Drop of Blood On a Blade of Grass

A drop of blood on a blade
of grass
I began to panic as
badly as the ants that scattered
shaken by it's thud
ruining their morning's labor.

I checked my nose.
I checked my head from
the branch I grazed 3 steps back.

My cheek. It was from my eye!
I wiped my hand across my face
a smear of red followed
wet iron filled my nostrils..

My heart raced causing alarm
the blood will pump faster
I will bleed more
I anticipated the end.

I wanted my mother
I prayed to God
I hugged the tree that stood near me
asking for rooted strength.

Believing that rough bark may
hold my body up
as I slip away into a paradise
even though I preferred this maudlin ball.

I bartered and swore I
would use the things I saved for better times.
I would scuff myself up proper
and not preserve myself for brittle age.

Broken glasses will be cleaned with joy
horrid weather will be embraced
every spider rescued
every mouth kissed unapologetically.

No! The plan is not to be a rake!
But to embraces sweet tides
Love this tree. Love that road.
Adore the simplest things.

Not to destroy to prove life
but garden and grow unbroken
to breathe life into birth
nurture devastation.

I can protect and serve
feed the starved souls sinking empty dollars
into careless pockets
and awaken them while waking me!

Yes! I will be a champion!
If only I can live lush and green.
Praising pioneering stairways
climbing upward eagerly.

Just let me live!

It wasn't until I looked up at the sky
to see the red rain falling that
I realized
the blood wasn't mine.

Soaked in cloudy tears, mine and it's
I stumbled back home
and with the closing of my front door
hope my promises aren't lost
with the lock of the door.

Anywhere else or bust

I've got no place to go.
She's got no place to go
so we stay home and drive each other crazy.

I want to go out-venture, but with a purpose.
I need a game plan for my life.
For our relationship
else we're doomed.

New York City provided us with our own autonomy.
L.A is isolating-lonely.
I'm looking for that click.

I've hit a wall and, ironically,
this town is forcing me to face myself.
Lots of alone time and now
I'm sick of me,
and tired before I even start
of all the things I need to do.

Where to begin?
I don't know
And now time has clamped
onto my ass with a lock jaw grip.

The dog loves me though.

Anywhere else or bust.

To Actually Live Before I Die

Time and mortality are the great levelers of life. It makes us all the same height when it strikes us. We all bend.  But then there are those who, metaphorically, slam their foot on the gas pedal and head, unyielding, maniacally towards their demise without the slightest glimpse at self preservation.
Jim Morrison comes to mind. He danced near the veil that separates life and death and courted the idea of crossing over. Of course, he was a man. He laughed, he loved and thought deeply. The only difference was that he was beautiful and in the public eye. In view of all who knew him or wanted to know him, he dove off of his life and into a casket-soul released and dancing.
We eventually will be alive a hell of a lot longer that we can ever live, and unless one is in a desperate situation that cannot be turned, why not live?
I was terrified of death. Then I lost my grandmother. We were extremely close and now she’s carried on. Of course, I started questioning my own mortality, the wasted minutes that I’ve spent. I’ll still avoid dying like the way a cat avoids a bath, accept now I know that when it does happen, I’ll be okay. Now, I would like to shelve the dying part. The gruesome fettering away of the mind and body, while the spirit fights to be buoyant in a withered, weighty vessel. I don’t want to go out by human stupidity-an oops moment. That would suck.
So now I want to really live. I’m not sure if I’m having a midlife crisis, I’m in mourning, I’m finally getting the big picture or all of the above. Whatever it is, I intend to do the opposite as Morrison or Belushi or any other revered person who went too fast and by their own recklessness.
I suppose there’s something to being too cautious. I seek balance. I seek the thrill that I felt in my younger days with the experience that I’ve collected up until now. I’m not going to say that I’m wise. My bank account is near empty, I have no job and I’m auditioning at almost 40 years old. But it’s the gamble that I’ve decided to take. This is me insanely jumping into waters with a depth that I’m unsure of.
Can this be the beginning of the proper steps that lead me to eat cat food in an 8×10 room of a condemned building? I seriously don’t think so. I have no children to carry on my legacy so it’ll have to be my art-my acting, my writing, my voice. It’ll be what is. That is my calling. I encourage you to follow yours because soon enough the curtain will drop, and don’t you want a standing ovation for your performance? I sure the fuck do.

I thought it was an earthquake but it was actually my BrAiN

I don't like sleeping because of those moments when I prank myself, in a way. There's nothing like feeling vulnerable in your sleep and then suddenly (this is one type of example) I feel rumbling. My first thoughts are that it's an earthquake. I open my eyes groggily and the rumble continues. Only, it's not real. It's coming from behind my eyes. I feel my eyes, my head doing a rocky roll. Five more seconds pass and I become fully awake.

I grab my phone to check for earthquakes. No earthquakes. It was one of my tumultuous dreams. My heart pounds and I feel like I've been messed with. It really takes the joy of sleep away from me, and yet, I cannot function unless I have a minimum of 7 hours, so I have to sleep. So wrong!

At least the sleep walking has stopped.

Night terrors usually end with childhood. I guess my childhood is not over yet.

I really struggle with my magic brain.

I can create. The more it flowed, the more the back lash grew, and so I attempted to suppress it,
and only became a shell. So I've begun again, this time silently. Careful. Tip toeing even though I can feel that uneasiness.

It's pretty cut and dry. I know what I need to do. Create and face it. Luke Skywalker had his failure in the cave. This one was mine, and now it's time to succeed by at least confronting this thing. Whether it's here to stay is anyone's guess.

It's as though I'm missing a valuable lesson in all of this.

I don't seek answers because I know there are none. I simply want the cranial earthquakes to stop. The terror. The darkness. I want it to be a memory. Then I can enjoy sleep.

In the meantime, keeping it weird and making the most of it.

Forgive then Walk Away

I got my heart broken today. By two family members. Actually, one bumped me down from "family" to "relative" and said everything was my fault. The other one was trying to be top dog with me over something completely insignificant. He got personal, and I cut him down. These two then got on the phone and discussed the problem of me. Wow.

To blame an entire incident on someone is astounding to me. But I guess we do that in war every day.
If family, I mean relatives can't get along then how do we expect the world to?

I'm sad that I have to say goodbye to them. Both situations were the big sign to me that it's time to move on. Forgive and move on. I will silently mourn these deaths. I may see them again, and only out of courtesy will I acknowledge them.

What do you do when your portrayed as a bad guy, and in your heart you know you're not a bad guy. People commit some awful things in this family and are forgiven. I make first time mistakes and I am shunned.

I was always taught to forgive-kiss and make up as soon as you can because ya never know what can happen. That extra day of animosity might be someone's last day and then what?

Not everyone knows how not to fight. Not everyone knows how to forgive. Do I feel bad for their childhoods? Do I take pity on them? Or do I just feel this out, heal and carry on?

Honestly, I do have a temper. But I can count on one hand all the altercations that I have had in my entire life-including the school yard. Those two don't have enough fingers and toes to cover one decade. They know how to hold a grudge, drown out reason and vilify. They know how to avoid taking any responsibility.

Neither of them realize how much I held back. The first one didn't want to hear the truth, let gossip spread (she was the source) and garnered allies who retaliated against me. Today she went above and beyond what was necessary. The calmer I got to bring the situation down a bit, the louder she would go, blowing straight past the rafters. Hurtful words, but it's my fault that she said them, according to her. The second one didn't like that I playfully corrected him on semantics and thought he could call me crazy, old, out of the loop in return. It made as much sense as telling someone how to spell something nicely and then getting your ass kicked by that person so that he could show his friends how awesome he is. He did try to humiliate me publicly. That blew my mind, so out of anger, I let him have it.

My question in both cases is WHY? Why light the fuse and then behave in a surprised manner when the stick of dynamite at the end of said fuse blows up then blame the dynamite for any scrapes you may have? It's the matches fault for wanting to be lit. It's the dynamite's fault for working.

Why the lack of responsibility?

My head hurts. My heart hurts. My stomach is in knots. I don't exactly enjoy this. I'm tired. How do people thrive on this. It feels like a cancer, and I desperately want it out of me. The only logical thing is to cut out the cancer. They are not cancer. They are human beings doing the best they can. The situation became cancer. To avoid cancer, one avoids a tanning bed, too much sun, cigarettes, Splenda... So I know what I need to avoid. I ache as I write this, and I blog it because even if no one reads this, I know I've put this out there and, now I have to commit to what I'm saying. This could be seen the other way around, too. I'm bad for them. So now it's over.

I'm grateful for the people in my life who would never be in this scenario with me to begin with. Who love me even if I use the wrong word. Who understand that I am also doing the best I can. Who would never hurt me, betray me then behave as though it was all me. Who love me even when I'm unlovable. I've got a lot of those people, and I love them in kind. I love. I even love those two. I really wish them the best. Truly. But we are now strangers.

I made mistakes. I'm paying for them. I'm walking away, and I hope the sun comes with me.

Waiting for the Day That is Here

The last few years I've felt more awkward talking to people face to face, but I guess that's what sobriety does to you. I'm suddenly that only child that's thrusted into a classroom with PEOPLE. Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking down the elderly and stepping on children. You can't see it. I just feel it. That slight suspicion that I'm not like the other children. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels this way. Far from it. We all have that one thing that makes us different. And I'm not insecure about it. Fuck no! The weird thing is that I am not insecure. Me. Overweight in a bulimic or anorexic town-older than everyone these days, everyone who is chasing the dream that I've encountered, anyway.

My one thing that makes me different is that I can feel what you feel. And I don't play that game where someone tries to make me guess what they're feeling. This isn't a carnival, and I'm not the tweeked out carny who is going to try to guess your weight, fuck you for even entertaining the thought. I pick up on emotions. It gives me the gift and curse of empathy. It strikes me to the core. I used to block it with my party habits, but now I have to face the feeling.

As of the past year and a half I've become a bone yard skulker. It started out as a hunt to find celebrity grave sites, but now I go there to be in peace. Though, I don't think it'll be where I end up when I pass. I have different spots that I like to go to. I respect the body that's there. As any occupant of space, they may come and check things out from time to time, so I am sure to thank them for letting me hang out there. My hobby may sound eccentric, but it's nothing more than me being able to be outside without dealing with frenetic people in make believe situations, trying to pin time under their thumbs in their best clothes and cleanest, sleekest cars. The truth is, I don't want to compete. None of that stuff has ever felt important to me. I'm no fool, I would love a fine income and the choice to choose between this showroom car or that one, but I want to do it in a t-shirt and jeans. I want to pay for things quietly. If my face is recognized because of my endeavors, then I'll deal with that, but my times of wicked debauchery are behind me, and my day to day is benign, so I doubt if any voyeurs will take any interest in me outside of my work.

I wait for the day when this sensitive, maybe old soul, but new at life human, will achieve the things I set out to do in spite of the crooked roads and temptation, the hucksters and misers. Then I can make my backyard into that peaceful place sans bones and tombstones. I'll have hallways and rooms-a lush den-that is free of the poor cats that I find myself allergic, too.

My oddities, that which sets me apart will finally blossom. I've waited long enough. Patience is virtuous, but for a long time, she's been a whore in my house. I want to see the other side of her, the virtue. The side where we embrace and I softly tell her, "thank you". I want to be the woman to tell people to be patient and mean it. To open my arms and say, "I'm proof that things will prevail. You can, too!"

I'm ready to receive my fortunes. I can handle it now. I have love, now I need the house to place it in, keep it warm, fed and creative. Now.

Gotta Keep Moving

I have willingly hurled myself into an episode of Wife Swap. My television addiction has hit an all time low. It goes hand in hand with my recent unemployment. My next step will be to wear a stained shirt and holey socks. Each morning I meditate and create a verbal list of all that I am thankful for. I approach the day with positivity. It's hard. I own a house in the land of instability, and I'm ready to sell. I'm attending auditions and gearing myself up to write. This is what I do. This is what makes life scary, but the conventional world seems to reject me time and again. It's not necessarily a bad thing. The essential harshness is no money, and that has passed humility and taken me straight into a throbbing ache.

My dog has been keeping an eye on me, and now the cats seem to be doing the same thing. At first I thought that the cats were doing thus because if I crack, who will feed them? But I see genuine concern. It's nice. I love them, too. The dog has taken lead and is becoming increasingly colorful.She's practically juggling just to keep me amused.

I have been out of the apartment daily. The other day I went on an 8 mile hike with friends-nearly all a steep uphill trek-in Griffith Park. It was tough, but it felt good. I wasn't sore the next day because I did some stretching afterward. It feels so good to stretch. I need to remind myself to do it more often. Thinking back, that hike was so surreal. I was so slow going down the hills that I wonder if I'll be invited again, but great balance is not something I was born with. I need to work on it. I saw a beautiful, rascal of a horse with a cowboy astride, run up a steep incline effortlessly. My physical challenge aligned with a mental one was definitely tested. Towards the end, I thought I would never make it down, but I kept moving. It was my 1st hike in decades, and the longest one ever. I did it, and that feels amazing.

My hypochondria has taken up a few time slots in my day, and I'm wondering if I have a silent pneumonia from a cold that I had 2 weeks ago. My cough rises abruptly and not all that often, but I am still a bit congested. I know I have a stethoscope around here somewhere. Between my own lung examination and Web MD, my prognosis will probably be a strain of ebola with two weeks to live.

So far, my girl is being supportive, but I'm waiting for her to have a momentary lapse, and pull the rug out from under me as she has done in the past when finances are involved. I can understand that she doesn't want to be taken advantage of-probably just as much as me not wanting to be supported or have to answer to someone about how I handle my bills. It's brutal, and not fair to her, but it's not fair to me either. I work hard.

I've debated not doing my taxes since I will owe and have no way of paying, but my Dad told me that I have to do them, along with a string of reason as to why I must. I understand exactly what he says, but I try to play dumb in hopes that he give up and stop, but no such luck, so I agreed. I look forward to being a future tax outlaw, as I've never been in that situation before. Cheers to a new addition to the jack of all trades. I'll put this experience on the shelf next to the time when I was attacked by a bunch of fleas in a friend's apartment. Good times.

I've experienced so much in my life, and I remember it all. I would like to know how the other side does it. Of course, I now realize that the only way that I'll have a chance to achieve this is if I follow my heart and carry it through. Otherwise, I'll keep dead ending and finding myself in this cycle that I have become bored of. I get it. Can we move on now, God?

Ultimately, no one knows what will happen next. The world can flip on anyone in a nano second. There is no such thing as stability. I know this. But still, it would be nice to have the option to use that illusion.

Wife Swap is over, and so is my sullen attitude. I know I've got to keep moving. Like fish, if we stop, we die, and I'm not ready to die yet. Time to assume the happy face and my "life is beautiful" attitude. Ggrrr. Sometimes that sucks.

But I already graduated! Kindergarten conveyor belt

My pre-school graduation had a cap and gown ceremony. It was the first time I wore make-up. I had just recovered from the chicken pox and needed a little cover up for some of the spots that were recovering. From my understanding, caps and gowns mean school is over, or so I thought.

You can imagine how surprised I was when I was awoken early a few days after my fifth birthday. I was dressed in my favorite color green, photographed, fed and led out the door. Next thing I know I'm standing in front of a classroom, holding my mom's hand and watching weeping children being led, one by one, through the door like lambs to a slaughter. Why were they all crying? What was going on? I already graduated! I looked up at my mom and told her that, "but I already graduated." She just smiled and continued to pull me closer to that blue door. I panicked. I ripped my hand from my mother and tore out of there. I bolted into the parking lot, dodging cars, looking around wildly, an animal just escaped from the circus.

I can remember being out of breath, frantic. I didn't know where to go, but I was going. Cars were braking, and I kept weaving. That is, until I got caught. I was taken back to the classroom, all the while uttering, "but I already graduated! but I already graduated!"

I fought back tears. I had an automatic stop button that prevented me from crying in public. No matter how hard I struggled, those big fat pools of water busted out as I realized that there was no hope. I was strapped to the kindergarten conveyor belt. I was ushered in to the RED table, which was stupid because it wasn't red, but that's where the folded piece of cardboard was that had my name. It was the table closest to the door. Well, that was the least they could do.

Glimpse of Light

Cool kids are clanking and clutching and avoiding
the new world notion that they're days
are nothing but nostalgia, and it's
never going to happen again.
They will never feel the air before we
were wi-fied, texted and social media'd.
The circuitry fills up the sky and only tiny spots
of blue remain

We've locked ourselves inside and
everybody wants to stay there eating
gluten-free gluttony and NPRing the night away in
righteous knowledge and commitment to
what is happening NOW
not realizing that it's happened before again
and again in the hamster wheel of existence
staying strengthened and made of tungsten with the help
of youtube diy or internet passwords that are lost or hacked or
renewed to keep the live stock branded and accounted for.

This generation-vigilant
determination pouring out of their technical brains
and reality show view point
pushing to change a gazillion years of name brand evolution

The hippies were stoned in the 60s
idealistic, eager to push the love agenda
then cocained in the 80s when they created our
current matrix and joining ranks with the greed agenda
now stern with their materialistic, activity oriented children who pleaded for hugs
instead of schedules
now, they, hipsters are not high enough or
ridiculously zonked out on pharmaceutical grade pills
their everlasting gobstopper
they, well structured but unaware of the true grit
the heartbeat of any city that derives from
inner city kids that know the true black and white spectrum of
the universe they can't afford and
the ones who break out from under poverty lines and through college loans still
second fiddle to media driven horror stories on weather and
breaking LA news of the shirtless man on the roof who won't come down.
SO WHAT!

Oops. Right. Keep pace on my hamster wheel. Yes. Yes.
American Idol and idiotic coverage of fallen celebs who
have tipped the scale and will never work again. Yes. Yes. We care about this.
Distract us.
Keep us fatted with margarine and manuer
frighten us with sex and labor slaves living down the street and
bullies spray painting hauntingly similar rhetoric as
billionaires and politicians
these money junkies thrive on nepotism and stepping on faces
any face will do as long as it eliminates smiles.

Yes. Yes. The world is changing. Oppression is a thing of the past
says the man who flicks the ashes of his cigarette into the murdered hand
of a silver back guerilla as he wraps himself in tiger cub fur and eats chocolate
with cocoa bean that has children finger prints.

Johnny Gosch, what did you have to see? And whoever covered your eyes
blinded the nation with the notion that you and
all the others were taken on a lark.
Never mind the insidious puppet masters who control this crime ring that
has viewed White House walls and back alley bodies of the discarded, twisted
power monger's toy.
And the mind control continues.

But what of the day to day
the means of not letting darkness take over every
glimpse of light?

The trot of a dog's walk
singing a favorite song
hello to a stranger, a neighbor, the clerk who rings you up
looking at the trees
local architecture
treating yourself to a candy bar
having that drink
the clarity given when you see someone you love
our friends already met and yet to meet
the smile of a baby
your smile
simplicity simplicity simplicity
humming to yourself, drinking warm tea and
bundled under a blanket.

It's the beauty that will prevail
grow from between the sidewalk cracks and
blanket the world
heal the world
believe in the light of love of which
we were born with
clutch onto photographs of those who taught us to love
some now with their wings draped over us, unknowingly keeping us close and
one day escorting each of us when our clock's have stopped and it's
time to discard this borrowed skin for a lighter, leaner more perfect version.

You're never alone. You're always loved.
The horrors? They live here, too.
The true test
to help with a smile
with five dollars
with animal rescue
with thank you
with whatever you're most armed with
giving more getting twice back and
lighting even the darkest corner.

Light.
Love.

Yes. Yes.

The hamster wheel collapses.
You are now free to roam the cabin.

Deal Breaker: To Forgive or F*%k off

About five months ago, I had a falling out with a cousin of mine who, was really like a best friend. I used to look up to her mother. People would always say I looked and sounded like her, and I relished that attention because my aunt was cool. My aunt knew karate! Now, my aunt has fallen from grace. She's a drug addict with a brain that resembles cottage cheese.

It must be a fantastic high that she experiences, great enough to throw her life away for it-rainbows and cartoon birds resting on her outstretched finger. All the little woodland creatures dancing around her. I've been on drugs and alcohol, but I always kept my feet on the ground. There was a part of me that never wanted to completely let go. Maybe it was also the fear of mentally slipping away and becoming roommates with a girl that eats her crayons and insists that her shadow is really her dead dog Hector who came back from the dead. I don't want that reality. I don't want to be a squatter or get strong hankerings for hitting up Walmart at 3 am so that I can get more felt color by number art kits. Have you ever scene the crafts sections at these stores late at night? It's like Night of the Living Dead.

Like many drug addicts, she's deluded into thinking that nothing is her fault and everyone is picking on her. She has removed herself from everyone-favoring the role of misfit victim. The world is against her. She lost a fabulous sense of humor, too. Meanwhile, she's abandoned the role of mother to her four children, all of whom are grown-up now, but the youngest never knew her sober, and has had a rough life because of her mother's actions. And like many children who've lost their parents to addiction or abuse, they stand by her faithfully.

In her case, her daughters behave like she's a future canonized saint. I love my mom, and would like to think that she walks on water, but I'm aware of how human she is. I remember my teen years and most of my 20s. Yes, I was difficult, but so was she. She was downright mean sometimes. My point is, that no matter how much I love her, I am not in denial. These three cousins, her daughters, are blind, devoted culties-it's weird. She missed out on so many crucial moments of their lives in favor of the glass pipe with it's methy substance, but they remain with her in the canoe named DENIAL, as they all drift aimlessly.

A major catastrophe: my grandmother passed away. You can read to me thousands of pages out of the book of comfort and it will not repair the shotgun blast in my chest. Many know this wound, and are familiar with the zombie state that kicks in now and then. I have faith. I believe in God. I am aware. I also miss her, and am constantly on the verge of tears. But I pull back the sadness and forge ahead.

It's of no surprise that I became very upset when this aunt was caught in my grandmother's room, rummaging through her jewelry only moments after the ambulance took my grandma's body from her house. When I brought this up later to my one of the cousins, she replied with, "she has her reasons."
Puzzling. I bit my tongue-hard. My mom and other aunt have invited this aunt to help go through grandma's things (a painful process) so that they each can part with something sentimental, to which this aunt refused, as it would look on her martyrdom resume. The invitation was there. It's not as though she was going to be "left out". Point is, I am furious about this, but not wanting to rock the boat, I sit with this until I can figure out a way to address the subject in a way that doesn't involve me strangling anyone.

In order to to reduce confusion, I'm going to make up names for these relatives. In spite of what's gone on, I still love them and respect their privacy. Here are the names as followed:

The aunt-Alice (go Ask Alice)
eldest daughter-Flopsy
middle daughter-Mopsy
youngest daughter-Cotton Tail
son-Peter

I am being kind in naming them as it did cross my mind to name them after infamous cult followers, all but Peter (he's a reluctant player in this game), but I refrained.

Cotton Tail graduated from high school, and like her sister, Mopsy, was thrown out of their father's home on graduation day. The dad is a real peach-the kind that you'd feed to crocodiles without batting an eye. The girls moved in with their mother. Mopsy was there a short time before she moved back in with her boyfriend and their son. Cotton Tail shadowed her mother, Alice, night and day, starved for any attention that she can get from her mother whom she was separated from at around 11 years-old and sent to live with her father. For two years prior, Cotton Tail had the honor of sleeping in cars and hotel rooms then eventually in a trailer in someone's backyard with her mother. She had a cereal diet, a perfect staple to match the instability that was now her norm. Alice is a negative person though she claims to be a positive entity, for she sees herself as an enlightened spirit on her last life because of what a psychic told her. This adds to her universe as she walks around sage like when in fact, she's a sack of earthbound negativity that has sapped her and forever left her as a part of discarded, unfortunate weeds.

I noted Cotton Tail being in a toxic environment and also that she should be looking into going to school, getting work, joining a gym-something! She's 18. She should be taking advantage of her time; doing something productive. Cotton Tail has struck me as being a bit slow so she may need more guidance than the bright go getter that some are blessed to be. I texted Flopsy and told her thus, (not the dumb part) using the word toxic, a clear reference to her mother. My mistake. Flopsy forwarded my suggestion of Cotton Tail's betterment to Alice who in turn, twisted the whole thing while showing the text around to everyone that could read including other family members. Alice then chose to call me on my birthday and express her disappointment in me, that I am now one of "them"-one of those speeches that make no sense unless you've been up for three days, but I got the point. I left an angry voice mail with Flopsy that was far too fueled, and I know I should've waited, but I felt betrayed, especially because the knife in my back was still hot. The shit storm ensues.

Cotton Tail comes to the rescue and instant messages me her disapproval with fifth grade flair. I banter for a while but when Cotton Tail tried to drag my little sister into it, to which my sister was a pocketful of amused sarcasm, Deal Breaker. Involving my sister was bringing a gun to a dinner table. I have no choice but to take it from you and shoot you with it. My brother and sister are sacred, clean, untainted and void of the type of pettiness that this has become. I can't believe that I'm in it and am angry at myself for letting it happen. I meant well. I really did. I quit correspondence with Cotton Tail. Her response, she defriends me on facebook. Is that the 21st century's way of her storming out and slamming a door in one's face? I am curious by this. What's the etiquette? Defriended! Oh know! Am I suppose to start cutting myself and post pictures of the wounds with a note referring to my shame? Do I start my own youtube page and voice my pain through interpretative song and dance? Do I retaliate and then block her out completely as though she's never existed in my cyber universe? I admit, I did. Juvenile, I know, but I need to remove myself from these people, family or not. 

Flopsy comes forward and wants to squash this whole thing. I agree. As soon as I do, she then cuts me off. The ball needed to be in court, I suppose. She had to be the executioner. Her facebook comments are saturated in the love for mankind, the peace that we should all maintain etc. etc. The hypocrisy was too much to take, and I knew my curiosity would take me to her page now and then. Remember, she was a best friend. We were raised not as cousins, but as sisters. I took her off facebook, then she blocked me. We no longer speak. It hurt for a long time, but then I remembered the family that I created from the friends that have come into my life, and I found comfort in that. Flopsy doesn't have that. Most of her friendships have resulted in unresolved fights. Hhmmm...

Ridiculous drama. I write this because it's been five months. Peter has had to take in Alice and Cotton Tail, and I can only imagine that his life has become quite interesting. He reaches out to me now and then, but being the brother and son, he's bound to his family. I believe he even slung an insult or two at my mother recently. I don't want to believe it, but if that's the case, karma is a bitch and currently living in his house. But I do hope it works out for him.

My question on this whole thing: Is forgiveness a word that's left up to interpretation? Are people so stubborn and full of pride that they can't surrender to forgiveness? I have tried to reach out to Flopsy, Mopsy and Alice-they ignored me. Perhaps it was too boring of me to come forward. It wasn't exciting enough for them. I don't know, but that brought the hurt up again. I also ask myself if I forgive them? And I do. But I don't think I can let them near me again. I wish I could cut out the knowledge of Alice stealing from my grandma. THAT is what clings to me hard.

The whole forgiveness thing came up when my girl, having had a few drinks, boldly told our neighbors while in their home, that they needed to chill out on fighting in front of everyone all the time (they do and it's uncomfortable). That was the theme of what she said. I wasn't there. I only know that she also ad libbed and now regrets it and has apologized a couple times, and they have chosen to ignore her. She spoke the truth. It may not have been pretty or eloquently worded, but she is now being punished for it just as I am being punished for spouting truth. What is that?

Is this the sacrifice we make for being honest? Is it too hard to break from one's own ideologies long enough to listen to someone who can help one improve? Or do people just like the drama? Do they thrive on the anger? The resentment? I get tired if I'm mad for more than twenty minutes.

I have had people do and say horrible things to me for no other reason than to inflict pain; to confirm and feed their disease and simultaneously flood the energy field with more sadness and negativity. Some may have taken some time and most of these incidents weren't forgotten, but I did forgive them. A couple people have been forgiven though I choose to not allow them into my life anymore because they are poisonous, but I am not poisonous. My girl is not poisonous. Yet, we are unforgiven. I think, maybe, I need to include myself in the same realm where I place my siblings. The moment a bad action comes this way, I need to shield myself and cut out the cancer that is flung this way rather than let it get inside me and allow it to fester. That would be my instagram face book sign were I to ever post the drama in my life-DEAL BREAKER.

It may sound jaded, and I don't think it is, but it comes down to this: forgive or fuck off because I've got better people to devote my time to. This concludes my Springer episode... I ask one thing of anyone reading this, if you knew you had only a week left and there were some people that you needed to forgive including yourself, as a part of wrapping up your affairs, would you do it? If you don't know how much time you have left, is there time to forgive?

I have to think about that one, too.

Mom and the House of Fun

I'm afraid my Mom might be going crazy. This strikes me as unoriginal, as I realize how many conversations, the world over, begin with this sentence.

To preface: My Mom isn't a freaked out wing nut who wears a tin foil hat, nor does she create the sensation that one feels when they open up the snakes in a can prank for the first time, and never once have I been awoken by a manic woman, enraged and freaking out in the garden while in a shaky voice, demand that I bring her the axe. If that sounds like you're Mom, I'm sorry. But I'm not talking about your Mother. I'm talking about mine.

Mom's been going through some seriously tough times. Just to name a few things, in the last few years, she's gone up against breast cancer, lost her house of 25 years, her dog/best friend died when a dresser drawer, that was being cleaned, tipped over on him (total freak accident), she lost her mother, her rheumatoid arthritis is still as predictable as a raging alcoholic and her husband is permanently disabled and partially disassociated from all the medication that he has to be on. Good times, right? Well now that I've created the sundae, let's put the cherry on top.

The cherry: agreeing to live with her recently widowed and mostly immobile and disabled father (this totally breaks my heart, which, at this point, is pulpy and bloody, but still beating), her sister, who cannot be present unless there are party streamers and alcohol involved, her sister's 3 felonious, gang affiliated, adult children, who use the place as a crash pad, showering, eating the food (what my mom and grandfather have purchased) until it's gone and giving the house the honor of being at the top of the list for police raids. In all fairness, the eldest of the 3 does help out a lot and is making an effort to better himself, but he still looks like an extra for a Cheech and Chong movie.

That's not all-then there's her sister's youngest teenage son, a video game addicted, awkward, sometimes mouthy to his grandfather, kid who has been taught by his father to shoot small animals and clean the skulls sparkly to keep as a trophy (this mixed with latent bed wetting and having friends half his age has made me wonder if he's destined to be a Criminal Minds episode.) Writing this can very likely screw me considering that I have other family members who, as of late, have shown an aptitude for being full of vengeance and out for my blood, but that's another story. If they want to get me, now there's a chance (luckily this group aren't known to be big readers).

Okay, where was I, oh yes, then there's my transient, heroin addict uncle who has officially lost his marbles from the combination of drugs, jail, streets, clipped bits of knowledge of God, the Aztecs and space aliens. He recently stole two 3 foot pot plants from someone's yard, and used his bicycle as the get away vehicle, and made it as far as "the house" a good sized ride- to stash in the garage-a ridiculous visual. Yep, that's my uncle. He doesn't live there, but he likes to make cameo appearances to stash stolen property, pick fights with my 79 year-old grieving grandfather and just visit. This was the same guy who had once been scouted as a 15 year-old in the 70s for striking out (south paw) 20 out of 21 batters in a game. All of his baseball games were like this. This, kids, is what drugs do.

There's also the other sister, whose drug use, she vehemently denies, even though she's quickly approaching easy entry to a Keith Richards family reunion. All she needs now is a well earned tic.
Her behavior is reminiscent of Mel Gibson's anti-semitic episode mingled with the philosophy of Veruca Salt. She likes to sleep in her van right outside sometimes. In fact, all of her tweeker induced junk collecting created a shit storm of bed bugs in "the house" that is now being remedied, hopefully. That is if my Mom's functioning and employed sister can take the time out of her perpetual conga line.

My Dad lives there. He is a product of a chain of Frankensteinian doctors who have patched him up, then repatched, cut, fused, defused, rodded, squeezed, broke, splintered, welded, flame broiled and riddled his body with so much scar tissue that the Chili Peppers may need to revise their song if they knew about him. This, all from the time he was 27 years old with still more to come. He's a mess. From the knees down, his legs are black, from the neck up, he is on the kind of meds that would kill Kate Moss and her entourage. The results: he's a little gabby, spacey, frustrated, in pain, done, convinced that someone's put the whammies on him and every other thing that you could imagine would go through someone's head after 26 years as a science project. It's a sin, really because he's a good guy-the guy you want on your side, and once he has your back, he'll never leave you.

My 16 year-old sister is enduring with good spirits. But that's just her-water off a duck. She's the type that if something gets in her way, she'll go around, over or under it without even mussing a thread on her jeans. Obstacles simply don't exist for her. She just plain doesn't see them. Sometimes she gets annoyed, but mostly, she'll shrug it off and just do her own thing. My sister's cool as hell, and I wish I had been given these attributes in the innate way that she has. If it were me in this situation, I would've run away. If it was my brother, he would've burned the house down then gotten on an airplane, all the while claiming political asylum, but her, she just looks around and smiles, amused. I keep telling her to take notes. She's got a best seller on her hands. She, along with Mom and Dad have a ridiculously happy dog with the vocabulary of Scooby Doo and two pampered, intelligent cats who know the score. Hence, you don't see them ever. The dog is very closely watched just in case there's a psychopath visiting that day.

Finally, there's my imprisoned cousin's son. (This cousin's the 3rd child of my Mom's sister-a regular Bonnie Parker with a red rag, and the reason for the last raid). Her kid is cute as hell and not quite 5. He's precocious, hyper, super intelligent, charismatic and independent-he does his own laundry and aspires to be a performer like Bruno Mars-I want that for him, too. He's definitely got the personality for it, and it just might save him. We would all like to avoid having him be a real life character from a movie like American Me. It's a scary world out there. I want to see that awesome kid win life over with a song and dance.

And did I mention that there's a ghost in "the house"? I'm not kidding. He's there, too, and has been seen and likes to occasionally throw a thing or two. Dick.

This is the cast. The funny part is you would never know it. As banged up and strange and twisted they can be, they are the most charismatic, fun people to have around-true descendants of my grandparents in that we are great to be around. A guy went up to my brother at my cousin's wedding and said, "Your family really has it together." Yeah, we all laughed hysterically about that.

My Mom has always referred to my grandfather as the head vampire, and that he is. We are all disciples of his mad cap and vivid humor. No one escapes without at least one good laugh, but as much as I love him, he's a pain in the ass. Even before he had a hard time moving about, he insists on being waited on hand and foot. There's no rest for Mom. Sometimes the lady who cooks and tidies up comes over-thrice a week, in fact-but she's all about cooking with lard and trying to pawn off her daughters to one of my cousins or worse, my brother. I get it. We're all opportunists in our own way, but the days of being pimpy with your children went out with Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Lately, one of my cousins has tried to turn Gramps onto facebook. I've already made a mental note to kick him hard next time I see him. Christ! That's all I need. And how can you deny a friend request from your loving Grandfather? You can't!

So back to my original statement, my Mom might be going crazy. Do I really need to explain any further as to why? She seems to be the lucid one living there, next to Gramps and lucidity isn't recommended in order to live here. Her finances are what keep her shackled here-a regular Hotel California-"you can check out any time you like but you can never leave".

I'm waiting for her famous Scorpio driven temper to blow the lid right off the top of her head followed by confetti and the sound of fire engines and bicycle horns also tumbling out of her skull, now heard not just by her, but by all.

I don't crave the idea of Mom losing it, far from it. I've tried to counsel her during our phone calls. She's usually on the ledge, and once, I could talk her down, but now, she doesn't want to come down. She's familiar up there. She may even take up a hobby of jacks, juggling, the yo-yo or the hula hoop to bide her time while she lives there, and I can't say I blame her.

Truly, this is a test, the journey that she needs to take, but it doesn't make it right. Then when you consider the Law of Attraction-the magnets that we are, and Mom trying to stay positive and happy while this deranged circus continues, tirelessly. How can she do it so that the good stuff will start drifting her way? When you're sick, tired, grieving and surrounded by those who, were this the 40s, would have been the chosen ones for lobotomy and lifelong residence in an asylum. These people are a Pink Floyd song. Shine on You Crazy Diamonds! She's like Frances Farmer-deemed insane but merely her own strong willed person, yet forced to live in "the house of fun". How can I preach to her to turn that frown upside down and ignore those goofy bastards? How can I tell her to not let it get to her when it would even possibly "get" to the Dalai Lama? She's just got to rise above it though. When faced with the harshest of circumstance, we have to find a way, any way to let in the light. I need her to do that. I don't want an insane Mom. I just don't. I'd like to take her to Paris someday and I couldn't do it if she ate her lipstick and wore her underwear outside her pants. The only thing I can do is stand by with a metaphorical defibrillator, and occasionally jolt her while keeping her on this side of the rainbow. I need my Mom's magnet to radiate happiness, health, good fortune, and all around chirpy positivity. It's tough because, in a way, she's been given the ruby red slippers, but knows that if she clicks her heels together, she'll end up...home...it makes me want to tear my clothes while I run screaming. May my Mother's Twilight Zone episode end, and soon begin with an awesome rendition of something up, like a Gene Kelly flick, for her sake. God, I know you're listening, send in the troops, man down! Man down! It's time.

Share your Universe

Prince said that his musicianship comes from creating his own universe, and allowing only certain people to occupy space in that universe. It's interesting to hear him say that. I am and was a huge Prince fan. Whereas I once (as an 11 year-old) wanted to marry him, I now can watch him from afar and just appreciate the fact that the dude is bad ass.

As a segue, I would look ridiculous dating Prince. The guy wears a size 12 in boys pants. The whole thing would end in fiasco as I would make attempts to slouch and not eat just so we could look similar sized.

Back to the topic at hand. My universe was created when I got here. I nurtured it and preferred to exist in it, but it's not closed to the public. If it was, I think I'd be so completely out of touch.

Jim Morrison once said, "I won't come out. You must come in-to my universe. Where I can construct a universe within the skull to rival real." I think it's what Prince is saying in a way, and again, I question the detachment from the rest of the world. Isn't it the everyman that we artistically would like to reach? Prince isn't exactly reaching new audiences with new music these days probably because of his insistence on staying in his own world.

I'm confused by the disconnection. I read that John Lennon used to write songs in blue collar bars where he could listen in to conversations and feel the vibe of these people. I think this was his success because he wanted to connect-to be apart of the people.

I think I'm onto something here. I once lived in an acting conservatory universe which was a wild one and a loving one that allowed me to nurture and carve out my craft, but then I left and went into the real world and used my ability to observe, participate and feel a variety of people around me, and that's what made me good. Being solely sequestered in one area can be the death of one's art.

I'm acutely aware of this tonight as I left a disappointing acting class. In this case it's a universe that has no growth. I've learned more at a coffee shop or in a movie theater than I learned tonight which really angers me because I could've done something so much better with the money I spent on these 8 sessions like buying a pair of Dr. Scholl's inserts, 10 rounds of miniature golf and a weekend at a hotel in Oxnard-far more productive and just as good of an investment. I can't get better at acting, no matter how many cool drills are there if I'm not being challenged. When you act, you're typically not alone, unless you're a one woman show. You're partner also has to be good so that the ante can be continually get upped but if they're not great then where's the progress? Also, the acting coaches need to be good enough so that they can, first, act like they like you. If you're not convinced by something as simple as that, then how the fuck are they going to teach you anything beyond that. I speak of one instructor.  She is someone I would prefer to not reside in my universe.

The universe we create has to have undesired moments or irritating people in it or we won't grow. One cannot be so disconnected that the world around you is as absurd as a David Lynch film. I now have to question acting classes or any other program that is built in one's own "personal universe" I don't do exclusive clubs, why the hell am I going to want to do an exclusive universe?

If you are artistic, and you want material, don't place yourself on an island. Always have your finger on the pulse. Know the world and then give your own interpretation. Otherwise what's the point of life if you won't be living in it fully while experiencing every type of cuisine rather than a daily dish of spaghetti and meatballs for the rest of your life.

late late Saturday night August 19/20, 2000

Turned on
tuned in
satin bodies affecting the other
in good graces
and broad melt down
we burn gently
oozing out the walls of repression
leaking through adored feeling
cherished feeling
rose colored glasses on a
starry night
Saturated smiles and galaxy mood
swim in moonlight
we bathe in mystic reflections
embrace it all
riding on the notes of music and
gliding naturally-

I don't feel mangled and trapped right now. I have to remember to relax during days' hours.
Walking to the rays of sun and reloading refreshment that blue skies can offer.
I'm writing and words are just falling out and over and onto this page. I reckon I like this. Would this be a sport?
Exercising our minds-running amok in land of brain. Brain-the ruler of my direction. Brain says. Body does. Brain says and somebody else does.
Life is led magnificently, consistently witnessing new horizons, new colors and new cars with new faces inside. New names and new pictures for new walls. New song to a new sound as we play new again..-

...moments later...AGAIN!

...much later...

Artistic angels such
sexual souls
throwing dreams and catching them into reality
passionately
ABSOLUTE
with wild thoughts that 
change from traffic light to traffic light
toeing street corners and 
aerobicizing sidewalks
with a pound of butterflies
flying out of our skulls
and catching the eyes of
humanity with sights that make
them smile and feel deep down;
a chemistry set of feelings
all purple, blue, green, orange, yellow, red
mixing into creatures like
sweet beakers eager to assist
in the happiness unity can develop
artistic angels become developed and
we're all turned on by their sexual souls-

NYC 2000   
  

Memoirs of A Canine Lady-the Trouble with Cheese

Hello America, I am a canine lady, the lieutenant of the human who normally writes this blog. She has taken today off, and so I am taking the opportunity to vent about a struggle that I have...

There are those unfortunates who can't say no to drugs. Others are unable to refuse alcohol and many find themselves helpless slaves to gambling and hookers. My problem is cheese...and peanut butter-not together-though, that could be delicious, and yet dangerous to try it mixed up like that-the sweet and the salty. I picture it being a kind of canine speed ball.

My addiction reared it's ugly head today. It's insidiousness caught me off guard, and I am ashamed and angry that I allowed myself to be so weak. I took cheese in exchange for (I hate admitting this) a bath. I behaved like a cheap, common junkie. I say what's next? Perhaps allowing my nails to be clipped? Or God forbid, maybe I'll agree to a blow drying session on my lustrous fur. Oh I know, I'll let the groomer touch my beautiful, beautiful tail and put bows in it all for a slice of Smoked Gouda. Dammit! The shame of it all!

Rather than allow myself to run from the tub and dry myself along the hallway walls out of sheer defiance, I allowed her to place a cleaning agent on my body and build up a ghastly lather. Once, I let out a whimper. Another time, I made an escape attempt, but then she pulled out a slice of that succulent white American cheese. The scent of it froze my senses, and I actually thought, "well, maybe this isn't so bad after all!" as I gently took the piece of heaven and savored it's tasty goodness. What was I thinking?! Even now, I just caught myself favorable remembering the incident! Fool!

Once she used bacon, but everyone is hooked on that. I'm not even going to bother to address the hypnotic, drone-like state that bacon has placed us all under. Nations can be taken over and controlled with that stuff. It's a scandal.

I have a nightly peanut butter regiment. Oh, it's not for free. No! I have to pay a price. Pills are slipped in there and mixed with the extra crunchiness Skippy. I tell myself, "no, not tonight. I will be strong!." And then I give in. Sometimes I'm able to extract the pill from the peanut butter but my Alpha always finds it and places it in my sticky, peanut butter mouth then holds my mouth closed and tips my head back. My salivary glands betray me and I find myself swallowing those nasty things. Every morning I promise to beat my jones, but the minute I catch a whiff of that peanut butter, and then I see it, almost pulsating, on that shiny spoon...game over.

The trouble is there are no support groups. How could there be? My species, largely, has a problem, and attempts to resist are futile for ALL of us. There are no sponsors. No one has got any time in for being off the stuff. If chips were to be made, they would be for one hour clean, one day clean, a week would be a miracle! But those chips would never be given out because none of us can stop the madness! For now, anyway.

But I'm confident that one day, we shall rise up, put our paws down and be free of the urge to fantasize about consuming bowls full of peanut butter and cheese. One day, the word Brie or super chunk will stop giving me chills. I must try for that day. Otherwise, I'll be institutionalized and forever sentenced to a life time of baths and pills etc. I bet Asta never had these issues. She is a personal hero of mine. I will strive to be more like Asta-cunning and brave. Viva la Asta!!!

Radiant Soul Stuck In A Conflicted Mind

I used to be able to hear my brain sizzle like bacon. The irresistible urge to get high was ever present. Being "under the influence" had the kind of charm of looking through a View Finder-only the pictures were in motion. My thinking has always been visual, but it was in this time that the visuals became filled with colors that were not on my 64 Crayola Crayon pallet. I learned to see, like a bird, in an ultraviolet spectrum. Today if I were to ingest a fraction of what I could tolerate then, my head would boil up like a pressure cooker, and I'd run screaming for my stash of ativan, huddling under the blankets and watching reruns of Laverne & Shirley, shaking like a leaf.

I wouldn't recommend my teenage life to most. It's a miracle that I was never rehabbed, an O.D, incarcerated, missing teeth or placed in a cemetery by the time I was 18. Also, I was never a thug, and I was too much of a goof to play the "cool" card. Though I had friends in all the categories I just mentioned. I had friends in many categories, and I never would have met them had I not been in the lifestyle that I was in. These were good people. Some of them were lost and/or had never been properly cared for from the moment they breathed their first breath like Mike Anderson. Ava recently showed me a picture of us-her, him, me and some random guy, who was passing through. I suddenly feel saturated in thoughts and feelings of my dear friend Mike.

He came from an abused home. He was knocked around as a kid and thrown out onto the street when he was 16. His dad was a total dirt bag. I remember him scoring crank from a kid I went to high school with and coming over to our house, and, later finding out that he had shot up in our bathroom. Total peach.

I don't remember how or when exactly I met Mike. I was about 13, but it was like I always knew him, there was no beginning or end to my friendship with him, and it was a relationship that was quite unusual. I met him through Ava (not her real name). She had dated his brother, Dave, for a while. After she broke up with Dave, she came and lived with me. My Mom had just split up with her boyfriend, who is a surrogate Dad to me. She moved into a condominium and left Pops at the house where he took on the role of a Dennis Hopper character, heavily drowning in his cups. Basically, the house was mine. This was how I spent the last year of the 80's

There are times in life when you can feel that electricity between yourself and others around you. It's as though divinity has covered you with a giant shroud, and every moment, every second has a sacred element that can never be explained, only felt. Societal rules don't apply here. They can't apply here. It would be like wearing SCUBA gear in the desert-it doesn't work, and it's okay. Nothing in this state registers as wrong. It's like ecstasy has been intermingled with the air you breathe. It's a glowingly, happy place. I have been blessed to have experienced this in my life in a few circles that I've run in-but this time was my first, and because it was my first, it was the most intense. I gladly busted my spiritual cherry and surrendered to the phenomena. Even writing about it frustrates me because the experience can never be properly described in the magnitude of what it was.

Mike and I were sexually intimate, and he had the same relationship with Ava. There was no jealousy. It just was. There was nothing more normal. Let's get this straight. I don't share my significant other. I won't share my significant other. The very thought of my mate being with another person can make me go postal. It doesn't fly with me. If my other has sex with someone else, they are cheating on me, and like any betrayed lover, I react negatively to it. This wasn't like that. It was free. I loved them both so much, and there was never even a strand of any ugly emotion flowing between the the three of us. We laughed a lot. We had fun. All of our friends didn't think twice about it. Maybe if we were physically unattractive with slimy personalities, it would've been gross, but it wasn't. It was beautiful.

We used to play games to freak people out like when Abby(not her real name), another sacred soul of our sanctuary, would walk in feeling floaty, with a daily low level hang over, we would each pick up a book, magazine or newspaper and start reading loud and fast at the same time just to see Abby's hilarious reaction, as she would pause, stare at us, eyes welling up with tears before she would start cracking up laughing, turn around, leave, drive around the block a few times and come back ten minutes later, and hang out as though nothing had happened.

Our absurd, silly sense of humor was peppered on everything we did or said. I had a perma-grin and my stomach was always sore from laughing so much, and when things got serious, which they did, we stuck together and did our best with the situation until the grey skies cleared. Then we carried on, open-hearted and well humored. This was the situation upon when I first slept with Mike. Ava had already been carrying on with him on and off, but it was friendship. They were with other people, and again, it was no big deal.

Looking on it today, Mike had bipolar features. His ups and downs were very evident though he never turned on us, just others, and it was scary because he became very dangerous. This one night, we had been drinking booze, smoking pot and maybe partaking in blowing lines, like we did once in a while. We were at a friend of Mike's place, and there were maybe six or seven of us there. I'm not sure how it began because I was doing my own thing, and Metallica's Ride the Lightening was blaring on the stereo, so I couldn't hear past five feet of myself. Mike's friend or one of the guys there had mistakenly tripped Mike's switch. Whatever the reason, Mike blew his stack. He began throwing chairs high in the air with such a force. They popped holes in walls, cleared tables and knocked over plants. The guys who lived there were terrified. Mike was like an angry bull hell bent on demolition. Fire flew from his eyes. Ava and me went over to him and escorted him out. Abby and her friend, Richard, grabbed our beer and bottle of Smirnoff and followed us out. We drove away, ending up on Palomares Rd-our remote, hang out spot in Niles Canyon.

Abby turned off the car, but left the radio on-a cassette tape of The Eagles' The Long Run played. The three of them got out and began to wander the trees. I sat alone in the back seat with Mike. He was quiet, frustrated. Tears rolled down his face like a stained pair of tapestries being unfurled out of tragic windows. His pain was so sharp. It's presence wrenched my guts and I had to shake it off. I had to heal the burn that seared us both. I started kissing him, straddling him, building, igniting, erasing the dark pain and replacing it with a more pleasurable one. Back then, I occasionally wore skirts and that night I had one on so it made it easier than having untangle myself from 501 jeans that, no matter what, takes a second to crawl out of. At that moment, I loved him more than I could ever love anyone. It was real, and we were free again. Some time into our haze, Ava jumped into the front seat and changed tapes-Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti-Kashmir played-best sex song ever. She playfully looked at us and gave us a wink before she left again. Afterwards, the darkness had dissipated, the intense darkness morphed into a psychedelic bright light. We started talking, goofing around and laughing again. Once again, it was all okay.

We used to sneak Mike into our bedroom windows often since he didn't have a home of his own. He would take turns sleeping in mine and Ava's rooms. Sometimes things happened-sometimes they didn't. On nights when he didn't sleep over, I would sleep in Ava's room with her and snuggle-no funny stuff-it wasn't like that. I was no where near realizing my homo tendencies. I was all about the boys. Ava would put on classical music, and we would drift into the next day when I would wake up early and we'd sing our song-dubbed the "hangover song"-Summertime Rolls by Jane's Addiction-uplifting song- then I'd head to school. Even without much supervision, I always went to school. It was continuation school, but it was still school. Whoever wants to claim responsibility for my finishing school, can. But really, it was all me.

The hammer came down in the summer time. A group of us were hanging out in the front yard, mostly sitting on Abby's car with beer-lots of beer. Abby was driving the car ten feet forward then ten feet back. The image to me were drunken clowns on a 1979 Honda civic. Somebody handed me a pint of peppermint Schnapps when I noticed two cop cars creeping towards us in one direction and one car prowling from the other side of the street. Abby grabbed her keys and threw them in the back seat. I poured out the Schnapps and followed Ava inside the house. I hadn't noticed that the cops had already parked and were out of their cars because one-a mustached rookie with an axe to grind-was right behind me, and Mike was right behind him with his hands clasped together over his head, ready to knock this cop out. Police officer or not, Mike didn't want anyone coming after his girls. Two of the other police officers quickly pounced on Mike and threw him face down on the ground, cuffing him then throwing him in the back of one of their cars. We had all paused long enough to see this then proceeded into the house-cop still on my heels. It was illegal for him to come in the way he did because he hadn't seen us doing anything. The party had been on the sidewalk-the street, but it's the words of a group of stoned, drunken teens against Fremont's finest-the police here have a reputation for being conniving and relentless. If you so much as made a complaint against them, the brotherhood of police would all take turns constantly pulling you over and make up reasons to bother you. Essentially, we were screwed.

This cop was after Ava for some reason. Maybe she reminded him of the girl who dumped him at the prom or his mom-he probably hated his mom. I kept myself wedged in between them. Ava refused to talk and sat in a chair in the back yard as I gave Officer Dickless a fake name for her. She got up again and locked herself in the bathroom. He was about to break down the door when one of his buddies called to him from out front. He rushed out in a hurry, behaving as though he had discovered Al Capone's hide out. I followed him out and locked the front door. Officer Dickless saw that I'd done this and knew he couldn't do much about it so he started grilling me and I answered him with upper vocabulary statements that I'd acquired from all of my literary reading. Every now and then I'd throw in a reference to the law so that he could know that I knew exactly what he shouldn't be doing, and how his illegal entrance into my residence had already ruined any chance of this being a successful collar. All of my sentences ended in "Sir."He tried to follow me with his pad and pen but he couldn't spell, much less understand me so he scribbled away his errors on his pad of paper and yelled at me for being "a delegate or an attorney". I was surprised that he knew the word delegate. He stalked off.

The neighbors, especially the ones across the street, were all gawking from their front lawns, Draconian, hungry for our blood. I was pretty sure that they were the ones who made the call in the first place. There were two guys in our group, Mike and this kid Craig. The cops decided to focus on Craig, who had been silent and cooperative the whole time. He was cuffed and escorted to the same back seat where Mike was sitting. As they began to open the door, Mike started kicking until the door swung wide open, and I'm not sure how it happened, but one of the cops ended up falling, slamming his back against the curb and lay there in pain, motionless. Mike sat on the curb next to this injured guy and started laughing hysterically. He was experiencing one of his crazed episodes. What started as three cop cars, now ended up with four cop cars, a fire truck and an ambulance. Fuck!

They got Mike back in the car, threw poor Craig in roughly, put the hurt cop in the ambulance and everyone drove away. The street was quiet again, as though nothing ever happened. Mike showed up the next day with a fractured arm. When he was initially handcuffed, the police officer had given him a spiral fracture. When Mike kept trying to tell them he was hurt, they ignored him, and that's when he did what he did. Because he was only 17 years old, he was patched up at the hospital then released without charges. Yes, he attempted to assault a police officer but he didn't get a chance. He could've just been cuffed, but they hurt him unnecessarily.

This was the beginning of the end. The cops began driving past the house several times a day, every day. It got tedious. Mike got a bus ticket to Wisconsin where relatives had offered to take him in. I never saw him again. Ava found a room for rent in Modesto and moved away. Not long after arriving in Wisconsin, Mike turned himself in for a warrant he had out there. He was sent to jail and I wrote him regularly, once slipping a hit of acid under a postage stamp. Acid in prison sounds awful to me. It's like a prison in a prison, but hey, to each his own.

I heard from Mike here and there but less and less as time went on. Ava had gotten married and moved away. Abby and I got boyfriends, so we didn't see much of each other anymore, even though we lived in the same town, but that's how it is sometimes.

Four and a half years after I last saw him, Mike died. It happened on February 4, 1994, one month before his next birthday. He was 21. He had gotten himself into trouble and ended up in a stand off with the cops. He stayed holed up in a hotel, and had them convinced that he had a hostage by faking voices. This lasted for a while when Mike decided to open his hotel door, while crouched down low. He was six feet tall, even huddled, he couldn't make himself that small. He was big enough for the police officers to shoot him and kill him.

It crossed my mind that it could've been suicide by cop-a deliberate act on Mike's part to check out. It broke my heart when I got the news. He went out a bad guy, and from the eyes of many, he's considered an undesirable-a low life, but I know, we know, he was more than that. I would never deny him even in the most polite circles. If I denied him, I would deny myself because he was a part of me.

I've cleaned up and no one could guess where I've been unless I reveal my past like now. I've never spoken about this. I never wanted to explain it. I didn't think it was possible. Mike will always be in my heart, and I know I'll see him again. When I do, we'll pick up from where we left off-in laughter.

I say this to him, "I won't ever forget you. I'm still writing like how you encouraged me to and when days get rough, I turn it around by finding the humor in it when I can. Thank you for the memories that you've given me-for sharing your soul with me and letting me SEE you. I love you. I'll always love you..."

Mike was a scared kid, lost, and for a while, we gave him sanctuary, we gave him peace, we loved him unconditionally. It was probably the only time in his life that he had that. Once in a while, I can still hear his hearty laughter, and it makes me nostalgic, mischievous, yet my heart throbs in sadness at the same time. If he can see us all today, it would make him happy.  Inside that battered body and conflicted mind, a radiant soul walked this earth, at one point, his steps were right next to mine. This soul is now in peace, every once in a while, he may pop down and check out the scene. With dancing eyes and that wide smile, he sees it all, and this time he really is free, and the only thing he feels is love. He deserves to feel good-as good as he made us feel when we were around him. God shines on Mike, and he can finally rest. Thank you, Mike.

Sidewalks covered in glitter and blood

Los Angeles. What's the deal with this town? Some incredibly fortuitous things can happen to you in this place. That's the shiny side of the coin. Then there's the other side-dark and intriguing. A lot of people, famous, infamous, and every day come here to die.

The streets are soaked in blood. There isn't a neighborhood immune to it. I live in the Franklin Hills neighborhood of Los Feliz. Two weeks ago someone pumped 5 bullets into a 33 year-old guy and left him to die in the street next to his car. The cops have no clue who did this. The corner has a small memorial: flowers, a cigarette and a few burning candles. I can feel the energy, like the blood stain on the street-a splotch followed by a five finger trickle, it's there, and it'll be a while before it goes away. I wonder if this guy's soul is jumping around, freaking out, uncertain as to what the hell happened, where the hell he is. I hope someone took him home.

The Biancas, I hope they went straight home the second their rattled souls jumped out of their poor, tortured bodies. They lived a mile away from where I'm at now, murdered brutally and living right next door to the House of Prayer for Priests/ Immaculate Heart Retreat House. That's a perfect example of L.A-killed right next door to sanctuary.

Unsolved, bizarre murders have been peppered in the news since I got here a year ago. I'm positive that this is just how this town rolls. There was the head found by a hiking dog and her owner in a garbage bag in Griffith Park. It took a week before the police announced publicly that it was a homicide. Yeah! As if there's some new outrageous disease that causes our heads to pop off, when we're in remote hiking trails at night, and then they magically roll into awaiting black, plastic bags. No murderer was found. Then there was the decapitated body (not belonging to the aforementioned head) that was found in the parking garage at Kaiser Permanente. Authorities refused to reveal if foul play was involved. Really?!

I'm starting to believe that the reason this town has such lush vegetation is because of those countless people killed who are now fertilizing the ground.

The inner city gangs make great topics for television, film, books and documentaries. The entertainment business thrives on this stuff. The more over the top, the better the cash flow that comes in. At the very least, the location of celebrity or headline murders is a stop off on a Hollywood tour bus. Johnny Lewis is the newest fallen Angelino to make the map. The reasons for his nefarious acts of murdering his 81 year-old landlady, Catherine Chabot David, who had rented out to artists for decades, and dismembering her cat (gross!) before falling off the roof and dying, points to a spiral into a dark madness. His is one of many of these stories. New York City doesn't touch L.A in it's celebrity murder culture.

Then there are those that are worth more dead than alive and speculation is not enough for true justice. People like Sam Cooke, Michael Jackson (I know. I know but he had bruises on him that could've very easily been from foul play-like he'd been struggling), Kurt Cobain-I read the report that an investigator wrote up on Kurt and 1. The amount of heroin in his body would have made it very difficult to do anything, much less hold that shotgun 2. Kurt was a little guy. He would've needed to use his feet to pull the trigger on that gun, especially because of the way he was found. His shoes were on. He didn't die in L.A, but if it was murder, the decision came from L.A. Kurt wanted to quit the business. After his death, the sales of Nirvana's music went through the roof. Conspiracy theories can be kooky, I know, but piss one of these high powered executives off and see if your head doesn't get grazed by a bullet. It's very easy to do, especially here. It could be a "psychotic killer" or an "overdose" that did you in. Wink. Wink. No one would know the wiser, and in this town, dead men tell no tales because if they did, the prison population would probably double.

That's just it, too. Wouldn't it be cool if a ghost could testify? Or if things went down like in the movie Ghost? Maybe if a spirit could have a one week hall pass to bring to justice the hand that slew them, people would hesitate taking a life. Even better, a group of avenging angels who could rush down and save the lives of The Black Dahlia, Sal Mineo, Marilyn Monroe, Phil Hartman, Ramon Novarro, Ennis Cosby, Sharon Tate and Company. Maybe it does happen. Maybe some people are spared. Of course, there's no way of knowing about it.

I sincerely hope that all these souls are resting, but I also think that when something intense happens somewhere, the impact leaves a sensation there, and it may never go away. To some, it may be as obvious as craters from a meteor. It's definitely a challenge to not become crippled by what is in the air or grow apathetic. I know Seattle has it's skeletons, as does Portland, and San Francisco does, too. The Wild West-where tragic death is part of the culture. Dorothy Stratten, Natalie Wood, Nicole Simpson, Rebecca Schaeffer, Dominique Dunne-all casualties just like the ones who will never were household names.

This place is a trip. In La La land, ignorance is truly bliss. There are lots of oblivious people who haven't a clue as to this history. I'm not one of them. I remember. I know. I'm currently learning about some of the Hollywood scandals of the 20s and 30s, and so far, it seems even more macabre than today. What exactly am I going to do with all of this information? Write about it, I guess. Remember the fallen. Or mortify my poor girlfriend as I reveal tidbits at parties (let's face it, it's interesting).

Tonight I went and lit a candle and placed it next to the small shrine that was created for 33 year-old John S. Lee from Las Vegas whose last breath was taken on Dec.30th, 2012. I pray for his peace. I pray for the peace of the spirits of all of those who died by the hands of someone else, and for the ones that will go that way afterwards. I am so sorry that their last moment on earth was one that was filled with agony and horror. May the flame of this candle can soothe these souls, help to lead them home and with enough candles lit, maybe we can even light the dark, lost souls bright enough to keep them from taking another life. Keep the candles lit.

Molly, the seal, and the scare that won't be

They say angels roam the earth. I believe it, especially after meeting Molly. She was my first taste of responsibility. I was no longer able to run amok, and be away from home for hours, days on end. I had to pay attention to my new pal. After a while, I didn't want to be separated from her. Molly and I would explore the crevices of Williamsburg and Greenpoint. Fire trucks could roar by, music blasting etc and Molly was never phased. Like me, she doesn't like the heat, so it was a mutual decision to stay indoors on those ridiculous days when the humidity is as thick as bread. Like me, she loves the rain, until it would bust out into torrential showers, which would then make her bolt, pulling me with her leash. I ran, too. By the time we would get home, we would be sopping wet. I'd dry her off then myself, and we would hang out on the couch together, occasionally fall asleep... This month will be ten years since we found each other.

There are countless Molly stories, and right now, they're all rising to the top. She hasn't been feeling well for the past week. I got her an appointment with a vet that has stellar reviews on Yelp. Whenever Molly sees the veterinarian office, she tries to walk the other way, hoping that I will simply go along with her and forget about taking her in. This time, she got out of the car, and walked straight to the vet's office door without her leash.

I know that everyone says their dog is smart-special-amazing, and they all are. No doubt. But Molly is very intelligent. She's the Doogie Howser of dogs. I won't put anything past her. It would be of no surprise to me if she started talking and cooking breakfast tomorrow morning. She reads intentions, too. I once thought of placing her paw in an ink pad so that I could put a print on a card that I was sending to my mom for Mother's Day. I hadn't even found the ink pad when I noticed her looking at me quite suspiciously. Then she started barking at me, got up and went to the other end of the room, keeping an eye on me. I have no idea how she knew what I was thinking about doing. I didn't go through with it. She wasn't going to let it happen.

She is sharp, which makes it even harder to see her hips get weak, or have her get sick because she KNOWS. She got an abscess on her neck (the reason why we were going in the first place) and the vet discovered a few questionable lumps on her body. This doctor was thorough and good. Molly got aspirated in 5 places, she had a blood test for possible Cushing's syndrome and/or hypothyroidism. Before we could get her on medicine for her hips, we need to know what's going on to determine the medication type. She had the tennis ball sized abscess area shaved and cleaned. Finally, they gave her a bath with medicated shampoo and a leave in conditioner for the hot spots that she'd developed all over her body. She'd had her ears flushed and anal glands taken care of. Man! 4 hours of pure hell for my pal. They told me that I could go home while all this was being done, but I couldn't leave her. I went for a long walk. I had a moment when I broke down. Then I called my friend T.

There are people who just get it, and she's one of them. I'm sure that we've known each other before. We were hanging out on a cloud in the late 60's discussing the life that we were each assigned and then agreed to meet in San Francisco in 2005. The way we met and the circumstances leading up to it and the others that were also sitting up on the same cloud with us around the same time is nothing short of divine intervention. There is no other explanation. For the naysayers who feel like challenging or antagonizing me on this topic, "fuck you. I know what I know. I can feel my soul sing when I meet my kindred spirits, and this IS what it is." I've met quite a few members of my soul family, including Molly. I'm lucky. These people are proof of heaven. T is proof of heaven. I see a million years in her eyes. It grounds me. The spinning stops in the midst of chaos, and suddenly I have perspective. I'm grateful for the conversation with T. I was able to speak, but at first, in fractured sentences, and she knew what I was saying. She followed me the whole time. The synchronization remained in tact.

Before I walked back into the office, I took a deep breath, and pictured one of my favorite Molly memories. We were at Wreck Beach in Vancouver (clothing optional-I opt to be clothed). Molly loves the beach. She went into the water and started swimming. I watched her paddling around for at least 15 minutes. I was near her. I could hear her breathing. The water was calm. I could see the water occasionally splash when her paw went up high and above the water. Zen state. My brindle doggy feeling life in all of its glory-the epitome of how good it all can be. Watching her was nearly as enjoyable as her swimming about. I went to the shore, sat on the sand and kept watching Molly swim around, occasionally going far but then coming close again as the sky began to change colors on a beautiful, dusky, August evening. Molly was facing me, swimming in place when a seal popped it's head up right next to her. Game over! Molly took one look at the seal then started paddling towards me, back to shore and safe from, what she must have perceived as, the loch ness monster. I remember laughing. Molly shook herself off then looked to me then back at the ocean in disbelief.

I opened the door and made up my mind that, no matter what, Molly and I are going to fight. Regardless of the results, we will face it together, as we have faced everything else. Right now, I have to believe that she will be okay. Right now, I have to stay in the moment and be with her NOW because there's only NOW.

Today she seems better-tired, but that's understandable. She came around to get her cut of tonight's dinner. Sometimes I indulge her, and tonight I deboned a drum stick especially for her. She gave me that Molly smile. I know now that I have to cast out all fear, and face life head on with love. My love for Molly...powerful, a sunrise to light up the darkest streets, an exhilarating swim in the Georgia Strait at Wreck Beach, and the seal that startled-not dangerous-just a wake up call-a notification reminding us that the unexpected pops up, and we have the option to panic and drown or swim to shore. Molly swam to shore. That's what I'm doing now. It's a seal, not a flesh eating monster. Molly knows, and we're going to be okay. Love never dies, and Molly is love. This angel is not done roaming the earth...

BoNg DePrivAtion

I've got that dull feeling. I fell restless. I sit down on the couch and spy half a joint in the ashtray left behind by a neighbor. I want so badly to be able to light it up and smoke it-taste it-blow smoke and exhale then welcome that plucky, colorful, high-the state of mind that always is on the brink of hilarity. I loved getting stoned. It was great then those damned panic attacks hit me and now pot is just a memory.

My brain betrayed me and has refused to welcome any foreign substances with the exception of sertraline. Lord knows I've tried to smoke every now and then, but I always end up counting time the time to when I'll be sober again. I crave just one time when I can be high and under blue skies-not feel trapped-not feel uneasy but feel like a frolicking wood nymph without a worry in sight. I want to be tickled with joy, tingle with fairy dust and feel the love of that moment-be the music and allow my eyes to dance and mouth to smile broadly.

The joint is taunting me by reminding me of the type of memories that I'll never have again. I suppose I had my time and now, I must move on, but what a drag. I hate not having a choice. If I could just take one hit...Oh, it would be a triumph. It would mean that I'm getting better and my mind is chilling out and allowing me to let go. Release, not feel so uptight and allow myself to become a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

When I smoked pot, I couldn't roll a joint to save my life. Ironically, I learned how to roll after I stopped. Now I roll joints. If I can't inhale, I at least want to smell it, chop it up in the grinder, feel it on my fingers. I know what this is! I suffer from bong deprivation. I've got all the symptoms. Like a fiend, I catch myself sniffing in the air when someone blazes up. I encourage people to smoke indoors so that my house will have that amazing scent. If I wasn't such a numb buts about growing plants, I would grow a dozen pot plants just to have it, hoard it and make it all mine (enter evil laughter here).

I love that seen in Fast Times At Ridgemont High when Spiccoli bonks his head with his brand new, fresh out of the box, Vans and says, "That was my skull. I'm so wasted." And he was enjoying it. I'd like to be Spiccoli for a day back then or, hell, even now. I want to surrender my brain with "a cool buzz and some tasty waves". I don't think I'm asking for a lot in this situation, anyway. It's no secret, that I do want a lot in life. I'm not the type to be content. I would accept world domination, but right now, in this moment, I just want to be stoned. I want to be a bone head for a day, and make a gravity bong with a two liter bottle in the bath tub. I want to smoke out of an apple. I want to wax philosophical, and in mid-sentence, forget what I'm saying because I've been distracted by something that I think is funny. I want to watch Animal Planet or some show about the earth, drink grape juice and ravage of bag of Doritos followed by a bowl of cereal then some Pez. That would be like Queen for a day. Well, a girl can dream. I'm more likely to see the fruition of more substantial dreams come true, and I'm okay with that. No complaints here.

SEX ADDICT TUESDAY. For every pitcher, you get a round of screaming orgasms

Sex addiction. In movies, it's always some pretty hot people who have the bug that drives them furiously. Talk shows and specials on the matter present skanky, sweaty people who I wouldn't let sit on my couch for fear of the critters that may scatter from their bodies and infest my home. One episode of these "real people, and any urges that one might have are dipped in Winter waters and killed.

Instantly, one of the symptoms of sex addiction is that the addict is incredibly unattractive and seemingly unshowered. The stereotype is formed and the sheep are driven back onto the pasture, sanitized, balls chopped and baptized into the American way. It's no wonder we have so many freaks out there.

Repression is formed and a healthy sexual appetite becomes a cause for shame. Since it's a viewed "depraved act", why not take it further? And many do. They walk through doors from which there is no return and the underground grows deeper. The sex seeker is forced to go far down into the murky dungeons where the Puritans have placed the candy.

Some think that animal urges are to be quelled and left behind for higher spiritual footing, but I think there's something spiritual in the art of seduction, the act of sex, anonymous or otherwise. If every human was Uma Thurman in Henry and June, I'd be doomed. I'd trade in my wares for sex worker garb-oh wait, I dated that girl before and gave myself wholey, holy and then was promptly crushed, like a cockroach under the heel of a spiked boot, guts splattered, shell cracked into bits and lights out. It's been 8 years since the whole debacle and I still have barbs in my heart that occasionally throb. It's a mistake to worship a goddess, love a goddess but insert worship and you take away their humanity. They become keenly aware of their powers. They know they can crush you, and even if it's not her intention, the temptation is too great. I was crushed by the force of those long, beautiful legs. The very thought of them make me cringe yet desire. Trailing my eyes up those legs, to the very top of her crowned head, every inch of her is as gorgeous and tempting. It's this woman that has destroyed the minds of many, shredded the soul and created the saddest and most beautiful nmusic.

She had great depth, intelligence, creativity. She was off beat and could be childlike while still steaming and tantalizing. She was able to be terribly broken. I would drop everything to draw out every bit of pain and carry it for her so that she may run free. She had the charm and humor that gave her dimension and made her incredible. It made her a wanted woman. She could take me into her arms in the morning and by evening decide that she didn't want me anymore and disappear in a NYC cab to parts unknown then come home with new phone numbers and her full, wine colored lips had kissed and groped another without guilt. By morning I was hers again and ever grateful. I wasn't a fool, not really. I was simply cast under a spell-one that even the strongest person could fall prey to. Suddenly, my Manhattan lovers and pick-ups had lost their charm. I abandoned them all. I only wanted her in fantasy and otherwise. I never even glanced at another,  and it was the beginning of my death.

The worse thing about death is the dying. Rebirth allowed the rebuilding of myself, and with it, I remembered my vices. One vice really-my sexual drive. My role of an unassuming, charismatic conquistador been there all along, waiting patiently, and I loved to play the role.

A wise person once said that "in order to get over someone is to get under someone else." I moved to San Francisco and became a bartender. Same difference.

San Francisco has a strange ability to take over it's tenants and make the absurd, outrageous and extreme seem like normal fare. Everyone I know that has lived there then later moved away, has had similar realizations. Something happens when you live there and when you're open to it. Perhaps it's the fog or the ghosts that have created this surreal stage and provided grand costumes for us all. There are no rules. You are released-a kid in a candy/toy store and you can do whatever you want. It's dangerous, but man, it can be fun. Some stay forever and others, like myself, need a break because I couldn't help myself. I moved back to New York to get some peace and quiet. What does that tell you?

It all started out innocent. I began bartending in Bernal Heights. I had two girlfriends-not at the same time, both painters,both insatiable. I made the mistake of leaving the better one for the crazier one, which quickly led me to becoming single, and got a job tending bar in the Sunset District. I met some beautiful people-amazing people-forever friends type of people. The bad part was that I had a boss who was a bloated, crazed version of Baby Jane. Yeah, I said crazed. As if Baby Jane wasn't bat shit nuts enough. On top of Wolfschmidt Vodka, she popped pills. She'd come in, close the bar flap and block me in. Then she'd put her half dead poodle on the bar and survey the place under eyelids that looked like they were painted on-bright blue eye shadow. She looked like a real peach. Sometimes she would call, drunk, during a shift and insist on a conversation even if the place was busy. The Spur will come up again in my blog-a lot went on there. It was a true "dive" bar. If it rained hard, the place would leak and plywood would have to be set down so you wouldn't be ankle deep in water. I would jump from board to board to give people their drinks or ingest drinks- a lot of drinks.

I developed an intimate relationship with Jim Jameson and drank it like it was water-a bucket glass (fits 3 solid shots) was considered a shot, and we had those frequently in a night. Roughly ten "shots" a night plus some. It's not bragging nor am I opening up an invitation for a pissing contest, it's just what we did.

I really have no problem hitting on people. Men are particularly easy. Add alcohol and I was twice as bold, and none of them were the gross "sex addicts" on television nor was I. I kept my integrity and didn't "go skank." If someone walked in and I liked what I saw, I took. There were a few that became my lovers/friends, and we had fun and knew how to keep it from getting awkward or serious. At least that's how I handled it. Two of the guys would disappear after an encounter with me, as if frequency would be their demise, and I was cool with that, too. I plain just didn't care, until I realized that a good "friend" of mine was further invested in me. I broke his heart. I wasn't okay with that. I'm not into casualties. The look on his face was an eye opener. It forced me to take a good look at myself. I'd gone too far-treated these men like play things when they weren't, well, most of them anyway.

It was time to slow my roll. Time to close the chapter and do something with my life. So I cleaned up a bit and stopped messing with people. I did not like that I hurt my friend at all. I can be wild and reckless, but I am not a jerk. I don't get off on the heartbreak business. That's just cold blooded, and when things like that began to happen, I knew it was time to stop.

It takes a lot of self control. I miss it sometimes. When you have a high sex drive with no way to completely satiate it, you're forced to keep yourself busy, keep your head down and imagine pictures of starving children and abused animals. You take off running or start singing out of the blue. You buy a bunch of make-up and start strategically playing make-up artist in the mirror. Puzzles, collages, pictures all end up on the table in projects. I clean a lot and have occasional bursts of anger out of frustration or I suddenly start to reminisce and wonder whatever happened to...then I have to start singing. I get an occasional text with an invitation and ignore it. I'm also not a cheater and have been in a relationship for over 4 years now.

I made good in NYC after San Francisco. I put myself back on track, and I still occasional watch segments of these sex addicts on these mindless shows, and I want to laugh. It reminds me of old marijuana propaganda films like Reefer Madness. The characters can be just as ridiculous. They go for the bottom of the barrel. Don't get me wrong, unlike pot, I know sex can kill you, disease you, destroy you. I'm aware.

I recently fell in love with the movie Shame, and I identified on a small scale. To anesthetize, forget, shut off my mind and get lost in carnal moments-to escape and feel like Alexander the Great seeking, destroying and feeling victorious, high, untouchable. Then I remember how Alexander died, or so I was told by a professor. He died in the middle of an orgy while thinking he was God, and it's like that, but it's, ultimately, a cheap thrill. I needed more. Something bigger. I don't know how or where or what that is, and now I'm searching. I have a feeling it won't be through physical means. Love has that element but I need that, plus mind blowing sensations, and I don't know what it is. Wish me luck on finding it. I'm just grateful that I have brakes that work so that I never turned into a drunken, drugged out gutter whore. It just doesn't suit me. I prefer to look clean and decent like you can take me home to meet your parents unless they're the Westboro hateful types. Those people want me dead no matter how angelic I may appear.

Sex addicts. They could be a bar room theme night  It would be great business for the bar. A sandwich board could be placed outside advertising the special of the night: "SEX ADDICT TUESDAY. For every pitcher bought in a group, you get a round of screaming orgasms!" I'd like to see that on 20/20.