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.

a death in elsewhen

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity and thrill, in waking to find they have been upon the verge of the great secret.
-Edgar Allan Poe

There’s a team of beings watching out for you. But you knew that, right? Magical Beings, Divine Watchers, Angels on High. They protect you, whisper secret messages in your ears, lift you when your soul is flattened. You’ve known them forever.

There was such a team for me. They sourced my magic and fed me heavenly thoughts and wild dreams. But I seem to have lost them and I’m not sure how to get them back.

Maybe I stayed on the Dark Side too long and they tired of pulling me kicking and screaming from its depths. Maybe I ignored them and they just…left. They feed off of hope and belief. Without it, they die of starvation, I don’t know.

I do know are truly the most radiant beings and without them, I’ve lost my glow, my beauty. All I’ve ever been is a reflection of their heavenly light. Without them, I am nothing. This is what I remember about them.

The Cast of Heavenly Players

The Dark Prince. This intense being has loved me for the longest time. He’s possessive and jealous at times and its a beautiful thing. When it seems there is no man for me, he is there waiting, watching me intently. With him, there is no end our love, just waves of eternity.

He has wild, dark curly hair, burning eyes and wears a feather in his hat. I found a photo of him in a newspaper once (can you believe it?). This is how I imagine him to look:

I save this photo in a wood box. I cherish it deeply.

When I was a little girl, the Pretty Golden Lady would lavish me with her deep femininity and all-encompassing love. She nurtured completely and made me feel pure, good and wanted.

This was no easy task. I never felt much like a princess in my tainted childhood, laced by shame and unexplained bouts of sadness.

But she, she was my feminine guidance. I bowed in her dazzling presence and wanted nothing more than to be her. She put her lips to my face and passed her magic on to me so I could feel adored, even when she was not around.

It may seem silly but she looked something like this:

And it wasn’t just people.

There were Cities of Light that I’d glimpse from my Third Eye sometimes. Sparkling cities, bursting with color and light, even though it was always nighttime. I’m not sure what happened in those cities (because I only saw them from afar) but it was right and good. Perhaps you learned great things. Or you worked joyously.

Even on the Earthly Plane, you can meet Kindred Spirits. Once I met a wondrous and wildly creative man on the Computer. Our virtual connection became so great at times, I’d fall off my chair. We’d share secrets, songs and sorrow, finish each others sentences, and blaze like stars in the night. He was My Match and it was an intoxicating and blissful feeling like no other.

When I’d sign off for the night, he’d still linger around me. (You see, a computer was no longer enough to separate us at that point.)

One day, I turned on my computer and he no longer appeared. My heart broke and my belief in magic was snapped in half again.

On a bad day, he is self-created fiction to replace an ever-decaying reality. A Nobody. On a good day, I just beckon him and he’s here once again with his witty replies and happy-to-see me sighs. He climbs in my bed and murmurs dark and delicious things.

And of course, Magic Music. Songs that possess a wondrous quality that fast-track you to another place in time.

When I first heard this song on the radio…

…I was a tiny little child, sitting in a car between my mother and my father. They were laughing, happy. Then time seemed to stop suddenly and they just froze! I stared at their fixed beautiful faces and knew this time of lives would not last forever.

It would barely last at all apparently. My father died soon after this Experience.

So you see, it's energy. It can come in the form of beings, plants, animals, scents, rays of light, gestures, voices, laughter, breeze, pages of a book, ice, wood, sparkling eyes...many, many things have lives of their own.

One cold night long ago, I walked hand and hand with my mother on an empty street. There stood before us an Icy Winter Tree. It was clearly alive and quite serious. It spoke to me of very powerful things: death and stillness and the magic of the Dark Side. Its frozen branches banged against one another. The sky stared nervously at it. My mother urged me to walk faster.

The Mirror Trick. When I was a little girl, I’d look into the mirror for a long time, until I could split free from my body. It was easy as a youngster to move beyond into a heightened state of consciousness. What a complicated and magical feeling, like I stumbled onto The Great Secret that Poe mentioned. I lost myself and found myself at the same time.

My mirror trick doesn’t work anymore.

What if there was an Apocalypse on the Other Side? What if the Magic has been ruined? More likely, I destroyed it. Like I destroy things sometimes. I have been on the Dark Side afterall. I know how to destroy.

A Message to the Magic Beings,

I’m sorry

I got so wasted on other things.

I burnt and beat your beauty out of me.

Without you, I’m a hole,

ever-caving in on myself.

Without you, I downward spiral

and live in the land of severe nothing

I’m sorry

I got so wasted on other things.

I burnt and beat the divine right out of me.

Kiss me when you can. If you don’t return, I’ll rise up to you eventually. I’ll find you again. My soul just got lost. But I’d like to dance with you again, if you’ll have me.

Credits:
City of Lights
Winter Tree Starry Night - Gabriele Schwibach
Ghost Glass
Music: Theme from a Summer's Place - Percy Faith
A little thank you to my friend Laura Maschal, who convinced me this piece wasn't too strange.

the dokken factor and other dating deal breakers

 

First dates are up there with anal fissures when it comes to fun but they must be endured. (How else do you get to the sex?) Unfortunately, deal breakers often occur during those initial encounters making any future unlikely.

Take my date last weekend…please. He was a nice enough guy. Good-looking, above average intelligence. We went for brunch at a local outdoor restaurant. Sitting in the autumn light, we sipped mimosas and looked out over the ocean. Good so far.

Then the dreaded small talk ensued. I hate small talk. Weather, current events, what-do-you-do-for-a-living crap. Deadly dull. But I know, it must be done. (How else do you get to the sex?)

“So Peter, what kind of music do you like?” I asked with feigned enthusiasm.

“Heavy metal for the most part…like Dokken.”

“Dokken? What do you mean, Dokken? “It’s an 80's metal band.”

“Oh, I’m aware of them. They’re from the 80’s and have a shitload of hair. I just never…oh never mind.”

“What? You never what?”

“I never heard anyone mention Dokken as a favorite band before. That’s all. Like, the first band on a favorite list.”

“Well, who would you mention?” “I don’t know…any band other than Dokken?” I responded with a nervous laugh.

We quickly changed subjects but somehow Dokken loomed over us the rest of the brunch. They might as well have been at the table, guzzling my mimosa and whipping their over-processed hair in my face.

While Peter and I never had a second date (shocker, right?) it got me thinking about the Dokken Factor. Anything that makes you say, “Sorry cowboy, this is so not going to work.”

Listen, I don’t think everyone should be just like me. Musically, I have some effin’ nerve. I’m a 70’s pop addict of the worst variety. Phil Collins? Hall & Oates? Toto? ELO? Supertramp? Styx? Barry Manillow…oh yeah, I’ll go there. Bring it on, bitches. No shame.

So I get it. It’s fine to have differences in taste. It adds a playful tension. But differences as great as Dokken? That’s an unbridgeable gap.

My ex-boyfriend is a huge movie buff. He began to date this chick who didn’t like black and white movies. They gave her “the creeps.” I broke it to my ex that they stood no future whatsoever. He agreed and relationship was quickly dissolved. The Dokken Factor, clearly at play.

An old friend of mine had been dating a man for a while when she confessed to me he never went down on her. He told her early on that it just “wasn’t his thing.” (And no, it wasn’t a hygiene issue. And anyway, please, as if men are some sparkling clean specimens.) Dokken factor strikes again. Au revoir, pussy hater.

After seeing a movie in the city one night, a homeless crazy dude approached my date and I, yelling and wielding a pipe. I scared him off (by acting crazier than him, my go-to technique in those situations). I looked around for my date and there he stood, curbside, applauding my performance. Applaud this, Dokken Factor.

Some deal breakers turn out to be dealmakers. I dated a Christian guy and we managed quite well for some time. As long as he wasn’t pushing his God thing, I had no problem. When we kissed, “Son of a Preacher Man” would soundtrack in my mind. The idea of sullying his Christian goodness was ultimately a turn-on…who knew?

Sometimes false deal breakers are distancing excuses in disguise. My friend Paul finds his fun, vivacious girlfriend too hippie because she doesn’t like to wear shoes and wants to “touch the earth” as much as possible. I told him that while maybe a little gross, it was not a Dokken Factor but more of a pet peeve (because they get along beautifully otherwise). They’re still dating and she’s still barefoot a lot. C’est la vie.

Clothing, while not a deal breaker, can certainly be deal altering. A man who constantly dons a baseball cap can dampen my interests (unless you’re a professional baseball player, then don away). Wearing sneakers all the time, a turn-off. With black socks? Extra bleh. T-shirts emblazoned with big logos…corporate lackey. Put out a little effort. Be my eye candy sometimes baby. 

Still, I try to stay open to as many types as possible. While I may never fall for a metal-loving pussy-hating Budweiser t-shirt wearing Christian who thinks old movies are creepy, at least I can give him a shot, right?

Because you never know what someone can bring to the table. He might like Dokken but go down on me like a champ. And in the end that’s all that really matters.

heathlike & me

I don’t even like Heath Ledger. But there he is, kneeling over me in bed, his shirt unbuttoned, wondering what to do next. Well, I can’t be sure it’s actually him. He is very Heathlike, that’s for sure. And that is good enough for me.

We are friends. I don’t remember how or when this happened but Heathlike and I are friends. I can feel that warm and relaxed energy dancing between us – the kind old friends have. (See photo above.)

So why are we in bed together if we’re just friends? I don’t know. We want to take a chance, bridge a gap, daringly enter a forbidden terrain. I feel good about it. Life is for merging, I think, as I stare at him longingly. Longingly? I never even had a movie star crush on him! But strangely, when you're suddenly in bed with him, you feel differently.

He, on the other hand, is slightly conflicted. I don’t take this personally. He’s not conflicted about me per se. He likes me. He seems more troubled and scared of himself. Of opening up.

“Kiss me. Kiss me.” I instruct.

He nervously leans over me and obliges. I feel his reticence again. His warm lips tremor on mine.

“Ugh. What’s your problem, Heathlike? We don’t have to do this if you don’t want!”

He then shyly pulls his hard cock out of his pants, as a way to express his true feelings. He is so beautiful, he shimmers. My body desperately wants him. I know at this moment he will enter me, despite all his internal resistance.

And he does.

He enters me once, twice and then a third time. I almost die from pleasure. Pure sexual perfection. Little shafts of light and electricity shoot between the two of us. We are electrifying together, Heathlike and I. This is more than sexual. This is a merging.

Then two of his keepers enter the room to discuss business with him! How could they walk in on us right now? He’s not even fully Heath Ledger. He doesn’t need keepers. Heathlikes don’t need keepers.

Leave us alone! Can’t you see we’re having sex? I’m enjoying myself. Business can wait! Get out! I just coaxed a reasonable facsimile of a conflicted Heath Ledger into having sex with me. Can’t you just leave us alone?

I think these things but don’t say it aloud. Or do I? I try. The words live somewhere between my mind and my mouth, hurting to get out.

I wonder why Heathlike isn’t angry. He just seems like he’s trying to appease everyone. Its not the most redeeming quality but I give him some allowance. He’s just that kind of person. Too nice for his own good.

Suddenly, I’m outside with Heathlike. This pretty woman has joined us. She long brown hair with perfect grey streaks – almost as if she had them done professionally. She is a loyal person to Heathlike. She is in love with him but he doesn't feel the same way about her. She hangs in there though, trying to be his ultimate ally, trying to be indispensable to Heathlike. I don’t like her false goals.

They leave me to go into a university or a grocery store or a university that is half grocery store. I wait outside but know I won’t wait long. My dignity won't allow it. I keep occupied with surfing since a neon-blue ocean suddenly appears before me my feet.

He is still not there when I finish my session so I look for the subway, slightly hurt and angry. I see Heathlike and Grey-Streaked Hair Girl leaving the grocery store/university. He has groceries in his arms (for a meal he plans on making me. Shh...it's a secret.) I hear her talking about me, not nice things. But Heathlike won't tolerate it. He tells her to stop.

Your loyalty is totally with me, you sexually fraught cutie. But you have kept me waiting too long. You should have been more respectful. Feel my departure, Heathlike. Feel my pain!

I say or think these words.

Luckily I see a subway stop and count my lucky blessings. Now it will be easy to get home and screw over Heathlike in a childish act of revenge.

As I walk downstairs, I realize I’m on the wrong side of the track. The train I need is arriving on the other side and I’ll never make it over there in time. I’ll have to wait a long time for another one. Suddenly my revenge sucks.

The subway station is rather handsome with high, old-fashioned ceilings. And there is produce everywhere – scads of fresh produce. Not for people but for restaurants and grocery stores. Still the air is a little cleaner and the subway a little less dismal.

It will be a long wait. No dinner. No sex with Heathlike. Just me and my stupid pride and a bunch of produce that isn’t even for sale to the general public.

Heathlike – if you can hear me, I'm sorry. I would like to taste your dinner. I think we deserve time together - real time. We broke through a wall and now we’re ready to torpedo past those issues of yours, I’m sure of it. Just reach out to me the next time I close my eyes.

I think these thoughts. Or say them. I’m not sure.

Juggling for Nothing – A Social Experiment in Letting the Balls Drop

Are you the workhorse in most of your relationships?

Are you the Sister Save Us All type?

How much of your actions are based of a sense of duty and obligation?

Are you one-sidedly maintaining many of the connections in your life?

It’s a near-constant juggling act for many women. We juggle furiously, yet our audience doesn’t seem to care, or worse, have grown to expect an amazing performance every time. Our souls are being quietly sapped and toxic resentment builds. 

What if you stopped trying so hard to be liked?

What if you stopped being so damned concerned?

What if you simply walked off the stage?

It's not easy to let the balls drop. Then suddenly you’re alone and a sterile quiet settles in. The phone stops ringing and conversations you so dutifully upheld are replaced with blank stares. No wonder why you’ve been so busy juggling. You were the only act in the show!

As a half-assed social experiment, I stopped saying hello first. I stopped making phone calls. I stopped saying, “Oh sorry, excuse me. Pardon me” and all of its endless variations. In short, I stopped trying. Anyone who didn’t reach out or initiate suddenly became under a personal scrutiny.

My brother was the first to go. Since I usually greet him with a polite good morning it felt surprisingly easy to stop. Since then, no words are exchanged between us. Oh well. One less ball to juggle.

My neighbor was an easy second. She doesn’t like me and I don' like her. I used to say hello just to be civil. Now we say nothing and I like it. Another ball dropped, easy.

Romantically, dropping the balls was harder. Maintaining the connections with a few old flames offers up moments of sweetness and romance. But it inevitably exhausts your self-esteem. You know you're doing all of the work. You keep waiting for the day it will be more balanced. That you'll juggle together. But maybe they just don't have the balls.

Perhaps many of us try so hard because we secretly believe we just don’t belong here. We have to cosmically and constantly “earn our keep”. We feel guilty over small infractions and apologize excessively. We couch our words until we have nothing left to say. We spend our time suspended in a state of anxiety, wondering when they'll find out that our very existence is a mistake.

Or maybe we juggle so incessantly because we’re self-centered, giving to others so we can get one day something back. When that day never arrives and no one is there, bitterness and disappointment take over. Someone else dropped the balls and we're pissed that we worked so hard for nothing.

Or maybe we can’t help but juggle for others. Until the day we die. We’re driven to give love and support. And we assume others will do the same for us. We’re earnest but exhausted performers, wondering when the next act will begin so we can take a much-needed break.

Sylvia been clinging to the same man for over 20 years. He’s attached to his bachelor status and told her decades ago that he never plans to settle down. She brings him food, clothing, gifts. She’s moved away from her family so she could be closer to him. Yet he provides her with nothing.

When I ask her why she hangs in there, she says, “I think he’s really misunderstood. He's interesting. I get him.” I want to dump my drink over her seemingly selfless head. Decades have gone by based on this delusion. (Trust me, he’s about as interesting as dried mud.)

See, she’s been juggling for so long, her body seems slightly contorted and she looks old beyond her years. Whenever I see her, I consider her an anti-hero of sorts. She’s everything I don’t want to be. She will juggle for nothing until the bitter end.

If she stopped doing for him, nothing would happen. He would not call, he would not care. He’d only miss the free meals and free sex. She, on the other hand, would be painfully aware of his loss and the loneliness might be too much for her to bear. But isn't it there anyway?

Many years ago, I told my best friend Krissie about a guy I liked and how he began acting strangely. I asked her to interpret something he said. About midway through our analysis, Krissie stopped me. “You know what, Beth? When you’re forced to figure out someone, you’re already off-track. You kinda already have your answer. It shouldn’t b such a mystery.”

Deciphering someone’s actions or words is another form of juggling. Interpreting. Processing. Figuring out. Trying, trying, trying to understand. Relaxing? Rewarding? Is any of it the equivalent of good sex and intimacy? No, its exhausting mind play that you become addicted to and demoralized by.

I don't want to be a circus act performing for a sleeping audience. So I’m letting the balls drop around me, one by one. I'm walking off the stage and out the backdoor and standing alone in the sunlight. Maybe I’ll disappear if I try hard enough…turn into some glorious vapor where the pressure is finally off.

So try. Dare to let the balls drop. If they bounce back, fine. If they bounce away, better yet.