It was addicting.
The world drew me-a dark, sensuous spiral downward
Imagine your most forbidden thoughts-
The ones you know you could never tell anyone-
There, not only accepted, they were expected. Demanded.
I knew it was sick…I was sick. That’s what I loved most, I think.
Knowing how wrong it all was.
His hands, His teeth
His touch never blatantly perverse, never lewd
Yet far more sinful than the actual deed
I discovered Power in Fear, and when lust was mixed in….
Irresistible.
"...I took you home
Set you on the glass
I pulled off your wings
Then I laughed…"
He reveled in the sin as he reveled in the taste of my blood.
The razor on his tongue, and then drip that followed-heavy and thick….
His tongue slipping along mine
The metallic taste I came to crave more than anything
The charge of the mixed feelings
"I’ve watched you change
Like you never had wings
And you feel
So alive
I’ve watched you change…."
I became a new creature
And we dwelt in a different world
In dark, dank places. Black so pitch you couldn’t see the hand on your face
Or around your throat
The proof-the marks and bruises, the scars-came in the daylight
So we simply avoided it
There were no rules in the dark, no judgments,
No protection.
No escape.
No salvation.
I slipped further and further until I truly believed I was absorbing another’s life when we drank.
We stalked the desert mountains well past midnight, howled with the cyotes, smiled at the stars.
We defied understanding.
“We proudly feast on those that would subdue us…”
It all almost took my life.
I was happy letting it consume me.
I loved the pain, the steady drip, the throbbing sting, then the warmth of his mouth on the wound, his strong palm cradling my head, the velvet expanse of his back
Taking from me, draining me physically as I drained him psychologically.
He was reduced to his infantile nature. I became a pale, frozen husk.
I loved the pain (given and taken) so much, craved it so much-
That there was no room for anything else.
No love
No hate
No joy
No pain
Emptiness, and the resounding chill.
I was Frozen, lost in my own dark wintry world.
He slipped into madness, eventually, and I lost Faith in all I had ever believed and known as true.
Then I lost control.
He moved on to another, and I lost the ability to puppet him. His strings slipped through my fingers even as I clenched my fist desperately.
The Ice Queen was stripped away and all I had crumbled-I wept, begged, stormed.
Until one fateful night
He held me down
I cried out as he pried me open, calling for salvation I thought beyond me.
And then, my big bad 'Tutor' fled, weeping.
Disgust flooded me.
I laughed about it later, when I realized-
I had been stronger all along, and he knew it.
It was why he chose me.
If he could take me down-what a conquest.
Only to discover the darkness within me ran much, much deeper than he could ever comprehend.
The seed that he had uprooted, the animal he uncaged-was real, heart wrenchingly so.
It almost worked.
Almost.
I laugh about it to this day, and though I may be closer to the Salvation I yearn for-
There’s still that nagging voice in the back of my mind…Always.
The memory of the sweet metallic tang
The hunger that surfaces every time blood rises to the surface of a particularly delicious specimen
The racing of my heart at the feel of a strong pulse beneath my tongue, the harsh pounding of a terrified heartbeat…
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Identity
It's a strange thing. Not even-I'd say it's more of an organism, a thing that lives and evolves outside and inside of us-molding who we are, how we act, what we do, tainting our perceptions.
Who was it that said we needed it? This city in particular seems to be obsessed with the import of identity. It's vital-as necessary as air-and yet what I've found more valuable (invaluable even) is the lack of an identity. In a city full of lights and glamor, grime and chrome, where everything is always opening and closing, torn down, built up, re-built and imported. Where the place seems to move like a machine oiled with the blood, sweat and green of it's inhabitants. A city that takes all in-the pure, the sullied, the rich, the poor, the majority and minority-and grinds them into adults or spits them back on to the cold, dirty streets to lick their wounds and drag themselves back home. A city where you can find anything, be anything (and be convinced of anything) it's particularly important to know who you are. But what is that, exactly? A compilation of morals and/or ethics stemming from past challenges and experiences? A code of honor? Won't those then be shaken by the new challenges and experiences that confront you? So you can never really be absolutely certain, and if you are you are constantly aware of it and therefore constantly on edge so as not to shatter the perfect mold you've demanded of yourself.
So what is identity? Is it a creation of your own or one society has foisted upon us? For some, it's a mixture of both. For some, it's ingrained in our upbringing.
I'm going to venture that identity is a comforting illusion. Another way for mankind to control what he will never have control of-the future.
Consumerism would have us believe that by purchasing A, B or C we can create an identity for ourselves. Indeed, what we drape ourselves in is no doubt an expression of ourselves. The Native Americans are a wonderful example. However, so many I see today submit to a group identity, a truly saddening sight. Our country has named it, furthering the perversion. The flocks are now termed 'demographics.' Creativity is reserved for those bold enough or those paid enough. Or those that have created an identity out of their infamy-Jersey Shore, Paris Hilton. Now we must ask ourselves how low we have sunk if we begin to form our identities on such base examples of humanity.
When we are in a relationship our identities begin to mix with too much relation. Too much time breeds irritation and lack of appreciation because you begin to lose your 'identities'. You also begin to notice each others traits in one another, and a mirror affect is only charming for so long. You fall into such comfort that you've forgotten what it was that excited you.
Is that identity then? A routine? The same pattern you carry out every day? I would hope it's not as flimsy as that.
Then you get into 'identifying with someone'. There's an interesting theory. Do you allow another perception or opinion dictate who you are? What a terrifying concept. No one should have such power over you.
I invite you to imagine your life with out an identity. How amazing would it be to live as a purely instinctual creature? Suppressing nothing, denying yourself nothing, no censure, no societal norms, no labeling yourself or others. Such freedom!
I look in the mirror every day without ever really seeing myself. The other day I caught sight of my reflection. I had been crying, so the expression was uncensored, angry and raw. What I saw made my stomach drop. I realized I had no idea who was looking back at me. This woman's face had lengthened, her skin was pale. She had fire-red hair. The make up made her face look cruel.
I've been asked on shoots before: "Has anyone ever told you-you are an extremely intense person. There are times when you look straight into the lens, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up."
After all that's happened in my life I'd like to think that I came out pretty good. None of my scars are really noticeable. No one expects to hear what they hear when they've grown close enough for the intimate details conversation. Luckily I rarely have to have it.
I have always 'identified' myself as a mature, strong, passionate, sophisticated young matron figure with a healthy ambition and an odd infatuation with intelligent, powerful men usually twice my age. Though I've had the honor of playing both Medea and Lady Macbeth, I've never really put much thought into why those roles came so easily to me. After seeing that reflection, I know now that I've been afraid to. There was something there, something that's been with me for most of my life, something I didn't want to include in my identity. Something that had frightened people away in my youth. Something I've been afraid to recognize because it didn't fit with my finishing school, with my elegant foster mother and her dinner parties and country club and the world I grew accustomed to as a young adult.
I know now that the reason I relished those roles so much was because I could touch those impulses, caress them, breathe life into the actions we never think ourselves capable of. I shared it all without shame and relished the horror on their faces. I danced with the demons that I had imprisoned for so many years.
Sometimes when you cage the beast, the beast gets angry. Unfulfilled wishes and desires swept under the rug for the sake of a carefully constructed identity is a terrible way to live. And when the wave of life comes and sweeps it all away, you're left with empty confusion.
So from this day on I endeavor never to "identify" myself. It has not done me much good so far, and the idea of living with such wild abandon is delicious to me. either will I attempt to "identify" with another. Why do them the injustice of my ignorant assumptions? How much more could I learn if I took the time to watch and listen as their instincts took over? It's amazing how much people will reveal to you when you shut up for 20 minutes.
This is life. Do you really want to follow a plan the entire time? Must you always know what's coming? Do you really want to live in a carefully constructed box forever?
Remember: A prison is still a prison, even with Peruvian marble and crystal chandeliers.
So set yourself free.
Who was it that said we needed it? This city in particular seems to be obsessed with the import of identity. It's vital-as necessary as air-and yet what I've found more valuable (invaluable even) is the lack of an identity. In a city full of lights and glamor, grime and chrome, where everything is always opening and closing, torn down, built up, re-built and imported. Where the place seems to move like a machine oiled with the blood, sweat and green of it's inhabitants. A city that takes all in-the pure, the sullied, the rich, the poor, the majority and minority-and grinds them into adults or spits them back on to the cold, dirty streets to lick their wounds and drag themselves back home. A city where you can find anything, be anything (and be convinced of anything) it's particularly important to know who you are. But what is that, exactly? A compilation of morals and/or ethics stemming from past challenges and experiences? A code of honor? Won't those then be shaken by the new challenges and experiences that confront you? So you can never really be absolutely certain, and if you are you are constantly aware of it and therefore constantly on edge so as not to shatter the perfect mold you've demanded of yourself.
So what is identity? Is it a creation of your own or one society has foisted upon us? For some, it's a mixture of both. For some, it's ingrained in our upbringing.
I'm going to venture that identity is a comforting illusion. Another way for mankind to control what he will never have control of-the future.
Consumerism would have us believe that by purchasing A, B or C we can create an identity for ourselves. Indeed, what we drape ourselves in is no doubt an expression of ourselves. The Native Americans are a wonderful example. However, so many I see today submit to a group identity, a truly saddening sight. Our country has named it, furthering the perversion. The flocks are now termed 'demographics.' Creativity is reserved for those bold enough or those paid enough. Or those that have created an identity out of their infamy-Jersey Shore, Paris Hilton. Now we must ask ourselves how low we have sunk if we begin to form our identities on such base examples of humanity.
When we are in a relationship our identities begin to mix with too much relation. Too much time breeds irritation and lack of appreciation because you begin to lose your 'identities'. You also begin to notice each others traits in one another, and a mirror affect is only charming for so long. You fall into such comfort that you've forgotten what it was that excited you.
Is that identity then? A routine? The same pattern you carry out every day? I would hope it's not as flimsy as that.
Then you get into 'identifying with someone'. There's an interesting theory. Do you allow another perception or opinion dictate who you are? What a terrifying concept. No one should have such power over you.
I invite you to imagine your life with out an identity. How amazing would it be to live as a purely instinctual creature? Suppressing nothing, denying yourself nothing, no censure, no societal norms, no labeling yourself or others. Such freedom!
I look in the mirror every day without ever really seeing myself. The other day I caught sight of my reflection. I had been crying, so the expression was uncensored, angry and raw. What I saw made my stomach drop. I realized I had no idea who was looking back at me. This woman's face had lengthened, her skin was pale. She had fire-red hair. The make up made her face look cruel.
I've been asked on shoots before: "Has anyone ever told you-you are an extremely intense person. There are times when you look straight into the lens, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up."
After all that's happened in my life I'd like to think that I came out pretty good. None of my scars are really noticeable. No one expects to hear what they hear when they've grown close enough for the intimate details conversation. Luckily I rarely have to have it.
I have always 'identified' myself as a mature, strong, passionate, sophisticated young matron figure with a healthy ambition and an odd infatuation with intelligent, powerful men usually twice my age. Though I've had the honor of playing both Medea and Lady Macbeth, I've never really put much thought into why those roles came so easily to me. After seeing that reflection, I know now that I've been afraid to. There was something there, something that's been with me for most of my life, something I didn't want to include in my identity. Something that had frightened people away in my youth. Something I've been afraid to recognize because it didn't fit with my finishing school, with my elegant foster mother and her dinner parties and country club and the world I grew accustomed to as a young adult.
I know now that the reason I relished those roles so much was because I could touch those impulses, caress them, breathe life into the actions we never think ourselves capable of. I shared it all without shame and relished the horror on their faces. I danced with the demons that I had imprisoned for so many years.
Sometimes when you cage the beast, the beast gets angry. Unfulfilled wishes and desires swept under the rug for the sake of a carefully constructed identity is a terrible way to live. And when the wave of life comes and sweeps it all away, you're left with empty confusion.
So from this day on I endeavor never to "identify" myself. It has not done me much good so far, and the idea of living with such wild abandon is delicious to me. either will I attempt to "identify" with another. Why do them the injustice of my ignorant assumptions? How much more could I learn if I took the time to watch and listen as their instincts took over? It's amazing how much people will reveal to you when you shut up for 20 minutes.
This is life. Do you really want to follow a plan the entire time? Must you always know what's coming? Do you really want to live in a carefully constructed box forever?
Remember: A prison is still a prison, even with Peruvian marble and crystal chandeliers.
So set yourself free.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Creative Genius and Insanity-made, not born.
I've spent the last few years of my life tinkering with a question that is asked of me so frequently it's surprising.
"Who is your favorite actress?"
"Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins, Denzel Washington. Top 3."
"But those aren't actresses."
"I don't have a favorite actress."
"Why?"
"I have yet to find one that is truly remarkable in more than just talent."
"What do you mean?"
What do I mean? What do Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins and Denzel Washington all have in common? All were made, not born. All were born the furthest from the entertainment Industry as humanly possible. Pacino-raised by a beautiful single mother in the Bronx, was also homeless for a while. Hopkins- father was a fish monger. His mother once said to his father: "There's something very wrong with this boy." Washington-father was a minister, mother ran a beauty parlor. He attended Fordham and played Othello before he ever stepped foot in films.
All had a dream that they refused to give up on. None of them had wealthy parents. None of them had connections. All of them realized and accomplished one very important thing: They were fearless and relentless in their work-which made them unforgettable. All of them made themselves who and what they are today, by burning snapshots of their souls within our eyelids.
I'm not saying that there aren't actresses out there that may have done the same, merely that I have yet to find one-and yes, I've searched. Other than Norma Jean (who I have the greatest respect for) and Clara Bow, I have yet to find a struggle that strikes and inspires me in any of the past or present moments in the lives of the major female celebrities of today. I believe that without that struggle, you will always lack what Anthony, Al and Denzel manage to deliver us. They are simply more fascinating because they've lived so much more in so many ways. There's so much more to them.
In my travels as a young girl as a ward of the State I had the honor of being commited to a Level 5 facility due in part to the incompetence of my social worker and my own antagonistic behavior. Karma is truly a bitch, my friends. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the term 'Level 5', allow me: Lockdown. Constant Supervision. Removal of all sharp objects-including a pen (I might as well have been raped) and paper. See where I'm going? Institution.al.ized.
Though the nurses and psychiatrists could find nothing wrong with me, most of the staff didn't want to deal with me. At the time I was also antagonistic towards my fellow patients. I found them fascinating. I thought it great amusement to push a button and see how an unstable person reacted. Some of them avoided me. One eventually got sick of it and calmly walked over, looked down at me with what seemed to be quizzical indifference, and then proceeded to beat the shit out of me, calmly and methodically.
After that I observed from a reasonable distance. I grew even more entranced with them. Some of them were literal geniuses. The man that taught me chess would mutter equations to himself. The sex addict down the hall was beautiful, even in her white gown. Sometimes on nights when she heard me crying she'd sing softly to me through the wall. She would recite the most beautiful poetry I had ever heard.
One of them helped me arrange our failed escape. I say failed because only a few of us made it over the wall. I feel badly about it to this day, wondering where those poor souls are.
Due to further idiocy on my social workers part, I ended up staying there for about a year and a half, as I would watch new patients come in. I watched with a morbid fascination as a boy about my age stared at a wall, muttering to someone he was convinced was there, as he pulled his hair out, strand by strand. Though he didn't always see bad things. There were days when he would go into ecstatic fits of joy because he saw such beauty, beauty that no one else could see. I envied him on those days, wishing I was where he was. Then the nurses would shove his pills down his throat and that envy dissipated.
You may think it odd that this was when I chose acting as my profession of choice. It seemed so easy to create a world and live as if it were so-everyone around me was doing it, and there was such escape in it. When they'd shut me in solitary for resisting my meds I would entertain myself and the four stone walls became a rainforest, the steel door my bungalow. (I was twelve, I didn't know a bungalow didnt belong in a rainforest at that time.) There, no one could reach me. There, no one existed but me.
I tell you all of this because I feel that in order to truly stretch an audience, to truly move them, you must be willing to stretch every corner of every piece of your mind. Anthony Hopkins made us shiver and heave in Hannibal because he never allowed a limit to his imagination. Everything was justified and carried out with surgical determination, so we believed it. How was he able to do that? Is there a part if Anthony Hopkins capable of such things?
Well, isn't there a part of all of us that's capable of such things?
Yes.
We don't want to believe it, but yes. Most people-most women-have never been granted an opporunity to play such roles. Why? If we are to speak plainly, I believe that women have an enormous barrier when it comes to such a possibility-a barrier instilled by society to ensure we have good mothers to raise a good generation and so on and all such swill. As a graduate of finishing school, I get it.
However, I haven't forgotten what I've seen. I'll never forget the depravity I know men-and women-to be capable of. Nor does the justification of said depravity escape me. Is it right? Of course not. But with man right and wrong has always been subject to perception. So why limit my imagination when it comes to my work?
Geniuses are never born-no matter what 'high-class' (perception, indeed) mothers assure themselves of, or how much they've paid for school, or how many extra-curricular activities are shoved down a childs throat. No amount of money or 'good breeding' or expectation buys ambition. In all career fields, geniuses are made and the weak catch up or die.
I plan on being around for a very long time, just like Hopkins, Pacino, and Washington. I truly believe the only way to ensure that is to live. And not the slice of cake living I see most women consign themselves to (again, my perception from limited experience-my lack of feminine company is no secret) but the kind of life that I moved to New York for. The kind of life I'm used to. Blood, sweat and tears, love, joy and wild abandon. So that when I'm dying I can say: "You see? It matters not what one is born as, but who they chose to become. Remember that when you remember me."
"Who is your favorite actress?"
"Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins, Denzel Washington. Top 3."
"But those aren't actresses."
"I don't have a favorite actress."
"Why?"
"I have yet to find one that is truly remarkable in more than just talent."
"What do you mean?"
What do I mean? What do Al Pacino, Anthony Hopkins and Denzel Washington all have in common? All were made, not born. All were born the furthest from the entertainment Industry as humanly possible. Pacino-raised by a beautiful single mother in the Bronx, was also homeless for a while. Hopkins- father was a fish monger. His mother once said to his father: "There's something very wrong with this boy." Washington-father was a minister, mother ran a beauty parlor. He attended Fordham and played Othello before he ever stepped foot in films.
All had a dream that they refused to give up on. None of them had wealthy parents. None of them had connections. All of them realized and accomplished one very important thing: They were fearless and relentless in their work-which made them unforgettable. All of them made themselves who and what they are today, by burning snapshots of their souls within our eyelids.
I'm not saying that there aren't actresses out there that may have done the same, merely that I have yet to find one-and yes, I've searched. Other than Norma Jean (who I have the greatest respect for) and Clara Bow, I have yet to find a struggle that strikes and inspires me in any of the past or present moments in the lives of the major female celebrities of today. I believe that without that struggle, you will always lack what Anthony, Al and Denzel manage to deliver us. They are simply more fascinating because they've lived so much more in so many ways. There's so much more to them.
In my travels as a young girl as a ward of the State I had the honor of being commited to a Level 5 facility due in part to the incompetence of my social worker and my own antagonistic behavior. Karma is truly a bitch, my friends. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the term 'Level 5', allow me: Lockdown. Constant Supervision. Removal of all sharp objects-including a pen (I might as well have been raped) and paper. See where I'm going? Institution.al.ized.
Though the nurses and psychiatrists could find nothing wrong with me, most of the staff didn't want to deal with me. At the time I was also antagonistic towards my fellow patients. I found them fascinating. I thought it great amusement to push a button and see how an unstable person reacted. Some of them avoided me. One eventually got sick of it and calmly walked over, looked down at me with what seemed to be quizzical indifference, and then proceeded to beat the shit out of me, calmly and methodically.
After that I observed from a reasonable distance. I grew even more entranced with them. Some of them were literal geniuses. The man that taught me chess would mutter equations to himself. The sex addict down the hall was beautiful, even in her white gown. Sometimes on nights when she heard me crying she'd sing softly to me through the wall. She would recite the most beautiful poetry I had ever heard.
One of them helped me arrange our failed escape. I say failed because only a few of us made it over the wall. I feel badly about it to this day, wondering where those poor souls are.
Due to further idiocy on my social workers part, I ended up staying there for about a year and a half, as I would watch new patients come in. I watched with a morbid fascination as a boy about my age stared at a wall, muttering to someone he was convinced was there, as he pulled his hair out, strand by strand. Though he didn't always see bad things. There were days when he would go into ecstatic fits of joy because he saw such beauty, beauty that no one else could see. I envied him on those days, wishing I was where he was. Then the nurses would shove his pills down his throat and that envy dissipated.
You may think it odd that this was when I chose acting as my profession of choice. It seemed so easy to create a world and live as if it were so-everyone around me was doing it, and there was such escape in it. When they'd shut me in solitary for resisting my meds I would entertain myself and the four stone walls became a rainforest, the steel door my bungalow. (I was twelve, I didn't know a bungalow didnt belong in a rainforest at that time.) There, no one could reach me. There, no one existed but me.
I tell you all of this because I feel that in order to truly stretch an audience, to truly move them, you must be willing to stretch every corner of every piece of your mind. Anthony Hopkins made us shiver and heave in Hannibal because he never allowed a limit to his imagination. Everything was justified and carried out with surgical determination, so we believed it. How was he able to do that? Is there a part if Anthony Hopkins capable of such things?
Well, isn't there a part of all of us that's capable of such things?
Yes.
We don't want to believe it, but yes. Most people-most women-have never been granted an opporunity to play such roles. Why? If we are to speak plainly, I believe that women have an enormous barrier when it comes to such a possibility-a barrier instilled by society to ensure we have good mothers to raise a good generation and so on and all such swill. As a graduate of finishing school, I get it.
However, I haven't forgotten what I've seen. I'll never forget the depravity I know men-and women-to be capable of. Nor does the justification of said depravity escape me. Is it right? Of course not. But with man right and wrong has always been subject to perception. So why limit my imagination when it comes to my work?
Geniuses are never born-no matter what 'high-class' (perception, indeed) mothers assure themselves of, or how much they've paid for school, or how many extra-curricular activities are shoved down a childs throat. No amount of money or 'good breeding' or expectation buys ambition. In all career fields, geniuses are made and the weak catch up or die.
I plan on being around for a very long time, just like Hopkins, Pacino, and Washington. I truly believe the only way to ensure that is to live. And not the slice of cake living I see most women consign themselves to (again, my perception from limited experience-my lack of feminine company is no secret) but the kind of life that I moved to New York for. The kind of life I'm used to. Blood, sweat and tears, love, joy and wild abandon. So that when I'm dying I can say: "You see? It matters not what one is born as, but who they chose to become. Remember that when you remember me."
Monday, August 22, 2011
Smoky's Warning
Obsession and Dependency.
Where do they come from? Two of the most fascinating and destructive things in life humans suffer from. A need so palpable for someone or something- it makes you itch and sweat. It’s not like you don’t have other things to think about, more important matters. It’s like a poison that spreads slowly. A poison that remains in your veins long after you realize that you’ve made the pedestal. Long after you’ve broken the pedestal and seen the truth.
The things and people in life that scream danger and excitement. Everything tells you to keep away, and the thrill that sends you racing back again and again- It’s addictive.
I don’t suppose I was ever meant to be amongst peers. I’m not quite sure what those are most of the time. Even when I’m understood I don’t feel understood-I cannot honestly say I understand who or what I am. When asked to identify with myself, I see a vivid image: a forest fire. Bright, wild energy-unpredictable, destructive, fascinating. I wonder often if I didn’t have the anchor of somewhat solid people that surround me-would I burn alive? I know I would. The thought is terrifying, and seductive.
Is it morbid that my obsession is the line between my evolution and my destruction? I constantly wonder which way I'll fall, because in my life destruction has always led to evolution-perhaps I'm just afraid of being content. The thought makes me want to puke.
So perhaps that’s what I leave upon people. A burn that lies beneath the skin-or an itch. I’ve been told by many that I’m magnetic, fascinating, addicting, but perhaps it’s only because I seem to them a tornado blazing through, and they don’t want to miss the sight. So-a compliment, a curse or both?
I’ve heard by many a dear friend-right before they walked out of my life forever-that if they couldn’t have all of me, they didn’t want any of me.
How can I give what I cannot seem to collect? What I have no desire to collect? I always seem to be in the eye of the storm. Nothing calms because I do not wish it to. I am always running for my desire is to do so. Perhaps I feel that in so doing I earn the dreams I have at night. If not enough has been fitted to a day sleep will not come. This is foreign to many, in particular those idle persons that must fill their life by inciting mischief among friends-the detestable cockroaches of mankind that pour negative energy into society because they’ve no wish to become more.
I hear so much speculation on who I am and where I come from, my age and occupation. If you’re looking for my status, I’m afraid you’ll find only disappointment. A forest fire has no status or means to an end-it is its own means, and end.
I suppose that’s exactly what I am as well. I’ve never edited myself nor bothered with pretty speech, though I learned it all as a young woman. I am my own means, I’ll be my own end, and until such time I’ll endeavor to earn my own good opinion.
If you’ve shared my company you know that I am either silent or uncensored. I invest or I leave.
Many have asked me why I operate in such extremes. I do not feel that I do. I operate in concretes. Cause and effect. It’s simple and wastes less time. I’m learning not to invest in the weak, because a forest fire cannot care for the weak, the dependent, the stupid or the cowardly. It is the resilient that remain.
Luckily for me over the years I’ve become delightfully reptilian when it comes to severing ties. It is something I’ve rarely done because I rarely make mistakes with the company I keep.
However, until recently I’ve had a habit of caring for wounded animals. Once I showed them tenderness, however, I was like a fly stuck to glue. I couldn’t seem to untangle myself, and they disgusted me more and more, yet I pitied them more and more. So it was a long, unsavory break.
Luckily I have evolved, and this mental switch has enabled apathy to spread as easily as Aspirin. Thank God, indeed.
I too suffered from obsession and know what it is to burn and hate ones self for allowing another such control over me. I thank God that he had such a switch and was able to turn off so easily. It left me no room for anything but to bleed him out. He taught me many a valuable lesson that I’ll not forget.
A warning-fire is not to be tampered with. Fire does not understand what it is or where it is going. Fire can not be held or understood. It has one purpose-to survive, grow, and complete its course. If I never put the wounded out in the cold, they’ll never learn how to get warm.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Time and Change
The general consensus in this city seems to be that there is never enough time. Time is precious, costly, in high demand. If you asked any New Yorker-"$10,000 or an extra year of life-" I'm willing to bet they would take the year. For many reasons. A year to make the $10,000. A year more to spend with family. A year more to hike that mountain you've always wanted to. A year of old movies with a lover-or the chance to find love and hold it dear. So much can change in a year.
Change-now there's something that no amount of anything can purchase-and as life would have it, change only comes with Time. For the past two years time has seemed to slip through my fingers like sands in the hourglass. There just never seemed to be enough of it. Running from job to shoot to job to rehearsal to shoot back to the third job, so on and so forth.
Anyone that knows me knows that I've always been an ambitious person, I always will be. I work hard to support a career that I'm passionate about. And in this Industry, everyone has an opinion about me. I have the experience of a woman over sixty and the face of an eighteen year old girl. Well, that's great, but it doesn't do much for typecast. I was once told by the casting director for Californication: "You will never play the ditsy teen, or the sweet ingenue. You're too complex for that. If they ever made a re-make of American Beauty, you'd be perfect."
And then I played Medea. Go figure.
In my Industry people like boxes. Boxes are marketable-I get that. My box just happens to be very small-lets face it: Girl Interrupted, The Manson Girls, American Beauty-those roles appear once in a blue moon. That's fine with me, I understand that. I'm willing to go with my market, and I'm willing to adapt to the changes that come with that-and I have played the young ingenue, recently, in a PSA.
What is upsetting is being lied to, and being leeched off of. I knew the dangers of this when I sought representation, when I agreed to take over administrative work on a four month project that went no where, when I dedicate my time to a company in service to my craft and it's art.
I tried to be wary, cautious, shrewd. It turned out to be extremely difficult. It's in my nature to think the best of people until they've proven otherwise. It's also in my nature to be extremely loyal. Unfortunately, those two factors don't always serve you well in business-particularly the Entertainment business. I'm currently reading the Biography of Clara Bow, a girl very, very much like me. She did not have a happy beginning, did not have a happy career-though she was loved by everyone she worked with and her audience.
Her manager had an excellent perception of both Time and Change, and milked both Clara and the system for all it was worth. Clara, wanting to believe the best in him, happy to be working, was none the wiser. She had come from nothing-what right did she have to complain?
But she did. She did have that right, everyone around her-those closest to her-discouraged her. She should be happy that she had 'something', they said.
I thank God that with the Time that has passed from her time to mine, things have changed-marginally perhaps, but they have. There are not nearly as many pigs in the Industry as there were back then, but they still exist. They still exist.
Everyone thinks that once you obtain representation, everything will be easy. Oh, were it that easy. Everything gets much more technical, and you start to learn how valuable your image and self worth are. If you're anything like me, that' a terrifying question to ask. How much are you worth to yourself, really? How much would you sell yourself for? What is it, out of thousands in this city, that you have to offer? When I finally learned that, and began making money from it, I found that most of the people that had had an opinion of me and advice for me-no longer had opinions and advice. They had defenses and excuses, because that's all there had been in the first place. They just knew how to present them well, and I had been very naive.
So what do I do? Do I skulk? Do I give up?
Well I think everyone knows I'm incapable of that.
So I rely on Time-once my competitor, now becoming a dear friend. Because Time has brought me change. Time has also given me that wondrous gift of wisdom. And with wisdom I am finding the strength and courage to seek new representation with a clear head and open eyes.
Time has also slowed for me-I'm seeing sunshine again, instead of a blur of light running from one place to the next. I'm seeing people instead of clients. I'm seeing someone's heart instead of a smiling face. I have love in my life.
Clara Bow ended happily married in Nevada (go figure) as a rancher, to a cowboy that later became Lieutenant Governor of Nevada. She had two boys with him. Will I end as she did? Who knows. At least we have one thing in common-our audience and the people we work with love us. And that, my friends, is priceless.
Change-now there's something that no amount of anything can purchase-and as life would have it, change only comes with Time. For the past two years time has seemed to slip through my fingers like sands in the hourglass. There just never seemed to be enough of it. Running from job to shoot to job to rehearsal to shoot back to the third job, so on and so forth.
Anyone that knows me knows that I've always been an ambitious person, I always will be. I work hard to support a career that I'm passionate about. And in this Industry, everyone has an opinion about me. I have the experience of a woman over sixty and the face of an eighteen year old girl. Well, that's great, but it doesn't do much for typecast. I was once told by the casting director for Californication: "You will never play the ditsy teen, or the sweet ingenue. You're too complex for that. If they ever made a re-make of American Beauty, you'd be perfect."
And then I played Medea. Go figure.
In my Industry people like boxes. Boxes are marketable-I get that. My box just happens to be very small-lets face it: Girl Interrupted, The Manson Girls, American Beauty-those roles appear once in a blue moon. That's fine with me, I understand that. I'm willing to go with my market, and I'm willing to adapt to the changes that come with that-and I have played the young ingenue, recently, in a PSA.
What is upsetting is being lied to, and being leeched off of. I knew the dangers of this when I sought representation, when I agreed to take over administrative work on a four month project that went no where, when I dedicate my time to a company in service to my craft and it's art.
I tried to be wary, cautious, shrewd. It turned out to be extremely difficult. It's in my nature to think the best of people until they've proven otherwise. It's also in my nature to be extremely loyal. Unfortunately, those two factors don't always serve you well in business-particularly the Entertainment business. I'm currently reading the Biography of Clara Bow, a girl very, very much like me. She did not have a happy beginning, did not have a happy career-though she was loved by everyone she worked with and her audience.
Her manager had an excellent perception of both Time and Change, and milked both Clara and the system for all it was worth. Clara, wanting to believe the best in him, happy to be working, was none the wiser. She had come from nothing-what right did she have to complain?
But she did. She did have that right, everyone around her-those closest to her-discouraged her. She should be happy that she had 'something', they said.
I thank God that with the Time that has passed from her time to mine, things have changed-marginally perhaps, but they have. There are not nearly as many pigs in the Industry as there were back then, but they still exist. They still exist.
Everyone thinks that once you obtain representation, everything will be easy. Oh, were it that easy. Everything gets much more technical, and you start to learn how valuable your image and self worth are. If you're anything like me, that' a terrifying question to ask. How much are you worth to yourself, really? How much would you sell yourself for? What is it, out of thousands in this city, that you have to offer? When I finally learned that, and began making money from it, I found that most of the people that had had an opinion of me and advice for me-no longer had opinions and advice. They had defenses and excuses, because that's all there had been in the first place. They just knew how to present them well, and I had been very naive.
So what do I do? Do I skulk? Do I give up?
Well I think everyone knows I'm incapable of that.
So I rely on Time-once my competitor, now becoming a dear friend. Because Time has brought me change. Time has also given me that wondrous gift of wisdom. And with wisdom I am finding the strength and courage to seek new representation with a clear head and open eyes.
Time has also slowed for me-I'm seeing sunshine again, instead of a blur of light running from one place to the next. I'm seeing people instead of clients. I'm seeing someone's heart instead of a smiling face. I have love in my life.
Clara Bow ended happily married in Nevada (go figure) as a rancher, to a cowboy that later became Lieutenant Governor of Nevada. She had two boys with him. Will I end as she did? Who knows. At least we have one thing in common-our audience and the people we work with love us. And that, my friends, is priceless.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Beginning.
So....you're probably wondering why I named this blog as I did.
I don't really remember having a childhood. I kind of didn't. I mean, of course, I had one, if by childhood you mean the years of your life that number 1 through 10-or 12-or whenever it is you start to become a teenager. They start young nowadays-teenagers pregnant at 12? Jesus, help us.
Everyone has asked me to put this down on paper-so I'm doing one better. I putting out there-out wherever the web extends to-so if you're a French fan, Bonjour!
My biological mother was a prostitute-so I've been told. All I remember of her is seeing a very tall man we (by 'we', I mean the sister and brother I've got out there somewhere-what's up, guys!) had been calling 'Uncle' pick her up, turn her over, and throw her head first through our glass coffee table like a football. TOUCHDOWN, BOISE!
...You can laugh, really-it's funny.
So 'Uncle' Dan scores, picks up the little black briefcase by her, and storms out. I didn't know what was in that briefcase until I was in our fifth grade DARE class (remember those? HA!) and the guy showed me the array of drugs packed neatly inside. I often wonder what the police do with those after 'confiscating' them. But I digress.
My sister fed me, because my brother was shipped off to Juvi
for something or other. She would go across the street and work for this sweet old lady in exchange for a bananna and some hot dogs, which she'd bring home and split with me while mom was passed out on the floor, drooling through the stitches in her mouth. So, if you ever see this, thanks, Sis.
When I was three or four I went to stay with my 'grandma'-if you're still alive, I'm sorry I don't remember your name-my moms mom-for a few days. She made me dinner and introduced me to Indiana Jones. I remember being aroused for the first time at 5 and not knowing what it meant that I became heated watching an older man with a bullwhip.
Then my 'dad'-or the john that happened to be on my birth certificate-got custody of me and I was being driven to Las Vegas by this weird man I'd never seen before. He was gruff and he wouldn't touch me-of course, a walking skeleton with half a head of hair infested with lice is hardly a welcome sight, so I get it.
His wife was an obese Canadian with sores all over her body-psoriasis, I learned it to be called. She had the face of a pig and cold eyes.
The bitch was crazy. I remember first learning what the expectation of beauty was when I was six. I wasn't allowed out of the house until I was nursed to normalcy, but when I was she'd tie my hair in perfect pigtails every morning. I wore a variation of the same thing to school every day-always pink, always tiny. I was constantly reminded not to eat too much, because 'I didn't want to be the fat girl at school.' I was never allowed out of my room unless it was school time, and 'groundation' meant her boarding up my windows and taping everything shut. I was to lay in bed, in the dark, for a month and contemplate what I had done.
But I didn't. I snuck books into my room. I made picnic tables out of rubber bands. I made up my own languages and writing systems. I colored on toilet paper. Dude, necessity is the mother of invention.
Things eventually escalated. When I was 7, the crazy, spotty Canadian went gambling every night, and 'dad' would come into my room, I'm guessing because he was too much of a coward to go elsewhere. To this day I keep a knife under my pillow.
This went on for about three years, when I eventually realized how fucked up it all was-duh, right? But then I realized something better-I could fight back. All those years laying in the dark had made me real creative. But it wasn't until I took to playing with explosives in the house that my 'parents' eventually put their feet down.
My dad put me in an institution to shut me up-I mean, who's gonna listen to a girl that lights fireworks by hand in the house? I made myself pretty comfortable there. No school, I was the smartest one there (totally unfair, I know, but it was true) nothing to do except eat and play cards with the dude that talked to his feet. He was awesome by the way. I've got some awesome stories about that place, so any subscribers, if you wanna hear em, just ask!
Unfortunately, the staff eventually discharged me back to my father. They literally said 'There's just nothing wrong with her.'
Well I was not having that. I ran away. He dragged me home. I hit him. He couldn't hit me back. Pussy. So I scared the shit out of him, and my 'mom'. I began walking around the house, hitting myself in the head lightly and talking about 'the voices'. Oh, man! You should have seen their faces, that shit was great!
So, back I went. I remember one of the nurses saying: "Not you again! What are you doing here, there's nothing wrong with you!" I just smiled at her and shrugged. We had a lot of great talks, she and I. I got the feeling she didn't have anyone at home. Must be hard to find someone when you work with crazies all day. I hope she found her Charming.
ANYway....They eventually moved me again, when they couldn't diagnose me with anything, and that started a long-ass schlep around Las Vegas, from home to home to St. Jude's ranch for children-where I had my first encounter with Catholics, EEEEEK!-and eventually I landed a foster family. By age 15, I was a regular member of society, attending a high school in what was then an awful part of town.
That's where it really began-the Lolita thing. You see, in Vegas, we get our teachers right of college, because Vegas is d.e.s.p.e.r.a.t.e. for teachers. (Second worst education system in the country, woot woot!) And our school was a special case, because we had a shootout or some sort of bloody event in our parking lot every week.
That's where I met Mr. Donning, Mr. Greyson and Mr. Beygat.
Mr. Donning was twenty eight, fresh, pale skin, dark brown hair, icy green eyes. I would sit in his class and debate with him while he was teaching-drove him nuts. I kept hoping he'd give me detention, but no dice. I did, however, catch him staring at me several times as I was taking a test. I chewed my pencils back then, you see. So I'd look up and catch him sweating just a little bit in the sweltering classroom, lips slightly parted, watching me. I'd smile demurely and he'd blush scarlet.
Once I called him out in front of everyone-he had spelled Koran wrong, and I pointed it out to him. Fuming, he slammed Websters dictionary down in front of me and pointed to the English translation.
"If you're going to correct me, make sure you're right about it first!"
I looked up and raised my eyebrows, sneering openly. "My mother is Muslim. We have one at home. This is an English dictionary, sir."
His jaw clenched. He yanked the book off my desk and stormed over to his, throwing it down in a huff. That was the last time he ever argued with me.
Then there was the gorgeous Psychologist in my therapists office. Therapy was always a bit of a joke for me, but I liked my therapist well enough, she's an extremely empowered, successful woman and my pride was not wounded by spilling my guts about my mediocre teenage life to her. Besides, I got to attempt to flirt with the tall, morose Psychologist that neighbored her. He always had his head down, buried in a book, chewing his fingernails. He'd look up and catch me staring at him through his open door, watching him intently. He'd blink, shift a bit in his chair, clear his throat. Then he's ask me-"Can I help you?"
I'd respond the same way every time-a brisk "No"-and continue to watch him unblinkingly. He'd eventually get up and softly shut his door, avoiding eye contact. It was my little moment of power for the day. Petty? Yes. I was seventeen. So what.
I asked my foster mother about my teacher infatuation. She (bless her heart) said: "Is nothing wrong. David ten year older dan me."
(David is my foster father. For those of you that don't know me, my foster mother is a beautiful Turkish woman with a bad shopping addiction whose main purpose with me is to see me garbed in Gucci married to a wealthy, successful man. Such is the way to 'happiness'-I love her very much, and that doesn't mean we have to agree.)
So after finishing school (OH, yes, you heard correctly) I began modeling to put myself through college. I was Miss Congeniality 2006 for Las Vegas Nevada, second runner up for Miss Spokesmodel, which gave way to an agency picking me up and taking me to New York for competitive modeling. I went with the hope that I could make enough money to cover my tuition that year (I was en route to being a Psychologist at this point) and I ended up being offered full ride to the an acclaimed acting conservatory in New York.
Well, I could hardly refuse. Besides, the owner of the school gives a helluva pep talk. I remember to this day: "You're good honey, you're real good. But you gotta be better. I'm a tough broad, and I get what I want. I want to get my hands on you in New York."
So up I came. Of all the amazing people I met, there was a man.
He was everything they tell you about in stories. Tall,strong, handsome, debonair, well spoken. He rode horses. He was a champion ballroom dancer. He played Dracula Off Broadway. Trained under the great Uta Hagen. He made you feel like you could be anything you wanted to be, and all you wanted to be was in him.
(Of course, this is my perception. My room mate would like it quoted that she thinks him an untalented hack with air worse than Donald Trump. Different strokes for different folks. She's a buxom red head with a thing for potty-mouths.)
I hated him at first, because he seemed like every spoiled wealthy man I had met at my mother's country club. And believe it or no, he was never my teacher. I watched him teach, but never studied under him. Instead, I studied him.
The more I studied him, the more I came to realize how much more there was. I worked with him and watched the layers fall away. I found a beautiful, fragile man under the complex, slippery exterior. I fell in love from afar.
MAJOR tactical error.
He was the first person I had ever felt was my equal. He was a worthy opponent. I wanted him. Soon want became need, and need became obsession. I'd never been obsessed over anything or anyone, and it severely wounded my pride.
So I went a little nuts. Like, wrote an smut story and dropped it off with the receptionist for him.
OH, yes. Oh dear God, yes.
Our friendship probably could have been salvaged had I just apologized and admitted to being a crazy bitch. But oh, no-the more my pride felt a blow, the more stubborn I became. I began to taunt him openly in front of his students, and he would just look at me. Never accusatory, never angry or resentful. No. Just that neutral look that spoke volumes of how well he knew me. And I hated him more for that. I had never opened up to anyone.
With the steady decline I began to doubt myself for the first time in my life-which sounds arrogant, but it's not. All I mean is it had never occurred to me to doubt. I had always trusted in Faith, having found and held to Jesus in the institution, I had never looked back. Now I did.
Working in seedy bars was a wake up call as well. Eventually there was no more Miss Congeniality, no more sunshine and daisies.
In one such seedy bar I met a beautiful older man with a stiletto fetish. He told me about his storage unit with thousands of priceless stilettos that he reserved for the women he made love to. This prompted one of my earliest erotic fantasies about a woman in nothing but stilettos being taken against the glass window of a park avenue penthouse. One day he nicknamed me his 'lolita'. It stuck.
The next year I met a Producer for a SAG Independent film. Same deal-40 years old. He cast me as the lead in his film and I was soon working as an executive producer-I cast all the male roles, dealt with the SAG reps for the project-everything was ready to go. Unfortunately, his obsession with me had grown into a full time thing that caused him to continue pushing the project further and further away. When I notified him that I had at last obtained professional representation, he dropped the project.
So I began to see the dangers of older men as well. Unfortunately, I've never connected to anyone my age. Most of my friends-men and women-are at least eight to ten years my senior.
I was told once-"You have the face of a child, but the body of a whore."
Now, I could take that as an insult. But I'm quite fond of that quote.
Many would say I have a daddy complex. I can honestly say that's just not right. I simply desire more than most men my age can supply me with.
Last year I played a woman with two children that lost it when her husband up and left them for a Princess and a Kingdom. I played Medea.
And I received rave reviews for being a crazy bitch.
I hope that after all of this none of you are sitting there feeling sorry for me. Because if you are you may not like this next bit.
I can assure you that every person out there that's dealt with any type of abuse like this would agree-you shouldn't pity us. You should fear us. Because we're faster, stronger, smarter-we just are. What doesn't kill you makes you a hell of a person. It's a blessing to be who I am, and I wouldn't be able to contribute any of what I have-or will-had I not had my face rubbed in shit first. I've accumulated years of experience that has enabled me to evolve into a 60 year old at 23. Always remember-when you've hit the very bottom, there's only one way to go.
So there it is my friends (new and old) as brief a history as I could give you, as honestly and freely as I could. No bitter resentment, no pain, just blood on paper. Or in code, rather, considering the source.
I look forward to your questions, suggestions, criticisms, collaboration, love, anger, curiosity, etc., etc.
Thanks for listening.
Respectfully yours.
I don't really remember having a childhood. I kind of didn't. I mean, of course, I had one, if by childhood you mean the years of your life that number 1 through 10-or 12-or whenever it is you start to become a teenager. They start young nowadays-teenagers pregnant at 12? Jesus, help us.
Everyone has asked me to put this down on paper-so I'm doing one better. I putting out there-out wherever the web extends to-so if you're a French fan, Bonjour!
My biological mother was a prostitute-so I've been told. All I remember of her is seeing a very tall man we (by 'we', I mean the sister and brother I've got out there somewhere-what's up, guys!) had been calling 'Uncle' pick her up, turn her over, and throw her head first through our glass coffee table like a football. TOUCHDOWN, BOISE!
...You can laugh, really-it's funny.
So 'Uncle' Dan scores, picks up the little black briefcase by her, and storms out. I didn't know what was in that briefcase until I was in our fifth grade DARE class (remember those? HA!) and the guy showed me the array of drugs packed neatly inside. I often wonder what the police do with those after 'confiscating' them. But I digress.
My sister fed me, because my brother was shipped off to Juvi
for something or other. She would go across the street and work for this sweet old lady in exchange for a bananna and some hot dogs, which she'd bring home and split with me while mom was passed out on the floor, drooling through the stitches in her mouth. So, if you ever see this, thanks, Sis.
When I was three or four I went to stay with my 'grandma'-if you're still alive, I'm sorry I don't remember your name-my moms mom-for a few days. She made me dinner and introduced me to Indiana Jones. I remember being aroused for the first time at 5 and not knowing what it meant that I became heated watching an older man with a bullwhip.
Then my 'dad'-or the john that happened to be on my birth certificate-got custody of me and I was being driven to Las Vegas by this weird man I'd never seen before. He was gruff and he wouldn't touch me-of course, a walking skeleton with half a head of hair infested with lice is hardly a welcome sight, so I get it.
His wife was an obese Canadian with sores all over her body-psoriasis, I learned it to be called. She had the face of a pig and cold eyes.
The bitch was crazy. I remember first learning what the expectation of beauty was when I was six. I wasn't allowed out of the house until I was nursed to normalcy, but when I was she'd tie my hair in perfect pigtails every morning. I wore a variation of the same thing to school every day-always pink, always tiny. I was constantly reminded not to eat too much, because 'I didn't want to be the fat girl at school.' I was never allowed out of my room unless it was school time, and 'groundation' meant her boarding up my windows and taping everything shut. I was to lay in bed, in the dark, for a month and contemplate what I had done.
But I didn't. I snuck books into my room. I made picnic tables out of rubber bands. I made up my own languages and writing systems. I colored on toilet paper. Dude, necessity is the mother of invention.
Things eventually escalated. When I was 7, the crazy, spotty Canadian went gambling every night, and 'dad' would come into my room, I'm guessing because he was too much of a coward to go elsewhere. To this day I keep a knife under my pillow.
This went on for about three years, when I eventually realized how fucked up it all was-duh, right? But then I realized something better-I could fight back. All those years laying in the dark had made me real creative. But it wasn't until I took to playing with explosives in the house that my 'parents' eventually put their feet down.
My dad put me in an institution to shut me up-I mean, who's gonna listen to a girl that lights fireworks by hand in the house? I made myself pretty comfortable there. No school, I was the smartest one there (totally unfair, I know, but it was true) nothing to do except eat and play cards with the dude that talked to his feet. He was awesome by the way. I've got some awesome stories about that place, so any subscribers, if you wanna hear em, just ask!
Unfortunately, the staff eventually discharged me back to my father. They literally said 'There's just nothing wrong with her.'
Well I was not having that. I ran away. He dragged me home. I hit him. He couldn't hit me back. Pussy. So I scared the shit out of him, and my 'mom'. I began walking around the house, hitting myself in the head lightly and talking about 'the voices'. Oh, man! You should have seen their faces, that shit was great!
So, back I went. I remember one of the nurses saying: "Not you again! What are you doing here, there's nothing wrong with you!" I just smiled at her and shrugged. We had a lot of great talks, she and I. I got the feeling she didn't have anyone at home. Must be hard to find someone when you work with crazies all day. I hope she found her Charming.
ANYway....They eventually moved me again, when they couldn't diagnose me with anything, and that started a long-ass schlep around Las Vegas, from home to home to St. Jude's ranch for children-where I had my first encounter with Catholics, EEEEEK!-and eventually I landed a foster family. By age 15, I was a regular member of society, attending a high school in what was then an awful part of town.
That's where it really began-the Lolita thing. You see, in Vegas, we get our teachers right of college, because Vegas is d.e.s.p.e.r.a.t.e. for teachers. (Second worst education system in the country, woot woot!) And our school was a special case, because we had a shootout or some sort of bloody event in our parking lot every week.
That's where I met Mr. Donning, Mr. Greyson and Mr. Beygat.
Mr. Donning was twenty eight, fresh, pale skin, dark brown hair, icy green eyes. I would sit in his class and debate with him while he was teaching-drove him nuts. I kept hoping he'd give me detention, but no dice. I did, however, catch him staring at me several times as I was taking a test. I chewed my pencils back then, you see. So I'd look up and catch him sweating just a little bit in the sweltering classroom, lips slightly parted, watching me. I'd smile demurely and he'd blush scarlet.
Once I called him out in front of everyone-he had spelled Koran wrong, and I pointed it out to him. Fuming, he slammed Websters dictionary down in front of me and pointed to the English translation.
"If you're going to correct me, make sure you're right about it first!"
I looked up and raised my eyebrows, sneering openly. "My mother is Muslim. We have one at home. This is an English dictionary, sir."
His jaw clenched. He yanked the book off my desk and stormed over to his, throwing it down in a huff. That was the last time he ever argued with me.
Then there was the gorgeous Psychologist in my therapists office. Therapy was always a bit of a joke for me, but I liked my therapist well enough, she's an extremely empowered, successful woman and my pride was not wounded by spilling my guts about my mediocre teenage life to her. Besides, I got to attempt to flirt with the tall, morose Psychologist that neighbored her. He always had his head down, buried in a book, chewing his fingernails. He'd look up and catch me staring at him through his open door, watching him intently. He'd blink, shift a bit in his chair, clear his throat. Then he's ask me-"Can I help you?"
I'd respond the same way every time-a brisk "No"-and continue to watch him unblinkingly. He'd eventually get up and softly shut his door, avoiding eye contact. It was my little moment of power for the day. Petty? Yes. I was seventeen. So what.
I asked my foster mother about my teacher infatuation. She (bless her heart) said: "Is nothing wrong. David ten year older dan me."
(David is my foster father. For those of you that don't know me, my foster mother is a beautiful Turkish woman with a bad shopping addiction whose main purpose with me is to see me garbed in Gucci married to a wealthy, successful man. Such is the way to 'happiness'-I love her very much, and that doesn't mean we have to agree.)
So after finishing school (OH, yes, you heard correctly) I began modeling to put myself through college. I was Miss Congeniality 2006 for Las Vegas Nevada, second runner up for Miss Spokesmodel, which gave way to an agency picking me up and taking me to New York for competitive modeling. I went with the hope that I could make enough money to cover my tuition that year (I was en route to being a Psychologist at this point) and I ended up being offered full ride to the an acclaimed acting conservatory in New York.
Well, I could hardly refuse. Besides, the owner of the school gives a helluva pep talk. I remember to this day: "You're good honey, you're real good. But you gotta be better. I'm a tough broad, and I get what I want. I want to get my hands on you in New York."
So up I came. Of all the amazing people I met, there was a man.
He was everything they tell you about in stories. Tall,strong, handsome, debonair, well spoken. He rode horses. He was a champion ballroom dancer. He played Dracula Off Broadway. Trained under the great Uta Hagen. He made you feel like you could be anything you wanted to be, and all you wanted to be was in him.
(Of course, this is my perception. My room mate would like it quoted that she thinks him an untalented hack with air worse than Donald Trump. Different strokes for different folks. She's a buxom red head with a thing for potty-mouths.)
I hated him at first, because he seemed like every spoiled wealthy man I had met at my mother's country club. And believe it or no, he was never my teacher. I watched him teach, but never studied under him. Instead, I studied him.
The more I studied him, the more I came to realize how much more there was. I worked with him and watched the layers fall away. I found a beautiful, fragile man under the complex, slippery exterior. I fell in love from afar.
MAJOR tactical error.
He was the first person I had ever felt was my equal. He was a worthy opponent. I wanted him. Soon want became need, and need became obsession. I'd never been obsessed over anything or anyone, and it severely wounded my pride.
So I went a little nuts. Like, wrote an smut story and dropped it off with the receptionist for him.
OH, yes. Oh dear God, yes.
Our friendship probably could have been salvaged had I just apologized and admitted to being a crazy bitch. But oh, no-the more my pride felt a blow, the more stubborn I became. I began to taunt him openly in front of his students, and he would just look at me. Never accusatory, never angry or resentful. No. Just that neutral look that spoke volumes of how well he knew me. And I hated him more for that. I had never opened up to anyone.
With the steady decline I began to doubt myself for the first time in my life-which sounds arrogant, but it's not. All I mean is it had never occurred to me to doubt. I had always trusted in Faith, having found and held to Jesus in the institution, I had never looked back. Now I did.
Working in seedy bars was a wake up call as well. Eventually there was no more Miss Congeniality, no more sunshine and daisies.
In one such seedy bar I met a beautiful older man with a stiletto fetish. He told me about his storage unit with thousands of priceless stilettos that he reserved for the women he made love to. This prompted one of my earliest erotic fantasies about a woman in nothing but stilettos being taken against the glass window of a park avenue penthouse. One day he nicknamed me his 'lolita'. It stuck.
The next year I met a Producer for a SAG Independent film. Same deal-40 years old. He cast me as the lead in his film and I was soon working as an executive producer-I cast all the male roles, dealt with the SAG reps for the project-everything was ready to go. Unfortunately, his obsession with me had grown into a full time thing that caused him to continue pushing the project further and further away. When I notified him that I had at last obtained professional representation, he dropped the project.
So I began to see the dangers of older men as well. Unfortunately, I've never connected to anyone my age. Most of my friends-men and women-are at least eight to ten years my senior.
I was told once-"You have the face of a child, but the body of a whore."
Now, I could take that as an insult. But I'm quite fond of that quote.
Many would say I have a daddy complex. I can honestly say that's just not right. I simply desire more than most men my age can supply me with.
Last year I played a woman with two children that lost it when her husband up and left them for a Princess and a Kingdom. I played Medea.
And I received rave reviews for being a crazy bitch.
I hope that after all of this none of you are sitting there feeling sorry for me. Because if you are you may not like this next bit.
I can assure you that every person out there that's dealt with any type of abuse like this would agree-you shouldn't pity us. You should fear us. Because we're faster, stronger, smarter-we just are. What doesn't kill you makes you a hell of a person. It's a blessing to be who I am, and I wouldn't be able to contribute any of what I have-or will-had I not had my face rubbed in shit first. I've accumulated years of experience that has enabled me to evolve into a 60 year old at 23. Always remember-when you've hit the very bottom, there's only one way to go.
So there it is my friends (new and old) as brief a history as I could give you, as honestly and freely as I could. No bitter resentment, no pain, just blood on paper. Or in code, rather, considering the source.
I look forward to your questions, suggestions, criticisms, collaboration, love, anger, curiosity, etc., etc.
Thanks for listening.
Respectfully yours.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)