Possible

Nothing is impossible, the word itself says 'I'm possible'!

-Audrey Hepburn

Possible. Everything is possible. I have had many destinies yet lived & dreams to put forth. Although I have many passions, photography, design, and writing are those that actually produce work. 

I wanted to put out a photo book so I did, in fact 2. I wanted to write ebook novels so I did, 8 or 9? I wanted to write a novel and did...

The novel has never been quite finished since I have been working on it. Lately with the new pieces written, I'm close to calling it completed.

From day one since I've been working on the book, the perspectives/TIA, everyone in my life has always supported and told me this was possible. Strangers included. 

I've only met an ounce of resistance,  from one man, and yep the shitty part of it, he's actually one of my hero's whose work I admire and support. He called my writing "trash" in a visually stimulating way... Maybe he didn't mean it? Funny thing... I hope he did. It means he has an opinion of his own. Why? I suppose we all need resistance from somewhere. I digressed.

For the most part this dream has been so possible and attainable from the beginning that I feel blessed. As most artists struggle for support. I am very lucky that when I discuss my dream with most people and share the book they are incredibly supportive. 

How are they supportive? Everyone I meet & share openly with usually have insisted on giving me help in some way. Which the extreme ranges from phone numbers of writing agents and business cards of book agents to setting up lunches with their publishing editor friends who they swear "will want to publish it after a read." 

I've got the destiny I want as a writer, yet I struggle to finish the novel. No clue why everyone in my life supports the book but maybe it's time to finish... And make it happen.

Here's a short excerpt... 

Alton is one of my favorite characters who has carried more of my own offensive quirks than the others. She's a borderline sociopath and appears in only the other posted excerpts... She has a portion of her own, but this, this is a small part of Alton and she is where the idea for Adrian began...

Do the people you meet support your dream?

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Things that go without saying

(10-09-2010)

Things that go without saying.

The mornings start out with a feeling of despair, a sense of remorse for last nights actions. Always the guilt remains. Perhaps over the party or the people, however it isn’t necessarily the case. Some of the parties happen to be fabulous and without a doubt the peak of it all. The fabulous people can’t help but fake it, that’s just what they do. I’m not like them, I’m just me. Not cheap enough to let them own me. Guilty for letting them try.

Even this morning when he wasn’t there. Who, is not important. Just that I’m here still. In his bed, wearing his shirt and reading his tiny notes that apologize by leaving breakfast. It’s in the kitchen. Don’t worry, stay as long as you like. I can’t help the weight that sits in my chest like an anchor pulling me down.

The panic attack hits at 6am during my shower. Heart races like it can’t catch up to the rest of my body as I continue to wash the night off of me. Wash that man right out of my hair along with the 12-hr party the smoke, the drinks, and Johnny C’s blood off of my elbow. Water can cleanse my body, but not my cold dark soul. And there’s nothing to be done about my Cavalli dress with a line of Johnny C’s blow smeared across the breasts and the countless cocktails that fabulous Reggie dropped across my lap while talking to the Countess Jessica Grant.

The darkest moments are after I’ve spent the night out with a man who doesn’t know me, doesn’t love me and doesn’t want to. A man who leaves breakfast before slinking out the door, back to his life, maybe his wife, maybe his girlfriend, back to his real.

Even more revealing is that these are the things, the very REAL things I keep to myself. The pieces of raw, vulnerable me the boys will never know or ask to know. The pieces that I choose to leave behind. The moment I cross the threshold into the party begins the transformation. Put on the best FAKE. Keep it clean. Lift your chin slightly to the right. Now act natural. Posing for the imaginary camera. The one that scrutinizes every little detail that’s wrong. One false move and you are considered bitter. Ungrateful. Tired. Get out of the way. Someone is waiting to take your place.

She can have it. Let her. Maybe I’m bitter. Or ungrateful. 

Knowing that when I return back to these quiet moments alone I can remove my smile, the insincere fraud, like it was a soiled dress. Then comes the dreading for the next time when perhaps I once again won’t have the strength to say no. My hand wipes away the steam coated mirror and leaves me staring at the stranger in the mirror. The haggard woman that drinks too much, talks too loud and moves about the party just because it’s what is expected. Coming face to face with the reflection that my life feels out of control and I want out. But I don’t know how.

My towel wrapped hair and I walk through his wardrobe. Vintage Louboutin heels in the three different colors. He didn’t always live alone. She left her Chanel boots from three seasons ago and faux leather wrap. These tiny remnants of a former ‘someone’ lay at rest among his suits and jackets, demolition denim and t-shirts, watches and shoes. He probably doesn’t know. This reveals more about him than he could ever say. She probably thought maybe I’ll come back someday. And he just didn’t notice.

At least I’ll have fresh clothes. That makes up for breakfast. Not impressive without the company. Why couldn’t he be out getting coffee?  I don’t like waking up alone. Yet I choose to. Notes are getting old now. Yet I accept them. At least he’s the same no one important leaving me notes and breakfast. Consistency is better than just anyone. It appeases the feelings of guilt. And the boots don’t hurt.

These boots, the clothes, the notes, the breakfast all come after the fabulous night. Mornings all alone filled with things that I’ll never say. Things that no one will ever ask to know. Things that they don’t care to know. They’ll never know the guilt, the contempt, or the disgust. What they’ll see is the ensemble, the smile and the best piece put forward.

This used to be the life… maybe I want a new one. This is something that I’ll never say.

Happy Monday!!!

It's Monday, but you should not be Blue! Try dreaming of Paris! 

I'm not blue. I'm not dreaming of Paris. I prefer to dream about my favorite Ken who is best wherever he is. And I'm fabulous! 

If you are finding yourself a bit underwhelmed by the day try to let go. When you stop trying to grasp and own the world by controlling it you allow yourself the freedom to experience life. In Buddhism you learn to recognize that your passionate need for & attachment to people and things can lead to unhappiness.

For moi, I find this lesson hardest in my work as a writer. I hold it too close emotionally...

Someone postured to me last week, “What is character fiction?” After I dramatically announced my exit from it because she misinterpreted & personalized my writing to her own life. And before I could answer or say a how-dare-you, she said, “What is character writing like for you?”

Irritating.

Debilitating. 

Ha.

Well that's what I thought but didn't say or laugh it cause it wouldn't be true. It changes me to write in character yet it's not overwhelming. Instead of being unkind... What I did say, “It is not being myself but it's still not being you,” and I think it sums it up. 

Character fiction is both me & not me without struggle at its best/worst moments. But it's not anyone real. I've been lost in it, I was found by it and I will always love writing it the most. Yet, I continue to find myself still easing out of it briefly to be myself again. I recommend letting go to be yourself to anyone. It's rather liberating if you create things.

Here is the darkest of my characters, Inza, an excerpt taken from the novel, TIA/Perspectives. She frightens me the most to mentally embody & authentically create from yet I have & eventually will once again to finish. Her sadness is palpable, leaving her was like removing a part of me... And absolutely fucking necessary!

To move ahead, sometimes you have to let go or leave things behind. Accept the moment as it is and your new circumstances will unfold beautifully.

Give it a try... I'm still trying to. ;)

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Blue Monday.

(5-24-2011)

It’s Monday. I know its Monday by the clock on my phone. Lifting the corner of one eyelid tells me this information but that won’t tell me where the hell this is. It could be any place anywhere in another time zone, but that doesn’t matter because it wouldn’t change the fact that it’s Monday.

Mondays. Do you remember what we used to do on Mondays? I recall it involved the tip of your tongue and… the blue dress. The one you always loved. The way its belt held the gathered pieces of my skirt. And  when we played in the garden. Do you remember the way it felt in the garden? Dangerous. Sexy. Your blonde hair now brown looked sun kissed and wild dancing upon my shoulders while you kissed my neck and lifted my skirt. Do you remember?

I’ve been wide awake but lying here with both eyes seemingly closed listening to my James fabulously managing me while my Skyler is attempting to visualize a concept to dress me.

James is talking to Skyler about the color fuchsia, how it’s supposed to match the color of my blue eyes that aren’t really blue and make them pop green when the camera flashes. And instead of shooting me to put me out of my misery they’re only capturing my very essence with a flash. The gown could be purple. But it’s not. It’s the fuchsia that the angels have sent down to mask the color of my complexion in an attempt to avoid sending the very obvious message to the public “she’s strung out again.” But the rumors that aren’t supposed to be true are, and there’s not enough fuchsia fabric that makes my eyes pop to avoid it.

The drugs, it was never about the drugs. I fell this morning. Cut my face and left arm. You know what they’ll say if they get wind of it? Suicide attempt. And who knows they might be right. I remember when you used to call me your falling angel. And how Dr. Grant called that terminology counterproductive to my treatment. What happened to us?

Somehow in the middle of this conversation of semantics I interrupt with my brown eyes not yet blue to find out the one thing I don’t yet know.

“Where are we?”

The Plaza. The W. The Standard.

“Well good morning to you too, sunshine. Does it even matter?”

“No.”

“We are where we need to be.”

“Paris?”

“It might as well be.”

Paris looks the same when you’re sitting in the penthouse suite of a 10 star hotel with the blinds closed. But it isn’t Paris when James starts going over my itinerary for the day. It’s 9am somewhere amazing in LA, maybe even the Chateau but it doesn’t matter cause I’ve been locked away from the world for the last 24 hours preparing to greet the press to plug this film Malcolm put me in last year. Without losing a beat he tells me that the people from the press will begin to arrive in two hours. While James prattles on and on I think about running dramatically, pulling back the blinds that lock us away from the real world and jumping out the window. After James drops a handful of scripts on the bed I’m snapped back to reality. He tells me “pick one, any one” before telling me that I need to be a fuchsia princess with blue eyes that pop so they won’t notice my hair. But first I need to take a call. Skyler hands me the phone and tells me “smile with your voice” and I fake it. I’m busy faking location and eye color, mood shouldn’t be a problem. Singing into the line I pretend that I’m playing a fair game when it’s nothing like that at all.

It’s last week when I’m in another bathroom and not playing fair when I tell her I’m not coming in. But I tell her anyway. Monday night’s walkthrough means everything to Chloe and for that reason alone I tell her it will have to be another time. I can hear the tension in her voice and it carries the same weight as that of a ninety year old woman. I can remember how I kept listening to her talking and watching myself in the bathroom mirror. After I take a pill I tell her “you’re beautiful” before telling her “I have to go.” I say it because I know it will hurt. It’s always leaving with Chloe. No one ever stays because she sucks them dry. I want to feel sorry for her but I don’t. I can’t.  I didn’t want to hang up. I wanted to tell her anything but goodbye but I couldn’t. I sit on the toilet. I try to cry but the tears can’t come because they aren’t for me.

Instead of tears there are three more pills and a pair of scissors that are screaming at me to take action. And I couldn’t stop myself from taking action. Like the director that yells into the megaphone, “ACTION” screams through my brain as I cut that woman out of my hair. Piece by piece I’m cutting not stopping while the tears start to fall. It’s release, it’s the end, the beginning and I can’t find the right feeling for how much I love Chloe but I can feel the pain escape as my hands demolish the beautiful brown locks of hair that have been my trademark. Quintessential Inza is now gone and it’s the only thing I can feel. My tears keep falling until I reach the scalp. Looking down at the marble basin I can see the beautiful pieces of me and I want to feel free instead I only feel pain.

A knock on the door from Skyler snaps me back forward in time and tells me to come out of the bathroom and get dressed.

It’s Monday and these aren’t the blues. It so much more than that cause I’ve hurt you with my words, the ones I didn’t say, the wrong ones I did and all that I’ve haven’t done but there’s no going back. I’m sorry I hung up the last time we spoke. I don’t know why I did... I promise you it was never about the drugs. Never.

James tells me that I’m beautiful between taking calls as Skyler undresses me and Chiffa covers the fading scar on my face and arm. Chiffa smiles when he says it. I like how she smiles cause it’s real. Real. I know James believes that I’m beautiful. But it isn’t love though. James doesn’t’ love me. He doesn’t’ even care. But I have him and he has me. It’s funny but that’s enough. I have James and that’s all that matters. This one man is paid to think I’m fabulous and that is better than someone that doesn’t want me anymore. Sometimes I think that James is afraid of me. It’s not that he wants to be here. It’s the alternative that he’s afraid of. Alone. Unpaid. Unattached. It’s not fair to say that about James. James is here because he plays the role better than any other.

Then there’s the role I never should have filled. It was never fair when I slept with Grayson. He wanted me more than Ava, but he knew he couldn’t give me what I wanted...

You. Ava never even compared to you and Grayson knew that it would never be…

“Enough. It’s not enough. With you… It never will be.” I know he’s right when he says it but it doesn’t stop me from crying about it. There comes the warm hot saline and he’s wrapped around me with both arms trying to stop it from happening. Grayson is not like the others. And they’ll never see what he sees in me. It’s a shame. A shame that he has to. I love the way he cares about me and that’s the most dangerous thing I can think of.

“Once you’ve let someone all the way in there’s no going back.” Dr Grant tells me her take on my fears of losing Grayson. It’s eleven o’clock last Friday and I’ve finished telling her that I don’t want to lose Grayson, how his possibly leaving sends me spinning. But I don’t tell her about Chloe because it isn’t about her. Maybe I don’t want it to be. I keep thinking. Even if Chloe never comes back at least she could return my calls. If she bothered to call I'd know she cared. My mind spins wildly while she keeps talking, “You can’t pretend that Chloe didn’t leave and…”

When you love someone you don’t just up and leave when it gets rough. But that’s how it is with Chloe. Checking out while the rest of the world has to deal is her thing. She gets what she needs from you and leaves. Only she doesn’t realize that its her that’s always leaving. She’s the one that pushes you away when she loses interest. Sucking out the pieces out of you might make it easier to swallow but it doesn’t change that its her that always leaves. Standing in the same room looking at you but completely vacant. Gone. Stay or be ignored. That's how it is with her. 

When my mind falls back forward she’s still talking “ Chloe simply represents your need for…” but I don’t care what she’s saying and at 11:15 I decide that I’m ready to end the session because this has nothing to do with Chloe.

For all the things I’m not afraid of my therapist still tells me about the things that scare me. Frankly I don’t need to pay her $500 a session to find out that I’m afraid of someone leaving. I already know that. The idea that someone might get all the way in again and then leave taking me along with them completely frightens me. I want a commitment and I don’t fear that anymore. It’s the leaving that scares you. We’re all so co-dependent and terrified on the inside. But we want someone to choose to stay anyway.

There’s something about intimacy that frightens people. But you always knew that. She came, may have come after you but I never stopped loving you despite your inability to let me in.

Sometimes I think I should simply hire someone for the intimacy. I have all these other people that I pay to perform a purpose that the real people in my life have ceased to fulfill. Why not pay someone to be my confessor. Someone to be completely open and bare with. Honestly it’s not the sex I’m paying for, it’s the intimacy. The ability to share a moment with someone and not have them leave afterwards. They have to stay because they’re paid to. That’s the thing nowadays. It’s all sex and no intimacy.

Even now when Chiffa leaves I’m changing my clothes and Skyler is helping me there is no intimacy or feeling to our shared moment alone. I’m naked and he’s already talking about getting a Grande Zebra Mocha Latte Frappacino. Sklyer contemplates whip cream while my shoving breasts into the front of the dress with both hands. The moment sends my heart racing and my flesh spinning. While I’m lost in the past thinking of your hands pressing against me Skyler wants to know how many calories are in whipping cream. There’s nothing intimate about it. I ask him for a Passion Iced Tea Lemonade when he zips me up before leaving. I’m all alone again in the oversized hotel bedroom and I wonder how much it would cost for intimacy.

Again. I’m looking at myself again but it’s not me in the mirror. I don’t recognize her. Right down to the brown eyes painted blue she’s a stranger. She’s dead inside. Deader than me. And she wants out. I want to tell her there’s no way out honey. You’re in this to the end with me. And we’re in the middle of a sinking ship. But I don’t say it and swallow another mouthful of water. Saying it, that will only make me feel crazy. As if the second round of pills on my tongue doesn’t do that already. The phone is ringing and I contemplate answering it. Somewhere it’s Blue Monday playing on the clock radio next to the phone while it rings I keep thinking about Sklyer returning with his coffee dancing to the song instead of picking up right away. I wait. Two rings becomes three then four and I wait to answer because on the other end of the line I’m sure it’s not anyone that gives a fuck. But instead of letting it ring I watch the person who isn’t me taking the call anyway. Between color of my dull complexion and the matted remains of my short brown hair I’m already in the middle of the conversation when I take another drink of water.

“Tell me a little about your character.” She says.

This woman is sitting across from me wearing this season's Chanel suit jacket with last season's Prada skirt and a cheap pair of knockoff Steve Madden mules. She’s number twenty in a line of eighty five to sit and chat with me, pretend to like my work and call me Ms. Madison instead of Inza. From the waist down she’s tacky but they’ll never see it. I can’t quite explain what it feels like to play a narcissist that finds value in living. But after I’m finished telling her a little bit of the scripted PR she’s satisfied. When she throws back a laugh at my witty response, her smile is so wide that it pulls back painfully on the corners of her mouth. James motions to his watch for my mark. Cue smile. Cut. NEXT.

I can’t remember what it felt like in your arms. Did you hold her the way you held me? Do you like being single? C. I don’t want to feel like this. I had to leave. I left you before you could leave me. It’s worthless without you. I’m worthless.

There’s a scene in the film where my character is holding very still and she can’t quite catch her breath. On the inside I’m feeling the same way but it doesn’t show as they play the clip another time. It’s number fifty-five and the man sitting before me tells me the same as all the others, “You’ll win an Oscar for this one.” Somehow I don’t care but I know they’re right. I remember shooting that day and it was the same old story. Chloe was hysterical and screaming on the set between takes while Malcolm kept yelling at me to focus.

Ever notice how alone you feel when you’re walking through crowd of people. You’re not alone but it’s the loneliest place you can think to be. Surrounded. Connected. Alone.

C.  I’m scared. Scared for the one thing I never thought possible. I’m afraid that you’ll come back. Afraid of what it means for us because I want you to. I’m equally afraid that you’ll decide not to return. Grayson tells me this is what true love means. You can not live with or without it peacefully once it takes hold.

It’s around 4 o’clock when the press line has finally ended. The day like the mongers has left me feeling claustrophobic and I tell them I need a bit of air. It’s just an excuse to go outside but it turns into more than that when the valet sells me a gram. It’s hardly little Mary Sunshine when I lick the palm of my hand after doing a line inside the north elevator bay.

Going up is what he said and I said certainly. In this moment I don’t know this man’s name or how many lines we’ve shared before pressing stop on the elevator. It doesn’t matter that I’m in love with Chloe still or that Grayson is in love with me. It only matters that this man wants me and that’s enough right now. After he’s had his mouth between my legs  for five minutes I can’t remember if I cared what he said his name was or if he made me come when I decide that it’s enough. I want out of the elevator without my new friend.

Back in the room I want to tell them that I want to be alone. Alone on this blue Monday with my pills and lines before they issue in another round of the press. I want more than anything just for it all to make sense.

I want this to be Paris.

I want to be wonderful.

I want Chloe to love me the way I love her. She’ll never love me the way she loves herself.

And I can’t live without you. You can come and go. Just do it to me. No one else. I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else. C. I’m alone and I know you’re with someone else who doesn’t care. Looking for what you left here with me. I may have left but you checked out long before. I forgave you a long time ago. Come back.

I pour a double Vodka and take a hit while watching Skyler turn down the bed. He hands me the bottle of Vodka and downs the glass before destroying the fuchsia brilliance that wears me like a glove. His hands tear and press into my ribs and I catch my breath because I can’t get enough. It’s human connection with someone I care about and it sends my heart pounding. It’s been too long and I reach over to kiss him. Skyler lifts my face with his hands and kisses me back slowly before carrying me to bed. I don’t want to go back to sleep. I take another hit then tell him more and motion for the valium. With a shake of his head he hands it to me before leaving the room. I swallow three and chase it with the vodka bottle. I’m not tired… but not waking up wouldn’t bother me in the least. So I chase another line with a few more pills before swallowing the last of the Vodka. And as I let my eyelids fall close I realize it’s still Monday. Another without you.

I’m in the hotel lobby waiting for the elevator. There’s a beautiful woman in a purple dress coming at me. I’m not worried about you when she’s coming. You left again. It doesn’t matter I like getting lost in hotels. It’s too bad you’re gone cause you’d never believe what’s she’s doing cause I can’t believe that she’s doing a line and walking toward me. I ask her to go up and tell her I want to go down. She says yes and I motion her into the elevator. Somewhere around floor three I tell her to give me a hit. By the eighth floor we’ve parked. I’ve taken three dives with her into the pool before going all the way down. She loves it and I’m lost in the folds of her purple dress. We’re going towards it. Her hands pull at my hair and my arms wrap around her legs. I can feel the release coming as her back arches and her hands grip. It’s almost time for her to come up for air when she tells me this is where she gets out. I want to finish but her electric blue eyes stare through me. I can feel her need to go. It’s not that she wants to she has to get out. Desperation. I know that look and wear it well. Another hand between her legs makes her kiss me before releasing the elevator. We stay locked in place until she gets out on the thirteenth floor and I wonder where you went.

Pretty Monet

Garden - Claude Monet (watercolor)

“Hey Pretty Girl!” She tells me this everytime I see her when I’m getting coffee. I always thank her immediately and smile. I did something differently yesterday and humbly said something that I don’t recall. It was different than every other time when she said it because she then asked me, “Why do you say that?”

I told her “Oh I get by” and shook my head with a wink without finishing the thought. Something I commonly do.

She insisted, “But you’re pretty.”

“I don’t think I’m pretty in the traditional sense, to society's standards but I get by with my looks” I insisted.

“Most pretty people, never think that they are,” she pressed back.

I thanked her again and explained that I was teased and bullied when I was a child and adolescent for my appearance, so most days that I’ve spent as an adult, I’m happiest just to get by. Of course when I pull out the stops I love the looks. Complements are always great but like most people I feel awkward receiving them.

“Well never forget how pretty you are,” she tells me and admires my sundress including making me model it for a moment.

Now you mustn’t think me callous or complaining when I press into this one. I’m hardly neurotically insecure or have low self-esteem. I love & spoil myself! I have more confidence & swagger than most of the men I know and sometimes the ego to go with it. Make no mistake I get looks and the attention most women crave. But in all honesty as far as appearances go, I’m a Monet. From a distance, I tend to be considered beautiful or pretty, not at all unattractive, but up close, it’s far from perfection to other people. In addition to crooked teeth and a few other quirks... My skin is flawed, rough, course, textured & scarred. The remnants of childhood acne that you can not take away. Over the counter gimmicks are a waste of time. Cosmetic surgery includes a possibility of permanent skin paralysis/disfigurement. Moisturizer & sunblock are best on any skin!  I wouldn't change this part me so this is something that I’ve learned to live with, love myself more because of it and laugh about it. Why? I'm healthy, happy and grateful to have my loved ones. Appearance is superficial but it goes without saying I love myself and I love the way I look. To me its perfect and I'm beautiful in a unique way that people & society will never get. You wouldn’t notice it, most people don’t. Yes, some people are put off by it. They & their opinions don't matter. I’m not alone in the blemished world, I’m just on the edge of the spectrum where it looks socially acceptable. For other women and teenagers this isn't as easy and they live with a great deal of shame & discomfort. Like others, I am blessed to get by fine with makeup & a bit of good lighting. Again most days I’m happiest to get by with a few looks & what's ups and not draw bad attention. Why? Because although time has allowed me to love myself taking complements is not easy but I'm grateful for them. Flattery will get you everywhere and it's always a highlight of any day! I love it!

But I digressed… this isn’t about moi.

Claude Monet said his greatest achievement was his garden. Others might say it's his paintings. If you’ve ever seen Monet’s garden you would wonder if that’s what he saw when painted it. To explain a little about Monet, you have to understand Impressionism. It’s an art style, descriptive of painting technique where the image is comprised of little tiny dots & textures. Overall it's astonishing that so many little things create such a masterpiece. Yet they do. Often, I've pondered, much like people do of Picasso: did Monet see the world as he painted it? Needless to say he painted masterpieces but it's not the point...

Back to the point being that there are still people that notice the little things in the bigger picture. The point where a kindness is a small gesture of seeing the whole person as the beautiful energy that they are instead the outer shell that will diminish. Back to the point being is that we are all comprised of many pieces. We are all built of small parts and intricate textures that create the ensemble of who and what we are. Other people identify us by them. Some see beauty where we see flaws. Others see flaws where there are none. Ultimately without one or all, altering these pieces we would not be the person that we are today. You can take apart a Monet or look at it up close but you are missing the best part of the painting... The bigger picture. 

The best part of a person is everything that they are. A person who has lived through hardship is a survivor. The experience of enduring leaves marks on the spirit and psyche that you can not erase. Even with brain surgery to remove the memory, you run the risk of losing something important. The scars may not be on the surface but they are still a part of our personality. You can choose to let life affect how you continue, struggle trying to be just what you think people want or you can discover the best parts of who & what you are already and embrace them. Love your family, friends and the people who support & encourage you. Be yourself and change your life, but don't change who you are... You are amazing to so many and not replaceable. 

Maybe you're a Monet? Well, some people are put off by Monet's work or better yet think it's the work of Manet. I think Monet's work is brilliant and beauty profound. Take a look at the garden... Do you think it looks like the painting? Or is the painting a big ol mess? I'll let you decide.

Anyhoo... here's a story about changing because you are dissatisfied with you. It's another excerpt from the novel TIA/The Perspectives. It's a different character Jemma, who is nothing like Inza, she's not old, but not young and still trying to figure out who she is without being too much of everyone else. But we all absorb part of each other indirectly, she's no different. We are all different and exactly the same. I think that is what made her one of my favorites to write.

Enjoy!

Kisses, m. 

Jemma

Mirrors

(posted 9-27-2010)

“Tell me you love me,” she says before gently grabbing my face and placing tiny little kisses on my lips. Delicate soft flits against mine. It’s 6:30 pm and I’m at a reading with the infamous Chloe St. Claire. Model turned actress turned model slash singer turned artist slash humanitarian actress. It’s the TV thing that wasn’t supposed to stay a thing for very long. My three and a half pages have become six pages and soon there will be none. We’re standing side by side with the writers, the actors, the directors, the producers and anyone else who isn’t necessary for participation at a reading. But this is different. Andrew fill-in-the-blank writer extraordinaire has called for a walkthrough reading.

She tells me “I hate how I have to be sad to play a happy character. It’s like lying and telling the truth at the same time. It’s not me.”  

Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. While I’m here reading the pages out loud I wonder what happened to the old celluloid fairytales where love would conquer all in the end. Not like this. A girl is kissing another girl on page 15 while this man watches and then they’re all talking about it over dinner on page 16. At this moment I’m glad it’s Chloe’s turn at reading and not mine, but I keep following along with it anyway. Chloe is in true form the embodiment of the character I’m reading for but she’s already playing this other part like she’s me. I can’t help thinking that she’s better than me. Even when I lean in and kiss her while Andrew whatever-his-name-is, the writer says it’s not working I wonder if it’s my fault.

“How can I be less myself and more like you?” This is what Chloe says over the table when I first met her six months ago.  No one could mistake Chloe for me or vice versa. She’s tall naturally blond sun-kissed and I am an average height brunette without much sun. But she sat in front of me with the very serious question and I just smiled without knowing what to say. It was the first time anyone had ever wanted to be me. Even I didn’t want to be me.

“Mirroring. This is what actors do when they meet someone normal.” Alton explains this to me over lunch one day in the Sunset eight months ago. I’ve just told her I’m moving to LA to be an actress. She’s telling me this warning while wearing my Prada mules and my Chanel jacket with the same color hair and style that I have. Who are you if you aren’t your best friend?  I think that this is what people do when they meet someone new. Steal all the parts they love and copy them until you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. It’s a bit like leaching if you ask me. But no one asks me. You take enough parts and what’s left over isn’t worth anything. If you suck the one you truly love dry in a matter of months then where will you find it next?

Mid lip-lock with Chloe trying to get the scene right for the third time, I’m thinking about how this moment mirrors me and her. She’s no longer blond. Still sun-kissed. My paleness is warmer now and we both have the same length and color of hair. Am I the copy or is she? Her hands move in and she presses hard. More yells this writer. She grabs my waist and holds even longer. I wonder what’s she’s thinking. This has nothing to do with the lines.

So at this moment while Chloe is groping my breasts and Andrew what’s-his-name is screaming for more intensity I realize that she’s really me and I’m pretending to be someone else now. And it doesn’t matter when I wipe her saliva away from my face and he yells, “That’s it! Can you do that with Inza tomorrow?” Because she’s done it. Become me. A better version. And I’ve become someone else. Me with my three pages left, a mere walk on cameo in this TV thing can’t compare to the other person I’ve fallen into. That’s the real version of me, instead of her. That’s mirroring 101.

 “Do you want to come over?” Chloe asks me in the bathroom while doing a line of blow off the counter. I take a tissue and wipe my lips clean before reapplying more color. I’m watching me watch her in the mirror. Every detail down to her eyebrow shape is a slightly accentuated version of mine. There’s nothing original about her. She’s taken my nervous twitch and smile. Pursing her lips that same way I do. Lifting her eyes with the same arch and curve. These little unnoticed pieces are now her. She is me. Standing next to me in the mirror she says she’s impressed with my ability to jump into character after pushing her breasts up in the vintage Gucci halter. I think she’s lying because I need to prepare to be someone else now. But I say ‘why not’ instead of excusing myself.

I think back to the last few days before I left the city and always come back to that moment I met Alton for lunch in the Sunset. She wasn’t saying or acting any differently than she normally would have. In fact I think it was the one time she was most herself. Alton and I were inseparable aside from living arrangements several months earlier. She wasn’t me and I wasn’t her, but we were more the same than different and it could have gone on like that forever. Being me was who she was. I can’t remember the last time I’ve talked with Alton since that day. I can only keep remembering how much she looked like me and talked like me in all the other memories. Stealing my words and my look with the guise of friendship. There’s no real connection without the mirror to remind that you aren’t really you.

It’s a quarter to seven when I wake up at Chloe’s. She already up in mid tree pose and not breathing or concentrating. She’s too busy staring at her picture on the back cover of Entertainment Weekly that’s lying spread out on the foot of the bed. I smile when she breaks position and asks about the freckles on her face being noticeable in the picture. I shake my head while telling her they’re unnoticeable and then try to tell her something about the black and white contrast in the photograph when she picks up the phone and starts dialing. It’s then I decide I need a shower because she’s too busy trying to be her being a better me to listen to me.

Somewhere between the infomercial versions of Price is Right and Let’s Make Deal she’s talking with her assistant about a script adaptation for Dostoevsky that her agent sent over. She keeps sending it back and tells her assistant to call her agent about this problem. I smile and the assistant hits speed dial over the speaker. The conversation isn’t great. Chloe drops three “I fucking don’t want to’s” before ending the call. She throws the oversized script at her assistant before falling into a tantrum. The rant begins and something about her face reveals that she does have freckles. The phone rings again and her agent is on speaker once again. Her assistant hands me a cup of coffee and I start to read the Harpers Bazaar that’s on the table.

It’s fifteen after nine when my phone rings and I decide to leave the scene of dysfunction. Tucking out front door with my heels in hand and phone cradled beneath my neck I whisper into the line.

“Hel-lo.” I serenade into the line while quickly stepping into my shoes.

“Jemma darling, how are things?”

“Wayne Baby! Great.” I forget my place and scream. “Look, the place you set me up with has been fabulous. Thank you again…”

“Look Honey, I need a favor. And I couldn’t just have anyone call you for this?”

“Anything Wayne, you’ve been a…”

“Alex is coming into town today. He’ll be at the airport in four hours. Can you get him?”

“Of course.  I have a fitting in an hour and a half, but I should be able to swing it.”

“Thank you doll. I’m glad you’re enjoying things. Sorry to run, but I have to...”

“Oh. Well of course.”

“Bye Jemma.”

“Kisses. Wayne.”

“Looking in the mirror is never enough.” This is the advice I get from a woman I might call mentor if she wasn’t chain smoking and eating a McDonald’s cheeseburger.  She’s telling me that the “mirror doesn’t tell the truth” while wearing something nameless you might find in a vintage shop in the Haight, although she insists it came from Versace circa 1982. And she keeps telling the wardrobe mistress she’s a 7 not an 11. I want to laugh every time I see her. But she’s right about one thing. The mirror is not your friend.

I’m thinking about the enemies not in the mirror when the wardrobe mistress is fighting with an assistant over another actress’s size. As the wardrobe mistress verbally assaults her entourage the young woman looks uptight and it’s hard to believe she was in that BIG movie last year or on the cover of Glamour this month. I’ve never seen a person look so scared of the truth as the wardrobe mistress pulls a curtain to shut out the enemies not in the mirror.

On my end of the room the pants feel far too tight already. But I’m at a fitting to make them tighter because the physical being of the character hasn’t truly been captured by my performance. As they are fitting me for the next smaller size of pants because this is what “the character” would wear, I realize that it’s how you see things.

Perspective is a way of life, maybe the only way? We all live inside this tiny little image of ourselves. It’s not how they see us at all. That doesn’t matter. It’s only how you see yourself that matters most in the world. “But how can you ever really know who you are if the mirror lies?” it’s what I’m thinking when I must have said it out loud.

“Take a picture.” This tiny little girl with the schedule for shooting whispers and hands me the latest script revision. It’s now three less pages most of which will land me on the cutting room floor. She smiles and leans in again. “Cameras don’t lie. And it’s not the mirror that lies… it’s your mind.”

On my last day in the city I took a bus and then a walk down by the Presidio and ended up by Crissy Fields. There’s this place in the city that I like to go to. It’s past the Marina before you get to Crissy Fields close to the Wave Organ. It’s a corner of earth where nothing looks like anything else. You look at three sides of water and see something different. Along the way there are no real residences unless you live on a sailboat or a yacht. I pass this part of the Marina where Wayne has a friend with a boat. A “somebody” who owned and lived on this boat. Passing. Remembering that it was close to where I went to this party once.

These parties always happened there but this one wasn’t great, filled with people that didn’t like each other like Reggie and Ashton and important people who mattered like Wayne. Adrian was there with me. Things were ok then before we left for there and... Most of the parties weren’t great then but you don’t know that until you’ve left them. That was when the tourists would show up. When things stopped being great the scene tourists always managed to appear. The teenage girls and boy with their Ugg boots, Converse and laced up jeans matched with some dying pieces of Heatherette matched with a laced up tank from Diesel under a vintage bomber jacket produced by Levi Strauss. Elitist brats wasting time and drugs on this party in the Marina for kicks wearing their faux scene clothes trying to imitate the scenesters who were already bored and leaving.

One time at these parties a body was found dead after the tourists arrived and left. The newspaper reports were of multiple rapes and assaults among the children before this body was found drawn and quartered hanging over the side of a boat in a net. A boat that someone who was somebody owned in the Marina. It was the rawest form of survival of the fittest. Baby scenes picking away the competition that looks exactly the same. The whole mess and scandal forced the owner of the boat to sell. There’s a rumor that you can hear the cries of the rape victims and see the pieces of dead flesh floating around in the waters of the Marina. Even in the chill of the breeze the view is spectacular. When I walk alone to the edge of the water I’m almost expecting to hear the screaming voices echoing through the organ.

Everything the same in nature is different without trying. Reflections in the mirror are nothing like the things in nature. Animals don’t have mirrors to see themselves. How can they know what they look like? By looking at each other. It’s in the similarities of each other that animals know what they are. There is no need for begging and borrowing.

“You have to go. I can’t.”

“But you’re….”

“Shh. I can’t be happy for you and let go.”

“Don’t do this. I don’t want to let go.”

“Then don’t. You know I love you.”

“No, I don’t... Tell me you love me.”

Thirty seconds of jaw dropping silence follows the scene. It’s like real-life imitating art, imitating real-life. Inza’s back on set for the shooting and the intensity between her and Chloe is unmistakable as they struggle to break away from the kiss. It’s hard to believe that there’s no love between them. I can see why Chloe misses her. Maybe that’s why I went home with her. There’s just that piece missing in her that wants to be seen. To be loved. The mirror lies. The camera doesn’t.

I’m on a boat to Staten Island with this friend of Andy’s who I’ve only met five hours ago. Being on boats reminds me of Jemma and being in the Marina where those kids killed those other kids playing scene. I need a hit just thinking about killing and Jemma and looking for something in everything. I’ve been everywhere and no where trying to find something in everything. Alex hasn’t been at Andy’s since 4am and doesn’t answer his phone. Someone at Andy’s says he went to LA already. We weren’t leaving until tomorrow night. And I’m still trying to remember what happened when I was losing something somewhere this morning while taking a hit outside of Tiffany’s and what you were doing when the car disappeared. I keep thinking I need some candy to handle this memory that isn’t complete… while I’m ringing up Alex again the view is amazing. I tell this gorgeous woman about the view before she says that I’ll catch up to Alex in a little bit and not to take the candy. After she touches my hair she reminds me that she’s already booked my flight to LA to follow him and we’re just killing time. I like killing time with her it lets me like her smile. We’re talking about things that matter, when she giggles about the whores and Van Gogh instead of blushing like other girls might I know there’s more to this one than meets the eye.