50 Shades of Grey can make a mint selling copy after copy of badly written fictional porn and rather than reading the whole book, I picked up a copy and I wondered about what the mother of the author must have thought the first time she picked up the copy of the manuscript and read it. I applaud E.L. James's bravery at writing a trilogy of some of the most raunchy material that has hit main-stream American bookstands. There have been times in the still, boring afternoons when there feels like there is nothing to do, when I've sat down at my computer and tried to challenge myself with writing about a really detailed raunchy sex romp. Getting only about a couple sentences in I find myself giggling at the prospect of other people reading what I wrote. Especially my parents. How did James do it?
Once, I wrote down a dream I had. The entire dream was so vivid I had to record what had happened, and then: I was so excited about having written something as sensual as I did, that I showed the story to my Mom, only then realizing as she made her comments on the story structure and other details I could have provided, that my Mom had just been privy to the intricate details of a sex dream I had had. AHHH!!
But, where is the line drawn when writing about personal experience? For whatever reason, when sitting in front of my laptop screen and willing myself to go into a recount of a particularly filthy and delicious encounter I've had: I stop. Unable to really let myself get into the details of "'Holy Shit.' She murmured, as he lifted her off her feet and banged her up against the closet door." I begin to giggle and then relive the event in my own head. Naw, I don't need to write that down to share with anyone. I doubt that'll leave my brain anytime soon. Heh heh...
Maybe one day, for the hell of it, I'll just have to get over the idea of the blushing faces of people I grew up with (and who have known me since I was peeing in the bath tub) reading the detailed accounts of fictional (or are they?) actions that are occurring to my characters. Because, honestly, writing (and sharing) about sex and crazy escapades is pretty damn fun. And E.L. James made a mint writing pretty mediocre "She Murmured" dialogue and heavily buttered, oily S&M details.
If anything, I feel inspired to create my own Penny-Dreadful and I don't need to have to meet an incredibly rich, good-looking, CEO to give me stories to write about; just a boring afternoon with nothing to do should suffice...
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Bits of Information
She was sitting on the subway as closed up as she could be. Her wrinkled face sat behind sunglasses that I never feel necessary to wear in the tunnels. She had her small bag in her lap and didn't even look up to see the droves of people walk in to the subway car. I stood over her feeling very tall and large in her presence, and yet humbled by her age. I wondered where she was going. It was incredibly crowded so I didn't pull out my book or look at my phone for fear of falling over onto 5 other people. When my stop came I bent over and grabbed my purple back pack I had laid at my feet. As I bent over I felt keenly aware of how close I was to her, as if all I had to do was purse my lips and I could have kissed her brown forehead. I chanced a glance at her eyes to see if she noticed that in the bustle of the morning human traffic she would notice if a white girl in a bright orange shirt was hovering over her head. I couldn't see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but detected the smallest smile. I smiled back and hurried off the train.
"Hi. I want a tall mocha frappuccino with whipped cream." I looked at the girl with long brown locks, her thick eyebrows raised in a slight smirk that a New York morning could put on anyone's face, especially after waiting in line at a Starbucks for an over-priced sugary drink that was probably her breakfast. Her mid-drift exposed under a floral shirt I had seen on sale at an American Apparel I watched as she shifted her weight back and forth on her pedicured feet as she casually checked her iPhone while waiting for her drink. She walked out without a second glance.
"So, you're telling me that what she is doing is a good thing?! That you support what she's doing? Tell me right now. No. You tell me right now that you think what she's doing in there right now is OK with you!" The couple was standing by the side door of the church on the corner of my block. She looked baffled and flustered, her bright yellow shirt and shorts making her blushing face stand out even more. I rubber-necked as I walked past, not even bothering to conceal my irritation at the scene that was unfolding on the street. The guy was holding the side door open as if ready to run down the steps and stop whatever was going on downstairs, but that all that was holding him back was the minute or two of argument that needed to happen. I made a face to myself knowing that whatever was going on wasn't my business, yet feeling involved despite myself because of the raised voices. He continued to raise his voice in what sounded like a pounding of words attacking the woman with self-doubt and helplessness, like a kid that didn't get his way and therefore decided to yell at the babysitter over a small injustice.
These moments in time throughout my day are moments I recognize and can process within a couple seconds: I don't need to translate them, I don't need to photograph them, in fact as they happen I try to record them and use them later for an improv scene or a sketch or a blog post. I love how this city can provide material even when my head feels empty of anything original.
"Hi. I want a tall mocha frappuccino with whipped cream." I looked at the girl with long brown locks, her thick eyebrows raised in a slight smirk that a New York morning could put on anyone's face, especially after waiting in line at a Starbucks for an over-priced sugary drink that was probably her breakfast. Her mid-drift exposed under a floral shirt I had seen on sale at an American Apparel I watched as she shifted her weight back and forth on her pedicured feet as she casually checked her iPhone while waiting for her drink. She walked out without a second glance.
"So, you're telling me that what she is doing is a good thing?! That you support what she's doing? Tell me right now. No. You tell me right now that you think what she's doing in there right now is OK with you!" The couple was standing by the side door of the church on the corner of my block. She looked baffled and flustered, her bright yellow shirt and shorts making her blushing face stand out even more. I rubber-necked as I walked past, not even bothering to conceal my irritation at the scene that was unfolding on the street. The guy was holding the side door open as if ready to run down the steps and stop whatever was going on downstairs, but that all that was holding him back was the minute or two of argument that needed to happen. I made a face to myself knowing that whatever was going on wasn't my business, yet feeling involved despite myself because of the raised voices. He continued to raise his voice in what sounded like a pounding of words attacking the woman with self-doubt and helplessness, like a kid that didn't get his way and therefore decided to yell at the babysitter over a small injustice.
These moments in time throughout my day are moments I recognize and can process within a couple seconds: I don't need to translate them, I don't need to photograph them, in fact as they happen I try to record them and use them later for an improv scene or a sketch or a blog post. I love how this city can provide material even when my head feels empty of anything original.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Worshipping the Porcelain God.
As I retched the wine into the toilet of the bar I had been drinking at, I felt surpisingly calm. That felt good. A really good purge. I wiped my mouth and looked at my watery eyes in the mirror and drunkenly reflected on my life choices. Then, deciding that the whole reason I was at the bar in the first place was to not reflect on my life choices, I quickly dismissed my dizzy thoughts and tied my now smelly hair back into a pony tail and left the room.
I had been drinking for a few hours now.
I knew that that night would be a bender. I got back from Thailand a few days ago and as my Gym Buddy described it: The coil (that is metaphorically my life) had been pulled tighter and tighter and was now released and life was flopping in all different directions with a huge amount of force that could only be calmed down with time and gravity and alcohol. A few months ago, I wound myself up and sprang from New York like a caged canary and flew across the world and lived like a traveling explorer in the Jungles of South East Asia and I thought and I thought and I reflected and the home I left changed and grew, like New York as a tendency to do, and I came back on a different wave length that the bouncing around had given me, and the tight coil of my life in New York was released and I felt as if I got the full force of that all in a few days. Make sense? Mmmm, maybe I need a drink to figure that out... or not figure it out and forget about it for a while.
I'm not a drinker. So, drinking at full throttle with a full bottle and an empty stomach and a semi-broken heart and an overwhelmed brain and jet-lag led to me yakking into the porcelain bowl within a couple hours.
Thank God. I thought. OK. I'm OK. I've been better. But, I'm OK.
But, what's really the matter? What is the coil that's swinging around? A lot of things. Standing as a principle role and as a bystander to one's life is trippy. I get back and family, my living situation, my career, my future in New York, my sister, my job, and my boyfriend all sprang at once for attention. I was simultaneously impressed (as the bystander) with all I have created and call my identity, and as the lead role I'm experiencing: Ahhhh! I can't handle you all at once, but I have to because I am playing the role of "Natalie" in Natalie: A Life Story. I can't not be the star!
I feel as if I've gone from "I'm moving to Chicago in 6 months" to "I'm going to give up acting and just be a writer" to "I hate you and you and you" to "I love you and you and you" to "I know what I'll do now" to "Oh my god, I feel so overwhelmed by all the choices I have that I can't make one and I want to bury my head in the sand" All in the course of 4 days.
Welcome back from vacation, and welcome to the role of "Natalie," the toilet's on stage right, pillow to cry into is stage left, the self-assured grown-up you're learning to become is staring at you in the mirror as you wipe your watery eyes and calmly wash the vomit from your mouth. Curtain Up.
I had been drinking for a few hours now.
I knew that that night would be a bender. I got back from Thailand a few days ago and as my Gym Buddy described it: The coil (that is metaphorically my life) had been pulled tighter and tighter and was now released and life was flopping in all different directions with a huge amount of force that could only be calmed down with time and gravity and alcohol. A few months ago, I wound myself up and sprang from New York like a caged canary and flew across the world and lived like a traveling explorer in the Jungles of South East Asia and I thought and I thought and I reflected and the home I left changed and grew, like New York as a tendency to do, and I came back on a different wave length that the bouncing around had given me, and the tight coil of my life in New York was released and I felt as if I got the full force of that all in a few days. Make sense? Mmmm, maybe I need a drink to figure that out... or not figure it out and forget about it for a while.
I'm not a drinker. So, drinking at full throttle with a full bottle and an empty stomach and a semi-broken heart and an overwhelmed brain and jet-lag led to me yakking into the porcelain bowl within a couple hours.
Thank God. I thought. OK. I'm OK. I've been better. But, I'm OK.
But, what's really the matter? What is the coil that's swinging around? A lot of things. Standing as a principle role and as a bystander to one's life is trippy. I get back and family, my living situation, my career, my future in New York, my sister, my job, and my boyfriend all sprang at once for attention. I was simultaneously impressed (as the bystander) with all I have created and call my identity, and as the lead role I'm experiencing: Ahhhh! I can't handle you all at once, but I have to because I am playing the role of "Natalie" in Natalie: A Life Story. I can't not be the star!
I feel as if I've gone from "I'm moving to Chicago in 6 months" to "I'm going to give up acting and just be a writer" to "I hate you and you and you" to "I love you and you and you" to "I know what I'll do now" to "Oh my god, I feel so overwhelmed by all the choices I have that I can't make one and I want to bury my head in the sand" All in the course of 4 days.
Welcome back from vacation, and welcome to the role of "Natalie," the toilet's on stage right, pillow to cry into is stage left, the self-assured grown-up you're learning to become is staring at you in the mirror as you wipe your watery eyes and calmly wash the vomit from your mouth. Curtain Up.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Betrayal.
Is thinking about Betrayal constructive, or destructive?
I guess from my perspective: It's a constructive thought, to a certain point.
Betrayal is not all black and white. Betrayal could be the horror at knowing a best friend told a deep dark secret, or when an ally isn't at the "meet up point" at the crucial time, or when a lover doesn't return your attempts at contact. There are small betrayals everywhere, all the time, if one looks at life that way: the "I thought I could make that street light and didn't." or "What do you mean you have no more chocolate croissants?" or "I can't believe this ATM is charging me $3.50!" Small betrayals can exist in everyday life, but mostly after the first shock of the experience, one lets that go. Oh, well. Guess today wasn't my lucky day. I think obsessing over how the universe is out to get you because the route you take to get to the train has a construction site on it and you have to take another route, is destructive.
The other bolder, badder betrayals: the ones involving someone else going against your once established trust to do something different, I think, are the ones that could be constructive to think about.
I had a dream last night my Best Friend got up and told a room full of my peers that I had slept with someone I shouldn't have. I was mortified. I started screaming in rage, I was the laughing stock of the room and I felt so helpless in my agony over the idea that the person I trusted top-secret information with went and publicly humiliated me. I woke up with my jaw clenched and my body rigid, like I had just been beaten and was bracing for blows. What a dream to have! That's awful. I would never trust that friend with important information again. I lay away in my jet-lagged, early morning drowsiness and reflected on where in my body I felt the anguish of the betrayal. My heart. What does that mean to wake up to such a tremendous amount of adrenaline and horror on such a beautiful Summer morning in New York? Who knows. Probably not much. That dream was not even rank-able in terms of "think ability" because it was all a drama played out by chemicals in my brain as I dreamt.
Betrayal is scary. It's a fear our inner selves feel from time to time. It's a reminder that the world we live in is never as predictable and safe as we want or believe it could be. I mean, living in fear of it is not something I recommend. That's destructive. But, when a lover doesn't respond to contact attempts and all but falls off the face of the earth... then what? Imagination is the playmate of a break in the norm. scenarios get created and reasons for this and that become established as a brain frantically tries to make sense of the chaos. Real reasons exist: Imagination can come up with a million and more. But, the facts that a person once trusted is no longer meeting your expectations is rough, and an aspect of relationships in the Human experience that no one wants to be a victim to. Thinking about it can be constructive as a coping mechanism. Dwelling on it can be destructive.
Well, the dream made me thoughtful if nothing else... Betrayal is a juicy subject to hear about, but a nasty one to experience.
I guess from my perspective: It's a constructive thought, to a certain point.
Betrayal is not all black and white. Betrayal could be the horror at knowing a best friend told a deep dark secret, or when an ally isn't at the "meet up point" at the crucial time, or when a lover doesn't return your attempts at contact. There are small betrayals everywhere, all the time, if one looks at life that way: the "I thought I could make that street light and didn't." or "What do you mean you have no more chocolate croissants?" or "I can't believe this ATM is charging me $3.50!" Small betrayals can exist in everyday life, but mostly after the first shock of the experience, one lets that go. Oh, well. Guess today wasn't my lucky day. I think obsessing over how the universe is out to get you because the route you take to get to the train has a construction site on it and you have to take another route, is destructive.
The other bolder, badder betrayals: the ones involving someone else going against your once established trust to do something different, I think, are the ones that could be constructive to think about.
I had a dream last night my Best Friend got up and told a room full of my peers that I had slept with someone I shouldn't have. I was mortified. I started screaming in rage, I was the laughing stock of the room and I felt so helpless in my agony over the idea that the person I trusted top-secret information with went and publicly humiliated me. I woke up with my jaw clenched and my body rigid, like I had just been beaten and was bracing for blows. What a dream to have! That's awful. I would never trust that friend with important information again. I lay away in my jet-lagged, early morning drowsiness and reflected on where in my body I felt the anguish of the betrayal. My heart. What does that mean to wake up to such a tremendous amount of adrenaline and horror on such a beautiful Summer morning in New York? Who knows. Probably not much. That dream was not even rank-able in terms of "think ability" because it was all a drama played out by chemicals in my brain as I dreamt.
Betrayal is scary. It's a fear our inner selves feel from time to time. It's a reminder that the world we live in is never as predictable and safe as we want or believe it could be. I mean, living in fear of it is not something I recommend. That's destructive. But, when a lover doesn't respond to contact attempts and all but falls off the face of the earth... then what? Imagination is the playmate of a break in the norm. scenarios get created and reasons for this and that become established as a brain frantically tries to make sense of the chaos. Real reasons exist: Imagination can come up with a million and more. But, the facts that a person once trusted is no longer meeting your expectations is rough, and an aspect of relationships in the Human experience that no one wants to be a victim to. Thinking about it can be constructive as a coping mechanism. Dwelling on it can be destructive.
Well, the dream made me thoughtful if nothing else... Betrayal is a juicy subject to hear about, but a nasty one to experience.
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