Words are Alive

"Words are alive. Cut them and they bleed."
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday I had a conversation with an old boyfriend. He said I was the first to say, "I love you." I vaguely remember him initiating it. The debate bordered on an argument and I couldn't help but wonder what was beneath it.

Did it really matter who said "I love you" first? Is "I love you" a game of chicken. Whoever says it first "loses"? Do we treat those simple words too preciously?

When my mother was ill with terminal cancer, my boyfriend's family invited her to come visit in Philadelphia. She was living in Florida by herself and while my sister lived close-by, my mother was feeling quite alone and enduring grueling treatments without a lot of assistance. This trip would be a break, a "cancer vacation" of sorts.

My ex-boyfriend's family is a demonstrative sort—kind and giving people. When my mother arrived, she was treated like a queen. No medicine in the world could have touched their generosity.

They arranged a lunch in her honor one afternoon, where she met several extended family members for the first time, including my boyfriend's Aunt Mary, a warm and jovial lady. My mother and Aunt Mary sat next to one another and they laughed and conversed easily, like old friends.

When the day came to an end and Aunt Mary was heading home, she hugged my mom. I heard her say something that would stick with me: "I love you, Randee." They had spent several hours together, that's it. Yet I didn't doubt her love for my mother for one second. She did love my mother after only one afternoon together.

The next day, my mother was feeling quite recharged from all of the attention and activity. She flitted into the room I was staying in and started chatting happily. Unfortunately, I was feeling a black cloud over me. I knew what was to come. And for some unknown reason, I felt angry at my mom, annoyed by her newfound happiness. She mentioned something excitedly about the day's plans, I don't remember what, but I snapped at her. Hard.

And I live with that. I was under an enormous amount of pressure, as was my mother. But I realized that day, among others, that once words are uttered, there is no retracting them. Reparation is possible, but retraction is not.

My oldest brother, in a fit of anger years ago, once told me that I was the “slow one” in the family. Just not as quick as the others. A few weeks ago, as we discussed some family business, I asked him to repeat something I didn't understand. I said, "Remember, I'm the slow one in the family. It takes me a while." He looked baffled. I explained that it was a callback to an insult he had made years ago. He had no memory of saying it whatsoever.

"Why have you harbored that all these years?" he asked. "Why did you say it all those years ago?" I replied.

Of any insults that have been leveled against me, stupidity doesn't tend to stick. But it stuck a little, obviously. Words, once uttered, are etched in some cosmic fabric in the sky.

My favorite grade school teacher Mrs. Polhamus once scolded me in class. I was in first grade and she caught me talking during a spelling test. I don't remember what she said but my whole world fell apart suddenly. I couldn't complete my test, so shaken up. Instead I wrote at the top of the paper these exact words:

"I know it is true that Mrs. Polhamus does not like me anymore."

My friend is dating a man who seems downright phobic when it comes to the word love. One day, he put his fears aside and signed an email to her "Love, John." She was flattered by his attempt. She didn't book a date at the local church or buy paint for the picket fence; it just made her feel good...and special.

But months later, he retracted it. He told her he didn't mean to sign the letter that way. That it was just an innocent congeniality. Please don't take it too seriously, he begged. She began to take him less seriously, unfortunately. Love and cowardice do not go well together.

We all know when we love someone, don’t we? It's a very natural, simple feeling. It cannot be contested. It's as plain as the nose on your face. It doesn't require years of harvesting and deliberating. It doesn't require the perfect setting to be spoken. It's not even all that complex. It just is.

When you become a tightwad with love, your world becomes smaller. Love becomes a bank account and you write your checks carefully, constantly watchful of your shrinking budget.

The words that really matter are often stuck in some box, waiting for a perfect date to be released. Other words pour out of us, often with little discretion or forethought. I do my best to refrain from saying, even jokingly:
"Shut up."
"Fuck you."
"Relax."
"Calm down."

"Get over it."

Do I say them once in a while? Sure. But because I rarely do, I feel I'm afforded the opportunity on occasion...and I probably damn well mean it when I do.

My friend's mother, whom I've always been close with, once said "fuck you" to me semi-jokingly. (I had made a small joke at her expense and that was her response.) You can't carry every verbal infraction with you since you only burden yourself. But I do remember it.

And let us not forget the importance of the simple yet sublime:

"I'm sorry."

When those words are spoken from a genuine, heartfelt place without any dreaded "but" attached to it, it can wipe away a world of hurt. Occasionally, "I'm sorry" isn't enough; it requires action as well. But most of the time, deep-seated resentment and anger evaporate like mist in the wind almost instantly with those little words.

I read somewhere that talking slowly is good for your mental health, akin to eating food more deliberately. Perhaps there is some answer there. Choose the words you say carefully--but not so carefully that they become a too precious of a commodity.

Mr. Shuffles Makes me Smile

Mr. Shuffles is a miracle elephant.

After almost 2 years in his mother's womb, the vets found not vital signs and he was presumed to be stillborn.

At a press conference, the staff at Taronga Zoo in Australia announced the sad news.

Photo: Dean Sewell

But in spite of the odds, Mr. Shuffles was born at the in Australia on March 10, 2010 at 3.27 am.

Katharina Theodore was one of the first keepers in the elephant barn the morning after Portnip, the mother elephant, gave birth.

"We went to greet all the elephants, walked up to Porntip and she didn't react at all." Theodore said.

"She seemed to be in a stupor and so I started to cry literally. I noticed blood on her legs and the bulge that was holding the calf was missing. So Gary and I walked into the paddock and we found a calf.

"I was kind of happy that at least she'd expelled the calf and I was thinking that's great, we can move on and look after her.

"And then, mind-blowingly enough, the calf raised its head."

20 vets and keepers quickly went to work, round the clock, administering to the calf who they feared suffered brain damage.

When Mr. Shuffles was well enough to take his first steps, they were heavy and unsure, like that of an old man, hence the nickname "Mr. Shuffles."


He was officially renamed Pathi Harn in a ceremony held by Buddhist monks to celebrate his Thai culture. This caused a minor uproar online (by people like me) who really, really like his nickname.

Parthi Harn is the Thai word for miracle.

Pathi Harn is getting stronger day by day, feeding heartily from his mother and playing with his cousin, Luk Chai .

And while his beautiful Thai name reflects his regal status which he rightfully deserves, he will always be known as Mr. Shuffles to many.

He's a little wide-eyed and goofy - a creature who has gone through something. A creature who is happy to be alive.

Mr. Shuffles lives!

Mr. Shuffles Naming Ceremony:

Mr. Shuffles Slips into a pool:

News clip on Mr. Shuffle. He's a happy-go-lucky baby elephant!

Follow Mr. Shuffles on Twitter.

Sources:
Brisbane Times
ABC News Australia

Dear Fill in the Blank

March 21, 2010


Dear _________:


We haven't communicated in quite a while, my dear. I continue to miss you though I try to keep it at bay and humbly move on.

I sometimes wonder why I bother to write you anymore. Not sure if you even read what I send or whether this account is active. I know why you had to close a door but its haunting to think I'm writing to thin air at this point.

I suppose sometimes it makes me feel good to reach out and send you a song or an idea or a thought. It's ultimately a gift to me to give to you. (Though I much prefer to believe you are out there, reading what I write and loving me from afar.)

I've deleted most of your songs and put them away for safekeeping. It just hurts a bit when they come through my speakers suddenly and enter my room. You wouldn't believe how many songs we've exchanged over the years! Some tunes have slipped through the cracks and they play on anyway, as if to say, "You can't get rid of me entirely, Beth."

Today I'm sending you a potentially corny song. Luckily I've never felt self-conscious sending you the sappiest of tunes. You could always handle it, which I've always loved about you. I wouldn't feel brave enough to share them with hardly anyone else!

So there's a story behind this song:

Last week, I had the most magical evening with a few close friends on the mainland. We gathered for an impromptu dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. We experienced the most perfect synergy. We talked about so many strange and wondrous things, laughing and sharing intimate thoughts. I left feeling quite high from the whole experience.

As you know, my social life here is pretty dim so when I have a good night, it burns like a flame in my mind. I had a good evening! It felt so nice that it almost hurt. I want more of my limited time on this planet to feel like that evening. Special. Magical. Connected. The way I've felt with you many times before.

Driving back to the island that night, I popped one of my cassette tapes into the player. Remember, I have an old truck. No fancy audio system like you probably have! Plain, old cassettes. I enjoy stumbling across little cassette treasures at yard sales or second hand stores. For a quarter each, it's a heck of a deal, right? And you're forced to choose from a limited selection. I like that too. Too much choice and access today.

Anyway, I stuck in a tape of early Dan Fogelberg. I know, he's a bit easy listening. But this was one of his earliest recordings, pre-ballads. He was only 18! His voice was so high and sweet and his tunes simple yet rich. He died just a few years ago from prostate cancer at the age of 56. After doing some research (because I can be a geek like that), I found out that after he wrote this particular song, he knew he wanted to be a songwriter and never looked back.

As I listened to the tape and drove over the bridge, I looked out at the lights lining it. As a child, when my family would drive over to spend the summer at the Jersey shore, I'd stick my head out of the window and say, "Light, light, light, light, light..." trying as fast as I could to keep up with every one we flew by. If one was out, I'd stop for a millisecond, then continue again: "Light, light, light_____light, light."

I did this for years and years. It was my little ritual to mark my arrival back on the island, to a house I loved. Tonight was no different. "Light, light, light, light..." I said as I drove back home, feeling content and full.

Then this song came on. I'm not sure why, but suddenly I found myself pulling over to a side street next to the bay and began sobbing so hard. A perfect emotional storm had formed inside of me. It wasn't really the content of the song - it's about a peaceful morning. And it wasn't the evening, which was lovely. It was more than that.

I'm leaving this island this year, looks like. I'll walk away from the only house I've ever considered home. The family politics surrounding it have just been too much since my mom died. I'll never be able to reclaim this place, the way it used to be, you know? So I will take a sum of money and say a hard goodbye.

Sometimes I feel for the house. She remembers times past. I pat her old, worn walls and say, "I know. I'm sorry. I'll miss you too." We sigh a lot lately, realizing what lies ahead.

As you know, our family hasn't seen many happy times. When I was six and my dad died, it seemed to create an permanent rift in our family. We were wounded and lost, with a depressed and overwhelmed mother at the helm.

But this shore house provided us all with temporary relief. My mother seemed content here and we could all relax for a bit. We were like all of the other "whole" families, at least for a season.

"And maybe there are seasons.
And maybe, they change.
And maybe, to love is not so strange."

Those were the lyrics that played. All of my childhood memories flooded me, like water in a fast-sinking boat.

The "light, light, light" times when we laughed more easily and the days drifted on as if forever. Lightning bugs and shooting stars and fireworks and wave leaping. Reading books quietly in the evening and sleeping so soundly. A brief glimpse of family and home.

In my truck, sitting in the dark, I realized the irrevocable passing of time, the hollow and frightening realization that certain stages and people are gone, never to return. I cried for the expanse of my past, growing bigger with each passing year. And maybe I cried a little for you, as you slowly become part of it too.

So this was the soundtrack to my bayside breakdown. The first few minutes are a little much but it evolves into a sweet tune, I think.

Maybe I won't send you any more letters or songs. While it can make feel happy to share things with you, I can equally feel foolish and even more alone, which I can ill afford. It's simply a waste of words if you're not even reading this.

Well, we shall see where I fall or stand emotionally. I still have about 200 songs to send to you. (Ha...it's true!) I guess it's more like 200 songs to send to myself.

You know, sometimes, I'm filled with disbelief, wondering how you could so easily close a door on me, making sure I had no power to open it. A bit of a dick move on your part. And sometimes, I realize we are best parted, in our current states. I understand. We had to be. And most of the time, I just simply miss you and have trouble letting you go, I admit embarrassingly.

Well, thank you for being my lover and friend from afar. And for being my muse. To think, you could be my muse, an artist of your fine caliber. How lucky am I? What a real, live fairy tale, one I sorely needed and deserved. For us, it has been hearts and flowers. Well, it's been hearts at least...I could have stood for some flowers.

But maybe there are seasons. And maybe they change. And maybe, to love is not so strange.



To the Morning - Dan Fogelberg

Environmental Soul Repair

I take her for a walk a few times a week. I have for years now. It's the only time she feels her "old self again" she says.

She's recovering from some injuries so she walks slowly. She's always going on about wanting to run again, like me...but I don't know if that will happen.

She's healing from a broken heart as well. She sighs a lot during our walks. My mom used to sigh all of the time, but hers came from a place of dramatic resignation. My friend sighs to release her cares, her sorrows, to breathe deeply once again. Her sighs don't bother me.

She fell for this man hard. He brought so much light into her sad, little existence that when he left, her life felt even bleaker than before. "Why me? He knew the shape I was in. Why does it always turn out the same way, where I get hurt?"

This man left her life incrementally, with little fanfare. He eventually stopped responding to her. She felt used, stupid.

I try to explain to her that he had his own problems.

That doesn't stop the pain, she tells me.

Yes, but it's better to understand that its nothing personal, I tell her. It's better to celebrate that love entered your life at all. He was a blessing overall. You know that.

She nods in halfhearted agreement and sighs.

After a moment, she turns to me and asks in a childlike voice, "I'm a blessing too, aren't I?"

Her question stops me in my tracks. I turn her to face me.

"I think you are."

Sometimes I want to send her flowers on his behalf, so she believes in kind acts and romance again. Or write her a warm, heartfelt letter, signed by him. Just to take the sting out a little. I wouldn't of course. I wouldn't dupe her like that.  It's just hard seeing her this way. I've known her so long. When she hurts, I hurt.

At some point of our walk, we usually sit down on the beach, close our eyes and meditate for a while. I can feel her next to me, tense and struggling, trying to tame her stormy thoughts.

Sometimes, I peek over at her: brow furrowed, shoulders tight. I fantasize about kissing her on the lips during one of those taut moments. It seems that's all she really needs, that magical fairy tale kiss to wake her up, to make her feel safe and alive again.

Instead she begins to cry. I put my hands on her back and her body melted in response. Human touch.  I found myself crying with her. No one should have to fight hard for "inner peace," you know?
"Just breathe. Be present. The answer is right here, I promise. You don't have to try so hard for it."

We both closed our eyes again and grabbed what little nirvana we could find. And after a few moments, we were breathing together, in sync with one another, in sync with the world. For a few moments, we simply existed and let go of all the silly emotions.

Her days at the beach are numbered. She's leaving the island soon. She's unhappy here and needs to leave.  She won't tell me where. It's a "secret." I can see through her ruse; she's not sure where she's going next and feels self-conscious about it.

"What will I do without our walks?"

Again, I have no answers. And luckily, I don't have to. Our walks, I hope, will heal her from the outside in. The universe will fix her, with its generous sunlight and sparkling seas and wild winds. Environmental soul repair.

And I think my listening helps as well. It's amazing how transformative it is when someone simply validates your feelings, isn't it? When someone is genuinely open to you, no matter what fractured state you're in?  No one shoulders her disappointment and anger and hurt like me. I accept all of her broken pieces. She needs me and I'm happy to spend some time with her.

"I worry too much damage has been done," she says. "That I can't find my way home."

But I think she may. Someday. Somewhere.

"Just keep walking."

How to Stay Alive

Liz Falco and Cathy Cushla, my dead friends.


While grocery shopping, and old college friend popped into my mind suddenly. A fiery, outspoken gal named Liz Falco. Kind, cute as hell, with wild curly hair. The type who could speak her mind without ever offending anybody.

I'm going to look her up, I said to myself. I hope she's still alive. A strange thought, considering our relatively young age. After some research, I found out that she had been murdered years ago in Philadelphia.

Cathy Cushla was another early goner. I went to high school with her. She was a warm, vibrant and kind soul with a near constant smile and bubbly, eruptive laughter. She liked butterflies. She resembled one somehow. Cathy was also murdered several years ago, during a drug deal gone wrong.

The details of these cases don’t really matter. What does matter is that if you're a woman, you're vulnerable.

So how do you stay alive?

Staying alive as a woman requires a heightened sense of alertness. It’s not just the seeming unlikelihood of a serial killer snatching you up in a van. It could be your ex-boyfriend. Or a date gone wrong. Or a drunken friend with an explosive temper. Or a strung-out dude walking behind you on the street while you’re chatting on your phone.

I studied martial arts after getting mugged years ago. But not everyone has to study self-defense (though it’s one of the best ways to protect yourself so why wouldn’t you?). Self-defense requires taking a look a realistic look at the way you exist in the world on a daily basis.


1. How aware are you?

Self-defense starts with a high level of awareness. Always. Even in a state of rest. (Think cats.) When you're on your cell phone or have headphones on, your awareness is lessened and you’re at a greater risk. When you're zoned out in front of the TV, you’re less aware of a strange sound in your backyard.

Let’s take an example:

You go to a bar. Do you take note of the exits? Do you notice when someone is standing just a little too close to you and reposition? Would you pick up on erratic behavior nearby? Do you have your back to the crowd or are you facing out? What kind of weapon do you have nearby if needed?

Some might call this kind of inventory paranoid. Kathy or Liz would probably differ with you. Kathy was killed in a friend’s basement and Liz was abducted on a bike ride home. I’m sure neither of them thought even remotely they were in harm’s way.

2. What's your body like?

No, this isn’t a lecture on fitness but if you’re overweight (or underweight) or don't work out, you’re more susceptible. You may not be able to run quickly or your reflexes slower. That fighter in you is underworked and flabby. So the answer is easy: work out. Strengthen your body. Prepare yourself for self-defense.

If you have physical issues, compensate in other ways, such as increasing your awareness to prevent situations from occurring in the first place. Or learn the use of weapons. Or take self-defense classes where you learn a few basic defensive moves.

3. Do you startle easily?

An easily spooked individual doesn't tend to react well in dangerous situations. They blank out. Think of a martial artist like Bruce Lee. Centered, calm, focused and dangerous.

In my years of sparring, I tended to get my ass kicked when I got upset or angry. If you're always on edge, work on techniques such as meditation to ground yourself. Being grounded is half the battle; it naturally increases awareness as well as your likelihood to respond correctly in a dangerous situation.

4. Can you take/throw a punch?

Women often think they’ll knee a man “where it hurts” in a crisis. But that’s not a dependable technique. You may not have access to a crippling crotch shot. Mace is also difficult because you need to be within shooting range of his or her eyes—not easy if someone comes up behind you.

As human, we’re built to take some punches. But if you’re a woman, a punch can be so startling, we slip into shock. I “play” spar with a few male friends occasionally. It’s a safe ways to get into the habit of knowing what it's like to fight a man.

What about your ability to throw a punch? Do you punch like a girl? Do you (wrongly) put your thumb inside your folded fingers? Do you know how to throw your whole body into a punch then follow up with another one? When did you last practice punching? It’s easy enough to try on your own.

Some may argue that generally women will lose to men in a physical altercation, no matter what. That's not entirely true. Many factors come into play such as size, age, agility, mental state, speed, weapons. Maybe he is stronger but if you can manage one maneuver, it could save your life.

If learning to punch seems beyond you then practice smashing someone in the nose with the palm of your hand in an upward motion. That can cause a blinding, searing pain that will stop most people in their tracks. Your elbow can also do some serious damage. A good kick to the shins can drop someone. And while gross, eye gouging has also been known to work.

5. Can you spot danger?

If a car is pulling up behind me slowly on the street, I get out of the way (of course) and sometimes, turn around to face them. If there’s a gang of young guys walking down the street, I naturally move to the other side. Do they mean me harm? Maybe not. But why risk it?

I pick up a large stick when going for a walk in the woods, just in case. I'm extra aware when I open a car or my house door (vulnerable locations).

When I was mugged, there were tons of warning signs but I didn’t know them at the time. I was walking down a dark street (external disadvantage), weighed down with bags (physical disadvantage), distracted because I had lost my keys (lack of awareness) and it was icy (another external disadvantage).

I walked by a man slamming his body into a brick wall repeatedly (erratic behavior). After I passed him, I turned around and saw him running toward me. Get this: I didn't want to appear rude and cross the street. So I kept my back to him. He clotheslined me with his forearm, punched me and took my pocketbook. It took about 5 seconds.

Bottom line: I'd notice all of those signs now. Years after my martial arts training, a man attempted to mug me during the day (in Park Slope, an affluent area of Brooklyn). This time, I saw his erratic behavior when I walked by him. I looked behind me and he was heading toward me--quickly. I started running. That scary part? So did he. But he stopped after a half block. Bottom line: he didn’t want to bother chasing me down.

6. Can you run away?

Running away from a dangerous situation ensures you don’t have to test your abilities of self-defense. It’s generally the smartest move in just about any scary situation.

I don’t often wear shoes I can't run in because it makes me feel vulnerable. (I wear chunky heels when I get dressed up because I can move quickly in them.) How fast and far can you run? If you’re not much of a runner, then focus on a strong, focused walk that tells the world you are in charge.

7. Do you pick your battles?

Most altercations are not worth it. Don't get in them in the first place and you're better off. Walk away. Ignore the comment. Go home.

With that said, you need to be able to read a situation, weigh it, then decide.

There are times you have to stand tough to make sure someone takes you seriously. There are times when acting a little crazy and unpredictable can give an attacker pause. (No one wants to mess with a nutcase, not even another nutcase.) There are times to look someone directly in the eye so they know you're not afraid. There are times not to make eye contact.

Every situation requires a specific response. The more you increase your awareness, the better you can adapt quickly.

8. Where's your weapon?

Are you aware of the ways you might defend yourself at this very moment? If someone is in attack mode, they’ve already chosen their weapons. Be on par with them. Not a fan of guns but I have a billy club under my bed. I have a knife in my car. But it can be anything. A beer mug. An ashtray. A frying pan. All weapons.

These questions are laid out before you so you can review the way you interact with the world and increase your power and awareness. Don't think it can't happen to you. (I’m sure my friends never dreamed of it happening to them.) But with that said, the idea isn't to live in a constant state of fear. Knowing how to defend yourself ultimately makes you feel like the protector and the protected.


                                  Be safe. Be aware. Stay alive.

One of the fiercest women I know, Angela Tiene, my martial arts mentor.

The Plumber is Watching

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet."

~ Franz Kafka

The first time I see him, he’s leaning against his work van, watching me intently.  I'm taking out the trash, doing my best to ignore him. He starts to whistle some dumb tune as a way to get my attention. I just want to take out the fucking trash. I don't want an audience. His whistle gets increasingly louder.

Do you think I’m a dog? Do you think if you keep whistling, I’ll jump up on your lap and lick your face? I’m not paying attention to you for a reason, moron.

The second time I see him, I'm putting mail in the mailbox, several hours later. He is sitting in his van, with a sloppy sandwich in his hand, biting into it like an animal. The window of his van is open.

He makes this grunting sound, as he chews and watches me, as if it’s me he’d like to eat me for lunch. As if, by eating the sandwich, he can almost taste me. He makes me ill.

"I think the mailman already came by," he shouts, his mouth half full of food.

Why? Why does he have to be here again? The only two times I've left the house today and I have to deal with a slimy plumber boring holes through me? Why do I leave the house at all?

Again, I ignore him. Because I know the mailman didn't come by. I know the sounds of my mailman. I know the shuffling of his feet on the sidewalk, the slamming of my mailbox--the dull sounds that make up my daily existence.

At the rate my luck is going, I know I will see him one more time. It's Tuesday and I’m in charge of the local writing group at the library today.

I dress up for class a little. Present myself. It's important. To polish yourself up and look your best…okay, good enough. I look in the mirror and realize, in a detached way, that I do look pretty today. A good feeling sweeps over me. I put on my coat and walk out the door.

He's not there, the loathsome man. His van is still there but he's not there. Good. If he sees me, he'll only harass me more. His aggressive libido has obviously trumped the importance of my privacy.

I run to the car and start it up. Shit. I forgot my notebook. I run in the house and grab it. When I walk outside he is there, next to his van, staring at me yet again.  A bomb starts ticking. My passivity, my muteness, is quickly turning into white-hot rage.

He starts waving his fat arms wildly at me. His previous attempts to get my attention haven't been rewarded so he's resorted to this ridiculous gesture. I start to climb in my car but then stop in my tracks.

“What the fuck is your problem?” My voice sounds deep and dark, like it climbed out of the depths of my bowels.

“I’m just trying to say hello.”

“And I’m obviously trying not to.”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” he laughs.

“Yeah, well its not very nice being fucking harassed on my own fucking property.”

“Harassed? Ha!”

“Yeah, its real funny, isn’t it?”

“Just trying to be friendly.” He throws the cigarette on the grass and stomps it out.

I’m shaking. And not finished.

“No you weren’t. You weren’t trying to be friendly. Don’t fool yourself.”

“You got a problem. You got a real problem, lady,” he laughs dismissively and walks away.

I want to show him my problem. I want to show him my real problem. Because mere words don’t do my problem justice. My problem could wrap around his fat neck and squeeze so tightly, his veins would pop. My problem could grab the last greasy few strands of hair on his sweaty head and slam him into the side of his van. My problem could be the last thing he ever sees.

Instead I'm left standing there, rage all over my nice outfit. I hear him whistling inside the house. Immobilized, I watch the mailman as he pulls up and takes the mail. 

Woman on the Rocks!

The Scene:

A winter Sunday at the Jersey Shore. Waves are big and messy. Water temp, 40 degrees. Air temp, less.

The Players:

My three surfing friends: Sunday, Pete and Clint (with ass crack showing). And me.

Oh and let's not forget....

The Jetties


















The Tale:

It's a big wave day - big for the Jersey shore at least. 6 - 7 foot waves, hollow, fast. Arriving at our surf spot late, I'm amped up but a little nervous. I make sure my wetsuit is on properly. You can't mess around in this temperature. It's a few degrees above freezing after all.

I run onto the beach and Sunday is getting out of the water already. What? Sunday is a marathon surfer. She'll stay in forever. She has a frozen smile on her face but something appears to be wrong.

"What happened?"

"I got hit in the leg with my board. And the paddle out is a bitch. Walk up north a while. The current is strong. You'll get pulled toward the jetties quickly."

Quick lesson: paddling out is the most strenuous part of surfing. It's when you are literally swimming upstream. Once you are out past the breakers, you can sit on your board and catch your breath and wait until you're ready to grab a wave. Until then, you are in danger zone.

 Me last winter, paddling out and punching my board through
an oncoming wave.

Now if you're paddling out and there's a current, you have added problem. You need to paddle out quickly so you don't accidentally hit these:

















Jetties are rocks used to prevent beach erosion. Slimy unyielding rocks.

Pete has gotten out of the water as well. He says the same thing: "Give yourself some distance. The current is strong."

Okay, fine. So I start walking up the beach, away from the jetties, about a 1/8 of a mile so I have lots of room to get pulled down and still make it past the jetties. Which are rocks. Slimy, sharp...oh I told you.

But suddenly, I see a lull. Calm as a lake for a second! Go, go! I decide to forgo advice and paddle out just a little closer to the jetties. I can make it out in puhlenty of time. It's easy.

Leaping into the ice cold ocean water, I begin my paddle out. Interesting...that lull seems to have suddenly disappeared, replaced by a set of large waves heading toward me. Not a problem. I'll rock it. I'll just get past these waves, the lull will return, and I'll be fine.

Looking over to the right, I see the jetties a little closer than I remembered only a minute ago, but I still have a good amount of distance. Not nervous yet...nope, nope, nope. 

Then a larger wave hits me directly and I rag doll around. When I finally resurface, I look to the right and what do my wide eyes see?

Hello large objects.














Oh, this is bad. Really bad. I'm only a few feet from the jetties now. If the next wave hits me, it will put me on top of those rocks. I jump off the board and start swimming furiously in the other direction. This is a silly move but what happens when you panic.

At this point, I can feel the pulling action of the jetties. The jetties have currents swirling around them. To be caught in one of these currents is an unmistakable sensation. You can't move. It's nature's supermagnet. You don't stand a chance. 

I see an approaching wave. I know this is the one. The waves lifts me up like on a wrestler's shoulder and slam, right on the rocks. I lay there for a moment, stunned. At the shoreline, I see Sunday, Pete and Clint in a stunned panic, not sure what to do. Sunday has her hands over her mouth.

There's nothing they can do. Short of an airlift, nobody can get to me. It's too dangerous.

I look behind me and realize the fun has only just begun. Another wave hits. Slam, lift, slam!

You're in a mild state of shock and everything slows down to a surreal craw. You notice small things, unable to take in the big picture. There's seaweed on my face. I wish I wasn't here right now. I hope my board is all right.

I belly-crawl over to my board and lift it up, determined not to let it hit the rocks again. BAM! Another wave hits and the board is taken again. How futile!

Damnit why must my my new board take a beating too? It's one of the only things I've purchased for myself in like a year. It was a gift to myself.

I can see the dings on it already. It looked so pretty and white before...hopeful. Now it's getting banged up repeatedly so it fits in with everything else in my life, including me at this moment.

Suddenly, Clint appears right next to me. He paddled out to the "safe" side of the jetties. He still needs to stay several yards away or he too could get sucked in, even on his side.

He shouts:

"You're in danger! You need to get off of the rocks now!"

Somehow I manage an ounce of sarcasm: "Ya think?"

"Are you alright?"

I check in with my body for the first time. Nothing is broken. Bruised, yes. Wetsuit, torn. My body feels strangely relaxed. Starfish, you're supposed to pose like a starfish when this happens (just in case you're ever caught on top of jetties.) Lay low, flat and outstretched. Don't even think of standing or even crawling....just let the waves wash you off, eventually. If you're lucky.

I look behind me and see another wave approaching. This time, I work with the propelling direction and it propels me off the rocks, rather smoothly. Like it escorted me to the door and let me out. Goodbye, sucker, it said to me.















I start paddling out to the breakers instead of heading back to the beach. Hell, I made it this far, right?

Clint paddles up to me.

"You're in shock. You know that, right?"

"Story of my life."

Later that night, I sit with Clint in front of the fire. The aches are beginning to set in and I pop an Advil or two.

"Why Clint? Why didn't I care about myself? Why did I only worry about my board?"

"Suicidal?"

"Maybe."

"Or ballsy."

"Hmm..."

"Maybe you just knew you'd be alright. Maybe God was with you."

"Maybe all of the above."



Me and few of my "war wounds":

This is a MUCH more extreme version of a difficult paddle out.

I'm the Most Underrated Actress I Know

Winter of 76...or was it '77? from Beth Mann on Vimeo.

--------
This was written for Open Salon's Topic of the Week: Who's the Most Underrated Actor?"
This touching monologue is just one of Beth Mann's finer pieces. It's from a VERY indie film entitled "The Winter of 76...or was it 77?"

Note the force, the intensity behind her acting - the way she shifts from melancholy to horror and finally, to self-realization. Of course, she owes much to the hotshot cinematographer on the set, Beth Mann. And the firm but flexible guidance of director, Beth Mann. The writer, Beth Mann, also should be noted for her exposed yet sharp screenplay.

Now, some may say Jeff Bridges or Don Cheadle are underrated. Though both are not hurting for work, I'm sure. Their homes in Beverly Hills have been built, their sports cars paid off and trips to exclusive resorts have been planned.

But if you really want to understand underrated - like "I'm not getting paid for this shit" underrated, you'll have to give your vote to Beth Mann and about one million other artists out there.

Next week, Beth Mann will showcase her skills once again as she fends off bill collectors, fixes her  rusty muffler and figures out why she's getting shocked each time she touches the faucet in the kitchen in "Life Ain't for the Faint at Heart."

the shabby heart of a closet princess

It’s not easy, letting someone into your home. Because then they see the holes in the walls, the off-kilter frames, the cobwebs in the corner.

It’s not easy, letting someone see you as you really are. Because then they see the worn look in your eyes, the clenched jaw, the slumped shoulders.

It’s not easy, letting someone in.

Big, black tie ball at the upscale hotel here. It’s New Year’s Eve and Clint, a Kurt Cobain-esque friend at the Jersey shore, doesn’t want to go “empty-handed.” He's shy and needs me as social reinforcement. He stands at my doorway and I’m wearing long johns, bowl of chips in hand.

“No way, Clint. Do I look like I have “ball” in me? And it’s 100 bucks. I can’t spend that right now.”

My budget is tight. It’s always tight. It wears me down in that soul-sucking way that only being broke can do.

“Well, I’m paying. Besides, I probably owe you anyway,” he mutters.

Yes, he does. Even though he and his family have a big beautiful home at the end of the street, the boys spend a good amount of time at my place. I feed them and give them clothes, booze and bad advice. Yeah, they totally owe me. But still…

Kyle, Kurt and Clint

And me

“No, Clint. I need to watch Criminal Minds and um, eat chips. Leave me alone.”

“You’re going. You said you were going last week.”

“I was drunk. Mind changed.”

“Let me see your dress.”

“Clint, please leave her alone.” (I sometimes refer to myself in 3rd person just to make people uncomfortable. I learned it from Buffalo Bill in the Silence of the Lambs.)

“Come on. Let me see it.”

I reluctantly walk into the bedroom and he follows. There it is, hanging from my closet door.  A long black, silky gown. Formal and pretty. Mocking me.

“Wow. It’s beautiful. Please, Beth. Come as my date.”

Clint and I aren’t romantically involved. I don’t date any of the brothers. That whole “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy, a phrase that always grossed me out but really sends the message. Having sex with them might cost me the only semblance of a family I have here. So I know what he means by a date. A make-believe date.

Looking at him standing in my doorway, tall and handsome in a Kurt Cobain kinda way, I realize a fake date with Clint may trump a show on abuse and murder. Maybe.

“Okay,” I mutter.

“Great! Now get ready. It’s 10:30.”

Clint and I have this game when I undress in the bedroom. I don’t ask him to leave. He’ll go on the computer or do something to avert his eyes. And I enjoy it. The simple act of undressing with a man in my room feels warm and sexy.

I squeeze into this never-before-tight gown and begin hating myself almost instantly. Why doesn’t it fit like before? Why is it betraying me so? I start taking it off, with a groan.

“Let me see it first.”

“No, Clint. It’s wrong. It’s…”

“Let me see it!”

I turn around and his pale blue eyes light up. A tight gown means something totally different to him, I realize.

“Perfect. Now keep going.”

But I can’t. I’m stuck in mud, suddenly. I want to cry and sink into a pile on the floor. I don’t feel good about myself. Somehow my loneliness feels highlighted by this dress, like I don’t deserve to be in it. A pervasive ugliness lays it unwelcome hands all over me.
Clint sees me struggling and takes over. He picks out some jewelry and shoes (which all seem kinda worn. I want new shoes. Why can’t I get new shoes, like other people?). He watches me apply makeup and tells me when to stop.

“Okay, that's enough. You’re pretty enough without it.” My face warms a little. The words feel good and hurt. Clint isn’t one for giving out compliments and I’m not one for being able to receive one lately.

Living in this house doesn’t help. It’s an old-ass house and while its been a familiar location and offered me the opportunity to start my own online marketing business, it’s still old-ass. My brother is a hoarder and doesn’t see the disrepair that everyone else does. Or he doesn’t choose to. I, on the other hand, can often see nothing but house’s shortcomings.

His shit was everywhere when I first moved in. It took me months to make it livable. I eventually hit a wall and could do no more. This house needs a fucking wrecking ball not a woman’s touch. Here’s your “woman’s touch” shit, anyway. Do we get paid for that magical touch of ours?

Several weeks ago, I had a date over for dinner. He saw the ceiling tiles in the living room, falling in from a leak in the roof.

“Your ceiling really need repaired,” he says offhandedly.

“Really? You free Wednesday?” I respond.

It’s easy for people with sturdy little houses and lives to make comments like that. They don’t understand the decades of dysfunction that brought us to this place.

Sitting in my bedroom after dinner, he looked around at the hodgepodge of artwork and chipped paint on my walls. My home offended his sensibilities. I could tell. If you think this place is a wreck, wait until you get to know me, dude. 

Clint is more used to my “mess.”

“Come on, Beth. Focus. It’s quarter of 11. Do your hair,” Clint says.

I brush my hair and pull it up on my head. Then take it down. Then put it back up.

“How about a glass of wine?”

“God yes. Please”

Clint leaves my bedroom and makes his way through the maze of blankets hanging throughout the doorways of the house. We have no central heat here. The bedrooms and the kitchen are heated by space heaters. The hanging blankets, like that leaking roof, inflame the shame, infect my spirit.

But Clint has seen my hanging blankets and falling tiles. He’s done repairs here. Not usually of this personal nature though.

When he comes back in the room, my tears have been neatly placed in the jewelry box.

“You look amazing.”

I try to smile.

"Is my room...awful?"

"What?" He looks around. "No. I always thought you room was kinda sexy, in a gypsy sorta way."

Sometimes I just want my home to be normal. The house I grew up in was nothing like the Joneses. After my dad died, my mother worked full-time and came home exhausted, depressed. The house suffered. Holes in the rugs and furniture, fleas on the dogs, dishes in the sink. I couldn’t stand it.

When I’d throw a slumber party, I’d clean that house all day yet feel so self-conscious and nervous when the other girls would arrive. You can’t clean away that “your home isn’t good enough” feeling, no matter how hard you scrub. One girl was allergic to fleas and got bitten repeatedly. She had to leave.

The next day, I sprayed bug killer everywhere, even on my bed and pillows. I’d be prepared for the next slumber party. As if there would be one. As if I could kill that feeling of shame with Raid.

I read once that shame is one of the most corrosive and useless of emotions. Guilt can spur an apology when needed, for instance. But shame? It serves no purpose other than to make you feel like shit. And like the stains on the curtains, its hard to get rid of.

Clint plays music on the computer as I finish my hair. That helps. My hips sway a little. I grab some red lipstick and take a sip of a nice Syrah I found.

It’s funny. Even with all my tenuous and tight budget, my tastes have continued to get finer, like I was waiting for wealth. My mother used to laugh at my lofty inclinations as a child.

“I swear, you’d think you’re a Rockefeller or something. I don’t know where you get it. Just a head’s up, girl – we’re poor!”

But she was the one who taught me to have good taste. Even on her puny secretary’s salary, we’d occasionally go to fine restaurants and expand our culinary horizons. She took me to the movies constantly, so I could "see the world." She taught me manners, good manners. Somehow I felt like a lady-in-training…just a broke one.

If I complained about the condition of our house, she'd bellow:

A house is supposed to look like it's lived in, damnit. You try raising 5 children on my salary! You try coming home and cooking dinner and cleaning. You see how it feels! No one appreciates the work I do. No one!"

The lipstick is a blazing red. After applying it, I “unveil” myself to Clint.
“Good enough?”

“Very much so,” he says shyly.

"Thank you, Clint," I say gratefully.

Oh, doesn’t he seem like the sweetest guy? Well, that's because this is a story.

Real life has fleas and worn spots in the rugs. In a few nights, Clint will “jokingly” tell me that I "owe" him money for the ticket he bought me. I will become livid and detail the countless meals I’ve fed him, the times he’s stayed at my place, borrowed my car...

No one appreciates the work I do! No one!

I explain how his jokes just ruin that special feeling I had New Year's Eve. She needs to hold on to that feeling right now. So back off. You hear me? Leave her alone!

But for now, for this night, the stars align and it’s New Year's Eve and Clint is my prince.

He puts my long black coat with a faux fur collar on me and opens up the front door, which is starting to fall of its hinges. We take a step out on the icy front porch, the wood creaking from age. The full moon and blast of arctic air instantly charge my spirits. The night becomes me suddenly.

I feel alive, very alive. I could probably fly there if I wanted. But I'd rather drive with Clint in his old red pick-up truck and sing to the tunes on the radio. We links arms, so I don’t slip on the icy steps. His arms feel so big and protective.

And for that moment, she feels safe and pretty.

just to "be" when I grow up

1973

My mother had two boxes of photos in the closet. One was labeled “Before 1973” and the other “After 1973.” It seemed a little overly dramatic that she would base our entire collection of family photos on my father’s death, but such was her style.

I remember wanting to be a veterinarian pre-1973. Nothing seemed (and seems) more magical to me than animals. To help them would be a privilege and an honor.

But just like those two boxes on our shelf, things were to change when my father died. At six, I became a nervous child, predisposed to thinking about death instead of animals. I read books about the supernatural and the occult. I felt ghosts around me constantly. Animals suddenly saddened me. This world was mean and I couldn’t protect them. They were too vulnerable.

I don’t really remember what I wanted to be after 1973. I just wanted normalcy, love and a happy home. Lofty goals apparently.

At some point, in high school, I wanted to be an actress. I was desperate to be noticed and the performing arts allowed for that. I wanted people to see me!

When I entered college to study acting, my dream morphed. I went from acting as a form of attention-getting to genuinely needing to express myself creatively. I became serious about my art, in short. It’s a very different feeling than performing for attention, like a love-starved puppy. It was a real birth, one I'm still proud of.

Nobody would tell me about all the miserable jobs I'd have to endure to keep my art going – the jobs that nobody wants to be when they grow up. Waiting on tables was hell from the word go. Sold vacuum cleaners door to door for a bit. (I never sold one.) Office management positions weren’t really “management” at all but servitude, basically. Shameful, dehumanizing.

Some jobs actually did work for me, at least for a little while. I started a cleaning service with a friend during college and I liked the control I felt. I worked as a stint as an erotic masseuse when I moved to the West coast. Though several people in my life disapproved (including factions of myself), I thought it was a kick. I made good money, met people and expanded my wounded sexuality.

But none of the jobs felt dead-on. Like I was "on my path."

When your childhood is fractured, when you experience neglect or abuse or trauma, you disassociate. It’s an awful, spiritual black hole of an experience. It’s like you don’t realize you exist. Or you're sleepwalking through life - though sleep implies relaxation and comfort and that’s hardly it.

Nightmare-walking is a closer comparison. Hazy, foggy, disconnected. How can you possibly identify with a career goal? You can barely identify with the fact that you’re alive. It's hard to imagine unless you've experienced that kind of profound disconnect. Though frankly, I see most people blissfully locked in that state without even being aware of it.

Well, because of maturity, because of creativity, because of work, because of spirit, because of love, I’ve been waking up slowly from my nightmare-walk. I even sense that I’m living, every once in a while. I look in the mirror sometimes and say, “Yep, that’s me. That’s Beth Mann. Hi.” The person smiles back. I’m still not whole but I’m not a hole, either.

Now, now, now at 48, I play around with the idea of who I’ll be when I grow up. And it’s still hard to utter the words…still pains me, as if an axe will fall on my head if I think them. As if I’m not still not allowed. As if I don't deserve to have goals.

So whom do I want to be when I grow up?

• I want to be a lover and have a lover. I want to love for a living. I want to have a happy home with my lover where we have wild, soul-driven sex all the time. I want us to constantly uncover and discover one another, to constantly support and inspire each other. I want us to be family to one another, so I can experience that sensation.

• I want to be recognized for the artist I am. It sucks that I don’t make a ton of money for who I am creatively, but I can live with that since I’m so lucky in so many other ways. As long as I have some creative peers who believe in me and toss me some accolades sometimes, I’m happy. (Actually, no fuck that…I want scads of money for being a smart artist with a unique voice. I totally fucking deserve it.)

• I want to be a vet. Hmm....maybe not now. But how I miss having pets in my life...can one aspire to being a pet owner? Yes, yes…I want to be pet owner when I grow up.

• I want to help. If you don’t serve, what’s the use? You must serve. You must make a difference in lives of others, in whatever way you deem fit. I hope to be a humble servant. I hope I’m a contributor when I grow up. Though I'm lazy...so its a tough call.

Ugh…I still feel like I’m reaching. Please don't believe any of this! I don't. It's like I’m still trying to force some stupid plan on my life again. Why does this feel so hopelessly canned?

I simply want to BE when I grow up. Am I shooting too low? I want to experience a day. The rest is icing.

Yep, that’s me. That’s Beth Mann. Hi.