How John Cusack Ruined Valentine's Day

When I saw the stupid scene years ago, I knew I was in trouble. Tears welled, heart expanded, etc. Romance did exist and John Cusack was living proof. Sure, it was the movies...but it could happen, right?

Say Anything came out in 1989, over 20 years ago. Yet that scene has done a number on me ever since. I was lead to believe that grand romantic gestures were possible, like Lloyd Dobler standing there proudly, defiantly, with that boom box, in front of the house of the woman he loves. The man in your life could break through all the internal and external bullshit and boldly stake his claim for you. (Or hell, even lustful interest!)

Yet I've rarely seen such valiant statements when it comes to love - unless I exhibited them! Most of the time, I feel like I'm excavating for love, like some heart-heavy archaeologist, digging for a boom box that doesn't exist. Or, if I find one, it doesn't play "In your Eyes" but "Crazy Train" instead.

So far, on this Valentine's Day 2012, my ex-boyfriend Robert has sent me a picture text of a rose. Very sweet. But no boom box. (And I can't escape the haunting feeling that he probably cc'd it to a few other females in his life. Cold, this virtual world we live in!)

What else? A woman I know sent me the prettiest animated e-card, where birds fly and horses trot and cats chase. They finally reach a house and the bird opens the door for me. There awaits a table full of pastries and ribbons and stuff. Guess what? I'm still hungry.

Years ago, I decided it was better to simply ask for what I wanted. "Hey [fill in the blank], make yourself useful. Go find a boom box and play it outside of my window." But you know, you lose a little something when you're being a bossy bitch about romance.

A few days ago, I sent several texts and emails to some guys I like. Who I think like me too. Nothing too over the top, but certainly the message was there. "I'm sending you a romantic and/or sexy email."

So far, no response. Can you imagine that? Even if you're not interested, be flattered and share that with me. And basic etiquette dictates that you should at least respond. Come on! That's me playing the boom box and no one listening to the music. My arms are tired, boys!

Emotional dwarfism prevails these days. People (I'm trying really hard not to say men, I swear) seem to have forgotten how to express themselves in a loving, valorous way. They try very purposefully to never feel jealous or vulnerable. Hell, they pride themselves in boring self-protection.

They stutter, overthink, avoid, conveniently forget, distance, make excuses. They tinker with the boom box for hours out in the driveway while I lay fast asleep, unaware that anyone is even there. Too much deliberation, not enough boom box playing!

So here's to the scene that ruined it for me. That made me think that people step up to the plate romantically. Because our hearts are healed a little when such proclamations take place. When someone admits feelings for you, no matter how big or small. When someone gives you a personal gift that isn't of the e-variety. When someone takes a stand instead of sitting this one out. Say anything!


Dumb movie.

Dumb John Cusack.

Smart Peter Gabriel.
All my instincts, they return
And the grand facade, so soon will burn
Without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside

- In Your Eyes

A Drug-Fueled Modern Day Cinderella-like Fairy Tale

I walk by the same house on my way to the beach every day. Your average Jersey shore McMansion — needlessly large, expensive and nondescript. But it overlooks the ocean. And here, that means everything.

Last week, I noticed several cars parked in the driveway. Expensive cars. Black tinted windows. The kind for diplomats or rock stars. Strange. Hmm…maybe it’s just a realtor or a homeowner checking in on things. But why so many them?

As the days passed, the cars remained, as if some secret affair was being held there. My curiosity increasingly piqued and my imagination began to roam a little far.

On one fateful afternoon last week, only a half of me went for a run. The other half split from my body and walked right up to that faceless house, knocked on the door and experienced a strange and surreal adventure that she wouldn’t soon forget.

She knocked hard, with conviction.

A tall man opened the door, dressed in a shimmering blue tux. A servant of some sort. Young and shockingly handsome. Tousled blonde hair and plate-sized blue eyes. Or green. Or pale purple. Like a prism in the sunlight, they seemed to change a little every second. His voice, deep and resonant spoke:

 “May I help you?”

 “Is there a party or something here?”

 “May I ask you the password, madam?”

 Strange words fell from my mouth. Apparently, the right words.

 He gestured grandly. “Miss Beth, enter. We’ve been waiting just for you.”

 Me? I thought. No one waits just for me.

Bion lead me upstairs. (He whispered his name when I entered the house. I shuddered with pleasure; whispering is a lost sensual art.) Strangely I didn’t hear any party sounds. Dead quiet. Just the thud of our footsteps, in perfect sync with one another, up a stairway that never seemed to end. We just kept climbing and climbing, beautiful Bion in the lead.

 Finally, at the top of the stairs, he stopped and turned around.

“Are you ready, Miss Beth?”

“Yes, very much so. I’ve been dying of curiosity. What goes on here?”

“Ah…what doesn’t?” he laughed.

 He opened a large white door and boom! A cacophony of sounds and sights hit me. Exotic looking people, strange music, glasses clinking, corks popping, flirtatious laughter and voices, voices, voices…so many of them, like a sweet and strange choir.

What a grand room. Made entirely of glass, it looked as if we were standing right over the ocean. And while it was cloudless and sunny when I arrived, the sky now looked threatening, roiling, with shades of silver, violet and gray.

Everyone looked at the natural wonder performing for us, oohing and ahhing as the storm rolled toward us. Some of the spectators were clothed, some naked. No one really seemed to care. 

“Beth, my love. You are here, you are finally here!”

I turned around slowly. A tall, striking man with long, dark hair suddenly approached me, as if he had entered with this storm. Impeccably dressed, I knew him from…somewhere. He had the same piercing, ever-changing eyes as Bion. Yet this man possessed a look of madness to him, gently simmering underneath. He frightened and enticed me. 

He planted a kiss on my lips and I pulled back, unaccustomed to such forwardness. This did not deter him. He touched the back of my neck and pulled me forward again.

“Relax, Beth. Now.”

And I did as I was commanded. He kissed me again, for what seemed like forever, our tongues entwined like dangerous vines. I remember falling into a dream state at one point during the kiss — that’s how long it lasted.

When we stopped, he was gone. I was kissing the air. Embarrassingly, I pulled myself together and took a better look around.

Drugs were everywhere. White powder, blue powder, red pills, green pills. Bion appeared next to me, with a drink “made especially for you, you most divine creature” He handed me this massive wide-mouthed glass, almost the size of a fish bowl, full of pink and gold effervescence. I took a sip without question.

“Bion, who is the host? What is his name?”

“I call him Sir. But you can call him whatever you please. He doesn’t have a name, per se.”

As Bion spoke, his ever-changing eyes pulled me into a deeper state of consciousness than I had ever known. Did he drug my drink? I could only hope so.

Dazed, I wandered back to the window with the other party-goers and looked out. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There I was, running on the beach! I knocked on the glass, hoping she could hear me. But she just kept running, red-faced and determined.

I felt badly for her. She works so hard to be good. Stays at home, cooks her sad little dinners, watches her dull TV shows, talks to girlfriends about boyfriends that will never really matter. She takes baths, makes tea and cleans dust off things. She’s dutiful. And boring.

I, on the other hand, was living. I took a drag from a long cigarette that suddenly appeared between my fingers. The smoke came out a crimson red, then purple, then green. I felt dangerous and deeply content.

 Sir was suddenly standing behind me, watching me run on the beach.

“Good thing we didn’t invite her” he laughed. He pulled my hair back and gently kissed my neck. “Now go meet your friends. They’re waiting to feel you.”

I proceeded to mingle with the beautiful people. They looked so crisp and perfect, as if they walked out of a magazine. Normally I might feel inferior, “less than”, but I looked amazing too, donning a crimson red dress made of a fabric that felt like kittens and smelled of fresh raspberries. Glass heels on my feet and shimmering gold dust falling from me, with each movement I made. I was alight.

And these people couldn’t keep their hands off me! Women, men, (and some, a strange and captivating in-between) were attracted to me like bees to honey and I to them. We kissed, we hugged, we dipped and danced, we molded lovingly into one another. We were one. I couldn’t imagine better friends. They knew all of my darkest thoughts and liked me, in spite of them…no, because of them.

Things got blurry after the second drink. Bion brought me powders and pills that instantly cleared my head. Then I’d drink more, sink again and come back to life, over and over. We all danced this dance for days it seemed. Our thorny, perverted sickness was so gorgeous, I couldn’t dislodge myself if I tried. The high was staggering.

Sir and I would occasionally sneak off to his pitch-black bedroom and do the most unspeakable things to one another. It was so splendid and dark that I can’t remember it now; my mind won’t let me. At one point, the energy we created raised us off his bed. This went beyond fucking into a state of pure transcendence.

Afterwards in the warmth of our bed, we whispered warm and wicked things to one another, cleansed from the shamelessness of our wanton acts. These words I can no longer remember either. It was an eternal, strange language created from the most profane place in our souls. Even when we fell asleep, we continued to speak via our dreams. We were living and dying, over and over again, and it was absolutely perfect.

Then Bion opened the door and ruined everything. Everything.

“She’s here to pick you up, Miss Beth.”

“Who?”

“The one who runs on the beach. She’s here for you.”

My heart sank. My time here was over. Looking at Sir, his head hung down and I could hear him crying.

“I can’t live without you. It’s been too long. You must stay,” he whispered.

“You’ll be fine, I’m sure. There are so many pretty women who long to be close to you. They’re all waiting for you.”

And truly, they were. I looked around the bed and we were surrounded by the most stunning women I’d ever seen, naked and in wait. They began petting and pawing Sir, knowing my departure was near. Gorgeous vultures. Was I that replaceable?

As I climbed out of our bed, Sir grabbed me, his hand squeezing mine so tight, I began to bleed.

“Come back. Please. You know that woman on the beach will just ruin you. She’ll bore you to death!”

“I know but she’s all I have.” And I began crying too.

After our final kiss, the vultures attacked him. He screamed in pleasure at first, then in agony. Looking back, I could no longer see him, just bodies writhing, biting, eating, melting.

Bion showed me to the door, where the woman on the beach stood, drenched in sweat and rain. She had that dumb look of pleading in her eyes. I hated her.

“Why can’t you let me have this? I’ve been waiting for this my whole life!”

She just held out her hand, like a knowing mother.

I begrudgingly reached for it. The loss of Sir suddenly hit me, like a thunderbolt in my soul.

 “I loved him. I really did.”

 “Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s not going anywhere. He waits.”

She led me home in silence. I looked down and my dress was gone. I was ugly again, old, worn clothes, drenched. The party was indeed over. I had books to read, clothes to clean, gardens to tend, vitamins to swallow, checks to write, problems to solve, help to offer, blood to bleed.

Lowlives and Hotsprings

A final blow to the head and he’s out cold, face down, a string of drool seeping from his cracked, nicotine-stained lips. And I did it. I warned him, leave me alone. But he didn't listen.

He should have listened.

When we arrive at the hot springs in the Nevada desert, we’re dusty and tired. My friend Amanda, her teenage daughter, and I had planned this 6-hour road trip months ago. Recovering from a particularly crushing break-up, I felt emotionally vacant, like a hollowed out building. This hot spring will be my rebirth, my scalding hot baptism.

When we complete the mile-long trek to the hot spring, I drop by backpack and gasp. What beauty. Several large hot spring pools, right next to one another. And what a view. Yes! This will do the trick.

There are a few others in the pools but no matter. Of course, I want the springs entirely to my friends and myself, others needed their spiritual cleansing too. We'll share the experience together.

My friend and her daughter quickly undress and make their way into the fizzy magical waters. I take my time. With each article of clothing I drop, I let go of another emotional weight.

When I finally place my foot in the hot liquid, I feel instantly transformed, as if the magic flew through my feet and up my naked body. As I submerge, it’s all I can do not to cry. The goodness hurts my poor, aching heart. I close my eyes and let the healing begin.

Then I hear him and his gruff asthmatic laugh.

I slowly open my eyes and see a man on the other side of the pool, staring at me in that unwanted, lascivious way.

No, no...not this now. Please, God, not this now.

I return his stare aggressively. But he won’t be dissuaded. I can’t let him ruin this for me. Closing my eyes again, I try desperately to block him out, but every time I open them, his eyes burn my flesh and soul.

Finally:

"Hey, can you stop staring at me?"

"What?"

"I said stop staring at me."

"Fuck you. I'll look at what I want. It’s a free world."

Trouble in paradise. I look over at my friend and her daughter. Their look of relaxation has quickly turned into concern.

"It's just rude and I'm trying to relax."

"That's your problem."

"She's got a hot body, man. I can't help it," he jokingly tells his beer-drinking buddy next to him.

What a scrawny fuck of a man. Yellowed teeth in a broken face, greasy hair, swollen red eyes. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze drift my way.

I approximate his size so I can make my decision. He’s only an inch or two smaller than me. This guy is an easy takedown, especially because he’s drunk.

I'm a woman who studies fighting. My years in martial arts have taught me to spar me all different types and sizes.

For years I've countered the argument that a woman can never beat a man in any physical altercation. Because I have. But obviously, many factors come into play.

The most pressing concern is size. If a man is much bigger than me, then sure, there's a good chance he'll beat me. But if a man is my size or smaller, then the odds shift. After years of fighting in competitions, I stand a better chance than most.

I can take him. I’ll destroy him.

In my mind, when I go back in time, that’s exactly what I do. I put on my clothes and heavy hiking boots on and kick his ass resoundingly. He’s left lying facedown in a puddle of his own blood and spit while I grab my friends and leave.

But I can't go back. And that's not what happened.

Instead, I went to an adjacent pool, fumed quietly, and died a little death.

If life were fair, that little runt of a methhead is dead, rotting in a worm-ridden cardboard box somewhere. If life were fair, men would realize that unwanted stares can feel as invasive as an unwanted touch.

Those stares weren't sexual; they were an act of dominance and aggression. He spat on my spirit during a time when I desperately needed the world to envelop and comfort me.

One man's desire to “eat his candy” trumped another woman's need for peace of mind. And it's a spiritual crime, one that can't be undone, ever.

Oh, you did the right thing, everyone says. You should just walk away. Fuck the right thing. Because I still live with that experience. I should have kicked his ass or died trying…and I regret it.

But there was no justice that day. There was no cleansing, no baptism. Just more soul death.

Unhinging the Bitch

“The cabbage is 69 cents a pound.”

“Well, I’ll have to have someone check it…”

“You can’t just trust me on it, huh? I don’t tend to lie about cruciferous vegetables…just a rule.

“Well if I took your word for it, I’d have to...”

“Oh fuck it. Just take it off my bill.”

As I bag my groceries, the raging goes on inside my head. I decide to let the words fall out of my mouth instead:

“Seriously…in all of the years I’ve come to this damn megastore, do you think I’ve ever been undercharged for anything?

At this point, other cashiers and shoppers are staring at me. My face reddens but instead of looking down, I look back at them. Everyone quickly looks away, one at a time.

"Your system is designed to overcharge me. Hence why I know the price of the damn cabbage in the first place. So you don’t overcharge me.”

I walk out, head up. But in my car, it’s a different story. My hands are shaking and I’m on the verge of tears. I begin to feel badly for the cashier, who was a clueless recipient of my ire.

Apologize. I should apologize.

Ah, that tired, old mantra. As a woman and recovering Catholic, I’ve apologized well beyond my fair share. And if I didn’t apologize, I experienced the wrath of its ugly stepsister: guilt.

What if I lived without doling out apologies? What if I just allowed myself to be a full-fledged bitch?

I reflect back on the supermarket scene. It did feel good to simply raise my voice. To be loud and express.

It also felt decadently defiant to look back into the eyes of everyone staring at me as if to say, “What are you looking at bitches?” My personal Clint Eastwood moment.

What if unhinged the bitch even more? What if I truly spoke my mind?

Just what we need, right? Another rude and entitled person thinking the world should accommodate them. But I don’t think the world should accommodate me. Frankly I’m shocked when it does. My natural state is caring and sensitive. So why not be a caring and sensitive bitch? Can those two live together?

My gal friend is upset that her family didn’t contact her over the holidays. I asked her if she relayed how she felt. Her conversation with them went something like this:

“Wow, you guys must have been really busy over Christmas. I didn’t hear from you and I thought something might be wrong. Then I figured, you just must have been busy. It is the holidays, afterall.”

But this is how she told it to me, over a few drinks:

“Do I fucking exist or what? They couldn’t show me the respect to even call me? I’m the only living daughter on my side of the family. Why do I have to do all the reaching out? I’m fucking sick of it.”

A substantial difference in the two versions, you'll note. Should she have opted for the latter version? Not necessarily. But the first version is much more nefarious and soul-sucking--and that’s the one we “good women” often choose.

As “good women”, we often do the opposite of unleashing. We internalize. We question and admonish ourselves over the slightest infractions. Many feminist theories postulate that those socially-induced insecurities are meant to keep our mouths shut and our feet fixed in one spot. We’re too busy yelling at ourselves to make demands of others. Too busy internally debating to take a step forward and make a change.

Like many others, several people close to me have died of cancer. I have no damn clue whether internalized anger manifests itself in the form of cancer. But I’ll take my stab in the dark and say that it sure doesn’t help in the health department either.

In their honor, I continue to unhinge the bitch. She is allowed to roam free, express herself and breathe a little easier. She gets to laugh in the face of a difficult situation instead of caving in on herself like a flimsy house of cards.

Could I ever utter the following?

“I don’t like talking to you. I wish you’d go away.”

“Don’t ignore me. I don’t appreciate it.”

“Stop interrupting. I’m speaking right now.”

“I think you’re lying.”

"Stop staring at me. It’s invasive and annoying."

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

"I wasn't asking your opinion."

One could argue that these statements are cruel or could be delivered in a better fashion. And one would be right! But what if I don’t feel like being right? I’ve been right for decades now and still feel wrong entirely too much of the time. Being “good” is a never-ending battle which women are predetermined losers.

A bitch is a female dog, right? A dog is an animal. And when I become a bitch, I'm closer to my animal self. And I like it. It feels impulsive, raw and primal. Fight-ready and messy. And dare I say (oh yes, I dare), sexy and unbridled.

Two of the biggest insults that can be hurled at women? "You're a whore" or "You're a crazy bitch." I've yet to figure out why being called a whore is so horrible, since it seems like a perfectly reasonable profession where women get paid more than men for once.

You're a crazy bitch then! The underlying message: Stay tame. Shut up. Don't act wild. You might be a force to be reckoned with. You might get somewhere.

The last time it was hurled my way, I responded, "You ain't see nothing yet." And they hadn't. Because I haven't. She's evolving. She's new.

At heart, I will always be a kind person. It’s my nature. But there’s more to me than kindness. And this seemingly backward path to transformation fits me well, like a coat of fur or a set of bloodied fangs. Like ragged claws or a gutteral growl. Like a bite on warm skin.

To Touch You More

_{My good friend Peter and I}

My New Year's resolution made over a decade ago was to touch people more. To break that social wall that keeps our hands and bodies a safe distance from one other. To connect more physically.

I'm speaking of the non-sexual variety of contact. We all know when someone is touching us with sexual undertones. That may or may not be welcome. I wanted to offer the kind of touch that wouldn't be misconstrued.

This was not easy at first. Not because people weren't receptive; they were. People generally love touch. They bask in it. They appreciate it on a cellular level.

It was a challenge because I wasn't sure how to do it. My German family is not the touchy-feely sort. Stiff, awkward hugs. Overly firm pats on the back. Touching others freely hadn't been habituated into me, so it took some training.

But soon, my hands and body reached out to anyone in my world, whether it was via handholding or a quick massage or a touch on the cheek or a full-body hug or a head on a shoulder. Or I'd simply stand closer to people, trying not to invade, but simply enter, their space. I even began kissing some of my closest friends on the lips, which is incredibly sweet and rewarding.

How did people react? Shoulders would drop, breathing would deepen, gentle smiles would appear - people relaxed almost instantly. We so desperately crave human contact, but often aren't even aware how hungry we are for it. And giving touch is akin to receiving it. I feel touched as well. Cosmic win/win.

Last month, while taking a bus from the Jersey shore to New York City, an older, fragile Indian man sitting across the aisle from me suddenly handed me his cellphone. I accepted it, confused and slightly nervous.

"Um...hello?"

"Hello, my uncle may be having a heart attack. He needs help. He doesn't speak any English."

I looked over at the older gentleman and he was grasping his chest and moaning. I went to the bus driver and explained what was happening. As I returned to my seat, the man had fallen to the floor, in the aisle.

The bus pulled over. Emergency help was contacted. Several passengers made suggestions but few had any medical training, myself included. So I resorted to my New Year's resolution. I placed both of my hands gently on his face and began whispering in his ear, "Calm down. Calm down. Calm down."

I then unbuttoned his shirt and placed my hands on his chest. He was very agitated and his heartbeat was frighteningly rapid, so it took some time, but finally his breathing resumed to somewhat normal. At one point, he opened his eyes to look at me and they were filled with gratitude. No clumsy words needed.

When the police finally arrived, they instructed everyone off of the bus. (Another was waiting to take us to our destination.) I was afraid if my hands left his body, he would become unwell again. The cop didn't really want to hear my spiritual take on the situation, so I got up to leave.

Almost immediately, the man's breathing became erratic and his eyes glazed over and looked filmy. I left the bus feeling a sense of peace regardless. Strangely, I could feel his essence on me for quite some time, like an energetic imprint of some sort.

Fortunately, the man was fine. (His relatives left me a lovely message the next day.) But it was then I realized that touching was something beyond "feel good." We live for it. I live for it.

So that is my first (and only) working New Year's resolution - one that would change my life on a level beyond words.

"I Have The Touch" - Peter Gabriel

The time I like is the rush hour, cos I like the rush
The pushing of the people - I like it all so much
Such a mass of motion - do not know where it goes
I move with the movement and ... I have the touch

I'm waiting for ignition, I'm looking for a spark
Any chance collision and I light up in the dark
There you stand before me, all that fur and all that hair
Oh, do I dare ... I have the touch

Wanting contact
I'm wanting contact
I'm wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Any social occasion, it's hello, how do you do
All those introductions, I never miss my cue
So before a question, so before a doubt
My hand moves out and ... I have the touch

Wanting contact
I'm wanting contact
I'm wanting contact with you
Shake those hands, shake those hands
Give me the thing I understand
Shake those hands, shake those hands

Pull my chin, stroke my hair, scratch my nose, hug my knees
Try drink, food, cigarette, tension will not ease
I tap my fingers, fold my arms, breathe in deep, cross my legs
Shrug my shoulders, stretch my back - but nothing seems
to please

I need contact
I need contact
Nothing seems to please
I need contact

Another Dumb Online Love Story

Let’s just cut to the punch line: I fell in love with a fairly well-known musician after developing an online relationship with him. Best to just blurt it out now and spare myself the embarrassment of having to admit it later on. His name is [fill in the blank] since you may not have heard of him anyway. But he was a rock star to me. Was.

Years ago when I live in New York, I added him as a MySpace friend (back in the day, when dinosaurs roamed the land). And much to my surprise, he wrote me back a personal message. I asked him if he was an imposter, some pencil-necked music geek hiding out in his parent’s basement, playing the part of this musician.

His response? “I’ve been playing the role of [fill in the blank] since 1965.” The year he was born. That’s when I knew it was him. Wow…he emailed me? Joked with me? I was red-faced and teeming with girlish glee.

We communicated sporadically at first, but over the years, the frequency intensified. At one point, we moved over to instant messaging. His little face would suddenly pop up on my screen, out of the blue. Wow. He’s in my bedroom now!

Hours would go by, exchanging songs, jokes, links, stories, photos, struggles, heartfelt compliments, sarcastic zingers and little flirtations, weaving this intimate online connection. Sometimes we’d type the same thought at once. Or send the same song to one another. It all seemed so perfectly uncanny. Is this my soul mate, if there is such a thing? Please let there be such a thing.

One night, after hours of rapid-fire typing back and forth (and wine, he drank vodka), he suggested calling me, to give my hands a break. On my actual phone!? Mother of god, this is getting real.

When the phone rang, I felt so small suddenly. Why is this amazing man interested in this little nobody at the Jersey shore, wearing a coffee-stained robe and a permanent grin? (Okay, I don’t really feel like a nobody; it’s just when a little dream unfurls before you, its intimidating. It’s so beautiful, it almost hurts. Am I worthy of my own dream?

Yes, I am. Indeed I am. I answered the phone.

And I heard his sweet voice for the first time, after years of communicating. We talked and laughed as if we’d known each other forever. He even sang to me that night! He played his guitar and sang one of his songs to me. Over the phone! And I sang with him, elated.

Phone sex erupted in the middle of our 4-hour long conversation (shocker, right?). He led the way, quick and wildly creative, he spun these steamy stories, as if he knew all of my private hotspots.

He tucked me in that night, thousands of miles away. He whispered in my ear and said good-night at the very moment I began drifting off. I hung up the phone and floated to heaven.

I dreamt of us living in a glass house on a beach in California. He’d play his music for me or sing a section of a song so he could work out a glitch. We’d be very musical and muse-like to one another. And we’d fuck a lot, in a deep and complicated way that made us believe in something holy.

When I woke up, he sent me an email with the news I secretly suspected: married. Though the “kids” were a surprise. Wasn’t expecting that. Two young kids. Fuck. How could you?

[Fill in the blank] apologized profusely and explained to me their situation: how he and his wife haven’t slept in the same bed for years, he lives in an in-law on their property now. They stay together for the kids (oh, that classic one). Lots of animosity between them and blah-fucking-blah.

Shattered, I told him to leave me alone for a while — or fucking permanently — whatever sticks. Just get out of my life.

Torturous weeks went by and he either contacted me or I contacted him. “I miss you desperately” was the theme. And our strange, other-worldly relationship resumed without missing a beat. We jumped back in like two lovelorn idiots.

He also had a bipolar disorder, which became more pronounced the more I knew him. He was deeply struggling, even in his flush LA world. But hell, so was I. Alone in an old run-down family house, broke both mentally and financially. And in New Jersey to boot.

He became my medication, my “happy pill” for the disease of loneliness. But his moods changed quickly and radically. I’d hear from him consistently, then nothing. Nothing. Then he’d flood back in torrents, all over me. Until he was gone again.

[A quick aside about abandonment issues: when you have them and your romantic interest suddenly appears and disappears, you’re in an excruciating state of pins and needles. Anxious and preoccupied all the time, you can’t focus or work optimally, you can’t even take a deep breath.]

So I let his departures wreak havoc in my life because our times together were transcendent and blissful. A trade-off many of us often make.

Did we ever make plans to meet? We talked about it during our exchanges. Hotel rooms. Him, waiting for me in a hotel room. What he would do to me. What I’d be made to do to him. And how shopping and dining would be involved before or after. (A multi-layered fantasy, which I liked. Because we didn’t just want to have sex; we wanted to spend time together.)

But did he ever really plan on meeting me? No, probably not. That’s hard to admit. And perhaps I secretly knew that…but that hopeless dreamer in me believed that our love would prevail. Dumb, dumb.

Would we be attracted one another if we met? Maybe it would be completely disillusioning if we broke that virtual fourth wall. Maybe he would be a 4-foot boil-covered troll of a man. Or we just wouldn’t have that “thing” that two people need between one another, regardless of looks.

But after years of our strange and wondrous mind intimacy, I worried less and less about that. We were already deeply attracted to one another on a level few could understand, including ourselves.

I loved (did I? Could I?) an introverted, troubled and ragingly creative man I never met who sang and played in a popular band in the 90’s. And I believe he loved me too (did he?).

A strange ether-like love. One that couldn’t last unless we met, which wasn’t going to happen.

As more time passed, I began to hear from him less and less. Then not at all. My self-esteem plummeted and I found it harder to reach out for fear he wouldn’t respond, which would send me spiraling into depression for days.

He also made sure he covered his ass. I had no phone number or address to send a letter, just his email. When someone left vaguely threatening comments on a blog of mine, I emailed him immediately. We had already drifted apart, but the comments mentioned him specifically. I felt frightened and confused.

At first I thought it was his wife, which was surprising, because she didn’t seem very involved in his life or seem to care that much about him overall. Then I thought it was some hateful side of him during a manic episode. I’ll never really know though I guess the latter, but those scary words have been locked in a metal box inside my brain ever since.

After several weeks, he emailed me back and claimed no knowledge of those cruel comments. And that he had found God. He was deeply sorry for what he put me through. He lives with the guilt and the pain and etc, etc, etc. But thanks to Him (oh yes, a capital “H”), he’s back on his path.

The hypocrisy incensed me. Because while he was busy finding Him with a capital H, I was recovering from the damage of his decidedly un-Christian-like behavior. It just all seemed so tidy and convenient. God in a box, LA style.

Eh, I’m being sarcastic and mean. Neither of us killed ourselves­­ — a definite perk during our time together. And trust me, we were often within spitting distance. Let him have his God. Let me have the goddess (with a small “g”) he made feel like. All is forgiven. (It kinda has to be, right?)

I wrote like crazy during our time together (because I knew he’d see it) and more people began to see my work as a result. For years, he was my biggest fan, heaping praise and respect my way. This amazing musician was my muse. And I was the star of the star’s eye, the princess at the ball finally…even though my prince was troubled, married and…not really there.

I miss him and I fear I always will. When someone parts ways with you so poorly, the recovery time can be so rocky and protracted. When you never had the chance to meet that person, it’s as if they never really existed, making the grief that much more complicated and hard to sort out.

I did my best to digest the loss by sending him emails (since it was the only way to reach him), expressing my pain or sharing a bad joke or video I found online. I knew he wouldn’t respond, but I did it for myself, to purge and move on.

Eventually my need to contact him lessened to once in a blue moon. And then, I’d simply keep him posted on my life or send him a song he might like. He had become a one-way pen pal and I was dating others, slowly getting back to “real” life again.

Then one day, an email I sent him was returned: he had shut down his account. His exit plan was complete. A large immovable door had been shut. This was final kick to the gut.

Your email account too? How could you shut me out so resoundingly? This is how its going to end after years of communication? No phone call, card or, god forbid, a bouquet of fucking flowers? I am a human, afterall. A human.”

That’s all right, that’s all right. I don’t need a stinkin’ computer or cell phone to contact him. I just raise my frequency and use the airwaves of the universe to send my message, anytime and anywhere. And he feels it, I make sure. It’s not black magic just spiritual balancing.

Sometimes I fantasize about bumping into [fill in the blank] in some random hotel lobby in New York. I’d spot him and speak his name plainly. He’d slowly turn around. And I’d see his face for the first time.

Ha…what would we do? Maybe we’d cry. And hug. Then I’d slap him across the face and he’d be stunned and then laugh at my brazenness. Then I would punch him in the gut. This wouldn’t be so funny. He’d have to sit down after that one. And I wouldn’t apologize. I’d wait until he caught his breath, then I’d….

No, no, I could never hurt him. No matter how much he hurt me or denied me the chance of a respectful closure or a physical meeting, I’d never do anything to harm him. I cared entirely too deeply.

I wish he had the same kind regard for me. In the long run, he was a bit of a narcissistic, entitled jerk who kinda used me, right? But it’s not that simple. Never is. He remains one of the best things that ever happened to me and the most amazing men I’ve never met.

Besides let’s look at my part: I chose to avoid the obvious red flags and plowed full steam ahead. I knew what I was in for yet still bought into some sandcastle version of us that simply didn’t exist.

It’s taken me a while to move past him. To this day, I still have my heart-jabbing moments. Though most of the time, he’s just a pale ghost drifting around my heart, bumping into things occasionally.

And I’m sure he has fully convinced himself that its best not to contact me. You know, save me from any additional heartache. Well, that’s not the best for me. At all. But I’ve witnessed others rationalize their passive behavior, so its not surprising he’d take that non-road.

The Book of Life says I’m supposed to move on and “let it go, man.” Yet I still struggle with the all-too-real fact that we’ll probably never meet. That I may go to my grave never seeing him in person, let alone having anything more significant with him, like say, a relationship (silly, silly girl). I bought into a lie and I paid a price.

And I’d probably do it again. Because it was the most beautiful mistake.

Open Salon Meet-up and Beth's Power Birthday - The Photos!

_{Ruby Lawrence, one of my closest friends and co-host to 11/11/11 party.} 

I met Open Salon's Cartouche last year. It was as natural as the breeze. We hugged and proceeded to spend a glorious weekend in Florida together, as if I'd known her my whole life.

So strange, isn't it? The bonds we've formed here on OS. I don't know about you, but I've never experienced anything like it. There are few online communities that could compare with us. We are strangely and deeply familiar with one another. Our work together has created this wonderous ripple effect. It's profound and touching.

When Nikki Stern walked into the restaurant before Friday night's NYC's OS meet-up party, I hugged her and experienced that instant sense of intimacy and familiarity. She's beautiful and radiates as much as I imagined she would.

The rest of the night was full of that same OS magic. I couldn't help but think that we need to come together like this, especially now. Maybe a new friendship connection or a great business opportunity or an idea moved closer to fruition - or whatever! - the sky is the limit, isn't it? This night will have long-term, positive implications, I hope.

I'll let Les Stone's photos (please check out his website and see the serious work this guy does) do the rest of the talking, but it was a magical night, with energy streaking across the room, as you'll see in these photos.

Actors, writers, business owners, photographers, graphic designers, directors, reporters - super sharp, smart, creative people - together at an Australian Bar called Eight Mile Creek in Soho, exchanging ideas, connections, jokes, play, hugs, kisses (some really great kisses actually...wow), beer, New Zealand wine...doing our thing.

We're creative and grew our powers together on a special day: 11/11/11

(Click on photos for the big picture.)

Group shot - Open Salon friends and other dear friends.

Neil Paul, Cranky Cuss, Beth Mann, Nikki Stern, Frank Apisa and Designanator. Love this shot.

Nikki Stern and Joe Nation, looking like a superhero unveiled.

JohannaLG and Cranky Cuss. Cranky Cuss is the sweetest, warmest man who gave me a lovely mug (photo at end of post).

Neil Paul, Cranky Cuss, Beth Mann, Nikki Stern, Frank Apisa and Designanator, a kind, gentle man with a busy camera.

Frank, Beth Mann, Neil Paul. God, what's there to say about Neil Paul? He's a genius, I'm guessing. He's so smart, you have to be sharp to follow him. He thinks on 3 levels at once and you just need to keep up with him.

The strikingly beautiful Autumn Whitefield-Madrano and Frank Apisa. Frank is accessible and relaxed and a chill dude with substantial "cool" cache. He's good at living, I think.

The shining Nikki Stern, dear friend Ruby Lawrence, Beth Mann - rock trio in formation. Or maybe a pop trio...I'd prefer that, I think. It's sillier with better costumes.

JohannaLG and Frank Apisa. Johanna thinks I'm a little weird because I wanted to take photos of her and hugged her maybe a little too much. That's because she's beautiful and smart with these intense, laser-focused eyes and you just want to stand close to her.

See? Neil Paul, Beth Mann, JohannaLG.

Friend Peter Herbst - one of my wittiest friends - and Nikki. These two just naturally got along, I think.

Wall Street Journal writer Jon and Beth Mann. Total stranger at beginning of night, friends by end of it. Just a sweetie.

Long Beach Island friends who came to NYC for this event! This is my family at the Jersey shore. The uber-smart and sweet Peter and Danielle Morris.

Me and Jon, who gave me his coat when it got cold.

One of my dearest old friends, actor/director Kevin Augustine. One of the most deeply creative people I know whom I've known him a long, long time. I told him before he left, "I love you from the bottom of my heart." I don't know if I've ever uttered those exact words to anyone before.

It's a shame that cigarettes look so cool.

Frank and Kevin Augustine

Peter Herbst, Ruby Lawrence and myself. This is what fun looks like.

Me with the inimitable actress Toni Silver. Toni Silver is a fiery, fiesty and fierce woman. She's a creative powerhouse and makes me proud to be a woman.

Dear friend actor/director Joseph Shahadi with the Autumn Whitefield-Madrano, whom I want to be my best friend. I will pay her, if necessary. (With a face like this, she should use a photo for her avatar, if I may be so bold.)

Joe Shahadi and I know each other very well and for years and years. We've done absurdist theater together - that bonds people like nothing else, trust me! Also a ridiculously creative and smart man.

Good friends actor and comedian Anthony Devito and business owner/bon vivant of NYC Ruby Lawrence. (They'd make such a power couple!)

Anthony has that old school, shimmery movie star charm. And funny as HELL. Next to him Ruby Lawrence, as FUNNY AS HELL, and one of my closest friends. I've often dreamt that these two take over the world with their cleverness.

Hugging my dear friend Peter Herbst. One of my fave photos of the night. Just makes me cry. I miss my friends. I live at the often-isolating Jersey shore and I miss being around sharp, witty people who love me.

When I came back home, I walked on the beach and looked at the ocean. I said, wagging my finger at it, "It's for you, I come back. It's for you!" So the "after party" was had with a large body of water that often shapes my decisions. I sighed a lot, wondering about the bigger trade-offs we make in life.

^{Filled with hot chai as I write this.}

---

To keep the ball rolling, check out a few links in the post above, friend people on Facebook, read their blogs, follow them on Twitter, fall in love with them, whatever. Join the party a few days after the fact.

Ghosts of Broken Glass (based on a true story)

The dollhouse? He broke the fucking dollhouse too?

In my early 20’s, I naively thought someone had to hit you to constitute abuse. I didn’t know that breaking all of your shit was its own form of abuse. And that’s what Bill did. He broke all of my shit. In an old, haunted house that we lived in. (Well…survived in.)

He had already smashed a television, a coffee table, chairs, windows…any object in arm’s reach. He had given me a dollhouse for Christmas. I added pieces to it, creating a make-believe happy home where there was none. Now just like our miserable relationship, it too was in pieces.

As I cleaned up the mess he made, the ghosts watched me. Sometimes the presence of a ghost or two can be comforting, except in that house. Even though I despised Bill at this point, I was always slightly relieved when he would return. Ominous ghostly presence versus abusive boyfriend? Hmmm…sometimes life offers you shitty choices.

To this day, I dream of that place. I’m locked in and can’t get out. The house is breathing and groaning as if it’s coming to life. I run down the stairs to escape, but the steps never end. The walls move slowly inward in an attempt to touch me. I usually wake up startled, sometimes screaming.

Perhaps it’s a form of PTSD from that piss-poor relationship. Or perhaps that house still remembers me and reaches out to me from time to time.

One night sleeping next to Bill, I woke up out of a sound sleep. I slept on my arm and was shaking out the pins and needles, hazy but awake. Then I felt something move toward my bedside. A distinctly dark and cold presence. It stood above me for a moment then seemed to bend down, near my face. I turned my head away from it, in weak defense.

“Beth!” it whispered aggressively, inches from my face.

I let out an ear-piercing scream. Bill woke up and immediately began yelling.

“What the fuck?!!”

“Someone is in this room! Turn on the light!” I pleaded.

He did, and of course (just like the movies), no one was there. I stayed awake the rest of the night. After a brush with the supernatural, sleep didn’t seem remotely possible.

The next day, I felt like a zombie. I tried to tell my best friend Krissie what happened. The voice, not quite male, not quite female. That harsh and sudden whisper.

“You have to get out, Beth. That house, that relationship,” she warned. “Your mind is playing tricks on you.”

Sleeping was difficult for the next few months. I’d wake in the middle of the night, instantly terrified. When would it return? Did it want to hurt me? Why couldn't it go after Bill?

The relationship with Bill sickened. Fights escalated, police involved. When he wasn’t home, I packed my boxes and bags and hid them in my closet. My escape was forming though I had no clue where to go.

During my last week there, I remained as Zen-like as possible, just biding my time. A fight erupted nonetheless.

Slam. Boom. Things began flying. What was there left to break, you fucking idiot?

“I know all about the shit you have in your closet. You think I'm stupid?”

He headed down the steps to the bedroom. His intention: destroy the contents of my closet that including a newly purchased stereo and my mom’s jewelry box.

I grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and followed him downstairs to the bedroom.

“Touch that closet door and I’ll kill you.” I hissed, possessed.

I raised the knife over my head to reinforce the point. Then he laughed at me. This was not the thing to do. I charged him, screaming banshee style. He grabbed a large pillow to protect himself. I stabbed at it repeatedly.

He peeked over the pillow at one point. The look on his face will stay with me until my final day. He was terrified, white as a ghost. Good, good! For once, I had become the terror of the house. Even the ghosts ran for cover.

The police carted us off. Since I had called about him in the past, I was permitted to place a restraining order on him. He moved out and I was left in the house alone. My bags were packed and out in the open. I was ready to go. I had so little left to take with me. It had all been broken. But I was taking me with me. Thankfully.

During one of the last nights there, I woke up to go the bathroom. When I returned, I hurried under the covers. But before I could fall asleep, that dark presence was by my side once again. The voice wasn’t as distinct as the first time.

It whispered hurriedly to me:

“Beth. Hi.”

I didn’t scream this time. I didn’t lie awake frightened all night. This entity knew I was scared, I believe. It said something as quickly as possible that would convey some form of friendliness. Hi. A ghost said hi to me!

In a few days, I said goodbye to that house and one of the stormiest and sickest phases of my life…though I don’t know if that house has ever completely let me go.