It's a beautiful thing

So I've entered another year of life...42!!! Wow. It was a perfect birthday - I've celebrated for three days with people I love. Then it is Thanksgiving, and really I don't think I could possibly have much more room for the huge amount of gratitude that fills me.

It's interesting to reflect on one's life. I often feel that nothing has changed, but really I've lived many lifetimes in one. Maybe that's what the Buddha meant when he talked of reincarnation...one can live so many lives without even dying, and karma and our actions and love and compassion can change each life as we live them.

At two...living in Calgary. l look happy in the photos...summers in BC and snow-filled winters. A horse and a couple of cows and a brother and sister and many dogs.

At twelve I was in Cairo, in 7th grade, letting Mark Flores touch my little breasts through my shirt while we drank a bottle of wine in the dark outside the school gate; listening to my parents yell at each other and helping my mother as blood poured from her nose after my dad broke it that night.

At twenty-two, I'd been in LA for almost a year. Not sure which boy I was letting touch my breasts that year (month/week/day), but it was someone who was bad for me and who drank too much with me and snorted coke with me and who would break my heart or let me break his.

At thirty-two I was squatting in an apartment in Hollywood with broken windows and no gas or electricity, not letting anyone touch my breasts because I hated being touched when I was smoking crack. People who touched me only hurt me, and so I didn't let them do it anymore. James came over and never left, and his mother would leave food at our door, and we would beat each other, and I would cut myself and steal and go to jail.

Now it's forty-two and despite the fact that no one is touching my breasts, I am happy and sunny and learning how to love more than I ever thought I could, and learning too to accept love in return. Love has nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with vulnerability and emotional intimacy...what a lovely thing to learn after 4 decades of life. A beautiful daughter and a cozy home and friends who call and someone who makes my heart pound and my eyes smile, and really I can't imagine how it went from that to this in just ten years.

Happy birthday to me.

rangoon...darfur...baghdad...los angeles

I drop off my daughter at her school in West Hollywood and head to my office in Beverly Hills, on Sunset Blvd. I drive past the Ivy almost every day. I weave past the paparazzi and the gawkers and the plastic-ladies-who-lunch while I try to make it to my office on time. And in our office we worry about whether John McTiernan will really go to prison and if so can we squeeze in pre-production first? And who will keep Lindsey sober through the "Dare to Love Me" shoot? On NPR I listen as they tally up the millions raised by each presidential candidate, millions that will be spent on advertising for a year until one or the other is elected. Millions that it seems to me could be better spent...but then what do I know. I really don't know much, just a bare bit of what is happening in Myanmar and in Darfur...and what the government lets us know about Baghdad. But I look at this photo of a monk in Myanmar, a man who wanted only love and compassion and peace for his country and his people, a man who over the last week joined thousands of other bodies hidden in the jungles, and I can't help but be horrified and disgusted by the vapidity that surrounds this town and most of America.

the neighborhood

How sweet that at 7 pm the doorbell rings and it's Lamont from across the street. He's 12 and very senstive and at this moment he's sobbing his little eyes out and it seems that I am the one he chose to come to. Of course, that's partly because my daughter and the other three boys he was playing with ganged up on him with their water guns and hurt his feelings. Hot Labor Day weekend, a party for the 3 year old across the street and their bouncy-house-tent is filled with laughing kids and there is more food than can be imagined and I have 5 kids screaming around me trying to defend themselves and blame each other. I hush them all and step outside myself for just a moment and I am laughing so hard to witness this! When the hell did I become the mom the kids come running to for help and advice? This just two weeks after social services came to investigate reports of abuse. I am a bit at a loss as to what to tell these kids, as in my head I am not much older then they! Finally I separate Sophia and Lamont from the others and sit on Lamont's front porch with his mom. My daughter tries to blame it all on the other kids and I tell her I don't care, she did it too, and I don't care what the other kids do, but in our house I teach love and she knows that very well. Wide-eyed and sweaty, but still she nods her head and reaches out her hand to Lamont and says I'm sorry. He's still crying a bit and I hug him and 20 minutes later he's back at the party all smiles but a bit shy.

When I moved into this neighborhood, people warned me how "bad" it was and were worried about my daughter and horrified that I would move her to such a place. Now they are envious because their kids have to be driven to each other's house to play and they live in neighborhoods with big walls and no contact with their neighbors. Yet we come home and Sophia runs to one of six or seven homes to play with her friends till dark. It's like the old days in Canada when we all roamed, the older kids taking care of the younger ones and the parents happy.

I love my 'hood. I have the best neighbors, filled with love and respect for each other. We're a hodge-podge of cultures and races and religions and we make it work. Our kids are not being subjected to the racism that runs rampant in the richer neighborhoods. Maybe I'm over romanticising it all, but as the giant flock of wild parrots flies over my home and the ice cream truck rings it's bell, I am just delighted that I chose this neighborhood.

dissolving evil

So the social worker came and saw that it was B.S. and took down Howard's name and left us alone to enjoy the rest of our day. Soph was so scared, and that is what angers me the most. She hugged me hard this morning and said I was her MOST favorite mommy ever. Little sweet pea.

I'm trying to move forward with compassion and get the anger out of me. It's a lovely day in August; my daughter is off skating; I had a fun dinner last night; my new desk is being put together in my office; soon I'll go do Pilates. My life is so amazing, and I'm so filled with gratitude for so many things. His evil cannot hurt me, though I must admit I'm tired of its touch and wish it would just dissolve away.

child services

So I left work early to pick up my daughter, and then we went grocery shopping and got her all kinds of favorite treats. I did all the things a good mom does, and then we got home to find a business card on the front door. It was from a children's social worker from the Dept of Family & Child Services, and on the back was a note saying she needed to see me and my child and to call her with a number where she could contact me next week.

What the fuck?? My first suspicion is of course that it's Howard, trying to get back at me for filing a complaint with the contractors' board and for signing a declaration for his wife who is trying to get two years of past due child support. I can't imagine who else it would be, unless they are investigating someone who I know and need to question us about them. Which doesn't seem likely. If it's Howard I am seething with anger. I don't like that feeling. The contractors' board closed my complaint because he bs'd them enough, and that's just fine. I've moved on - I did what I could and now it's done. He's got my money and by this time I've repaired most of the crappy-ass work he did on my home. The crappy-ass work he did on my psyche has pretty much healed as well. But this...this is a new low. It sickens me. I know any investigation will reveal only that Sophia is surrounded by love and kindess, so I'm not worried about it. But I'm horrified that someone could be so mean and spiteful as to call child services on me. And if it is Howard, I'm astounded that he was a good enough con that I actually fell in love with such a despicable, evil person. And...I'm very disturbed that I feel such anger toward him. God, I just really want to be a loving, compassionate woman. I am trying to do some compassion meditation, to feel sorrow for him since he must have such a tremendous amount of self-hatred to do such a thing. I picture him trying to look at himself in the mirror and like himself. But on the other hand I know that he is a sociopath and feels no remorse for any of his wrongdoings. He has no idea he is in the wrong, ever. So...how do I look at a sociopath with compassion? Can one have compassion for a remorseless killer or rapist?

And what could he have told them for them to come investigate? ugh. I am sickened by this. And of course I do not know for sure that it was him who initiated this. And there is nothing that I can do about it if it is him. I hate him, and I don't want to feel hatred for any living thing. I want every bit of him gone from my life so that I can move on, yet somehow he keeps just stepping back in.

And if it is not him...well, then it's me that's filled with hatred and evil, isn't it!? shit...

and apparently I won't know till next week, if ever, which is most annoying. I would sure like to think that I'm not the hateful evil one! :>

love's sunset

In the sunset my daughter throws wet sand at the waves in a contest with her best friend. The way the light hits they look black-and-white with a tinge of sepia. I remember early summers in British Colombia, playing till dark and our lips purple with cold water and wind; we laughed and screamed with joy while mom watched happy and ignored dad sipping whiskey too fast, scowling as each squeal of happiness underscored his emptiness.

Now the end of July, and I sit in twilight reading an amazingly beautiful book about love and loss…and so in my head I’m recalling the first time he kissed me, leaned over me in the movie theatre and told me I’m beautiful and I’m barely 18 and he’s 32 and I want that moment to last forever but now he’s across the world with someone else, and I cry just a little sometimes over the love that I let go. As I read the words on the page, I think: It’s implausible that a man can remember his first love forever. And yet. He wasn’t my first love but certainly my longest, and 23 years later I still remember every touch and his arms so strong, and then I imagine his face when he returned from Bermuda and I was gone, some piece of shit note all that I left. How could I have done that to someone, to anyone, but to him? Some regrets will last a lifetime…

The book – “The History of Love” – (it is amazing and has set my mind reeling) – also has me thinking that to live without knowing your child must be the worst kind of pain. How can Sophia’s father have spent more than 7 years not knowing that joyous girl? A moment captured today with the camera, the light just so on her sparkly eyes and wide laugh, and I wonder what kind of person can not want that spark to touch him too. Our last conversation reminded me only of what a racist pig he is and emphasized how much I don’t want him in our lives. But…she wants a face to view and a hand to touch and keeps holding out hope that one of the semi-monthly phone calls between us will result in a real meeting; and so I keep that hope alive too, just for her.

But now the night is dark and the kids are running in the cold dark sand and so happy that it makes me hurt to watch. Sand buckets, burnt noses, scraped toes, missing teeth…castles, princesses with moats and dragons and maybe a super-hero or two.

Missing Mom

Every year I write something so similar, and I feel like I should come up with something new and different, but the bottom line is...I miss my mom.

She would have been 71 yesterday, and today is mother's day and so every mother's day is very bitter-sweet for me. On the one hand I have my sweet Sophia, who brings me endless joy and her birth saved my life. On the other hand I lost my mom almost 13 years ago and I miss her every single breath of time.

After watching her die in a hot, sad, horrid clinic in Tijuana, I started my downward spiral, ending up 4 years later as a homeless felon crack-head. Then rehab; then 2 weeks out of rehab I conceived sweet Sophia and here I am today in my beautiful home surrounded by love and joy. So why do the tears come on mother's day morning?? When the AA meeting's over today and the people go off to have lunch with their mothers or their wives, I will take Sophia to brunch, just the two of us. And that's so lovely, really. But I'm sad and envious when I talk to my best friend and hear that her husband brought her breakfast in bed and I hear her baby in the background and I know that she will visit her mom in just a few hours and the three generations will love and laugh for just a little while.

I have a picture in my head of Sophia and my mom, hand-in-hand, skipping through a forest as mom teaches her all about nature and Sophia teaches her the newest songs and they share joy and wonderment. At least that's a better picture than I have carried for so many years, of my mother's dead body being wheeled through the early Tijuana morning wrapped in sheets. I just wish the imaginary picture could be reality.

good friday

I am not even sure what Good Friday is all about....But I did my first Passover last week...interesting. Lots of plagues and wine and prayer. I like the Jewish rituals more than the Christian ones for some wierd-ass reason. Perhaps because I don't speak Hebrew, and I don't understand them, and I never had anyone trying to shove them down my throat as a child. Not that anyone tried to shove Christianity down my throat as a child...we were pretty much heathens in my household. I knew more about Islam than anything from hearing the call-to-prayer five times a day for 4 years. I remember after my first drunk, at the age of 12, cleaning up my friend's puke and scared to face her mom and then the five a.m. prayer started. She had an amazing house, but it happened to be right next door to a huge mosque. Not what a hung-over 12 year old yearns to hear. Her mom blamed the whole drunk episode on me, and I was banned from playing with her ever again. Looking back it, seems strange that after getting DRUNK I wasn't allowed to PLAY with her again. The irony didn't strike me then. I thought I was tough and cool and grown-up as I walked through early morning Ma'adi to my house and the grounding that awaited me. I didn't really mind being grounded. I could still steal my dad's whisky and hang out with my sister or brother. We'd go on the roof and watch the soldiers visit the hookers next door. My brother and sister both smoked and so I started too. I'd play dress-up at my friend Angie's house with her 1800-period-costumes and then we'd sneak out back to smoke butts found in the yard. I'd make mud-pies in the canal and buy tobacco from the kiosk by the school. My sister skipped third period to go buy a bunch of qualudes and passed out during art. I had art after her and cried and was scared and yelled at her because big brother Geoff would never do drugs...Ha. If I had only known. I'd steal scotch and vodka all week in a thermos and meet my friends at the movie at the Ma'adi Club on Thursday night. We'd sneak out to the tennis courts and get loaded and let the boys touch our little breasts through our shirts. I remember jumping the fence to the school and giving the guards a bottle of wine to let us stay. Amazing that a group of twelve year olds could wander around Cairo in the middle of the night and not get killed or raped. One of my sister's friends got kidnapped and raped by police or something but she was an Embassy kid and it was all hushed up and she was sent back to Canada so as not to create an international incident, just when Carter was making nice with Begin and Sadaat and the world was witnessing a miracle they thought might just last.

insomniaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

So yeah...I can't sleep again. Last week I slept for 3 days straight practically. Now I'm losing my mind. I hate all you sleepers. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm manic-depressive. If I am, I'm a pretty boring manic. I'm in bed listening for rats. I'm pretty sure they are all gone but moments ago I was convinced I heard gnawing behind my dresser. I feel like a tweaker. I read an article today about a study that found that lack of sleep makes one's moral judgment poor. Now that would explain some things in my life! Not sure my moral judgment's off, but certainly some judgment was awry in the past year or so of dating. First I became convinced I wanted to marry the top man on the City Attorney's Most Wanted list, then I give him my life savings, and then... well. Then there are more recent issues. yep. It's been an insomnia-filled year, that's all I can say.

I want to write a poem about birth and death...those thoughts have been circling my brain lately. things that could have, shouldn't have, might have been. And my Mom's been in my heart lately too. I miss her. Sophia becomes more like her every day, except she hugs so much and Mom never knew how, till the morphine kicked in those last few days. Sweet Mommy, roaming the clinic halls, mostly naked and giggling away. Wish the giggles had lasted til the end. god. Why is my head there now, I just don't know. I'd rather worry about rats than see my Mom's death. Now I remember why I drank...closed those thoughts off real quick-like, it did!

I'm collecting images, in my head. Images of my neighborhood...need to write a story or a book. There was a great old man this evening, washing his car on the corner of La Brea and Adams, wearing long black socks and loafers and little old-man shorts, his buttoned up shirt tucked in just right. I love him. And my neighbor from India and me, out watering our lawns in the sunset. My grass died, and I'm trying so hard to bring it back, and my other neighbor jokes that they're going to start talking about me in the 'hood. Ha....like they don't already. People drive by and do a double-take to see a red-head out on the lawn, white daughter running through the sprinkler and buying fruit from the street vendor. My gardener's name is Joe Handy. He's old and sweet and curious about me. I asked if it were his real name, and he just smiled, "yes...yes it's my real name. Joe Handy. Guess it was jes' destiny." He asks me how a girl so young can afford a house and when I tell him my age he is surprised and inquires politely how I keep my "girlish figure". Then he calls me to scold me about not watering. And Cynthia next door on the North side. Her 90 year old father passed on New Year's Day, and so she lives alone in the back house now. She talks to herself in the yard. When the doorbell rings it's always her, come to check up on us and give Sophia a hug and have some lemonade or, if she's timed it right, a steak. God that woman can eat. She goes to church on Sunday and bathes Saturday night to prepare, and Monday's I think it is, she goes to choir practice. She speaks of a boyfriend who comes to visit, though I have never seen him. Actually the bell rings on Saturday too, for my weekly visit from the Jehovah's Witnesses. A few of them are from my street so I must be very polite. I always take the magazine and thank them and wish them well in their war on .... whatever they are fighting. evil I guess.

Seems like we're all fighting evil in our own way. Mine comes in the form of rats, shitty boyfriend-judgment, thieves and insomnia.

So...just continuing to battle evil with love. It's all about love, baby...

sure would love some sleep

RATS!

I have fucking RATS in my house. Roof rats, the Orkin man tells me. Yup. The burglars have been caught, but the 'hood still remains. Big dark grey rats hanging out in my BEDROOM and then scurrying to my kitchen and having a fiesta in the dark. Oh my god. One ran across my bed. I started hearing them in the ceiling a couple of days ago and I was hoping it was a little raccoon hanging out. But no...

Anyone who wants to shoot a low-budget horror film, please come by the next few days. After that, they will all be gone. My mission is no longer to catch the burglars or even get the cops over to stop the crack-deals going on across the street. No, my mission is to rid the earth of small disease-carrying rodents.

Only, here I am preaching "love not war". I'm a crappy Buddhist...I cannot love these critters in my home. The Orkin man tells me they set "humane" traps that don't kill them, just capture them in cages and then they take them away. I am preferring to remain blissfully ignorant as to what happens after they are taken away. I visualize a happy rat-farm in Bakersfield, filled with fat and sassy roof-rats scampering away their lives in peace. I'm sure there's a song there...

america's child...

It's 6 am, and there is a helicopter hovering above my house. Normally I waken to silence, even in this neighborhood, and sit on the couch drinking coffee and marvel at the hummingbirds in my front window. They brighten my morning as does my sweet Sophia who giggles in her sleep. The helicopter, not so much. Los Angeles and its helicopters have always struck a dischord. Such a beautiful city in spots...and such a horrid cesspool in others. The helicopters bring images of war to my head. In Cairo we had air raid warnings and soldiers with submachine guns wandering the streets, hand-in-hand, and the military base next to our school had target practice often, shaking our walls, rattling the windows. Sometimes living in the 'hood of LA I feel like I'm back there, waiting for shots to ring and sirens to wail. We get out of our car every evening only after doing a thorough re-con, and I hold the "panic" button of my car alarm at ready till we're in the house. No one should live like that. And how is it possible that we live like that in America where there is no declared war and Mr. Bush tells us that the economy is fine and domestic affairs aren't even mentioned during election campaigns (oh, except gay-marriage and abortion rights...forgive me, how silly of me to forget). I drive down Crenshaw early morning and see hookers and dealers and poverty and hunger. Has George seen skid-row? We know he's seen Bel Air - his last visit screwed up traffic for hours. But who goes to visit skid-row and Echo Park and Van Nuys? The NPR reporters and Mr. Villarigosa are doing what they can, I'll give you that. I doubt our Governator has been there.

And this is just LA. What is happening throughout the rest of America? There are helicopters hovering all over in every city, and Mr. Bush continues to ask for billions to fight Al Queda and other random folks that he hates, and to force democracy upon others. Democracy. Yup. That's helpful. Democracy will end centuries of strife and hatred between the Islamic factions and the Jews. Converting everyone to Christianity would be best, but even Georgie can't dream that big. Let's just force some good old fashioned American democracy upon those rag-heads and that'll get us our oil and we'll all live happily ever after, even the crack heads and junkies will go away and America will be Eden and Georgie will get his crown. America's child will be free and safe.

this is what we've done

I try to avoid the news lately because of what we've done. This particular picture is from today in Iraq - 135 or more people killed by a single suicide bomber, probable support of Saddam. But it could be an image from Israel, from Afghanistan - a Jew, a Shiite, a Bathist, a Palestinian, whatever...another person that George Bush has helped to kill. Likely he is not a terrorist. Very likely he has a mom, a dad. Perhaps a wife at home who was waiting while he ran to the market for some last minute dinner ingredients, their son and daughter under five years old and clinging to their mom now as she cries and wails, not being able to fathom life without her husband in a country that has been destroyed by foreigners and zealots and martyrs...by a government across miles of sea and sand, run by a delusional sociopath who has no concept of reality or life or death and who calls himself a Christian as he signs the death warrants of hundreds of thousands.

Dino-Mite

I have really weird dreams. Last night there was a giant dinosaur fighting with a giant crocodile, which, it turned out, was threatening the dinosaur’s baby…who was also quite giant, yet very cute.

Now I’m no dummy and don’t need Freud to tell me that this war of giants is my little head worrying over the meeting yesterday between Soph’s dad and me at the therapist. Though I am a bit annoyed that my subconscious is defining me as a dinosaur.

Weird as shit to see the man who fathered my child. He is such an odd egg. Anyway, I guess it all went well, though we still have no firm plans of how he will meet her, but we’re much closer. I guess my dream surprised me because I felt that he seemed like he really had her best interests at heart and that he really wants to be sure he doesn’t hurt her by vanishing again. But of course words are just that…they are not actions, and I’ve learned the hard way that most words that come out of people’s mouths have no fucking basis in reality.

She’s been saying lately that she doesn’t ever want to meet her daddy. I know it’s a defense mechanism, but still I worry that I’m totally doing the wrong thing. And it’s so strange…so many people I speak with now have never met the fathers. What the fuck? My trainer, a lawyer I’m negotiating a deal with, two or three of the babysitters I use…lots of folk have not met their dads and they mostly carry around a big huge ball of hatred and resentment. So…that is not what I want for my sweet Sophia. But I don’t want her to be hurt by him either, to have expectations shattered. She thinks he is a rock star but he’s really just a drummer who tours in bar-bands and does some studio work and is poor as shit. Her dreams of riding in a limo with Daddy to one of his shows are sooooo not going to happen. This is no Disney Channel movie, sadly enough.

Soph's dad has called out of the blue and wants to meet her finally after 7 plus years, and so I set up a time with her therapist for he & I to get together and figure out how to do it without freaking her out. He calls..."sure, yeah...let me check my calendar, I'll call you right back." No call yet, of course, and he still won't give me his phone number. fuck. Yet I'm holding out hope, which is kinda crazy after all these years. Not to mention how can I still trust anyone after what's happened to me in the past 8 months??!! Hahaa...I can't help myself. I still have that crazy naive hope inside of me despite my cynicism and pretend-toughness...I want to trust and believe that everyone really is just filled with love for everyone else and no one is going to hurt me or Sophia or anyone in this world ever again. At least I've learned enough to not tell her about things till they are true.

God I just wish he could see her and hear how smart and lovely she is and see her artwork and hear her sing her little heart out as she swings as high as she can and read the sweet little entries in her diary and the beautiful notes she writes me while I'm at work and she's at school. If he could have just a fraction of that love touch him...

On the other hand, what if he meets her and then freaks out and vanishes again and breaks her heart? I'd have to kill him. Or ...stranger yet, what if he really decides to be part of her life - god, I'd have to deal with seeing him every week. Not a chance would I let her have a whole weekend with him. He'd have to actually give me his phone number and let me know where he lives now.

What has so suddenly moved him to do this? I've known this man for 20 years, and I have no fucking clue what goes on in his head. I've gone from his groupie-chick to the mother of his child and in two decades I've not heard him have any emotion except anger, when I chose to keep her, and fear I suppose. It's maddening. I want to force him to be a human being. Wish that were possible. He's not evil like Howard, he's simply...empty? I don't even know.

I want only love for her...

n

amazing life

Sweet life...so many lovely things this weekend, and I'm trying to think of a very favorite...hard to choose just one. I think it was being given a framed photo of Cubby as a house warming. Hubert (Cubby) Selby Jr. was fucking GOD to me when I read Last Exit to Brooklyn, and then Requiem for a Dream just...well, it's brilliance that lingers forever. When I finally realized that funny old man at the meetings on Sunday was Cubby and Cubby was Hubert, geez, it was like I was sitting in the room with God, and I had so many things I wanted to ask him and talk to him about but really not many of them were about sobriety; they were about his genius of words and imagery on a page and insight of soul...but I was too shy to ever say more than hello, and then he passed away, and I had only those whose lives he changed to befriend but through them I really do feel him in some way. So...this amazing photo of Cubby is on my living room wall, and now his love will keep me safe and I can only wish that some of his brilliance can seep into me!!

And beside that gift, this weekend was just filled with love and special people and we surprised the heck out of Marty and our home was filled with laughter and angel-children and sweet kooky neighbors and new friends who surprised me just a little too...