This morning I told my mother to fuk off. I did not mean it, not exactly. Living here, where I don’t want to be, being sick, bad genes, I blame her. I can’t help it, I do. As I watch her walk to the car, a fragile, old woman it’s too much. She gave me her whole life, I can give her a fraction of mine. She knows I don’t mean
today is a three-part kind of day I know. I used to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the Village, head-down, unassuming posture. The year was 1995, I was studying acting and a mega fan. My brother saw him on the subway, asked for his autograph for me. He graciously signed a pack of matches, he was kind. Addiction, Mental Illness are merely misfirings, faulty wiring in the brain, that cannot be
I watched On the Road this week-end, and wanted to pack a bag, just go. I felt the itch crawling up and down my spine. Creative freedom at its maximum. Those boys drove sex, drugs and beats into the gravel cemented streets like hot gum melted in tar. I did not realize the date, 1950. Artistic freedom and exploration came early. I recognized a small piece of me on the
They ask too much, expect more from me. To sit in a room with gut wrenching, broken, beaten down souls. There is too much pain, upon the blood, stained walls. I cannot, I will not. I refuse to spill my intimate, tragic, sad story. This fight is personal, entirely my own. Between God and me, she is not the enemy. I wonder, I do. I can’t help but be curious, where
I never paid much attention to a normal, calendar year. When you have a serious illness, days are measured in hours, minutes and even seconds. On a good day, when the mind is quiet, belly laughs come and go. That usually happens when my favorite people are around, the ones that know me best. Yes, being loved without the label or judgment, counts. On a bad day, I fight.
We talk about it. Yeah, we do. In my house, we talk about a lot. The mundane living stuff, movies, books, music, groceries, even the weather. And, death. We talk about that, too. Well, I do most of the talking. The persistent, detective’s daughter, ever annoying and inquisitive. The fervent need to know what comes next, how it should look, the driving force. The uncomfortable, inevitable last chapter. Well, you
Rummaging through junk, I rediscover hidden treasure. Time and distance put fresh perspective into meaning. An antique chest of drawers once belonged to my grandfather. It had secret compartments and a pullout desk, to store his important things. His rubber coin purse that gobbled up change, never to be seen again. Papers, letters and pencils filled the now empty spots. I was sure they were awfully important. I thought that
I have arrived, at the supposed highway, halfway mark of life. That’s a median guess based on statistics, there are no guarantees. I have learned a few lessons along the way. I am no more special, prettier, richer, smarter than most. Sure, I was granted a great big superficial life for a brief moment, filled with stuff, lots and lots of stuff. All disposable. Today, it sits in a closet
Surrounded by water. Immersed, submerged, floating parallel in the mind. On this day, I am a mere spectator. Feet planted defiantly on the autumn ground.
Welcome to my Writer’s page. Author sounds a bit pretentious. Many of you have supported, commented and visited my beauty blog over the years, Makeup To Model CitiZen. Beauty is fun and frivolous, I could never completely give it up. The world of Beauty and Fashion gave me wings. To travel the globe, be the observer, the chameleon and most importantly, to grow. Growth means moving through the fear onto