Volunteering for Oppression: A Rant

If anyone can name the artist of this cartoon, please share. I'd love to give credit!

We're angry. We're furious. "They've" taken our money, our jobs, our rights. "They've" built their warehouse store in our town and screwed the economy. Since "they've" been in office, so much has gone wrong. We're being lied to. We're being robbed. We're sick of "the right" and their preposterous opinions and we're sick of "the left" and their love for higher taxes.

We're powerless, but we should stomp our feet anyway and get angry and blame each other. This is what the news media would like for us to believe. But, what's really going on?

Behind every label (liberal, conservative, 1%, 99%, neurotypical, neurodiverse, straight, gay, introvert, extrovert, etc.) is a human being with a heart, with feelings, with a family, with health concerns, with dreams, with abilities, with disabilities, with goals, with something to teach and something to learn, something to give and something to gain. But when a label is slapped onto a group of our brothers and sisters, our connection with them collapses—unless, of course, we also fit that label. It collapses because we take that one person with his or her thoughts, feelings, experiences, life stories, scars, talents, and weaknesses and group them with many, which gives the illusion of a threat—you know, that feeling one gets when walking alone down an alleyway passing a group of "others" who from the outside don't appear to relate. And the reaction is to seek and find a label that fits so as not to be bullied by the other label. And the grand illusion of separateness becomes a reality. Crips and Bloods. Democrats and Republicans. Red and Blue. Gay and Straight. Rather than seeing each other as humans that deserve fairness and equal rights, we view each other as a a label, devoid of human-ness, devoid of spirit, devoid of love. And we accept it. It's easier to buy "meat" in a pretty package in a brightly lit market than to eat a piece of a cow you saw killed in a slaughter house. Connection is always lost in the "other" label. 

Remember Aesop's fable,  The Four Oxen and the Lion? 

A Lion used to prowl about a field in which Four Oxen used to dwell. Many a time he tried to attack them; but whenever he came near they turned their tails to one another, so that whichever way he approached them he was met by the horns of one of them. At last, however, they fell a-quarrelling among themselves, and each went off to pasture alone in a separate corner of the field. Then the Lion attacked them one by one and soon made an end of all four.

Would love to give credit to artist. Please share!

The moral of the story: United we stand, divided we fall.

We cannot be divided individually—there are far too many of us, and boy, how confusing that would be for those who require putting us into categories in order to sell to us (remember, we are no longer considered "citizens" but instead "consumers"). But we can easily be divided into groups, separated, and pitted against each other like dogs in a dog fight, while the minority who we believe to be in power place bets and prosper over our blood, sweat, and tears. Fighting dogs have been trained all their lives to hate each other, yet the ones they should be hating are their abusers and those who put them in the ring to begin with. They are the same, having the same needs—food, water, shelter, and love. And any of those dogs could easily scare the hell out of all the people betting around the ring by bonding and turning against their abusers. But they don't. How are we any different? 

The good news is "they" (those who we perceive to have power) are the minority and WE (the people, all people) are the MAJORITY. Think about it for a minute. Seriously. My little town of 7,558 people outnumbers congress by 7,023! And as far as corporations go, there are only 10 major corporations in America that seemingly control everything we buy. For now. Until we wake up.

Indeed, we may all have differing opinions, beliefs, and goals in life. It's true. But I bet if we looked each other in the eyes, barring all labels, and discussed basic human rights and needs, there is a lot more we, the people, can agree upon, versus disagree. Just like those bloodied dogs in the ring.

We all want jobs. We all want to enjoy the fruits of our labor. We all want safe, affordable housing. We all want good health. We all want to love who we want to love how we want to love. We all want community. We all want privacy. We all want food and water. We all want kindness. 

We must awaken to the fact that "they" (the people perceived to be in power) cannot exist without us. Corporate executives and elected officials are in parasitic positions—benefiting only at the expense of our life energy. Yet time and again and on a daily basis we hand over our power to them, then complain and raise our fists in the air citing injustice, when we volunteered to be oppressed by buying that thing, eating that food, complaining only on social networking sites, and keeping our real voices down, and fighting with our neighbors over the labels slapped onto us like we're stuck sitting on the discounted shelves of a Wal-Mart. We scream "they" and at that moment become their victims. 

And back to work we go. 

We're taught to believe in this false paradigm since grade school so it just might take some work to convince us of the fact that we, as the people, have the power. We are the majority. Your neighbor hanging his American flag each morning is not your uptight, conservative enemy; he wants fairness, safety, and love, just as you do. Your neighbor sporting the Tibetan prayer flags and burning incense is not your dirty hippie liberal enemy; she wants fairness, freedom, and community just as you do. The gay couple down the road adopting their first child is not your enemy; they want safety, education, and love for their child, just as you do. The autistic woman walking to the bus stop is not so strange; she wants to make a living and experience kindness, just as you do. 

It's time to take back our power, one penny, one decision, one kind, loving act at a time. Our actions are our votes. We must find the sameness, not the differences, in our neighbors. Stop playing victim and realize the truth: your voice as well as your neighbor's counts and every action we take together is more powerful than any political or corporate agenda could ever be. 

*Tough As Nails

Photo credit: Black Heart Creatives

I've never been clear as to how she found out the state of our living situation, but she did, and she, my temporary savior, came to pull me out of the circus tent that evening.

Aunt Norma was certainly a tough disciplinarian, but I didn't mind. Strict rules felt safe. She brushed my hair and put it into a ponytail, which I loved as it was out of my face—I never like the irritating, scratchy feel of hair on my cheeks. It drove me crazy. We had dinner at the same time each night. It felt like someone was looking out for me and I didn't mind her telling me I had to be in the house before the street lights went on and I had to stay in the yard. 

She had children of her own, my twin cousins Natalie and Nicole. They were quite young at the time, not much older than three, making this arrangement for me a temporary one; her hands were full. 

For my brief stay, I certainly felt loved and cared for but still my heart sunk. I missed Mum. I worried about her. I missed Tony. I felt a constant sickness in my stomach and chest, and had a hard time eating without feeling like it would come back up, though I forced it with my mind to stay down as I didn't want to get in trouble for wasting food. I fought tears as I realized no one would be there to look after my mother. Who was going to make sure she was up for work on time, eating dinner, and breathing? Would I ever see my brother again?

Aunt Norma didn't like when I barked, so I ceased doing it around her. She didn't need to be protected anyway. Tough as nails, she was. 

Mum sounded as if she were very angry with Aunt Norma that night, but I couldn't understand why. I was obviously an obstacle in her new relationship with Bill and surely Lynn the prostitute had loftier things to do than to dress me up in her leather and spikes on a Tuesday morning. 

Excerpt from Chapter Fifteen: Changes | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

It Is Mother's Day.

Mum, each day that passed since you've been gone I learn a little more, I grow a little more, I accept a little more. I'm coming to understand you as I can now see you in me. I love you and miss you more than I could ever say. I cannot say "Happy Mother's Day", because that would be a lie, and you know well I've never been a good liar. So instead I'll just acknowledge it for what it is, and say, "Today is Mother's Day. I'm thinking of you today and everyday. Wish you were here for Breakfast with The Beatles." 

Love and miss you Mum. 

Blackbird, fly. 

Good Intention? Autism Awareness vs. Acceptance

I happened upon a video today posted by a well-known autism "support" website. The video was titled Army of Autism Awareness Angels Flash Mob - World Autism Awareness Day 2012. I knew when I clicked on it that "Flash Mob" and "Autism" couldn't necessarily mesh well, but I was willing to take the risk. Hey—I was bored. And it had been shared 21,582 times, so it must be worth it. Right?

Oh my. 

Let me begin by saying I am confident this group of people were very well intentioned and must have incredibly loving hearts to coordinate such a large scale event. It was quite impressive.

With so any people. 

In such a public place. 

With so many bright lights. 

With such incredibly loud, obnoxious music. 

[Closing eyes and covering ears, hoping for Scotty to beam me up . . . ]

If this group of people in the video were "aware" at all about autism and one of its main ingredients, sensory sensitivities, they would have realized this was an incredibly ridiculous spectacle. Sensory overload, at its finest. 

A crowded mall with its bright, buzzing, florescent lighting, crowds of people, strong perfume, and a different genre of music playing in each store passed has the potential to push anyone (on or off the spectrum) into a full blown meltdown. Then you add the crowd, dancing, jumping, woo-hooing, and clapping next to an ESCALATOR (am I the only one that still gets a fright from these beastly things?) — I'd need an escape plan - pronto. They put children (not sure if they were autistic or not) in the middle of a circle and danced around them, clapping and woo-hooing (I'd have been on the floor at this point covering my ears, hoping anyone, the most evil of serpents even, would pull me through the floor to get some quiet in his warm bowels). And the grand finale: a group of hot, young girls ride down the escalator in tiny red t-shirts, short shorts, and high heels (seriously) holding small signs displaying the words "Army of Autism Awareness Angels". Did anyone even see the signs? Likely not, with the red colored shirts (which everyone knows the brain cannot NOT see the color red) - oh, and the hot girls, naturally. 

This event would get a 10 in my book . . . if it were a demonstration of what causes an autistic to meltdown and isolate from the rest of society. A 10 if it were a demonstration to parents as to why their daughter is screaming and covering her ears, or why their son is hiding in the clothes rack in Macy's and won't come out.  

Being "aware" that autism exists isn't helping anyone, nor is it even necessary. I think we've down-right saturated the media with knowing the word "autism". Even the label itself isn't really helping anyone as every autistic is different and it certainly isn't helping when the actual difficulties the autistic is having aren't even being considered (such as the numerous non-verbal children who consistently displayed head-banging behavior before finally being diagnosed with severe ear infections; or the kid who screams incessantly while covering his ears in Costco because the florescent lights are buzzing and blinking creating a sensory tornado in his brain and body). 

Children and adults, verbal and non-verbal alike, are often drugged, set aside, and not considered when it comes to our own feelings, wants, needs, and desires. Silly when something like a baseball cap in Costco does wonders (it does for me). Earplugs-brilliant. 

Einstein (who many believe today would be diagnosed as being somewhere on the autism spectrum) didn't speak until he was four. In fact, mathematics historian Otto Neugebauer once told a rather charming, inspiring story about young Einstein. 

As he was a late talker, his parents were worried. At last, at the supper table one night, he broke his silence to say, "The soup is too hot." 

Greatly relieved, his parents asked why he had never said a word before.  

Albert replied, "Because up to now everything was in order."

Imagine if young Albert had been institutionalized, drugged, or simply not listened to?  

Imagine a group of people decided to do a flash mob for "poor people awareness". Imagine them paying to have hundreds of t-shirts made to advertise the event, handing out food and drinks for the dancers, and holding the event in a place like Beverly Hills, California (not a very poor-friendly place). And imagine Victoria's Secrets models walking out in lingerie (nice to look at but inappropriate!) holding hand written "Army of Angels for the Poor" signs above their heads. How is any of this helping the poor? All the money and energy spent getting t-shirts made, food prepared, and money to pay the models could have easily gone to feeding or housing the poor. But no one asked the poor what would help. And we're all quite aware that the poor exist. Capishe?

As good intentioned as these folks must have been, I don't think they realized at the time the contrast of their actions to what they were trying to raise awareness for. It is my hope that Autism Acceptance is the message more widely spread. It is my hope that all people, as good hearted as we often are, take more time to listen, to understand, to learn from one another. I'd much prefer someone take an interest in me as a person rather than spread the word about my overgeneralized label. 

The Truth About Gurus

"Guru" chasers and "spiritual teacher" seekers: you know how amazing it feels when you meet someone for the first time and he or she says something that you would have liked to have said, or that you'd always wanted to say? Your heart beats a bit faster, your eyes twinkle, your smile cannot be hidden and you may even sigh with relief. "Finally, someone I can believe in." You then sort of bond for life. A mirrored thought, feeling, or belief creates a heartfelt connection — a friendship is born. 

"Gurus" are tricky in this way, as they know how to use this method effectively, to their advantage. The difference between a Guru and a friend is, the Guru has created a distance between you and them. Money, power, authority, fame. 

The words spoken by these "teachers" is truth already living within YOU, which is why you get that super buzzing or blissful feeling when they seem to be speaking "the truth," falsely mirroring a real connection. I'm not saying another can't help bring your truth out. But real connection is a thing to seek, with another being on your same level that you owe NOTHING to — no money, no power, no authority nor submission. Just love and a MUTUAL admiration and respect. 

Whether this being to connect with is your God, your dog, a friend, or all of the above, it's up to you in the end.

I'm glad my dogs don't expect me to pay to learn from them—I'd be in debt up to my ears. Though I wouldn't put it past them to be conniving little sinister bastards. 

Perhaps they are planning $5,000 retreats and creating secret mantras now . . . ?

[Gulp.]

I Don't Hate Cancer.

StampingCancerOut Etsy Store | F*ck Cancer Guitar Pick

I don't hate cancer. 

Yes, cancer was the effect that ripped my mum away from me forever in 2012 and I hate that fact, but I still don't hate cancer. No. I hate what caused the cancer. 

I'm not a medical professional, but from what I understand, we all carry cancer cells in our bodies. However, the strength (or weakness) of our individual immune systems determine whether or not those cells thrive, survive, and multiply. 

"Isn't cancer inherited?" you might ask. I certainly did. According to The American Cancer Society, "Only about 5% to 10% of all cancers are inherited - resulting directly from gene defects (called mutations) inherited from a parent." So, in my mind, it is fair to say most cancers have known causes. Now, I have a few friends and family members who have been diagnosed with cancer and survived, and one who died of cancer complications, who seemingly did everything right. In this piece, my focus is on cancers with known causes and risk factors . Why do we hate it so?

I hear it said all the time, see it posted on social media sites, see it printed on T-shirts and bumperstickers - "F*%@ Cancer!", as if cancer is always an invincible beast that mercilessly strikes random people for dead. Cancerzilla. Is that what we believe about 5% to 10% of cancers? Or do we simply prefer to believe that about all cancers?  

What about the signs posted all around us, on cigarette boxes, on buildings, in medical journals, on food and beverage containers, in the news? What about all the warnings, encouraging us to limit our time in the sun, to limit our sugar intake (cancer thrives on sugar, you know), to eat properly, to avoid alcohol? It's not often I hear hateful speech and "F" words being directed toward these cancer causing agents. Well, perhaps cigarette smoke - but usually it's not the cancer causing factor people complain about, it's the inconvenience to their senses. 

So, I'm puzzled. We openly hate the effect of cancer but not the causes. 

But . . . isn't the cause the one thing we can do something about?

If you've read my blog or excerpts from my book, Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir, you'll know my mum, Donn Shy, was diagnosed with cancer and died not three months later (for more on this, read my previous blog entry titled "What Causes This Type of Cancer?". The day she went in for surgery, her surgeon, after operating on Mum for a short while, informed my grandfather, Mum's husband, and I, that her cancer was not ovarian cancer as they'd first suspected, but a horrid form of stomach cancer. It had spread and the prognosis did not look good. She also told us the particular type of stomach cancer Mum had was caused by alcohol and tobacco use. She drank beer daily and smoked every day since she was in her teens. I later found out from the oncologist, Mum's diet (consisting of mostly highly processed foods) also contributed. Corn chips, fast-food, ramen - you name it. 

She ignored all the signs. 

I feel I should mention, a sore spot for me is when I see people "toast" my mum on Facebook, saying things like, "I'm having this cold one for you Donn! Hope you're partying it up in Heaven!" when that very alcohol was her poison. If mum died of ricin intake, would people post online "I'm having this bit of ricin on a cracker for you Donn! Rest in peace!"? I surely hope not.

It's easier for us to "hate" the thing we have no power over (late stage cancer) as opposed to change the things we can. We want to drink. We want to smoke. We want to eat groceries from the middle aisles of the market and then raise our fists against cancer when it hits, as if it came out of nowhere, as it it weren't an invited guest. Like a drunk that gets behind the wheel of a vehicle, then dies in an accident. We could say "I hate death!" but death is inevitable. We could say "I hate car accidents!" but what will that do? Knowing the cause, though, could help us to make better decisions in the future. 

"Hate". It's so final. So devoid of love, of connection. So full of inaction. If I've ever felt so strongly about someone that the word hate has crossed my mind as a seemingly viable option, I've always been able to make a better choice - as in either fix the problem by resolving it, or if the person was detrimental to my well being, I'd simply say goodbye. So, after attempting to save my mum's life by researching a no-cancer diet and lifestyle, rather than raising my fist in the air with a hate for cancer, I made some big changes in my own life. I said goodbye to most processed foods (oh did I love my sugar cereals!!!), hello to local veggies, hello to growing my own food, hello to regular check-ups. I give myself extra time at the airport in order to opt out of walking through the radiation emitting machine. Many of my life choices the past few years began with the knowledge of the causes of cancer. 

I don't drink alcohol, I've never smoked, I stopped eating meat in 2007. Might I still get cancer? Yes. But I know I've made a grand effort at taking responsibility for my own health and worked toward a strong immune system. And if I receive a cancer diagnosis, I will not hate the cancer, but instead, see the cause (whether it was of my own doing or not) and understand it, and do my best to heal myself, if it's not too late. I'm sure I'll cry, and wish for better outcomes, and perhaps wish it weren't happening to me, but hate? There's no time for hate. 

I am in no way attempting to simplify that which is cancer. As I said before, I am certainly no medical professional. I'm just curious as to why no one ever discusses hating the causes but only the effect. Now to really confuse things, not everyone gets cancer by eating processed foods or smoking or drinking or even sun bathing. Perhaps this is the reason no one wants to blame these causes - because it's not black and white. But why not take these factors into consideration? If you hate cancer so much, are you taking precautions? It's like entering into a close relationship with someone you know to be a liar. You can *hope* he/she won't lie to you, and he/she might not. But if they do, hating them, even though you knew their character from the get-go, seems kind of silly, no?

Hating cancer cannot cure cancer. Talking of hating cancer does nothing. Having awareness of the causes and making changes can, possibly. This is where we can take back our power and put it to good use. 

When in history has hate ever generated progress?

*Modern Love

Prior to her performances, I would observe her pre-show nerves while she was evolving into the glamorous rock star. I imagined it must have been a scary thing to go out into a crowd of young people and pretend to be someone else when you had a hard enough time just being you. Or maybe not. 

She seemed to vibrate as she skipped through the house, smoking those tall brown More cigarettes in the red and gold box, one after the other, closely followed by a waft of grey smoke: her ghostly entourage. The apartment filled with the overwhelming chemical scent of Aqua Net Extra Hold hairspray and the distinctive sounds of Mark Garson on the piano playing Bowie’s Aladdin Sane. I’d sit on the floor just outside the bathroom’s open door, silent, as I loved taking in all of her smells and feeling the sporadic bursts of warmth from the hairdryer embrace me, burning the familiar scent of my mother into my mind forever.

On this particular night, her stage was the middle of a roller-skating rink, and she dressed in a cream colored suit, a thin tie covered in Japanese characters, her hair short and feathered on top, and the hit song “Modern Love” was blaring over the loud speakers. Mum was David Bowie.

Excerpt from chapter fifteen | changes | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*Job Security (Time for Cheer)

I’d never tell the other kids in the neighborhood of our favorite game—not because I was ashamed of it, but because it was sacred. Besides, if I did tell them of it, I’d undoubtedly be interrogated, then told our little game was illogical and stupid. I, for once, didn’t care how logical or practical or intelligent this was. It was love, and the best we knew how.

She’d bought all of the Alvin and the Chipmunks albums and played them while we cleaned the house. We were always cleaning the house. I never had the heart to tell her their shrieking voices made me feel like my eardrums were shattering and brain imploding. We’d sing along to their Christmas album, imitating their shrieks the best we could, “Christmas, Christmas time is here. Time for toys and time for cheer . . .”

She had a very special way of getting us to willingly engage in child labor. If it weren’t sing-alongs with the three rodent evangelists of consumerism, she would set the alarm on the microwave and say, “Ok, kids! Whoever finishes cleaning their special area of the house by the time the alarm sounds wins!” She’d make a trumpeting sound as if she were initiating a horse race, then exclaim, “And they’re off!” We would run around like mad, giggling, one with window cleaner and paper towels, one with wood polish and a dust rag, Mum with the vacuum, and we’d race to the finish.

Even though we'd caught onto her tricks, we never did complain. We wouldn’t actually win anything in particular other than a nice clean house for Mum’s friends to party in. It was job security; we took what we could get. 

Excerpt from chapter fourteen | name of the game | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Childlike Presence

Image courtesy of Sweet Crisis | FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The wind passing through the eucalyptus trees temporarily distracted my senses from today's harsh reality and took my mind back to a time where I found joy in closely observing minuscule insects go about their daily business of survival. They were steadfast and perseverant, my holy teachers. I sat upon decomposed granite, feeling tiny pebbles embed into the skin of my bare legs, leaving artistic indentations of which I'd later count and discover patterns. There was no hurry, nor any need to stand and present myself in any way that simply wasn't. I'd imagine the fallen acorn caps to be tiny hats for fairies, or castles for ants, or I'd organize them into miniature villages. 

These rare and most cherished childhood memories didn't consist of loud screams in bounce-houses, nor birthday parties with slightly creepy hired entertainment, but of quiet moments alone in the backyard of my grandmother's house in Santa Barbara, with the sun warmly caressing my face ever so gently and the wind moving through the trees making everything come alive, all at once. 

I wonder, are introverts born or made?

The Money Monster (When I Grow Up . . . )

At nearly forty years of age, I’m, once again, sitting on my sofa questioning what I want to be when I “grow up”.

Right now I’m dissatisfied with my life. I’m thirty-eight years old, and admit I haven’t a dime in savings that is my own. No. I spent my savings on our wedding, on moving from the East Coast back to the West Coast, on supplementing the low paying job I accepted once I returned to California in order to escape working in the cult otherwise known as the film industry (of which I am convinced gave me PTSD with it’s perpetual long hours, disregard for human life, and egos much too large to ever please).

“We” have savings. But not really. It’s his. I don’t have the option to say, “I’m going to take $300 out of savings and stay at the Four-Seasons in Santa Barbara for a treat tonight,” or “I’m going to take $10 out of savings to send a used book to my half-sister as a gift,” or even, “Enough with the worry lines, I’m getting Botox.” We’re a team. And whatever consequences I reap, we both must endure (frozen face included). It’s frustrating. Yes, I sound like a child throwing a tantrum. But please, hear me out (if you have the heart and patience for first world problems). I feel I’ve worked hard for many years and have nothing to show for it, other than the few deep horizontal lines on my forehead and the low whispers of desperation I hear in my mind when I have an inspirational thought I must instantly reject due to my current financial situation.

I am embarrassed to say (but what the hell, I’ll say it) that when I was in my early twenties, I was convinced I’d be financially successful by my current age. I’d worked hard to become a stand-up comic–surely I’d reach Ellen DeGeneres’ level of success by thirty-five—a house in Ojai and in Beverly Hills, ya, I could dig that. Surely I’d have my own television show or at least be good enough to participate in political discussions with Bill Maher. Though I wasn’t necessarily loving the idea of being known by all and having my sacred privacy ripped out from under me as others I’d known had experienced, I knew it would be a small price to pay in order to be assured I could go home to my humble yet cozy beach house where my loyal dogs and full library would be equally happy to see me. My white down comforter and candles would be calling my name by midnight, after an extra long soak in the bubble bath where I’d read a chapter of an intriguing story. All bills paid and vacation to a quaint cabin in the middle of Canada booked. I’d be safe and secure, without a worry, especially the kind surrounding the one force that I’d feared since I was a child—the almighty dollar.

Money was a monster, or so I was taught. It was frightening and all-powerful, but we couldn’t run from it because as much as we feared and hated it, we desperately needed and depended on it. And because of that dire need, we all made an unspoken agreement to be lowly slaves to it. And now, as an adult, I thought I’d long escaped its sharp talons, yet I find as I sit in my full anxiety today with the brainwashed mind of a domestic abuse victim, I am still money’s slave.

I’m not struggling to pay the bills as Mum did when I was growing up. She’d say, “Which bill should we pay this month? No lights or no heat?” Somehow a twelve pack of beer was never a concern, though. She’d say, “We don’t have money to send you to college, so drop it.” “We don’t have money to get your senior photos taken. I don’t care if it’s only $5.00.” “We don’t have $10 for that field trip, so no, you’re not goin’. End of story.”

No. Not any more. Thanks to the combined incomes of my hardworking hubby and I, the bills here are paid. I don’t have to fret returning home after a long day to find a yellow shut-off notice from the electric company posted on my front door. There’s never a time I turn on the shower shocked to find only freezing cold water. No government cheese and food stamps for us. Nope. My current complaint is about the freedom I’ve sought since I was a little girl—the freedom to look beyond paying bills and having necessities, and the ability to look forward to vacations, friendly visits, and comforting meals out. Having “the monster” makes the quiet times about the excitement of planning for fun times rather than struggling and worrying over bleak ones.

I was born into this slavery—I didn’t choose it. And though in many ways I’ve come up out of the mud and mire by learning how to manage my own finances and paying off all debt, like many of those who grew up during the great depression still can’t be convinced toilet paper is strictly a single-use item, I can’t seem to shake the hold it has over me.

I love to write. When I did stand up comedy, my favorite part of the process was writing because I’d get lost in it and everything I observed in life—whether it be the disgusting pink hue of an old woman’s strangely inappropriate attire, or the obviously confused fake Southern drawl of the café barista, I had a purpose, and that purpose was to write down anything and everything I saw. It may or may not have become something grand, but writing it down gave me a purpose, a motivation for leaving the house, for being out in public and interacting with others (not my natural forte at all, by the way—I take introversion to an extreme).  Writing makes me feel high—really high. A really good, happy high. How quickly I forget it is the only thing to bring me up a level higher than the usual melancholic existence I’ve reluctantly held claim to since my early youth. And yet, I find I’ll go a week or more without doing it and in my seemingly hopeless stupor I’ll ignorantly ask myself once again, “What am I doing with my life?” I’ll say, “I’m not happy. I feel like my skin is crawling. I’m anxious.” I assume those who have taken a liking to working out regularly and eating well feel this way after taking a week or two (or year) off. It feels horrible. I feel trapped and stupid for not remembering to take my daily dose of writing seriously. I’ve also, in my creeping, crawling skin, been known to say something along the lines of, “I can’t accept a life that is all about working at a (dead end) job, eating, sleeping, and going back to work, then dying! There has to be more to life for people than this!”  

Not that there is anything wrong with that kind of life. Some people strive for that, and I admire them for it. Whatever floats your boat, I say.

And just before I curl up into the fetal position ready to have that spectacular pity party (aren’t you jealous?), somehow truth whispers in my ear and reminds me of the passion that lies beneath the crawling skin, beneath the anxious heart, and beneath the never-been-botoxed worry filled forehead. I pick up my computer. Or, by golly, a pen and a notebook. And it happens. Magic.

What does writing have to do with money?  Depending on whom you ask, everything and nothing. Stephen King wrote in (the most amazing, must read memoir on the craft) “On Writing”: “I’ve written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side–I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”

Time and time again I’ve been told, advised, etc. that your passion should never be about the money, but about the “buzz” and the good it brings to yourself and perhaps others in the process. And often I put my writing aside because “the monster” will poke his head out of the muck and let me know how important it is that I have him in my life. And I work hard, and come home tired, and forget to write. And feel like (excuse my honesty) shit. I forget I am working so I can write.

. . . .

 Well, my skin isn’t crawling. I feel pretty good actually. I just wrote 1,480 words in less than an hour. And I didn’t get any poorer doing it. Electricity is still on. Water is still hot. Down comforter still white. I can finish the laundry. Put together a fantastic meal. Perhaps no planning for that quiet cabin vacation among the wild moose of Canada, but I can certainly sit back down at my computer and get high . . . any time I want (and take brief breaks by viewing online photos of cabins in Canada and their accompanying neighborly moose).

*The Quiet | Part II

Art (love it!) found here: 
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Little-Mute-Girl-133251540

I’d always hated dresses. One simply can not conduct explorations of insects nor properly study sand particles when wearing a dress and white stockings, unless one finds the occasional beating and screaming at from one’s very southern grandmother desirable. Stockings felt scratchy, like a thousand itching flea bites. Make that a million. They made me constantly aware of where my awkward, skinny legs were at any given time, made me constantly worry about whether or not my underpants were showing, and made me feel extra sensitive and irritated if the wind were blowing. And those warm, Southern California Santa Ana winds were the worst, as I’d simultaneously have to hold my dress down at my knees and pull my static electric hair down toward my face in an attempt to keep others from noticing me and laughing. I’d imagine creating contraptions to hold the dress down—a giant rubber band or possibly custom-made Bungee Cords that would connect the bottom of the dress to my shoes.

Oh, those horrid shoes. I dreaded the toe-pinching black patent leather shoes that were merely good for slipping and sliding along the blacktop and falling on one’s face to the grand amusement of those lucky enough to be donning more appropriate attire, such as sneakers or the slightly acceptable Buster Browns. Nana would shine them up, straighten my dress at the shoulders, and exclaim, “Isn’t that adorable?!” I had no idea as to what “that” she was referring to. I surely had no desire to be considered “adorable” nor a “that.” Perhaps gluing rubber erasers to the bottom of the shoes would solve the issue, making me taller in the process.

Looking back, I see I was a pretty intelligent kid with innovative ideas (at least for that age), but the concept of reading, writing, and arithmetic on these particular types of days was far from the reaches of my ability, as unbeknownst to me and surrounding adults, the sensory receptors in my brain were malfunctioning. I’d find out many years later my amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for the fight or flight response, was defectively over-active. Selective mutism turned out to be the more appropriate term for why I was never able to get out the words “I want a carrot” to the barking Doberman across the schoolyard when Mr. Hoyt, so well intentioned, heroically attempted to cure me of what he saw as an extreme case of the quiet.

Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr. Fantasy | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*The Quiet | Part I

“Just say it, as loud as you can to that big dog over there. Go on, say it! ‘I want a carrot! I want a carrot!’”

There I sat, stiffly and nervously upon an orange plastic chair that had been placed on a table top in the front of my first grade classroom. My sweaty little hands were tightly gripping both sides of the chair bottom as if the next step were spontaneous hydraulic ejection. Regardless of having no parachute in my possession, I had climbed up onto it at the request, or rather, demand, of my teacher, Mr. Hoyt. He said I was too shy.

 Tiny bursts of hushed laughter popped up like Whac-A-Mole about the classroom. The tiny hushed bursts might as well have been nuclear explosions. Devastating.

My throat ached. It felt as if it were closing, stuffed with a big ball of uncooked dough that was rising by the second. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights was extra loud, as all of the students stared at me in attempted silence, waiting to hear my since hidden monotone voice for the first time.

Nana had made me wear a dress that day—a navy blue dress, with white lacing along the bottom and tiny navy anchor design across the waist. Those anchors were the only things mildly acceptable about this horrid nautical themed torture arrangement. “Oh, you look darling,” she’d say, with that strange, southern accent and seemingly smashed vocal cord sound that only really tiny people seem to share.

At least ship anchors had a logical purpose that I could comprehend, so I’d stare at them, giving my mind an imagination workout and my eyes a perfect excuse to avoid uncomfortable contact with others. 

Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr. Fantasy | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Mr. Braveman | A True Story

The Lovely Chestnut Hill at Holiday Time

Mr. Braveman.

He was our next door neighbor in the charming Chestnut Hill neighborhood of Philadelphia in 2009-2010.

I moved to Philadelphia to work on M. Night Shyamalan’s film, The Last Airbender. Prior to arriving, I researched the neighborhoods online, seeking a quiet, beautiful, and perhaps historic place away from the city to call home. Chestnut Hill proved to be the perfect spot; a quaint village of parks, shops, and cozy cafes.  

My rental home was directly across the street from the stunning Pastorius Park where neighborhood dogs would convene and make plans to take over the world. I watched the seasons change there, for the first time. I grew up in California and had never watched the snow melt with daffodils peaking up from under it. I’d never experienced a real thunderstorm. I’d never shoveled snow. It was exciting. And I miss it now. So in my nostalgia tonight, I pulled up my old address on Google. Who lives there now? Does it look the same? Is the house for sale? How’s Mr. Braveman?

Mr. Braveman had cats. A republican, he had a large American flag displayed in his front porch window and a McCain sticker on his front door (let’s just say, I didn’t vote for McCain). He was a lawyer. He smoked sometimes, and when it was cold out, he’d smoke in his basement and the smell would seep in through my vents. I’ve always hated smoke. It was annoying, but I never said anything about it. He loved to garden. His backyard was something to envy, attracting birds of all sorts. He had his very specific routines, and was completely predictable. In fact, whenever I hear the song “Well Respected Man” by The Kinks, I giggle, as certain words in the lyrics always make me think of him.

Cause he gets up in the morning,
And he goes to work at nine,
And he comes back home at five-thirty,
Gets the same train every time.
Cause his world is built round punctuality,
It never fails.

And he's oh, so good,
And he's oh, so fine,
And he's oh, so healthy,
In his body and his mind.
He's a well respected man about town,
Doing the best things so conservatively. 

[ . . . ]

And he likes his own backyard,
And he likes his fags the best,
Cause he's better than the rest . . .

I was afraid of Mr. Braveman, at first. I had made up a story in my mind that he surely found me to be a commie or a dirty hippie as I’d play Ravi Shankar through the house and attempted to learn to play the sitar. And I’d better not mess up or he’d complain. “Keep it down!” I’d tell myself. I’d scold the dogs if they made even a tiny peep.

He never once complained.

And then, somehow, little by little, we began talking. About cats. About dogs. My dogs loved him. He loved them back. He loved that we rescued them. We spoke of gardening and how he purchased the house in 1975 for only $15,000. How he’d hiked the Appalachian trail. How he’d served our country while in the Marines. We spoke of his travels to exotic destinations. He had some amazing stories to tell. 

He took the train to work and would walk to the station both ways, every single weekday. We had a horrible winter (at least, that’s what all the east coasters were calling it. I called it ‘fun’), so the tall steps to our homes would have a few feet of snow on them at times. When we could, we’d shovel Mr. Braveman’s steps for him so he wouldn’t have to do it when he returned home from work. He became a wonderful friend.

Just before we headed back to California, Mr. Braveman had just finished a highly anticipated addition to his home. One wall was exposed brick and he asked my boyfriend (now husband) and I to come over and “autograph” it. It was a beautiful wall signed by others with loving and humorous notes. We felt honored that he’d include us in this piece of history. He’d become such a sweetheart, such a gift in our lives there. I found it hard to leave him. I cried. I hoped the new renters would befriend him as we had. 

We missed the place so much, we returned in November of 2010 to take a stroll around the park, poke about the neighborhood, and pop in to say hello to Mr. Braveman. There he was, on his front stoop, doing a bit of gardening, as usual. We didn’t have his phone number, just showed up. And we asked if we could take a photo with him. He agreed to it, thankfully. 

Nov. 7, 2010 - Future hubby and I with our dear friend and neighbor, Mr. Braveman.

So, in my sentimental Google search this evening, I pulled up the street view of our place. Yep, looks the same. Same blue door. Oh, how I loved eating spaghetti out on the porch during thunderstorms. Wow, I can’t believe that plant survived. Then I panned over to Mr. Braveman’s house. Hmmm. No flag. Where’s the McCain sticker? That’s odd. I then put his address in a Google search. Zillow. For Sale. What? Mr. Braveman would never sell that house! He’s been there since the year I was born . . . 

Obituaries. Chestnut Hill Local.

David Braveman, lawyer

David Braveman, 72, a lawyer who specialized in trusts and estates, died Jan. 5 [2011] at his home in Chestnut Hill.

Mr. Braveman had focused recently on health care litigation in his work with the law firm of Pepper Hamilton.

Raised in Corning, N.Y., he was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and Harvard Law School.

He had served in the Marine Corps for three years.

He was an avid gardener, hiker and camper and had been an active member of the Friends of Pastorius Park.

I’m crushed. Was he alone? Was he ill? 

And at the same time, so happy to have known this incredibly kind man. 

I found another article, on Philly.com, an interview with his son, William, which revealed details about Mr. Braveman I never knew.

He was a devoted Quaker; he was attracted by its philosophy of peace. He maintained a longtime correspondence with jurist and philosopher Richard Posner since their days at Harvard Law School. They spoke mainly of their love for cats. He started college at the young age of sixteen. He was a total smarty pants. 

Imagine if I’d allowed the story I’d made up in my mind to win? An entire rich piece of life would have never existed. We are often too quick to believe our own stories, even though they prove time and time again to only get us into trouble. Our own stories are what keep us from loving others, and especially loving ourselves.

I’m grateful, so grateful, to have had the wonderful Mr. Braveman as a friend. I’m grateful, so grateful, I didn’t let the story win.