Singing
Gretchen and me. On the porch. At a house of mid-80s hippies. Olympia.
Inside, the air thick with the smoke of childhood. Barely steamed kale
on the stove, drenched in squeezed lemons and their seeds. Sara licks
her fingers and holds a leaf up over my open mouth. Baby bird. Open
throat. Her brown hair like a tuft. Her smile sweet like the grassy
smell of her deeply colored Ecuadorean wool sweater. She is tea on a
wood stove. A black iron kettle. Coals. She laughs as I eat, the kale in
my mouth rough and chewy and stingingly sour.
On the porch in the cold night we sing rounds of goddess songs.
Gretchen teaches, and we go with it, singing simply for the pleasure of
making noise, looking at each other open mouthed and happy, playing with
tones in the electrified air.
I will go on many adventures with her. We will dance half naked in
the pouring rain at night, in a parking lot, at school. We will hunt for
little people and fairies in magic land out in the country. We will
traipse on dark roads through blustery nights to find a long house that
never appears. We will tell tales by a wood stove in a tiny wooden
a-frame on Hood Canal.
Gretchen will always wear purple. She will always laugh and talk in a
tiny, beautifully seductive voice. I will always imagine a world of
spirits and sorcerers in her presence. Together we will sing and become
more than the sum or our parts. She from the edge of Mount St. Helens.
Me from everywhere from San Francisco north. We of the redwoods and
evergreens and sweet grasses and fairies. Friends.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
The Daily Write: Choose your spot (March 13, 2012. 12 minutes)
Choose your spot
It was never simply a matter of choice. Not even in preschool. And certainly not by the time she got to second grade, before she met her best friend. First there was the problem of her lunch. She brought it in a metal lunchbox with a thermos that clunked around the sides. If she wasn't careful, the pearlescent inside glass would break and float around her milk, ruining it.
The cool kids bought lunch from the cafeteria ladies. Warm meatloaf with salty good gravy, or noodles with sauce. Foods that made her mouth water and her mind wander. She was lucky if she had dry tuna and dehydrated apples in a tiny bag with the Weight Watchers logo on the outside. Could she have been any more conspicuous? No, not likely.
Other kids got chocolate milk in cartons and Twinkies if they weren't buying what the school made. And there she was, sitting off at some awful table, looking longingly at the popular girls while they ate oozing mashed potatoes and lunchroom cookies. Her bruised Red Delicious apple was anything but and she just wanted lunchtime to be over.
Peter started putting away the huge folding tables with dark wood-grain vinyl tops. It was loud - he undid the brakes, pushed one side up until the other started rising into a teepee of metal and then linked the two sides together at the bottom before rolling them over to store at the side of the room. She was getting ready to pack up her measly rations, more dissatisfied than usual because Vicki wouldn't trade her anything and she couldn't stand one more day of tuna, when she heard giggling and whispering from the popular table. She looked over and all the girls were talking excitedly - and motioning to her to join them.
She looked behind her wondering who they meant, and realized they really did want her. She came over and they whispered more and more, hiding something behind cupped hands on the table.
"What is it?" Jenny asked.
Sarah and Martha and even Vicki were smiling and motioning for her to come in closer for a look. She tried to see, but couldn't. They kept gesturing and so as they sat on one side of the table, the one closest to the cafeteria service doors, she leaned over the other side, her back to the outside wall where the tables and Peter Gregory were. She tried to see between Sarah's fingers into the shadows. What she was hiding in there Jenny had no idea, but it must've been something wonderful.
They told her to lean in closer and so she did. But still not close enough, she had to practically climb over the table until she was bent in half looking to see what it was that caused such excitement. That was when she heard the laughing. Behind her. Lots of it. From what sounded like many other children. She craned her neck around and the whole rest of her class was lined up, pointing at her and gawking. Her face flushed and she heard her heart beating heavily in her chest. She looked back at the girls and they were laughing too.
"Your panties! They can see your panties!" Martha said, and they broke into new peals of laughter.
It was never simply a matter of choice. Not even in preschool. And certainly not by the time she got to second grade, before she met her best friend. First there was the problem of her lunch. She brought it in a metal lunchbox with a thermos that clunked around the sides. If she wasn't careful, the pearlescent inside glass would break and float around her milk, ruining it.
The cool kids bought lunch from the cafeteria ladies. Warm meatloaf with salty good gravy, or noodles with sauce. Foods that made her mouth water and her mind wander. She was lucky if she had dry tuna and dehydrated apples in a tiny bag with the Weight Watchers logo on the outside. Could she have been any more conspicuous? No, not likely.
Other kids got chocolate milk in cartons and Twinkies if they weren't buying what the school made. And there she was, sitting off at some awful table, looking longingly at the popular girls while they ate oozing mashed potatoes and lunchroom cookies. Her bruised Red Delicious apple was anything but and she just wanted lunchtime to be over.
Peter started putting away the huge folding tables with dark wood-grain vinyl tops. It was loud - he undid the brakes, pushed one side up until the other started rising into a teepee of metal and then linked the two sides together at the bottom before rolling them over to store at the side of the room. She was getting ready to pack up her measly rations, more dissatisfied than usual because Vicki wouldn't trade her anything and she couldn't stand one more day of tuna, when she heard giggling and whispering from the popular table. She looked over and all the girls were talking excitedly - and motioning to her to join them.
She looked behind her wondering who they meant, and realized they really did want her. She came over and they whispered more and more, hiding something behind cupped hands on the table.
"What is it?" Jenny asked.
Sarah and Martha and even Vicki were smiling and motioning for her to come in closer for a look. She tried to see, but couldn't. They kept gesturing and so as they sat on one side of the table, the one closest to the cafeteria service doors, she leaned over the other side, her back to the outside wall where the tables and Peter Gregory were. She tried to see between Sarah's fingers into the shadows. What she was hiding in there Jenny had no idea, but it must've been something wonderful.
They told her to lean in closer and so she did. But still not close enough, she had to practically climb over the table until she was bent in half looking to see what it was that caused such excitement. That was when she heard the laughing. Behind her. Lots of it. From what sounded like many other children. She craned her neck around and the whole rest of her class was lined up, pointing at her and gawking. Her face flushed and she heard her heart beating heavily in her chest. She looked back at the girls and they were laughing too.
"Your panties! They can see your panties!" Martha said, and they broke into new peals of laughter.
The Daily Write: It took me to a different world (March 14, 2012. 12 minutes)
It took me to a different world
"I actually couldn't breathe."
Enola looked at her with one eyebrow raised.
"No seriously!"
She tapped her long thin fingers against the glass coffee table and kicked one foot against the upholstered skirt of the couch. It always amazed her that hotels would risk fabric, couches. They must've have had to replace them often, and now with the return of the bed beds, fumigate. She shuddered involuntarily.
"It was like my whole body just stopped for a minute, except," she took a deep breath to accentuate the drama of the moment, "my eyes."
"Your eyes? Girl, what are you talking about?" Enola had always been dubious. But that was part of why Faye loved her. Although, yeah, sometimes it got on her nerves.
The bartender cum waiter brought them drink menus.
"What can I get you ladies tonight?" he said, rather cloyingly thought Faye. She loved great service but disdained fake good. It was almost worse than downright bad. At least then you knew what you were getting. This guy though, she thought, as she sized him up, was a back stabber.
Enola, who was terrible to service people, told him they had no idea and the table needed to be wiped down and didn't they have any nuts? Faye couldn't stand that particular side of her friend, but by now she was used to it, if not immune.
"Look, I know it sounds ridiculous. I can hear myself talking," Faye said, getting slightly heated under the collar and thus, evoking her long faded Georgia accent.
"Mmm hmm, well, at least you know." Enola flipped through the multi page drink menu searching for the perfect and quite mythical, cocktail. She could never ever decide what she wanted to drink and nothing was ever quite right.
"Just order a cranberry with soda and Grey Goose and call it a day Enola, you know how you are." Faye laughed and continued with her story, not needing to look at the menu at all. She never did. She, unlike her friend, was decisive and regular. She always got the same drink before dinner, and knew which wines to order with which courses.
Enola looked annoyed. She both did and didn't appreciate being known so well. "Oh alright," she gave up. "Go on, tell me all about how Ms. Foster made you feel in that alien movie." She feigned interest as she looked Faye right in the eyes, which only made Faye break out in something between giggles and exasperation.
"I actually couldn't breathe."
Enola looked at her with one eyebrow raised.
"No seriously!"
She tapped her long thin fingers against the glass coffee table and kicked one foot against the upholstered skirt of the couch. It always amazed her that hotels would risk fabric, couches. They must've have had to replace them often, and now with the return of the bed beds, fumigate. She shuddered involuntarily.
"It was like my whole body just stopped for a minute, except," she took a deep breath to accentuate the drama of the moment, "my eyes."
"Your eyes? Girl, what are you talking about?" Enola had always been dubious. But that was part of why Faye loved her. Although, yeah, sometimes it got on her nerves.
The bartender cum waiter brought them drink menus.
"What can I get you ladies tonight?" he said, rather cloyingly thought Faye. She loved great service but disdained fake good. It was almost worse than downright bad. At least then you knew what you were getting. This guy though, she thought, as she sized him up, was a back stabber.
Enola, who was terrible to service people, told him they had no idea and the table needed to be wiped down and didn't they have any nuts? Faye couldn't stand that particular side of her friend, but by now she was used to it, if not immune.
"Look, I know it sounds ridiculous. I can hear myself talking," Faye said, getting slightly heated under the collar and thus, evoking her long faded Georgia accent.
"Mmm hmm, well, at least you know." Enola flipped through the multi page drink menu searching for the perfect and quite mythical, cocktail. She could never ever decide what she wanted to drink and nothing was ever quite right.
"Just order a cranberry with soda and Grey Goose and call it a day Enola, you know how you are." Faye laughed and continued with her story, not needing to look at the menu at all. She never did. She, unlike her friend, was decisive and regular. She always got the same drink before dinner, and knew which wines to order with which courses.
Enola looked annoyed. She both did and didn't appreciate being known so well. "Oh alright," she gave up. "Go on, tell me all about how Ms. Foster made you feel in that alien movie." She feigned interest as she looked Faye right in the eyes, which only made Faye break out in something between giggles and exasperation.
The Daily Write: Someone you remember from high school (March 15, 2012. 12 minutes)
Someone you remember from high school
Charlie. A biker with dark hair, a thick mustache and beautiful,
wide smile. He was an "independent" from Chico who had recently moved to
my town when I met him. Like so many of the circumstances in those
years before I turned 15, I don't remember exactly how we hooked up.
Hook up in the old fashioned way - not the modern, overt connotation.
Because Charlie, was, if anything, a gentleman. Yes, he worked in a porn
store. Yes, he rode a hog and wore leather. Yes, he wouldn't fuck me,
no matter how badly I wanted it. Although, he did screw my best friend
at the time, Tracey. I was hurt and traumatized. But of course, looking
back, I realize how kind he was to me - he protected me when he could
have taken advantage. I thought it was because I wasn't pretty. That's
what you think when a guy says he's "flattered" by your crush. I think
though that he knew under my tough-girl persona, I was innocent and
pure. Meaning, I believed in the power of good and I didn't get how bad
things could really get.
Tracey, for her part, got hurt by his big cock. She said it was
huge and it made her walk funny for the next few days. He must've done
some damage. I didn't want to feel vindicated, but of course, I did. And
I still longed for him, even if I couldn't really picture what that
longing come to fruition would mean.
Before I confessed my crush and Tracey went turncoat on me, I went
to visit Charlie at work. He was way up at the top of Commercial street,
at the aforementioned porn shop. I had never been anywhere like that. I
wasn't old enough and I didn't really have an interest in hanging out
around lecherous winos and pervs. But, Charlie - god, he was such a
hunk. He was probably only 20 at the time, but he seemed years older,
sophisticated, macho, kind, in control - all qualities I craved (still
do if truth be told). So, I dolled myself up with my full coat of
foundation from my forehead to my collar bone, blush, melted eyeliner
applied on the wet inside skin of my eyelid under the lashes, blue
eyeshadow, Mabelline, and Bonnie Bell lip gloss. Plus I set my hair with
two containers of hot rollers and finished it off with a curling iron. I
hated the smell of burning hair, but it was a necessary evil. I put on
my Famolare molded rubber wedge sandals, bell bottom jeans, t-shirt and
unicorn necklace, topped off the whole look with a silk flower on one
side of my head and took off on the long walk up the busy street to
visit Charlie.
Between us, Tracey and I probably smoked a pack of cigarettes
walking up with the loud traffic zooming by in time with the traffic
lights - loud and bright and then quiet for a minute before the next
group of cars came. We went by the cemetery which gave me the creeps but
was also familiar - I mean, where else do you think stoners went to get
high when the cops were cruising the bottom of the park and no one was
home at Charlie's house?
We passed the Circle K where the old man let us drink beer in the
backroom so he could drool all over us, and the gas station where I
sometimes hung out with the country-music loving attendant listening to
Eddie Rabbit on the 8-track.
Seems like I hung out at almost every establishment on that
street - and that was only the right side going up the hill toward the
freeway. Come down the other side and you'd go by Carrow's where me and
my friends Danny and Lori ordered extra crispy fries with a side of
barbecue sauce and coffee that got refilled all night long. We scrounged
together enough money for smokes and the fries and coffee and sat there
till morning talking about sex and drugs and people we knew.
The Daily Write: Marylou walks around her block with a greyhound and a cigarette. (March 16, 2012. 12 minutes).
Marylou walks around her block with a greyhound and a cigarette
What's another word for outcast? One that actually has meaning these days when everyone is an outsider and we're all peering in through the looking glass, or iPhone 4 camera.What is the allure of self portraiture in the post-modern world where cattle are part of the assembly line, Whole Foods gets it vegetables from China and China to the average non Chinese American is the dirty secret we all adore, and abhor. We like our goods cheap, we hate the Chinese for exporting everything they make to us with our insatiable appetites and desire for documentation.
These words are bandied about: disenfranchised, hopeless, bullied, dismal. As a mother, it gives me not a minimal amount of pain to think of what world I've born my children into. I wonder if there will be any polar bears left in 20 years. I like them on film, would damn sure not want to run into one on the tundra, or a floating hunk of former glacier in a salty bay poisoned by oil and a giant patch of polyurethane.
I'm a hypocrite, add that to the pile of words building up around my ears like toxic waste. I think of myself as left of the left, but I want my house protected from the bad guys. I believe in recycling and upcycling and bicycling but I sometimes throw all the old plastic yogurt containers in the garbage because I just do not have the energy to wash them out first. I haven't ridden a bike since I was 15. I'm afraid of falling off, getting hit, or having a sore tush.
I used to think hair could win the war - with the right curl, or smooth flip (more likely), a girl could get practically anything she wanted. Only I've seen those girls face crowds in their swim suits, and there's nothing self assured going on there. They are fakers and outsiders too. Even as they snap their own pics endlessly and post them to Instagram for the "Top Hot Shots" of the day. We hate to be ignored and we hate to really be seen. I guess that's the allure of a Target or Walmart. You can lose yourself among the piles of merchandise - with a mission (not aimless), next to people, but not really seen - everyone's too busy trying to get the best deal while pretending that their purchasing habits don't make them beholden to the 16 hour work days of child laborers in a country they can't imagine as anything more than a caricature.
What's another word for outcast? One that actually has meaning these days when everyone is an outsider and we're all peering in through the looking glass, or iPhone 4 camera.What is the allure of self portraiture in the post-modern world where cattle are part of the assembly line, Whole Foods gets it vegetables from China and China to the average non Chinese American is the dirty secret we all adore, and abhor. We like our goods cheap, we hate the Chinese for exporting everything they make to us with our insatiable appetites and desire for documentation.
These words are bandied about: disenfranchised, hopeless, bullied, dismal. As a mother, it gives me not a minimal amount of pain to think of what world I've born my children into. I wonder if there will be any polar bears left in 20 years. I like them on film, would damn sure not want to run into one on the tundra, or a floating hunk of former glacier in a salty bay poisoned by oil and a giant patch of polyurethane.
I'm a hypocrite, add that to the pile of words building up around my ears like toxic waste. I think of myself as left of the left, but I want my house protected from the bad guys. I believe in recycling and upcycling and bicycling but I sometimes throw all the old plastic yogurt containers in the garbage because I just do not have the energy to wash them out first. I haven't ridden a bike since I was 15. I'm afraid of falling off, getting hit, or having a sore tush.
I used to think hair could win the war - with the right curl, or smooth flip (more likely), a girl could get practically anything she wanted. Only I've seen those girls face crowds in their swim suits, and there's nothing self assured going on there. They are fakers and outsiders too. Even as they snap their own pics endlessly and post them to Instagram for the "Top Hot Shots" of the day. We hate to be ignored and we hate to really be seen. I guess that's the allure of a Target or Walmart. You can lose yourself among the piles of merchandise - with a mission (not aimless), next to people, but not really seen - everyone's too busy trying to get the best deal while pretending that their purchasing habits don't make them beholden to the 16 hour work days of child laborers in a country they can't imagine as anything more than a caricature.
The Daily Write: Behind the Curtains (July 18, 2012. 12 minutes)
Behind the Camera
When someone tells you they can read your mind, be afraid. When they want to read your sacred rose, step away. When they can channel your past lives through "The Jesus Entity," put away your wallet. When you have the chance to meet Ramtha in person, or rather, in the embodiment of JZ Knight, pass it up and go to Wolf Haven instead.
If you are going to get your chart done, tell the reader that it is unacceptable to tell you they "see nothing" after 50. Believe me, you will spend the rest of your life, whatever little is left, waiting to die or lose your memory in 2015.
If you are going to have a drunken woman, ostensibly the mother of your thieving friend, read your palm, for god's sake, do not take stock in the things she says - especially that bit about how having a mole on one palm is okay, but if you get on on the other, it's all over. And don't sit around waiting for one of your twin brothers to bite it before he's 21. Especially after they turn 38.
If your dad tells you the photo you sent him of your daughter was "garbage" and they didn't keep it, ignore him. Do not take anything personally, especially the things that are exactly that.
And if you decide that you can finally overcome your fear of meditation, then please don't mistrust every entity you encounter on "the other side." They can't all be bad. Wait. Reverse that. They are all bad. You can't be sure who to trust. Not in the real world (however fake it might be, Maya and all) or in the internal world.
You might laugh it all off, but you are haunted. Don't lie. Don't pretend it's all okay. When you can't trust your insides or your outsides and you fear people getting into your head and looking at all your thoughts it gets a little too close for comfort. Like this: turn on your computer camera. Go ahead. I'll wait.
Is it on?
Okay, now break the light that turns green or red to alert you the camera is on.
Place some Skype calls.
Chat on IM.
Go to sleep. Get up in the morning. Get on the computer. Remember, your camera is on. Only, you're not connected to anyone. Are you? Are you sure? You can't really know. Go get some duct tape out of your drawer and put the tape over the camera. Now call yourself from another computer to see if any light or image comes through.
Are you safe now? Do you feel you have privacy? Are you sure.
Damn. I can't get the guru out of my head. It's bringing me down.
When someone tells you they can read your mind, be afraid. When they want to read your sacred rose, step away. When they can channel your past lives through "The Jesus Entity," put away your wallet. When you have the chance to meet Ramtha in person, or rather, in the embodiment of JZ Knight, pass it up and go to Wolf Haven instead.
If you are going to get your chart done, tell the reader that it is unacceptable to tell you they "see nothing" after 50. Believe me, you will spend the rest of your life, whatever little is left, waiting to die or lose your memory in 2015.
If you are going to have a drunken woman, ostensibly the mother of your thieving friend, read your palm, for god's sake, do not take stock in the things she says - especially that bit about how having a mole on one palm is okay, but if you get on on the other, it's all over. And don't sit around waiting for one of your twin brothers to bite it before he's 21. Especially after they turn 38.
If your dad tells you the photo you sent him of your daughter was "garbage" and they didn't keep it, ignore him. Do not take anything personally, especially the things that are exactly that.
And if you decide that you can finally overcome your fear of meditation, then please don't mistrust every entity you encounter on "the other side." They can't all be bad. Wait. Reverse that. They are all bad. You can't be sure who to trust. Not in the real world (however fake it might be, Maya and all) or in the internal world.
You might laugh it all off, but you are haunted. Don't lie. Don't pretend it's all okay. When you can't trust your insides or your outsides and you fear people getting into your head and looking at all your thoughts it gets a little too close for comfort. Like this: turn on your computer camera. Go ahead. I'll wait.
Is it on?
Okay, now break the light that turns green or red to alert you the camera is on.
Place some Skype calls.
Chat on IM.
Go to sleep. Get up in the morning. Get on the computer. Remember, your camera is on. Only, you're not connected to anyone. Are you? Are you sure? You can't really know. Go get some duct tape out of your drawer and put the tape over the camera. Now call yourself from another computer to see if any light or image comes through.
Are you safe now? Do you feel you have privacy? Are you sure.
Damn. I can't get the guru out of my head. It's bringing me down.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
The Daily Write: The Plan (July 17, 2012. 12 minutes of mostly raw writing)
The Plan
I was going to list every memory I've been meaning to write about, including the ones that pop into my head at oh dark thirty when the cows are still sleeping and the grass is only just beginning to gather dew. The roosters, on the other hand, are wide awake, about to torture the world when it would rather be sleeping, or making memory lists.
I feel compelled to write it all down before I forget or lose my mind, or get so lost in my memories I dismiss the present. I'm a Jew like that. There are many ways I'm not a Jew. Well, actually, not many at all. Except for that little matter of bloodlines. A paternalistic religion except for the mother thing. Annoying when it all comes down to me through the fathers, "on both sides" my inner child reminds me.
I have done these things, although they weren't part of the plan:
-Rebirthing
-est
-The Experience
-Intensive Journal Writing
-Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain
-Volunteering in Werner Erhard's kitchen (est again)
-The 6 day (more est)
-Peace walks with Tibetan monks
-Skin modification
-Contact Improv
-Performance Art
-Solo performance
-Self-revealing writing
-Naked street performance
-Anti-war protesting
I've had the following things read:
-My palms
-My handwriting
-My cards
-My aura
-My eyeballs
-My knees
-My astrological chart
-My Mayan astrological chart
-My Chinese astrological chart
-My past lives
-My numerology
I like to say I'm a believer. I believe in everything. I believe that what you believe may come to pass for a time when you die, until we all revert to the sameness. Sameness sounds banal. Purgatoryish. Purgatory sounds like living in moderation. Living in moderation makes me have difficulty breathing. I'm an extremist who likes boundaries. I'm a risk taker who needs safety.
Let's be honest. The plan was to grow up to be famous. A singer. A beauty. A dancer. An actress. A model. Being short, fat and loud mouthed somehow never quite fit in with the plan but that didn't stop me from believing. I'm going to be 47 next month. When do you give up on your dreams? Is there a certain age when you throw in the towel and admit defeat?
My favorite humorists are Louis C.K., Margaret Cho and Shalom Auslander. I like to laugh. But you know, I sort of like to cry too. It's a release. I've had less release the older I become. Does this mean all the stress is building up inside me like an unfurled tsunami? Am I going to die young(ish) because I didn't get famous, didn't let it out, didn't resolve, or god forbid (if you believe in that sort of thing), didn't follow The Plan?
I was going to list every memory I've been meaning to write about, including the ones that pop into my head at oh dark thirty when the cows are still sleeping and the grass is only just beginning to gather dew. The roosters, on the other hand, are wide awake, about to torture the world when it would rather be sleeping, or making memory lists.
I feel compelled to write it all down before I forget or lose my mind, or get so lost in my memories I dismiss the present. I'm a Jew like that. There are many ways I'm not a Jew. Well, actually, not many at all. Except for that little matter of bloodlines. A paternalistic religion except for the mother thing. Annoying when it all comes down to me through the fathers, "on both sides" my inner child reminds me.
I have done these things, although they weren't part of the plan:
-Rebirthing
-est
-The Experience
-Intensive Journal Writing
-Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain
-Volunteering in Werner Erhard's kitchen (est again)
-The 6 day (more est)
-Peace walks with Tibetan monks
-Skin modification
-Contact Improv
-Performance Art
-Solo performance
-Self-revealing writing
-Naked street performance
-Anti-war protesting
I've had the following things read:
-My palms
-My handwriting
-My cards
-My aura
-My eyeballs
-My knees
-My astrological chart
-My Mayan astrological chart
-My Chinese astrological chart
-My past lives
-My numerology
I like to say I'm a believer. I believe in everything. I believe that what you believe may come to pass for a time when you die, until we all revert to the sameness. Sameness sounds banal. Purgatoryish. Purgatory sounds like living in moderation. Living in moderation makes me have difficulty breathing. I'm an extremist who likes boundaries. I'm a risk taker who needs safety.
Let's be honest. The plan was to grow up to be famous. A singer. A beauty. A dancer. An actress. A model. Being short, fat and loud mouthed somehow never quite fit in with the plan but that didn't stop me from believing. I'm going to be 47 next month. When do you give up on your dreams? Is there a certain age when you throw in the towel and admit defeat?
My favorite humorists are Louis C.K., Margaret Cho and Shalom Auslander. I like to laugh. But you know, I sort of like to cry too. It's a release. I've had less release the older I become. Does this mean all the stress is building up inside me like an unfurled tsunami? Am I going to die young(ish) because I didn't get famous, didn't let it out, didn't resolve, or god forbid (if you believe in that sort of thing), didn't follow The Plan?
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