Don't Judge Me

This isn't it.  This is merely the prelude to the earth-shattering genius  that will eventually become evident here.  I haven't sorted those details out yet, but when I do, it's gonna be HUGE!

So don't even begin deliberating yet.  I'm just clearing my head... making my entrance... giving the opening band a chance to play.

It's all just brewing...

When stupidity finds confidence..

I remember many times when I was younger thinking I could do anything... could fool anyone... could get away with whatever I wanted.  And most of those times I was under the influence of one thing or another.  

One beautiful September day in the early 90's, I remember trying mushrooms with several friends who were mushroom "veterans".  They had promised to walk me through the whole experience and were fully equipped with the perfect snacks an beverages for such an occasion.  So we set up our blankets and backpacks on a quiet stretch on Jones Beach and began chewing some foul-tasting fungus... with Cool-Ranch Doritos to mask the flavor.

It was a rough start.  Things started to warp pretty quickly.  Before long, I was laying flat on my back melting into the sand overwhelmed by the clouds, which were enormous and appeared to be breathing.  They were covered in an elaborate network of colorful veins that pulsed to the same rhythm as the breathing.  It was too much.  I became claustrophobic and started to panic. 

Luckily, the veterans came to my aid.  They helped sit me up, gave me some cold water and talked me through the images.  And soon I was feeling a little clearer.  This was phase two.  I was beginning to feel quite good now.  Everything was vivid and technicolor, but now I was on board and in on the whole thing.  Empowered even.  And as a matter of fact, I was ready to take a walk and interact and just enjoy my day.  Besides, I really needed to pee.  So I ventured over to the boardwalk to see what the rest of civilization was doing in their mundane, pastel little lives.

Well, the rest of civilization also had to pee.  So I waited in line.  And as I waited, I stood there thinking my profound amazing thoughts and appreciating all the brilliant details and colors that only I could see.  And then I paused to take a little pride in just how "normal" I could be in the midst of my mushroom trip.  No one would ever guess.  After all, I'm just this sweet-looking young girl at the beach.  Not freaking out or laughing uncontrollably or hyperventilating.  Well, not now anyway.  "I'm totally composed," I remember thinking with pride.

But my happy train of though was interrupted by the woman standing in line in front of me.  She had cleared her throat rather loudly and was staring at me.  What was her problem?  What was she all out of sorts about on such an spectacular day at the beach?  She looked pretty normal.  She had a pretty silk shirt on, I noticed.  And then I noticed a hand on the sleeve of her shirt.  Fingers just rubbing along the silkiness of the sleeve.  A dainty little wrist.  My friendship bracelet.... my bracelet... wait, my bracelet.  My hand.  Me.  Fondling a perfect stranger in line for the ladies room at the Jones Beach boardwalk while.

Seconds earlier, I thought I was enlightened.  Go figure.

My own little neverland

Tonight, with a pounding headache and the very last of my energy, I trudged over to the dryer to pull out the clothes before they crinkled into an unrecognizable, unfoldable mess.  There's nothing fun about remembering clothes in the dryer just as you're about to relax.

Or is there?

I opened the dryer to find a little puff of fairy dust shimmering all around me.  Or maybe it was dragon dust... I don't know which of my kids it came from.  But for a moment, it really felt magical to have the air around me glimmering and sparkling.  And I have to say, that I've had a good number of magical moments like these since I've had kids.  They just breathe newness and intrigue into everything.

Ok, so sometimes it's a sticky, old lozenge or, worse yet, silly putty, but I'm up for surprises.  I love the surprises.  I love having my chores interrupted by fairy dust!

Damage Control

I don't care what they say, I still won't shop at Walmart.  

I don't believe they've turned over a new leaf.  I guess I have to be happy that they've jumped on the "green" bandwagon, but really, does anyone really believe that it's something more than an image revamp?  Ok, so the impact is still there.  The message will still get out (but not without a gigantic Walmart trademark whenever possible).   And it must mean that the documentaries and the boycotts are creating some positive shifts, but those ad campaigns of theirs are so manipulative.  It reminds me of that thing I read about a couple of years ago about the tobacco companies... spending a few hundred thousand dollars on some charitable campaign or research, I can't remember which, and then spending millions and millions publicizing that "good deed".

Sorry, Walmart, you're going to have to do better than that... and then keep doing it...

Slow Mo(tiva)tion

I can't sleep.  Every now and then I'm just overwhelmed by the feeling that if I could just conquer these demons, fight the good fight, say what needs to be said, learn to say "no" more often, learn to say "yes" more often, eat more green vegetables, kick the sugar habit, laugh at fear, take more long walks, watch more good movies and less crappy TV, do more yoga, spend more time dancing, cook exotic meals, paint, let my kids lead the way, learn guitar, pick up and just go, and just maybe finish some of the damn things that I start... I'd be a freakin' legend.  

Really.   I think it's possible.

I could use a drink

Or maybe not a drink, because I'm not really good at drinking.  Maybe a cupcake.

Maybe some real sleep with absolutely no reason to wake up at any particular time.

Maybe some time to wander in the city with no schedule and no particular place to be.

Maybe just a few days to paint and listen to music and maybe have lunch with a girlfriend.

Maybe a few hours uninterrupted.

Maybe some time to completely forget about the dishes in the sink and the laundry that needs to be done.

A good movie could be a start.

A massage would be nice.

A haircut even.

Or just enough to shower, put on make-up and find an outfit I really like.

No, no... I don't want to be that girl.  Give me the painting and the music and the wandering in the city.  Screw the make-up.

And I'll take that drink.

Sean Penn is one of my Angels

Which is funny, since I think I've heard him describe heaven as a place with drugs and hookers.

And yet he's popped up at various points in my life and moved and inspired me, gave advice, recommended books, made me angry, made me cry, laugh... reminded me to be alive in new or forgotten ways.

I watched "Into the Wild" last night and he did it again.  Newly kinetic parts of me today driving me to live in all different directions.  Don't get me wrong.  He's not the only one.  Not even the biggest one.  Or close.  My husband and children rock my world.  But Sean Penn is inspiration I'm willing to share.  Everyone has some kind of access to him and should take advantage of at least some of what he's putting out there for us.

I first saw him when I was 15 years old in Franklin, Tennessee.  I had heard that a movie was being shot nearby and it sounded much more exciting than the Green Hills Mall, so I went.  It was the set of "At Close Range" - the first movie set, the first celebrity I'd seen close up.  Well, I once saw Andy Warhol cross the street, and Susan Lucci lived in my town growing up... my dad says we once saw Bette Davis walk into a liquor store when I was tiny... but they were just sightings.  I got to stand around a giggle with my girlfriend for this one.  Christopher Walken was there, too, but as a culturally bankrupt Tiger Beat reading Duran Duran fan, I had no idea who he was.  Chris Penn was in Footloose, so I knew him.  But Sean, he was with Madonna.  He was the one.

And he seemed pretty unfriendly.  And he sent someone over to ask us to leave.  "You're distracting the actors," they told us.

Ten years later,  I sat outside a little Italian place by my apartment in Greenwich Village with my best friend, Beth, sharing a pasta dish because we were poor and having a glass of red wine because we weren't that poor.  A few guys and a transparently thin blonde girl sat at the table next to us. They were behind Beth, so she couldn't see them.  But apparently she could feel one of them push his chair too close to hers, because she very pointedly adjusted her seat and cleared her throat to make sure that he knew he was imposing on her personal space.  And just as I was saying, "You've got to check out hair on the guy across from me," the gentleman behind her turned to see who was giving him a little shove.  It was Tim Robbins.  And Sean was the guy with the hair.  That pompador from "Dead Man Walking".  Gary Oldman and some other guy I didn't recognize were also at the table.  And the skinny blonde.  

We eavesdropped, but it was hard to hear.  They were talking about their "dream" girls.  I think Tim Robbins said Raquel Welsh (which happens to be the first poster he has in "Shawshank Redemption").  The guy we couldn't recognize said Anna Nicole Smith.  And then there was something about mushroom trips?... or maybe it was mushroom sauce.  I don't know.  

I passed Sean on the street a few days later and stuck my tongue out at him.

And about a week after that, I was sitting outside at one of the mediocre cafes on MacDougall Street reading a book and waiting for my vanilla milkshake to arrive.  And for some reason I knew he was nearby.  I turned around to look, and there he was across the street.  And as soon as I saw him, he saw me.  We smiled the smiles of people who keep running into each other.  I waved him over, and to my surprise, he came and sat across from me.  

He was coming from (or going to) a birthday party for one of Tim Robbin's kids.  My milkshake arrived and I offered him some.  He said it looked good, but declined.  He asked my name, and then asked how I spelled it.  I asked him about books he liked and he told me to read Charles Bukowski.  I asked him how old he was (34 or 35, I forget which) and what I had to look forward to.  His expression told me to anticipate some suffering but that I would survive.  I asked about his children and the look on his face when he spoke of them made me want to lean over and kiss him.  But I didn't.  Instead, I reminded him that he'd acted like a jerk when I'd seen him 10 years earlier and he apologized.  "I was kind of in a bad way at the time."

He advised me not to have a child with someone I wasn't planning to spend my life with, which I'd been considering.  He laughed when I asked about Madonna.  He was, you know, nice.

I saw him a couple of times after that.  Once I was walking with a guy I hardly knew, who was going on and on about celebrities in Manhattan, and was mortified to look up and see him just a few feet away and easily within earshot.  He'd just had his hair cut and looked more himself again and I told him so.  Another time, just walking down the street to our respective apartments.  He had a friend with him, I think his name was Joe, and it was weird.  So I left.

I half expected to see him again at 35, but it never happened.  But there are the movies, and the appearances on The Colbert Report and that actor's studio show.  I did read some Bukowski. Loved the raw and unapologetic writing.  But toxic.  I picked up Tales of Ordinary Madness while I was pregnant and had to put it down.  I was afraid I'd have angry children.  I see things in the news... was happy to see him win awards, sad when he and Robin almost split.  Sadder still when his brother died.

And he's way over there somewhere.  Living his life.  Doing his thing.  And I'm way over here. And I'm 99.99% sure that I still would have married the right guy and had these gorgeous children and been happy and fulfilled regardless; but sometimes when I see one of his movies, I think maybe he helped me along.