hollywood farm girl

back on set. zoooom.

2012-02-09T16:07:00.000-08:00

walking on set for the first time in years is quite something.... there was a casual quality (not casualty) that first day, as the people circled each other with warm smiles, tiptoeing around each other, not wanting to offend, wondering where the other person's toes end, for future reference. new faces, each one full of concern as they set about their new job, twisting and gripping and pushing and pulling, stepping up to the right mark, each with a final gaze to the director for a nod of approval.

the glare of lights create a bubble of warmth that i guess i've memorized before, because as soon as they were bright, and my spot was lit, i moved into my space like a cowboy into his oldest leather chaps. familiar, and already forming the silhouette before they're even pulled up to the hips. immediately, like Pavlov's dog, my mind began to churn, and swim, my character growing alive so loudly that i could hear myself begin to ask her questions, separate of myself entirely. as she began to breathe, so did i. as she began to walk, i realized i was, too. like riding a bike again, but with an oxygen tank attached, and the grooviest mirrors feeding my ego. like a song i had suddenly remembered, the melody splashing upon just as quickly, my old work habits swept through me, leaving my eaves blown free of dust, and my darkest corners of doubt, cast with sudden light. a habit. like an old comforting habit.

oh right
this is what i know
this is what i came here for
this is what i placed aside
and this is what i pick up again

untoldthefilm.com
a film titled "Untold"
starring teri ivens
a most exquisite woman-child
the spirit of a sage butterfly
youthful enough to flutter blind with bliss
wise enough to seize the day

chris
the 1st AD
by second day we were singing Katt Williams stand-up pieces together
making any 20 hour day fly by like
an 18 hour one.
always good to have a rock-out 1st AD

Jose
Jose
my sweetest Jose
I'd guess and say 40-something
if he was at all a day
what was supposed to be a short drive
a few wrong turns, in a new city
t'was the longest drive alive
for he and i
he and i
but in the midst of the night
everything was all right
and voice to voice
people open in the dark,
oh they do, they might
and once in a blue moon
two people, they do
connect like
my Jose
my Jose
my Jose and I do

totally real moments
flittering between the fairytale making
keeps toes firmly planted
but broken hearts raking
in hope

dare i say

i raked in hope
in that bubble of warmth
in that sphere of safe
a crew of goodness
caught me not too late

cast so small
cast of shine
cast of love
cast of mine

like riding a bike,
tassels and all,
glittery banana seat
too sure to fall

zooooooooooooom.

TMZ: The Massive 'Zine (of an Imaginative Lawyer)

2012-02-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

a child who has never had a shot in their flesh, is TRULY terrified when you tell them they have to get a shot for the first time. a mother, who has to tell her child, that she will be getting her very first shot, is probably NOT happy to be the messenger. there are times that a mother HAS to grin through her teeth, to give her children the courage to face challenges-- like First Time Shots. First Time Needles. most 5-year-olds do not take kindly to the news that they will be getting allergy tests, and the doctor will need to stick a needle into their flesh, and suck out at least three vials of blood. a good mother will try to describe the upcoming experience with a SMILE on her face, knowing that HER response will consciously or subconsciously affect the child's response. therefor, each time i have to take my kids somewhere, and it's going to be a crappy experience (like going to a doctor to give blood for the first time), i know that I HAVE TO PUT A SHIT-EATING GRIN ON MY FACE, to HELP my kids get through the experience, to the other side. when it's just one person there, for two kids, especially, do you know how BIG i gotta get my grin??? HUUUUUUGE. i have to put a HUGE SHIT-EATING GRIN ON MY FACE sometimes, right before a doctor or dentist visit. moms (and at-home dads), you know what I'm talking about. Ugh. i'd so much rather take the needle for them.

thank god it was followed up by their absolute most favorite thing in the world: Lunch with their two moms. I was THRILLED they would be getting that moment as well- a "special moment" after an emotional experience. nothing makes me feel more content than when my children are healthy and happy-- which they absolutely were the moment that "OUTSIDERS" stepped in, snapped a shot, and projected it for the world to see (under such false headlines). what was a lovely treat for me and my family, was twisted into someone else's fantasy of what we SHOULD be feeling at that time. WEIRD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and it was also physically sickening to see such untruth adjoined to my and my children's wonderful experience. deeply disheartening. but mostly hard to believe a LAWYER who should care about TRUTH, would write such FALSE crap under such a wonderful family photo. When I look at the photo, all i notice is how overjoyed my son is- his grin. And i laugh because the little girl still likes to be carried, and her other mother is trying so hard to balance her on her hip, while not tripping over things in the parking lot. (C'mon- who's gonna get a flattering photo as you try to lift and carry a squirmy 5 year old?! NO ONE! THAT'S WHO!) and i look at me, thinking "Hm, i should wear a little more mascara.... and drop 15." it's so sad to see that one gossip man has the virtual "power" to re-narrate my life, thusly giving the world a TOTALLY DIFFERENT STORY than what is TRUTH. Weird. Sad thing? People do think his crap is true.

harvey levin's truth
is
not
my
truth at all
not a single bit

Yo- Harv-
one more thing: truth be told, I was HIGHLY DISTURBED by the horrible comments people made regarding my ex. her daughter is going to read those horrible comments one day. and probably her son. and our twins. and anonymous young girls who ALREADY feel weird and ugly about having a NATURAL WOMAN'S BODY. the comments were as disgusting as the headline. are we not aware there is a plague of eating disorders sweeping our nation? and slamming a woman who is going through her natural aging process (which does indeed affect face and body), is one helluva hit AGAINST any progress we're trying to make as a nation, as we encourage our young girls to "be comfortable in who they are, in their own skin, at their own weight".... your comments page alone could send any 80-pound bulimic running for the bathroom to throw up that fattening stomach bile.

you're like a crazy pizza delivery person with no map and no pizza, just trying to ram your virtual pink pepperoni truck through as many houses as possible just so people will see the advertisement of your company on the side of the vehicle as it slams through the front walls. who cares if you demolish anyone with false words, gossip, hooey-booey that you possibly made up last night over martini's with drunken lawyers who can barely keep their own firm afloat? no conscious, maybe? perhaps? i'm not sure- heavens knows we don't wanna start RUMORS, now do we, Harv?

we know two people in common. takes one phone call TO ME DIRECTLY, to confirm or deny what you're GUESSING/ASSUMING/HOPING on your site about me and my family. just pick up the phone. unless getting hits on your site is more important than presenting the facts...?

drive on, Harvey Levin, drive on in your pink pepperoni truck with virtual logos stuck to the side. no matter what color coffee cup you are holding, bullshit is still just bullshit.

much love and light,
Hollywood Farm Girl.

I was a Fool.... Forgive Me. I'm Trying.

2012-01-11T05:03:00.000-08:00

what holds me back

i was a fool
made a fool
feel like a fool
danced like a fool
naked like a fool
screamed like a fool
placed my right hand on the bible
and swore like a fool
i didn't cross my fingers
make my vows- i was a fool
took it seriously
thought it was
forevah

i was a fool
and how does one recover
from the swearing of
love
love
love forever???

so i come to you today
to admit
i was a fool
blinded

tammy faye
her mascara too thick
too thick to see what was right in front of her
i get it now

when things are too clear,
to close
right in front of you
sometimes the truth is
too painful to bear
so you "choose"
not to see it
as you barrel through to try to
to fix it cuz that is what
you think
everyone wants too

you do not realize
that
as your back is turned
people are drilling holes
into your lifeboat
waiting for you to sink
go away
leave them alone
shhhhh
and take the stories along with you
just be quiet
--the images
the smoke and mirrors
have worked for so long now
"don't you know what your stories
your blogs could LOOK LIKE in the press?!?!"

um. ask me if i give a shit?

i love truth.
i crave truth like
a hermit crab needs its shell.
i ache for truth like
a Yankee aches for a home run
I glow in truth, like Oprah glows
with Gayle and Steadman
Truth is where my heart is.

Get with it.

Alas.

I in fact, gave up on the idea of marriage. On the idea of togetherness. On the idea of TWO. I tossed "TEAM" right out the window along with "trust" and "together" and "love" and "truth". I pretty much wondered if there was such a thing in this town, or in marriage ("non-binding committment ceremonies") after that. I wondered if I was the only person who had any idea how important FAMILIES and STAYING TOGETHER were/are/is. I swore off dating, people, kissing, making new friends, meeting new people, and most of all: BELIEVING IN ANYONE.

I felt safe. It was the only choice I knew to make to keep the kids and I safe from a similar fate of getting dropped on our heads. And so it was.

I was no longer a fool
for love
no longer a fool
no longer a fool

maybe lonely
but no longer a fool
dancing like a fool
singing like a fool
the only one
dancing to the fool music in my head
that I had been told
could be heard by everyone

no
I was the only fooled
publicly fooled
world-wide fooled
set to music
and published
and copyrighted FOOLED
onstage
in front of everyone
lookit me
as you have all been doing for years
lookit me
naked now
I AM A FOOL
AN IDIOT
LOOKIT ME

I
AM
AN
IDIOT
AN
AMERICAN
IDIOT

so i've been piecing together
why i was a fool
what fooled me
and what the hell
i want and need
and believe in
for the future

and how in the world to talk about it here
cuz if i find someone sparkly

i feel a FOOOOOOOOOL
again.

but

and here's my $25,000 question
if this person
has only one personality to them
and nary a staff of assistants to keep
their personality going without bumps
and their warmth is consistent
not depending on me to do as I am told
pleasing one's needs at one's every whim.....
am I a fool again?

where does the end begin
from the previous fool-ation
so that I may perhaps begin
to believe in human-ation
and intimate relationships
where there are
only two people involved
(not two people in front of the curtain
and many in the wings/emails/office
for later?)

I was a fool
I posted all about it
didn't know it
I screamed it
I sang it
I preached it
I gathered people to go to a church
and insisted it was the way to find
the Holy Land
I
Was
Wrong

I steered people to
ONE PERSON'S HOLY LAND
so often the WRONG thing to do
here on EARTH
mixing religion with spirituality with humans

and yet they follow
the sheeple
the sheeple
poor sheeple
they tune in, they do

I was a fool for love
I was a fool for art
I was a blind fool
I was young
I believed blindly and whole-heartedly
in every word uttered
I am guilty of honoring every promise I made
and guilty of believing
there were no fingers crossed
as I heard the vows enunciated into my eyes

oh, Tammy,
you fool
you fool
you fool

and now I sit before you
admitting my greatest guilt:
I have hesitated to admit before you all:
I was a fool
I screamed it on here,
I don't want to do it ever
ever
ever again

what a mistake I made
to think that "2+2=7"
I wrote
WHEEEEEEE

and yet there are some folks out there
who still believe

and I feel responsible
oy. sad. i'm sorry.

and so i am so so so hesitant about what i come here to write because for so many years I wrote about something that I thought was NONFICTION, but it turned out that I was the only one living that side of the Non-fiction.... there was in fact, an entirely different life going on elsewhere... which... did it make my writing part Fiction?

I suppose only time will tell, and the unraveling of the stories... the webs....

I was a fool for love
i was a fool
made a fool
feel like a fool
danced like a fool
naked like a fool
screamed like a fool
placed my right hand on the bible
and swore like a fool
i didn't cross my fingers
make my vows- i was a fool
took it seriously
thought it was
forevah

i was a fool
and how does one recover
from the swearing of
love
love
love forever???

so i come to you today
to admit
i was a fool
blinded

tammy faye
her mascara too thick
too thick to see what was right in front of her
i get it now

when things are too clear,
to close
right in front of you
sometimes the truth is
too painful to bear
so you "choose"
not to see it
as you barrel through to try to
to fix it cuz that what is what you think
everyone wants too
you do not realize
that as your back is turned
people are drilling holes into your lifeboat
waiting for you to sink
go away
leave them alone
shhhhh
and take the stories along with you.......
and bury them

but i can't
won't shan't

but.....
*sigh*
I was a fool for something
I
THOUGHT
was love

this time
though

this time?

i think I might
have found the real thing.

If only I knew how to tell the difference.

I hear Time whispers the truth....................

and so she comes to me

2011-12-08T00:48:00.000-08:00

falling backwards
into an abyss
of
suffocating memories
stuck like tar

toppling
head over heels

whatever i was doing
wherever i was
whomever i was with

vanishes into thin air
out like a light
poof
gone

then I'm 4 and it's the brothers
or i'm 4, 5 and it's her
or I'm 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 or 12 and it's him

twisted like a vanilla and chocolate
ice cream cone at Mcdonalds
damnit fuck
and how do you unscrew that
before it all melts?

sometimes you can't
sometimes it stays twisted
sometimes it melts
sometimes your lover has to come and rescue you
from 1979

it takes a strong lover
a fearless lover
to go that far back
for me
she doesn't quite know
who made the shadows
what befalls her path
she only can trust that
my voice will lead her to me

and so she comes
and so she comes
and so she comes to me

it takes a strong lover
a fearless lover
to go that far
back
for me

and take my body
lift me from the ashes
ashes, so charred and distorted and
blistering to my soul
each visit for me a

*flashback*

threw me back at least 25
at least 25
usually more than 25

a bit of relief in the form
of a darling
make the journey back
as I slam into
my 2011 nudity
and try to awaken
albeit shakin'

vascillating between one era and another
one world and another
one set of emotions and another
one set of psychological set-ups and another

((do you see that sandusky?
your dick is still in everybody's ass today
years later
a kid doesn't forget))

takes a strong lover
a darling of a woman
to make a stand and love me across the board
when the flashbacks swallow and
i can't even grope my way out
of the pitch dark hole far enough
to reach for a straw of reality
fingers clawed raw to the bone
flesh away, nails long ago fallen...
a steady, stable, salt-of-the-earth woman
lassos me in her arms
strong and steady, ready and willing
listening to every
drop of echo from my lips
drip of echo from my lips
drip of echo from my lips
to help me
just help me at times
when the
vacuum of another reality
seems too real
and i just need a knock at the door
from a lover with strength that has eyes
that look
outward

no smoke and mirrors in sight.

i think i just saw a dove fly by over heard.

and a bluebird!

Ahh, life is as it should be...

Sandusky; Eddie S.& sis Amy; Spud & Brent; Gina R.

2011-12-04T05:21:00.001-08:00

I know people like Jerry. I spent time with people like Jerry growing up. But Eddie was closer to my age- he was only 5 years older. When you're 7, a 12-year-old is QUITE mature though. That's a boy who's already entered puberty, has interests in the girl's body, and wants to know how it works, etc... Eddie had issues with tying up neighborhood girls to his bed, and his parents coming home to find this situation... Eddie got in trouble for that- he was grounded for a week I think. But nobody thought anything strange of it. When I would beg not to be forced to sleep in his bed with him at night (who can sleep with a stray finger screwing their 7-year-old-virginal holes anyway?), I was rejected as "There are no other places for you to sleep- you'll be fine. Go to sleep and quit complaining!" SO I would spend my nights rolling around that damn water bed, trying to escape the teenage octopus that was also related to me. There was just taking No for an answer, for that guy sometimes.

As he grew older, so did I. I tried to twist the attention into attention that I wanted... I tried to convince myself that ANY attention was better than NO attention at all or ABUSIVE attention (like what I was receiving at home).... I tried to trick myself, my brain, my heart, my body into thinking that this grown-up, sexual relationship was MY CHOICE, and my 8,9,10,11,12 year old self was ABSOLUTELY okay with this idea, regardless of how many times I had to throw up afterwards. No adults would listen to me. I'd beg my mother to come pick me up. She would not. I'd beg the grown ups in the house to protect me, they would ignore me, and smoke their cigs, drink their diet pepsi, and do their crossword puzzles.... Instead I had his younger sister watching me with her squinty blue eyes that could barely see over her obese cheeks, who knew all.... she saw all... watched all..... peeped all... she knew everything her brother did because she would watch through the holes in the basement ceiling... and she never called it off, backed me up, told her mom I was telling the truth... she just waited for the Touching Hour, and assumed her post on the washer and dryer behind Eddie's bedroom wall in the basement, and stood on tiptoe watching him strip my childhood. I could hear her whispers to my sister. I could hear giggles, murmurs, and the stumble of books on the other side of the drywall, as they piled more height-builders to watch the 8 year old and the 13-14 year old mimic adult intimacy, with only one person in the party being willing.

And it did start easy, with my escapes being easy. Little touches here, that I didn't tattle about. I didn't want to be unwelcome. I wanted to be a "good kid"- I didn't want to be a tattletale, and have no friends in the house. This was the house I'd be staying in ALOT while my step dad would be in the Methodist Indy hospital while he had emergency surgeries done to his right leg to amputate first below the knee and then above the knee when the first operation didnt work out.... So, indeed... I spent many a many a week there.....From '81-'85. Far too many to have held on to my soul, and kept it in one piece all by myself with Eddie and his sister, Amy, so bored that they needed sexual human sacrifice to keep themselves entertained. Sick. I saw a photo of her not too long ago, and she had to weigh at least 300 if she weighs a pound. Now, I have no issues with large people (anyone recall my Evelyn, who can hold 3 small children in her lap at any time?).... but I do find it curious that Amy ate herself into the size of a small car. What secrets doth you eat away at, Amy? What shame doth you shove down your throat, Amy? Anyway...

When I finally started intense therapy for the sexual abuse 5 years later (Eddie being just one of the lucky bastards who gets credit-Gina R., Spud & Brent are also a some add-ons), I wrote a letter to Eddie's mother and sister. I had just learned that his sister, Amy, was pregnant. I nicely, calmly reminded her that she herself had seen where her brother pushed his fingers in me, and that he was a boundryless pedophile. And that if she was going to be having children, that's great--- but she should think back in her mind to her memories of her brother molesting me, and then she should be VERY CAREFUL when her brother holds the baby, and she should REALLY watch where he puts his fingers and other inanimate objects.

I never heard from them after that. Strange, huh? I thought for sure we'd have a family reunion.

But I DID NOT want Eddie to molest any other members of his family. And so I put out a letter as soon as I heard there were more babies coming into the picture. But wether or not he touches them, I can't do anything about it. The statute of limitations was up by the time I went into therapy, I couldn't press charges... I'm feeling such guilt after watching all of these Sandusky victims come forward and tell their stories.... and I'm praying that in between Eddie abusing me... and him graduating high school, and moving on in life... I'm praying he didn't molest any other kids... I'm hoping i was the only one. Is that so wrong? Is that a fucked up wish? I see he has kids now- it makes me sick. I can only hope he got help/grew out of it/something. I can only pray he never wants to coach PENN state, too, I guess....

It's hard to come out and talk about stuff that you've convinced yourself is okay. It's hard to UNTWIST a story in your head that you've convinced yourself is RIGHT love, when you've had FUCKED UP love in your life before. If you've been beaten and bloodied at the hands of your parents.... but a gentle man comes along, regardless of where he puts his hands... if they're gentler than the beating... it twists a kid... it "feels" better than the beatings... it confuses the victim into "well, why do i hate it? why does it feel weird? i kinda of like it cuz it doesn't make my face bleed... but i kinda hate it too...." It's such a terrible terrible twisted and confusing situation for a child-even one whose grown into a man- to find themselves in. (or girl- gorown into a woman.)

When the touching starts- a child who is NOT gonna take it will scream their heads off. Peds can spot kids those a mile away, and generally steer clear. But peds usually seek out the lonely, scared, forgotten, wall-flower, needy ones who WILL respond to "extra touching" and demonstrative behavior.... then the pedophiles will push it from there. This is my experience anyway. And the longer the relationship can "bloom/rot", the further it is pushed into "romantic/special" relationships....

It's scary for the child. You thought you were special for one thing.... then one day you wake up and you realize you are special for another thing, and another thing only, and YOU DON'T WANT TO DO THAT ANYMORE AT ALL.

I woke up one morning at my molester's house, and my mother was due to come pick me up. She'd been at the hospital all day (and for days) with her husband, and I was DYING to get home, away from Eddie, away from Mr. Octopus. And I'll never forget how fucking sick I was that day. Eddie's mom wanted to leave me at home with him, and have him drive me to meet my mother that day. I knew if we were left alone in the house all day, I'd be pregnant by afternoon. For "some reason", I got so sick, so so so sick, I thought I was going to die. I needed to throw up, shit my brains out, and explode every ounce of my being outward into a millions pieces of bloody confetti. Preferably onto Eddie. Shockingly, he was not in the mood to touch me once he realized I might throw up on him.

I was 12 at this point, and he was 17 or 18. And I was DONE DONE DONE having him chase me. DONE. OVER. I wanted my body to be MY BODY, and my emotions to be MY EMOTIONS. And you can't have them, or own them when you're on the run at 50PMH for years.....

When it was time to go meet mom, I shuffled out to the car, and Eddie didn't even say anything to me. I didn't say anything to him. We drove in silence to the softball diamonds where his family was working the concessions, and where my mother would meet me and my sister to pick us up and drive us back to Lafayette. When we got to the dusty softball diamond, I went into the large concession stand building, and laid down on the couch in the back office.... and the thought that went through my head was "Eddie will never molest me again. Eddie will never molest me again. Eddie will never molest me again. I am never going back there. I was 12 when it stopped."

Swear to god. "I was 12 when it stopped." was what went through my mind. I made a note. And he never touched me after that. Sadly, my step dad did pass on soon after, and our families drifted due to your typical after-death fights regarding money and who did he leave what to $$$$..... But I was just fine with that. I didn't want to see Eddie or Amy ever ever ever again.

My babysitter Gina R..... boy were her fingers FUCKING BUSY!!!!!! If her mother is reading this right now- or her sister- the reason we stopped using her is because SHE MOLESTS LITTLE GIRLS!!! Even 5 year old ones!! Did she have NO boundaries?!!!! SPUD- sorry he passed from leukemia as a teen.... but he liked to try to stick his d*ck in me a million times behind Evelyn's garage....while I was being held down by his little brother, Brent, and my big sister would pin my arms back. Ah, good time sibling memories....

Now let's remember, there are many Eddie S's and Gina R's in this world. Let's not attack any ol' one you see. I've tried to be honest and upfront, yet let the pedophiles retain some sort of anonymity simply cuz i don't need a court case. :) Ironically enough. So the names are real, I haven't changed much. But the spellings might be different, and they might have died already..... who knows. But I figured HEY! if all of us survivors are being brave and coming out .... I'm inspired. I will too. Let's go. Why do the abusers get to hide? For their whole life? I'm sick of carrying their shame!

I
am
a survivor
of
you

are
you
a
survivor of me

we'll see.

Teachers. You Might've Heard This One.... Oh Well...

2011-12-02T06:38:00.000-08:00

My mind is on my teachers these days. My mind is traveling back to my childhood a lot lately, revisiting the reality that surrounded me, who took care of me, who was maternal, whom I took care OF, whom I was maternal TO, even at the age of 5, 8, 12, etc. Judgement aside, I accept that I mothered adults as a child. Fact of my life. Moving on.

Teachers... now teachers, they never required for me to take care of them. Perhaps that is why I allowed myself to be more lazy in my emotions around them. I didn't have to hold it together, I didn't have to wonder if they were going to end up in an insane asylum or a mental ward if I said or did the wrong thing, as I'd been warned so much in other situations.... I felt at ease around my teachers, which was ironic as I hated school with such a pure passion, it was almost like a red stripe on a zebra- so much is right about the zebra- but for the BIG GLARING MISTAKE OF A NASTY RED STRIPE. That was school for me. The one nasty thing I could barely swallow in my childhood. The other crap I could take. Junior high and high school? Barely made it through.

My dislike for school was nothing short of bitter hatred- each kid seemed more Catholic than the last, more rich than the last, each had nicer clothes, and bigger curlier hair than the last.... And there I stood in my ONE pair of shoes that were to last me until they wore out. And maybe past then. Kids aren't nice to other kids in teen years....especially the religious ones. They weren't nice to me. Teachers were. I clung to teachers. They were the adults I looked up to, to make sure that my guesses as to "how do i live this life, i have no guidance" were correct, or at least headed in the right direction. I trusted them. And when I let a teacher down... oh, dear fucking god.... it was hell. Sitting in my room at night, with all the lights out but one small tiny desk lamp still aglow for me to work on my "academically challenging homework"... I'd fret and stress about letting my teachers down, and not wanting to do that, and how could I impress each and every one to get some sort of attention the next day to fill my empty bowl of need and desire to be recognized as something other than a caretaker for a mother?

I was more aware of this behavior in high school... but not so much my elementary years. My elementary years were ignorant bliss. I feel sorry for the teachers I did have- I am sure that the abuse I suffered came out through my behavior somehow, and I am sure that my neediness affected the class somehow... and I KNOW I was always getting lectured about talking too much (I think that is a gene that runs in my family though).... Thank god I had such wonderful teachers throughout all my years. I can really only recall one or two assholes.

Kindergarten was Miss Kimble. She had to be 100 if she was a day. Her grandmotherly hair was snow-white, and she wore it shortly-cropped, in a curly perm, and touched off her look each day with her darling thick glasses that were constantly sliding down the tip of her large shiny nose. She was plump, had a wonderful lap (wether you were stuck in the lap for naughty or nice reasons), and never punished a child unless there was a very fair reason. I felt so safe with her. Perhaps this is why I felt so comfortable taking the assignments she would give us, and I would hand off my assignments to Jennifer Danaher, because she was SUCH a better colorer than me. Her coloring was BOLD, and she stayed IN THE LINES!!! I wondered how in the world she could color SO BRIGHTLY, with SUCH FORCE, and NOT go out of the lines. So of course, I put her to work on my coloring homework immediately.

Now, Miss Kimble was a sharp one. Apparently her decades of teaching, and mothering and grandmothering, had taught her a thing or two about kids. Even adorable, charming kids like myself..... She pulled me aside and asked why my coloring looked exactly like my "neighbor" Jennifer Danaher's coloring. I froze. For some reason, it was the first time it was occurring to me that perhaps *I* should have tried to color that myself. And perhaps not have designated Jennifer D. to do it for me. (It's just that Jenny didn't seem to mind....) So after I came clean and explained that I wanted my coloring to look like Jennifer's, so I simply asked her to do it. Miss Kimble looked at me for awhile, and then handed me another xerox copy of the numbers 0-9. "Color these yourself, Tammy. If you like your neighbor's way of doing something, you can try it yourself. But please don't ask your neighbor to do your work for you, okay?" I nodded and returned to my seat.

I was so disappointed. You see, I felt it was my duty to assist the teacher. I liked to walk around the room while the other kids were coloring, and I liked to lean over and give comments, be supportive (I thought), and in general, be Little Miss Teacher. Um. Miss Kimble had to explain to my mom in the parent-teacher meeting that perhaps that is not my job, but that I just needed to be a kid in the class. So that was my last opportunity to be teacher for awhile. And later when Miss Kimble was going through our Coloring Books, ones that were our very own, and on each page was an animal whose name began with a different letter of the alphabet.... she did call me up again to her desk. "Tammy," she asked, while flipping through my many pages of Bunnies, Rabbits, Cats, kittens, puppies, kangaroos, ant-eaters, etc.... "Why didn't you color so many animals?" Miss Kimble allowed her glasses to slide down her nose as she glanced at me over her transluscent-framed glasses. "OH!!" I exclaimed, realizing she must not have the same creative, genius brain I have, "Those are the WHITE animals!!!"

In hindsight, I do believe she swallowed a chuckle, and perhaps tightened a smirk on her lips. She closed my xeroxed "book", and handed it back to me gently with a smile. "Well, Tammy, I think you have made a great choice to make those animals white, but now you just have to color them white with your CRAYON." I was SO UPSET!!!!! It was a special day where she was letting all the kids play outside while she looked at the animal books, and now here I was, I was going to have to stay inside all morning to color these damn animals WHITE!!!! I was not a happy kindergartner, regardless of the karma that might have been biting me in the butt.

But she was a sharp one, that Miss Kimble. She often worse her polyester pants and navy polyester button-up short-sleeved shirt that showed off her wagging grandma arms.... She kept a cardigan in the room for the cold days, and shoved tissues in her sleeves so that she always had some handy.

It would be years and years later before my mother would tell me that at the parent teacher conference with Miss Kimble, Miss Kimble also told my mother that "someday Tammy will make her mark on this world, Mary. I don't know what it will be or how... but that little girl is going to make her mark on this world one day, trust me."

I don't know what to say to that, how to respond... if it will come true, if the infamous break up was a "mark" (god forbid- let me make a BETTER mark, please!!)

When I graduated high school, though, 13 years later, I received a graduation card in the mail from her. In the card were old clippings she had been collecting of me over the years, from whenever I had been mentioned in the local paper: newspaper carrier of the month, star of local "Hello, Dolly" musical, star of "Cyrano de Bergerac" in high school, etc.... and a $5 bill. I felt so honored. So valued. So priceless. In that moment, I recalled her smell, the feel of her arms around me from when I would enter her classroom each morning and expect a hug, I heard her voice, somehow stern and loving all at the same time, in a way that only grandmothers can do.... We never spoke voice to voice or face to face.... I only received one email from her family once that said she had read what I wrote about her, and they loved it, and I meant a lot to her, even 30 years later.

To a kid from a shattered home who was starving..... that is invaluable to hear.... to hold.... even decades later.

That was kindergarten. I will share about each of my teachers. One by one. This was about Miss Kimble.

I'll tackle Miss Gamble next. She is the one who made me realize I needed to grow up to be a man so that I could come back and ask her to marry me. :-)

*sigh*

Glenda Cornstuble, R.I.P.

2011-10-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

I'm recognizing now how very deeply my teachers influenced me and my life growing up. I knew that certain teachers had had an affect on me (my son is named after my 8th grade teacher/turned-life-mentor-guardian-angel, for Heaven's sake, as I feel certain she saved my life more than once, in so many many ways), but I didn't know that other teachers had such an affect on me until recently.

Mrs. Cornstuble was my 11th grade English teacher. I always had a connection with my English and Creative Writing teachers. I usually excelled in those classes, and the teachers tended to pull me aside to comment on my writing and my interests in furthering my "gift" or whatever. I always blew off their comments, and walked away from the nonsense they blew my way. Not because I didn't like writing, oh, no, in fact, the opposite was quite true: I loved writing, I was always keeping a journal- the journal was my daily breath, my way of living. I had no one to really talk to- no way to release the horrid ugly truth of what was really going on inside the walls of my home (I hated to even share with my darling trusted music teacher at the time, though unbeknownst to me, her decades of teaching had sharpened her keen eyes and she already knew to help me get out of my house as much as possible- her way of doing so was to consistently ask me to babysit for her child-- it didn't occur to me until years later to question why she needed me to babysit when she was always home with me and her child...) So whenever I was approached about my writing "gift", I took it as a violation of my personal privacy- like, "Hey, I only write to save my life- don't send me to college for it, and turn it into WORK! NO THANKS!!"

But Mrs. Cornstuble. Now that was a woman who didn't take shit from anyone. She was a spit of a woman, she couldn't have been a hair above 5 feet tall, regardless of her two inch white-woman curly brunette afro. Her nose was like a bird's beak, peeking out beyond her petite face, fitting it perfectly, her jet black eyes perched on either side, and a tiny valentine mouth-- just as quick to bite as it was to open wide and throw pearls of great laughter to the sky, her lady-like guffaws echoing off the ceilings of the high school hallways. she was a hard one to get to laugh. i tried my best. and i was successful at times. it felt grande and powerful to make her laugh.

I had often taken "gifted and talented" classes in school- the classes that are REALLY hard, and the grades are more college-slanted, and the homework was HOURS long at night, and the students were getting college credits for all their classes by sophmore/junior/senior year cuz their so ahead in education and classes, etc etc. Yeah. That was me. Can you believe it? I was put into those classes starting in about 4th grade, and they kept me in those classes until I begged my Mom to let me go into regular classes in my junior year so that I didn't have to spend every waking moment in the library at Purdue University doing my HIGH SCHOOL homework, when I wanted to be playing softball, basketball, volleyball, and rehearsing for plays.... (you're only a kid once, right? and I was never a kid, so I just wanted to be able to play a little after school those last two years of high school. how michael jackson of me. perhaps i needed propofol.... paging doctor conrad murray...) When my mom agreed to let me take normal classes, and not the college classes in high school, I was thrilled! I was the first one signed up for Mrs. Cornstuble's class, a combo class she was going to teach with a history teacher, Mr. Womack. Two hours: she'd teach English, he'd teach History, and then we'd get an assignment including both, and VOILA!!!! AMAZING way to teach two classes but give one assignment. Genius. After my first paper was turned in (yes, I just slapped together some sort of Creative Writing story about a slave girl's diary- SO EASY! i just had to look up slaves conditions back then, get imaginative, and pull out my pen and paper...) I scored an A+ (duh), and Mr. Womack insisted on reading my "diary of a slave girl" aloud to the class. (Embarrassing.) Then afterwards I was pulled aside by Mrs. Cornstuble.

"Tammy," Mrs. Cornstuble said approaching me just a few seconds after the bell rang, while the kids were scrambling for their backpacks and gathering in their after-school cliques. She had my blue constuction-paper slave-diary in hand. She waved it at me a little bit, but wouldn't hand it to me.

"I need to talk to you about your writing," she said. "This writing, Tammy. You're writing. What do you think of your writing, Tammy?" She sat down in a chair that she had pulled up in the corner of the room, next to a desk. She gestured for me to take a seat in the rolling chair across from her. I was a little confused. It occurred to me that Mr. Womack had obviously enjoyed my writing... but suddenly I was wondering if maybe Mrs. Cornstuble had a different opinion. I started to get nervous. Rumor around school had it that she was a hard-ass teacher, and if you got on her bad side, there was NO getting OFF of her bad side. I was starting to feel like maybe I was sliding towards her bad side, without a rope to grab onto.

When I didn't move towards the chair, she gestured again, nicer this time I guess, because I was more inclined to reach for the back of the chair and pull it towards me. As I sat, she asked me again, "Tammy, what do you think of your writing? Do you write very often?"

I sat silently. My writing at that point in my life was a secret. It was something I did at night under the covers after my mother and sister had quieted their bloody furors amongst each other, and I needed to release the nightmare anguish inside myself so that I could breathe again. I only wrote when I had such pain inside from my sisters fists, or memories of tormentors so large I could not defend myself, and I knew they would be coming back again, so I wrote of my fears and anger, I wrote poetry, hoping the poetry would make my ugly insides feel pretty...... my writing was my uglies.... my writing was where I really lived. My writing was where I kept the truth of my life that I could not tell anyone else, where no one could reach the fragile inside of me that would die if broken, maybe even if touched.... so, no I had never looked at my writing as a "GIFT". I looked at it as an oxygen tank. A set of lungs. My writing was legs that got me out of bed. My writing was a mind that told me I'd be okay, that would convince me I'd make it another day, that it'd all get better one day. My writing flowed from me at times, almost as if I wasn't the one talking, but someone was talking TO me... and telling me to hang on for just a little bit longer.

So when Mrs. Cornstuble stared at me that day, with her usual piercing licorice black eyes, softened and dripping, looking into me for an answer... I had no answer for her. I shrugged. "I keep a diary everyday...." I began.

"You do?" she asked. "Okay, so you do writing exercises everyday!"

I felt insulted at that description. Saving my life everyday is NOT a writing exercise. "Well, no, I write in my journal everyday, several times a day, for pages and pages a day. It's not an exercise. I talk to my journal more than to people. More than I talk to my friends...." I admitted.

She fell silent for a moment as her eyes fell down to my assignment again. Her tiny claw-like hands with beautiful, perfect painted nails flipped through the pages of my "misspelled, slavery girl scrawl" I had done for the work, and then she lifted her eyes to meet mine again. Her tar eyes to my sky eyes.

"Tammy, you have an incredible gift for writing. And if I treat you like every other kid in the class.... if I grade you like every other student in the class, that is not fair to you or them. You are not like them- you have a writing gift, and you need to challenge it- you need to polish it. You can not ignore it. You can get scholarships for English- full ride scholarships to great schools, Tammy."

I stared at her. It was quite well known in my little rinky-dink high school that I was going to be graduating in one year, and then my ass was going to be high-tailing it OUTTA THAT TOWN for DA BIG APPLE. So I was pretty confused as to why this teacher was talking college and looking for scholarships to get me there.

"I don't need a scholarship, Mrs. Cornstuble. I'm going to be an actress," was my knee-jerk response. I stared into her eyes. I was by then, getting used to the patronizing response I would get from grown ups after they would hear my declaration. And god bless- Mrs. Cornstuble was no different.

"Tammy. Acting won't get you anywhere. You need a back up. 99% of actors are unemployed--" she started.

"Mrs. Cornstuble," I said, interrupting her, "99.9% of actors are UNTALENTED." I stated AS FACT. "I am not one of those. I will get a job. MANY. I won't have problems."

The look of softness and kindness fell from her fece, and she hardened. I immediately thought of her daughter Ericka, who was my friend in school, and I figured I was getting the "strict, mean mommy look" that she would probably give to Ericka when Mrs. Cornstuble would get mad at her. So, dutifully, like a daughter, I cringed in my seat.

Her voice tightened. "Tammy. You need to think of having a REAL job. A REAL career. A way to REALLY support yourself out there one day. You are a writer. A NATURAL writer. A GIFTED writer. And I'm telling you that I am going to hold you up to the standard that you need to be held accountable for- you are better than these 'typical' classes- I know you used to be in the gifted program- you still should be. But since you are not, I will still expect your writing to be up to that kind of performance, because CLEARLY you can do it in your sleep."

I stared at her. I glanced at her crazy curly afro-hair. I'd never seen such curly hair on a white woman. She seemed to always have fuzz or some sort of lint or clothing fabric in it. Her complexion was impeccable. Like porcelain. Her make up was always flaw-less. NEVER too much. Just a touch, just enough. I tried to avoid her eyes. I looked around the empty school room. The bell had rung so long ago, signaling classes were over for the day, and by now the hallways had fallen silent, save for the few stragglers in the distance..... I couldn't beg off from the meeting to say I had to get to my next class... so we sat quietly. My blue construction paper make-shift journal-cover sitting on the desk to our side. A quiet reminder of my potential that I was scared to share because it meant taking off my last layer of REAL protection, the layer of protection, closest to my skin, to my heart, to my soul- I keep my Writing Hand in front of all that to protect it- I can and would much rather write out my feelings than anything else- than act them out or even feel them! So when Mrs. Cornstuble told me to start focus on my writing- to start letting others giving me assignments, and let them read it, and "Hey let's all climb in your head together!" it FELT (not saying that this is what she MEANT or WANTED to do-- it just FELT like this at the time) it FELT like it was a proposal to have a team of people step inside my head and steal the one thing that I had left to myself: the stream of consciousness that flows from my being through my hand onto a page somewhere. And then helps heal me.

And I wasn't willing to let that happen. It was all I had left to myself that was all mine, that wasn't being destroyed by my home life of hell, that wasn't being taken away from me by the stress of school. The kids at school didn't know about it, so I wasn't being teased about ANOTHER something "unique" about me that meant something so much to me.... I needed to keep my writing to MYSELF. I needed to keep my writing UNGRADED. NOT marked out with red pens and graded and then chewed up and spit back. AND... I didn't need my soul to be read aloud to the class day after day. Naked. I didn't want an A that bad.

I sat there for so long. She and I. Then I finally looked at her with the same shame I felt when I had to tell my mom I had stole my sisters Mo-ped for a joy ride at 13, and the cops had stopped me, and I got in trouble. I told Mrs. Cornstuble no, I didn't want to do extra work, I wasn't special, I didn't want my "gifted writing talent" to be graded differently. I didn't want "special assignments".... I just wanted to be normal.

I'll be honest. She got mad. She was very angry with me. She made it abundantly clear to me that she felt I was throwing my talent away. She felt that acting was a waste of my time, that it would never take me anywhere, nor would I be able to do anything "in acting" because it's just such a hard world to get into.... and she just couldn't believe that I would have such a natural gift for writing, and "just walk away". she was "JUST SO DISAPPOINTED" i recall her saying many times, at the end of the meeting.

I left there feeling like shit. And strangely feeling honored at the same time. Until then, I really didn't know that my writing actually was able to convey to people the same things I was feeling inside. I had no clue people responded to my words, or that people could draw up visions in their head just based on what i describe with letters and words. On my walk home that day, I finally began to understand that I had been writing for years- and I in fact- DID love to write. PERIOD. And that, yes, Mrs. Cornstuble was, in fact, correct.... I did love to write. And maybe one day I would write professionally. I hadn't thought of it until that moment. It was a long walk home that day. I really respected Mrs. cornstuble, and her response to my backing off of my writing was unsettling for me, to say the least.

For the rest of the year, Mrs. Cornstuble did as we had talked about: she left me alone. she didn't give me extra assignments, she didn't grade me differently, and I flew through her class with all A's. Of course, she'd hand me an assignment back, with a big red A scrawled across the top, and when I'd catch her looking at me, she'd just roll her eyes at me as if to say, "Yeah, you got an A. DUH. SO what? You basically STOLE THE A, Tammy." So after her talk with me, and my time in her class ended, I never felt or looked at my writing the same way.

My darling, lovely, amazing, generous, gifted herself, wonderful Mrs. Cornstuble passed away so recently that I found myself sobbing over her death last night.

I was told of her passing so late that I couldn't even make it home for her funeral. I was beyond devastated. For a second time in my life, my words were pulled from me.

I found myself at her Facebook page. Many have asked me about "friending me" on Face Book.... I don't do FB so that I can connect with tons of people- I do FB to stay connected to loved ones, and to stay in touch with old pals from Lafayette, Indiana whom I went to school with. And would you believe I had my old English teacher Glenda Cornstuble on there as a FB friend? Yup, Glenda Cornstuble right there. That's the way we rolled. If I had a stressful lawyer meeting coming up or something, I'd say it on FB, and she was the first to post her prayers and blessings. She was a supporter of me through and through- never stopped. even 20 years later. So last night... somehow I found myself on her old FB page... it's still up and active. I was brought to the knees of my soul. I think because my parental figures were absent, I felt parental emotional connections with some teachers, on many different levels.... Mrs. Cornstuble being one of them.

Yet, I let the days pass without saying what I should have. I didn't TELL HER what I should have- what I OWED HER. I didn't mention that her WORDS still change my life to this day. Teachers get crappy salaries, but I do know they are highly rewarded when a student returns to pay back some gratitude for all of the lessons he/she learned while in the class, and how they carried those lessons on forward with them in life. That is the "salary bonus" for most teachers....

I had no words to post. I wanted to write all of the lessons she had taught me, but I never told her. And I'm talking about the lessons that aren't in books... I wanted to tell her I finally understand now what she meant when she said I have a "gift" for writing. I wanted to tell her so very many things, but... after I typed everything up... and read it.... I realized no one was going to read it but her family. and it would be so futile to post such frivilous post-mortem love. Too late. (That's why we must all do something TODAY-- NOW, in expressing our love to people. Don't wait for tomorrow.) (She went in to have an operation for something-they opened her up-she was so filled with cancer, that there was nothing to do for her-so they closed her up and sent her home with hospice- she passed within 6 weeks. shock, no warning. twin grand daughters, age 3.5....) I had so much to say to her, so much gratitude to express. SO so so very much. Instead I left one sentence. Because indeed, she has gone. And the only ones left now are her family. God bless.

I found myself clicking off of her FB page last night, weeping in grief that I didn't get to tell her one last time THANK YOU for calling me out in high school, for telling me I could be doing better with a gift- for telling me I SHOULD be doing better.
I found myself staring at my blank blog page last night for hours, crying, hearing Mrs. Cornstuble's voice echo in my mind over and over again. The Gift The Gift The Gift. Don't Waste It Don't Waste It Don't Waste It.

I'm wasting it, aren't I?

So in lieu of sending flowers, Mrs. Cornstuble, I'm going to write again. Write the way you told me I do, I can, I should, I will. I remember what you told me- I'm positive you never forgot either- and so I shall.

Rest in Peace, my darling English Teacher
Glenda Cornstuble
28 years of teaching
Lafayette Jefferson High School
Indiana

just a paper not a voice, a-tisket, a-tasket

2011-09-19T01:01:00.000-07:00

i went for a walk the other day
a fine day
a fine day yes indeed it was
in the neighborhood
and on this walk a
piece of paper
flew past my ankle ever so lightly
ever so lightly
just ever so lightly
like a cat laying eyes on you
for the very first time

don't you move
the cat will

but it was paper
not a cat
and it was my neighborhood
and i don't i don't litter
so i picked it up
i picked it up
i reached down
and picked it up

moving like the tin man after
he's been stuck for so long
in the rain and seasons

twas the beginning of someone's
journal
"Dear Diary", it said
then it had been ripped out and
tossed away
tossed away
discarded...

losing a page of a thought
is just losing a page of thought
....losing a journal
isn't losing a voice
or a person
or a time

i tossed the litter in the can
when i returned home
and reached
WAAAY back in the cupboard
for a notebook
simple, spiral-bound, school type thing
and found a good pen
and i swear
as i snuggled up on my bed
i swear
i heard a whisper...

of my voice coming back.

twit

2011-08-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

just because there's
not enough ways to
already communicate
with the
outside world
from
way inside
the illustrious world
of smoke and mirrors....
yes...
i did sign up to
be a twit
with the rest
140 characters or less

to talk to people directly
real people i hope
(some fake hiding behind facades
but that is what they need
not for me to care about
karma, right?
karma yes?)

it's all good
i'm all good
life is good

and on we go

like she says...................

"Ah, yes...

2011-07-26T13:58:00.000-07:00

...now I see."

said the blind woman

...as she removed her
blindfold,
only to see
each
and every detail
cross the horizon of the storyline
crystal clear
details that were invisible
beneath the smothering, spun web
of the blindfold

it was bejeweled, see,
and i used to be distracted
by such the like as that

but a glint in the sun
means you might miss
a hundred and one

truths
right under your nose

know what is affective and
even more deceptive than
one spider?

two, with the same intent.

botox

2011-07-13T00:55:00.000-07:00

i talk to my friend about botox. my friend is pretty smart, in general, and really smart about medical stuff. i asked her about what she thought of botox, and is it really so bad? What's the big deal?

she explained that

botox
is short for botulism
which is an
often deadly
toxin found in
a certain bacteria
around food poisoning
symptoms include:
nerve paralysis

um... yeah. yikes. that scares me a bit.

she mentioned that it will be interesting
to observe these people in several years
...see if any auto-immune problems
come up
since botox
er botulism
attaches to the nerves and all....
paralyzes them

yikes. that scares me a bit.
i'll keep my face with feeling, thanks.

2011. That's me, with curly hair up there. wtf?

2011-06-25T10:54:00.001-07:00

i drink lattes again
i wear leggings- something I said I'd NEVER do
i had a cigarette the other day- not a whole one
but enough to make me yell at myself
for an entire week
i have curly hair and people I know
but that haven't seen me in awhile
barely recognize me
or they assume I went to the pet store for a grooming
and ordered the "poodle perm" on sale
i kinda laugh about it- it's my own joke i guess
we could barely keep fish alive, but I let
my kids get a pet bunny.
I'm hoping we do alot better this time around.
it helps that we can hold and stroke this pet....
it was hard explaining that last time around
about how you can't hold a goldfish... you can't pet it
but you still call it a pet...
i learned to never say never
my doctor said that
if someone makes you completely dependent on them
and they suddenly jerk it away, remove it all,
the person left with zero, no support, nothing,
will fall into a possible rage because their basic human
needs have been stripped away without warning-
it's natural he said- it's what happens
in one nanosecond, one loses all paths
to support for water, clothing, shelter--
I had no clue, but it shall never ever happen again
letting money and people and others
control my life and if i nurture my career or not
but either way
ugh shit that sucked
table for one
I still can't believe how much I knelt at the alter
of the smoke machine
and believed

I forgive myself
for believing the red flags
were the beginning of a rainbow

and now
here I stand at the start line
my best glitter sneakers on
and lip gloss in hand
no labels this time
I'm feeling my spine, my muscles,
my legs- i do wish they were stronger.
i'll have to practice more i guess....

but i'm standing.
dammit.
straight and tall
and in fully in charge of my life
for the first time.
(well- except i do listen to my lawyers.
i allow them to boss me around at times.)

let's see what happens with this recipe.
:-)

I'm so curious about life now, and what happens
when one opens up to EVERYTHING in life.

? I wonder if I just say yes, what will happen ?

When one adopts the word "Never" into a subject of their life...... the Universe might laugh one day,

2011-06-24T14:26:00.000-07:00

& throw one straight down that slide.

The more I age, the more I learn that I pretend to be in charge of so many things that I am not. There are so many times I've used the word "Never" in my life. For instance: When I was little, I used to LOVE spin-ny rides at the fairgrounds and festivals. I used to stand in line, clutching my sweaty, filthy hands, just the right amount of tickets I needed to go on the round-abouts at the 4-H fairs when I was under 4" tall. I couldn't get enough of 'em. (Well- if Mom had had the money, and I would've have been able to go on them more than twice, I would say "I couldn't get enough of 'em!!"... but you know... You get my rift. I never got enough of 'em.) Then... one day, I was, like, 22 or something? And I went on one of those spaceship spinny things at the local fairgrounds... I had more than enough tix tucked away into my denim pocket, as I was SURE I'd want many more trips after just the first... But the strangest thing happened. I climbed inside the "Alien Spaceship With Gravity-Defying Walls!!!!!!!!!" with such anticipation, I could almost feel it in my throat.... that during the ride, the faster it spun, the more my body clung to the walls, and the less I could tolerate my guts also leaving their internal homes inside me.... and then the floor below dropped out from below me (and the other 44 people on the "ride"). I had no control when the bullhorn pierced my mind, and my files' o' Self Knowledge screamed "I'LL NEVER RIDE A SPIN-NY RIDE AGAIN IN MY LIFE!!!!!!!!" I do not know how my food stayed behind my tongue. I thank the Universe for it's assistance in those last 53 seconds of inundating, vibrating, spin, and the following 60 seconds of slow-down-stop. Afterwards, I did not know much. I could barely leave my alien seat in the round cabin of hurl-o-sphere. I barely noticed a few other "Never-Never-Land" joiners. I didn't know where my feet were, where my friends were when I got outside, where the trash can was, to lean up against it for support, and okay, maybe a vomit-catcher in case it was needed... I didn't know much. But I said to my friends "I'M NEVER going on a spinny thing again!!!!"

And so I lived.

Yup.

Yupperoni.

*breathing* *time passing*

Yep.

And then my child asked me to go on a spinny thing. An external piece of myself, a reflection of me, with open innocence and pure joy.... asked if I would please go on a spinny thing.

*sigh*

I've learned....

Never
Say
Never.

I liken that moment to some wire inside me flickered and fizzled and then reattached to another a second wire, and that second wire fused together all of the wires..... and soon there was new wiring... with old wiring, but new wiring too.... and the new wiring making me stronger in all areas, including my old wiring. So.... more wires for the connection I guess. I dunno. I'm just likening a moment in a metaphorical way... here....

that hesitation before the shine

2011-05-10T11:47:00.000-07:00

well
lookit these digits
moving
i can hear the creak
in the joints
as the bulb
hesitates
to shine

healing laughter

2011-05-08T20:35:00.000-07:00

sammy bo bammy
fee fie
foe
fammy
he hides his key in his fanny
fo
sho
fo
sho
and i once knew a canine
harry brown harry brown
he wore a maltese suit
but i knew he was really just
a cool dude who would unzip at
night and slip into the dark alleys,
hoping to find a free drum kit some somewhere...

and don't get me started on luke
and reuben................
i'm mostly a cat person..... but then a dog comes along,
who's something else, zipped into that dog suit.....
and it's humorous....

oh, black, oh, silly, oh, my friends
theirs apples so silly
in a circle so funny just saying it once
say it again
BLILLY
BLILLY.

happy mothers days and to all a good night.

2011-05-08T17:36:00.000-07:00

and on this day
i have
two
that turned me inside out
made me wear
one
giant
bloody
thumping
pumping
heart on my sleeve

hallelujah
amen.

happy mother's day.

true love and true notches in the wood of Holly

2011-05-08T11:04:00.001-07:00

is there anyone in this town
who doesn't make a notch
a slash
a mark above their bed
a joke to their circle of friends
a pamphlet of jokes to their new comedic boss
about the the few dates with
the fresh meat in town
down off the hill

notches
on belts
on bed posts
in the work place
high fives
good jobs
"get out, no way!"

after all is said and done,
and the candles are blown out
the rose petals blown away in the soft
breeze of the night
there is a fading wonder of
how much was real
how much was notching
and just a fling?
it's H'wood after all
and don't they all look for flings
and things?

Walking anew if you will, and I think you will.

2011-02-10T10:55:00.001-08:00

there were 12 or 13 of us in that first class.
those first weeks of flittering around classes
like different airborne animals
aflutter aflutter afloo
and classes on how to make your
Ssss more SSSsssss-like
"SSSSssssssssound it out CLASSSSSSSSssssssssss!"
she would sssssay,
as everyone would ssstare
at her bosssom
that sat upon her fully filled diaphragm
"CLASSSSSSSSSSSssssss!!!!"
BOSOM!!!!!
and so forth
alexander technique
nobody got it jean-luc wouldn't talk to us about
anything
in his thick accent
he would mumble on about
who knows what
and just ask us to walk
one day
the lavender cowboy
RG
he got it
he stood up
and walked
Jean-Luc cried
"YES!!!!!"
clearly.... i was missing the boat. later, another cowboy from texas, Todd,
"got it".
damn.

i was really missing it. one by one
or one by none
each of tried
it took some of us a whole week
and we weren't allowed to tell what we were doing or trying to do once we understood it all.

but we understood what we were trying to accomplish
we understood
why

jean-luc called my name again
and i stood before him
he called me to
The Spot from whence we were all starting to try
i spun around to meet his eyes across the room,
and he instructed me to go

i tried something new:
i left my self-illustrations on the outside of my head
and walked with just my muscles and body
no thoughts
it was interesting
blank page
starting from the beginning-
i didn't have my right shoulder hunched in the air
from holding my backpack with books long ago
or my right leg shuffling along because of my doc martens
i was conscious not to walk like that in the present

to erase signs of scabby old me
and
just think of it like
walking anew if you will
and i think you will :-)

by the time i crossed that hardwood NYC ballroom
and reached Jean-Luc in October of 1993
he said in his thick accent, "yes! did you feel that? did you feel that?"

yes. i had. i had made that decision and carried it out,
little french man and you felt it

sometimes people don't know how to walk. or talk or crap or eat or do something right because simply, their world is upside down. like a free roller coaster ride that nobody buckled them up for or warned them about. or maybe they lose sight of walking because they broke some limbs in their own personal war. as much as they say it, as much as it's been said in the cheapest, most-off-handed way.... it is true. TIME is what heals wounds. i think because TIME gives answers. and TIME settles the ripples. and soon TIME is a dear friend to trust. i looked in the mirror the other day and didn't recognize myself. so much TIME has passed.

i'm walking anew
if you will

and i think you will.
:-)

typical

2011-01-21T14:56:00.000-08:00

okay, so like
if you come looking

for bitter

you will find that which you seek

even if it doesn't belong to me
but is a reflection of you

i can make comments on my life,
my dirty house,
my sick kids,
my "typical american life"
and not at all feel resentful or bitter

just snotty and buried under blankets

and hopefully be allowed to be seen
as typical

but if it's hard to come here
and read without the Bitter Glasses on....
i'd suggest ya find another pasture to graze in
something more your flavor?

i'm pretty typical.

is it friday? it's gorgeous outside.
and i'm cleaning out all of my drawers
and vacuuming each corner of my house.

a perfect day.

frazzle my dazzle from yesteryear? maybe if i can get my house cleaned.

2011-01-19T13:15:00.000-08:00

oh
my
god

one has the ear infections
one has possible stomach virus

one has been up almost every night for two weeks
one was up all of last night throwing up

i have had the cold thing for two weeks
and as i cough up green
i am hoping the shades will fade to lemon
and let go of my lungs and we'll be on our merry way

but until then
there's piles of toys (trucks!!!!)
and dolls and crayons
and some towels on the floor
next to my bed from where
one threw up last night
--i'm waiting to see what he has--
i need to empty trash cans
of regurged whatnots and trash
i need to do some laundry
pay some bills
balance the checkbook
make an appointment with the phone company
cuz the 3 pound rat in the garage
ate through the phone wire before we caught it
(god i love my landlords)
and just sort of in general...
get the house in order before the kids
come back home tomorrow....

but i might have to just lay here
buried under my dirty sheets and pillows
one pillow even smelling like the inside of
my child's stomach....
because i'm just friggin' tired

and i'm told by many friends
that my housework won't just get up and
walk away- i can get to it tomorrow-
so i can rest for today
take care of myself today
lie here on these lovely dirty crumb-filled sheets

who has time to frazzle their dazzle
over old hairy green, jurassic news from yesteryears
gone by?
not i
said the mother from under the sheets with a cold
not i.

bless.

speak, spread, walk the talk

2011-01-18T07:52:00.000-08:00

a couple of seasons
a little time
some bark falling from trees
and some children's rhymes
i moved out november 23rd 2009
she said it would help
i was convinced it would
too and i trusted there was
no one else
i didn't know
there was someone moving in
as i was moving out

indeed

three weeks later a box of new toys
was delivered and her assistant brought
it to my rental house as a mistake
i opened it
and that's when i felt something was up

i called her
"i have your new dicks on my kitchen counter?"

one thing by one thing
i slowly felt things were not
as
they were being represented

one never even said one was breaking up with me
one only says things in song and string

and then i listened to the album
and i understood
oh
you don't want to work it out
oh you already have someone in the wings
oh you already have pined for another
oh you are done here

oh i have become another one of your exes

oh i have become an album

many albums
starting with lucky
which is why you can't find that tattoo on my
body anymore

and then
i begged for the news not to be let out until after the
release
but apparently no?
the news just HAD TO BE LEAKED three weeks before the album dropped-

i had only wanted to process my feelings before the public did
divorce should not be a mass emotional project

i found it all very fascinating.
in the most gory and heart-wrenching way
months later

but i have had some time to let it digest, rip my stomach apart,
digest some more, and i think i'm in a better spot now.
sometimes reality takes a moment to settle in. you know, like if
you were standing in the pitch black, and suddenly you threw
on some intense 1500W bulbs around you?? you'd need to quint
and adjust and maybe be blind for a minute? okay. maybe vomit up
your stomach until you have a brand new lining, but hey, who
doesn't do that when their world turns upside down? :-)

so. you know. people magazine tries to get things right. they try to
clean things up for the famous folk- their sources are usually the publicist
for the celebrity. i'm here to clarify. well... i want to clarify without
dealing with getting sued for SLANDER (and paying someone), which would include
me saying that the two were involved while I was living there (it is still my house, by the way).
and i haven't gone just that far yet.

since april of 09? mmm.... one of my little sweet peas told me otherwise much
earlier than that, Pooper magazine.

they should have shut the bedroom door.

and once again... if we're going to have little "leaks" and such... let's make them truthful?

perhaps folks out there are going to start doing math. "speak true and spread the peace" of 2010
i kept this to myself last summer. maybe i shouldnt have- it would have explained another reason
why there was so much bitterness in my cray-cray crazy blogs. i couldn't believe someone would have a
saying, and motto to ask people to buy and live by, but not oneself?

spread the peace? speak true.

and i found better friends. real friends.

and most importantly to me: the kids are alright.

and i met found someone myself. apparently they specialize in inflating roadkill? someone who almost made me believe in the tooth fairy again. which means there's hope for those of us who got even the most flattened. the tooth fairy, santa claus, and even leprechauns. now- i'm not sure what the next move with this chick is- do i leave her a tooth under my pillow? cookies and milk by a tree? green beer on the doorstep?

i don't know.

speak true, spread the peace, and have faith that we all walk the talk. that's the way to do it. not through your backdoor pooper magazine "sources have stated", babe. :) 'kay?

a f*ck up is a f*ck up is a f*ck up. drop it, and stop trying to clean up the mess with flubs and fibs. :-) let's move along.

blessings and blessings and blessings and blessings and golden rainbows and more blessings
even to those who need to learn how to walk the talk and talk the walk and
just learn how to love unconditionally
period.

xoxoox

Tammy Etheridge
(who has never ever changed her married/family name, so someone explain why the press has changed it for her? just curious.)

in other words-
it's not news
nothing new for me
only you guys-
i found out last year
long ago
and kept my mouth shut
for some reason
i'm interesting like that:
i'd rather squirm in rage
and look crazy
than open my mouth
about someone's secret
i guess?
i don't know.
but i knew this
last summer
and before
no news
no "new couple!"
try again, pooper magazine.
almost only counts in horseshoes, right?
:-)

oh- and i guess Pooper magazine looked bad, so now they're going to come after me?
they're going to write crappy articles on me now, eh?
i "bristle" at the "new" relationship? no. it's old, Pooper, remember?
old news. stale. like mold. like you don't wanna eat it anymore. green. furry. hairy.
like day old news, pooper. like you were WAY SCOOPED, pooper.
so you can quote my blog, and keep acting like you are on the edge
of breaking excitement.... but you're just quoting my blog
out of context,
rewriting fragments
arranging my words to fix your quota for online hits
and..... what?

:-) silly magazine.
do you need to step down with larry king?
losing your edge?
:-)

and can't we focus on the really really amazing talent over at nurse jackie anyway? LIZ BRIXIUS. friggin amazing writer. brilliant. where's her credit? her name? who does she have to sleep with to get some bright lights people? so cute, she is. such adoreable trinkets, and always matches, always accessorizes. she was always my favorite. somebody tell Liz she's doing a fabulous job.

Elizabeth E.

2010-12-08T07:12:00.000-08:00

I've been following her story since it was announced that she had cancer. As soon as it was publicly known, I assumed her husband would step back from the limelight, the presidential race, and tend to his wife, his support system, his core strength.

When he did not, I began to count her days. And when he did not, I began to question his character. Before the rumors of any infidelity came out. I couldn't believe he was going to let her go through it alone. Who the hell does that to their spouse?

Rest in Peace, Elizabeth,
rest,
rest
and be at Peace.

still here.

2010-11-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

still breathing.
i think i got off the spin-ny ride
and everything is a little
less dizzy now
still here
still breathing

putting all of my words together
in a nice fashionable way
so as not to be misunderstood

i'm like a ballerina en pointe
but instead of having a little wooden block down there-
it's a brick
and i accidentally deliver my
words with bricks
instead of little pokes of wood-
i'm sorry
i didn't mean it
i'm taking care of it

not everyone is perfect

and not everyone admits to flaws
but i do
which makes me near perfect
:)

someone said
that people change
and grow

that happened to the tree in this backyard
the owners had to go out
and buy really really strong rope
to tether together the two pieces that looked
like they were growing in opposite directions-
and they were the main foundation.....
that rope so strong, those two tree trunks stay
growing alongside

and so they grow
never too far apart

and i found my favorite john denver CD yesterday-
ok- i didn't find it, a friend bought it
and that made the entire day awesome
awesome

puzzles, bracelets, arts and craps (as called by 4 year olds here)
and john denver with some home cooking later done by me

a fine day.

zig zag lightening 'tween the best of intentions

2010-10-12T10:24:00.001-07:00

i remember going to the bar behind the red carpet right before the movie. it was a friend's movie premiere, not a big one, but i was nervous as hell. i felt like i was about to take off my my pant and underwear and bend over in front of the world and pull my entire VJ apart and show the world the most INTIMATE of my intimate lady parts. parts i had lied about and hidden for years. parts id hidden in shame and then wonderment, and then excitement.... and at that moment... i had finally reached the point where i wore my sexuality like a medal. it had bullet holes in it from the bullies in middle school and high school (gotta bless those christians- who else would remind us where we're gonna wind up when we die?), but i was ready to hit that ruby velvet and say "okay, ready or not, jobs or not, here i come...." she did a shot. my heart jumped... and we rounded the curtain.

i almost couldn't see for the amount of popping light bulbs. I heard a wall of people shout her name as we walked from the bar to the red carpet, and then they began to shout my name too. i was a little embarrassed, a little silly, it overall, it was just A Moment i guess that is filed away now.

but in that bar area, i'll never forget what was said to me.... "they're about to take pictures of us."

"so" i said.

"so that means, that if we ever don't work out... god.... i hate that ugly zig zag lightening they put through the ugly pics of the couples... i hate it. i just hate. and these are our first pics together.... and i just.... "

i understood at that point what she meant, but i knew it would never happen to us.

that's when the shot came in.

and the pics are all over. good ones, bad ones,
scary, sexy, help a story
and they are zigzag
like one said. lightening.

peace be with us all. so many pieces at that.

2010-10-11T12:11:00.000-07:00

i've been writing in this blog for so many years that i think i can use two hands now to count up the years. i talk about my lives here: personal, my public, and how the two intertwine in the most beautiful, ugly, hilarious, silly, strange, ironic ways. how in the world would could all of that change now, as i go through this next hurdle in life? my dear friends warn me that being too honest and true might allow lawyers to call me "unstable" in court- especially if i blog it.

but. really? just cuz i didn't set it to music? and it's a daily thing that won't have one "Drop" date.... and i'm "unstable"? nah. just a loudmouth. i gave my blog a rest... and that was nice for those who asked. i bet. but there are so many folks who are kicking my butt into gear again to get the hollywoodfarm gal back up- so okay.

and now i'm a mom still, who is single, and living with her brother, and i'm trying to find out how to make this a great home full of memories to be played back one day. it's funny.... i was asked to stay home and be a full time single mother 10 years ago... and i loved it. and that's something i wanted to do for my twins, for my own children-- i wanted to offer them the same that i was able to provide those other children: a full time mother at home to provide for their needs. looks like i will have to fight for that this time around. did i set back the women's lib? not in my mind- if a lesbian wants to stay at home and raise her kids until they are well into the middle school grades, how is that ruining women's lib? if she wants to provide hands on care for ALL FOUR children she raised, how is that wrong? dunno.

someone asked about getting a job. okay. well.let's talkaboutthisheregirlfriend...... i have "help" until 2 pm a lot. i can't tell my bosses that i can work each day until between the hours of 830 and 145. tv hours aren't like that, waitressing ours aren't like that sadly.... strippers hours aren't like that, whores' hours aren't like that, secretary hours' aren't like that, starbucks' jobs aren't like that... crossed my mind this morning to get a paper route, though. that's a quick job, but i bet a lot has changed since i was 11. but thank goodness i was able to go home that day and eat- not like in haiti where you eat dirt cookies. while i drove, i spit brown stomach bile into my cup, and rinsed with water. then when i got home i simply ate a bagel. it's not really great for my stomach to sit empty right now. like being pregnant, but no baby inside. :-) but then my friend and i laughed... cuz once i am able to get my twins so set and solid and older, THEN there's jobs for me, and i'll be open.

either way.

my brother moved in. god, i love him. and he was a much needed thing for my son and daughter. they need hairy, deep voiced, smelly tall creatures around them. and i need someone to reach the highest shelf.

happy birthday
they turn four on sunday
isn't that awesome
it should be a funday
four four four four
holy shit
apparently they age faster than i do
as i don't recall having four birthdays
recently
it's just been a little bit
since they were both in my arms
and everything was still in one piece
one peace
one piece
one peace
one piece

one peace.........