For the record... this post was written between five and seven a.m. this morning. I was HAMMERED on tequila zingers (silver tequila, plum ginger cordial, lemonade) and the dam broke in a very good way.
Greetings, my cherished blurkers.
In this dark hour before dawn, I shall make my confessions.
Confession the first: I am HAMMERED.
Confession the second: I am happy to be so.
Confession the third: Godsdammit, but I sod-all needed the drink.
As the child of a drunk and coming from a family full of ‘em, it scares the piss out of me to pair the words “need” and “drink.” Because that is a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad thing. It’s OK to WANT; NOT OK to need.
But tonight, I needed.
Been getting caught up on the Jim ‘n Eddie podcast. Got one last episode to listen to, but in #12, they got Jason PHUCKED up. And it was cool. It was the way getting drunk should be—just good friends being stoooooopid and having a fuckin’ laugh.
That’s the real reason for alcohol—just to relax a bit. Let the fences and walls down Just to be human without all the defenses for a little while.
It’s a friggin’ pity most of us can’t accept that and be there. All the excuses—“well, I was drunk…” So?
Maybe that’s it—I think I’ve identified my problem. I am who I am no matter what state I’m in. If I say something drunk, it’s the same as if I’m sober. No bullshit, no lies. No prevarication. Even less of an editor.
I’m good with it.
Confession the fourth: I’m dealing with a severe case of love. Yet again, I have fallen in love with a friend. I swear, I am the biggest fucking idiot on this planet. And it’s someone that I can’t have, for so many reasons. Too many reasons. Heinlein defined love—real love—the best: love is when what is best for the other person is more important to you than your own desire.
It sucks.
I hate it.
I want to be a selfish cunt and put myself forward.
But I won’t.
And for once, it’s not cowardice. For once, I’m not being noble. Stupidly noble. For once, I’m doing what is right.
Still sucks.
Confession the fifth: I need help. (What else is new?) See, I’ve put my ass on the line, doing this blog. I have a rule for myself: what goes on the blog, stays on the blog. No editing (even the odd typo—and you don’t KNOW how crazy typos make me; blame Sister Jane Michael, but I cannot abide mistakes in my own work. It makes me cringe, makes me feel a failure, a Bad Person. Fucking Catholic school. A blessing and a curse); what gets written, stays written, as is, and I have to accept it and embrace it, even when it hurts.
I’m good with that. It keeps me honest. Makes me stick to it. Doesn’t let me wimp out.
I’m not giving up this time. I am not crawling back into a life of obscurity that I have condemned myself to out of duty and cowardice.
Yeah, I said it—Cowardice. I let “duty” and “responsibility” override my duty and responsibility to myself. In my attempt to prove to my family that I am NOT selfish, worthless, horrible person, I gave up my dream to be America’s answer to Ken Branagh. This is a meaningless statement in 2011; back in 1995, it was a declaration of war, a statement of intent—a throw down to become the Shakespearean director of my generation, a general in the war against the Stratfordian Orthodoxy. Fuck, I miss Shakespeare. I miss my Lord of Oxenford and his blessed words, the words that woke me from the sleep of the Briar Rose to the world of the theatre. I fear it may be too late to reclaim my dreams, to throw my hat back in the ring and take my place.
But I am sure as FUCK going to try. If I fail… then being me, being the starry eyed Quixotic figure of ridiculousness that I am, I will try again. I will find my own version of Dulcinea and tilt at the windmills that may really be giants…
Shit, I’m talkin’ ragtime. I’m let the tequila control the fingers.
No, I’m not. I’m letting the tequila take down the barriers, remove the breakwaters, the harsh reins I’ve put on myself to keep the frustration in check. I want the stage back. I’m taking it back. I’m going back to open mike. I’m not going to let my own fears hold me back.
Because I am that good. I am. I am. I know it. I’ve coached so many, I’ve seen talent, I know talent. I know I have it. I know I have The Shine. I can do it.
I just have to hold on to that feeling and not let Duty take it away.
Help me, beloved blurkers, keep that faith. Send me good energy, think me good wishes. I am going forward. I have to. I am going to beat the odds, I am going to be the success story I should have let myself be years ago.
I know that the therapy words would be, “Maybe you weren’t ready for it.”
Bullshit. I needed it then; now, I’m trying to prevent my life from being wasted. I don’t want to be a “might have been”—“she had so much talent, such a shame she didn’t…” Bullshit. I promised myself the world.
“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending…” And I’m not dead yet.
Tonight, I’m seeing Celebricrush. Can’t wait. I doubt he’ll remember me; I doubt there’ll be anything more than a happy handshake and an autograph and a damn good show. And that’s OK. It took me so long to realize that I have to be my own hope. Last night, I had some kindness—a little bit of Happy Exercise (yes, another Heinlein reference) with a man I hadn’t thought I’d see again. I hope to see him another time. We shall see. It’s not what I want—I want to be in a relationship. But then… I don’t know where life is going to take me in the next six months.
I know I’m lonely. I know I want a circle of friends again. The problem is that I’m back to where I was in my 20’s—single, starting over, and enjoying life. Most of my friends are in a very different place—committed, established and dealing with very different issues. I’m free, almost. Almost. Six months, I can slip the surly bonds of responsibility… I can have my life back again.
Confession the fifth: That scares the fuck out of me. It does. It means I have no excuses any more. It means I have to take the leap of faith. I have to believe in the only person I’ve ever trusted or ever really feared—ME.
I wish this was a wise piece; I wish this was a funny piece. It’s not. It’s just me, naked and vulnerable. It’s just me. I have to be up in a few hours and go to the gym; I have to do my workout and keep the momentum going. I have to build my strength, slim my body more. The gentleman observed that I had lost weight—it was the best thing he could have said. I have felt ugly and fat; to have someone who hadn’t seen me in six months, someone who had seen me naked on a beach, approve and want me… I needed that validation. I need to be wanted and desired. I cannot embrace the one I love—and I see the trap I laid for myself, falling for my dark angel who is not within my grasp—and this other gentleman is a person of worth and intelligence and kindness.
Somedays, I find hope a hard thing to have. But right now, all I can feel is the bubble of potential… the feeling that Something Is Coming. I hope so. Dear Gods, I hope so. Hope has come so hard to hold on to, and I have come to despise my little life, this little life I condemned myself to in the name of duty, from the desire to prove myself worthy of love to a parent.
Confession the sixth: I should not be drinking. But I do not regret it. I try too hard to control, and sometimes, I need to let go. So I will thank Jim, Eddie, Jason and Lindsay for letting me be a silent witness to their silliness and fuckery. It was therapeutic.
Confession the seventh: I have just emptied the last of the New Year’s Eve Espolon tequila into my glass and added some homemade plum ginger cordial and agave lemonade Lifewater. The sky is lightening through the dining room window. I am not going to send the text message I want to send. I can’t; it would be self-destructive and selfish. And I could not bear to lose a friend.
KJ, I forgive you. I love you, my friend, and I forgive you, as I always have, and as you always have forgiven me. That’s what it means to be best friends—the love, the bond, the everything, is so much more important than trespasses. And unlike Annie, you were always true. There was never a siphoning, an agenda. We were, are, and always will be the Pros from Dover. We are, and always be, sisters. Like all family, sometimes, we hurt each other. But like family, the love, the bond is more important. I miss you like a fibre from my heart. Something… something went awry. I can feel it… like a wrong note. Like directing a rehearsal and hearing a false line… like a note off key. I am trying to find the thread, unravel the mistake, reweave reality and make it right.
I hate being a shaman. Because there is a place that the shamanic soul goes to… this is where the right chemical takes me. It’s dangerous. It’s scary. Because it’s a place of truth. This is where the New Age airy fairy bullshit meets reality—I wish this wasn’t real. I wish I could turn my back on what I’m experiencing. But I can’t. There is a higher truth, another level from coarse reality. Call it God, call it faith, call it aliens, call it whatfuckingever… it’s real.
The sun is up. I am somewhere in the aether. It’s OK. I need this, right now. I need to let go.
So… I am going to speak to the cards and then I am going to sleep. Let this move through me, this Golden Moment of Clarity…
Blessings, my darlings. Thank you for indulging me. Whisper a word in the ear of your favorite deity that I can hold on to this moment, this feeling, this clarity.
Much love… so much, my heart aches…
Your Empress
Showing posts with label theatre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theatre. Show all posts
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
NaNoWriMo Share... an exerpt from the new book
OK, I'm sharing this bit I wrote at O-dark-stupid a.m. today because I am loving it. It's rough draft, first pass so be gentle with critiques. If you ever want to know why theatre people deal with all the bs we do for theatre, this is why...
The theatre was on the opposite side of our building, behind the other leg of the U-shaped building. Like every other building besides the library and adjoining building, this was another brick Victorian confection. “Close your eyes,” Michael said, pulling out his keys.
“Michael, I’ve been in this theatre before.”
“When no one else has been here?”
OK, he had a point. And I knew what he was getting at, so I closed my eyes.
The door creaked open, an old, comfortable creak of hinges over a hundred years old that were oiled regularly. Michael put an arm behind my back and led me into the cold dark of the empty foyer. The scent of oiled wood, dust, velvet, paint, sweat, tears, memories… that gorgeous perfume that old theatres have, a combination of human imprint and ghosts, the passion of phantasies that have embedded themselves in the very fabric of the building’s reality, a place where dreams came to life for two-hours’ traffic, the place where the public came to feel the extremes of human experience and imagination, safely contained and on a time limit, a place to laugh and weep and cringe in the sacred dark of the audience while under the lights, actors gave voice to all the things the soul hides and fears to talk about in the harsh light of reality.
Who needed religion when there was the theatre? The most ancient of temples, the place of sacred communal experience, the arena where philosophy, performance, literature, art, and all the best and worst elements of the human soul were laid before an audience, a banquet for the spirit and the mind, the only place I ever truly felt alive and connected to the world.
I walked forward, eyes still closed, hands outstretched not like a blind woman feeling her way, but fingers spread to pull in the energy of the room, questing forward, finding the door to the auditorium, and all the whispers on the edge of hearing became a silent roar, filling my senses, wrapping me up, welcoming me, the spirit of the place taking me in and claiming me as its own.
There were tears on my cheeks.
Oh, dear sweet merciful Gods, I had finally come Home.
Michael was there, his protective arm behind my back, a gentle touch on my cheek brushing away the tears. His arms went around me, pulling me to him, a wall of solid humanity and maleness, a yin to the yang, and there was a kiss, a fleeting sweetness on my lips that shocked and thrilled me. I let it happen; it had to, if that makes any sense. And when it ended, I rested my head against his shoulder, over his heart, beating strong and sure under my cheek, breathing together.
I broke the embrace gently and met his eyes.
Neither of us spoke, just smiled sadly: we knew it was the magic of the place, the force of narrative causality, the fact that the theatre expected drama and there were conventions.
I touched his cheek and left without a word.
The theatre was on the opposite side of our building, behind the other leg of the U-shaped building. Like every other building besides the library and adjoining building, this was another brick Victorian confection. “Close your eyes,” Michael said, pulling out his keys.
“Michael, I’ve been in this theatre before.”
“When no one else has been here?”
OK, he had a point. And I knew what he was getting at, so I closed my eyes.
The door creaked open, an old, comfortable creak of hinges over a hundred years old that were oiled regularly. Michael put an arm behind my back and led me into the cold dark of the empty foyer. The scent of oiled wood, dust, velvet, paint, sweat, tears, memories… that gorgeous perfume that old theatres have, a combination of human imprint and ghosts, the passion of phantasies that have embedded themselves in the very fabric of the building’s reality, a place where dreams came to life for two-hours’ traffic, the place where the public came to feel the extremes of human experience and imagination, safely contained and on a time limit, a place to laugh and weep and cringe in the sacred dark of the audience while under the lights, actors gave voice to all the things the soul hides and fears to talk about in the harsh light of reality.
Who needed religion when there was the theatre? The most ancient of temples, the place of sacred communal experience, the arena where philosophy, performance, literature, art, and all the best and worst elements of the human soul were laid before an audience, a banquet for the spirit and the mind, the only place I ever truly felt alive and connected to the world.
I walked forward, eyes still closed, hands outstretched not like a blind woman feeling her way, but fingers spread to pull in the energy of the room, questing forward, finding the door to the auditorium, and all the whispers on the edge of hearing became a silent roar, filling my senses, wrapping me up, welcoming me, the spirit of the place taking me in and claiming me as its own.
There were tears on my cheeks.
Oh, dear sweet merciful Gods, I had finally come Home.
Michael was there, his protective arm behind my back, a gentle touch on my cheek brushing away the tears. His arms went around me, pulling me to him, a wall of solid humanity and maleness, a yin to the yang, and there was a kiss, a fleeting sweetness on my lips that shocked and thrilled me. I let it happen; it had to, if that makes any sense. And when it ended, I rested my head against his shoulder, over his heart, beating strong and sure under my cheek, breathing together.
I broke the embrace gently and met his eyes.
Neither of us spoke, just smiled sadly: we knew it was the magic of the place, the force of narrative causality, the fact that the theatre expected drama and there were conventions.
I touched his cheek and left without a word.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
WHY hasn't Alcoholcaust arrived YET?!?!
OK, yesterday I was royally cranky (I reread the post--wow, did I go on rant! Wow! Haven't lambasted Courtney Love like that in a loooong while!); today I'm an all-out blogging madwoman--wrote two posts this a.m.
And the first... the first is about Mr. Celebricrush, his new DVD, and yet more exposition on the Empress's Theory of Theatre and Comedy. (Today's pic was snatched from Facebook--I DID NOT take it, but I did add the bubble. I'll be forgiven, considered how hard Jim has been pushing people to buy the disc. Gotta give the man credit--international comedy headliner, and he still hustles like an up-and-comer. YEAH!)
Jim Jefferies is posting the early reviews of Alcoholocaust. I am getting antsy for my copy.
The positive reviews are NOT coming as a surprise to me (or anyone who is a fan of the man). I made the comment in my review of his show at Caroline’s about what an amazing storyteller he is (and yes, I am peppering for my copy to arrive, and yes, I am kicking myself for not paying for expedited shipping, BUT I’m a fucking librarian trying to pay off massive student loans and who has lost an expensive fucking contact lens for her royally fucked-up astigmatic eyes, so give me a break!).
Those links:
http://www.chortle.co.uk/dvds/2010/11/08/12106/jim_jefferies:_alcoholocaust
http://www.gigglebeats.co.uk/2010/10/dvd-review-jim-jefferies-alcoholocaust/#comments
I made the comment in the post “The Bottle and the Damage Done” about how annoyed I got at the audience response in New York to Jim being sober. One of the reviewers commented how the DVD is his last on the booze and wondered how he’ll play without it.
For any fans of Jim reading this and wondering: he’s better off of it.
I said in the review of him live that he has ginormous balls on stage—that testicular fortitude does NOT come from alcohol (and yeah, I realize it may have taken him a little time to get that, but I’m not his shrink and I know what I have to go through to get my fat arse on stage; I am not giving anyone else any shit about their rituals and crutches; performers are a superstitious and high-strung lot—DON’T FUCK WITH US!!!! :-D I mean, I’m the one who fervently mumbled Henry V’s “God of Battles” prayer in the wings while waiting to go one in every fucking show I ever acted in; ditto, directed). So any fans wondering if they should go and see him sober (considering how legendary he is for performing fucked up AND considering how some of his better-known routines involve both alcohol and drugs), BUY YOUR FUCKING TICKETS NOW! GO, GET OVER TO HIS WEBSITE, BUY YOUR FUCKING TICKETS, AND COME BACK AND READ THE REST OF THIS!
I’ll wait. Jim’s worth it. (And there are damn few men on the planet I’d say that about and the list gets shorter every day.)
What’s got me excited—aside from the thought of getting to see different material than is on Contraband and I Swear to God—is that I’m finally going to get to hear the brothel story (the joy and pain of the interwebs is that a) I find out about cool stuff I wouldn’t otherwise know about, and b) I find out about cool stuff I wouldn’t otherwise know about and can’t get my hands on IMMEDIATELY. I have the patience of a cat). This story—about taking a childhood friend with muscular dystrophy to a brothel to lose his virginity—has been buzzed about for months. He didn’t perform it in New York (“Nah, not in a one-hour show like this,” he said when I mentioned it), but it is on the DVD, AND the DVD is 75 minutes long.
Note to self: check and see if there are any extras on the disc. The biggest disappointment about I Swear to God was that there were no extras (not unusual with HBO comedy releases), but it’s also what makes Contraband a piece of gold—you get both nights plus a bit of fuckery with an interview Jim did on the street after the second show, including a bit of silliness with passersby. (Y’still should’ve taken y’shirt off, Jim! ;-) Mind you, would have love to have heard the exchange with Eddie Izzard in the hallway after Jim came off stage—I’m wondering if this was the tour Eddie was doing whilst filming Believe. Oh, to be a fly on the wall, eh? :-)
That’s another recommendation for watching, BTW—check out Believe. DAMN good documentary about The Process and the fact that succeeding is all about your arse: working it off and putting it on the line, just fucking going for it.
Second note to self: put Dressed to Kill on the buy list for this month’s wages. Screw Xmas.
Another thought on substances… well, I had another thought, but it’s gone now. Wait, it’s back. There’s been a lot of ink wasted on Jim’s vocabulary (and if you check out the clip on You Tube that Brett Vincent posted with all the cusses edited into one roughly two minute string—hysterical, honestly, Jim should turn it into a rap song, fer fuckssake)—one of the reasons I dig Jim’s stuff is his use of language. Again, it’s why Carlin succeeded and Eddie Murphy failed—Carlin used the vulgarity as punctuation; Murphy used it just to use it. Jim walks the line and walks it well. [There's another post coming about language usage, but I'm still working on that one.]
Language is a form of music—think about why you pay attention to when some people speak and tune out others. It’s about rhythm, cadence, tone and word choice—the same as a song. You listen to what flips the switches in your brain. Whenever I direct a show, THAT is what I listen for, and any actor I’ve directed can tell you of that moment when I’ve either stopped a scene fussing at my ear because the words have hit my ears like a sour note, an off-key phrase—I can hear it. That’s how I, as an audience member (and honestly, as a director because I watch damn near everything with a director’s eye, it’s a disease, I swear), experience a show. It’s why I get so vehement when something is bad and so ecstatic when something is good—it’s like great music, when words and performance come together just right, a harmony that is as much for the soul as the brain. This is a part of great comedy—it’s the harmony of word and thought and delivery, REAL storytelling, the kind that hits you not just in the funny bone, but also in the heart and soul.
Going back to Eddie Murphy, another reason why he’s acting and not doing standup right now is about truth. I saw Raw once; I laughed, but I never had a need to see it again. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched I Swear to God and Contraband. Ditto for Carlin’s later standup DVDs, and Robin William’s 1986 & 2002 HBO specials. I can quote my way through them, like a sing-along (actually, they’re my background “music” when I’m cleaning or crafting). And I still laugh. STILL laugh, even though I’ve heard some of these bits a hundred times because there’s always something new to find—something in the cadence, the facial expression, the delivery… a word I may have missed or a gesture. Raw… nah. I remember the “You ain’t got no ice cream” bit, and that’s about it. No truth, or at least no truth that meant anything to me.
Great comedy is no different from great literature or a great film--it comes from a place of truth—the heart, mind and soul working together to create a story that, while the details might not be completely factual (sometimes, you have to change a few details to protect the innocent and the guilty alike, and to keep yourself from either being sued or incarcerated), is about simple human truth. Now, truth is subjective, and my truth is not your truth—what reaches my soul and plucks its strings will be a different matter for someone else. I don't know if every bit of "I Am the Egg Man" is true, and honestly, I don't want to know--it's a brilliant fucking story, the right combination of filth and pathos and complete utter bravery--you CAN'T get up and tell a story like that in front of a room full of heavily drinking humans unless you've got great big clanking brass balls because you KNOW some oik in the audience is going to take it literally and give you shit. Ditto for the story in the South African comedy club story, and all the "small dick" cracks (although one of the guy friends made the comment that only a man hung like a small pony would have the balls to get up and say that publically; y'know, I'm not sure if got the phrase HLSP from him or he got it from me... so many people have been picking up my catch phrases of late... weird). Reminds me... gotta post a piccie of the finished Jim Sox.
There’s a review of Jim on the web by Scottish guy who’s living in the States (I want to say Chicago; when I get on-line, I’ll look it up; I know he saw him at Lakeside) who heard him do the brothel story; the reviewer works with the disabled, and his combined reaction was one of weeping and laughing because he KNEW what Jim was talking about, understood it at a gut level, and the story provided a catharsis. (That's what got me so hooked on his comedy--there is a pain there that I recognize, someone who's been cut deep enough to get to the point of not giving a fuck and decided not to let the bastards win. That's where yesterday's rant came from--if I've stayed alive all these years with all the stupidity in my life, where the fuck did THOSE idiots get off dying so stupidly?)
[OK, found the info: Graham Rae in 3:AM Magazine. Here's the link: http://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/you%e2%80%99ve-got-to-be-obscene-to-be-heard/
And THAT’S the word I’m looking for—catharsis. It goes all the way back to the Greeks (and fuck knows, I find the ancient Greeks bloody boring) and the original concept of theatre—to provide a catharsis for the audience, a moment of emotion cleansing (the word literally means "purge" or "cleanse"). That’s the whole point of live theatre, live performance—to feel something you can’t experience in the workaday process of life. In short, we make it safe for the audience to feel--to experience deep feeling, intense feeling--that many cannot acknowledge in ordinary life.
A long while ago, I had to write a paper for a comparative lit class and I discussed King Lear, Twelfth Night and Black Elk Speaks, and elaborated my concept of the Holy Fool (there was also an African novel in there; don’t ask me the title or the author because, honestly, it bored the piss out of me; I only used it because I had to have two sources from the official reading list; Black Elk met the criteria and so did the other one, and of course, I had to bring in Shakespeare). Black Elk has a chapter on the Heyoka ceremony—a shamanic comedy experience, basically, in which those who have the vision of the thunder beings are destined to be sacred clowns--holy fools--or Heyoka--and act out absurdities to make the rest of the tribe laugh. When the Heyoka happens in Black Elk, it is during a time of great stress and brings a necessary lightening to the tribe.
Sound familiar?
Shakespeare’s fools are a slightly different story. Today, we have an image of the jester—the fool—as a mere clown, a tumbler and faller of prats, someone for the nobles to hurl abuse and food at while he entertains. This is a corrupted image and it negatively impacts a LOT of Shakespearean productions. If you forget the label of “fool” and LISTEN to the dialogue of Lear’s Fool and Feste in Twelfth Night, you will hear the nascence of today’s standup comedian—“bitter fool,” Lear calls his follower, and indeed, more acerbic commentary on the state of the state can’t be found on The Daily Show. Olivia chastises Feste, “You see how your fooling grows old and people dislike it!” when his words hit far too close to the mark for her liking.
Again, sound familiar?
It’s why I have so little time for a lot of shit that’s called “comedy.” At my first open mic, I was talking to an actor I’d directed who’d gotten up and delivered (before I performed—I was too high afterwards on adrenaline). I wasn’t impressed with a lot of the material I’d heard, and he told me to be kind; it was open mic. He was both right and wrong—right, because people were trying out material; wrong, because, well… a lot of it was going to go nowhere, and ditto for the people delivering it. Kudos for having the cojones to get up there—if you’ve never done it, you don’t know what’s on the line, believe me. At the same time… Nah. A couple of sparks, yeah, but no bright lights.
Harsh? Yup. Have to be, though. Performing—whether comedy, acting, music, whatever—is BRUTAL because to be the best, you have to give EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. Your heart and soul are on the fucking line with every word, and I don’t think I’ve met any kind of artist in my life who didn’t deal with some kind of anxiety issue, and finding the balance of life and career… there’s a reason why celebrity gossip is salacious: when you give it all, it’s all there, and people want it. And when you’re “on,” you’re fucking irresistible.
I never went pro as an actor because I knew fifteen years ago that I didn’t have what it takes to live out of a suitcase without any guarantees; my mother’s health was failing, my health was failing, and quite frankly, I had lost my “muchness” (Tim Burton’s Alice was utterly fucking brill and I’m kicking myself for not seeing it in the cinema). I’d lost my audacity, that crazy spirit I’d had at UMass. Emerson, Edward, Darth Thespia and my life had killed it. That, and it scared the FUCK out of me the way people were drawn to me when I was “on.” (Think I’m kidding? Ask Vicki about the guy in Frenchy’s when I was shopping and was “on”—cool, but really disconcerting.) And, at that point in my life, there was no way I could have dealt with it, so instead of going for success, I let myself come pretty damn close to dying.
Now… now, facing losing my family’s home and not having to worry too much longer about my mother’s care and having my own health coming back, now… I can feel that spirit returning. Who the fuck knows what the next year or two will bring? I’m single, I’m talented, and I am audacious—I’ve proved to myself that I haven’t lost that essential spark, my unique “Riz-ness,” that has drawn some of the finest people on the planet into my circle of friends. I’ve written a damn good novel. This blog… this blog is definitely fueling the rewrite of the one-woman show (and yeah, I’ve started looking at available venues and rentals for next year). And I’m noticing that in the coterie (isn’t that a beautiful word? Say that word out loud—THERE’S music in language if ever there was!) of friends I’ve surrounded myself with, all of them are immensely talented in their own art.
Exciting time to be alive, wouldn’t you say? I would, and considering how I’ve been feeling the past few days, it’s good to be able to say that. Ah, the joys of body chemistry--so nice to have it back in balance.
So watch this space for my review of Alcoholocaust—you know that the bastard will be in the DVD drive of this lappie within half an hour of being received (hey, I’ll need to get myself a fresh coffee and get comfy first).
And Jim, if you happen to glance at this (or anyone close to him does), I hope you’re keeping sober and keeping well. You don’t need the booze or the drugs to be brilliant, babe, and you’ve got the talent AND the charisma to do whatever the fuck you want (hey, if Robin Williams can win an Oscar for Good Will Hunting…). Can’t wait to see you next time you play Boston (although there are better venues than the Wilbur; when are the new US dates being announced, dammit?!?! I really don’t want to drive to Jersey in the dead of winter; and IS THERE ANY WORD ON THE US RELEASE?!?!* I’ll subscribe to the fucking cable channel if I have to; oh, wait, I’ll already own the DVD. How can I convert more to your fandom if I have to show your best material on my laptop and half my friends aren’t in Boston?! Yes, I’ll stop being a pain in the arse), and the offer to buy you dinner stands because I love to prove a man wrong (even if it is all just jokes up there).
Fuck, I’ll even COOK you dinner if someone will lend me a decent kitchen. And speaking of which… time to get some breakfast and a shower and get my arse to work. The paying kind, as opposed to the kind I’m hoping will pay. *sigh*
*BTW, for the US fans, STOP WHINING about the fact that Alcoholocaust hasn’t been released over here because 1) there’s a damn good reason (there is a clue above); and 2) I Swear to God isn’t available in the format the rest of the world uses. You want it NOW, order it from the UK and WATCH IT ON YOUR FUCKING COMPUTER like I do. OR drop $50 on ebay or amazon for a multi-region DVD player.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Empress Abroad: Evening with Jim Jefferies, Part 3: Anatomy of a Celebricrush
Celebricrush: Strong, inexplicable attraction felt towards a famous person with whom one has no direct connection. [Yeah, a no-brainer of a definition, but WTF, had to be done.]
Theme songs for the evening:
"All These Things That I've Done" by The Killers
These changes ain't changin' me/the gold-hearted boy I used to be
When everything's lost, the battle is won
All these things that I've done...
Time, truth, heart...
If you can't hold on,
Hold on."
"She" by Green Day
She... she's figured out all her doubts were someone else's point of view.
Additional tracks for the soundtrack: "Absolute Beginners" (David Bowie), "Long Road to Ruin" (Foo Fighters), "Better Days" & "Red-headed Woman (Bruce Springsteen), "The Turning Away" & "Learning to Fly" (Pink Floyd); and a few others I'm forgetting
OK, so I've been yammering on about Jim Jefferies for a couple of weeks (well, actually for a couple of months), and the upside of it is that all of my friends who have had to listen to me have also got to see and hear Jim's material (clips via You Tube or the DVD "I Swear to God"--I won't let "Contraband" out of my hands), and everyone has had a damn good laugh.
Because he's fucking hysterical.
Now, I'm not going into an analysis of his performances--either the live show I saw the other night OR the recorded performances available. (Note for everyone paying attention: my birthday is ONE MONTH from today; "Alcoholocaust" will be released TWO DAYS AFTERWARDS in the U.K. And if I get multiple copies, I'll auction off the extra and donate the proceeds to kidney disease research [you know why]. If there is another extra copy, proceeds will go to the charity Jim gave the proceeds for his last Fringe show. Sorry, it's 3:45 a.m. and I'm not doing the research now.) You want performance analysis (ever notice that "anal" is the first part of "analysis." Note to self: research etymology of "analysis" and "anal." Got to be a reason), go read Part 1 of An Evening With Jim Jefferies on this blog.
This post is going to analyze the whole Celebricrush thing.
Now, I am 42. I know I don't act it; that's deliberate. I grew up a long, long time ago--it sucked, it was boring, and I said to fuck with being a grown-up. Grown-ups are assholes--fucking stupid jack-offs who are so self-involved and self-important that they don't remember the joy in life. Adults... *shrugs* being an adult is a slightly different story. I do consider myself an adult--I have a job that I go to on a regular basis that I actually love (well, for the most part, when people aren't pissing me off with their fucking ridiculous passive aggressive games. I mean, PLEASE! Don't you have something better to do with your life than make mine difficult? And seriously, what rational human being would be stupid enough to get into a pissing contest with me? Really. OK, I'll stop bitching), I have responsibilities that I attempt to take care of, I pay my bills as close to on time as possible, and I remember to feed the cat, fill the gas tank, and take my medication on time 9 days out of 10. I try to be compassionate, not break the laws I think are sensible, eat healthy, seldom drink these days, and do my best to be a good friend. I see my doctor, check my blood chemistry levels when I start feeling things go off, and do my best to help my mother in all her drama.
Because of the life I've led, I also go to therapy from time to time. And while it was not my fault that I was abused, it is my responsibility to heal and not take out my pain on others. I call it the Path of Compassion, the most important part of taking the Road Less Travelled. See, breaking the cycle of abuse is not enough. You also have to heal your soul and learn how to love and trust again.
This... this is not easy. There are days I think it is utterly, completely fucking impossible. I got back into the dating game about a year and a half ago. I actually started on a BBW-specific site; that was a fucking disaster. Not only did a schlub I'd dated a few years back try to get in touch with me (Gods, THAT is a story and a half! But for another time), the first member of the Strap-on Frustration Club (I was introduced to the term "pegging" today by a friend; never knew what it meant) was found on there, and it just wasn't working.
It's the self esteem thing. See, I dealt with the worst part of Fat Girl Syndrome a few years ago, long before surgery--the whole self esteem issue. I like myself. Actually, I really love myself. I'm pretty fucking cool, damn smart, incredibly talented, a decent human being, and a great lay most of the time. I don't want to be anyone else.
So I switched to Match.com. Argh. What a waste of fucking time--aside from all the scammers, Edwad showed up in a search. I freaked. FREAKED. Damn, I wish he'd die. Just a wasted of space on the planet; I wouldn't even wish that loser on Sarah Palin, but then, they'd probably get along famously and share their guns. *shudder* Christ, I'm skeeved at the thought. *gag*
There was another site in there; again, waste of time. Met a couple of guys, one of them nice, went nowhere. And then Plenty of Fish, whereon Phil was encountered, and it was decided that Your Empress was NOT ALLOWED NEAR BRITISH MEN EVER, EVER AGAIN.
*sigh* It's a pity. I love Brit Boys... the accent. The mischief... the fucking. Mmmmmm... so very good in bed. Never met a Brit Boy who didn't have a kink in his soul that translated into the bedroom. Deliciously translated... Yeah. OK, head out of the panties, and back in reality. The problem is that most of them are utterly fucking mental--it's really easy to forget when you're in the middle of incredible, amazing sex that you're from two VERY different cultures, with very different ways of communicating and ideas about what is acceptable. Argh.
But the sex... the sex was gooooooooood. So very, very gooooooooooooooood. If only it didn't leave such scars on the soul.
So, after Mr. Phil, I was pretty badly damaged. I mean, I had to confront a LOT of shit after that collapsed about me as a woman and as a person. And I had to really face my sexuality.
Now, as I've mentioned, I grew up Catholic. Had twelve years of Catholic school. Raised by a single mum who lived an exemplary life--she dated, but I never saw a strange man in my mother's bed. I think this is a good thing for a kid. Sex is an adult thing--kids don't need to know about it.
Mum had some pretty old fashioned ideas about sex, at least as she communicated them to me. I was told I was to remain a virgin until I was married. There was a problem with this, however: I had read Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask at the age of 11--definitely an eye opener!--and had also read most of the letters in the Forum section of the Penthouse magazines under my grandfather's bed and the reader stories submitted to Hustler, which my uncle kept under his bed.
Yep, I'd had an education. And a half! I'd also discovered masturbation fairly early on (I think I was like four, or something), and never forgot how to make myself feel good.
Interest in boys happened at some point, and of course, it started with a crush on a celebrity.
Now, my Celebricrushes have never been mainstream. Never. See, back when I was 9 or 10, the big show was The Hardy Boys. Now, most of the girls went for blonde singer Shaun Cassidy. Not me. Nah, I wanted Parker Stevenson, the older brother, with his lovely blue eyes and greater intelligence.
Next was Dirk Benedict as Starbuck in the original Battlestar Galactica. I wrote my first ever fanfic at the tender age of 12. Yeah, I liked the bad boys even back then.
When I was 13, I began my lifelong habit of bucking trends. Instead of falling for whoever was the flavor of the month, some safely packaged Tiger Beat baby (I think Scott Baio was considered "hot" at that point; I will refrain from commenting), I fell head over heels in teenage lurrrve with Peter O'Toole.
Now, this was 1981. We had cable and The Movie Channel, and they were running an ad for a film called The Stunt Man. Just like Lord of the Rings changed my life, so did The Stunt Man. It's a film about a fugitive, Cameron, a Vietnam vet who stumbles on to a movie set whilst being pursued by the police, and must take the place of a dead stuntman so that the director, Eli Cross, can keep his location for the final three days of shooting.
If you have never seen this movie, RENT IT. Netflix it, buy it--Criterion released it on DVD. If you're in my neck of the woods, I will be happy to share my copy with you--Peter O'Toole is riveting, and I will never forgive the Academy for giving Robert DeNiro the Oscar that year. After seeing that film, I knew I had to be an actor and a director.
The next Celebricrush was David Bowie. I took a lot of shit for loving David Bowie--the famous cry, "BOWIE'S A FAG!" echoes in my ears still. Didn't matter--his music kept me alive during high school and was my portal to exploring stuff I would have never been open to without him. I've seen him live four times, and although Glass Spider was a bit lifeless, all of his shows have been amazing. If I ever get married again, "Absolute Beginners" will be the wedding song. "Labyrinth"... Gods, I want to adapt that for Broadway. It would be so amazing...
Anyway, I spent my teenage years sharing my affections between the two of them.
When I was married, I crushed on Mr. Spock. Not Leonard Nimoy--Mr. Spock. He was a unique creature in my experience--a logical male. (I did say I was married at the time.)
And then came Harvey Keitel. *sigh* Yeah, that one was intense. I applied to the Actor's Studio MFA directing program because of him. Got the news I'd been accepted on his birthday. It was nice.
I didn't go. By that time, my health was in the toilet, my psyche was severely damaged, and theatre... theatre was not an option at that point in my life.
And now... along comes Jim Jefferies.
So let's talk about Celebricrushes and why they happen. I mean, on the surface, they're creepy. (My opinion.) You have this attraction to someone you have never, ever met and probably never will. (Although I have met a few of my Celebricrushes, including Peter O'Toole and Harvey Keitel, albeit briefly.) It's one thing when you're a kid--it's safe to feel sexual attraction to an adult who is not a part of your daily life. When you're my age... well...
A bit weird.
Unless you're me. See, I find the ability to crush on someone (and I have a couple of "real life" crushes, lovely gents whom I deal with socially who just make my heart & other bits of my anatomy flutter) to be a really hopeful thing. After all the shit and bad things and bad relationships and stupid choices I've made, I can still have romantic daydreams, un-filthy desires, and yearning for a man.
I joke a lot about sex--honestly, I find it pretty damn funny--but then, I joke about most things that are important to me. It's my first line of defense. What we get up to in the pursuit and enjoyment of carnal pleasure... Yep, it's pretty damn funny. However, there is nothing more sacred to me than the sharing of my body, and I am luckier than most people in that I am really open-minded about sexual practices. I don't consider anything consensual to be "deviant." Sorry, but if you're both adults in your fairly right minds and you're both into it without coercion, GO FOR IT. I mean, who fucking cares what two consenting adults get up to behind closed doors? (Or three or four or however many. Life is too short--GET LAID!) The problem for me has come in when other people get involved.
Now, as you might have gathered, I live on the outside of my skin in a lot of ways. There are things I don't talk about--I leave out details that I consider a confidence in these posts because while there is stuff I don't care about people knowing because it just involves me, there's other stuff that to reveal it would be to tell someone else's story, violate their privacy. If you haven't broken faith with me, I can't break faith with you. It's not honorable. Back to living on the outside of my skin... the problem with being an open-hearted human being is that most people are not. Most folks live in fear, and the way they deal with fear is to deny, and in their denial, they instead judge others. Yep, it's hypocritical. Yep, it's the way the world works.
But it still hurts.
I've had a lot of hypocrites in my life. And they've done a fair bit of damage. As a result, for a lot of years, I'd do anything to prevent a man from knowing I liked him In That Way. PAINFULLY, HORRIBLY shy. And so utterly deep in self-hatred for my size. Now... now I'm old and cranky and don't give a manky fuck what you think of me. And I KNOW I'm a good lay. However... getting over that horrible, ugly voice inside... the one that whispers, "You're ugly. You're horrible. No one wants you." That's a challenge.
Self-hatred is something that's been a part of my life for a long, long time. It's taken me years to realize that it's not self-imposed--it's been put on me by others who couldn't accept me because I scare the living fuck out of them. People who hated me for being able to do what they were incapable of--loving myself, being myself.
My Celebricrushes have always happened at low points in my life--at times when I was ready to give up and pack it in. At critical nexus points. Jim happened in August after a looooooooooooooooooooong, hard, awful fucking summer when I was being consumed by rage, frustration--artistic, sexual and personal--and despair. There, on the giant screen television, was this guy saying shit... I mean, I've been writing stuff in that vein (not the same material, obviously--we're two very different people from different places)... I'm talking about the attitude, the honesty, the "I don't give a shit" attitude. How many of you have heard me say, "I'm old and cranky, and I don't give a fuck." It's my mantra, my philosophy of life, my shield against all the stupid fucking imbecilic hypocrites of the world. And here, on the TV, is this FUCKING ADORABLE, I mean, really goddamned cute! hysterically funny man saying pretty much the same thing.
I've mentioned that this was the summer of breakthroughs. Part of it came from dealing with Mum's illness: realizing how badly I'd been manipulated, how much of my life had been stolen, and how I'd allowed myself to be duped into because of my own desperate need to be loved and approved of. The non-body chemistry-related trigger for February's attempt to check out was delivered by Mum; she's been the catalyst for 85% of my bouts with the Death Need, the feeling of complete, utter inadequacy and rejection that only a parent can engender in a child. She and I have such a complex and intense relationship. I do love her; I also hate her. I accept that. Right now, I have to help her untangle her life so that she can go into elder housing and I can go on with my life.
I accepted that I may never find a partner and have a family. I still can't bear to think this; it still makes me want to curl into a ball and weep like a broken child. I truly do not know if there is a man on this planet who can love and accept me for who I am, as I am. I have a great deal to offer as a partner; I am also deeply flawed. I don't have many years of fertility left, although the surgery last year and continued weight loss and commitment to my health will give me a little more time. The bottom line is that I do not want to bring a child into this world just for the sake of having a child. I do not want any baby of mine to know the pain I have known; this is why I did not have a family when I had the chance when I was married. To bring a child into an abusive, alcoholic marriage would have been the basest, most vile of betrayals--a sin beyond all sins, a continuation of the ugly cycle of abuse I'd sworn to break. A child should have two loving, committed parents; I remember what it was like to watch my mother struggle. I do not want my little one to know that pain.
Because of who I am, I will make the most ethical decision, even if it means sacrificing my own desire. Because that is what it means to be a parent. I learned that from Mum; she tried so hard to live that.
The final breakthrough... theatre. Performing. I've been writing like a fiend this past year--with One Flew Out of the Broom Closet, I finally wrote the novel I've been dreaming of for years. And it's GOOD. Damn, it's good. I LOVE the voice of Rebecca Kinsale, I love her prickly, cranky, demanding bitchery. LOVE HER! Of course, she's just an extension of me, but still... to have a story that I've been trying to write for ten years FINALLY come together... Yeah. What's been missing, however, is the part of me I have been mourning for so very long: the actor.
The last show I did was Guards! Guards! back in '07; a mixed success, more success than failure, despite the fact it was staged in the Bookstore of the Damned & Clubhouse of Retarded Gamers. I know I still have "it" as a director; however, what I didn't have was the joy.
See, theatre... any art form, really... if there is no joy in the artist's soul for the act of creation, then there's no point. It's like perfunctory sex--you might feel good, but the orgasm is just a physical release. There's no satisfaction in it, and it leaves you feeling emptier than when you began.
That joy was stolen from me. I'm not going to go into the story--it's long, it's stupid, and the person who hurt me is a useless cunt who doesn't deserve the time or the credit. She's out of my life, she's a miserable creature, and I'm glad to be done with her. And it's NOT her life--it's mine. I'm responsible for it. Doesn't matter who does what, in the end, I am responsible for my own growth, my own healing, my own everything.
The one thing I don't like about myself is my need for approval--for applause, for adulation. The need to be loved. I may not give a flying fuck what people think about me, but that doesn't mean I don't need to be loved and wanted. And honestly, it's not something I ever really feel. I mean, I do on occasion--and far more now than I ever did in the past--but still... I do not see myself as a lovable person. I identify a lot with Granny Weatherwax in the Discworld books--the bicarbonate of history, the person you call when there's a hard decision to make, when you need something impossible done... but not the person you invite to a party.
Ow. That hurt to admit. But the truth is, that's the way my life has been. When things are bad, people want me around--I'm fearless and I'll deal with it. When things are good, well, let's just say people tend to forget I exist. Unless you've been in that position, you have no idea how painful it is. So, a long time ago, I started doing stuff on my own: going to movies, going out. Going to New York City to see Jim Jefferies. *shrugs*
I had to, though. There's a lot of common ground--again, different backgrounds, similar experiences, and a similar outcome, at least on stage. And it meant the world to see someone saying those things, getting angry, being honest, BEING FUNNY!!!!! and being applauded and successful for it. How could I not crush on him?
Besides, he really is fucking hot.
Seeing Jim perform--and the attraction I felt--set me to thinking. Because of course, being me, I have to analyze the shit out of everything. Why did I never go through with the one-woman show? The script was GREAT. Not perfect--needed tweaking, I mean, I only did the two drafts--but it was still damn good. And it's been sitting on my hard drive for nine years. Why HADN'T I done open mic? I'd been fantasizing about getting up and just doing it for years. Why the fuck wasn't I still doing theatre?
And it all started falling into place.
So... yeah. No more excuses. No more hiding. No more. Good-bye, Darth Thespia. Good-bye, OSP. Good-bye.
I'm back.
[So that's my rambling analysis of crushes. Short form: a reason for hope, as long as you see them for what they are: a bit of necessary self-revelation, a bit of inspiration, and a jump-start for a dead heart. Taken with a grain of salt and a good sense of humor, a damn healthy, normal thing to let you know you're still alive, still kicking, and everything's gonna be all right.]
G'night, my darlings. Thank you for reading. Be well--love each other. And don't be afraid.
Much love,
Your Empress
Theme songs for the evening:
"All These Things That I've Done" by The Killers
These changes ain't changin' me/the gold-hearted boy I used to be
When everything's lost, the battle is won
All these things that I've done...
Time, truth, heart...
If you can't hold on,
Hold on."
"She" by Green Day
She... she's figured out all her doubts were someone else's point of view.
Additional tracks for the soundtrack: "Absolute Beginners" (David Bowie), "Long Road to Ruin" (Foo Fighters), "Better Days" & "Red-headed Woman (Bruce Springsteen), "The Turning Away" & "Learning to Fly" (Pink Floyd); and a few others I'm forgetting
OK, so I've been yammering on about Jim Jefferies for a couple of weeks (well, actually for a couple of months), and the upside of it is that all of my friends who have had to listen to me have also got to see and hear Jim's material (clips via You Tube or the DVD "I Swear to God"--I won't let "Contraband" out of my hands), and everyone has had a damn good laugh.
Because he's fucking hysterical.
Now, I'm not going into an analysis of his performances--either the live show I saw the other night OR the recorded performances available. (Note for everyone paying attention: my birthday is ONE MONTH from today; "Alcoholocaust" will be released TWO DAYS AFTERWARDS in the U.K. And if I get multiple copies, I'll auction off the extra and donate the proceeds to kidney disease research [you know why]. If there is another extra copy, proceeds will go to the charity Jim gave the proceeds for his last Fringe show. Sorry, it's 3:45 a.m. and I'm not doing the research now.) You want performance analysis (ever notice that "anal" is the first part of "analysis." Note to self: research etymology of "analysis" and "anal." Got to be a reason), go read Part 1 of An Evening With Jim Jefferies on this blog.
This post is going to analyze the whole Celebricrush thing.
Now, I am 42. I know I don't act it; that's deliberate. I grew up a long, long time ago--it sucked, it was boring, and I said to fuck with being a grown-up. Grown-ups are assholes--fucking stupid jack-offs who are so self-involved and self-important that they don't remember the joy in life. Adults... *shrugs* being an adult is a slightly different story. I do consider myself an adult--I have a job that I go to on a regular basis that I actually love (well, for the most part, when people aren't pissing me off with their fucking ridiculous passive aggressive games. I mean, PLEASE! Don't you have something better to do with your life than make mine difficult? And seriously, what rational human being would be stupid enough to get into a pissing contest with me? Really. OK, I'll stop bitching), I have responsibilities that I attempt to take care of, I pay my bills as close to on time as possible, and I remember to feed the cat, fill the gas tank, and take my medication on time 9 days out of 10. I try to be compassionate, not break the laws I think are sensible, eat healthy, seldom drink these days, and do my best to be a good friend. I see my doctor, check my blood chemistry levels when I start feeling things go off, and do my best to help my mother in all her drama.
Because of the life I've led, I also go to therapy from time to time. And while it was not my fault that I was abused, it is my responsibility to heal and not take out my pain on others. I call it the Path of Compassion, the most important part of taking the Road Less Travelled. See, breaking the cycle of abuse is not enough. You also have to heal your soul and learn how to love and trust again.
This... this is not easy. There are days I think it is utterly, completely fucking impossible. I got back into the dating game about a year and a half ago. I actually started on a BBW-specific site; that was a fucking disaster. Not only did a schlub I'd dated a few years back try to get in touch with me (Gods, THAT is a story and a half! But for another time), the first member of the Strap-on Frustration Club (I was introduced to the term "pegging" today by a friend; never knew what it meant) was found on there, and it just wasn't working.
It's the self esteem thing. See, I dealt with the worst part of Fat Girl Syndrome a few years ago, long before surgery--the whole self esteem issue. I like myself. Actually, I really love myself. I'm pretty fucking cool, damn smart, incredibly talented, a decent human being, and a great lay most of the time. I don't want to be anyone else.
So I switched to Match.com. Argh. What a waste of fucking time--aside from all the scammers, Edwad showed up in a search. I freaked. FREAKED. Damn, I wish he'd die. Just a wasted of space on the planet; I wouldn't even wish that loser on Sarah Palin, but then, they'd probably get along famously and share their guns. *shudder* Christ, I'm skeeved at the thought. *gag*
There was another site in there; again, waste of time. Met a couple of guys, one of them nice, went nowhere. And then Plenty of Fish, whereon Phil was encountered, and it was decided that Your Empress was NOT ALLOWED NEAR BRITISH MEN EVER, EVER AGAIN.
*sigh* It's a pity. I love Brit Boys... the accent. The mischief... the fucking. Mmmmmm... so very good in bed. Never met a Brit Boy who didn't have a kink in his soul that translated into the bedroom. Deliciously translated... Yeah. OK, head out of the panties, and back in reality. The problem is that most of them are utterly fucking mental--it's really easy to forget when you're in the middle of incredible, amazing sex that you're from two VERY different cultures, with very different ways of communicating and ideas about what is acceptable. Argh.
But the sex... the sex was gooooooooood. So very, very gooooooooooooooood. If only it didn't leave such scars on the soul.
So, after Mr. Phil, I was pretty badly damaged. I mean, I had to confront a LOT of shit after that collapsed about me as a woman and as a person. And I had to really face my sexuality.
Now, as I've mentioned, I grew up Catholic. Had twelve years of Catholic school. Raised by a single mum who lived an exemplary life--she dated, but I never saw a strange man in my mother's bed. I think this is a good thing for a kid. Sex is an adult thing--kids don't need to know about it.
Mum had some pretty old fashioned ideas about sex, at least as she communicated them to me. I was told I was to remain a virgin until I was married. There was a problem with this, however: I had read Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask at the age of 11--definitely an eye opener!--and had also read most of the letters in the Forum section of the Penthouse magazines under my grandfather's bed and the reader stories submitted to Hustler, which my uncle kept under his bed.
Yep, I'd had an education. And a half! I'd also discovered masturbation fairly early on (I think I was like four, or something), and never forgot how to make myself feel good.
Interest in boys happened at some point, and of course, it started with a crush on a celebrity.
Now, my Celebricrushes have never been mainstream. Never. See, back when I was 9 or 10, the big show was The Hardy Boys. Now, most of the girls went for blonde singer Shaun Cassidy. Not me. Nah, I wanted Parker Stevenson, the older brother, with his lovely blue eyes and greater intelligence.
Next was Dirk Benedict as Starbuck in the original Battlestar Galactica. I wrote my first ever fanfic at the tender age of 12. Yeah, I liked the bad boys even back then.
When I was 13, I began my lifelong habit of bucking trends. Instead of falling for whoever was the flavor of the month, some safely packaged Tiger Beat baby (I think Scott Baio was considered "hot" at that point; I will refrain from commenting), I fell head over heels in teenage lurrrve with Peter O'Toole.
Now, this was 1981. We had cable and The Movie Channel, and they were running an ad for a film called The Stunt Man. Just like Lord of the Rings changed my life, so did The Stunt Man. It's a film about a fugitive, Cameron, a Vietnam vet who stumbles on to a movie set whilst being pursued by the police, and must take the place of a dead stuntman so that the director, Eli Cross, can keep his location for the final three days of shooting.
If you have never seen this movie, RENT IT. Netflix it, buy it--Criterion released it on DVD. If you're in my neck of the woods, I will be happy to share my copy with you--Peter O'Toole is riveting, and I will never forgive the Academy for giving Robert DeNiro the Oscar that year. After seeing that film, I knew I had to be an actor and a director.
The next Celebricrush was David Bowie. I took a lot of shit for loving David Bowie--the famous cry, "BOWIE'S A FAG!" echoes in my ears still. Didn't matter--his music kept me alive during high school and was my portal to exploring stuff I would have never been open to without him. I've seen him live four times, and although Glass Spider was a bit lifeless, all of his shows have been amazing. If I ever get married again, "Absolute Beginners" will be the wedding song. "Labyrinth"... Gods, I want to adapt that for Broadway. It would be so amazing...
Anyway, I spent my teenage years sharing my affections between the two of them.
When I was married, I crushed on Mr. Spock. Not Leonard Nimoy--Mr. Spock. He was a unique creature in my experience--a logical male. (I did say I was married at the time.)
And then came Harvey Keitel. *sigh* Yeah, that one was intense. I applied to the Actor's Studio MFA directing program because of him. Got the news I'd been accepted on his birthday. It was nice.
I didn't go. By that time, my health was in the toilet, my psyche was severely damaged, and theatre... theatre was not an option at that point in my life.
And now... along comes Jim Jefferies.
So let's talk about Celebricrushes and why they happen. I mean, on the surface, they're creepy. (My opinion.) You have this attraction to someone you have never, ever met and probably never will. (Although I have met a few of my Celebricrushes, including Peter O'Toole and Harvey Keitel, albeit briefly.) It's one thing when you're a kid--it's safe to feel sexual attraction to an adult who is not a part of your daily life. When you're my age... well...
A bit weird.
Unless you're me. See, I find the ability to crush on someone (and I have a couple of "real life" crushes, lovely gents whom I deal with socially who just make my heart & other bits of my anatomy flutter) to be a really hopeful thing. After all the shit and bad things and bad relationships and stupid choices I've made, I can still have romantic daydreams, un-filthy desires, and yearning for a man.
I joke a lot about sex--honestly, I find it pretty damn funny--but then, I joke about most things that are important to me. It's my first line of defense. What we get up to in the pursuit and enjoyment of carnal pleasure... Yep, it's pretty damn funny. However, there is nothing more sacred to me than the sharing of my body, and I am luckier than most people in that I am really open-minded about sexual practices. I don't consider anything consensual to be "deviant." Sorry, but if you're both adults in your fairly right minds and you're both into it without coercion, GO FOR IT. I mean, who fucking cares what two consenting adults get up to behind closed doors? (Or three or four or however many. Life is too short--GET LAID!) The problem for me has come in when other people get involved.
Now, as you might have gathered, I live on the outside of my skin in a lot of ways. There are things I don't talk about--I leave out details that I consider a confidence in these posts because while there is stuff I don't care about people knowing because it just involves me, there's other stuff that to reveal it would be to tell someone else's story, violate their privacy. If you haven't broken faith with me, I can't break faith with you. It's not honorable. Back to living on the outside of my skin... the problem with being an open-hearted human being is that most people are not. Most folks live in fear, and the way they deal with fear is to deny, and in their denial, they instead judge others. Yep, it's hypocritical. Yep, it's the way the world works.
But it still hurts.
I've had a lot of hypocrites in my life. And they've done a fair bit of damage. As a result, for a lot of years, I'd do anything to prevent a man from knowing I liked him In That Way. PAINFULLY, HORRIBLY shy. And so utterly deep in self-hatred for my size. Now... now I'm old and cranky and don't give a manky fuck what you think of me. And I KNOW I'm a good lay. However... getting over that horrible, ugly voice inside... the one that whispers, "You're ugly. You're horrible. No one wants you." That's a challenge.
Self-hatred is something that's been a part of my life for a long, long time. It's taken me years to realize that it's not self-imposed--it's been put on me by others who couldn't accept me because I scare the living fuck out of them. People who hated me for being able to do what they were incapable of--loving myself, being myself.
My Celebricrushes have always happened at low points in my life--at times when I was ready to give up and pack it in. At critical nexus points. Jim happened in August after a looooooooooooooooooooong, hard, awful fucking summer when I was being consumed by rage, frustration--artistic, sexual and personal--and despair. There, on the giant screen television, was this guy saying shit... I mean, I've been writing stuff in that vein (not the same material, obviously--we're two very different people from different places)... I'm talking about the attitude, the honesty, the "I don't give a shit" attitude. How many of you have heard me say, "I'm old and cranky, and I don't give a fuck." It's my mantra, my philosophy of life, my shield against all the stupid fucking imbecilic hypocrites of the world. And here, on the TV, is this FUCKING ADORABLE, I mean, really goddamned cute! hysterically funny man saying pretty much the same thing.
I've mentioned that this was the summer of breakthroughs. Part of it came from dealing with Mum's illness: realizing how badly I'd been manipulated, how much of my life had been stolen, and how I'd allowed myself to be duped into because of my own desperate need to be loved and approved of. The non-body chemistry-related trigger for February's attempt to check out was delivered by Mum; she's been the catalyst for 85% of my bouts with the Death Need, the feeling of complete, utter inadequacy and rejection that only a parent can engender in a child. She and I have such a complex and intense relationship. I do love her; I also hate her. I accept that. Right now, I have to help her untangle her life so that she can go into elder housing and I can go on with my life.
I accepted that I may never find a partner and have a family. I still can't bear to think this; it still makes me want to curl into a ball and weep like a broken child. I truly do not know if there is a man on this planet who can love and accept me for who I am, as I am. I have a great deal to offer as a partner; I am also deeply flawed. I don't have many years of fertility left, although the surgery last year and continued weight loss and commitment to my health will give me a little more time. The bottom line is that I do not want to bring a child into this world just for the sake of having a child. I do not want any baby of mine to know the pain I have known; this is why I did not have a family when I had the chance when I was married. To bring a child into an abusive, alcoholic marriage would have been the basest, most vile of betrayals--a sin beyond all sins, a continuation of the ugly cycle of abuse I'd sworn to break. A child should have two loving, committed parents; I remember what it was like to watch my mother struggle. I do not want my little one to know that pain.
Because of who I am, I will make the most ethical decision, even if it means sacrificing my own desire. Because that is what it means to be a parent. I learned that from Mum; she tried so hard to live that.
The final breakthrough... theatre. Performing. I've been writing like a fiend this past year--with One Flew Out of the Broom Closet, I finally wrote the novel I've been dreaming of for years. And it's GOOD. Damn, it's good. I LOVE the voice of Rebecca Kinsale, I love her prickly, cranky, demanding bitchery. LOVE HER! Of course, she's just an extension of me, but still... to have a story that I've been trying to write for ten years FINALLY come together... Yeah. What's been missing, however, is the part of me I have been mourning for so very long: the actor.
The last show I did was Guards! Guards! back in '07; a mixed success, more success than failure, despite the fact it was staged in the Bookstore of the Damned & Clubhouse of Retarded Gamers. I know I still have "it" as a director; however, what I didn't have was the joy.
See, theatre... any art form, really... if there is no joy in the artist's soul for the act of creation, then there's no point. It's like perfunctory sex--you might feel good, but the orgasm is just a physical release. There's no satisfaction in it, and it leaves you feeling emptier than when you began.
That joy was stolen from me. I'm not going to go into the story--it's long, it's stupid, and the person who hurt me is a useless cunt who doesn't deserve the time or the credit. She's out of my life, she's a miserable creature, and I'm glad to be done with her. And it's NOT her life--it's mine. I'm responsible for it. Doesn't matter who does what, in the end, I am responsible for my own growth, my own healing, my own everything.
The one thing I don't like about myself is my need for approval--for applause, for adulation. The need to be loved. I may not give a flying fuck what people think about me, but that doesn't mean I don't need to be loved and wanted. And honestly, it's not something I ever really feel. I mean, I do on occasion--and far more now than I ever did in the past--but still... I do not see myself as a lovable person. I identify a lot with Granny Weatherwax in the Discworld books--the bicarbonate of history, the person you call when there's a hard decision to make, when you need something impossible done... but not the person you invite to a party.
Ow. That hurt to admit. But the truth is, that's the way my life has been. When things are bad, people want me around--I'm fearless and I'll deal with it. When things are good, well, let's just say people tend to forget I exist. Unless you've been in that position, you have no idea how painful it is. So, a long time ago, I started doing stuff on my own: going to movies, going out. Going to New York City to see Jim Jefferies. *shrugs*
I had to, though. There's a lot of common ground--again, different backgrounds, similar experiences, and a similar outcome, at least on stage. And it meant the world to see someone saying those things, getting angry, being honest, BEING FUNNY!!!!! and being applauded and successful for it. How could I not crush on him?
Besides, he really is fucking hot.
Seeing Jim perform--and the attraction I felt--set me to thinking. Because of course, being me, I have to analyze the shit out of everything. Why did I never go through with the one-woman show? The script was GREAT. Not perfect--needed tweaking, I mean, I only did the two drafts--but it was still damn good. And it's been sitting on my hard drive for nine years. Why HADN'T I done open mic? I'd been fantasizing about getting up and just doing it for years. Why the fuck wasn't I still doing theatre?
And it all started falling into place.
So... yeah. No more excuses. No more hiding. No more. Good-bye, Darth Thespia. Good-bye, OSP. Good-bye.
I'm back.
[So that's my rambling analysis of crushes. Short form: a reason for hope, as long as you see them for what they are: a bit of necessary self-revelation, a bit of inspiration, and a jump-start for a dead heart. Taken with a grain of salt and a good sense of humor, a damn healthy, normal thing to let you know you're still alive, still kicking, and everything's gonna be all right.]
G'night, my darlings. Thank you for reading. Be well--love each other. And don't be afraid.
Much love,
Your Empress
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