ever, ever let me go, no matter what. He said it over and over again - I’ll never let you go. If you leave, I’ll chase you and bring you back. I wanted that devotion and it’s one of the things that kept me there for so long. How could I leave? He would always find me, bring me back and keep me forever.

That’s the love I wanted - forever love. But I don’t think that love ever equaled what I felt the first time because the first time had torn my heart apart so much that it never was quite whole again.

And now, I’ve been alone for almost four years. Not even close to a date in at least three. I thought there was someone, I thought he was going to be THE love. He was such a combination of what I felt for both the men I had loved that I thought it was the next logical person. He made me feel like no one had made me feel in 20 years. He found that one little piece of my heart that remembered that new love, that young love, that innocent love, looking past the pain and the ache and the fear. He made my heart leap into my throat whenever he walked into the room. He was half of me for a while, despite never being more than a friend. I hoped he would come around, I hoped he would see me that way. And I think he did, although he couldn’t let himself. I still feel him in my heart sometimes, despite the eventual distance that has grown between us. He felt like what I wanted, yet apparently it wasn’t meant to be.

And I keep finding those men, those men who are what I think I want. All the men in my life have similarities. Talent is a big thing. In whatever field they’re in. Ambition. Always a key. With just enough arrogance to believe that their ambition will lead them to where they desire to go. Cocky, talented, confident, aggressive men. Yup. That’s me. Take my heart, throw it on the ground under your feet and walk all over me.

But I don’t know if that kind of man can see or handle the vulnerable part of me. I think I’m attracted to them because they reflect the way I hope I am or that I want to be. I think I need someone strong in their own belief in themselves, hoping that they’ll be that strong in their belief in me. A man who isn’t that solid in themselves are afraid of me and intimidated by me. But the men I love to be around always seem to already be in relationships with someone who needs them more than someone like me.

I know I’m not making sense but it’s late and I’ve had a crazy couple of days. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t think there is someone out there for me. Someone who can handle me. Someone who wants to handle me. I think I’ve had my shots at happiness and whether they didn’t work out because of me or because of them or because we all fucked up on all sides, I think maybe they were the shots I had. Now I have to step aside and let those other women out there have their shots. Maybe I need to find the love of my life in my work and in my own life before I can even think there might be a love of my life out there. Maybe the love of my life needs to, has to be me. Maybe it’s that simple. To learn to love me and be fulfilled in that. I guess that could be the greatest love I could ever find - true love of my own self and my own soul.

Or maybe I’ll wake up in the morning and completely change my mind. Stay tuned…

And add a touch of...

For the first time in my adult life, I look forward to cooking. Cooking just about anything. Maybe because, for the first time in my adult life, I feel like it’s my kitchen.

My first husband was a chef so I was always intimidated by that. I did make a few fabulous dishes. I seem to remember doing roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, which actually turned out great. Good thing, too, because I think it was to impress is bitch of a mother (sorry, TS, but it’s true). And I think I made one magnificent order of eggs benedict, surprising even myself.

My second husband was critical of everything I cooked. If I made chicken, he’d say, that was good but I was really in the mood for steak. Or, next time, maybe add more of this or that. Keep in mind, the only time he ever cooked during our almost 20 years together was to grill a couple of times over the summer. I did love to make a particular veal stew (live with it, I made something with dead baby cows), mainly because it filled the loft with the most delicious smell of bay leaves and garlic and onion that just made it feel like home for an evening. We also ate out a lot due to our crazy schedules but I never felt great cooking anything.

Living with my roomie, T, the kitchen wasn’t really conducive for cooking. Small and tight and I didn’t really feel like I belonged there. Although I did make one amazing, awesome dinner one night for PRS and his mother and Chairman, just as a thank you for being so wonderful to me that first year of me being on my own. It was just simple stir fry but I made three different ones and had nine little cheesecakes for dessert. And Chairman brought a delicious dessert wine that we drank over ice. Maybe it was the food or maybe it was the company but I keep that night as one of the most beautiful nights of my life.

Living here for the past two years, I have rarely cooked because my mother would hover over and carry on a running commentary about what I was cooking, whether it was pasta or scrambled eggs. And she would stand and smoke in the kitchen while I was cooking, which really took away whatever flavor there was to my food.

Cooking was always done as a necessity, except for the rare occasion. And, as with so many things in my life, there was always such an association of criticism attached to cooking. It really took that lovely dinner with PRS and Chairman, where they just ate in silence for about ten minutes and then almost moaned in appreciation, for me to understand that cooking can be about pleasure and giving pleasure and just simply enjoying the food.

I realized today, as I’m sitting here, knitting and waiting for laundry to be done, that I am excited about the idea of going into the kitchen and making some either pasta or scrambled eggs for lunch. Just excited about going into the kitchen and whipping up something for dinner. And I’ve spent about $100 this week on groceries so there would be things I could cook, mainly because of financial concerns. $100 on groceries goes much further than $100 in take-out. That just shows how excited I am about the idea of using the kitchen to its fullest potential.

But just the simple fact that I’m embracing the kitchen says a lot to me. I’ve never been a big “foodie”. I just want something to eat. But the fact that I can do that simple task without having any criticism and critique going on in the background speaks volumes.

It’s part of the whole rebirth of my soul, now that I am truly accepting and embracing my life as it is. Not trying to make it something it’s not. Just enjoying the day to day existence of life. Not focusing on, oh, my god, what am I going to do tomorrow and the day after and the day after and then thousands of days after that. I’m focusing on today, this moment, this time, this space. This single plate of scrambled eggs. That’s my focus.

It sounds simple but it’s been a long journey to enjoying these simple moments without creating something highly dramatic about every little thing in my life. It’s about scrambled eggs, it’s about this show, it’s about this painting, not about my whole life in one single moment.

So this moment is about how much I’m going to enjoy simple scrambled eggs with some hash browns and artisan bread for lunch. And then I’ll get my laundry out of the dryer. And then maybe paint. But that’s as far as I want to think right now. Not think about rehearsal tonight and work I have to do for tomorrow and teaching tomorrow. Just about this moment, these eggs, this single solitary time in my life. And that’s just perfectly fine with me.

Be vewy, vewy quiet...

I am happy, right now, this moment, this second.

Shhhhh.

I don’t want to frighten it away.

True, honest happiness is so fleeting, so brief, that it’s easy to miss. By the time you realize you have it, it’s gone and something else has taken its place - anger, depression and, in my case, fear.

I don’t want to look too closely at why, at this moment, I am happy. Looking too closely can make it hide, can make me overanalyze it right into oblivion.

I painted and that makes me happy.

I wrote last night and figured out a few things with the feature screenplay for “The Wraith” and woke with some new ideas and that makes me happy.

My cat, Twyla, is curled up on the back of the sofa, her tail covering her face while she sleeps and she is so incredibly adorable and that makes me happy.

I have rehearsal tonight for a show I’m stage managing with people I really enjoy working with because they make me feel like I’m the greatest thing on earth and I really am enjoying this show and rehearsals are fun and that makes me happy.

I picked up an extra day of teaching this week, on Sunday, and it’s a birthday party for kids at Mission Renaissance and it’ll be a blast and it means a bigger paycheck and that makes me happy.

I have a very cool roomie who hugs me when I get home and that makes me happy.

I’m very excited about the next painting I’m going to start and that makes me happy.

We’ve had a breakthrough on the script for the comedian and that makes me REALLY happy.

I don’t feel obligation or guilt or panic about making sure I make everyone else happy and feel that I have to put someone ahead of me and that makes me happy.

I have paint all over both my hands and, weirdly enough, up near my armpit on my left arm and that makes me really, really happy.

So I’m going to live in this moment, this second, this feeling for as long as my crazy life and my crazy brain will let me. And maybe, just maybe, these tiny, simple, unexpected little moments will build into a life made up of mostly those moments and not much else.

Ch…ch…ch…Changes…

Last night, for the first time in almost 20 years, I finally felt like I owned my life. It was a simple night. Made some angel hair pasta with diced tomatoes, garlic, onion, garlic bread. Nothing fancy but really delicious. Then I sat on the couch and ate some ice cream right out of the carton, watching my new big screen TV (actually Dean’s old big screen TV). My roomie was over at her boyfriend’s so it was just me and Twyla. Roomie’s cat was hanging out in her room so not even an extra cat was distracting.

And suddenly, I realized that this is truly the beginning of my life. MY life. I could do whatever I wanted - which turned out to be doing nothing at all, really. No one would yell at me for doing nothing, no one would accuse me of being lazy. It’s all about me, now. Which is kind of scary.

I left my now-ex-husband four years ago to build a life that I wanted. A life that would be fulfilling. A life that would be filled with love and joy and wonder. A full, complete creative life with no limits. Well, I should know that is an impossibility but at least I wanted to get as close as I could.

It’s been a long struggle over these past four years (in June, it’ll be four years). Never quite feeling like my feet are under me as I lived with a temporary roommate and then in a sublet, which I knew was a short-lived adventure, and then with my folks. I’ve never quite felt like I could do what I wanted to do without feeling guilty about ignoring someone or letting someone down. Don’t ask me who I was feeling guilty about or ignoring, but the lingering effects of living with a selfish, controlling, self-absorbed man for almost 20 years don’t go away overnight.

I realize now that I have been scared for the past four years. Scared that I made the wrong decision. After all, why did I think I could build a life without him when I couldn’t build a life with him? Why did I deserve to be happy, to be creative, to live the life I want to? How dare I?! Even all the films and shows I’ve done in the past four years have terrified me. What if I let someone down? What if they’re not really that good? It’s terrifying when you actually start to see your dreams come true.

I have a lot of unfinished things lurking around me. I think it’s because I’m scared to finish them. I feel like I need permission or approval or something before I put the final touches on things. I don’t know whose permission I need. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. I know that there is a strong fear of failure, whether I finish these things or not. If I finish and it’s not good, then I’m a failure. If I don’t finish, then I’m a failure. If I do finish… I don’t know how to finish that sentence.

Now, I have a clean palette in front of me. No more responsibility to my parents, which has been hanging over me almost ever since I stepped out on this adventure. I’m the one who’s been here to take care of them and I feel I owe them for what they’ve done for me. Not in a negative way but in the way a child feels obligated to return the love to the parents that they’ve shown her. But with them gone now, there’s this weird void, this emptiness that I didn’t expect. I’m so used to giving to them that now I don’t know what to do now that they’re in Minnesota.

My challenge now is to channel that energy into myself, something I have never been encouraged to do. I have always been taught to focus my energy on someone else, not on me. I don’t deserve to focus on my, that would be selfish. Focus on everyone else, make everyone else happy, and then, maybe there’ll be a little left over for me. And I should be happy if everyone else is happy, right?

So the rest of this year is learning to change the focus to me. To my career. To finishing the ends of things that I’m afraid to finish. To truly finding the life that I left my old one to find. To be selfish, in the best possible way. To fill me and find me and make me happy. And I think that’s scarier than anything I’ve ever done before. But it’ll be worth it.

Dusty bears

In anticipation of my parents moving (Monday, yay!), I’m cleaning out my room so I can migrate 12 feet up the hall to their own room to make way for Monica’s eminent arrival.

Now, I have to preface this with the fact that I collect teddy bears. Not just any teddy bears but North American Bear Company VIB’s (Very Important Bears). They represent either actual historical figures (Beartte Davis and Bearishnikov) or fictional characters (BEary Poppins and Anna Bearanina). They used to be highly collective and very, very expensive. I have 15 of these. If you want to see kind of what they look like, go to Ebay and search for North American Bear Company.

There are a few of these that I don’t really care about. They were bought because my ex was a completionist - you don’t start something and not complete it. So he bought or made me buy four or five that I didn’t really want.

But there are a few that I adore and will never part with.

Bearishnikov - my very first VIB, given to me by my mother and my sister in 1981. He is my favorite. He saw me through my first divorce, my move to LA. He has been loved to pieces, almost literally. I will never part with this bear. (I borrowed this image from an auction site)



Anna Bervlova - you can’t have Bearishnikov without her. Another favorite that I tracked down years later. (borrowed this image, too)




The Snow Queen - she is just beautiful - baby blue and gorgeous. (borrowed image)



Cinbearella - my favorite of all. My ex bought this one for me when I was writing the early drafts of “Cinderella Drives A Pick-Up.” She is one of only 750 made for the Disney Toy Convention in 1991 and extremely rare. She is another one I will never part with because of what she meant to me when she was given to me and the thought my ex put into getting this one for me and the significance of that. Real photo of my real bear.



Twyla explored the bears after I cleaned them. Real photo of my real cat.




Okay, long way around to where I’m going.

These poor bears have been ignored since I moved in with my folks. They’ve sat on the top of my bookshelf, watching, waiting, slowly collecting dust. They’ve faded a bit, they’ve lost a bit of their luster but none of their charm, although 15 of them staring down at me are a bit creepy at times.

What made me stop and think tonight was the fact that I feel like I’ve been gathering dust for the past two years. Waiting, watching, slowly collecting dust. Not moving forward, not moving backward, just sitting on top of something, waiting for someone to take me down and vacuum me so I could mean something again, get some of my luster, my charm back.

The past couple of weeks, I have felt very buried under dust, unable to write, unable to paint, unable to do just about anything. I’ve knit, I’ve watched a shitload of stuff I’ve DVR’d, I’ve packed a lot of boxes (with no thanks or acknowledgement from those I packed them for). But really, for just over two years, I’ve gathered dust.

I’m hoping this move and my ability to actually sit in the living room instead of living in my room with shake the dust off and get me moving again. The universe has taken out the vacuum and is slowly sucking the dust out of me, off my head and, hopefully, off my heart.

And instead of sitting myself back on the shelf, I hope to take the newly cleaned and primped and tidied self out into the world, never to sit on a shelf again.

And now back to my regularly scheduled life...

In just over a week, my parents will be wending their way across the country to their new home in Burnsville, MN. Where it’s cold. Where my sister lives. Where they will spend their rest of their days, hopefully gardening at my sister’s and playing with their grandchildren and maybe having a more full life than they’ve been able to have here.

I’m filled with mixed feelings.

On one hand, I am happy to have them moving somewhere. It’s been a tough two years, sharing this space. My mother is not the most considerate person in the world, to put it nicely. She smokes in the house, despite my asthmatic bronchitis. My lungs will be relieved and happy once that’s gone. Her birds are a sound nightmare, making noise every possible second that they can. The bickering between my parents makes me crazy. My mother sits in the living room and bellows her questions, then yells when she doesn’t get an answer. And on and on.

I’ve reverted to being 13 again while living here. I am apparently incapable of doing anything correctly or doing anything at all. My mother likes to point out when I don’t do something correctly or chastise me for… well… pretty much everything.

Watching my father’s health fail has been the hardest part. This is a man who, until about three years ago, still golfed 9 holes three times a week, despite his heart only functioning at around 15 percent. He loved to go to the casino and sit for hours and play. He loved to go for walks in the neighborhood and hang out at electronics stores.

Now, he can barely manage to get out of the car at the grocery store. Mom usually goes in without him because he’s not strong enough to shop. When the weather’s good, he’ll still shuffle around the block but it takes him about a half an hour to do a 10 minute walk. But he tries to do as much as he can. His newer cardiologist seems to have gotten his medications balanced better so he does have more good days than bad. But now he’s changing doctors and it’ll start all over again.

I have given up a lot these last two years to be here and be available for my parents. Some are tangible - mornings when I’d rather go to a movie than drive Mom to Target, when I’d love to be able to take advantage of free museum days but give them up to help out here, coming home early to see if they need anything. Some are intangible - tolerating my mother’s negativity, giving up a lot of emotional life to be here with them. Maybe even giving up a lot of my life to be here with them.

Yet, I’m very sad that they’re moving across the country. In my entire life, we have only lived that far apart for maybe three years. I moved down to California, they moved shortly thereafter when Dad retired early. They have been a confusing mixture of support and frustration but I know I can always count on them to help me out when I’m in trouble. One phone call and Dad is there. Mom has saved me financially more than I can ever repay.

I’m sad that I won’t be able to just jump in the car and drive down to see them. To take Mom to the mall and hang out. To grab a bite with them at some senior restaurant. I’m sad that we won’t see each other for long stretches at a time. I’m sad they’ll be so far out of my life.

But I am excited at getting my life back.

I feel like the time I’ve had since I left my husband has pretty much been on hold. I knew the roomie situation with the fabulous Tiffany was temporary and then moving into my own sublet for a few months was even more temporary. Moving in with my parents was also temporary. So I’ve been temporary for the past three and a half years. That’s a long time to be temporary. I’m hoping that since I’m staying in the same apartment for the foreseeable future will give me some sense of permanence, some sense of place. Some sense of my own.

The wonder that is Monica is moving in with me, which will only help bring more positivity to my life. I have to be careful not to be so excited about having “my” own place that I don’t forget that Monica needs to have that same sense of place, that sense of her own space as well.

I’m excited at having some peace and quiet in my life. Although I am a social creature and tend to get very depressed when I am not around people, I do need those times of quiet and zen. Haven’t had a lot of that in three and a half years. I’m excited at being able to pick up my guitar and pick up the re-learning curve again. I’m excited most of all about having a space in the living room/dining room where I can paint and not have to move wet paintings into the shower to dry so I don’t knock them over in my bedroom.

And I’ll have a bed. A real bed. Not an Ikea special or a day bed, which is where I’ve been sleeping for two years. But a full queen-sized bed. Where I can spread out and Twyla can again sleep near my feet instead of almost on my head. I can stretch out, not sleep curled up against the bars of the day bed.

And just to finally feel like I’m a grown-up with my own place and my own space and not have to worry about when I have to pack up again or if someone is not going to approve of what I’m doing, even if it means I’m laying in bed all day. My own place.

So I’m sad Mom and Dad will be so far away. But I’ll start saving my pennies for a Christmas visit. And in the meantime, I’m ready to get started on my life -- finally.

Words for those who won’t hear

Many of my friends are experiencing the loss of a dear friend, someone who found himself with no choice but to leave those who love him behind. I don’t know this person, I saw him once in a show and thought he was lovely. But I know those he left behind and I hear their pain and their sorrow and their desire to understand the un-understandable.

I’ve probably stepped on them too often in the last few days, wanting to reach out to them and help them find comfort because I love them and I know their pain. There’s so much I wanted to say to them and maybe I’ve said too much and should have kept my fingers shut and not snet the comments and thoughts I have, but I couldn’t help myself.

So this is for them, those who don’t read my blog, who probably don’t know it exists. This is what I want to say to them.

You couldn’t have stopped him. Even if you’d been in the room, outside the door, on the phone with him, you couldn’t have stopped him.

In that moment, there is nothing. I’ve been there. I’ve counted out the pills, trying to figure out if there were enough to actually do the job. In that moment, I’ve never been clearer about my intention in my life. To make it stop. All of it. The pain, the loneliness, the anger, all of it. I had no hands to dial a phone because they were busy figuring out if a half bottle of Tylenol, four very old Vicodin and a large bottle of vitamin C were enough. I had no mouth to call because it was getting ready to swallow anything I could find. I even debated about the drain cleaner under the cupboard but I knew I wouldn’t be able to swallow that because of the taste.

All I knew in that moment was the pain and the ache and the hurt and the nothingness I felt that my life had become. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Why would they? I mattered not at all.

And it wasn’t their fault. They loved me, they treated me with love, they reached out to me in love. But in that moment, on that razor’s edge, that love didn’t reach. That love couldn’t get through and make me stop. That love, though true and real, felt false and empty. Because I felt false and empty.

And what stopped me wasn’t love. It was anger. Anger at my then-husband. Anger at the fact that he probably would be angry that I’d made a mess and that I’d probably fail and then he’d be angry because I’d end up the hospital and he’d have to take care of me and the money and the bills and on and on and on. And I got angier as I thought about it. And what saved me was that anger. Fuck him was the thought that stopped me. I won’t let him take my life away. I won’t let his anger and his controlling and his own fear and pain heaped on me end my life. Fuck him. I wouldn’t let him take away my life.

I was lucky. I chose to stay here and fight for the life that I wanted. The one time in my life that my anger actually worked to keep me focused on moving forward. The one time I didn’t back down from that anger, I just let it rise.

But unfortunately that anger doesn’t save everybody. Not everybody has a clarifying, life-changing, life-affirming moment in the middle of their suicide attempt. Many just let it go, chose to leave the pain behind and not fight anymore.

My friends will never understand why he did it. Just as many of my friends probably don’t understand why I stood over the sink, a glass of whiskey of some sort in one hand, a handful of Tylenol in the other. I was loved. I was wanted. I was doing so well on so many things. But we can’t know what’s in someone’s mind. We can only do the best we can while they’re here to let them know that they are loved. If they choose not to hear that or not to feel that, there is nothing that can be done. Sometimes, the pit is just too deep and the pain is just too hard. And the choice is no longer a choice, it’s just what is there.

I hope my friends find some solace in their company with each other. I hope they remember their friend and the wonders he did bring to their lives. And I hope they can move past his choice and heal their own hurt and pain and just let their love find him, wherever he is, and give him some peace.