raison d'être.

College feels like a million miles away. It feels so far that it nearly feels like it didn't happen, or barely happened. I don't remember it. I didn't drink heavily. I didn't party hard. Sometimes I'm shocked by the amount of "doing" that I just didn't. I went to class; I auditioned for one play (and got so embarrassed by forgetting my monologue that I dropped out of the theater school entirely); I wrote for the Daily Iowan; I hosted a weekly radio show for three years on KRUI 89.7. I  called it "The Early Morning Airstrike."

Higher education — it's supposed to be this time of self-discovery, learning, adventure, finding out what you're good at, trying things — but I don't really think I did those overarching things. I was busy doing this and then that, creating friendships that when looked at closely these days aren't all that close (at least not anymore). Both of my college roommates ended up in Los Angeles post graduation, yet we seldom get together. It's no ones specific fault. We just lead different lives, have different interests, different priorities. We're different, after all. When I really think about it, it's unbelievable that we've made it this far because we are so different.

This time last year, I was just ending a sub-chapter back in a University setting. I was behind a desk, working in an office, watching students linger outside classrooms, skateboard past signs that say "No Skateboarding," and wear business suits as an assignment — And now a full year after that, I'm left wondering, where did it all go? Even if you're in the same decade, it's unbelievable how different a 20-year-old is from a 29-year-old. The incremental change each day of those 365 days from 29 to 30 hits you the day before your birthday. It isn't incremental at all. And now that keep hitting these painful numbers, it feels like I've somehow moved further away from something rather than toward something else. I don't think I'll ever feel my age again. Maybe when I'm 80. By then my hips, knees and eyes won't let me skip past the truth like they do now.

I'm not old. I'm not. I'm really not. But, I feel old. I feel left behind. I have this overwhelming sense that my life is passing me by. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Like I didn't just waste a couple decades. It seems that for most people their job is where they find their satisfaction, their reason to be, "raison d'être." And as a performer, it's tough to know that my career is somewhat in the hands of others. Yes, I can create my work — I can write for myself — I can join teams and perform shows, and so on, and on, and on; I can do all of these things, and that is amazing. But what does it matter if no one sees it. If no one thinks it's good enough to pay for. Where is my worth? I have so much control, but what is control anyway?

Google defines it as "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events." But this is only a half definition to me. Control can direct, sure, but when you're out of control there is also a direction, and it's not always down. The relationship between control and success is a lie.

I have so much less "control" than I think. I can do what I can to direct the course of my life, but life will do what it wants, and other people in their lives are doing the same, and my life will intersect with theirs, and there will be "right time and right place," and then the less popular, but more common, "wrong time and wrong place," followed by the confusing, "wrong time and right place," and then of course, the ever frustrating "right time and wrong place." If we're looking at life as a Punnett Square based on life situations: Time and Place as the main variables — "right time and right place" accounts for just 25 percent of what life hands you, the rest, darlings, is unfortunately 75 percent the mismatching of everything else. We cannot control time. So inevitably control is for nothing.

If I want to make any money at my creative craft, that alleged control I love to have so much, goes to the birds. Others write my paycheck. It's incredibly tough.

Where does that leave me?

It leaves time as the constant variable that won't allow itself to be controlled.

Willows

I like them when they fall down
like weeping willows
They’re crisp and together at the same time
as being
wispy, faint, there and then gone

Crackle down the barrel
of a gun
But not a gun gun.
A finger lost
A holiday to remember

I like them when they fall down
like bodies
like Tina Turner’s 80s hair
like everything and then nothing.

Happy Birthday America
You did it.

summer violence.

when the sheets
crumble
beneath your sweating body
damp

ugh—
how gross is that word?

but that's all it—

you're cut off—

it's just a bit of moisture

sick, i said stop.

what?
...moisture?
moisture. moisture. moisture.

pushed to the ground
crumble
why don't you just buy a fan
you dumb motherfucker?

Life is Long.

I hurt easy, I just don't show it

You can hurt someone and not even know it

The next sixty seconds could be like an eternity

-bob dylan, "things have changed"

Life is long. It is so long. I get it, "if you don't stop and look around once and a while, you'll miss it." Whatever, Ferris. I challenge you to think this instead — "if you don't look around and reflect and think about the future, you'll live your life without feeling the pressure of how daunting it is." 

Life is long. It is so long. I often forget about just how fucking long it is. There are full days I have no recollection of, there are full years I am told I lived. There are moments that last forever, days that won't end and feelings that never fade. Life is so long. It is so long.

It's so long that it stresses me out. Simply continuing to exist is this huge burden sometimes. It's a huge burden because there are so many instances to fuck it up. Every moment is a moment you can wreck everything you've worked for. Split seconds, that's what we get to make decisions that effect this whole long life. This incredibly long life.

You can fuck up your body, you can fuck up your mind, you can ruin someone else's life, you can taint the world with your very existence. There are so many opportunities to wreck everything, and it just seems like the bad far outweighs the good sometimes.

And, it's not fair. It's not fair how easy it is to destroy everything.

Even something as simple as weight gain or loss. Someone eats a hamburger, slurps a milkshake, they skip a work out, take the bus instead of ride a bike — our bodies suffer the consequences. Then someone eats a salad, drinks a glass of water, hits the gym, and rides a bike on their way there — our bodies are better for it, but you have to do that 10-1. What unfair odds.

I think of Adam Sandler in one of my favorite films, Big Daddy, as he chats with his new 5-year-old friend about eating. He makes the insanely accurate, and thus hilarious comment, "I drink a milkshake and my ass jiggles for like a week."

This life is so long, and lopsided. People remember the bad things said about them, they gloss over the good. You do it. I do it. Let's call an apple an apple.

Why do we do this? Life is too long to do this. Whether your life is 10 years or 100 years, every moment counts, so stop doing this. I'm in my twenties, and sometimes I feel as if I have been here forever. And it's this weight of knowing that even my own body will fail me, even my own mind will leave me, everything I have isn't mine — and that makes life feel so long.

dear you, my friend, my confidante, my pen-pals.

I have a lot of pen-pals. You know? Pen pals — those people who your third grade teacher somehow arranged for you to write to so that you, the youth of America, could get to know the intricate lives of other kids in other towns. So you could spread your mind. Expand your universe. Realize you're not so alone. Those. Those are the pen-pals, I speak of.

As I've continued on this seemingly endless journey, I've managed to keep a running list of friends who have become better friends as a result of letter writing, far beyond the bounds of that elementary tradition. As I continue to move and change and grow and live, people drop off and pick up — and it's fun. Sometimes I forget who I wrote to and what I wrote them until I get a letter back...like a little treat. I keep them all, the letters/cards/notes. I put them in a shoebox and every now and again, I pull them out, remember the moments that went into them. I reread over and over. They're reflections of the lives we were leading in that moment, however far apart, however close together.

I think there's something truly exciting about writing someone a letter. The reality that there is only one copy, that once the envelope is open and its contents delivered, that sensational anticipation withers until the next go-around. The struggle of a hand cramping, a tear smudging, the USPS seemingly dousing the whole thing in a bunch of dirt...

Sometimes I write long notes, sometimes short, but I sort of like not knowing exactly what I wrote once it's stamped, sealed and sent.

It's so easy to write and rewrite and go back and clarify things on a computer, that sometimes I wonder if it even matters — my life edited is not my life. There's something to be said about the intention that goes into writing a letter, hoping to remember exactly what I told someone, remembering the questions I asked, the thoughts swirling in my mind at the time.

With computers and email and texting and comment threads and message boards and all these different ways to "drop a quick note," I revel in the one-on-one correspondence of it all. I revel in having only their responses to go off of, like a Best Friend necklace, we each have our sides, even if we're not best friends.

A few weeks ago a friend sent me a letter that detailed his life.

We've known one another for years now, peripherally, but letter writing has since made it more apparent how similar our overall experiences and thoughts are, while also showing how incredibly different our day-to-day lives actually are. We started at the same University at the same time, wrote for the same college paper, and though we didn't know each other well — well enough to say, "Hi," to befriend one another on social media, to feel comfortable "liking" a photo on Facebook, or thoughtfully responding to a status update — we've struck up a friendship born from our mutual desire to share.

Putting our minds, our worries, our thoughts of the moment, to page in specific correspondence with one another — I don't know — it feels more real than some of my daily relationships.

At the moment I have three regular pen-pals, and a harbor stocked with friends I write regular emails to, and even more who read this blog (the ultimate one-way pen-pal situation, so I guess just pen?).

Sometimes depending on the pen-pal, it feels as if I'm reading the book of their life, and they're reading mine, like a memoir unedited, unabridged and unending. It's a delight, and I hope it doesn't ever stop. As friends come and go from my life, as in-person relationships fade with distance and time, I'm glad that however arcane it might be to grab a ballpoint and a college-ruled piece of paper, I have people who's addresses I can send to knowing they're excited to hear from me.

Write more, everyone.

hate mail / hate male: i did it for the jokes.

At the start of my collegiate writing career I experienced one of my then most exciting comedy breakthroughs — an opportunity to write The Ledge, a weekly joke column for my school newspaper, The Daily Iowan. Being offered this chance to deliver to the masses a social comedic commentary that would truly influence lives (!!!) was like being offered Saturday Night Live directly by Lorne Michaels himself. It was something I never imagined I would get to do, but there I was, doing it —as a sophomore, no less. (I would like the record to reflect that I am now able to see that my sights were not set high enough.)

The previous week Michael Moller, a DI colleague of mine, wrote a Ledge titled, "Sexual Things Women Don't know About Men." It was funny, if generic, and having grown up with four brothers, I got the jokes. What I didn't get at the time was that for many college boys, that bulleted list wasn't a joke like I saw it — a list highlighting the "funny" things that used to be true, things that are so ridiculous that they're clearly a joke. No, Michael's list for many guys (at least at the University of Iowa, and continues to prove elsewhere) was the Truth List, funny because it belittled their female peers.

On one end of the scale, the column read, "Every guy has measured his penis..." (laugh-worthy, sure) and on the other side of the jaw-dropping chuckle fest, "If they have an STD, they will not tell you" (a pretty blatant violation of sexual trust).

But, hey, it was a joke. I love jokes. Still do. And, I am absolutely positive all those gals with HPV have been laughing nonstop about this one.

So, I decided to write a "Come-back" column. At the time I thought I was on the cusp of some major Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus precipice, ready to discover something truly original in what I now know is a never ending conversation about gender roles that I hate. I was young. I didn't know!

I wrote my list, my hilarious, insightful, indignant and violently hyperbolic list: "Things Men Should Know About Women." I proclaimed things like, "We all are smarter than you, wherever you went to
school and whatever your GPA is." God, I was good. I played with words like Seshat would, spilling my outspoken female psyche onto giggling co-eds. "We’ve got feminine wiles. Did anyone ever hear of male wiles? No." And, they didn't, and don't.

I was a brilliant mastermind falling right into a clichéd collegiate squabble. But, hey it was a joke! I did it for the laughs! I only wish I knew that it wasn't some dumb playground back-and-forth. I wish I knew that this conversation, these sorts of "men do this, and women do that," ping-pong competitions, jokes or not, are so, so dumb.

Shortly after my list was published I received a melee of hate mail, or rather hate from males. I was harassed on Facebook. I was harassed over email. No one ever harassed me to my face because, God, there's something so...what's the word, oh, EMPOWERING, about attacking people through the thick vat that is the Internet.

I got messages from an idiot named Eric (can't remember his last name) telling me in no uncertain terms that due to my lack of sexual prowess he could "guarantee" that "no guy had ever bought [me] a drink in a bar." Oh, man. Stinger. Like the class-act I've always been I wrote a bunch of trite sassy responses, none of which I actually sent him, instead opting for the high road. I informed him that "I'm a person," and he had offended me. Obviously, it only made sense to thank him for reading my column. The honor to have him as reader. I was so, so blessed with his presence.

But, the most malicious response came in the form of a terribly crafted email written by a University of Iowa football player, Jovon. I only shared his email with a few people, including my boyfriend at the time, Brian, and my two roommates, both named Elizabeth.

Then that was it. I don't think I ever responded to Jovon. He hurt me more than I even knew then. I don't remember the whole email, and I've long since deleted it, hoping that with a quick hit of the button I'd never think about him calling me a "beat ass chicken head," among other things again. But, I do. It's been eight years of randomly remembering Jovon's hateful words. I remember thinking that receiving hate mail was part of what being a journalist was. I remember Brian telling me that Jovon's email was garbage. I remember him telling me he loved me, and he would definitely buy me a drink in a bar. I remember laughing about it with my friends, and I remember crying about it alone.

The Elizabeth's encouraged me to forward the emails to my editor, as did Brian. But, I thought having a brave face, ignoring this incessant gender warring faction, was the way to really prove I was an equal sex. I don't know if I was right to ignore the advice of my peers, opting to "not be a tattle-tale." But I will say now, I wish I spoke up, rather than becoming silenced. What I didn't realize then was that I wasn't just being attacked for being a jokester of a female, I was being attacked for daring to joke about gender inequality, daring to just kid around about women being superior to men, about not wanting to get into the kitchen to make a sandwich, etc. Joking. I don't believe women are superior, nor do I believe men are, but plenty of men do think they are — and even kidding that it could be the other way around was too much for some male counterparts, then and clearly still, now.

Since then I have grown as a comic, as an improviser, as an actor, as a writer. That experience long ago sticks with me, and there have been others since then, too, perhaps not as sticky in my mind, but they are there.

I've made jokes about males. I've made jokes about females. I've delivered stand-up about how people don't say what they want. I've delivered stand-up about my fears that saying what I want will make me look like a weak little girl. I try to tackle the things that matter to me, whether it's through comedy, writing or just regular conversation with friends. And still, I find myself self-censoring because sometimes I am still scared of rocking the boat, of offending, of saying something or doing something that will make someone not just write me mean things or prank call me spewing hate, but really hurt me.

There is nothing worse for a person's soul then to feel like they have to hide who they are because of the fear of what someone could do to them.

I don't want this for my fellow peers, male or female.

the past/ sitting/ and the future.

You can light the fire that's in your head

Put it off, tomorrow will come instead

We don't watch the tower that tells us when

Pull the wicked flower out from its bed.

The Dodos, "Walking"

This time last year I was passing through Arizona, crossing the border into California, and eventually rolling up into Los Angeles onto Russell Avenue. A new apartment in my continued life, a new part.

One of the most generous, caring and scattered people I've ever met and loved forever, Carly Mandell, was in tow. And sweet, thoughtful, generous and gentle, Alli Arnold, was waiting with fresh homemade cookies and beers. Everything I saved from my old life was with me, ready to be part of what my parents called my "new adventure." (I originally thought that was a rather condescending sentiment, but then again, when my sister Colleen moved out here in 2008, my parents referred to Los Angeles as "Camp Hollywood" for two years.)

Three-hundred-sixty-five days isn't that many days (even if spelling it out makes it seem the opposite), and the longer I am here, the more I realize that truth. It's so funny. The first question new people ask of you tends to be, "How long have you been here?" or some derivative, and after about three months, I literally became old news; that felt so good. It feels good to be considered part of this insanely transient city where people are like migrating birds, telling themselves: "I'll give it a month," "I'll give it a year," "I'm just testing out the waters," "I'm going to see what I'm made of," etc.

But then you meet the people that are here for decades, that grew up here, that have no intention of leaving — and you're a baby to them, this one-year-old baby with chubby cheeks, a can-do attitude, and more blind faith in their talent than maybe even armed with talent. But as Steve Martin says in his book Born Standing Up, "Persistence is a great substitute for talent."

In some ways I thought moving here would change everything, but it didn't. It didn't change my drive — it encouraged it. It didn't change my energy — it grew it. It didn't change my goals — it clarified them. Making this move has made my life more pointed. I know where I want to go, and all of my choices (I hope) are evidence of that, down to the variety of jobs I've held since landing in La-La-Land.

Even now, after months of go-go-go, for the last four weeks I have spent an unusual amount of time sitting down — first in my car — then in a chair — that's in my office. So much sitting at this new job, a short term gig that will take up my days until the end of the year. It's too much sitting for me. I don't know how so many people do jobs like this for their whole lives. The only logical reason that one could do this much sitting is because it's what you have to do in order to keep living in Los Angeles because living is expensive and when you're not at this job you're trying to be a paid actor. (Run on sentence to illustrate my psychotic ability to do a million things, however frantically/poorly.)

I am so thankful that I know this won't be how I spend my life in the long run. I am so thankful that I am not content to bounce around from day-job to day-job without the hope that my persistence, talent, comedic sensibility, look, and all these things a million people have, but that I somehow illogically think will make me different — will actually make me different.

And it's fine. It's fine that this is what you have to do. People don't talk about the grind they had before they did what they want to be doing. It's the first chapter to the rest of your life. So right now, yes, it seems that most of my life is going from one sitting job to the next job I sit at, but fortunately for me, there's a smattering of film projects, sketch shows, improv performances and auditions in between. I am so thankful.

But seriously — I cannot believe how much sitting I do. (My next post will be a break down of the amount of sitting I do, if you're curious.)

So here's to being here for another year, and all the years after that.

On Writing When You're Not Sad.

It's a frustrating thing to be happy — and it seems to infect most people. There's this inkling feeling that it won't last. It's painted best in Robert Frost's poem,  "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

My best writing, or at least, the writing that I connect to most emotionally I write when I'm so sad. That's an interesting concept, too, that in my mind, best equals emotional. When I have too many feelings welling up inside me I can't help but emit them through writing, through performing, through singing. I cannot help myself. Perhaps it's the notion of something good must come from this pain; I have to create something beautiful, something real, something heartfelt to make this moment have more meaning than just wallowing alone in my: "I am hurt. It hurts. It will pass."

But, why, why can't the same be said when I'm happy? Why is it harder for me to express my joy creatively? Is it the distraction of how happy I am, I don't want to reflect on it for fear that it will dissipate before me? There are too many questions.

Periodically I look back on this blog so I can see who I am or was throughout the years. I have often noticed the amount of writing I did or didn't do during years of hardship and during times of happiness. I can so directly see the correlation between my writing and my relationships. At the start of 2010 I wrote a lot. Not coincidentally, my longest relationship ended. And, then the Fall of 2010 happened, my writing slowed to a trickle — I was in a new relationship. Flash to 2012, I wrote a ton again. That was a hugely difficult year full of car accidents, breakups, job transitioning — the gambit. And then again my writing picked up as I picked up and moved to LA. Spring of 2014 happened and again, a flood. It's frustrating to know how much my writing is a reflection of my emotional state. I love what I write when I am sad. I don't love being sad, though; and I don't want to manufacture emotion. I can't anyway. I've tried.

But even right now, as my life is on an upswing, I am all smiles, yet full of lackluster uninspired stories. I have people in my life I'm excited to see, and that are excited to see me. I have parents that love me, that call me unexpectedly, that fly across the country to spend time with me. I have siblings that are kind, that go out of their way. And while it's not as if we don't carry our baggage or throw one another under the bus on occasion, those moments pale in comparison to how my throat chokes up when I think of what my life would be like if they didn't love me like they do.

So, here I am, waiting for it all to fall apart so I can write a heartfelt blog post, script, poem, song, etc.

NO!

That Frost poem always left me feeling so negative. Now though, I'm attempting to grasp how, yes, things fade, but other things take their place. When a flower blooms and dies, in a few weeks or days, or whatever, time happens, and a new bloom takes its place. Life will always be up and down.

That's comforting.

But God, is it tiring to have all those feelings and be writing and emitting so much. It has to stop. There has to be respite from it. So many writers (comedians, screenwriters, novelists, etc) get their material from things they're pissed about, things that have hurt them, or how they have been wronged. It can soften the blow, or cause you to relive it. You just have to know from where it's coming and to where it's leading you. And sometimes, just sometimes it's better to look at the world without a critical eye.

It's too taxing on your soul otherwise.

somebody different

“Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone's hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted--wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don't look at me. If you don't, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.”  -The History of Love, Nicole Krauss

Sometimes I remember that before I was who I am now, I was someone different.

At the end of the day, we are a sum of our parts; when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a collection of my own choices, adventures and failures. This might sound weird, but I'm sure we all do it, so whatever, I'm over it — I have many times stood in front of my mirror totally naked. I know, get over it, get over all the junior high oh-la-las, and just listen to me for a moment. I do this because I am in a way taking stock of myself, and just me. Not me in a cute J.Crew skirt, not me in a bikini, not me in a bridesmaid dress, not me in anything. Just. Me.

There's something about standing in front of the mirror and realizing that at the heart from the outside, this is all I am — a petite body, with pale skin, a nice smile, and long curly red hair.

I remember right after my bike accident, I was very concerned with the way my body looked. I didn't have scars, just tons and tons of broken blood vessels, scrapes, bruising, a herniated shin muscle and chronic pain from a broken non-displaced pelvis. Every couple of days I would get up from my bed, taking a break from the show that kept me company for weeks, Keeping Up with the Kardashians (another blog for another day), and I would get undressed to take a shower. I remember at first being so scared that I would fall, but only once did I ask someone to wait outside to make sure they didn't hear the crash of me slipping and breaking myself again. I still don't really know why asking for help is something I only ask for when absolutely necessary. But, alas, I had to shower, if only to keep up some semblance of dignity.

Before I would make the slow climb into the tub, I would stand in front of my mirror, balancing on my crutches, figuring out a way to slip off my sweatpants without falling. And, I would stare at myself, at the imperfections that had become me.

There's something about nakedness that polarizes how you value yourself. What are clothes, but another thing to hide behind, to help identify ourselves as someone we want the world to see us as? While nakedness is just another way to be vulnerable, even if it's only yourself who sees.

At the risk of jumping onto a high horse and screaming "Clothes are for the weak!" which very well may be true, I think it's important to take stock of ourselves. People say you come out of the world as you came in, naked — but how many people do you know who have been buried in the nude? We go to our final resting place, dressed how the world wanted us to be.

There's a book I truly adore called, The History of Love, that I quote at the beginning and end of this post. The title makes it sound like a much mushier and false account of what it actually is. At the start of the book the main character, an old man, Leo Gursky, in his early 80s decides to throw caution to the wind and be a model in an art class. Before he goes to the class he disrobes in the comfort of his own apartment to assess who he is without any sort of wrapping paper. And it is not an Adonis he describes...it's just who he is, an elderly man with loose skin, sun spots, white curly hairs everywhere, and lumpy bits covering a weak frame. I love this description. I love that it is unapologetic.

It's strange to realize that the body you have seen naked the most times is your own. Yet, every time you see it, it is different, changing as you change, aging as you age. I suppose this post is more of a reminder to myself, if nothing else, that beneath everything, we're all just people.

“At the end, all that's left of you are your possessions. Perhaps that's why I've never been able to throw anything away. Perhaps that's why I hoarded the world: with the hope that when I died, the sum total of my things would suggest a life larger than the one I lived.” -The  History of Love, Nicole Krauss

I carry them with me.

head first
drenched in it
soaked
every inch
sticky clothes stick to a sticky body
in the water
it all feels the same everywhere, and it feels — how it feels...it feels so much, so much all at once, and it is so nice. so nice. so nice —
but it's heavier
heavier not knowing how to navigate

completely and utterly
taken in
taken down

fully clothed
sinking further from the weight
water pressuring every cavity
the air bubbles disappearing
a flight of fancy
fancy
how fancy?

out
out out
the chill of the cool wind
icing from the outside in
the outside in
cool
how cool?
like ice it stabs

you can only jump in head first once,
because you know how it feels to come out
you know the cool
how cool?
not cool at all — cold. like ice. stabbing ice.

wading in.
it's the same thing but different
the water is different
holding your breath from the cold of the water anyway
it feels good, but bad. does the good outweigh the bad?
weight
the weight of the water
clothes drenched
saturated
enveloped

you know the density, the pressure, the weight of the water, and you can't handle it more than once. it feels like drowning, because it's drowning. and you need a life preserver — something to help you preserve your life, someone.

but preserving life as it is,
would you really like to preserve it?

cold. ice.
it stabs.
wind.
water.
drowning.
the weight. the weight.
the waters weight.
it weighs so much.
the pressure.

Preludes and Post Scripts

"I am moved by fancies that are curled 

Around these images, and cling:  

The notion of some infinitely gentle 

Infinitely suffering thing." 

-T.S. Eliot, Preludes

I regularly find myself remembering snippets of poetry that I had memorized due to my high school pastime, Forensics (also known as Speech Team). If you've read back to old entries I talk of my love of T.S. Eliot often, specifically The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which to me, sums up the tone of loneliness absolutely.

People say that those who surround themselves with people the most are typically the loneliest. They're trying to fill that void. I feel as if I am that way. It's easy to get lost in others as an escape from ourselves. I've been trying to get away from doing this — but instead of feeling like I know myself better, I find that it's daunting to realize I may not know myself as well as I assumed. It's strange to spend all day every day being myself without thinking about it, and then with others I am someone else, a hologram. I am there, but not present.

To be in the latter half of my 20s and finding these findings seems so old. I know, I know, "You're not old!" But I'm not young, either. I'm not like a spritely young graduate. I'm not a bourgeoning teenager. I'm not a child. I'm not a young adult. I'm not an old adult.

We call people in their twenties, 20-somethings. We can't even come up with a real name for it. I'm a 20-something. What that something is, no idea.

I am a person chasing after it — what is "it?" There is no label. I could say I'm chasing after a career in the arts. I'm chasing after a dream to be a creator. I could say—. I could say it all — but what is it that we want in the end? When people die are they shouting from their insides, "I wish I had written just one more play!" "I wish I had just finished putting the shutters on the house I wanted to flip." "I wish this," and "I wanted that."

Doubtful that it is things or a to-do list accomplished. A bucket list, sure, yes, we want to do things, but to what end, who for or who with?

What turned out to be the preview to when my grandpa Harry died, when he thought it was the moment to go, that is, his 10 children and numerous grandchildren, his wife, were all surrounding him. Father Trout was there to anoint him with last rights. He asked my grandma Celeste to sing Danny Boy for him. It was very climactic, truthfully told. And we kept waiting for him to close his eyes the last time, breathe his last breath, say one last thing. But it didn't happen that way. The doctor came in after what seemed like only a few minutes, but was in actuality much longer, and said Harry was not yet going anywhere.

It was the strangest thing. We all had collectively decided this was the time, and then it wasn't. But, I got to see what my grandpa Harry wanted to be like in his last moments. He was lucid until the very end. And in some ways, he got to be there for his last moments twice, instead of just wasting away sedated. That seemed like such a gift to me.

Surrounded by the people who make us who we are — I suppose that's what I want.

"Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death 

Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death

Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death 

Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death 

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind, 

A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog 

By this grace dissolved in a place" 

-T.S. Eliot, Marina

I can't come up with a title that doesn't sound trite. Perhaps, Living Real.

Lately I've been listening to probably too much music, and I'm at that annoying point where every time I hear a song, I think, "Oh, my God, that is so my life." I am fourteen again. Woo. The Head and the Heart's "Lost in My Mind" flipped onto Pandora at that moment. So, you know what I mean despite the lameness, yeah? In other news, it turns out Katy Perry and I could be best friends because we both have personal whoas. Shoot me if I ever sound this stupid again. I actually hate that I'm writing all this forward intro crap.

ANYWAY. It's been kind of a whirlwind of a week since my last post, which is mostly good. The kind of stress that goes into being honest is unexpected, but it's freeing. I'm sort of done talking about what it means to be real, though. Not that I will cut someone off if I find myself in conversation about it again. I could talk about it forever. It's just, it takes a lot to stop pretending. I am so used to wearing a shield that I sort of don't know what to do with myself right now. Sorry if that sounds real asshole-y, "I'm sort of done," ugh, it's just, what I mean is I want to start actually living more real — not just writing real.

Like, I need to talk things out so that I can know if I'm on the right page with the people in my life. I sort of feel like if I'm not talking to someone regularly it's as if they don't want to know me. No one is a mindreader unless they're a mindreader. That's something I wrote in my last post, not the mindreader part, but the feeling of thinking people don't want to know me. I'm at this point where I can't tell if I should take another step out and tell people I want them in my life, or if it is better to just move on. Who knows if they feel the same way? Oh, the sheer amounts of opportunities missed due to personal gridlock. It's weird. It's so weird.

Actually, something weird happened the other day. I don't normally do stand-up a ton, but it's something that I'm weaving into my life intermittently. It turns out I like to stand up in front of people and open my worldview to them. (We're all shocked.) It's a special kind of rush...knowing you might just blow, and you don't have anyone to blame it on, except maybe high ceilings that swallow laughter. I like to say doing stand-up is like having a conversation where you can't be interrupted, and if you are, you get to go off on that audience member, and everyone is like, "Yeah, lady, you tell them!" That hasn't happened to me much, which I appreciate, though I would sort of love to yell uninhibited sometimes.

Normally I just talk about how much I love my family and maybe tell a story about us all being insane together...things I'm comfortable talking about. A lot of stand-ups find things to gripe about and because it's a shared experience, audiences laugh. They laugh from recognition. That's a very cool kind of laughter, but I love laughs from surprise. What I mean by surprise laughter, is they didn't expect to hear what they heard, but they recognize it still, the laughter of admittance that they understand. I love to surprise myself most of all, probably because I'm a narcissist. (I'm not really a narcissist, and I don't think I actually know any true narcissists in the way that Narcissus, that Greek god, was.)

Anyway, I did a whole set based on honesty, relationships and being real. The first line of the set I got dead silence (which is what I was seriously hoping for, chill out), and then it got laughter because it stopped people in their own brains. It's very uncommon for a comedian, let alone a female comedienne to open with, "Hi, I want to be married." Cats out of the bag! Surprise! I want a lot of things, and this is one of them.

It was so amazing, guys. The fear, anxiety and silence that took over the audience (mostly single male stand-ups) opened the door to the rest of the set: being honest about our hopes for ourselves and the people in our lives — people want to talk about it, apparently, as many of the other comics ended up referencing my set in theirs. It's not as if I want to get married to just anyone anywhere anytime, and not today by any means. But it's real. It's a part of who I am, and I explained why.

There's an unwritten rule in Hollywood that you can't say you want to be an actor on a sitcom, or you want your own HBO stand-up special, or you want to write the next big Blockbuster, what have you. But, clearly if you've made it as far as Los Angeles, those are things that you likely want, and saying you want them makes them more real. It opens you up to others. How are they supposed to know who you are and what you want, if you don't tell anyone?

So, I said it. And I kept up this new trend in my life of being truthful, and it felt fucking good. There's that old ditty, "Truth in comedy," to which I say, "There is comedy in the truth." It has less of a ring, but I think it's clearer. What I think the first means is make your comedy truthful, whereas the latter means, tell the truth, and it will be funny. The difference is slight. It has to do with where you start.

All those things I said before, those are my dreams. And we don't tell what our dreams are because if we tell other people then they know if we didn't get what our dream was. As for wanting to be married, especially as a new-to-LA actress, that's just something you don't say. You don't say a lot of things, life is all about the things that you do not say to one another. There's embarrassment that comes from voicing this particular desire. I would say that the number one thing you don't say as a woman in your twenties or thirties is, "I want to be married." Not everyone wants to be, but I would say most people at least want the comfort of a serious relationship. I'm not going to qualify this much anymore, because I don't think it should have to be, other than to say, marriage is a really great thing if it's between two people who really want to be married. It's being with the person who has your back, is excited to see you, and who you have the freedom to totally be yourself with all of the time — and vice versa, that's important.

Of course, we aren't going to always be 100 percent ourselves with someone else until we're ok with ourselves alone, but that's the goal. You can't be yourself with someone else until you're yourself by yourself. Did you get all that? I had to read it aloud a few times. And that's why relationships should be treasured, given time to grow and fostered with connection.

this is not a poem, this is the most real thing i have written to a group of people who might read this and i am very scared.

This is coming from a place of honesty. I haven't written as myself in more than six months (i.e. my entire time since moving to Los Angeles thus far), choosing purposefully to write through the narrative voices of made up characters in made up settings with made up scenarios — or poems, so many poems. Often these stories and characters are versions of me, or the people in my life, as is the case with many writers, so it felt like I was still able to express what I thought, experienced and have been feeling. But as I continue to think about it more, I know that this has very much been a response to me not wanting to be really open about my fears, my future, my everything. It's my own little "arm's distance away." And because I love telling stories and creating worlds, and I'm good at it, I didn't know the level of self-destruction I have begun to take on.

There's that term, "take up your arms" when referring to battle. Every day to me feels like a battle, and I am so alone. I am fighting off those I am closest to every single day, and I am seriously fighting off those who could potentially want to be close to me. I'm doing this, and it is sabotage.

I don't want to share.

And, I don't want to do it because I am afraid. I am afraid that the things that make me who I am won't be good enough in the eyes of the people around me: close, far, unknown, known, doesn't matter. This is not ok. And, it's something I didn't know was a real problem until very recently, even though it has been boiling since September 2012, if we're being real, and I am. If we're really being real, then I would say it goes back further, but 2012 was the hardest year of my life. I feel like I'm not conveying the real gravity and impact of this period of my life or that it won't seem like that big a deal, but it really was. I am scared that you won't think it was as awful as I do.

In very short, because I am scared, awful things happened, and then I was fake-ok for a time. Performing was good, and I was insanely productive, but all the while I was going through a very destructive phase that involved things I have only told a very select few. But mostly, it involved me not being myself because I am afraid of being hurt. I don't know if I can go through that again.

The other day a truly good friend of mine was talking to me about her perception of me. Besides the multitude of kind things she believed to be true about me, she mentioned how I once told her that I didn't want to be seen as weak. This struck a chord — the idea of being weak. She said, the things that you say about yourself and believe to be true of yourself are in the eyes of others the furthest from how they actually perceive you. The example in her own life was that she didn't want people to think she was mean, and if there is one person in this world with a gentler disposition, who goes miles out of her way for the benefit of others, it is this woman.

I am so concerned about others seeing me as someone who can handle it; someone who doesn't need others. I thought because I still spent time with friends and family, made phone calls and sent emails, 'liked' things on Facebook, sent a note, whatever — that that was enough, but those things, while good and nice, have to be matched with the freedom to really share. It is not easy for anyone to share honestly. And, truthfully, I don't think one should share everything with everyone all the time — this is not what I am advocating to anyone, and least of all to myself. But for those I'm closest to or want to be close to, there is not real love, compassion, relationship, etc. unless it is met with the vulnerability to say you need someone, you want someone, you care about someone, and open yourself up to the possibility of them hurting you. For real connection, I have to be willing to take down this facade of being too cool, of having a game face, of using comedy and stories and small talk, in order to feign comfort. It's a faux comfort. Real comfort, though, that is what we all crave, and that's why many of us spend so much time alone. I'm the only person I can truly just be myself with. No one knows, no one sees. In truth, I want the comfort I have alone but with someone else. 

But I am afraid, so I protect myself. 

I find myself neglecting people, waiting for them to make the first move, and pretending like I am ok when they don't. I convince myself they don't want to know me anymore, and I am afraid to tell them I want to keep knowing them. It is gridlock because we all do this.

I verbalize the words: "I don't need you" every single day. I've said it to my mom, I've said it to my dad, I've said it to my sister, to my brothers, to my friends, to boyfriends, to teachers, to confidantes, to anyone that could remotely affect me. I've said it to friends about other friends. I say, "I like them, I care about them, but I don't need them." 

This, this is something I have said about those I need most. If I admit that I need them, then for me, it feels like they have the power to wound me. The truth is, they have it anyway, because I do care, they just might not know how much. And this perceived notion that I don't care lets them off the hook to show how much they actually care, if indeed they do. (That last bit was me protecting myself even as I write about being open. It never stops.)

The truth is, I care about the people in my life deeply. If you're in my life at all, I care about you. I am so afraid that I don't have the capacity to share who I am fully. I am so afraid that I will be rejected. I am so afraid. It's like a sickness, my fear.

Even as I write this now I find myself censoring my words, my heart. I'm afraid that someone will read this and think: "God, she is so freaking dramatic. I'm so glad she moved to Los Angeles so I never have to see her again unless she makes it, in which case, ugh, I am so jealous, because honestly, she isn't even funny or pretty, or nice, or anything."

I thought this thought the other day: "We are all scared people pretending not to be." I am a huge offender. 

Another phrase I use to hold people at bay is this: "Everyone is the worst, and I am the worst of all."

This comes from a place of shame. Shame is like a cancer, and it will destroy you if it isn't addressed. Shame is what we feel about who we are, and it's why we hide. It can come out of regret, it can come out of past hurt, it can seemingly come out of nowhere. For me, it comes out of past hurt, of past heartbreak. Not always the kind involving a girl and a boy, though it's been known to happen (both me breaking and being broken), but also heartbreak from friends, of let downs from my parents, of jobs I didn't get, of hugs not given, of love and compassion I didn't give myself; in short, when something happened that made me feel like I was not enough.

I listened to a Ted Talk another friend emailed to me (I know, haha, Ted Talks, but those are good!) and the woman, Brene Brown, talked about shame, courage, authenticity and vulnerability. 

She said this:  

"Shame feeds into our sense of worthiness. Those that have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they are worthy of connection. "

After talking to another dear friend about how hard it is for comedians to accept praise and compliments, I concluded that for me, it has a lot to do with the innate feeling that nothing quite fills me — discontent. The irony is that performers are perhaps the neediest people when it comes to them, but accepting praise (love and belonging) is difficult because we can stop for a second and be ok with our apparent success. For me, I always felt being content was the opposite of being driven. This is faulted. It is just not true. Being discontent, not accepting love from others, keeps us out of and feeling unworthy of connection. One can accept love/praise/compliments/etc, and still strive to be a better version of themselves on stage and otherwise, a more real version of yourself, yourself. Your real self.

To have real connection with others is a result of both parties being authentic: letting go of who I want to convey I am, and just be who I am: being vulnerable. 

I am not a vulnerable person, and my personality and actions are often calculated. As I'm writing this, I am rewriting, trying to be more clear, trying to show what I want to show, trying to be authentic, but somehow feeling like I am not, while still writing well, while still making a point, while I don't know. It's as if I want to share more about the specifics of my life, but the truth is I don't want everyone to know my truths. But, I want to be open to those who want to know me and who I want to know. The nitty gritty truths of our experiences aren't what's truly important, but rather they're things that draw us closer to each other. I don't think it's appropriate to tell everyone everything all the time, I'll say it again, but we're not alone in those experiences. And to try to go it alone is an upward and losing battle. I'm realizing this, and to keep myself an arm's length away is really hard and very lonely, and it's not worth it.

I'm just trying to have courage to share what I am going through as a person, because I think a lot of us go through this. A lot of people think we have to be some version of ourselves so someone somewhere will think something of us. Some. Some. Some. I'm trying to tell the story, the truth of who I am with my whole heart. I'm trying to have the courage to be imperfect, to be compassionate to myself so I can show compassion to others, to be real, to accept not except that being vulnerable means being ok that someone might read the first line of this and think, "Fuck this bitch. She is too much for me." It doesn't feel good, but it's necessary in order to be open.

I might be too much, but I would rather be all of me, then just some of me.

There is more, there's always more, but this is where I am at today. Hopefully I don't delete this tomorrow.

moms book club.

The women gathered around Mary Tristan's kitchen table. Each held a copy of their latest fictional conquest, Dance While They Watch, a stupid novel that should only be sold at grocery store checkouts, but which they purchased in bulk from Sam's Club because Sandy Robinson had a 10 percent off coupon. It was the sort of empty, garbage novel that people leave on airplanes, or in hostels.

"I just loved how the author really seemed to...connect...with her characters," swooned Dawn Blanchette, one of Mary's neighbors who just "could not wait to join this book club!" She was the sort of woman that wasn't used to waiting around for an invitation.

"I know," replied Mary. "So interesting how the author, what's her name..."

"Isabelle Lawrence," filled in Kit Jeffries, who everyone could tell would have preferred to read Katharine Graham's memoir Personal History, which told the real story of the first female publisher of the Washington Post. When she attempted to throw the book into the running, everyone said they just wanted to have something to escape to, so Kit dropped it, knowing they meant they didn't want to feel bad about not being more accomplished themselves.

"Right, yes," said Mary, "Isabelle just seemed to really be able to jump into the reality of the story." Kit thought it was weird that they now were calling the author by her first name as if she were there and part of their little club.

"I know," cooed Dawn. "It's so hard to believe that every writer, especially one like this, hasn't just lived the lives of her characters."

"I know," chimed in Mary again. "I wish I could live all of these crazy lives, but what can you do?"

Kit sat at the end of the table where Mary's husband normally sat at dinner. She looked up at Mary's remark and decided to rejoin the conversation. "You know, we can live crazy lives if we really want to."

"Please," giggled Dawn. "My idea of a crazy life is walking up the street to Mar's here holding a bottle of wine in a paper bag in one hand and this little ditty in the other," she said, pointing to Dance While They Watch.

"Well, what does the back of the book say?" asked Jane Levinson, veering back to the book. Jane, a beautiful brunette who lived in the next neighborhood over, was invited to the group after Mary's daughter Emily became fast friends with Krissy, Jane's daughter, during an after school year book meeting. She normally didn't read books like Dance While They Watch, but thought it might be a fun exercise in doing that which you don't want to do to fit in.

"Well," of course Dawn stepped in, having already flipped over the cover of the book. It was a taupe colored cover, the title printed in cursive burgundy, with a woman's body from the waste down, in a tango position, wrapped around a man's outstretched leg.

"It says, 'Isabelle Lawrence has been hailed by the Global World Book review as 'one of the world's most popular authors, with over 400 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include Night Crawls, Visions of Shelby, Under the Gate, Everybody's Guest, One Week Left to Live, Elephant No More, The Bells of Churches, Afternoon Magic, Royal Wigwam, Belly Up Veronica, Sitting Alone Thinking, and the popular trilogy A Father's Daughter, A Father's Wife, A Father's Adopted Granddaughter, and other highly acclaimed novels.'"

The five women each sipped from their wine glasses taking in just how many books Lawrence had penned. Even Kit was a little amazed at the sheer ability to write that many words, despite the clear formula Lawrence employed: wealthy female protagonist meets someone/anyone, there are notions of crime, suicide, jail and fraud — and drama ensues!

"Looks like we have some reading to do!" said Sandy. "Good thing they sell these at Sam's! I don't know what my husband would do if I bought all of these full price!"

"Mine would give me a stern talking to," said Dawn a little too seriously, but then laughing, mostly from the half bottle of wine she had somehow swallowed down over the last 20 minutes of chitchat.

"Hearing all those titles makes me want to write a book," said Kit, surprisingly self-conscious all of a sudden. "Of all the things that her characters do, you think she'd write a book about an author."

"Ugh, I hate that sort of self-involved stuff. That'd be like me writing a book about being a wife and mom and trying to pass it off as if it were something special," said Dawn.

"You don't think it's something special?" asked Mary, slightly miffed.

"No, it's not that," Dawn shot back softly, in that passive aggressive tone that makes being a suburban housewife worthy of the reality TV show franchise The Real Housewives of Fill-in-the-Blank-City.

"I think what Dawn's trying to say," poked in Jane, who had been mostly quiet, not knowing her place in the book club, as it was her first meeting, "She was trying to say that it's easy to make your life seem special on the page, but in reality everyones life is pretty..." 

"...boring," finished Kit. 

"Even if you are a wealthy writer or a lawyer or a trapeze artist or whatever," qualified Jane.

After a few more minutes of lightly discussing the book, which featured a scintillating scene where the protagonist, a buxom ballroom dancer from Asheville, North Carolina, runs away from home into the arms of her father's old business partner, and they begin to tango in the middle of the streets of North Carolina, the group's thoughts on Dance While They Watch fizzled. Everyone seemed to think that was a beautiful moment, except Kit who wondered at why Isabelle Lawrence didn't specify which city in all of the state they danced, let alone on which street.

"I think it's more metaphorical than that," reasoned Dawn with difficulty. Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"Sometimes you just dance through a whole state in a moment," added Mary.

"That's ridiculous," Kit responded.  

"Well, what I think is ridiculous is that this whole thing is gone," remarked Dawn, pointing to the empty bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio she'd drunk almost entirely alone.

After the women left Mary's home, she straightened her kitchen chair cushions, vacuumed the beige shag Pottery Barn rug in her front hall atrium, and took out the recycling. Her kids, Eric and Samantha came home later from a friends house and a soccer game respectively.

Mary asked them about their days, made them a dessert snack, which consisted of sliced up apples and caramel sauce. They said thank you, and left the table without clearing it. Neither of them asked how their mom's night was. 

Kit, Jane, Dawn and Sandy each had similar experiences once they too got home. Their next meeting is in a month. They're reading Captive and Captivate by Emily Daltessi.

they laughed easily.

The coffee mug Ben finished sipping from left a ring on Kate's refurbished wooden coffee table. She had sanded it herself and after two hours at Home Depot found the right color stain to match their Goodwill end table find.

"Come on, Ben," she said, exasperated.

Kate Sanders is sort of anal about using coasters. Ben obviously isn't. Ben, a just-a-friend friend, despite her roommate Tish's insistence that there was "something there," spent a lot of time at their house. He said it was because he could just chill without the continual buzz of gnats in his ear, apparently an ever present situation at his own apartment. Ben's roommate was a filthy guy he went to college with, but didn't know very well until they both ended up in Seattle three years after graduation from Denison University in Ohio.

His roommate's name is Arnold, but everyone calls him Arnie. It's not exactly a cool guy name, but Arnie was cool. That's the thing about a name, you sort of let it own you or you own it.

"I just am who I am," Arnie would say between flipping channels on his couch. Ben would look up from whatever it was he was doing, probably looking for a clean dish in the kitchen and say, "Yeah, but who are you talking to man?"

"You," Arnie responded from the couch, probably dusting off crumbs from the cookies his mom mailed for his birthday that afternoon.

These interactions were what Kate and Tish imagined when Ben wasn't at their apartment taking up space. It was a fun pastime for them, imaging the conversations between people they knew.

Kate met Ben a few months earlier at the coffee shop she inhabited on Saturdays. He'd noticed her when he was ordering, something about that curly blonde hair, kind of a  Shirley Temple look, he remembered thinking from time to time since they met. Kate had come up to the register three times asking if there were outlets, if she needed a key to the bathroom, what the Wifi password was, you name it. It didn't take Ben long to find her charming, and after her coming in about 10:30 in the morning three weeks in a row, ordering a hot chai tea, and holing up in an available corner at Espress Yourself, he introduced himself. It had taken Kate weeks to find a coffee shop she liked, and when she finally got over the name "Espress Yourself," she never went anywhere else. "It has the perfect blend of good drinks and available chairs."

"You know, they shoud really change the name of that place," Ben said to her from the couch. He was eating frozen grapes, not doing anything much.

"No," Kate responded, offering nothing else, going back to the book she had to read for her book club. The club had a dumb name, too: Literary Ladies. This name was harder for Kate to get over, but whatever. "What's in a name?" she eventually conceded.

"Oh, ok then, I'll just go on thinking something different then..." Ben saracastically responded, quietly drowning himself out, waiting for Kate to give him the response he believed his thought to have earned. Closing her book on page 134 with the wooden book mark she'd gotten on vacation in Thailand, and sitting up straight, she groaned and went into her logic.

"I thought the same thing for a while, but I think it keeps out pretentious douches who spend all day and order one thing."

"Like you?"

"Yes, essactly like me," Kate said, smiling. "Too many of us and it's not fun anymore."

They laughed. Kate could never understand what people meant when she'd hear or read the phrase "they laughed easily with one another" until she met Ben, this Ohio-born and bred guy. It was such a stupid idea to her. They laughed easily. Vomit. It was the sort of phrase you'd here at a eulogy or a wedding. But when she met Ben, it wasn't dumb. It was nice. To her, that phrase meant she didn't have to put up the facade of thinking something was funny or unfunny when she heard it. She could just react.

"Essactly," Ben said, chuckling. "That's funny, Kate."

"Thanks," Kate said, closing her book for good. "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"

"I don't know. I could work on this grant proposal that I should have finished at work Friday — or I could just sit here and watch you read while I think my thoughts or google babies eating lemons for the first time."

"Babies eating lemons?" shouted Tish from the kitchen. She was loading the dishwasher.

"Yeah," Ben shouted back. "It's the best."

"Well, whatever you do, do it well, sir," Kate said in her dad's military-man-voice. "But, I'm done with this for today. I can't concentrate when I have puns to think of."

"Hey guys," Tish said from the living room doorway, a bowl in her left hand, a towel in the other.

"Hey lady bit," Kate said turning around.

"What're you doing today?"

"Other than absolutely nothing?" said Ben.

"We're deciding whether or not productivity is worth it today," said Kate.

"It's not," said Ben. "But, we deal. It's Saturday."

Ben picked up his mug, stood over the coffee table and walked over to the kitchen doorway making Tish step into the living room. It was one of those swinging ones. Tish had it propped open with a door stop. The hinges weren't great because the owners of the house had painted over them so many times between different renters.

"Excuse me," Ben said to Tish.

"Well, I think I'm going to go ride bikes with some people, so if you want to come, you're welcome to." Tish was sitting on the end of the ottoman near the front door by all the shoes.

"That sounds fun," said Kate.

"I love kid things," said Ben from the sink.

"Ben does that sound fun? It sounds fun."

From the kitchen, "Yeah, that sounds fun. I just said that. I mean, does it sound as fun as babies eating lemons? No, but let's do it anyway."

The three then collected in the living room, each putting on their shoes: Ben, a pair of navy blue Vans, Tish, a pair of closed toed strappy sandals from Steve Madden, and Kate, a pair of orange Converse.

"Is it OK if I leave my backpack here?" asked Ben.

"Yeah. You'll probably want to come back here after anyway," said Tish, smiling at Kate.

Glaring at her and mouthing "Please," wondering why people always make things into stuff they aren't, Kate then opened the door, and grabbed her keys from the hook.

"Shall we?" Ben asked.

"We shall," Kate said.

"Indeed, sir," Tish grinned wryly.

And the three of them bowed and curtseyed to one another.

"We are so dumb," Kate said, giggling.

Then all three of them were laughing. Tish closed the house door, and then Kate locked it.

Open Your Eyes, 2007

“It's fine,” I yelled up the stairs. “Don’t worry about the converter. I don’t need it.”

She shouted to me as I opened the door to leave something about outlets and voltage.  That was one thing I would sometimes get impatient with, all the shouting, not even anger, just loud voices; I loved her, but there was simply no way.  Outside a jet black Buick honked notifying me of its presence.

“I have to go Katy.”

The creaking wood floors beneath her soft footsteps and the smell of her as she brushed up against me for one last embrace made me want to stay, but I couldn’t.  I just couldn’t.  Again I opened our front door, which now seems not mine at all, but hers, all hers.  We painted it the day we moved in.  She told me on our first date that her favorite color was red, but not just red.  She described it with her hands, brushing through the air of my imagination a violet-red-rouge color that at the time I never knew I would one day see.  We painted our front door a year into our relationship later.  She picked it out at Inman’s Paint on the corner of Ledge and Morningside just past Don’s Finest Foods downtown.  I remember her coming home with three large cans for about six square feet.  She always knew how to make me laugh, even if it was unintentional.

That was two years ago, and we were still in graduate school at Stanford.  She was there for a Masters in Art History and printmaking.  I was finishing graduate school and beginning the strenuous process of receiving a PhD in International studies.  We met at O’Keefe’s, a local bar rarely visited by the loads of undergrad students who frequented the downtown scene.

***

She tapped on my shoulder. 

“Do you have a cigarette?”

I turned around to find a short brunette woman smiling coyly.  The freckles across the bridge of her nose danced as she smiled at me.  At that moment all I wanted was a cigarette to give her — Parliaments, Virginia Slims, anything.

“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke,” I said.  Feeling like an idiot for listening to the Surgeon General, I leaned back around to pick up my Heineken.

“Great. I don’t either,” she said taking the seat to my right. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t because man, I hate it...Hi, I’m Katy.”

“I’m James,” I said extending my hand.

And that’s how we started.  Shortly after the pop quiz we left O’Keefe’s.  It was only about 7 p.m so we strolled about looking into boutique windows and speaking about ourselves, then I walked her home.  She gave me her number and we just sort of started being a ‘thing.’  At first she was pretty anti-titles, so I never called her my girlfriend and she never called me her boyfriend.  We just sort of, were.

***

I got into the car bound for the San Jose airport to make my 10:53 a.m. flight.  That’s one thing I never could quite understand, the way flight times are — never 11 a.m. or 6 p.m., simply 1:38 a.m.  Be there or be square.  I felt so old planning my flight, taking action in the decisions I know will affect me wherever I end up ten years from now.  It’s May, and I just graduated.  I’m now Dr. James Napier.  I wasn’t trained to clean wounds or heal the lame, I wasn’t taught to listen to the problems of others or use a stethoscope.  Being a doctor of International Studies, doesn’t seem like much of a doctor job.  My specialty’s in human rights, while I mostly deal in issues of human trafficking in third world countries from Bangladesh to Laos.  Straight out of the University of Chicago where I attended undergrad, I applied to work for the United States Peace Corps in Malaysia, but I pulled out after only six months on sight.  Since then I haven’t been able to sleep through the night.  

Even after I came back to the states and started with school again, I knew I couldn’t live as an academic forever, and Katy always knew I wasn’t planning on being stagnant in California forever.

“So where are you off to?” asked the driver.

“Going to Cambodia.”  Hearing myself say it made the tiniest hairs prick up on the nape of my neck.  I was surprised that my hands weren’t shaking, but as I repositioned myself in the back of the car I rubbed my clammy palms against the soft black leather seat.

The driver’s eyes darted back at me in the rearview mirror as I said it. “Off getting yourself a tan?” he asked.

I cracked a smile and said, “I can get a tan here. No, I’ll be going there to research human trafficking.”

“Oh,” he said. That was it.  

“Have you heard of what’s going on over in East Asia at all?”

He seemed to be concentrating on the road as I tried to pry my way into his mind.  Holding the wheel with two hands he slid in and out of lanes passing the green exit signs with caution as not to miss the terminal.

“I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”

His voice seemed tired, slightly distressed and very uninterested.  Glancing out the window I starred up at the clear skies and then down at the shadows of palm trees gliding along the pavement.

“Oh, it was nothing.”

***

When I got to Cambodia it was 96 degrees and the locals were getting ready for the autumnal floods headed their way over the next few weeks.  I was stationed in the country’s capital to do most of my research through one of the NGOs I randomly picked after scanning through the list the previous spring.  I chose the Cambodian Human Rights and Development Association and when I told one of my professors of my decision to work there he told me it was the leading organization in the fight against Cambodian human trafficking.

The airport was a sea of colors and languages and music and animals.  I had never seen anything like it.  I got off the plane headed for the baggage claim along with the hundreds of other foreigners streaming into Cambodia’s singular international airport.  “Sir, sir, sir, sir!”  Those were the first attempted English words I heard people shout at me as I picked up my luggage in Phnom Penh International Airport.  I suppose my dehydrated, pallid face nearly pristine white to them gave me away as an outsider.  My pathetic attempt to disguise myself rather as an experienced traveler was clearly a failure upon arrival as my camping-styled Mountain Hardware hiking bag’s front pocket exploded with about twenty Ralph Lauren Polo socks.  Immediately I was taken up by the flood of invitations from Cambodian’s to ‘come with them’ and ended up getting a ride to a hotel around the corner from my new place of business by way of a kind gentleman named Prahsuit.  He seemed to know English well and after speaking with him for a few minutes I had found out about nearly his entire family and learned of how he had been learning English for the last fifteen years driving tourists here and there.

“Where you from?” inquired Prahsuit.

I hadn’t been expecting much conversation initially, but I answered plainly, “The United States.”

He laughed showing his rotted out gums reminding me that I hadn’t gone to the dentist myself in close to a year.  

“I know you from U.S.A., but where you from?” he continued.  “I know people who live there.”

Of course he knows people who live there. Of course, already I was the American guilty of underestimating the rest of the world.

“I’m from Michigan.  It’s close to Canada.”

“Canada?  Oh, Canada.  Not French.”

It struck me as odd that he seemed to know a little about French colonization in the Western hemisphere.  Taking out a reporter notebook I bought at Walgreen’s a few days before I wrote down the remark and placed a large star beside it.  Below it I wrote to buy an international cell phone, but in the mean time to call Katy using the hotel line.

***

“James Napier?”

A loud receptionist at the head of the waiting room finally called my name.  She said it like it was doubtful if I would actually be there or not—like they didn’t have faith that a real down on the farm Michigan boy couldn’t possibly find himself at the other side of the globe.  Maybe it was just my insecurities shouting into my psyche.

“Yes, yes, that’s me.”

She nodded her head, which carried with it a code of ‘come with me.’  I followed the tiny woman to a small, vacant room with two chairs, one desk reminiscent of post-Soviet Union classrooms, and a small window that had large steel beams cross over it.

“Your advisor will be with you in a moment.”  She left me in the room where I made myself comfortable sitting in one of the chairs.  The linoleum floors and cement block walls reminded me of my first dormitory at UC.  There were traces of foot prints and dust bunnies everywhere.  Before I could speculate more Dr. Marvin Shuckhorn preceded into what I learned was his office.

“Hello,” he said extending his large callused hand.  “So how are things so far?  You’ve been here, what, a few days?  Have you met your colleagues?  How are they?  Do you guys get along?  Are you all here for the same purpose?”

After his machinegun shoot-off of questions I was finally able to answer.

“Things so far are, well, for sure they’re different.”

“Well of course they’re different,” he said with a Santa Claus-like twinkle in his eye.  “You know it’s not USA college life out there, is it?”  He trailed off laughing at his own ‘dad joke.’

“Yeah, it’s no USA,” I said skeptically.  “Anyway, I’ve met a few people.  I noticed that this is much more of an international workplace than I had expected.  I was sort of thinking I’d be the only American in a predominantly Cambodian office.  It’s interesting for sure.”

“So you think the ‘melting pot,’ if you will, works here?  Good, I’m glad.  You know, we were a bit worried that a multinational group would lose sight of the human rights for Cambodians would be a problem.”

“No, no, it’s good.”

“Good.  Yeah, I guess it does work.  Yeah, because, hey, we’re all people here.  We all need rights, and have them, innately, that is. Hmm, so who do you have a connection with in the group so far?”

“Oh, well, I met a French woman named Marion Clair.  She’s from the town in France my sister studied in.”

“Yeah, Marion, she’s a good girl.  Very smart.  Interested in reporting human rights issues, I hear.  Good girl, yeah.  Very pretty, too, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Oh, yeah, well, she’s fine, but I have a girl at home, so,” I said.  Then trying to change the subject, I added, “So yeah, the other members are great so far too.  I met a Belgian some other Americans and a few Spaniards—yeah, we all live in the same housing complex up the road.”

“Right, ok,” he said.  Getting down to the real meat of the meeting, he said, “Now, let me see here...”

Adjusting his bifocals so they’d sit on the brim of his large nose rather than the tip where they continually fell, he said, “So, I see you’re a doctor?”

“Yeah, but not in the way you might think.  I’m a researcher.  I study human development and specialize in the human trafficking that has become a phenomenon over the past few decades.”

At this he gave me a half smile and said sarcastically one word, “Phenomenon?”

I had heard all the arguments before regarding the time period before, but I was prepared for Shuckhorn’s undoubtedly longwinded explanation of the time frame.

“Phenomenon?” he repeated.  “Let me tell you something, human trafficking is anything but a phenomenon. It’s a damn catastrophe.  I tell you, if people think major environmental disasters are a problem, think about the estimated 600,000 to 820,000 men, women, and children that are trafficked across international borders each year.  I mean, Jesus.”

At that he placed both hands on his brows.  His brown eyes darted from side to side as he meticulously calculated the amount of human suffering that must occur each day in this godforsaken world we live in.

“We live in a world where crafty businessmen think it’s their birthright to suppress the suppressible, stomp on the weak and sell the ones left over.”

As he said this I starred up from my hands which I had been cracking rapidly during his much deserved soliloquy.

“You want to see your life here researching ‘phenomenal issues’ matter?” he asked in a tone more like a statement.  “Then don’t go on telling people things that are just plain false.”

For a while we both were quiet.  I was back in my place as a subordinate to a much higher ruling party than I and was ready to receive information about my time constraints, financial measures and permanent living assessment.

“Now, you’re here to get your assignment and to explain your proposed research inquiry.  At the end of your session here you will turn in a short report regarding your position on the issue of human trafficking in Eastern Asia, in specific regard to Cambodia.”

He stopped to breathe.

“Is this clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered.  “It’s clear.”

“So, go ahead.  Explain briefly your reasons in working for the CHRD.”

I was taken off-guard.  I hadn’t realized until that very moment why I had decided CHRD, why I had decided on human rights.  I couldn’t remember for the life of me why I was there, why I felt like I needed to make a difference, why my life could impact the lives of others.  For a while, probably a few seconds that felt like a few hours we both sat in silence.  Dr. Shuckhorn’s clothing smelled unwashed and faintly of river water and sweat.  His odor made it difficult to concentrate.  Perspiration pockets built up beneath my armpits and a single bead floated down my spine dipping into the small of my back.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “You want me to explain right now my position on trafficking in brief and give a smaller version of my research topic?”

Shifting in his seat leaning toward the open window, he said, “Yeah, if you can.  If you aren’t prepared or need a few minutes, that’s fine.”

“No, no, that’s alright.  I can explain it now,” I said.  Then it came to me.  All my ideas surged out in one big splat of an idea.  “Ok, so the United Nations has in the past put sanctions on Cambodia after various other nations have left their footprint in the Cambodian sands — well, the UN ruled under transitional authority from ’89 to ’93, but they left the country to the restored monarchy in ’94.  That said, serious sex trafficking was witnessed and reported increases after peacekeeping forces moved in and after they left.  I plan to explore the link between these peacekeeping forces like the UN and NATO and increased amount of sexual human trafficking in Cambodia, while also using countries like Bosnia and Kosovo as other examples.”

I came out like tidal wave of well-researched thoughts.

“What do you think?” I asked Shuckhorn.

“Sounds like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you’ll uncover something those other payroll researchers haven’t yet.”

With that he stood up to shake my hand and bring me out of the office.  Walking at his heels I noticed his balding blonde and grey swirl of hair on the top of his head and the sun marks like wrinkles and sunspots popped up at me.  I suppose that’s what one would look like if they lived her for the rest of their days.

“You’ll need to set up an appointment for every third of the month to check up with research and theories.  Let yourself out.  It’s been nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I said. “Thanks for the input on ideas.  I’ll see you in a month.”

By then he was practically at the end of the hallway, but then turned around slightly to add in another tidbit of wisdom.

“Don’t forget what I said about phenomenon.”

***

I had been researching on the local trade culture regarding the deals involving slave trades or similar trades like sex trades and favors for about a month already.  So far it didn’t seem anything out of the normal in regard to the nature of selling humans for financial gains.  The UN had pulled out of the country just over a decade before and the bulk of my studies dealt with the overwhelming aftermath of their lack of paying attention, while they were in country, to the underground thriving industry of the sale of men, women and children.  According to past statements they said the ‘phenomenon’ of human trafficking in Cambodia is relatively new, although globally it has been a problem for centuries upon centuries.  The issue has come to light as a problem in the ‘90s, but very little knowledge of why it is occurring there or who is participating is known.

After reading up on the sexual exploitation of mainly women and children who live in the country region of Cambodia and their recruitment into this line of work under the guise of factory jobs I couldn’t look out my window without feeling like all of these people were victims.  Even the victimizers have their reasons for exploiting others.  It’s a cycle of country self-destruction forming from the alarming amount of poverty.  For days at a time I couldn’t read anything on the issue without throwing up in sheer disgust and pain for the abused.

***

“There’s no way I can get into the field work part of the job and have it count as ‘research’ Shuckhorn?  You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I was pissed.  After two months in country and after having read every article, book, seen every amount of video coverage and scoured the Internet for anything else I missed, the last thing I had to complete was to see it with my own eyes.

“I’m sorry James.  It’s just not part of why you’re here.”

“Not part of why I am here?  Not part of why I am here?” I was shouting now and couldn’t for the life of me come to terms with the amount of my very heart and soul I had placed in my work.

“I need to see it Marvin.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He left the sterile office from our first meeting and returned fifteen minutes later with a consent form and a visiting journalist named Brimt from Laos.

“This is Brimt, he needs someone to bring him up to speed in mini detail on the topic,” said Huckshorn, sighing in relief that I was no longer going to be at his heals begging for an opportunity to see the story I’ve been reading about before my eyes.

A week later I had filled in Bremt, no gaps without a line to fill it in.  He was just as passionate about it as I was, but perhaps less, as I did have a much stronger foothold in the topic.  We were set to leave for Battambang where sex trafficking has been known to occur and appear on and around the streets frequently.

***

“When are you going to be home James?” asked Katy.  Her connection was going in and out.  All week I had trouble getting a hold of her.  She was either working or our time zones were off or the phone simply wasn’t working.

“Home?” I said. “Yeah, home, I should be home within the next month or so, hun.  There are just a lot of new things happening every day.”

I sounded like one of those workaholic fathers that never got the chance to make it to one of their son’s soccer games.  I never meant to become that guy, but while big things are going on its easy to loose sight of certain things, no matter how important what a person may be doing at the time.

“You’re not sure then?” she said.  “Well, if you aren’t sure then I can’t figure out when to book your flight for and I don’t know if I should get you a ticket to Chicago to visit my parents over Christmas because if you do come then we have to go to Michigan because it’s your year.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry Kate.  The line’s getting fuzzy and I can’t understand everything you say.  I’m getting about every third word or so.”

“O-K-well-never-mind-then,” she said slowly.  “I-will-just-get-the-tickets-late-then-if-that-is-O-K-with-you.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. I gotta go now Kate,” I said.  “I, I gotta go.  I love you.”

“I love you too,” she answered back. “Bye.”

***

Bremt and I boarded a bus bound for Battambang the following morning.  He was to pose as a possible costumer at a local restaurant who was also looking for other types of appetite-feeding activities.  I was his uninterested friend who was married with four children, just in case anyone asked.

“Hello, do you speak English?” I asked a waitress at the front of Angkor, a well-known eatery in the middle of the city.  We would have stayed in the capital, but while I hadn’t been to every place in town, the identities of most of the employees working against trafficking are known among sellers, so we had to go outside the walls into more rural parts then into other slightly larger locations.

Entering into the restaurant was almost surreal.  One moment we were offered a place to sit and offered beverages.  As a side course the restaurant manager offered Bremt and I an added pamphlet.

“This is only for special costumers,” he said.  “Special price, just for you.”

I looked at the paper written in poor English with little consideration as to punctuation, spelling or grammar, but these were the least of my worries.  I handed the paper to Bremt.  Then I proceeded to take my camera out and take a picture with the manager, smiling and posing as though we were interested participants.

“I bring you out three ladies, and you chose,” he said.

“Oh, oh, no, no, I am not interested,” I said, “but my friend here is.”

I pointed to Bremt, who was holding the pamphlet with an eager facial expression.

“Oh, ok, I bring them out for him.”

Ten minutes later a procession of three girls, eight, twelve and fourteen years old wearing thrice recycled clothing from when I was a boy came out of the back food preparation area.

Bremt and I looked at the faces of these three children.  I took a picture of the girls without the knowledge of the manager so later someone would come back for them.  Walking out of the restaurant completely famished and aching all over in pain and  distress I got back on the bus to Phnom Penh with Bremt.  Their faces were etched in my mind, and the last thing I wanted to do after I saw their faces was leave.  I wanted to punch out the manager and raid the place in search of the multiple victims.

***

“No honey, I won’t be back for Christmas...Hello?  Shit.”

Standing in the middle of Phnom Penh in a bad excuse for a telephone booth almost two months after I left California, one month over due to return home, I realized that I simply couldn’t leave yet.  Katy and I just had our first trans-country fight.  I skulked back to where other researchers and volunteers of the foundation were standing waiting for me so we could get back to the office.

“Are you alright?” asked Marion.  “You look really upset.  I can tell, because you have those concerned eyes.  I haven’t seen them since the first day you got here.”

Opening my now quite worn Marmot backpack I grabbed one of the granola bars my mom had mailed to me earlier last week.  Food like that here was a precious commodity, but in reality I actually didn’t mind chomping on curry at every meal, or trying new things when the option arose.

“Things are fine,” I said. “— No, they’re really fine — they’re fine.”

I tried to convince myself of this as I crouched down balancing on the balls of my feet, but I kept thinking of those children in Battambang.  I rubbed the sweat beads gathering on my dusty forehead dripping down the sides of my bearded cheeks.  After I broke my razor during the orientation days I skipped shaving entirely and instead favored a pair of Crayola scissors for mere trims.

“No, it’s just, my girlfriend.  She’s there, and I’m here, and we’re not together.  And, god I just don’t know.”  I could have gone on and on like that forever.  There seemed to be no way out of this perpetual letting down process I was doing to her, myself, my colleagues and to the victims of these violations of human rights.

She bent down next to me and placed her hand on the soft spot of my back in between my shoulder blades and rubbed her hand around like a mother after a bad day.

“I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.”

I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of sunlight coming through the splits between her straight honey-colored hair.  All I could think was that she didn’t know how hard this was.

“Don’t give me that, you don’t know what I’m even talking about,” I said standing up leaving her on the dusty side walk.

I had met Marion on my first day of orientation at the foundation.  Her French accent stuck out amid the numerous American’s, along with a few international citizens of humanity.  I had studied in France for a semester during my sophomore year of college because I was originally an International Studies and French double, but mid-way through college I switched from French to Human Relations.  Marion and I hit it off right away.  She had been working there for close to six months at the time and had already invested herself in the people and culture much more than I could have thought possible.

I could hear the racing footsteps behind me as Marion came nearer. “You know, just because you think you know everything about me and why I’m here and who I am, doesn’t mean that you actually do.”  She was out of breath and annoyed by the time I slowed down to hear her out.

“I may not know your relationship with this girl and what exactly you hoped to accomplish in a few months in one of the poorest countries in our world today, but you know what, fine,” she said, gaining momentum. “You’re an arrogant ass —”

Before she could go on and on and on, I said, “Perhaps, I don’t want to tell you everything or whatever, but you can’t just go giving advice without knowing something.  What do you know anyway?  We’re here in this country and it seems like no one cares and nothing is getting done and people are still being treated like cattle, and my girlfriend a million miles away is upset that I can’t foresee myself coming home for Christmas —”

She stopped to look at me again.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I just, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  I just never thought she could be so selfish.”

Marion stood up from where she was sitting and turned toward me.

“She isn’t being selfish James.  She’s being, I don't know, a person on the other side of the world who just, just...she doesn’t know.  That’s the fault of the rest of the world, and you’re assuming she has seen everything you’ve seen over the past weeks.  You’re assuming she knows what its like to see thousands of women per day be scooped up from the streets and thrown into a situation where they’re forced to have sex or die.”

She sat back onto the curb outside a local pop shop.  Clasping her hands together and placing them on her knee caps she starred back up at me.  “She just doesn’t know James, and communication is key.  That’s why my concentration is journalism and human rights, how to get the word out in an affective manner.  People get desensitized.  They can’t help it.  If you’re not faced with it every day in a real way, then there’s nothing you can do but guard yourself against feeling.”

Putting my arms through the backpack straps I sat down next to her and didn’t say anything. Everything she was saying made so much sense.  We sat and looked out onto the street before us bustling with farmer produce, animals, juxtaposed with the honking of several Honda’s in a long polluting procession of vehicles.

“God, the third world,” I said, half-thinking to myself.