My New Favorite Beverage

It’s a dandelion tea called Dandyblend. It’s tasty and chock-full of health benefits.

After relentlessly trying to quit coffee over and over again, I have finally found the perfect substitute. And no, it’s not green tea. Although I love my Zen and especially Tazo’s Green Ginger, I have found something far superior and it even tastes like coffee: Meet Dandyblend.
Without a single ounce of caffeine or sugar, Dandyblend is made up of dandelion and chicory root, barley, rye, and beets. It is an instant powder and you simply add hot or cold water. Personally, I like my Dandyblend best piping hot with some unsweetened vanilla almond milk. And if you need a sweetener, I suggest adding a small scoop of dark chocolate hot cocoa powder.

Dandyblend is a great health benefit: each ingredient is either a detoxifier or a promoter of organ function. For centuries dandelion has been used as a homeopath and a detox. The dandelion root promotes healthy liver function, because it is full of anti-oxidants such as Vitamin C and Leutolin; these same anti-oxidants protect the liver from aging as well as aid in the liver’s process of cleansing the body, boosting digestion, and eliminating gas. Dandelion is also a blood purifier...Dandelion, especially dandelion sap is highly alkaline and is used to treat acne and other skin conditions such as eczema.

Chicory, a family member to the sunflower, acts similarly to the dandelion by promoting healthy digestion and colon cleansing; the root has been known to fight intestinal worms and parasites! Not only does chicory cleanse the body of toxins it also helps strengthen the immune system and the anatomy’s overall health: chicory helps the blood stream absorb nutrients, since it is full of minerals, such as potassium, calcium, vitamin A; all these minerals strengthen the immune system and bone structure. Diabetics could benefit the most since chicory contains a substance called inulin, which regulates blood sugar levels.

Beetroot is a major aid in cancer prevention, as they seem to significantly inhibit tumors. Beetroots are an incredible source of folic acid, fiber, manganese, potassium, and even anti-oxidant properties. This ingredient, like its fellows in Dandyblend, is a blood purifier, and it even builds more healthy blood cells, because it contains betaine, which stimulates cells, especially in the liver.

Barley and rye extracts - not the whole grain of barely and rye as this product is gluten-free - are very nutritious grains, filled with B complex vitamins. Barley’s rich content of insoluable fibers protects women from gallstones and keeps the urinary tract healthy in all bodies. These grains also heal the digestive system and and break down starchy foods. Barley also helps reduce the cholesterol level in the blood.

Isn’t it great to find a product in which each ingredient aids in your body’s function? Dandyblend makes your blood alkaline, unlike coffee, which changes your Ph balance to acidic; and it detoxes your liver. This beverage is great for pregnant women as well, whom are advised to avoid caffeine while carrying. I feel like I am treating myself to a daily detox with each cup I drink.

You can order Dandyblend directly from the website: Dandyblend.com or you can support your local health food store, Erewhon on Beverly Boulevard.

1st Al Anon meeting.

I went to my first Al Anon meeting last Sunday. I felt numb the entire time. It wasn't until a few hours later that I burst, and cried, but couldn't untangle all the emotions I was feeling.

The structure is something to get used to. I could barely hear the person's name, before everyone chanted "HELLO EMILY." And there were quite a few recitations from the Alcoholics Anonymous' 12 steps. There were two banners hanging on the wall listing all the steps and traditions. Something I couldn't get used to was the word "share." Every meeting begins with a "share," in which the leader of the group offers a personal story with a theme and lesson. Last week the theme was Surrender. My friend and I missed the "share," because we were intent on getting our coffee at Starbucks. We walked in late, with cups in hand. But I must say it was comforting to have warmth in my cupped palm; we were both so skittish about going. The meeting felt lacking without this beginning bit, which set the tone for every one's "share." Geez! I have an issue with that word: it seems to cheapen what someone says! Within all the all-female group, the bravery was strong. People shared some serious and personal stuff, and to call it a "share," as someone is opening up about her home life and crying, for maybe the first time in a while, or for the 5th time that day it seems weird to offer a thank you for her "share." What about: "thank you for having the strength to pour your heart out in front of us, we're here for you, that's why we're all collected in this room?" Maybe all of these sentiments are built into their "shares," and I should just get over it.

Anyhow, I've decided to go back to another meeting, at a different location, to seek out a different group. I won't give up yet. Most people I talk to say, go to about 3 and then decide if it's right for you. Still I felt more peace from the Against the Stream meditation.

Reflection on MY NAME IS RACHEL CORRIE

I went to this play about a month ago now, with my friend Kat, at the Theatricum Botanicum in Topanga Canyon. It was a one woman show called My Name is Rachel Corrie, played by Samara Frame. The LA Times reviewed it here.

I have less praise for Miss Frame, mostly because she is too old to play the 23 year old Rachel. Frame does have a lot of energy though, and she deserves credit there. But the pace of her speech is awfully fast and I had a hard time understanding the words, and I have read the play before.

I discovered it in college and was mesmerized. The play came to life on the page, although the staged version was much less transporting. I was much more moved by reading it rather than seeing it - a fault of the performance and directing I think. The stage was outdoors and had a background of the hillside and rocks, which served the story well and Miss Frame used the space and brought it to life.

As the audience filed into the benches and cuddled up with sweaters and blankets, Frame was already placed on the stage, hidden underneath a sleeping bag in a nighty and socks. The way the play begins, which is with an outburst, describing her room and scarlet red ceiling, lends to a physical outburst as well. It would have served Frame to be able to be off stage, doing one hundred jumping jacks instead of still and lying down. From there, she has to scrounge up the energy of a young woman and carry herself for an hour and a half leaping and projecting in the cold.

The video projections were a distraction to the story, minus the final projection of Rachel Corrie herself as a motivational speaker in the 5th grade. The LA Times agrees, saying the videos are "rudimentary."

There was a talk back after the applause, which was "mild" said the director and lead founder and financier, Emma Greer. I didn't find it mild in the least, with stories about being an Israeli soldier, and a woman who lost her whole family in Palestine, and many more war recounts. The tension was tight with comments from both sides. With the content of the play leaning towards the defenseless Palestinians and the bullies from Israel, the discussion echoed the same but with personal recounts. After all the play was a one woman show, edited together from a young girl's writings about her own individual experience.

Something that has stuck with me over the past month is the idea of self. Rachel Corrie felt the need to FIND herself, and so she chose to move to Palestine and stay in Gaza to help families preserve their homes from bulldozers. So much of her speeches are filled with questions of "Who am I? What is my purpose?"

I don't think I ever had that dilemma. I always felt myself to be very close, if not embodied. Rachel Corrie kept talking about herself as she were another, or as if she was something she had to go find and encounter. Instead I was always, and still am, trying to figure out what I will do. I associated myself with actions instead of philosophical musings. I wonder on a daily basis what the next step will be to feel accomplished and satisfied with my progress in aspects such as my career, self-worth, emotional advancement, and evolving knowledge. I can't remember a time when I was stuck inside myself, searching for who I was. It has always been "Where will I go? What am I doing today? Who will I meet to help me be more established?"

It's a slow process and frustrating. I feel I am on the verge of something lately. Something feels it's going to snap. But thank goodness I know who I am and what I am capable of. It must be scary to feel far away from who you are.

Self-Resurrection

I have discovered an incredible tool.

There is a website called Daily Om, and they offer courses on a variety of subjects, such as "Falling in Love with Yourself," as well as "21 Days to Drop Your Emotional Baggage," and "Master Your Negative Emotions." I'm thinking of taking "Make Yourself a Money Magnet."
The greatest thing about the website is that it is a pay-what-you-can deal! So you could sign up to take a class for $15 dollars.

So today you can treat yourself, to yourself!

Meditation Monday

Last week my friend Gabrielle urged me to go to a meditation class on Colorado Ave. I wasn't feeling well and towards that evening I really didn't want to go. But I dragged myself there, knowing I would miss out if I just stayed at home like a lump. It was my first meditation class since college. It had been two years. I felt much more deeply in it this time on Colorado Avenue than I had on my little cushion in a dimly lit room in the Boston University gym. I have a read a lot on meditation and the higher self since I graduated. And even without practice I felt more at ease trying to clear my mind and just breathe. I enjoyed it.
After our 30 minutes of silent meditation, Noah began his lecture and then opened up the talk to questions from the room brimming with people.
Noah is a large man, covered in tattoos; and yet his voice is somewhat high-pitched. And he talks like a lot of meditation leaders, with a slow rhythm and a lot of pauses after his sentences. He has been at Against the Stream meditation for a few years. And in that time he has filled the giant room with people of all ages, all backgrounds. After the room filled up, the hallways did too, even the pathways to the bathrooms were full. People were resting their backs against the wall outside the room as if to suck in the lecture through their spines.
Once the discussion was opened up to the group, a young woman asked a question, which followed suit with part of Noah's lecture: abstinence and devotion to God through sex and tantra.
The woman asked: "How can I keep the balance of my practice while I am in a relationship? I want to keep my spirituality alive and in the forefront like it was when I was practicing celibacy."

Noah's answer was very interesting. He said his parents wrote a book on spirituality and their practice; and in it they describe their extreme monogamous relationship. They would save all their lust, desire, passion, compassion, & love for each other and no one else. If a beautiful and pelvic-lurching person entered the television screen, they would have to change the channel, and save that attraction for the stranger and store it for when he & she would be together later that day. They would wrangle and transform and sexual urges they had. Each day they would store up all this love and affection and adoration and admiration and save it solely for the other. It was their way of practicing devotion and by loving each other so much they became closer to God.
I found his story so beautiful. I was so moved and I couldn't keep my eyes from filling up.

Anxiety Over A Decision

Why is it I labor, I dwell, I sweat, lose sleep, lose appetite over deciding what monologue to audition with? It seems every audition that calls for a one - two minute contemporary monologue sends me into a state of stricken panic. Thoughts rush through my head like freight trains: "The right piece doesn't exist!" --> "Nothing is good enough!" --> "Why doesn't anyone write anything good?"

Ridiculous thoughts. But at the moment they seem so real and true. In the end I always find something suitable, strong, and fitting for the character's requirements. But in the inbetween......I lose my mind.

I have been meaning to, for some time, to craft a handful of monologues, polish them to a place nearing perfection, and have them ready at the bat at any time, at any chance meeting. And yet, I haven't done it. Why not?

Women in their 40s are just cooler

I have whittled my way into a lovely group of women. I believe all of them are in their 40s. Our meeting place changes every week and so I am getting a special jaunt and tour of Los Angeles from a brand new perspective. - No more bars, now it's taverns. - No more cantinas, now it's tapas.
Our topics of conversation range from parenting, to work, to poetry, to films from all ages (last week it was the 1940s), to love lives, to food, etc. The topics aren't that different from my friends who are 23-30, with the exception of the children's stories; but these women are very special and have a vibrance all their own. I find that when I leave them I feel lighter, luminous, as if I have laughed so much I am walking above the ground. I don't feel that way around people in their 20s. I am so much in the place of carving out my place, my name, my ownership that it is often I am in such serious conversations with friends in my age bracket.
That is why I always say I can't wait to be 30. I will be a fabulous woman. And I always say I can't wait to be a sassy old lady. I will have gray hair, but streak it purple, and I'll wear braids for the first time in my life. I'll wear high heels and great jackets and just be funky. I hope I'll wear lipstick too.
I am making steps toward being cool, funky, and free now, at this age too. I bought red lipstick. Oooh la la. One of my lovely ladies of the 40s told me, "Oh you're awesome," when she saw my bright, red lips. And Ooooh I felt cool.
I'm not sure why I am not allowed to be as cool as I will be in my 60s, right now; but I am working on breaking the case.

the list

I am adding to the list of people I need to thank/ remember/ buy dinner/ pay back once I have a successful career in the acting business.

The list includes paying for two childrens' college tuition to private schools; it also includes those crazy gift baskets that are sometimes 4 feet tall that only neighbors or really old relatives receive on special holidays. There are some less extreme thank yous too: dinner at the favorite Street & Company in Portland, Maine; paying back $500 and maybe some interest; a lifetime supply of Intelligentsia coffee.....oh, I guess I am hedging back to the extremes again...but they are so much more fun.

The 5th of July by Lanford Wilson

I just listened to The 5th of July, Mr. Wilson's play on a book on tape. ( I have been doing a lot of this to curb the road rage in the car.) Sarah Hagan plays Shirley Talley and her voice is so full of youth, outrageous conviction, and the cries of being misunderstood and less than adored.
But honestly, it was difficult to listen to. I think most of the strain was from the actors' performances. But it's true that often plays are much better when heard aloud, rather than read from the page.
I can't wholly fault the actors though- something in the writing wasn't right. There was a lot of overlapped talking. And I can visualize it on the page of the script: two columns, side by side, with each characters rant or excited proclamations, sharing the same amount of stage time. And this technique can be very powerful or simply turn the audience off. It turned me off. It felt like the characters weren't listening to each other, but just wanted to be heard.
And something else about the performance irked me. The characters, in the way they were written, didn't give a shit about themselves or how their words came out. A lot of the time they used hurtful or miscalculated language, and often very spontaneous outbursts, with a lot of backtracking the divulged information. It kept happening. And perhaps these people were really like this. But I wished for some sort of transformation to occur; I wanted these people to gain awareness and consideration for each other.

$$

Money is all-consuming these days. It's my main stress, worry, obsession. And I can't seem to wrestle it down and get a handle on it to say, "Back off! You are not important in the grand scheme of things....I only think you are!"
A wise man recently told me, "You are not how much money you have. Do you decide what to think or how you feel about people based on their wealth?"
"No!" I promptly answered.
"Then why does it matter if you need to lean on people a little bit right now? Maybe you'll be the bread winner some day. And maybe not. It doesn't really matter. It doesn't matter Julie."
I started to cry.
"What really matters is at the end of the day, you crawl into bed, and you get next to each other, and you both share about your day, and you have your conversations from your pillows, and you are there with each other. That is what matters. Everyone wants this, searches for this. I have friends who are billionaires and they are miserable because they are missing this."
I cried more. And nodded even though we were speaking over the phone.
"That's all that matters sweetie."
"I guess I am really lucky then. Because I have that. You have that. We're really fortunate, aren't we?"
"Yes, we really are."

rant, tear, cry, rant

Mid week and I've got a few things on the horizon and a dump truck of rocks following behind me.

I've been listening to Sidney Poitier's Measure of a Man and there is a section where he describes his mother's work on Cat Island. She would drag rocks of all weights--10 lbs, 20 lbs, 50 lbs-- and stack them into a ceiling-high pile. Once she was finished with her mountain of a pile, she would take a hammer and crush these rocks until she had gravel. Then after months of crushing and breaking these stones, men in trucks would come and barter for her pile, then shovel it onto their truck and drive away.

Mr. Poitier made my pile feel very light and small. My plight is fierce though.

I am an extremely hard worker, but I often mis-focus my goal. Or at least it feels that way. I have had to build other things first, my nest, my home, my love, before I could focus head on. But still I have trouble zooming in to capture what my heart desires most. I turn my head to look at jobs & income & how to keep earning. And I turn my head to the other side and I see radio & books & music. I cannot fit myself into a one-trade-suit.
And I've always been this way. I could never just be satiated with plays, I had to involve myself with WMPG. And I had to write for the literary magazine. And I had to learn to surf. And I had to paint and draw. I thought about going to school for visual art, until I realized I cannot be solitary for too long, and so I sauntered into an acting conservatory in Boston.
I get so mad at myself for navigating in a loopy, zig-zagged way. I seem to unconsciously know how to feed myself artistically, which is to sample a little bit of everything, and still discover I don't know how to book-bind, or explain what gouache is in a competent way, or sail a 420 like I used to. So I have trouble with that question: What do you do best above all other things? Well, I can do a lot of things pretty well, but I don't know if I have a best...yet.

damp to dry

I left a very whiny and sad post the other day.

And I would like to gladly report I dug myself out of that hole with two things: house cleaning & good ol' exercise.

Who knew cleaning the house could raise such sodden feelings!?

Feeling Blue

Whenever I feel blue I like to look at the people I admire, and the people who rocked the 60s with fearlessness and a somewhat dazed path. Hence, Miss Brigitte to the left.

I have been feeling so down. It's like the spring upheaval. I always feel a little out of control in the spring. My mother says it's because there is a lot more energy coming up from the ground; new shoots, new flowers, everything is being born again. But I have just been feeling low, instead of newly born.

I have very little money. Never a great feeling. I put too much importance on money, this I know. But I do not like the lingering worries of not being able to pay my bills. Someone asked me the other day how I do it. I didn't know what she meant. Do what? I asked. Pay for everything, support yourself, do your parents help out? No, I pay for my car, my insurance, my school loans, my rent (a great rent price), food, gas, utilities, the list is long and starting to sound like a whine. I do not want to whine here; it just surprised me that I have been doing without my parent's support for a while. My mum helps here and there when she can. But I certainly don't have a savings or a trust fund or any kind of real net. And I've known for a long, long time I don't have my parent's support--she can't do it. My grandfather can't do it. My father doesn't make it available.

I got myself to carry and this I have always been able to do: jobs have popped up conveniently, money has come in at the last second, I have been a steady worker while trying to maintain my peace and my balance and my craft and love for acting. And soon to resume, painting.

I feel far away from my goals. And it's as if I have trapped myself from moving forward. It's like my thoughts of doubt and attempts at smoothing the present out are just putting up stone walls in the future, and I find myself smacking into them. There is very little action on actor's access. And I can't tell you how tired I am of non-union projects and student films, however great the content or lovely the people, it is not want I want to be doing. I can't help but envy friends who are booking pilots and filming features.

I feel broken and like I'm sliding down a hill, but trying to keep my eyes on the summit, but my heart is heavy and heavier all the time.

How can I turn myself around, alter my perspective? I just don't know right now. I just keep muttering, My Time Will Come.

West Coast Disappointment

Blind Man
Hurt Man
More of a child than a Man.
You don't even know what a mess you've made.
How many people have you hurt?

Is it easy for you to live in a tunnel or on a mountain?
I could never be so alone with my fears and my paranoia and my guilt as you do.

I've cast so much energy out into you; and you've either gobbled it up or let it pass right through you.
I am sorry for you. Perhaps you don't see it, but you are your greatest enemy. You self-destruct at every chance.
But it's you who needs more kindness than anyone in this world. You just never ask for it. You'd rather suffer. And we give you hot coals to walk on because you feed us a lot of fear and egg shells.

I'm leaving this stepping stone out on the walk way for you.
I've never been so close before, and now you want nothing but to be as far away as possible.
I'm leaving this stepping stone in case you want it.
Maybe in the fall you'll see it's always been there.

Yesterday was Mother's Day

You.
You are not the person I remember you as.
I look at you now through the eyes of another, one who has missed out on your glory, your flame, your spark.
You are a forlorn leaf.
Settling into your life now, or what you imagine is the way it will end up.
You fall upon little things, forgetting to look up and away from your scraped knees.
Did you know that you used to be God-like?
You once were a super hero whom I studied and watched and I found nothing wrong with you.
You influenced every core of my being: my cuckold knowledge, my efforts to balance out your outspoken & 0-10 anger, your fiesty, bandit nature.
Instead of mimicking, I often compensated with muteness or apologies.
I was afraid of the kind of thing you would pull.
So I chose a quieter tone of voice.
And now you have chosen to do the same, many years later. You've lost that blindness when you're in a room full of company, known and unknown.
Who was it opened your eyes?
Is it me you are copying?
Have you learned that it doesn't help to scream and shriek?
And yet it is still so hard for you to say the quiet things like "thank you."
Where have you gone? And what have you done with the pieces I loved so well?

The Traveling Itch

It's at my sides, it's in my fingers, it's pushing all other thoughts out of mind.....I've got the traveling itch. I miss the beaches of Barcelona, where the red rope structure stands in a pyramid reminding me of the duplicate with a variation on shape that stands erect in my elementary school playground in Portland, Maine. See how small the world is? I traveled across the Atlantic to find a piece of architecture made for climbing and it mirrors what I had in my small home town.

The light and the smells outside are of spring. Even though LA lacks seasons, I feel a change. And it's asking for me to change with it. The only problem is I can't pick up and leave to explore San Francisco or New York City or even, dare I mention Paris, with a negative sign next the amount in my checking account. So sad. ::sigh::

When will I be able to just grab a flight on a whim, even if it's $900? Not until I start booking features. Or national commercials, those would be nice too. I dream of the day when I no longer have any debt. Maybe I could win the megabux. This is a big dreaming day; perhaps because I just finished listening to Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, and I'm half way through Jerry Lewis' Love Story of he and Dean Martin. Didion led this life, well later in life, that was somewhat lavish. Although she was often put up for her journalistic adventures, still she and her husband, had a place in Malibu, a place in New York City, and went back and forth, all over the world they left footprints. I want to be able to do that: track my steps throughout the world.

And I will lay everything down at your feet and follow you throughout the world.

Unspoken Love

I wish I could

Rethinking & Reworking

I'm not satisfied with how this correspondence is working out. It feels contrived and less than interesting. I think all this time I have been afraid of writing what's actually going on with me; and that's why it has become increasingly hard to write every week. I don't think I can keep these characters alive all the time. But perhaps this is the trick of writing: there are hurdles to overcome and discoveries on the other side? I still feel like I am avoiding something deeper by turning to this Los Angeles writer and this searching and underchallenged art curator in London.
It is the experiences around LA and with other theatrical interactions I would like to write about most. The randomness that occurs and the brilliant thoughts that I voice aloud in my car that never make it anywhere in print, but only fly right out the crack in my window.
Oh, I don't know what to make of this place of published content that is so easily leaked out of my fingers. We shall see what becomes of it.

WRITER'S BLOCK

A,

HI BUMBLY. DID YOU GET THE JOB?

I HAVEN'T DONE MUCH WRITING IN THE PAST FEW WEEKS. BUT I'VE SEEN SOME FILMS: KUBRICK'S LOLITA (FOR THE FIRST TIME), THE KING'S SPEECH (SO PLEASED THEY PICKED UP A LOT OF OSCARS. THE FILM WAS ABSOLUTELY FLAWLESS), THE RUNAWAYS (COULDN'T EVEN FINISH IT. EACH SCENE WOULD END AND I'D WONDER WHY. AND I TURNED TO MY FRIEND--NEVER YOU MIND-- AND SAID TO HIM AS I CUPPED MY HANDS, "THESE SCENES ARE NOT SCENES," AND I'D LET MY HANDS OPEN TO POUR OUT THE INSUBSTANTIAL SUBSTANCE THAT WERE THE SCENES OF LEATHER CLAD GIRLS WHO MUMBLE UNCONVINCINGLY), AND WE LOOKED FOR HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON, BUT COULDN'T FIND IT.

EXHAUSTED A. I HAD TO WRITE TO YOU OUT OF GUILT, BUT I CAN'T GET ANY MORE OUT OF ME. I'M JUST GOING TO SIT, DRINK WATER, AND SMELL THE FRESH BOUQUET OF LILIES IN FRONT OF ME.

LOVE YOU,

B

rainy dreams

hi B,

a rainy week. i checked the la weather and it's raining for you too.....cleans your air, dampens my spirits.

i'm drinking my coffee and i made an interesting breakfast: persian rice, torshi, carrots, beets, and eggs. it was delicious.

i have a job interview this a.m. yes, i've jumped right on it. i may stay at the tate museum part time, even if i get this job. it's at an incredible organization; it focuses on infant-parent relationships and mentoring and resiliency. there are a lot of therapy groups and child development classes, as well as joyful classes like infant massage and singing/dancing get togethers. it is an incredible asset to its community. and i want to do something with young people who are open and vulnerable and most of all social!

i'll let you know how it goes. i think i have my enthusiasm going for me.

how are you? what's new? any more development on your story? i love it, by the way. reminds me of a vindictive but also extremely passionate and adventurous charlotte from the web.

ha! remember when the word web, meant an actual spider web.

i've been overwhelmed with the amount of technology that is nudging its way into our media and personal lives. i know it's an over talked topic with much anxiety inbetween the quotations of each blog, and voice, but i really feel it. i dont' want to fear it, because i think that only empowers it, but i do. we rely on our phones and news feeds a little too much. the whole thing makes me want to move to the country where i have to keep a constant fire going in the fireplace. doesn't that sound lovely? i'd have some goats, and dogs, definitely a cat. and i'd drink tea all the time and make stews and live in wool. ah yes, please.

i miss you B. tell me about your life in the rain.

xoxo

a

PHONE CHAT HINDERS LETTER CORRESPONDENCE

A,

THANKS FOR THE PHONE CALL LAST WEEK. IT REALLY CHEERED ME UP IN MY TIME OF NEED. BUT BECAUSE WE CHATTED, I DIDN'T WRITE! SO I AM WRITING TO YOU NOW. FINALLY SITTING DOWN IN A LITTLE COZY CORNER OF MY BUNGALOW IN VENICE, FULLY INTENDING TO USE THE BETTER PART OF TWO HOURS TO DEVOTE, IN WRITING, TO YOU.

I WANTED TO SHARE A SHORT STORY I HAVE WRITTEN WITH YOU:

ORIGINALLY I HAD GIVEN THIS IDEA TO A FELLOW WRITER FRIEND OF MINE, ONE WHO COULD HAVE REALLY SCULPTED IT WITH RARE ADJECTIVES AND ELONGATED SENTENCES, VISUALLY REMINISCENT OF SPIDER LEGS, WHICH IS THE STORY'S SUBJECT. BUT THEN I WAS TOO EXCITED TO LET THE IDEA FALL OUT OF MY FINGERS ALTOGETHER. SO I'VE TAKEN IT BACK.....

COMFORTABLY SITUATED IN THE V OF THE UPPER LEFT CORNER OF THEIR BEDROOM, A LOVELY LONG-LEGGED SPIDER SAT TWIDDLING HER LONG-LEGGED LEGS. SHE HUMMED A TUNE MANY A MALE SPIDER HAD SPAT AT HER WITH SILVERY THREADS TRYING TO SNARE HER; THE TUNE HAD BELONGED TO THE DOORS BEFORE SHE HAD CAPTURED IT AS IT DID RESEMBLE HER SO WELL. "HER ARMS ARE WICKED AND HER LEGS ARE LONG, WHEN SHE MOVES MY BRAIN SCREAMS OUT THIS SONG–" HER HEART THUMPED WICKEDLY.

DESPITE BEING WOOED CONTINUALLY BY THIS SONG, SHE HAD NEVER BEEN TEMPTED BY ANY OF THE HANDSOME BROWN MALES THAT SCUTTLED AND JUMPED HER WAY. THEY WERE ALWAYS TOO FORWARD, TOO–FOR LACK OF A BETTER WORD–JUMPY. SHE WANTED ROMANCE AND LOVE FROM THOSE MALE SPINDLES, BUT ALAS, THEY WERE ALWAYS BEING EATEN BY OTHER FEMALES. INSTEAD SHE SET HER SIGHTS ON A VERY DIFFERENT ANIMAL. A BLONDE, TALL, AND QUITE HANDSOME MAN NAMED MICHAEL. IT WAS HIS BEDROOM IN WHICH SHE TOOK HER COZY RESIDENCE. SHE LIKED THAT HE CRANKED THE HEAT, LEFT CRUMBS IN THE BED FOR HER TO FEAST ON. IT DIDN'T MATTER TO HER ANOTHER ANIMAL OCCUPIED THE SAME BED–SOME FEMALE WHO DIDN'T CRANK THE HEAT AND CERTAINLY DIDN'T LEAVE ANY CRUMBS FOR HER PRETTY PINCERS, AND MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT LIKE HER. OFTEN SHE'D POINT UP THE THE CEILING CORNER WHERE THE SPIDER AND HER LONG LEGS CROUCHED ADMIRING MICHAEL; THAT POINTING FINGER, FULL OF ACCUSATIONS, BECKONING MICHAEL TO PERFORM HER RIDDANCE. OH MISS SPIDER HATED THAT GIRL, BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT SHE WAS, A DISGUSTING GIRL, WHO DIDN'T SMELL NEARLY AS NICE AS MICHAEL. BUT THAT STENCH DID NOT DISSUADE MISS SPIDER FROM PUNCTURING HER SOFT SKIN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO CAUSE GREAT ITCHING AND SWELLING THE FOLLOWING MORNING. MISS SPIDER DELIGHTED IN WATCHING HER LONG-LEGGED HANDIWORK.

AND WITH MICHAEL, SHE TOOK GREAT CARE WITH EACH BITE, ONLY INJECTING THE SMALLEST AMOUNT OF VENOM, SO AS NOT TO ITCH, BUT JUST TO NIBBLE, AS IF GIVING HIM THE DAINTIEST LOVE BITE. OH SHE LOVED HIM. SHE LOVED HIM ALL OVER, PIMPLING HIM WITH TINY LOVE BITES. HE'D AWAKE THE NEXT DAY WITH RED DESIGNS, DELICATELY SPELLING OUT LOVE POEMS, ALL DISCERNED FROM DOTS. AND MOST OF THESE DOTS OCCUPIED HIS ARMPITS, WHERE IT MUST BE WARM AND RIPE WITH PHEROMONES FOR THE LITTLE PEST, HE THOUGHT.

................................

WELL, WHAT DO YOU THINK? I HAVEN'T FINISHED IT OF COURSE. BUT THERE IT IS.

I FIND IT A HUGE RELIEF TO WRITE TO YOU. I'VE BEEN MEANING TO FOR TWO WEEKS, ALTHOUGH IT FEELS LIKE MUCH LONGER. THESE LAST FEW WEEKS HAVE BEEN HARD AS MY PREVIOUS LETTER DRIPPED IN TORMENT. I CAN BE QUITE DRAMATIC. BUT TO MAKE MY DRAMA WORSE, I GOT FOOD POISONING. I THINK FROM THE ICE AT A DIVE BAR. AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT SEVERAL OTHERS CONCLUDED, SINCE I WASN'T THE SOLO SICKIE. I WISH YOU COULD HAVE BEEN HERE TO TAKE CARE OF ME. TELL THE LOUVRE TO HOLD ON. AND TELL THE TATE THERE IS A MAN MORE IMPORTANT TO RESTORE THAN DALI AND BARTOLOZZI COMBINED. HA! WHAT WOULD THEY SAY? THEY WOULD THUNDER, "EROS AND PSYCHE WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN!"

BUT YOU WOULD COME TO ME ANYWAY, WIPE THE VOMIT FROM MY CHIN AND STILL THINK I WAS SEXY AND GOOD LOOKING.

WELL I HOPE THIS LETTER REACHES YOU BY WAY OF STEADY HANDS AND HEARTY MINDS. WOULDN'T IT BE WONDERFUL IF EVERY PERSON WHO TOUCHED THIS LETTER BETWEEN LEAVING MY HANDS AND ENTERING YOURS WROTE A LITTLE MESSAGE ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE ENVELOPE?

SOMETHING SMALL OF COURSE. JUST A FACT. OR A SENTIMENT. "IT'S SUNNY AND I REGRET WEARING PANTS." OR PERHAPS SOMETHING LIKE, " I DETECT THE SCENT OF LOVE ON THIS SEALED EDGE, SO I HAVE CARRIED IT THROUGH MY ROUTE IN MY BRIEFS." FOR ADDED SCENT?

LOVE,

B

snail mail versus fed ex!

sweet B,

what on earth. why, for heaven's sake, did you send your letter overnight via fed ex? i just finished reading it. i don't know what to tell you to comfort you. all i can say is you are awfully young to be concerned about your legacy. but i can honestly say i feel those feelings and they creep in when i don't want them to. but don't hesitate to write. ever. always bleed yourself with a pen because you will be understood now and in the future as well as the opposite. besides you're not writing for the people who will dismiss your writing. you are writing for the people who take great care to pick up your words, read them aloud even, and then fold them up, tuck them in an envelope and share those beautifully crafted sentences with someone else who will hold your offerings in the breast pocket.
i'm fed-exing this letter right back. i don't think it can wait, because i never want you to be in pain.

love and fog,

a

ps i love the sunset. let the sun set on you in blazing orange tonight.

FEAR AND NOT FEARING

A,

SINCE YOU'RE ADOPTING THE LOWER-CASES, I'LL TAKE THE UPPER-CASES. THERE, HOW'S THAT? BUT PLEASE KNOW, THE LIGNAN OF MY LETTERS DOES NOT MEAN I AM YELLING OR OVER EXCITED.

I'M FEELING EMOTIONAL A. IT'S SUNDAY AND I'VE HAD A MIXTURE OF ACCOMPLISHED TASKS, SUNSHINE, GREEN'S BEER, INTELLIGENTSIA COFFEE, AND TALKS ABOUT FILMS AND BOOKS AND PLAYS. THE COMBINATION OF THOSE THINGS GETS ME TO THINKING ABOUT THE WEEK AND THEN FURTHER BEYOND, ABOUT MY LIFE–WHAT I AM ACCOMPLISHING AND WHAT I HAVE NOT YET? IN TRUTH IT MAKES ME THINK OF EVERYTHING I WANT TO CHANGE AND AM JUST NOT ALTERING QUICKLY ENOUGH FOR THIS FAST-PACED WORLD. NO, I AM NOT INADEQUATE OR LAZY. BUT FEARFUL, I RELUCTANTLY ADMIT, I AM. I SEE IT IN MY WRITING, IN SOME VIDEOS I'VE MADE. IT'S FUNNY ACTUALLY: I CENSOR MYSELF EVEN IN MY PRIVATE JOURNAL. NOT FOR FEAR OF SOMEONE PICKING IT UP AND READING IT TODAY OR TOMORROW, BUT OF SOMEONE PUBLISHING IT AND YEARS FROM NOW READING A SECTION ALOUD AND IN REACTION TO THE PASSAGE TO SAY, "I KNOW HE NEVER WOULD HAVE FELT THAT WAY, ANGRY AND MEEK, WHY DID HE LIE LIKE THAT?" ISN'T THAT COMPLETELY SILLY AND IRRATIONAL?

THANK YOU FOR YOUR PICTURES. I ESPECIALLY LIKED THE CEILING OF THE GLOBE. I NEVER WOULD HAVE TAKEN A PICTURE AT THAT ANGLE. I PROBABLY WOULD HAVE FOCUSED ON THE FLOOR OF THE STAGE WHERE ALL THE ACTION HAPPENS. BUT I SUPPOSE THE CEILING IS JUST AS IMPORTANT, BECAUSE ALL EFFORTS EXECUTED ON THE STAGE ARE IN AN ATTEMPT TO PIERCE BEYOND THE STAGE, THROUGH THE CEILING, INTO THE HEARTS OF THE AUDIENCE.

MAYBE THAT'S IT A, I DON'T KNOW WHO MY AUDIENCE IS FOR, OR EVEN IF I HAVE ONE. AND THAT IS WHAT IS SCARY.

I DON'T WANT TO FEEL THIS WAY. I HAVE SUCH CONFIDENCE ABOUT THIS YEAR. I KNOW GOOD THINGS WILL HAPPEN AND YET I STILL LET MYSELF FEEL THIS WAY, THIS FEARFUL & SMALL WAY. WHY CAN'T I CONSTANTLY BE BUOYED? ......I SUPPOSE THAT WOULD BE OBNOXIOUS.

HERE IS A PICTURE FOR YOU: THE FIRST SUNSET OF 2011

photo courtesy of Rebecca Cox.

LOVE, SALT, FEAR, DEPENDABLILITY,

B

P.S. DON'T SECOND GUESS YOURSELF, OR YOUR STYLE. I LOVE YOUR HEPBURN-ESQUE LOOK, YOU AUDREY GIRL.

P.P.S. IF YOU SEE THE KATE MOSS EXHIBIT AT THE LOUVRE WILL YOU SEND ME PICTURES OR A BROCHURE OR SOMETHING? I'M INTERESTED.

LOVE AGAIN.

caffeine and cummings

hi B,

lovely, good on his word, B. i've decided to adopt cummings' short stature of lowercasing all my letters. all letters shall be lower case from here on out, all except for your name B. (xx) it makes me feel artistic amongst so many flourishing and world-stopping artists. the job has been very demanding lately at the tate. and everyone is all in a bother or either a giddiness, me, i am in the giddy group, over the coming exhibit to feature every piece of art that is kate moss-related at the louvre in paris. we are wondering how to compete. but we still have our hands full.

i've just had my 3rd cup of tea (kombucha green). i had gotten into the habit of drinking coffee again. it's so easy to slip into it. it's as if i have tiny magnets in my body and every brew house, quaint coffee shop, and counter made crunchy from grinds, turns up their electro-magnetic force when i enter a 5 mile radius, and the pull drags me inside despite my "nos" and "i can'ts" and i end up inside with the café colored steam rising into me delighted nostrils. yes, i have a sickness. but what scares me the most is i like myself so much better on coffee. i am happier. i feel i can accomplish anything–no task is too great! bring it on! and the even scarier thing B, is that i think everyone likes himself better when boosted by caffeine. except not everyone is better on this beautiful, wonderful coffee drink. i see people, all day long, with paper cups, thermoses, mugs, in their hands, swigging, and smacking their lips. and i see people in their cars reach over and over again to that middle console where their treat sits perfectly in the cup holder, and i notice them become more and more aggressive on the road. america is even worse! the whole country runs on starbucks and now intelligentsia, because it's just that much better and more expensive. at least tea still reigns here, it keeps everyone buzzed but not vein-pulsingly rocketed.

anyhow, it's been one day and i already miss it. should i buy a bag of beans and grind them just in case? no, no. tea is sufficient. i guess.

i'm having a very adult day. i say that because i just got off the phone with my insurance company. everything becomes difficult when dealing with an hmo plan. it's useless. i'm not going to get into it, but i wish i didn't have american insurance, i wish i lived in sweden. although!! good news for men in england: starting in april, men will have 6 months leave when their child is born. women receive a whole year. so england is adopting sweden's policy for post child birth leave. it's very exciting. i wonder if more and more babies will appear so that the new families could have 6 months together. wouldn't it be amazing if america had something like that?

i would take my new child on an adventure. my little family would take the train up the pacific coast highway all the way to seattle, stopping in portland, oregon and perhaps some other lovely destinations. we'd see the water almost everyday and have that smooth pace of a train underneath us. the little one would grow up wanting that movement always underneath it. we'd picnic in portland and get acupuncture, just as the land does in that quirky town. and my love and i would nap under tree like ferdinand's with the little one between us covered with a checkered picnic blanket. and then we'd awake and have mimosas. and we'd make flower necklaces, but for our hair....

maybe i should be at the louvre, and not the tate. people are so serious here. i want to frolic in stripes and a red coat, not a rain coat. i wish truffaut would have put me in a movie. that is, if i were alive at that time.

and lastly here is a picture, as i promised, a treat from across the pond.

a view that i see every day on my way to work:

it's gray as usual. it's a view from the new millennium bridge to the old london bridge. we are always looking back on the past, in my case, usually fondly.

and this one is from my favorite area in east london, brick lane:

it has a rougher edge than the smooth, alabaster white façades of high kensington. and it's vastly more interesting. the streets are crowded with all sorts of interesting people. and there are trash piles to look through and then very expensive boutiques where i give away a lot of money!

and lastly, most beloved, the ceiling of the globe's stage:

can you imagine acting beneath that? already the ceiling is better than you! but how magnificent.

miss you B. miss america. and the pch. kiss it for me today, ok?

love love and rain,

a

xx

Radio and Catholicism

My Dearest A,

Well, well - Miss England has decided to take up letter writing. Might I inquire, do you take tea time as well?
I purposely took my time writing back to you, in order to acquire some news to report. I must say, your memory, not so distant I might add, is still in tact: I hate leaving the house. Perhaps I will make a new year's intention to venture out my front door more often. I have an excuse though, LA has been so cold of late. Alright, alright- I'm dropping the whole English bit now.
When will you come visit? That'll get me goin'. I'm gonna start up a list of places to entice you with. And I'm going to make them all within a 5 mile radius of my front door step!
You asked if I have been reading a lot. Mmm hmm. When am I not? I thought about doing something constructive with all this reading, like shaping up a review for each play, each article, each book I read. What do you think? I could even start reviewing reviews, but of course I'd have to read the material too.
I've been listening to a lot of radio too. And ....... da dah da dahhhh ........ I have been volunteering at the college radio station. So go fly a kite Nurse Ratchet! I do leave my house. I'd like to option some radio stories and have them made into films. Would that ruin the magic of it? There is something sacred about pure audio. At first I thought a television series for HBO, but Mr. Ira Glass has snatched that genius idea. Check Joe Richman's Radio Diaries projects. Fascinating stuff. I'm keeping busy. And I read Patti Smith's memoire. Beautiful. She has this beautiful beginning, as a child, she goes into detail about her conversations with God. She would make up her own prayers for him and entertain him with these tales she'd come up with. And I remember my own little self being very frustrated with Our Father and Hail Mary. No one ever explained to me what "hallowed" or "tresspass" meant. So I wasn't sure why I should give a fuck. And I would talk to him too in that familiar way. And there is a clear memory I have of a father giving his homily-you know what that is? I guess you Jews call it Derasha- at St. Pius, a round-shaped church with pastel colored windows that looked like they were made out of crystallized sheets of communion! I was in the back, there was standing room only, which meant it was probably a holiday like Easter. And the father was talking about Plato. He was a real philosopher and very "in" with the young crowd.....and my mom bent down to ask me what he was talking about. I think she had been in the bathroom. And I said, "Oh he's really into Playdo!" But I heard everything he said. Maybe that's when I took a real interest in philosophy. Anyway I bet Patti Smith would have taken those words the same way. She's a cool cat. Up next is Keith Richards' memoire.

I give you all my best Love,
B

P. S. And now to take a moment to describe the intricate dust piles that are gathering inevitably in the corners of my apartment. I describe with glee: Well in one particular corner, there's one shaped like a castle out of Lord of the Rings. And when I am really stoned I see turrets and drawbridges. If you're lucky I'll take a photograph of these master sculptures and enclose it in the next letter. That is I am assuming this is going to be a love letter affair.....xx

New Address

Hi B,

I thought I'd take the time to sit down and write you a letter. Afterall my address has changed, and what better excuse to write to inform you via snail mail. You will find the address on the envelope of course. So this new flat makes it my.......21st move in my somewhat young lifetime? Hmmm. Do you think moving so many times could make a person flexible and a non-materialist or perhaps the bordering vagrant lifestyle makes a person disconnected from the earth, never satisfied, always searching.....? I see both within myself. So please do not trouble your notebook to answer that one.

I must say it feels nice to grasp a beloved pen, "Le Pen," and write to you instead of typing on the mundane and the deliberately designed-to-tap-softly keyboard of a laptop. It has been so long. And it will be so exciting to pick out a stamp for your envelope. Perhaps I am getting carried away.....but don't you think the stamp is the finishing touch? A final image to close the message?

What do you fill your days with? Books as usual or have you actually ventured outside? I walked to the park this morning so I get a star! There was a peculiar dog in the park; he was sitting on a park bench mistaking himself for a human perhaps. But he looked quite regal sitting there, head held high. He was one of those English setters, with the freckles on the nose? I saw him and I suddenly realized I have lost all of my freckles. No sun in this English rain. It's going to get old. But at least the air is cleaner than where you are Mister. Perhaps that is why you don't leave your little man cave? You should anyway. It'll inspire more reading and perhaps a letter or two to me. In fact, do it for my sake. I don't want to read your reply that talks about the dust piling up in the less-traipsed corners of your apartment. Gross.

Anyhow, I love you. And I am thinking of you. If you're good, and write me back I'll enclose something special next time.

Love,

A