I recently went to an alternative lifestyle (i.e. sex) club for a free erotic art show. This was not my first time at such a club, nor my first at this specific one. I’ve been (mostly) passively circling alternative lifestyle events and groups for a number of months now – since spring when I began to consciously take healing from sexual trauma on with focus and intention.** You can learn a lot about your sexual triggers when you step out of the typical Western sexual paradigm and into one that lives by different rules – the primary ones being 1) “no” means “no,” 2) overt consent is mandatory, and 3) don’t be creepy. Continue reading
I am so thrilled to announce that Julietta Boscolo, writer and director of the Australian short film adaption of Let’s See How Fast This Baby Will Go, won the Emerging Australian Filmmaker Award at the Melbourne International Film Festival this weekend.
And the incredible Liv Hewson, who plays me in the movie, was praised for her mesmerizing performance – which, in my opinion, should win every reward ever.
Liv is a force. Watch her, she’s going up, up, up. You can catch her currently as Abby Hammond on the Netflix original series Santa Clarita Diet.
And, of course, I must extend a word of appreciation to producer Eva Di Blasio and the rest of the brilliant cast and crew of this gorgeous film. Thank you all so goddammed much. You have no idea what a powerful experience this has been for me. And there isn’t enough gratitude in the world for how respectfully you handled this very personal story.
To my friends and family: I know you’ve been asking how you can see this film, and the answer is: I don’t know. It is licensed only for film festivals and I’m unclear whether there will be a wide release after it’s made its rounds. I promise to keep you up to date.
“There are two things children should get from their parents: roots and wings.” ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
They don’t let me write publicly about them anymore. Not by name, anyway.
They captain their own ship now. Except, of course, when they’re steering toward rocky cliffs or when the sea is too stormy, then I get the helm. Or maybe they are the stormy sea, and I’m the boat. Or vice versa. Or maybe I’m a particularly powerful head wind, slowing their course, and try as they might they can’t steer out of it.
Or maybe I don’t yet know what metaphor to use for this time in our lives – a time when our intertangled selves, which has been one whole thing for so long, are disentangling into three separate beings. (But whatever the metaphor is, it involves being yelled at for “all my rules” in the same thirty minute period that I have to remind them – yet again – not to leave trash, dirty socks, and a pile of papers strewn over the living room floor.)
All of which is to say: they’re teenagers now. Continue reading
G-mom: a woman, four days from her 41st birthday, who is just finishing her work week and her week on as a single-parent of her 15-year-old twins she shares custody of. It’s been stressful, which is normal, but the amount of stress she faced in the last 7 days was extensive. Her period is imminent. She’s tired and has cleared all of her previously scheduled plans for the weekend, with the exception of the sleepover with her two oldest grandsons, the seven-year-old and the four-year-old. Today is the seven-year-old’s birthday, which is the primary reason she’s gone ahead with the sleepover. Her adrenals are pretty much fried, which she’s pretty sure is not an actual thing actually proven by evidence-based science, but she uses it anyway.
The seven-year-old: G-mom’s oldest of her three grandsons, who was born to his mom, G-mom’s daughter, when she was 17. The seven-year-old is a red-haired, blue-eyed, smart, headstrong first grader who lives with his dad, his dad’s girlfriend, his four-year-old brother, his dad’s girlfriend’s two school-age children, and two small dogs, Zelda and Marcy, in a two bedroom apartment. The seven-year-old has been struggling for quite sometime with toileting, and he often has a stomach ache. Today is his 7th birthday.
The four-year-old: G-mom’s middle grandson, but the youngest of the two born to G-mom’s daughter and the dad of the seven- and four-year-old. He’s also the youngest child in the household. He’ll be five in June, and so will start kindergarten in the fall. The four-year-old is a red-haired, blue-eyed, slight boy, who G-mom used to think was the cutest child to ever be born on the planet. Then he started whining – about everything – and crying when he doesn’t get his way. Now G-mom thinks he’s the cutest child on the planet only when he is sleeping. Continue reading
It’s been a long while since I’ve posted a blog – basically since I returned to a burgled home in October. I posted the Roger Gillespie piece (now unpublished), but it had been written for a long time, and I shared it only because there’s nowhere for it to go. But I’m fond of it – not only as a piece of writing, but as a memory. It’s so real for me; but no one remembers Roger. I’ve asked around. I’m head injured, have PTSD from multiple and varied traumas, and spent too many years of my life dissociated from my experiences, so I sometimes wonder if anything I remembered was real. Try walking around with that kind of relationship with reality. Or, I don’t know…maybe you do, but for your own reasons. Reality is hard. Right? Still, I know this: Roger was real and the scene with the cigarette happened.
The urgency to synchronize my experiences with some kind of objective reality is, in fact, one of the primary reasons I write. Arguably, I could write in a journal and keep it to myself, which I did for a long time. I’ve been a writer for years, but focused on fiction through my 20s. Years ago, in college, I was given a nonfiction writing assignment involving memory. This was the first time I worked with my personal history in a creative way. The response was surprising. I got an A+ on my homework and my teacher called me aside to tell me to write more. To not stop there. That I had important things to say and that I should hone my craft and keep saying it. It would be quite a while more before I heeded this advice, but I never forgot it.
Important things to say. What does that even mean? I’m just some lady, right? Who the hell cares?
Turns out, people care. Continue reading