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.

Sneak Peek: Cheap

“A phony, a copycat and a thief is still a phony, a copycat and a thief asleep, awake or in their dreams. 

You can steal words, hearts and dreams but that won't make you anymore real or in love. 

You are inauthentic like the cheap lipstick you claim is expensive and the pills you're addicted to claiming they're for your health. 

It's all for vanity you cheap cigarette smoking girl child. 

The pills, the lipstick, and the lies you're telling him so you can break his heart. 

Grow up into the mature woman you need to be. 

Being inauthentic isn't something you can wash off like red painted-on lipstick. But you can wear it well and keep pretending you enjoy being a cliché.” 

Grayson Cane - The Inauthentic Life 

Quality Time

This doll's favorite time spent is with her favorite Ken but now and again she does love to get some time in alone and encourages Ken to do the same! How about you dolls and kens? Ever spend some quality time with the most important person in your life? Who? YOU! Well, do you constantly surround yourself with people or spend some time alone with yourself? Being alone is never a bad thing. It's not the solitude that is frightening you. Perhaps it is the loneliness? You never know unless you try it! The basic premise of being alone: Learn to Love and Appreciate yourself for all the little quirks and wonderful things and you’ll have company forever. In order to give this immense treasure of love and compassion to others you have to appreciate where it comes from and make great efforts to replenish it. As humans we aren't meant to keep our love in or give it all outward. There is no need to fear the absence of affection. Love is an infinite thing that lives within you. You can only suffer without by your own choosing. Be kind, be generous and your love will go far. 

This excerpt is from The Inauthentic Life/The Persepectives. I'm currently in the middle of writing on it again and hopefully will be ready to publish someday. 

Enjoy!

Kisses, m. 

Alone Time

(8-13-2010)

The world is alone.

I wonder if they know they are alone.

Even driving through the night feels alone.

The reds make me come and go.

The people come and go.

A new one every night.

The air tonight is very warm.

Even with the convertible down the heat is considerable.

I wonder if he knows that this is my only trick.

My only piece de resistance.

Magic is nothing more than a slight of hand.

Behind the ear. In the hand.

In my mouth. Actually I’m in his.

There’s nothing like night driving down the highway with the top down and…

“What happens after tomorrow,” this is what she asks while playing with her hair.

“I don’t know. Adrian will probably be here.”

“Adrian? Why the fuck is he coming here?”

“Because I left him in New York yesterday, at 4am in front of Tiffany’s for breakfast.”

“You didn’t!” she giggles and rolls over in the bed.

“I did. Do me a favor?” I play the coy smile game with her.

“Anything.”

“Don’t tell him you saw me.”

“What makes you think he’ll stop by? He left a gram six months ago and hasn’t been back since.”

She gets up, walks across the room naked and dances her way into the bathroom. She emerges and produces a tiny object. I smile and tell her that he’s ridiculous. She agrees and gets back in bed. It’s just like old times and I’m with Adrian’s girl.

Sometimes when there’s trouble I wonder what Adrian’s doing. I can’t imagine him not being in trouble. But this isn’t about him. It’s only about trouble even though I can’t stop thinking about him.

Carlos has a handbag full of MAC cosmetics in the backseat. The wind from the drive keeps whipping the bag around. It seems to be alive in the backseat. The radio has a quiet somber song on it that reminds me of Pink Orange Red by the Cocteau Twins. There’s not really any other noise in the car. I’m completely alone. It’s only when he moves more than slightly that I’m reminded differently. A feeling I don’t want to stop and can only encourage it by a sound or touch.

Jemma James. This is her stage name. I tell her I hate it and how it reminds me of that porn star and… “HONEY!” It’s the first thing I said when she met me at LAX. When she was standing there with her long dark hair. Before taking off her sunglasses. Before running and screaming at me. I miss Jemma. It’s been too long.

The drive back to her place is longer than I thought it would be. I can’t get over the way she looks. I tuck her dark hair behind her ear and she turns her smiling face to look at me. But I can’t see it because her sunglasses eat up her little face. Jackie O and Audrey should’ve been shot for wearing those things.

“You look good.” I tell her and touch her cheek.

“So do you… how’s living alone?”

“I’m adjusting. It’s not the same without you and our midnight manicures.”

“Oh honey, I miss you too. But you know… and this is what I want. Tonight we’ll have some fun together.”

“Speaking of what you want, how’s the J-O-B thing going?”

“I’m working, because I’m fabulous of course. There’s a couple of TV things and then there’s…”
“TV! Really, I’m sorry I don’t watch.”

“Alex, listen there’s a thing I have to do in two days, so you can’t… I can only put you up tonight.”

“Not a problem.”
She keeps driving like a maniac. There’s so much traffic that I forget how I’m still touching her face until she touches my hand and moves it away with a smile.

“Relax we’re almost there…”

The light is red when we approach the intersection. I move him away and start to negotiate the final direction to the house. Wayne has made the arrangements for tonight. Tonight feels like home. Even pulling into the gates of this house that isn’t mine feels right at home.

Wayne makes things happen. I let them happen. Adrian happens.

But this is me getting ahead of myself. Before the facts, the fiction and whatever in between. Before you can go back home you have to have been somewhere else.

The night started with a drive and destination. It started with a phone call for nothing that I made after the one I made to Wayne because he makes things happen. Calling for nothing but trouble is when I met up with Carlos which is what happened before I ended up with a place that feels like home. It’s a place where your best friend isn’t an actress with a porn star name, a script to read and “alone time” for character building.

Alone time. I swear she says this is what it’s called. And she swears “I’m not making this up” then smiles with her teeth showing.  Jemma tells me as we are going 75 miles down the freeway that she needs “alone time” to get into her character. This is why I can’t stay for more than one night. I remember when “alone time” meant you needed to masturbate.

“Does it work that way for women?” She turns red when I posture the question.

“I suppose getting into character is like self pleasure.”

“Explain. I have to know how rubbing one out compares to getting into character.”

“You have to be able to feel good about playing with this person’s head before you get into it.”

Interrupting our discussion about masturbation for the mind…There it is. Waving blue and red colors. Sounds like an anthem, blaring like an alarm. A public alarm that makes sure everyone around knows you’re getting publicly flogged. It happens as my mind drifts to visualize one of my oldest friends spending “alone time” with herself and I’m shockingly enjoying it. Maybe it was the porn star name that has my mind in the gutter or it’s the thought of what I might be doing when I am alone that triggers it? Anyway it just happens and then the sound interrupts my thought although it doesn’t interrupt her driving. I feel as though I’ve been caught with my pants down and my hand in the goods. But she keeps going until I tell her to stop.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” This is what the officer says. 70 miles is what Jemma says instead of 75. He has a face like a man from a porno about cops I once watched. I wonder if it’s him. They say: “Everybody is somebody in L.A.” Maybe he will look the other way like the man in the movie did after a few minutes in the backseat. But the officer isn’t very friendly about it. Even though he doesn’t sound or look like a real officer he is. This isn’t a porno and he won’t let you tell him about it in the backseat. He tells her 65 is what is posted and that anything else above that is breaking the law. Jemma says she’s never been stopped as he walks away with her license. She looks like she wants to cry. I smile and tell her about the porno cop so it’s ok. But it isn’t. Even though the thought of it is ridiculous he will give her a ticket for speeding that she will have to pay. And seventy doesn’t sound like or look like a real word even when you say it out loud or think about it.

Carlos is a friend of a friend whose name escapes me but we met at a party in Beverly Hills last year. He said he was 21 and I’m pretty sure his fake ID agreed but he was 18 with a bad lisp and amazing teeth. At the party he managed to go home with my nameless friend but not before telling me to “Call when you come back to town.” So I did and it’s instantly trouble but at least I have a car to drive. A tacky Lebaron convertible. He says he will blow me if I drive with him to Venice to pick up some Weed. I don’t care for Venice, Weed or Carlos but Jemma says that I should stay but not with her and I have time to waste.

When we get back to Jemma’s I’m convinced that she’s not living here. There’s hardly any furniture in her Spanish bungalow. It seems a bit ostentatious as she heads into the bedroom. She tells me about random celebrity sightings and that the Chateau is down the street. I don’t know what it means when people talk about celebrities but I do know about that place and it isn’t where I want to be tonight. This place isn’t her. I wish she’d take it off. Maybe later she’ll will.

“Jem, darling how can you afford this?”

“Alex. My agent. Don’t worry about it.”

“Is this where you lived with…?”

“Yes, it is. How is he?”

“A mess.”

“Lovely. Just lovely. Do you want dinner in or out?”

“Out. Then in for the night, please.”

“Oh honey! You’ve missed me.”

“Yes, and I want you all to myself.”

By the time I’ve finished saying it she’s already stark naked and wandering the place. I’m making the face of shock when it should not be.

“Oh honey, you forgot about naked Tuesdays.”

“So I did. Should I participate?”

“Jump in.”

Venice is trouble the way you find out the person you’re with is shoplifting. It’s too late to stop it, but you don’t want anyone to find out what just happened. Venice involves a tiny little house and a thirty minute wait. It’s already dark when Carlos runs out screaming, “DRIVE!” so I do. After we’ve cleared the corner, the street and thirteen more blocks he tells me he just stole this guy’s stash. Then there’s so much more I don’t want to know or be involved with on the news. Selling buying trading where he’s a commodity and it doesn’t matter who. He didn’t know that man in Venice. That man with a gun in Venice. That man with a gun whose stash he just stole in Venice after deciding not to uphold his end of the arrangement. I pull over because I need a hit then I tell him we need a new car now.

Its perfect timing when we pull up to this Enterprise rental slash dealership because Wayne calls me. Tells me to call up his housekeeper in the hills. She has the code to his place and will give me directions. I nod and smile even though he can’t see it. I tell him I need a car, he says go to the house. I tell him thank you like he’s granted me salvation. I want to cry. Maybe he can hear it in my voice because he tells me “I’ll see you in a few days” before hanging up. This is going home. I’m almost home. Carlos feels bad when we get back in the car. I take out some reds. I need to check out. I don’t care if he feels bad. I tell him this is my “alone time” and he can figure out how to make it up.

It is late afternoon. In the middle of the room I’m lying awake by my sleeping soundly best friend when Spandau Ballet comes out of the clock. It’s same old Jemma and her lovely sad music. I can’t help wanting a line before she rolls over. But I don’t. This is nice and I really shouldn’t. She smiles when rolling over into my arms and I kiss her forehead.

“Good morning honey.” She moons like I’m her lover instead of her faggot friend.

“Hey stranger it’s afternoon.”

“Still bothered?”

“Hmm…”

“Remember I know you silly.”

“I’m ok. Would you get mad if… Nevermind.” I really want a line but I won’t.

“Tell me why you would leave Adrian in New York.”

“He’s fine. It’s not like that. He’s not alone. He’s with my… my…”

“Honey. Who?”

“Andy. He’s… someone to me. It’s new? He’s watching Adrian. Look, I don’t know what it all means yet.”

She smiles, plays with her hair and leaves things alone before getting up and into the shower.

Somewhere before I turn onto the highway I tell Carlos he’s coming with me to the house. I’m not stopping again tonight. It’s the only thing I said before he decides he’s going to make it up to me. At first I was mad and ignored his efforts by turning up the radio. Then the reds kick in and nothing matters anymore. The night is warm. The world is alone. And I’m almost home.

“Lunch in L.A. is how you get seen.” This is according to Jemma according back to someone famous who once said it. I can’t say I agree with her, but she’s a lot of fun to listen to sometimes. Even when she isn’t being herself and saying things like this. At this point we are dining in the midst of it all. I really don’t know what or why but apparently the waiter is sleeping with some director who just made 10 million opening day at the box office which isn’t very good or is it in the end. I can’t keep up with the jargon or words of this scene when she orders a chopped salad and a bottle of white wine. When I say “for lunch?” she makes a sad face and says “seen” with finger quotes. Then I realize my god that’s what Adrian does. It’s then I head to the bathroom for some “alone time” and do the line because lunch at a place named after a plant can’t possibly get you a part in a film. Can it? It’s only 45 minutes after we say our goodbyes that I wonder if we’re really going to see each other again before Friday.

At JFK there’s a man in the terminal taking numbers. I can’t imagine why he keeps taking numbers. I should ask someone but I don’t. It’s sometime between lunch and dinner that I finally get a flight to L.A. Andy’s friend has a connection, but I still can’t reach Alex. I need a hit. There’s a man in a uniform watching me try to take a hit and miss. I don’t care and stare at the man taking numbers again. He doesn’t look like a cop. But he could be. Wayne is back in town and I’m thinking of calling Alex again, but Andy’s friend comes back and she has my ticket. I can’t remember her name but she’s beautiful. I love talking to her about art and Van Gogh. She works at the Met and has a place in Brooklyn. I never met a girl that looked this and talked like this. She tells me I don’t need the candy or Alex. Smiles and tells me to stay in New York. I want to stay but my flight leaves in 45 minutes. She touches my hand and says we have time for other things and that there’s always a later flight. I don’t care about Alex anymore and I forgot about wherever you went two days ago.