MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Lemon Drop Dreams, A Full Moon and Zwack Unicum

Having troubles with the bloggy lately, don't know what's up
with that shite. Took my mom out to dinner for her birthday
tonight at Citizen Smith - one of the hip, faboo new restaurants
in Hollywould. It's off H-Blvd. on Cahuenga and it's so popular
that if you're more than 15 minutes late they'll give your table
away and there's a 2 hour limit on your table. Normally I don't
like that kind of bullshit, but I've been there before and the food
is spectacularly good, and the place looks like Dracula's bedroom.
Very dark, candles all over the place, all over the walls, Gothic
ambience, cool chandeliers....they even have this bad-ass looking
sliding door that leads to the outside patio - my mom even called
it Dracula's door. Let's just say a vampire would do well to stop
in and have one of their delightful Lemon Drop martinis. Hell, we
had everything and now I'm so full I feel weird! I don't normally
eat that much. Special occasion and all. My mum, who is turning
67, is ultra-hip and cool. She looks 10 - 12 years younger than she
is, she's gorgeous and she didn't even mind the blaring music
that much. I was like a rambling DJ, announcing every song.
They surprised me by playing a really odd array of music.
But what really blew my socks off wasthat they played The Cult.
Oh mother of God. That just set me off. And what's even better
is even my mom said, "Isn't that kind of old?"

God love her. She remembers my obsession. And I mean OBSESSION.
If people think I'm obsessed with the Church, well they're right.
But I also became utterly and totally and obsessively fascinated with
Ian Astbury and the Cult not too long after I discovered The Church.

I will NEVER forget it. I was home from college - and I had a really
nasty cold. I wasn't feeling well and I was walking around the house
sniffling and sneezing. I walked into the den of my parents' house
and my brother was sitting there watching MTV. Remember when
MTV wasn't some ho-hideous pimped out crackwhore nightmare
and actually played MUSIC and VIDEOS? Well, I walked in and
the video for She Sells Sanctuary was on.

Christ on the Cross in Golgotha, that was IT. I mean, I don't THINK
I fell to my knees, but everything in my 18 year old brain stopped cold.
I took one look at Ian Astbury, so young, so cool looking, so beautiful,
all decked out in scarves and shit, and I was GONE. Gone, gone, gone.
I listened to the song and thought I'd never heard anything so fucking
amazing in my life. I was taken to a whole other place in life. I absolutely
credit The Cult with getting me even MORE obsessed with music, and
determined to work in the music industry (what music and the music
industry have to do with each other is very little actually,
but at 18, I didn't know this).

Oh sweet Mary, mother of God, I had it bad. I went back to school,
determined to find this album, and find out who this man was.
Now you have to realise, I was in my first semester at a really
conservative Christian university and while I was practically an
atheist because of that, haha, I still dressed very much like a sweet
little good girl going to a nice, Christian school. I remember going to
the record store (yeah, remember those too?) and buying the Cult's
LOVE cassette (!) and the guy behind the counter kind of looked
at me a bit oddly. I had on a long skirt, some cutesy sweater and pearls.
I got back to my dorm and listened to the cassette and my whole entire
life changed; I'm not exaggerating. Oh Billy Duffy, wheverever
you are now, you sweet guitar god, I still love your licks baby. I became
beyond fascinated with Ian. There was a small picture of him in
Vogue magazine (of all places) and I remember I cut it out and kept
it for years. In fact, I started cutting out every article, interview, picture
I could find of the band, and especially of Ian. Today, 21 years later,
I think back, I look inside myself and I wonder, what was it? What
fascinated me about him so much? It wasn't even sexual. I'd tell you
if it was sexual. Believe me, there have been a lot of musicians I just
wanted to wham bam thank you ma'am. But not Ian. Did I want to BE
Ian? Perhaps. Even though I was a woman! I loved everything
about him. I loved the way he dressed. I loved his fascination with Native
American cultures. I loved his voice. I loved his words. I thought he was
beautiful the way you might think a painting or a statue is beautiful;
you don't want to sleep with it, but you feel like you can't take your eyes
away from the beauty of it. His long black hair was amazing; his eyes
dark and penetrating. He was intense. He had an amazing presence on
stage. He was wild. He was everything I wasn't, that's for sure. I felt
like I'd stumbled onto Mount Olympus and fell in love with a God.
Ian wasn't even HUMAN to me. I elevated him to a place so high in
the stratosphere it's scary now to think about it. Hey, I did that a lot
with musicians when I was a teenager and in my early 20's.

I started collecting all the records I could (actual RECORDS people!)
Southern Death Cult, Death Cult, anything Ian had done before The
Cult. I even had a video of them. God where is that video now???
Gone. Damn. All of this stuff is gone. Don't you hate when you
want to go back and revisit shit and it's ALL GONE!

On April 19, 1986 I went down to San Diego State University and
stayed with my friend Jeanne, who was a student there. The
Cult was going to play at the SDSU amphitheatre. By this time I'd
managed to lose my pearls and started dressing in black, turning
into some strange hybrid Gothic-university chick. The opening band was
The Divinals (sp?). That chick was wild. Whatever happened to them?
I remember thinking though, I hate her! She gets to tour with The
Cult! Oh I thought touring was so fucking glamourous. Yeah yeah
yeah. I know all about it know. But come on, I wasn't even 19 yet.
That concert re-arranged every neuron and dendrite in my brain.
I stood there in total and complete rapture. I was mesmerised. It's
funny they were called The Cult; it was like I had joined one. The
music made me feel things I'd never felt before and I couldn't describe
it then, and I'm frustrated as hell now, because I still feel like I can't
properly describe it, two decades later. I felt free listening to it. I felt
freed from being the good little college girl. And I was such a good girl.
I felt free, I felt wild, I felt like I wanted to do things I'd never done
before. I felt like I owned the whole free fucking world. The universe
was mine. The stars supernova-ed and rained down their fire on me.
Duffy played the guitar so madly and it made me feel things inside and outside
and everywhere and I stood there in the dark, cigarette and clove smoke
wafting all around me, the smell of spilled beer and I remember it like
it was YESTERDAY. I wanted to die, to become totally one with the music.
I wanted to be those guitar strings, I wanted to merge into the very sound
itself. It was primal for me. I wanted to fuck, I wanted to drink, drug,
leave myself, my body. I felt like my whole consciousness was being
transformed song by song. I watched Ian like he was the last man on
earth. I wanted to become him, become his voice, I wanted our atoms
and molecules to merge; I wanted a symbiotic mind-fuck with it all.
The music had power over me like nothing else in my life ever had.

I must have listened to the LOVE album more than any other album
I've ever owned. The only other album that comes close is The Church's
Heyday album and the two albums could not be more different. Every
song, every lyric, every guitar lick, every beat of the bass and drum was
burned into my psyche. How times change. I can't even find it in my
apartment now. It must be in storage with a ton of my other CD's.
I lived and breathed that album. It was the soundtrack to an entire
period of my life. The period where music became the penultimate
obsession of my young life. My friend Heather and I became equally
obsessed. We both started hanging out at Hollywood clubs to watch
bands. One of the first things we did that involved a lot of music was
go to the L.A. street fair. This was back in '85 or '86 when they actually
had a street fair. All kinds of bands played. We saw punk bands - Agent
Orange and even the Ramones. We climbed on top of a Ryder truck
and a riot broke out right after we left and two people were stabbed.
They never had another L.A. street fair after that. Living out in Malibu
in the 80's wasn't terribly glamourous. There was essentially nothing to
do, unless you went to a beach party, or to someone's house, or hung
out at Carlos N' Pepe's, THE local Mexican restaurant where all the
students and Malibu celebs hung out. But we were too young to drink,
too naive to get fake I.D.'s and besides it wasn't about the liquor. It
was truly about the music. We started going out every weekend, then
on weeknights as well. We started hanging out at the Roxy, the Whiskey.
Local bands became more and more interesting to us. We stayed far
away from places like Gazzarri's and hair-metal bands (although sadly
I got to know Warrant much better than I ever wanted to - but that's
another story.) We hung out at the sleaziest club in town - the Cathouse.
God what a whorehouse! We saw Faster Pussycat, L.A. Guns, Guns N'Roses
(they weren't huge yet), Jane's Addiction, Electric Angels, Kill for Thrills
(Gilby Clarke and Jason Nesmith were in this band - this was our
favourite local band. And yes, Nesmith as in the Monkees! That's his
father - Michael Nesmith). Damn I thought Jason was the sex! Ha. By
this time we'd morphed into mini-skirt wearing rocker chicks. I am not
gonna lie, I had a fucking awesome body back then. I miss that body
so much. I wore thigh high black suede boots and bustiere-type tops.
I have no idea if I spelled that word correctly; but I remember the outfits.
I can't believe I ever wore any of that stuff. I'd be mortified today. But then
again, I'm not 120 pounds anymore with legs that went on forever.
Good God. We scoured Melrose for clothes and then came back to school
and morphed back into good little girls. But the weekends were really ours.

We lived at the coolest fucking club ever, Scream at the Park Plaza Hotel
in downtown L.A. Here's a funny story. Every band played Scream. Jane's
Addiction was the house band; I remember seeing so many bands -
Faith No More, Soundgarden, L.A. Guns, Social Distortion - you name it,
any band promoter Dayle Gloria liked played there. She could talk
Jesus Christ himself into headlining that place. One day, for reasons
I honestly cannot remember now, I remember Heather and I were
driving around, and we drove by Scream. I know it was the weekend
and I want to say it was a Sunday. We saw all these people mingling
outside of the club. We pulled over and asked what was going on.
What was going on? Why would people hang out in front
of the Park Plaza on a Sunday afternoon? Well, the news blew my mind.
The Cult were going to play there that night. A special, secret show. We'd
just seen The Cult at the Long Beach Arena (Guns N'Roses opened for them)
and we couldn't believe our luck. Now I was wearing a skirt for some reason.
But Heather was in shorts and tennis shoes. And Scream had a dress code.
They wouldn't let her in the way she was dressed. So we freaked out and started
walking up and down Wilshire Boulevard trying to find something for her to
wear before the show.

I remember it must've been a Sunday because nothing was open. It
wasn't like there was a special dress shop open where Heather could buy
club clothes either. It was getting late. We went into some kind of shoe
store - like a Footlocker or something. I swear to God, Heather bought
BLACK soccer cleats. Then we went across the street to some hotel, and
went in their gift shop. While I bought cigarettes, Heather looked for
something to wear - and the only thing she could find was a black T-shirt.
Well, she already had a black shirt on. So what did she do? She wore the
T-shirt as a skirt. I kid you not. Black soccer cleats and a hotel T-shirt
as a skirt. But it did the damned job! And we got into the club and went into
the main ballroom and got really close and watched The Cult play a fucking
awesome show.

A few weeks later, we were at The Palace; we'd just gone to a movie premiere
and this is where we met Steve Jones, formerly of the Sex Pistols. For some
reason rockers were everywhere at this movie-premiere after-party. We saw
Billy Duffy talking to Steve Jones and Heather just went right up to Billy and
we all started talking after that. Billy had two drinks in his hand. Ian wasn't
there. I gotta say, Billy was really nice and so was Steve Jones. I couldn't
believe I was shaking hands with a SEX PISTOL! I used to do a radio show
at our radio station at the college, and so did my friend David; in fact we ended
up doing one together called "From L.A. to London" and damn if we didn't play
the shit! LOL! Seriously we played some awesome music. So David had Heather
and I on his show to tell our story of meeting Billy and Steve. I still have the tape;
often we'd tape our shows for our bosses to listen to, or just to listen to ourselves.
I don't even know if the tape works. I'm afraid to play it to be honest. I haven't
talked to Heather in 13 years. I don't know what I'm afraid of. I feel like I might
crack in half if I listen to it. Or maybe I'll have no emotion at all and somehow
that might be even worse.

Heather and I used to see Ian all over the place but I never spoke to him.
I gotta say, after The Cult's second album came out, I was really disappointed.
Fuck that Rick Rubin! He ruined the Cult! Electric whatever my ass. They all
got obsessed with this weird arena-rock Led Zeppelin vibe and it did NOT work.
They shoud've stuck with the LOVE sound. I remember once seeing Ian on Melrose
with his then-girlfriend Renee. They were like royalty. And once he was standing
behind me at Scream while we were watching Soundgarden play. Once Heather
and I went to a club in Long Beach called Bogart's. In February of 1990 I saw
Marty Willson-Piper do a solo show there and to this day that had to be the best show of
my life. Steve Kilbey appeared from out of nowhere and ended up playing
with Marty. This was when MWP was really fucking beautiful. Not that he
doesn't have some of the charm and beauty still going on; but he was the
absolute sharpest dresser in the 80's and this was early 1990. He was in
his early 30's; he regaled us with witty remarks, stories, spoke in different
languages and I was smitten. But I digress. Back to The Cult and Ian.

In the late 80's Heather and I went to Bogart's to see a ridiculous band
called The Fuzztones play. Rudy Prodtrudi was the singer. Oh God, Rudy.
He had this crazy Prince Valiant haircut. What a kick. We were sitting in
the lobby area, killing time, and the club had pinball machines and who
was playing one? Ian Astbury. I just sat and stared. I also remember that
night I stole enough Fuzztones flyers and I pasted these flyers all over
the entire top portion of my bedroom walls. What stupidity! Can you imagine
having the desire or energy to do that? Ah youth. I had a great poster
of The Cult in my dorm room for a couple of years at Pepperdine too.
The first year I was at Pepperdine I had a roommate who was a serious hardcore
Christian. She really thought I was going to Hell for listening to The Cult. Once
she took down all my Cult pictures. I was furious, needless to say. I still
hate religious fanatics to this day. Always have, always will. If music is Hell,
let me burn baby.

I saw The Cult so many times, in so many different venues. Often my
brother went with me; Steven and I shared two bands with equal passion
then - The Church and The Cult. We still share passion for The Church.
I don't know what happened to The Cult. Every album after LOVE seemed
to suck more and more. Sonic Temple? Ick. Were they one-album wonders?
I guess for me they were. I guess in the early 1990's I lost track of them.
I'd hear about Ian doing something but I'd totally lost interest. It was hard to believe,
considering I practically built an altar to the man. All my albums are gone,
all the pictures, and interviews. I have to credit The Cult however with
igniting my passion for music - igniting a fire that to this day has not gone
out, despite my working in the music industry and hating it and finding out
it was nothing like I thought it would be.

Today, if I hear She Sells Sanctuary, I stop and remember the girl
who was mesmerized by flickering images, stunning sounds and paralyzed
by a man she never knew, never even wanted to meet. I remember the
moment I walked into the room and my life changed forever. Hmm. I
wonder where Ian is now; I know he was touring with what's left of The
Doors, which just seemed wrong to me and of course, even he has a MySpace
site. Man, that seems even more wrong. Then again I wonder about a lot of
people and places and as long as I live, I don't think I will ever, ever
really get over the love affair I have with music. There is no band that
has a hold on me, except the Church, and even with them, I have grown
up enough to know they are human and my interactions with them have
been as equals; adult, and quite normal. The little girl who built her altars
to rock stars and papered her room with flyers is gone and I'm glad.
The music though, is still a drug that I'm never going tostop using. That's
an obsession I can live with til the end of all my days.

BTW, went to get my mom some ice wine for her birthday today at
this place called BevMo. They sell every type of liquor on God's green
earth. I collect those tiny liquor bottles and I was looking to get a new
one, and I found SK's fave liquor - that crazy Zwack Unicum! So I bought
all 7 tiny bottles because they didn't have any big bottles. Now, I'm just
wondering, can I take liquor on the plane to Chicago? I'm gonna!
Hey, I'm also getting fingerprinted for the 3rd time tomorrow. Yeah, the
Department of Justice must get tired of getting my badass fingerprints.
Maybe they might want to spend some time looking for those missing
Egyptian students - yeah the ones they've reassured us, are NOT
terrorists. Well how in the hell do they know that? Psychotic, murdering,
war-mongering morons - that's our government now.

On the way home from my mom's I finally listened to Rob Dickinson's
solo CD all the way through. I crack up every time I look at the cover
because the night after the Church show at the Henry Fonda, G and I went to Canter's
to get something to eat (thanks to the starvation merch diet). It was after
2am and I was so fucking tired I was punchy as hell. On the cover of the
CD Rob is shown throwing seahorses back into the ocean. But I was so
loopy I said to Gena, "Oh look, he's putting horsefish back in the ocean."
Horsefish. I thought that was so funny I almost peed. Guess you had to be
there.

Oh sweet Rob! I hope I can finally see and hear
you in Chicago. I missed your shows before! Damn, he is one talented
mofo! I mean, you can hear that in spades with The Catherine Wheel,
but this is a sweet CD. He's cute too. I'll take another hug please! Hee.
So that's the story morning glory. BTW, I didn't know Jeff Caine was in
Remy Zero. Why am I SO SLOW? It's better not knowing these things.
Then you don't act weird around people. I just thought he was some
little friend of SK's. That hottie.

Picture: Ian Astbury, God of my past. So beautfiul.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

The View From Within

"So it's 3am I'm out walking again
I'm just a spot on the sidewalk in the city of Sin...
Still in Hollywood...I thought I'd be out of here by now."

-Johnette Napolitano, "Still in Hollywood" - Concrete Blonde

Last October I was on an Air France flight coming back home to Los Angeles from a long, long, but very lovely and tiring European trip. The trip was glorious but at times it felt as if we were on the Bataan Death March, moving from royal residence to royal residence (even including royal kitchens!) in England, marching from museum to museum to monument to monument in Paris, flying to Italy to bury ourselves in the ancient ruins of Rome, the Eternal City, driving north to breathe in the bright blue skies of Tuscany and revel in the Renaissance miracles of Florence.

After 14 hours of flying (one flight from Florence to Paris, a trip through the airport in Paris which must have riveled one of Dante's circles of Hell and 12 1/2 hours on Air France), I was beyond tired and just wanted to go home and suddenly home was beneath me, in all its brown, flat, unremarkable glory. Where were we? Bakersfield? The only hint our French pilot gave us as to our position was when we flew over Las Vegas – Babylon revisited in a desert landscape so barren it was like looking at a toy town that some little boy had arranged in the dirt.

We flew over a high school football field; it was in Crenshaw, a somewhat seedier and dangerous city in Los Angeles, but I was so happy to see it because it meant I was getting closer to the ground, closer to this place I call home. I turned to my mother and said, “I never thought I’d be so happy to see the word Crenshaw.” I've never even been to Crenshaw.

Our plane was full of French tourists, all of whom seemingly knew each other.
I think they were on a tour. And just a note: Americans are NOT the only loud,
obnoxious tourists in the world. These French had taken
over the entire plane as if they were having a private
party. Yelling, screaming, laughing, blocking the aisles
and basically driving me nuts the entire time. But I digress.

As we flew into Los Angeles, I stared down at the spider web of freeways (the brutal crush of almost constant rush hour traffic just beginning) and wondered what these increasingly excited Frenchmen and women thought of the concrete jungle below them. There was no lush green landscape; no English countryside, no Tuscan fields of sunflowers, no Arc d’ Triumph, no Eiffel Tower. There was Inglewood and Compton and Crenshaw. There were tall, bland glass and steel buildings, hundreds of miles of freeways and sidewalks; dirty streets and the neon glow of the ever- present fast food franchises. It was ugly. I mean really ugly. I tried to imagine what these people were thinking as they looked down at their destination. I wondered where they were going to go. Disneyland? Universal Studios? Hollywood Boulevard? Would they step into Gary Cooper’s shoes at Mann’s Chinese Theatre? Would they get their picture taken with a Star Wars storm trooper? Would they marvel at the freakish and desperate nature of Hollywood Boulevard itself? Would digital cameras click click click at the Hollywood sign, nestled comfortably in the brown mountains above, one of the few large ‘ monuments’ Los Angeles can claim as its own. A monument to fame, glory, greatness, fantasy, mystery. A monument to Tinseltown. Would they go to the Pacific Ocean, walk the pier at Santa Monica? Would they ride the Ferris wheel and stare down at the boardwalk? Would they go to Rodeo Drive and have some strange sense of déjà vu as they recalled their own streets, the Rue Montaigne, and Champs d’Elysees, that held the same high-priced stores?

For a brief moment, I felt embarrassed. I felt I had just come from a continent of historical riches, back to the colonies – worse yet – back to the wild, wild west where these culture and history- rich people were going to deplane, and suddenly become horrified that they’d ever wanted to come to this barren, desolate place with such a brief, somewhat violent history, and so few great artistic achievements.

And then…and then…I had a thought….perhaps it was nostalgia, or my intense longing to just be home. Home, this place I was born and raised and loved and hated and hated and hated. And yet how I longed to be back on the terra firma of the City of Angels. It was then I realized sadly, that these tourists would indeed probably do all of the touristy things one does in Los Angeles….just as we’d marched down the Champs d’ Elysees and the Rue Montaigne.

This city is my home, and it will always be my home. There is normalcy here, normalcy these tourists will no doubt never see. I grew up in an upper-middle class beautiful suburb that seemed as regular and normal as any city in the country. We were children who played in the streets at night with other children; in the summer, water balloon fights and running throught the sprinklers....in the autumn, football, baseball. We rode our skateboards during the '70's and roller-skated on neighbours' driveways. We did cartwheels on our lawn, and somersaults and our parents called us in at night for dinner, where we all sat together and ate and talked about the day. We went to school; sometimes we walked home from school and stopped to get a soda. We were in plays and recitals, we took piano lessons and ballet and softball. I took oil painting and tap dancing and mum was our chauffer. We ate snowcones in elementary school and went to football games in high school. We had crushes on guys that never knew we existed. We went to movies and had sleepovers and I got my license at 16. Whatever normal is, we were just like any other kids I think, in any other suburb in the country. We just lived in an infamous place called Los Angeles. People here walk their dogs, pick up their newspapers in the morning, and don't spend all day lying by a David Hockey- styled pool with a fruity drink in one hand and Variety in the other.

Los Angeles. The City of Angels. A funny name that for a place that can so often feel like Hell on earth. As I wondered about those who’d never been here, I wondered what they saw. I would never be able to see this city with new eyes. I will never be able to see this place as others who've never been here do. For some reason that bothers me. I want to see it like a stranger. I've never be a stranger here, and yet still feel like I am, in so many inexplicable ways. The dichotomy of my love-hate relationship with the city began in college, when I was released from the confines of the beautiful suburb I’d grown up in. I was free then, to explore every street, every city, and every seedy and beautiful spot that caught my eye. And I did. I met Los Angeles in all its glory and all its nastiness and I fell in love - or perhaps I became addicted to it; the angels caught me, cursed me, showing me Heaven and Hell in one place, a place I would love and hate with the intensity of a mad, crazy love affair. My friends and I scoured every nook and cranny of the cities around us - Malibu, Santa Monica, Brentwood, Westwood, Beverly Hills, Venice, Marina del Rey, downtown Los Angeles.

The French tourists would probably not find much beauty here. Flying over the city I’d have to agree Los Angeles is really not beautiful; at least not from 10,000 feet. The highly talented and lauded film director Michael Mann Miami Vice, Heat, Collateral) has managed to make this city look like a glowing, radiant gem in his movies, especially Heat, and when I watch them, I marvel at the magic of cinematography. How beautiful the black velvet night looks in downtown Los Angeles. How gorgeous the twinkling lights of the valley. Is it really there? Or is it just an illusion?

Michael Mann and cinematography notwithstanding, I have sped over the 405 past midnight, cresting over the hill from the Westside to the valley, and I’ve seen the glittering lights in front of me, spread out like a million stars fallen to earth. It is no movie, no film, and no illusion. The sparkling desert lies before me, the sky the blackest blue and starless; the city itself giving off too much light to reveal any celestial objects above. It’s fine though, because it truly does look like Heaven and it seems to go on forever, even though in reality, they are just cities, one after another, Burbank, Studio City, Van Nuys, Sherman Oaks, Encino, Chatsworth, Granada Hills, Northridge, Reseda; valley cities that are mostly ugly, some rich, some middle class and some wretchedly poor, and most looking more like the other side of Hell at high noon rather than Heaven at midnight.

The beauty of Los Angeles is often found while driving; this is a city that could not exist without cars; car culture rules here, we live in our cars, for our cars and they are the vehicles that often reveal the hidden loveliness of this seemingly desolate place. The best drives here are also the most dangerous: Pacific Coast Highway. Sunset Boulevard from Hollywood straight down to the ocean. Topanga Canyon. Malibu Canyon.

I have driven down Wilshire Boulevard, leaving the drug-filled nightmare of MacArthur Park downtown, heading straight to the end of the line where the cliffs take me down to the Pacific Ocean and Pacific Coast Highway, where the ocean air is clean and cold and the water even icier. I have run the beaches of Malibu at night; I have lain on cold sand and stared at cobalt skies, half-drunk with youth, liquor, laughter. I rushed into the black, cold waters, laughing, screaming, one of the handful of times I was high on miss maryjane. I have looked up at the full moon; I have walked the empty streets of Santa Monica at 3am, the shops full of shadows and the sidewalks full of ghosts. I have walked Melrose Avenue more times than I can remember, shopping, people watching, young and dumb and convinced that velvet jacket from Retail Slut was the One, the one thing that would make me look oh so incredibly cool.

I’ve driven the asphalt maze that is downtown Los Angeles; if there is a ‘city’ anywhere in this place, this would be it, although I am convinced, after living here 39 years, that the buildings and street signs switch themselves around at night for I have never gone downtown without getting lost. Never! I used to go to the symphony almost weekly with my friend Dawn many yers ago to see my favourite conductor, Esa-Pekka Salonen, and hear my favourite classical music, and hell if we didn't get lost every. single. time. We even lost our car in the parking structure of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion (this was years before the Philharmonic moved to the hideous Gehry-styled tin can of the Walt Disney Hall). God we laughed that night. I don't know why it was so funny. I thought we'd grow old in that structure until some kind man with one of those little carts came around and drove us at high speeds around every level of the garage until we found Dawn's car. Naturally, the minute we exited the parking lot, we turned the wrong way and started going towards some really, really scary areas of downtown.

I remember my father taking me with him to work in downtown one day when I was a child; oh all those years ago, for a little girl, the buildings were like great, magical monsters leering down at me. It was a claustrophobic jungle of concrete and glass and for all I knew it was a real city – New York, Chicago, San Francisco. It was beautiful. I was small; it was huge and lovely, busy and manic and the energy inspired me, even then. It’s not New York by far, or even San Francisco, but it’s the downtown the angels gave us. It has skyscrapers and hotels and condos and artist's lofts and banks and history and businessmen and women bustling about; it has a symphony and restaurants and art museums and shops and jewelry marts where gold glitters for blocks on end. It has a fashion district and Skid Row and drunks and homeless people – more homeless people than you’d ever want to see. It has old, abandoned theatres, because truly, we are a city that does not value history, and how that breaks my heart. We tear down Hollywood’s Golden years for a parking lot or a Jack in the Box. We don’t look back; commerce and the almighty dollar rules this land. I can’t stop looking back. It has a train station that has not been abandoned; one of the few places in Los Angeles where history remains. Union Station is a magnificent piece of architecture that has been in so many movies, most notably for me, my favourite film of all time, Blade Runner.

Outside our metal cages that speed along the highways, the beauty of the city is soft, and sweet and reveals itself in small, seemingly inconsequential ways.

I used to walk the still, quiet sidewalks of Brentwood at dusk in the summer, breathing in the sweet jasmine, the warm air cooling quickly as I passed houses and apartments, glowing with golden interiors. The warm summer day dying, lights flickering on, cats sitting in windowsills to catch the dying of the day. The occasional aroma of dinner would float past me as I caught myself staring into these houses and apartments. I gazed at living rooms, and paintings and people walking from room to room and I wondered, God I wondered. Who are they? What are they thinking? What do they do? What do they wish for, in their deepest heart of hearts? What are they longing for? Are they living lives of quiet desperation? Are they content in their warm little golden palaces? The breeze shifted the leaves in the trees and the sun disappeared into a soft glowing pink and orange…until finally gunmetal grey skies took over and the day was done.

I’ve run down Hollywood Boulevard at one a.m, 20 years old and full of the grandest of all illusions; screaming with laughter, the street so beautiful as I raced past neon lights and bars and closed souvenir shops, stars literally under my feet as my youth fled over history and into a glorious, unknown future. Everything was beautiful, when I didn’t know what lay before me.

Los Angeles is dotted with palm trees swaying in lonely colonnades, night falling fast at the Hollywood Bowl as fireworks explode forever above us, 80 degrees in December, the Hollywood Christmas Parade on the Sunday after Thanksgiving…Santa Claus always appearing, no matter the odd heat wave. Winter is ours on television; we hang icicle lights in lieu of snow- the illusion of a season that will never be bestowed upon this landscape. It does not matter. We live in the land of make-believe and we do so with grandeur and glory.

Ah yes, there is great beauty here, in quiet moments on Ocean Avenue as the burnt sienna sun slides silently into the sea, in silent nights on empty streets… and even though you know those palm trees are full of rats you can’t help but marvel at their beauty; no they do not possess the grace of the Ionic column, or the elegance of a lithe Corinthian, but they are ours, they are our landmarks, they line the streets with dignity and pride and they seem magical as they sway gently back and forth.

There is no Arc d’ Triumph, but there is the Happiest Place on Earth, a few miles outside the boundaries of Los Angeles. There is no Eiffel Tower, but there is the desert and the sea and the mountains all in one place. The flora and fauna that call this place home…most are not native to this city, yet there were brought here and they flourished, they grew, they learned to put roots down in a wild and hard place, like so many of this city's residents. They are strong and fierce and like the settlers who built this place, they have made it home.

There is no Tuscan sun, but there is the Sunset Boulevard drive, long and winding through Hollywood and Beverly Hills, through Bel Air down to the Pacific where the waves crash ceaselessly against the sand. There are grand hotels, and grander homes, there is the beauty of the azure sea and the sparkling white caps that carry sailboats across a pointillist landscape.

There are memories that are not yours and yet you have them; there are lives that were lived, not yours, but you feel them, there are streets you have never been on but you know them as if you lived on them forever. This is a fantasyland, a magical mystery tour of Heaven and Hell and once you’ve lived under the city’s spell you will never be the same again.

I am defeated in the knowledge that no stranger to this place will ever feel what I feel; that they will never see this place as I do. At 10,000 feet, I stare at an ugly landscape. I once described Los Angeles as death disguised as geography. But at ground zero, I am home, and the beauty reveals itself to me in bits and pieces, here and there, perhaps only beauty I can see. But my God, it is so beautiful, this view from within.

Photo: The City of Angels

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

This Too Shall Pass

Oh I was so looking forward to writing a happy blog,
a blog with a story, a blog with a point (ha), a blog that
was interesting and informative, like my friend Catzy's
blogs. But today just isn't gonna be that kinda bloggy day
sorry to say.

My pain therapist wants me to write a letter to my pain.
I think today would be a good day to do that. Two or three
times a year, I have such a bad flare up that lasts for days,
I can barely function. This is one of those times, sadly. I want
to be up and out and doing things, because I cannot stand
lying around. I cannot stand this motherf***** getting me down.
I fight the good fight and I usually win. But I'm going to
Chicago in 9 days and I need to get better fast. So I'm forcing
myself to be good, rest, take vitamins, do yoga, stretching,
think good thoughts. It's hard. I had myself my Official Good
Cry earlier. Crying really hard when the pain is this bad seems
to be my only real release. I gave in and took enough pills to
try and knock down the Beast a bit. You know, after all these
years, I should be used to it, but damn, it's so hard.

My apologies to all those I owe emails to, and actual real
snail mail...I promise to get to it as soon as I feel a little
better.

I talked to my brother Steven yesterday before he went
to the Church show in Atlanta. I never, never, never said
a word to him about the Asshole who has taken to occasionally
ragging on me really hard on SK's blog (for reasons I don't know
- it could be a psycho I used to know, it could be someone
that just doesn't like me - whatever). Anyway, Steven
actually mentioned it to ME! I was stunned he'd noticed.
I feel embarrassed on SK's blog now. I shouldn't give a damn
one way or another, but I do. I admit it. I don't want SK to think
I am causing any trouble, so I'm ignoring this dick and I told
my brother to please do the same. But I guess he felt he just
had to say something - and he did. At first I was like, Steven,
you shouldn't have done that. But then I found it sweet, because
my brother and I are close, but sometimes have had some serious
differences. I see though when it counts, he'll be there for me, even
if he's just swearing on SK's blog, haha.

I bought my textbooks online (how cool is THAT!) today for
two out of my four classes (two classes had no textbook info.)
Get this peeps....one textbook for my Psychology of Teaching
class is $175. ONE BOOK. If I had the energy, I'm sure I'd
be outraged. I'm just numb. The grand total for two classes:
$342.00. I could go to Chicago twice! Waddaya gonna do? You
can't fight it. Now I know what all my poor students were going
through at the colleges I taught. I mean, I knew, but now I really
KNOW.

I went to Ilkka's graduation at Pepperdine. I thought it would
be emotional but strangely it wasn't. I felt totally detached. God
graduations are BORING. Even if you're the one graduating.
It was a GORGEOUS day in Malibu. I can't believe how much the
university has grown since I graduated there 17 years ago. I
looked around, but it was like another person went there, all those
years ago, not me. It was like I was getting flickers of someone
else's memories but they didn't affect me. I was glad I was beyond it.
Getting older isn't easy, especially with health issues, but you
know what? I don't want to be 22 again. I have no desire to go back.
They were great days, but they're gone. My job now is to create
great days for me NOW...and I plan to...especially in 11 days!
God it was beautiful though. I've can't believe I used to LIVE there,
and see the ocean everyday. The sad thing about life is, you acclimate
to everything eventually. Despite the fact I saw that gorgeous blue
Pacific everyday, I think I actually stopped seeing it afer a while.
It was good to see how amazingly beautiful this planet can be,
especially with all the sadness and ugliness going on in the world
now.

So I'm really happy for SK and the boys and the good show in
Atlanta. MWP sounds better - that must've been a freaky
experience. Eek I am soooooooooooooooooooo jealous you
get to see the band so many times, and yet I realise I am
being GREEDY! I mean, this is my all-time favourite band
in the world - for the last 23 years! And I got to eat dinner with
them, and hang out with them, and talk with them, and
help them, and see things I never would've seen....two
soundchecks, a thousand T-shirts folded...I met so many
great people...Rob D. that sexy and funny and sweet man,
and Robert Rankin Walker (my husband in another life),
and Jeff Cain (a riot, a sweetie) and Peter and Tim, who I'd
never really talked to before....and Tiare and I even saw a
side of MWP I'd never seen before...ahem...heee heee and
all the great fans I met while manning the
merch tables....it was a dream come true and it all came out
of an errand I agreed to do for SK....really all because of the Senior
Siren of Antenna! Thank you my sweet for that gift. So I
ok, I'm not jealous....YOU of all PEOPLE deserve your trip
and I hope it is all you imagined and more. I can't wait to
see you guys in the Windy City.

Zoe's doing great after having two teeth extracted. She
wants to eat all my food as usual. Fletcher's only hissing
at her about twice a day now, haha.

What is chi gong? Is that how you spell it? SK always
talks about that. I must Google it.

Well, that about sums up life in Madame's household today.
The goal is staying positive in spite of everything. These are the
times I am severely reminded that money means nothing; it
cannot give me the things I really want and need...relief from
the Beast....and I realise people mean everything. That's where my
true blessings are. Thank you to all who've brought me joy and
laughter...Eek, Catzy, Sandy, Steven, SK, RRW, Sue C, Daniel,
Thomas, Jill, Veleska, Tamar, Gena, Ilkka, Mary, Ellen, my
two furry true loves...and Bucks Burnett, who I really don't
know but who makes me laugh my ass off and that's worth
all the money in the free world. Friends who are near and friends
who are far. Doesn't matter. You guys keep me going in the darkest
days and nights. Thank you. I love you all for that.

Photo Credit: Corbis Free Royalty - Chicago....in 9 days baby, it's gonna be MY kind of town!

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

You Gotta Laugh Some of the Time, Or You'll Be Crying All of the Time

Oh my little blog peeps, right about now you're probably
wondering, where oh where has MadameBastet's sanity gone?
She's really gone off the deep end o' the tepid pool this time.
Ranting and raving about doctors and her country...even ranting
on Steve Kilbey's blog! Ah, I gotta apologise, life got the better of
me for a bit earlier today. At the end of the day, I stepped in gum,
and started laughing hysterically. It was just so fitting.

You see, I'm going back to school for the second time after
high school. This is hard for me. I was all nestled in my comfort
zone, teaching art history to petulant, rude college students, but
I couldn't get a full-time job and I couldn't take not knowing
whether I'd have one class or three from semester to semester
anymore. But because I love teaching and believe strongly in
education and the need for good, dedicated teachers, I decided
to go and get my credential. I just never imagined in a million
years all the hoops I'd have to jump through - just to be accepted
into a credential program! I haven't even started it yet. Take this
test. Take those tests. Take these classes, but not before taking those
classes. Take this test after that class. And if you don't read Mr.
Kilbey's blog (shame on you) I found out today that I'm going to
have to be fingerprinted AGAIN just to become a substitute
teacher. This will be the third time I've done this. And they make
you pay for the application to get fingerprinted, they make you pay
to get fingerprinted...pay pay pay. I'm really not independently
wealthy. My trip to Chicago has been generously financed by a grant
from the Mom Foundation...because I think she knows this is
important to me, and she knows I need a break before starting the
Grind. Plus she probably figures it's an early Christmas present too.
REALLY early. ;)

I had a mandatory meeting today at CSUN (the college I will be
attending the next two years, please learn and remember this, haha).
It was OK; I knew I wasn't going to learn anything new, but I went
because I had to. Which reminds me, I need to order my textbooks,
which I can do online! That's pretty cool. The less contact I have with
the public, the happier I am. My but I sound so anti-social! I just
need to remember the kids. The kids. My kids from my school last
semester. I looked at their pictures again and I thought, this is why
I'm doing this. And again with my stubborn personality. Go ahead -
throw more obstacles in my way. Make me jump through hoops!
Start bringing out the clowns, put up the tent. Oh it's a circus all right.
But that just makes me all the more determined to get that credential
if it's the last thing I do!

Sure, I might end up in an insane asylum after all is said and done,
but I'll be ready to teach after a few months in a straightjacket, I'm
sure. I've had desk jobs/office jobs/what have you. I was a music
publicist. I worked at Disney. I can't take it. It's just my personality.
I gotta keep moving. I gotta be interacting with people. Learning and
education are two of my favourite things in the world. And I don't care
how someone educates themselves. Broadening your horizons via
reading, travel, school, what have you. It's all good. I think things will
settle down once I start school. I admit it, I'm scared. I'm back at the
same school, ten years later, but I think I'm more scared now than
when I was there to get a Master's Degree.

So anyway, Zoe is having her surgery tomorrow. ALL FOOD has
been put away. I made sure the cats stuffed themselves silly before
8pm tonight. I have my second appointment tomorrow with my
pain therapist. I'm actually looking forward to it. It's not like the
usual therapy I've had. It's all about dealing with my physical
pain and the impact it's had on my life, and is still having on my
life.

The heat has abated a lot here, but my God, those poor souls
in the east. I can't believe the Church decided to tour America
during the summer. Well, it's not their fault it's the Summer from
Hell. But Steve is sure cranky. I spoke with my brother today;
he's going to the show in Atlanta. We were just praying Steve would
make it through - selfishly, at least to Chicago, haha. I'm so looking
forward to meeting the girls - the LADIES - and hanging out. I am
NOT looking forward to the plane ride. I know myself. The minute
that plane takes off I will be saying "Shit! Why did I do this! I don't
want to die for this!" Haha. No, it'll be OK. I go through it. I survive.

I have just finished watching Season 1 of Entourage. Holy cow
I love that show. After having worked in the entertainment
industry, so much of the show is RIGHT ON THE MONEY.
Someone called it a "Sex and the City" for men.
Uh oh, there we go again. Must be my testosterone acting up. I
can't help myself. And I'm not even doping!

Haven't paid much attention to the news. I figure
the war's gonna go on without me. I was too wrapped
up in my own little dramas today. Well, I wish this
was more exciting. I guess all that energy I blew
earlier has tired me out.

BTW, I didn't have it out with the doctor's office.
I left them an explicit message to call me back.
I decided it wasn't worth the energy it would
cost me to deal with these morons. And they never
did call me back. Can you believe it? I fired off one
of my hot missives to them, sent them 1/4th of
the bill. I told them it took them 5 months to
bill me and so I'll pay them in installments over
a 5 month period. Sent it certified mail. I'm not
worrying about it. I still hate doctors for the most
part though. I have a fairly decent general practioner
that does my blood work to check my liver and
kidneys because of the medication I'm on. But
even he is a pain half the time.

I'll be hanging out at my mom's tomorrow
while my precious angel has her teeth extracted.
I've got to get my sister-in-law a birthday gift.
Her birthday is Monday. I used to be so on top
of things. I was never late with gifts. Now I feel
like a flake, a slacker. I've moved from a Type A
personality to a Type A- personality, haha.

Ok. I rented a documentary on the movie Deep
Throat. Don't ask me why. But I'd better go watch
it before the Blockbuster goons come out and take
me away in the night.

Is everyone else as tired of hearing about Mel
Gibson as I am? Damn, the man gets drunk one
night and spouts his big ugly mouth off and we hear
about it for days. Which reminds me. When I was a
senior in college -- this was about 1989 or so...I left
class one day and was filling my tank up with gas at
the 76 station in Malibu (I'm sure you can figure out
where I went to school if you haven't from previous blogs
already.) Anyway, I'm standing there, totally spacing out,
waiting for my tank to fill, when this black Mercedes
pulls up. Out of the car steps this gorgeous guy. He starts
to pump his gas. We look at each other. He has the most
amazing blue eyes. He's stunning. I realise it's Mel Gibson.
I don't know if he could tell I'd just realised that, but he
smiled at me. I think I half-smiled back - what a dork
I was. And to think...all these years later, he's still hanging
around the same restauraunt in Malibu, drunk and spewing
hatred in a drunken rage. Aside from his anti-Semitic rant,
is anyone else the least bit concerned that he could've
killed someone driving at night on PCH drunk? Hell, driving
stone cold sober on PCH in the daylight can be dangerous
enough. Ah, how times change....

Photo: Corbis Royalty - Pacific Coast Highway - Scene O' Many Crimes

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

My Country's Fucking Me

Can I just say I HATE THIS BLOODY
FUCKING COUNTRY!
It's a three ring circus!
And Bozo the Clown is taking us all on a ride
to Hell.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Physician Heal Thyself

Two blogs in one day. It's that kind of day.
It started out nutty, it's ending up cranky.
My friend Ilkka is graduating from Pepperdine
Saturday. He stayed home from work today
and took us (his wife and I) out to lunch. Then
we had some ice cream from Cold Stone Creamery.
Mmmm. Then we went to the book store. That's
a really good day to me; eating ice cream and looking
at books.

Then I come home and get the mail. In the mail
I get a bill from the rheumatologist I've seen 3
times in the last 5 months. The bill is for $409.62
and is - get this - 90 days overdue. Naturally I am
LIVID. It was after 7pm though, so all I could do
was leave a nasty, cold message on the answering
machine. I have not been billed by this office since
my first visit in February. I kept thinking that was
odd. But what was I supposed to do? Call up the doctor
and beg for my bill? I was billed for almost $400 worth
of blood tests by the hospital near his office; I figured
I was paying for all my tests. The bill they sent out today
DOES NOT explain ONE bit what the $409.62 is for.
It doesn't say anything. It just says I owe them money.
I had to go into my medical file (yes, I file everything,
I am anal) and look at my insurance papers to figure it
out. I love playing fucking Columbo with jackasses in
doctor's offices who don't know how to bill people correctly.

I figured it out. They are billing me for every office visit
and even MORE blood tests - everything since February,
which was my first visit. They have waited 5 fucking months
to bill me and drop it all on me at once, AND tell me I'm
late with the payment, when I have NEVER EVER EVER EVER
received ONE BILL from them. I do NOT let my bills lie
around for 90 days. I always pay my bills on time. ALWAYS.

I hate doctors. I hate them, I hate their nurses, I hate
their staff. I hate their smug, self-righteous demeanors.
I hate their bullshit, their inability to say the words "I
don't know." I have sadly been seeing doctors since January
of 1994, one month after I got fibromyalgia. I have seen
more doctors than I can count over the last 12 1/2 years.
Most of them in the beginning were either arrogant,
supercilious jackasses who either told me this was all in
my head and I was just 'depressed' or they told me I was
screwed for life.

In the beginning I was in so much pain I could barely
move. I was nauseous I was in so much agony. I would
go home and sit in the bathroom on the floor, trying not
to throw up. Or I would throw up because I hurt so much.
Not one doctor ever tried to alleviate my pain. I didn't
know what to do back then; I'd seen my father in chronic
pain and he was addicted to Vicodin. I didn't want to go
down that path so I didn't ask for narcotics. Not once. But
not one doctor seemed to care about trying anything else
on me to relieve my suffering. Because you see, if you're
not dying, if you don't have objective blood tests coming
back with objective results, they don't care, and they don't
believe you. Oh, your blood work is fine. There must be
nothing wrong with you. I don't care if you tell me you're
in agony. I don't care if you tell me you're practically
bed ridden and have had to drop out of school. Oh your
neck hurts? Have a little physical therapy. We're not
going to treat you, because you're not dying - hell,
the tests say you're not even sick! Anecdotal 'evidence'
means shit to doctors. Doctors do NOT listen to patients.
They do not HEAR what the patient is saying. And if they
do, they DO NOT CARE. The patient obviously knows
NOTHING about what's going on in his or her own body.

If I did have a doctor listen to me, they gave me
all sorts of crazy-ass remedies to try. And I was desperate
enough to do some of them. Weird drinks, vitamins,
all sorts of tests on my hair, skin, everything. You're
two quarts low on iron and yes, you could use a pint
of blue-green algae as well. You say your hands and feet
are tingling and your spine hurts? Hmmm. Well, that's
all. I'll see you again in 6 weeks.

Western medicine is good in a crisis. It's great if you
break a bone, need a heart transplant. But GOD FORBID
you get something that they can't quite figure out.
Now fibromyalgia is well known, and pretty much
accepted as a real illness by most sane people. For the
doctors who think it's imaginary, I only hope they
would get it for just one year and then tell me what they
think. I went to this last rheumatologist because four
years ago, after my sinus surgery, I started having other
immune-system symptoms. Sore throats, more fatigue.
My ANA tests were coming back positive - meaning my
immune system was attacking something - something
that isn't there. It's essentially attacking me. But they
can't figure out why. I've been tested for every disease
you can think of - and I don't have any of them, thank
God. But it sucks to feel shitty. And THEN to TOP it
ALL off, I get a BILL from these idiots for $400.
I don't have that now. Great timing! I book a trip
to Chicago, all hell breaks loose with my finances.

I cannot WAIT to talk to the idiot who did this
billing tomorrow. They are going to be really sorry
they billed me this way. They will get their money -
one month at a time. I will pay them a certain amount
every month. They take 5 months to bill me, I will take
5 months to pay them.

I have hit the wall. I know someday I will need a doctor.
I know I will be thankful I was able to go the doctor. But
I have never, never, never really met a doctor I liked.
One doctor at UCLA told me she had lupus, and to suck it up.
One doctor said I wasn't sick, I was having issues with my
mother. How many doctors just thought I was a depressed,
hysterical woman?

I will say it. Doctors are necessary. But by and large, I
hate them with a passion. Western doctors can kiss my
ass. This last doctor hands out pills like they're candy.
Ironic, since in the last 12 years I couldn't get ONE doctor
to give me ANYTHING to ease the pain, the muscle spasms,
nothing. No, strike that. One doctor wanted to give me
speed. Yes, speed. He gave me a prescription in triplicate.
One copy went to him, one went to the pharmacy and one
went to the DEA so they would know I was taking speed,
legally. Fuck that I said. The DEA is NOT going to monitor
any part of my life (this was pre 9/11 when I actually thought
we still had a modicum of privacy left) and I am NOT taking
speed, no matter how tired I am. Idiot!

My current doctor seemed nice at first; a lot of them
do. Then they turn out to be pill-pushers or just slackers
who want you out of their office if they can't fix you.
Luckily I monitor my own pill intake. Perhaps it's a good
thing I had my father as an example, because I don't want
to be some prescription drug casualty. He gave me sleeping
pills. He gave me tons of stuff I don't even take. I don't want
my body full of pills. But it's easy to write a prescription out
and say "goodbye" isn't it.

I have started seeing a pain therapist for the first time in
12 years. It is the only way I can deal with my pain in a
more positive way. I am finished with Western medicine,
as far as the fibromyalgia is concerned. Done. Finis.
Finito Benito. Oh I'm sure I'll need a doctor at some point
in my life for something else. But I probably won't like him
or her or it. I used to joke I'd been through the medical mill.
But it is a mill. Between the doctors and insurance companies
it's a sick, greedy, twisted mill of avarice, insensitivity and
cruelty. Pray to God you never get caught up in this mill.

I think of all the times I was so scared, so sick, sitting in
a doctor's examining room, basically wearing a large
napkin while the doctor 'examined' me and then proceeded
to either insult me, dismiss me or send me home with
false hope based on their own twisted medicinal
remedies. Bedside manners like pitbulls or socially
fucked-up morons. No more. No more, no more, no more.
Physician, go fuck thyself.

Photo: The Greek physician Hippocrates; he actually held the belief that the body must be treated as a whole and not just a series of parts. Too bad doctors have chosen to ignore this.

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Feline Famine

Ladies and gentlemen, we've all seen it.
The horrific famine happening as we sit in
the comfort of our own homes...in Darfur, in
Niger...bulging bellies, shrunken, tiny forms,
heart-breaking images of starvation that haunt
us and seemingly never end.

However there is a little known crisis and situation
happening right here in America. It could be happening
in your own home. It's feline famine. Yes, it may not
be as obvious as the crises in Africa, but it's real.
We don't see bloated bellies, or flies crawling on faces.
We HEAR the agony of these poor creatures...
deprived of food sometimes as long as two or even three
hours. We hear the insane meowing, the wailing, the howling;
we are forced to watch the hideous pacing back and forth
in the kitchen. Their eyes are WIDE with stunned shock
and horror. We know what they're thinking. They are
thinking, "WHERE IN THE HELL IS MY BOWL OF
KIBBLE YOU BITCH!" Why, why, why did you take away
that last bit of dried, crusty wet food I could've eaten!
Oh god, is that food? No. A piece of lint. Well, as a last resort...

The images are often so heart-wrenching we must look
away. They walk about, unstable, dizzy, they collapse
onto the bed, onto your 1000 thread count sheets and
gaze at you with huge, sad eyes, pleading eyes that say:
I AM STARVING WENCH!! I have not eaten in three hours.
I need, at the very least, a Temptations treat. What are
you, a sadist? Come on woman, I'm not gonna make
it here. I'm losing the will to live.......

Zoe, my beloved child, was going to have dental surgery this
morning. I kept ALL food away from both cats after 8pm last
night for fear she would eat something. Fletcher barely made
it through the night. I thought about hooking her up to an
emergency saline IV drip. Chicken-flavoured saline. Available
now at a pet store near you in case of these emergencies.
Zoe paced and cried. She hadn't eaten her dinner by 8pm but
it was too late. I could see her shrinking through the night.
In the morning, like a bag of bones, my poor children weak and
dazed, watched me get ready. Fletcher howled in the kitchen.

Then. Fletcher screams louder. It was the crack of dawn; I had
to take Zoe in for surgery. She hides under the couch. She
knows what's about to go down. I'm almost ready to go.
I take a stupid risk and let Fletcher eat some dry food in
the kitchen just to get her out of my incredibly thick and
beautiful hair and SHUT HER UP. Then I see it. Oh god. No.

ZOE! Zoe is in the kitchen near the dry food. DAMMIT!
I didn't catch her in time. My fault. She was so hungry her
hunger overcame her fear and she crawled out from beneath
the couch. I have no idea if she ate any dry food. I don't think
so. I call the vet. They have to reschedule the surgery for
Friday. FUCKING CAT!

No. I cannot blame the cat. It was I who stupidly thought I
could get her in the carrier before she saw the food. I made a
grave miscalculation. And now, here I sit, early in the morning,
dressed, light make-up on, and I finally was able to feed both
cats. Two whole cans of wet food! A big bowl of kibble! Come on,
stuff your sad, skeletal, sunken faces! It warmed the cockles
of my heart to see them chowing down so heartily. And just what
are cockles anyway? Greedy monsters.

Feline famine folks. It's real. It's here. It's a crisis too
often ignored. Please, please, give if you can. Anything.
A can of Fancy Feast. Note: My strange cats hate all fish.
No salmon or tuna. They prefer chicken and turkey. Beef
as a last resort. The only kibble they will eat is Deli Cat.
We're accepting donations until the end of the year.

DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT! I had my day all
planned out. I wanted to get this surgery over with.
Now we alllllllllll have to wait until Friday. I will NOT
make this stupid mistake again and leave any food out
while trying to get Zoe ready. Hunger beat fear. And now
their bellies full and distended, worn out and tired from
several hours without access to any food, they collapse
in a sleepy heap on the bed and sleep like the dead. All
is well in the world now. They have eaten. An in an hour
they will eat again. Speaking of food, I'm up now....going out
for breakfast doesn't sound half bad. Hmmmm.....

Photos of the famine: Oh get real, do these two look like they're starving?

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Hail Augustus

The first Emperor of Rome, formerly known as
Octavian, grand-nephew of Julius Caesar, was
purportedly a lucky man in what is now this,
the 8th month of the year, obviously named after him.
Yes, we call this month August, and with
it comes the waning, unofficial last days of summer,
although with this crazy weather, we can expect
the wretched bloody heat well into October, if
not November. Ah, there's nothing like an 85 degree Thanksgiving.

I fell asleep on the couch earlier tonight and now
I'm awake and it's after 3am. I ate much too much
chocolate, which is unusual for me as I'm not crazy
about chocolate. I have to really be in the mood for it.
Everything in excess with the food! Aristotle would've
just been so irritated with me. Everything in moderation
my dear, even moderation. Ha, I'm irritated with
myself.

Took the cats to the vet over the weekend. Well,
actually Zoe ended up seeing two vets. After 11
years, I now realise that wasn't a great idea. Zoe
let it be known after getting a rabies shot, a
thermometer up her kitty behind, lights shone into
her eyes, her heart monitored, her ears looked
out, her mouth pried open (which revealed two
nasty cavities) that she'd had enough....by starting
the loudest fight I've ever heard with her sister
in the examining room. I normally take both girls
to the vet in the same carrier and have had no
problem. Zoe turned into a wildcat, thrashing and
screaming and scaring us all to death. Poor Fletcher.
She did get one good swipe in, right across Zoe's
nose. I stood there, with Gena, and did nothing.
Hey, I value my hands people.

Zoe has to have dental surgery Wednesday morning
to extract her two teeth. They tried to get blood from
her on Saturday but holy shit! The sound that came out
from the back of that vet clinic was not animal, not human.
We all just stood there and stared at each other. I considered
bringing a priest in. When a big, burly male vet tech brings
your cat out and says, "We're not getting any blood today"
you know you've got a tigress on your hands. God I hope
they fare better with her on Wednesday morning. Poor baby.
Now she's alseep on the bed, on my pillow, looking so cute and
innocent. She's not fooling me anymore. I should keep one eye
open when I sleep.

So a lot of things are happening this month. I will find
out if I passed the Test from Hell on the 21st. I am flying
to Chicago on the 16th to meet up with H and S, and to see
the Church as a real live fan, without having to work the
merch table. I won't be a 'merch wench' as Heather so
aptly put it. I must also somehow extract another hug from
Rob Dickinson, and convince Steve I am NOT stalking him.
I've never done anything like this; it feels a little strange, but
exciting too. Since I saw the Church at the first two shows,
I feel a little robbed...as they seemed to hit their stride
on their third show, haha. Missed the boat. I only hope
they still have enough energy for us when the 18th
comes around. Although a less-than-stellar Church
concert is better than any other concert I could ever
see. I also want to visit The Art Institute while I'm in
Chicago. I've always wanted to go there; they have
such amazing pieces of art - pieces I taught for years
but haven't seen in real life.

Speaking of my teaching, I ran into a former student
today in a card store. I heard this tiny female voice say
"Professor_________" (the line being my last name
which y'all aren't getting here) and I thought, "Oh wow,
someone else has my last name" which is pretty nuts
because I've never met anyone in almost 40 years
who shares my last name. I forgot who I was once, ha.
She was really sweet; she told me she and her friends still
talk about my class and how much they enjoyed it. We talked
about what each of us were doing. Gena managed to really
embarrass me by waltzing up and telling this girl how I needed
to hear this as "she feels she hasn't made a difference" or
some such litany of my personal insecurities. I wanted to
kick her in the ass, frankly. I kept saying, "Gena, Gena,
GENA" louder and louder as if to say, "SHUT THE FUCK
UP PLEASE." I mean, Christ, who wants their former student
knowing all their personal feelings of potential career failure
and insecurities? Wasn't that nice of my friend? I'm so pissed
at her. Lately she's been on my fucking case and I've had it. I can
tell a 'talk' is coming. She really has no right to judge me on my
career, or feelings about such career, or work at all. What would she know
about work? That sounds terrible but it's true. She's
almost 43 years old and has never had a real job in her life. She
rides the lazy wave of her husband's efforts and even though
they're having financial problems, she refuses to get a job. God.
Who needs enemies when you have friends willing to blast it all
over the mall what you really feel like inside all the time. If I want
to tell people, that's one thing. But I don't appreciate my friends
(I'm starting to use that term loosely here) telling strangers things
I tell them in confidence. Or what I thought was confidence.

I have to go to her husband's graduation on Saturday at Pepperdine.
I kind of dread this, for personal reasons. He is getting his MBA, which he
got while working full-time, an impressive feat. But every time I go back
to Pepperdine, I am overwhelmed with emotion. It is my alma mater,
and also the place where I lived out some of the best, and some of the
worst times of my young life. They're having the ceremony in the same
place I graduated all those years ago. I don't know why I get so emotional
there, but I do. Funny. I'll probably cry and it won't even be about him. The
past often has a hold on me and it's hard for me to go back, whether it was
good or bad. This is probably why I'm not fond of people from my past
crawling out of the woodwork, contacting me and wanting to rehash shit
that went down years ago. When I walk away from something or someone,
I normally do not want to go over the situation in all its minutiae. Get it?
Got it? Good. :)

Anyway, I felt sad telling my former student I wasn't
teaching art history anymore and why. It was only a
couple of nights ago as well that I checked my old Yahoo
email address and found another former student had
written me, telling me my class had completely changed
her LIFE (geez!) and how she wanted
to study art now, blah blah blah. Wow. Very nice. It's nice
to know you've made an impact on people's lives. It's sad
because teaching art history is definitely my first love, but
I cannot make a living at it. Some things just sucketh.

So I am going to start school yet again at the end of this
month, for my teaching credential. I have about 10 million
birthdays to remember this month as well. I swear, I've
never seen so many people who have birthdays in August.
November must be a really sexually arousing month for
couples. My grandma, aka, The Immortal, turns 93 this month.
My other grandma, who died in 1995, would be 106 on the
16th. I miss her. A lot. My mom turns 67 and we're all already
feeling the heat from her on this one. She is really bitter about
getting older. It's a bitch, no doubt about it. But what's the
alternative? Well, look at my dad. He'll be 53 forever. That's
the alternative.

I hate summer. I'm never sorry to see it go.
It can't go fast enough for me. Especially this
summer, with its brutal heat and odd humidity.
Autumn has always been my favourite season,
which is odd, considering we don't really have
very distinct seasons where I live. But if you
look around, we are surrounded by trees whose
leaves change, and become wildly colourful.
Occasionally we might even get a cool, crisp day.
In my youth, I remember actually frost and cold
days. Global warming has taken care of that. I like
the clothes of autumn, the smell of autumn. I even
like the Santa Anas, although they always seem to
bring the inevitable fires. This is when I wished I
lived in New England or some place where I could
really have an authentic season. Maybe someday.

Augustus was that rare emperor who ruled
quite successfully, and died in his own bed. So
many of the Roman emperors, especially during
the dark days of the end of the empire, were
killed, assassinated, committed suicide or 'forced
to commit suicide.' I love that last one. I always loved
that nut Nero, who said, "What a great artist dies in me"
before kicking it. What a moron. Augustus brought about
the 200 year period called the Pax Romana, or
'Roman Peace.' Peace in Rome. What did that mean?
They only conquered and slaughtered a few
thousand people, as opposed to hundreds of thousands?

Perhaps it is Augustus and his diplomacy we need now,
heading into the 3rd week of war in the Middle East.
Sadly, I fear nothing will ever stop the Jews and Arabs
from fighting. The hatred, deep-rooted and seated, the
fear, the self-righteousness of both sides...they are going
to dig in until every last one of us is somehow directly
or indirectly killed by their insane hate. I fear it will be
some crazy terrorist group that gets the bomb.

CNN did a special today on the question of whether
these are the true 'end days' - as in the Biblical end
days. I am either going straight to Hell, or I'm totally sane,
because watching preacher after preacher screaming
about being ready for the rapture, and being taken up
any moment, Armaggedon, the Tribulation,
and the Seven Years of Rule by the Anti-Christ kind
of cracked me up. I think Paula Zahn was having trouble
taking it seriously too. Well if it's happening and I'm laughing
and damned, then so be it. I can't stop any of this shit.
At least I'll go out with a smile on my face.

Photo: Augustus, first emperor of Rome, nee Octavian

MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Fairytales for the Damned

Here is where I am now
Here is who I am now
listen up
because this is the siren call
for all those who care to judge, discern
change, dissect me or care at all
The curtain is rising on my little show
all myths and lies cast aside off the stage
Be careful what you wish for
Be careful of all that you long to know
You long for enlightement
the laughter of the fool, the tears of the clown
the wisdom of the sage.

Here is where I am now
I am 39 years old
I am I am I am
an ethinic mutt
I am an American
for better or for worse
tis the land I love
the government I curse
Where did I come from all those lives ago?
I am Welsh
I am English
I am Irish
I am French
I am German
I am Cherokee
it's all true

I am pale as an Enlish lass
I have brown hair and blue eyes
I will not get a tan
or bleach my hair Marilyn Monroe blonde
(but I'll hide the gray and highlight it away)
or starve myself into Nicole Richie oblivion
I will not fit in I will not fit in I will never fit in
Who are the people that fit in? And where in the hell
is in? I've never had the pleasure, no I've never been.

I am a Taurus
I don't believe in astrology
but the things I read about this Taurus sign
Hmmm...they kinda fit me.
Go on, ask my mother.
I am stubborn (as a bull?)
I am stubborn she would say, because she thinks
Germans are stubborn
as if I have come straight from Berlin, a pure-bred;
as if you can generalise this about all Germans.
Yeah that was Hitler's big problem. He was just too
damn stubborn!

Ok, I am stubborn, I'll admit to this.
I am opinionated and less and less afraid to share
my opinions. When I was 20 years old I sat mute
in classes and cars, restaurants and bars
because I had not enough courage, self-esteem
whatever you want to call it
to speak my mind on anything.
Terrified to raise my hand in class, though I knew the answer.
Self-conscious to an almost pathological degree.
Now I stand in front of auditoriums and classrooms
and love the Socratic dialogue....it's showtime baby!

I am the daughter of an alcoholic.
I am a suicide survivor.
I have survived being held at gunpoint,
raging fires, an airplane engine explosion,
the deaths of many friends far too young,
growing up in Los Angeles, and most of all I have survived
myself.

I am an educator. I am a woman in what is still
wholly and utterly a completely damaged man's
world. I am not a feminist. I am a humanist.
I am a lover of men, and children and animals.
My heroes are many, and most are dead. Viktor Frankel,
Rosa Parks, Martin Luther, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Gandhi,
Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., Elie Wiesel,
Hellen Keller. Anyone who stands up for the rights of
the oppressed, women, men, children, animals. Anyone
who tries to make this crazy a world a better place.

I despise anything organised. Especially religion.
Political parties, unions, corporations, the whole bloody
System. Democracy. Have we come so far from ancient
Greece? A plutocracy is more like it.
Religion has fucked us all the most. I fear we are going to
die, maybe not today, maybe not us, or our children, or theirs,
but eventually, we will all die in the name of God, Allah, Jesus, Buddha,
Vishnu, fucking Ronald McDonald. Jesus died for
somebody's sins, but not for mine.
Buddha got enlightened but his trip is a bitch.
Allah's rules are tight and few; what's a neo-pagan doubting,
hopeful, sad and sorry bitch like me to do?

I suffer from chronic depression. I like to think of it more
as chronic melancholy. Let the shrinks wrap it in their own
label. I know what it feels like and not one single solitary
motherfucking soul in 6 billion can tell me what I feel.
This is my emotional DNA.
I've had too many people for too many years
with and without degrees
telling me how I feel.
Oh magic! All of you put Houdini to shame
How'd you'd do it?
How'd you read the neurons firing
in MadameBastet's mind?

I was a good girl. I never drank, or did drugs or slept around. Hey!
Once upon a time, I didn't even swear. I swore I'd never swear.
That's gotta be good for a laugh. I mortify and shame my mother
with my sailor's mouth. I am far too educated and well-read and classy
and have far too vast a vocabulary at my disposal to swear. Alas,
but I do. Especially on freeways. So chalk this up as a venal sin.
Father it has been forever since my last confession...

Okay I lied; I did drink. At 14 my best friend
and I snuck a beer out of her parents' fridge.
We hated it. I never drank again until college. I rarely
drink today. An apple martini here. A beer there.
Not my poison. I have smoked pot three
whole times in my life. I hate the smell. I did
something stupid - I smoked cigarettes on occasion in my youth.
Because like every other 20 year old, I thought I was immortal. What were a few cigarettes gonna do to my beautiful,
healthy pink lungs? I could've gotten into maryjane...
but the scent just makes me sick. Still... I believe it should be legalised. Check the stats on drunk-driving deaths.
And that shit's legal. I think the drug war is a fucking joke.
I believe prostitution should be legalised.
Why not? They've legalised the whores in
every other business in this country.

But I was basically a good kid. A borderline geek.
I got good grades.
I followed the rules.
I coloured inside the lines.
I painted by
the numbers.
I bought into the dogma and the lies of Madison Avenue.
I read fashion magazines and learned to properly hate myself
and how I looked.
It all worked exactly like it should. I wanted to be a model.
I wasn't pretty enough.
I wanted to be an actress, like my next-door neighbour.
My parents convinced me otherwise.
Like teaching has been a really stable career.
I did the tricks of the trade. I jumped when
they said jump and I went to churches and kneeled down
and I prayed to Gods who never heard my prayers or laughed
or ignored them. I was played for the fool.

I loved pop stars and had a huge poster of Bowie on my
closet door for years. I listened to "Heroes" over and over until I
broke the needle on my record player. I wished I was rich and famous.
I thought musicians had it all. I never knew the glamour was really
under Marty Willson-Piper's shoe. I never knew. Until I was 39.
I believed in the magic of our Scream nights. Chasing dreams down
Hollywood Boulevard, screaming about meeting Sex Pistols and
clubbing the summer of our discontent away. It was some kind of drug
and there's nothing that can convince me that those nights weren't
magical. It was the days that were rudely interrupted by reality.
The smell of smoke in your hair in the morning. Some strange musician you're dating. And you realise in class, at college, you've left this virtual stranger, in your apartment, alone. With everything you own. Caution thrown to the wind. Because don't you know, time was on our side, and the Gods were smiling on us in the end. I wanted out of school into college. I wanted out of college into work. I wanted out of work into grad school. I wanted out of grad school back into work. I wished half my life away.

I grew up with a very sick father. I grew up in and out
of hospitals and doctor's offices. This surgery will work. That
procedure will do it. This time he will get well. This time,
this time, this time. A 15 year mantra.
This time the pain will go away. Daddy will not become
the monster anymore. I stayed positive until I opened the door
and saw death in lieu of my dad. The form was there, the energy gone.
I stayed positive until I signed the very
last paper the coroner gave to me. I wept and said to my mom
"It's over." I was wrong. It's never really over.
There's a morbid joke in grief; something known
as closure. Only those who've never lost anyone believe the punchline
on that one.

I wasn't picked on, or bullied. I wasn't the prom queen
or a cheerleader or a stoner or a rich kid. I was about average.
I was friendly with everyone. I had some best friends.
I grew up a big house with every material possession
I could've wanted. I had a nice car. I longed for nothing.
I knew I was loved, despite the chaos of diseases surrounding
me. I believed in the American dream.
I believed in happily ever after.
I had a nice sense of entitlement.
I believed nothing really bad would
ever happen to me.

I went to an expensive private university.
I got good grades. I did a few
crazy things. We went to parties.
We hid our liquor, as the campus was dry.
I stayed over in my boyfriend's apartment when
it wasn't allowed.
I drew graffitti on the wall of the library when
I was bored. I lay down in the middle
of PCH one night, screaming with laughter.
The Gods were watching over me you see.
I was immortal. We jumped out the windows
if the RA came while we were drinking.
We ran across the campus laughing like
insane asylum escapees. We slept outside on
the deck at night and watched the stars,
listened to the ocean waves.
We got so drunk one night we locked ourselves
out of our dorm room and had to
cut the screen off the window and climb back in.
Heather and I discovered music and clubs
and Hollywood and I lived for every night
spent in those smoky rooms of mystery and magic.
Almost every one of those places are gone now.
Heather is gone now.

In my last year of college I developed an
anxiety disorder which almost
destroyed me. I worked with counselors and
took meds and worked and
talked and I freed myself from the clutches of
that beast, or most of its clutches anyway. I stood up
to the fear. I said Fuck you, you cannot have my life.
I always made a joke, "Hey I was the only agoraphobic
who couldn't stand to be in the house!" I was the actress,
the clown, the one who couldn't let the world know
I was afraid. I didn't have it all together. It was all falling
apart inside of me. I was ashamed. I was nuts! No.
I was just reaching out for my own acceptance.
A different kind of sanity.
God it took so long. It took so long.

I am a sinner, but certainly not a saint. Who is?
I am a human being who'd like to give God some advice.
I'd like to tell the Pope to **** off.
I'm the doubting Thomas who longs to believe
even if God is just some cold, mathematical formula.
I have broken a few of those Ten Commandments. I have not
always honoured my father and mother. They have not always
honoured me. I've lied. I haven't committed adultery. I've coveted.
What I can't even recall.

I will walk a million miles so as not to purposely hurt someone.
When I say something, listen. I mean what I say.
If I tell you something, it's true.
I believe in the Golden Rule.
When I was 26 I got really sick. No one but a few believed me for years.
Doctors either called me crazy, told me nothing was wrong or that they
couldn't help me. Anyway you wrote it, I was screwed.
I was dying. It was an unimaginable horror. I dropped
out of graduate school for a year. I was
trying to save my father and myself at the same time.
Now I'm better but the game isn't over by far.
If you want me, you get the whole package.
And you'd better believe what's written on the package.
Those who couldn't deal fell by the wayside long ago.
I will not hide anything anymore. If you cannot cope,
don't bother me. You aren't worth the powder.

I believe you stay by those you love, no matter what happens.
As long as they are not abusive. People get sick. People die. People have
problems. You don't go into relationships with conditions. If you do,
get out now. Stay away from me. It ain't all flowers and candy.

I am funny and smart, sarcastic and snide.
I worked in the music industry and hated it. I love music;
it's my lifeblood. But I was destined to do more than coddle
newspaper critics and fucked-up rock stars.
I am a teacher, a writer, an insatiable reader.
I am a lover of art, of poetry, of words, of music, of cats.
I love my two cats more than I ever thought I'd
love any animals in my life. The things I love the most in the
world are a strange and motley lot.

My crazy family.
My beautiful, sweet feline children.
My friends who truly have stood by me, through the best and the worst.
My students.
Teaching.
Reading.
Movies.
Music.
Steve Kilbey's voice, which has often been the most beautiful sound I have ever heard in the universe. Sometimes I weep, because I believe if beauty itself had a voice, it would be his.

So I am a good teacher and student; a good listener. I am extremely sensitive. Sensitive in every way. To a fault. Blame my DNA.
A mutation on the gene? I cry easily and often. I am moved
equally by some idiotic commercial and the homeless man asking
me for change in the parking lot of the grocery store.
I become enraged beyond description at child abuse, or animal abuse.
I would probably try to kill anyone I ever saw hurting a child or an
animal in front of me.

I support many charities.
I spend too much money on frivolities.
I've wasted money trying to fill the hole in my soul.
I've given money
to hurricanes and famines and fires and floods
and earthquakes and I know
it's a drop in the bucket and I don't know
what else to do. I want to save the world;
I know I can't. I'm still working on my saviour complex.
I read the headlines daily. Sometimes I cry. Most days I don't.
I know people who think I'm a sadist for reading the news.
I don't call them ignorant self-centered, insensitive jackasses
who'd rather live with their heads in the sand because they choose
NOT to avail themselves of any news outside their own tiny world.
So don't give me grief for being interested in the world around me.
It's not a crime to want to be informed.
Yeah, it's pretty bad out there.
But if you think about it, you can say to yourself, it's all
fucked up and I don't want to know. Or you can say,
it's all fucked up, what can I do to
make something, anything even a tiny bit better?

I spent years only giving to myself. I now believe you get what you give.
Call it Karma. Call it insanity. The calling card of the
foolish, the hopeful, the naive, the suckers. Count me in,
P.T. Barnum and Mr. Bailey.

And they call this carnival progress....he sang.

Be the change you wish to see in the world, said Gandhi. That is
my only prayer, my only mantra, my only surviving hope when
I read the daily death report.

I have been accused far too often of being too sensitive,
too emotional. Guilty. As. Fucking. Charged. I am sensitive.
To drugs, to lights, to crowds, to noise, to the circus around me.
Sue me. Leave me. Walk away. Because at this stage of the game
I ain't gonna change. I'd rather be too sensitive than too insensitive.
I despise insensitivity. I despise the compassionless. They have no
place in my world. Walk past the man in the streets, there by the grace
of God go I....

For Christmas, buy me something from the Oxfam catalogue. Buy a
village a well, a donkey, a classroom. You're the jackass for thinking
that's stupid. Laugh at me. I am kind and generous to a fault. I will give you the shirt off my back. I don't need anymore STUFF. Peace of mind would do nicely. If you find a little, I'd love a hit off that drug;
I could get hooked easily baby. I will help you and love you.
I will even probably inadvertantly hurt you.

I have judged and been judged.
I have walked away from friendships
and never looked back.
I have said horrible, mean things to people
I love. I have lost friends because of
my own stupidity. I took people for granted. I tossed away
relationships like wilting flowers so sure there were others, better and
brighter just outside my door. I was stupid. I was young.
I have regrets. I have wishes. I have dreams. I have fears.
If you ever give me an ultimatum, be prepared to watch me disppear.
I don't like ultimatums.
I don't like to be forced to make choices.
Between people. Between men. Between friends.
Utilmatums are always the beginning of the end.

If you tell me not to do something, it brings out the five year-old in me.
I'm not proud of this; it's just a fact and I thought you should know.
Go on, tell me not to do it. Go on. I dare ya. Ha!
I will want to do it. I don't know when that started. Life kicked me
a bit and I kicked it back. I'm a rebel without a cause and it started late in the game for me. Not a good role model I admit it.

I have taught adults and children alike,
and by far my greatest teachers
have been under the age of 6.
I have trouble living in the moment.
My children reminded me of this.
I'm in the past, I'm in the future. They brought me the present.
I worry too much. I admit it. I feel sorry for myself sometimes.
But usually, more sorry for the world and the awfulness around me.

I don't make my bed. I have too many books.
My mother calls it clutter. Too much information.
I want to know everything. I want to know nothing.
I feel everything at once. I long for numbness.
There has got to be some great escape.
There's nothing permanent except impermanence
and that's a deal we all get to make.

Oh I am moody without a doubt. This I've been
accused of too. What's a moody chick to do?
I suffer from insomnia. I dread my own bed.
I sleep during the day and walk the pathways of
my mind at night, alone, the dendrites and cables
bring me a lousy, lonely cache of images, all that
I could've been, all I could've known.

I long for the dead. I miss ghosts. I know I've
had it good. I am more often than not,
a worst-case scenario person when it comes
to certain things. Still, hope dies last!
I don't like to fly, but despite that,
I usually think the plane will make it.
I don't like heights, but I will climb to the top anyway
just to say I did it.
I will walk up to my fear and I will kick it
in the balls. In pain, in fatigue, I've done more than a lot
of people I know, who have perfect health.
I don't want a medal, or even a standing ovation.
But I've got a message for those who are quick to
condemn me for some instrinsic pessismism
wrapped tightly in the folds of my cerebrum.

My beloved Zoe possibly has a serious health problem.
Of course, she possibly doesn't. Intellectually I know that.
But I admit, when it comes to my animals, I go for worst case right away.
Last Christmas, I found a lump in Zoe's back. One vet told
me it was cancer. One vet said, probably just a fatty tumour.
Let's take it out and see. My Christmas was miserable. December
29th the best day of my life. Zoe was OK. I just paid for the most
expensive feline liposuction ever.

Everyone yells at me. Be positive!
Stop borrowing trouble! Everyone who's never lived my life.
You're so right I say. Because look how great
things turned out for my dad. And you should all know too.
And how wonderful for me to be struck
down by the Great Mystery Illness
at 26. How fun it was to walk into my
house one night and find my kitten
hanging from a chair, her spine broken.
Oh woe is me, I am such a tragedy stricken heroine!
But not pretty or thin enough they say.
It's OK, I think I've got Camille down anyway.

You can't live in the past! They scream.
You've got to let it go! I agree. Shit happens. I've moved on.
But my mind, my emotions,
my heart, the seat of my fragile soul
is bruised and battered.
And no matter how much therapy I get,
no matter how many books I've read,
no matter how many Pollyanna
friends I have (who still have their health, their parents and
wouldn't know true loss if it kicked 'em in the ass)
I just can't stop being afraid sometimes.

There's a little girl inside me who is scarred.
I have to live with her.
You might have to as well.
She isn't going away.
I must be gentle with her.
She needs to be reassured that
no matter what happens, she will be OK.
She will survive.

So here's the moral of the story
the denouement; so hurry back to your seat,
the curtain's coming down, the last act is about to end.
Despite all of this, I love life.
I love to laugh, long and hard, until it hurts.
I love listening to All I Know over and over and over.
I love going to watch The Church and
weeping in the corner, in the dark,
where no one can see me, because
I am so moved, so happy.
I love watching movies that take me to places
I would never be able to go...
I love the poetry of Eliot and Yeats,
Plath and Keats - the words of men and
women who assure me I am not alone
in my desires, my wants, my fears.
I love reading and writing and swimming at night.
I love the desert. I love Paris at night
and London at dawn. I love Rome
and all its ruins. I love Caravaggio's
realistic religious masterpieces and
Vermeer's quietly sacred domestic interiors.
I love sleeping with my furry babies.
I love men who kiss the inside of my hands.
I love dusk and the sweet scent of jasmine.
I love Brunellechi's dome and the
Ponte Vecchio in Florence. I love the Spanish Steps
in the rain. I love the laughter of a class of 5 year olds.

I do believe things often
have a way of working out for the best.
I love to laugh, to see the humour in it all
to be the actress, the master of masks, the clown.

But sometimes things don't work out
no matter what you do.
And if I'm afraid, if I worry too much for you, if I am too
pessimistic and you don't like it
Let me kindly show you the door
Because this is who I am now
This is where I am now
I am the sum of all my experiences in life
for better or worse
for richer or poorer
in sickness and in health
til I shuffle off this mortal coil
and take my final bow...
This is who I am now.

Photo: Masks. Sometimes taking them off is easier than leaving them on.