March 2005 Archives

Cleric (63k file)

March 31st, 2005

On the front page of the New York Times this morning, there is a priceless photo of two high-level clerics from each of the big three religions in the Middle East, Christian, Jewish and Muslim. The caption defies parody, as these six grand poobahs, in funny hats, and mostly sporting long beards, have united in their denunciation of a gay pride festival planned for Jerusalem.

Irony #1: Gay pride festivals have been made fun of for years because of the drag outfits and leather ensembles worn by certain contingents. This from men wearing long black dresses., decked out for the Spanish Inquisition.

Irony #2: Gays advocate that consenting adults should be able to love each other, even if that means having sex with each other. Between the three of these religions, one can lose count of the outrageously archaic, quasi-superstitious beliefs, some of which are pernicious in effect on the female half of humanity.

But there is a silver lining to this circus. Condolezza Rice, take note. We now have a solution to the intractable strife of the Middle East. Clearly, massive immigration there of the world’s homosexuals should be encouraged, immediately guaranteeing that all those locked in mortal battle against each other will immediately unite on a massive jihad to throw us into the sea.

There is actually good precedent for this. After all, Hitler united Germany with the glue of anti-semitism, the Soviet Union hung together for 60 years focusing on the threat from the West, and North Korea uses the same xenophobia today, (and they’ve got nukes!) I think that’s a pretty impressive track record.

In the interest of peace and unity in the Middle East, as soon as I get off parole, I intend to apply for a visa.

MCO 2005

P.S. Okay, I meant a Visa CARD. I’d like to vacation on the beach, not IN the beach.

What follows is the first short story (though hardly fiction) that I wrote while incarcerated, almost exactly a year ago.

I've shortened it considerably, as many of the detours that were in the original contain the stuff of blog entries already shared. The main narrative kind of got lost too. But I like this, and hope you will.

Finally typing it out is part of my refocusing on myself and my own work, which has been a healthy step long in coming. My efforts are not without unpleasant reverberations to those who have become to unhealthily dependent on me, but let the chips fall where they may.

Is Fellini Dead?

It is a nondescript, early evening in the Los Angeles Men’s County Jail, Section K-11, Dorm 5100, I am laying on my bed—that would be a top bunk, halfway through to the back—reading.

Suddenly "On your bunks!" is barked through on the intercom. We are used to this order, but it is always followed by "Count time!" and it’s a good hour before Count. Something is amiss.

Instinctively, I locate my one piece of contraband, a black ink PaperMate pen, purchased at the dear price of 3 soups and 2 candy bars, from the occupant of the bunk to my right, Jack Hammer. I slip the pen into a Colgate carton, and stretch out on my stomach, as the door to the dorm swings open. "Radio!" is called out, followed by "Walking!" "Radio!" is prisonese for "Quiet!" and is rather impressively obeyed. "Walking!" means guards are on the premises.

The deputies converge somewhat alarmingly in my direction, but bypass me for Jack Hammer’s bunk. Jack is not just a purveyor of contraband pens, he is the primary source in the dorm of Wellbutrin, a common anti-depressant prescribed to inmates and traded or sold to be ground up and snorted for an ersatz speed high. He is also the tattoo artist-in-residence, and practicing his art requires a battery-powered device which is strictly prohibited. Heavily inked himself, Jack has a tattoo of an eagle with wings spread across the back of his head, a swastika serving as its beating heart. I assume the Aryan skinhead look to be the result of a realpolitik gang association in a previous prison term, as Jack seems to interact quite cordially with the black inmates in the dorm. We are all K-11’s here after all, gay first; black, latino and white second. (There is also George, half Japanese and half Nicaraguan, but that’s another story.)

I use the term "gay" advisedly, as I hesitate to apply it to a segment of the population here. Many of the men, Jack among them, have "girlfriends," who run the gamut from transvestite to transsexual to transgender; from pre-op-with-big-tits-and-no-intention-of-making-the-final-cut to pre-op-can’t-afford-the-hormones-yet-with-every-intention-of-finishing-their-lives-as-real-women. Here, all of them are labeled "queens." (Those of us who are more traditionally homosexual are labeled "gay boys.")

I don’t know what to call the Jack Hammers. They are not attracted to other men, per se, but the "women" they make do with do have male genitalia. I assume on the outside they have "real" girlfriends. What they prefer on the inside, however, suffices for the triage deputies to gain them entry into the gay dorms, which are considerably safer and less harrowing than the "mainline."

Jack’s "girlfriend"’s name is Kay, and I don’t know how she sees herself in ten years, but right now she is one of the homeliest "queens" imaginable. She has clearly not had any hormone therapy, and her Mary-Anne-on-Gilligan’s-Island’s knotting of the tee shirt beneath the diaphragm does little to bolster the illusion of breasts. Despite wetted-pencil mascara, and an attempt at a French twist with too-short hair, she retains a distinctly male physiognomy, replete with an undeniably masculine jaw and gravelly voice.

She seems to understand that in cases like her own; the best defense is a good offense. This is evident in her attentive fawning over Jack, who seems to genuinely enjoy it and returns the affection in kind. Love is truly blind. I know this because I overheard Jack tell someone in the shower "Hell, I’ve been hooked up with Kay for a year and a half now, and I still haven’t seem her dick!"

M. Butterfly indeed.

For some reason, Kay is not assigned to this dorm, but to one of the other two gay dorms on the floor, 5200. (Where I am, 5100, is to 5200 like a Gated Community is to a Trailer Park. As for 5300, it is known as "Thunderdome." All of us in 5100 dread a transfer there, which is why my contraband pen is cause for trepidation. I have seen the residents of 5300 in the hall, lined up for Chow, and could only think of the faces of battered Italian proletarians in a Fellini movie. Then I wondered to myself immediately after, ‘Is Fellini Dead?’ and made a mental note to check upon my release.)

After Chow, sometimes the residents of 51 and 5200, whose entryways are opposite each other, engage in "roaming," i.e., visiting friends in the other dorm. This is tolerated by some of the guards, and not by others, all of whom work in shifts in a booth overlooking both 5100 and 5200. It is during these tolerated intermezzos that Kay slips in for a quick tete-a-tete with her paramour.

Or used to. Three days ago, Kay was sent to the "Hole," for what offense I do not know. Somehow she knew ahead of time, and I had seen close up her final farewell roam to Jack, which was surprisingly touching. This very afternoon, I had seen Jack read a note smuggled out from Kay, from which, by reading upside down, I caught a few choice words that indicated she reproached him for somehow not employing God-knows-what subterfuge to contact her. This impression was fortified by Jack’s obvious consternation after reading the billet-doux.

Now you understand the context of the present scene. The deputies are close enough to touch, but it is not me or anyone else but Jack they are concerned with. His bunk is being upended, all of his possessions tossed and searched. It does not take long for the deputies to discover Jack’s troves of PaperMates and Wellbutrins, and to fill up a plastic bag with thoroughly edible squirreled-away food. (The last is done to humiliate us, as the food is perfectly legal.)

The deputies snarl and puff, like a pride of lions during a kill. Eventually, they discover Jack’s tattooing-device. He had hidden this in an adjoining bunk, so the immediate suspicion is that the deputies were armed with specific information. I lie quietly, like a baby impala quivering in the savanna, thinking only of my precious pen. As I watch Jack being handcuffed and led away to the Hole, I feel bad for him, but even more, I feel relief for me.

I am a writer, and writing is what is getting me through this experience. We have nothing to sharpen the nubby, eraserless golf pencils we are allowed. After having been deprived of all writing utensils (not to mention a toothbrush and anything to read) for a week during a misbegotten "suicide watch," a pen is like gold to me.

Like Jack, I ink; therefore I am.

After the deputies have departed with their prey, the vultures, me included, swoop down to take what’s left. The stated intention is to hold on to everything unconfiscated in order to return it to Jack when he emerges from solitary. In my case, this is actually true. Thirty days later, I will hand him back the copy of Larry McMurtry’s "The Evening Star" that I will enjoy immensely during his absence. Thanks to Jack, I now have two treasures.

When things calm down, the buzz is about who informed on Jack. Whispers circulate like bees in a meadow, but no one is stung with an accusation. They do not know what I know, and keep to myself. I saw the look on Jack’s face when he read Kay’s cri de coeur.

I think Jack informed on himself, as the only way to get close to Kay, Ever resourceful, he must think he’ll find, or knows already, a way to smuggle notes from his cell to hers.

I do hope somehow Jack can lay his hands on a pen. Kay will want to read the notes over and over, and if the words are written in pencil, they may fade.

MCO 2005

March 29, 2005

Well, thank the Goddesses, the oral surgeon removed the offending, dangling tooth gratis, and bought us valuable time until an extraction can be paid for. Hallelujah and pass the novocaine.

This morning I resumed my daily morning walk, as I have been missing the centering of my day that comes from a conversation with the sun and a conscious “turning over” to my higher power. At one point I had to laugh though, as I realized I looked up imagining an old man in a long white beard parting the clouds. What’s an ex-Catholic to do? Then again, it does make sense that even if one’s parents try to encourage the most abstract idea of God possible, that a child will, perforce, form the most literal concept he or she can come up with. And we grow up, and completely get over such nonsense, and yet like so many “stories” from our childhood, it is imprinted on us.

Will this morning anxiety be a lifelong battle? God I hope not. I did finally get a sponsor this weekend, and am discussing tackling the dreaded 4th step, in which one performs an exhaustive inventory of all of one’s resentments and one’s role in all of them. In my mind I have done this, and have taken responsibility for my part, but I do not trust myself not to more likely be engaging in a sort of glib attempt to be the smartest kid in the class, to show the teacher I “got” it before everyone else. A bit of humility is called for. I gotta get with the program, in the most literal of ways.

I am finding sobriety sort of relentless, like traveling at 55 mph exactly for thousands of miles on the freeway. Admittedly, traveling at a constant 95 mph hour was equally relentless, and far more dangerous, so I can’t say I miss it. I’d like to be on a horse, galloping occasionally, cantering from time to time, and sometimes just walking next to her, or sleeping under a tree as she munches on some hay. Unfortunately, like all of us, I am living in a freeway world. Which ain’t very free either. (My European readers must be laughing at the poor American boob. They’ve been paying these gas prices for years!)

MCO 2005

And now, a certain someone's second tooth (of the 4 remaining unextracted in trouble) is dangling by a thread. We are off to the oral surgeon at 11:30, post-dated check in hand. (Fortunately, money is due in for him at the beginning of the month. It is just disheartening that most of it is virtually spent on these damn teeth). But we are bouyed by yesterday's news about the book. It was very validating.

I also checked the website for the Publishing House where his book has been submitted, and found out they accept unsolicited inquiries in the form of a cover letter and 20-page sample. I have always heard that you can't get anywhere in publishing without an agent. While it is certainly true that submissions from an agent are given priority, it does make me think I should perhaps not wait to start shopping the Blog (the prison part at least). My sister has been urging me to do just that, and I think she's right. I've wanted very much for interested parties to come to me, (thinking Being Alive would give me sufficient exposure) and just busy enough that there was always something to do rather than sit down and do the necessary tightening up and copy-editing necessary to submit it. They are just excuses.

No doubt the real reason behind my reluctance harkens back to a fear of the past repeating itself. I wrote and shopped a screenplay in the mid-90s that got so painfully close to being made it still hurts that it wasn't. Hell, they sent me to Rome to do rewrites with the Director, that's how close it got! Then he died, just as the first director had. Talk about a lesson in powerlessness.

Saturday night I heard a speaker in AA who I wasn't crazy about, but he did share a crucial observation. Willingness is not about wanting something. It is about doing something even if you don't want to, or are afraid of it. It is about taking risks, and being open to all results. If you are not willing to fail, you won't be open to being a success, either.

So I must make the time to do what's necessary to get "Journal 286" (for my 286 days in the pen) out there more aggressively. If I get a bunch of rejection letters, than I will have something to wallpaper the bathroom with. If I don't do it now, when I'm still unemployed, it'll be a lot harder when I get a job.

If Larry's death reminded me of anything, it was that life is not a rehearsal. You are on stage, not someone's understudy. So I better get cracking, oughtn't I?

MCO 2005

A certain someone I've written about received a letter from the agent to which he submitted his book. (It was in the Saturday mail which I had not checked.)

He liked it very much and sent it immediately to a very prestigious publishing house that specializes in Southern authors.

Gee, I wish I'd checked the mail yesterday.

MCO 2005

Boy, when the blue meanies attack, they attack.

I hate Sundays. Which makes no sense, because there is little I can't do on Sunday that I can't do during the "workweek" and vice-versa.

Even the New York Times lays unread. Except for a few pages, one from which I scanned a photo on which I overlaid a poem that I posted on the website.

Now we will see if sharing this with you all and going to a meeting zaps me back to "normal." (If you're thinking "he needs to get laid, something awful" I think you''d be dead on.)

MCO 2005

March 27, 2005

I wonder what the word “Easter” comes from. It’s rather strange. A holiday that comes from the East? What would a “Wester” be?

So it looks like Terry Schiavo, then the Pope, then Prince Rainier. The law of three’s when it comes to deaths of the well-known.

Aren’t I peachy this morning? Actually I dreamt up a new reality show last night. Here’s the idea: “Get your job back.” A boss and an employee fired for cause agree to a therapeutic makeover, in which they both examine the causes of the discharge, and agree to work together to restore the position, and figure out ways they can both alter the dynamics between them. (Watch, this show will be on the air next season. This always happens to me.)

Yesterday’s memorial service reception for Larry was pleasant enough, as these things go. I was a bit surprised by the composure and equanimity exhibited by his relatives, though. Not a tear was shed. Several of us agreed our own mothers would be wrecks, probably under sedation at best. As for me, I bonded with a beautiful Bosnian girl I have known only by proxy for several years, and never met, and I bartended. This was in no way tempting, in fact I noted to myself how in the past I would have unquestionably had 4 or 5 screwdrivers to everyone else’s 1 or 2 maximum. (Except for Larry himself, who would have matched me drink for drink.)

I probably have to accept it’ll be a while before anything is likely to occur on the relationship front. Men in AA are as lonely as anyone else, but extremely wary of any involvements, as it creates all sort of potential complications when you attend the same meetings. Sponsors generally advise against it in the first year of sobriety, as long experience has shown relationship problems are the #1 cause of relapse. I’m not comfortable going to bars or cruising the Internet, and I can’t even offer my own unshared apartment, a secure income, and longterm sobriety to anybody. I would be wary of anything beyond casual flirtation with me too. (At least I get a fair amount of that.)

Oh well, I certainly have enough memories for a lifetime in this realm under my belt. (Excuse the pun). I will survive. Writing and collaboration will have to continue to be my main focus for a while. Though I certainly wouldn’t mind being wrong about this.

Happy Easter. And Wester. And Northster and Southster too.

MCO 2005

March 26, 2005

I found out yesterday, reading the Wall Street Journal as I babysat the ex-wife, that there are an estimated 8 million bloggers on line. I don’t know whether to cry or to jump for joy that 100 some-odd people take time out of the day to check out my modest existence. Talk about competition! (Meanwhile, do I read anyone else’s blog? Heavens forfend!)

Too premature for details, but there may be the tinest bit of movement on the man front. At least there are a few definite maybes out there. Talk about good looking. It took all I could do to hand over my number with a faux confident “give me a call” instead of running down the street screaming.

Okay, here are my two cents on the Terry Schiavo thing. I have yet to hear any commentary on how much money has been spent so this poor woman could have zero quality of life for 15 years. I consider this the most obscene aspect of the entire affair. How many millions of people have died during this time because the money lacked so they could get a clean glass of water or could afford mosquito netting to protect against malaria? Children who could have laughed and received an education and experienced joy? How many have died just while I am writing this entry?

And she must endure this torture, (or would if she could feel anything--her soul is enduring it), all because her parents are so afraid of death, projecting their fears onto their daughter. It is impossible for me to believe that anyone in Terry’s situation wouldn’t have been praying for that very outcome from the second she was so devastatingly impaired, if she was capable of anything resembling prayer.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t resist anagramming her name. Some interesting results follow:

ARCHIVERS TOY

ARCHIVE STORY

ORCHESTRA IVY

CORRASIVE THY

VERACITY HORS

RECATORY SHIV

CARVE HISTORY

CRAVE HISTORY

CAVER HISTORY

CHARIOTS VERY

ACTORISH VERY

CHARITYS OVER

CHARITYS ROVE

CHARITY VERSO

CHARITY ROVES

CHARITY OVERS

CHARITY SERVO

SCYTHIA ROVER

CHAT REVISORY

ACHY SERVITOR

VORACITY HERS

VORACITY SHER

SATYRIC HOVER

VICAR THEORYS

CARROTY HIVES

ACTOR SHIVERY

HERA VICTORYS

RHEA VICTORYS

HEAR VICTORYS

SHARE VICTORY

ASHER VICTORY

HEARS VICTORY

SHEAR VICTORY

SAVORER ITCHY

OVERSTAY RICH

HAIRY VECTORS

SHIVA RECTORY

HORARY EVICTS

TRASH VICEROY

TRASHY VOICER

VARSITY CHORE

OVARYS THRICE

VOTARY RICHES

OVARY RICHEST

Today is Larry’s memorial service. I will be greeting friends and family at the house, for David, as they return from the cemetery. The only thing worse than having to show up for such a task is not being asked, or able, to show up for such a task.

MCO 2005

P.S. And of course, like all of you, I am completely distraught that Jennifer Aniston has filed for divorce from Brad Pitt. I better get to a Celebanon meeting, pronto.

March 25, 2005

Last night I had a terrible nightmare (redundant, I know. All nightmares are by definition, terrible.) I was sitting on the ledge of a 32-story building with my sister, Sandra, eating lunch, and out of the blue she turns to me and says: “I wonder what it would be like to jump.” And then, before I could say anything, she pushed herself off.

I watched in horror as she did a slow-motion swan dive, managing to land on her feet, but hitting hard. I somehow raced down to the bottom, screaming and crying, and got to her as she was being loaded into an ambulance, barely conscious.

I have been wracking my brains trying to figure this dream out. As I write this, it comes to me that my recently widowed friend, David, parachuted out of a plane as part of a AIDS fundraiser about 14 years ago (when he was 32, I think), and broke his ankle. He stayed with me in the ensuing weeks, pretty much couch-bound. And now he’s suffered a much worse loss, and I maybe need to be reminded how important it is that I am there for him?

But why my sister, then? As we know, dreams are obscure, perhaps interpretation is a fool’s game.

That’s the second really bad nightmare I’ve had in a month. I think I’m trying to exorcise my own demons, most probably. (Let’s hope that I don’t get a call that my sister fell while transferring boxes during her present move. Sis, I told you to hire movers!)

Off to babysit the ex-wife again at the lawyers. Catching up on some reading and being forced to cut back on the cigs, so it’s all good (not to mention the $).

MCO 2005

March 24, 2005

There are some mornings that the old anxiety greets me upon awakending like a blast of hot air from a furnace. All I can do is take a neurontin, a lexapro, AA steps 1-3, and action; doing whatever needs to be done, the footwork of my life as it were. I wonder if the source of this anxiety is astrological, biological, or worse, whether it is some sort of presentiment of something dire around the corner. It certainly doesn't seem justified by anything going on. In fact, things are going well. I get to call about the translation test today, and for the first time in months, it looks like I will not have to do a cash advance from my next direct deposit to make it until the end of the month. In fact, I have been asked to return for several days to the law firm to "babysit" the ex-wife--easy cash that also will allow me to catch up on reading. (This was one undeniable positive effect of prison, I read more in 10 months than I had read in years.)

I went to a great meeting last night, in which I shared about updating my aol profile (removing "God is an atheist" from my quote") and getting some laughs about choosing between frumpy and slutty pictures. Luckily I don't have to choose between either, photos came back from the photo shoot a few weeks ago, which were marvelous. (I have posted one on my website.) When I returned to the apartment I also cooked, and cooked well. It is a pleasure I don't indulge in often enough (but finally have the pots and pans to do so.)

Regulars to this site will realize I no longer mention, and have eliminated all references to in the blog, someone I have spoken about alot. He is still in my life, but there are bad people in his past who we thought best not stumble upon him via the Internet accidentally. Forgive my occasional oblique reference to him, I am not being cagey, just politic.

I am feeling better as I write this. Thank you all for keeping up with me. My number of visitors is steady, and every month average visits increase by 20 or so. So I guess I'm not boring you to death.

MCO 2005

March 23, 2005

My parole officer just visited to check out my new digs. I asked her what I should do when they ask me on a job application “Have you ever been convicted of a felony” and she advised to leave it blank, and if to explain if and when they actually do a background check. That way I never actually lie about it, but increase my chances of not being disqualified at the get go. I guess that makes fairly practical sense.

Yesterday was notable only in that I finished reading Joyce Carol Oates’ “When We Were the Mulvaneys,” while the ex-wife was Xeroxing every receipt, and every bill, from a 10-year marriage. She has gone through 4 attorneys, and is no acting as her own attorney. I’ll leave it to you to draw conclusions as to what this signifies in itself. She was pleasant enough to me, and somewhere down the line there’s a short story in there somewhere. All in all, a pretty easy $70, although the drive home through the rain was a drawn-out nightmare. I kept trying to remind my self of all the flowers and trees and crops that need it so much.

MCO 2005

March 21, 2005

I rarely blog twice in one day, but something unexpected occurred worth reporting.

You may remember my friends Larry and David, who were going to put me up for three weeks when I was still at Andrea's and before this apartment was ready. (I ended up staying at Andrea's for the duration.)

I got a call right before I was headed out to a meeting tonigt that Larry had died two nights ago. Pending autopsy results, a heart attack is assumed to be the cause. Blessedly, he died in bed, and though he opened his eyes, he didn't seem "there," according to David, during his last breaths.

David was my lover in the early 90's, but we were just friends when he met Larry around 1996. We socialized a lot in groups for a few years after they met, and then as I got into the dealing and they led a more and more married life, we fell out of touch except for the occasional phone call. I won't personally feel Larry's absence from my life, as that had long since been the case, but my bonds with David are lifelong, and I will feel the absence through him, and of course feel very much for him.

I suppose what is most disturbing to me personally is what happened when I went to see them for lunch and the movies when we got reacquainted prior to the possibility of me staying there. I had long since been aware that Larry's father had died at a heart attack at 53, and knew that they both knew that this put Larry at a high risk. (He also smoked heavily, drank a fair amount, and had HIV). But when I saw him in person my premonition that his time was near was overwhelming. Not because he looked unhealthy-- he didn't in particular--or even because he'd had some health problems of late. I'm assuming that I was just surmising that the math was against him, but a big part of me is wondering if something deeper was occuring. I remember so distinctly knowing the same thing about my friend Rob about six months before he died, at 43.

In any event, I wanted to pull David aside and make sure all of Larry's affairs were in order, more specifically, that his stated desire to have David treated like a spouse in the event of his death was legally honored. Unfortunately, Larry was a procrastinator with a misplaced sense of invincibility and probably a fair dose of denial. A rough draft of a new will was never signed. Everything, legally, will go to the family. And it is considerable, as Larry owned a beautiful house in the Hollywood Hills and a fair amount of apartment buildings.

Luckily, David was considered a member of Larry's family, and Larry had 3 gay brothers. It is hard to imagine David will be out in the street, but it is equally hard to imagine he will inherit what he would have inherited if Larry had finished a will.

If this isn't an argument for gay marriage, I don't know what is.

MCO 2005

March 21, 2005

This morning I attended a workshop on Stress Reduction and Hypnosis at at Senior Citizen’s Center in Burbank, as part of laying the groundwork for my friend Andrea’s “Golden Hour” Project. There were about 8 senior attendees, and the facilitator was very interesting, finishing up by leading us through an stress-reduction exercise. I may hire him to help me quit smoking.

On the way out we ran into the Director, of sorts, of the Center, and she was immediately enthused about “The Golden Hour,” particularly about the prospect of me holding writing workshops there. I intend to draw up a syllabus and make a flyer and plan a weekly course there. I am jazzed at the idea of “giving back” (it is all volunteer). I have a commitment or two in AA, but they are really designed to get you to go to meetings when you don’t feel like it, and I never don’t feel like it. This is an opportunity to do some real good, using skills which I have honed over the years but not shared except intermittently.

If it works well I may apply for a grant to do it elsewhere, maybe create a job for myself.

Tomorrow I won’t blog till late, as I am spending the day in a lawyer’s office, being paid to watch over a friend’s ex-wife as she pores through a conference room desk’s worth of legal documents involved in the bitter divorce of my friend. It seems she is rather on the “inky-binky” side, in the words of my friend, and prone to haranguing monologues. It should prove interesting, and an opportunity for me to make some cash as well as perhaps capture a character for a short story.

Yesterday I had a lovely lunch at my friend Ileana’s in her historic house (shared) near USC. Afterwards we watched a wonderful French film, “Bon Voyage.” I shared later at a meeting about a scene in which the main character, who gets drunk, literally throws himself against a huge wooden door, trying to gain access to his loved one, (the incomparable Isabel Adjani). Finally, he gives up, in frustration, and then gets an idea. He tries the knob, and the door opens effortlessly.

If ever there was a good metaphor about getting sober… (In the meeting I added turning on the light inside, which jibed well with the spiritual aspect of the program.)

So far, Mercury doesn’t feel so much in retrograde at all, but today’s facilitator shared an article he read (although he’s not into astrology—and I take it all with a grain of salt, more fun than belief system) that advised that it should just be taken as an opportunity to slow down. By getting conscious about communication, one can avoid the pitfalls that crop up when it is done without due attention.

So slow down, people. (Ironically, I gotta run).

MCO 2005

March 20, 2005

Last night we heard a petite, 50ish Latin-American woman who didn’t drink until she was 30, and by 40 was in a Dutch prison for 4 years for smuggling drugs. She was effortlessly hysterical, in an inimitable way that can be described in no other way than completely authentic. She described contacting AA from prison, and a woman coming from practically across the country every week for four years to be her sponsor. Her transformation was such that the guards petitioned the Queen, and on the one day each year, her Majesty’s birthday, that she pardoned a man and a woman, “Lola” (I’ll call her) was granted her freedom.

Afterwards, when all the participants go up to hug the speaker, I asked her who would play her in the TV-movie. She laughed this high girlish laugh and we agreed it would be Norma Alejandro.

I tell you, I sometimes wonder why more non-alcoholics don’t go to meetings just for the live theater.

Today I will be going down to see my friend Ileana, give her a copy of my poetry book, (the last one), and watch a French film on DVD together. There is much to be said for respecting one day a week as a day of rest. In prison, Sunday was the longest day, and what I wouldn’t have given to do exactly what I’m doing today.

MCO 2005

March 19, 2005

Well, I went to my very first Alanon meeting, and it was wonderful. As a newcomer, I was allotted time to share, and I shared about realizing, this week, that I am not God. (I know, what a shocker). Yes, of course I knew this intellectually, but in the way I’ve been operating in many of my relationships, I “got” that I was behaving with an exaggerated sense of my powerfulness. Yes, of course I impact others, sometimes powerfully. But that doesn’t mean that I can control the results of my impact on them, and it doesn’t mean that I am running the show.

I can’t tell you what a relief it is for me to come to grips with this. And how, after a very rocky start, it is starting to bear very positive fruit in my current dealings. I’m starting to own my own resentments, my own need to control the results. And practice loving detachment.

This is something my mother started practicing with my father, years ago. It didn’t get him sober, but that wasn’t the point. It got her “sober” or the Alanon equivalent. (Give me a few weeks to get the lingo down.) My younger sister has also been going to Alanon for years as well, and I never understood, after the death of my father, what she was powerless over. Like everybody there, she is powerless over life itself, not just alcoholism and its effects. The 12 steps are truly a design for living. (In fact I got a big laugh at the end of my share when I “publicly” apologized for all these years to my mother and my sister, for imagining Alanon to be a bunch of women raising their hands to whine “My husband drinks and I haaate it!” Nothing could be further from the truth. It is about talking responsibility for your own life, and letting others take responsibility for theirs.)

MCO 2005

P.S. The title of this entry refers to an old joke about a 12-step group for people who talk too much.

March 18, 2005

Well, one thing that can be said about Michael Jackson. His song “Man in the Mirror” was fairly insightful.

I have met the problem and he is me. I am confronting the reality that, in an effort to nurture independence in others, I merely end up doing the opposite. I end up taking responsibility for their lives, instead of insisting that they take responsibility for their own—even if that means that they end up turning to others for just more dependence, or flirting with real disaster (possible homelessness or even jail).

I did this for 10 years with Cheri, a fabulously talented singer and comedienne who I went to high school with and then met up again in New York City a few years later. She became my roommate, my confidante, my muse. I directed her in several cabaret shows that got unbelievable reviews, and put up with an equally unbelievable amount of her self-destructive behavior and insane relationships with men. And, unbeknownst to me until I finally moved out (and soon later to California) a covert heroin addiction. After seeing her briefly again in New York at the time my father was dying (in 1996), accompanying her to a methadone clinic, I lost touch with her. I successfully googled her once a few years ago and found out she was doing some comedy gigs in the N.Y. metro area.

Maybe she finally got sober for real, I don’t know. The point is that I moved heaven and earth during those ten years because she was so amazingly talented and I couldn’t bear her to fail. It just seemed wrong, a waste. Or was it me I couldn’t bear failing, because I had tied up my success with hers? And it was hardly the last time I have engaged in such a co-dependent relationship, obviously.I could ask why I have been so willing to be Hillary Clinton to their Bill, but it doesn’t really matter why. The reality of it is enough.

I couldn’t really successfully address my own role in this dynamic until getting sober. And someone else’s sobriety is only a context for change, it is no guarantee. I cannot control others, but I can control me. Unfortunately, altering the dynamic is not a smooth process. I must be willing to face the possible consequence that the other will fail. But I can no longer take responsibility for their success—or failure.

Today I am exhausted, and I imagine it’s psychological. But ain’t it a kick how “real” the exhaustion is, whether is causes are physical or mental?

MCO 2005

March 13, 2005

Up early today. (I have an internal alarm clock that wakes me up at the very minute I ask it to any morning. It's actually remarkably dependable).

Last night, I couldn't sleep, so spent some time in prayer. Usually it's to get anxiety lifted and to send waves of love to those dear to me. That didn't work so well, so I decided instead to open myself up to feeling the waves of love others send to me, and to imagine myself bathed in a white light.

It worked quite well.

MCO 2004

March 15, 2005

I was able to get some more samples of Lexapro. I am feeling “normal” again, thank God. After we returned from the oral surgeon, (paid with a post-dated check-yes, you may interpret this information), I went to the bank to withdraw my last $40 until my Miraculous Mom’s check arrives. As I got out of my car, an elegant, light-skinned African-American woman, dressed impeccably, came up to me.

“Excuse me, but I need some help.”

Uh-oh, I thought.

“First of all, my name is Beverly.” She shook my hand, in a manner that bespoke of doing so at many a fundraiser. “By chance, do you have Triple A?”

This is so on my to-do list, but that information was useless to her, so I just answered:

“No, I’m sorry I don’t.”

“This is the situation. By the way, I teach the eighth-grade.”

Clearly she was trying to reassure me of her legitimacy. She was so articulate, refined even, I had no trouble believing it.

“My car broke down. I just got a ticket from a police officer for $70, which infuriated me. I need $13.75 more to tow it or it will be towed for me.” I surmised she had already withdrawn her last $40 from the ATM. Nix the fundraiser assumption, but this certainly jibed with low teacher salaries.

Of course I should have asked her exactly where the car was, and verified her story. But I was in a red zone, and time was of the essence. Instead what came to me was the message conveyed by two wonderful speakers I’d heard in AA recently They said they kept sober by helping whenever and wherever they could. Then I looked at her hands, covered with fine jewelry, and the gorgeous necklace that adorned her.

She then added:

“Of course, if you give me your address, I will send you a check as soon as I get home.”

Obviously, this could not have come at a worse time. But instead of telling her I was about to withdraw money to get Vicodin for an ailing friend, and to go to the 99 cents store to get all manner of soft foods, I said:

“Obviously God put you here for a reason,” (thinking, 'because She had to hook you up with the one bleeding-heart doormat on the block who wouldn’t immediately blow you off.') I checked my pre-ATM pocket, discovering $22 or so. I gave her the $14.

I didn’t have my address on my card, just my email and blog info, and I asked her if she was on the Internet. “Oh no, my dear, I came of age in the 60s. I have issues with Big Brother.” (Did this mean she was a Freedom Rider with an FBI dossier or a paranoid schizophrenic with a dossier from The Chestnut Hills Mental Care Facility?)

I wrote down my address with a pen. Beverly thanked me rather graciously, and off she went. But I have to say, this woman did not walk like a lady. She walked haltingly, strangely. Either she had an injury, or she’s indeed a crazy person.

I will either get a check in a few days for $14, or I paid for a truly bravura performance and fed a fabulous homeless actress for a day or two. (But if she was conning me, what would she have done if I said “yes” about Triple A? Or was that to throw me off, part of the game?)

I proceeded to the 99 cents store and have $30+ dollars (and a full refrigerator) until Mr. Postman delivers.

Someone who will remain nameless is dead to the world on the couch. Hopefully he will sleep for a few months. Since he can’t smoke for a week, it will make it easier for me to take the plunge myself. That will save a fortune.

So maybe that is why, in the bigger scheme of things, his tooth decided to go ballistic. (The unextracted other 4 problem teeth, according the surgeon, are “time-bombs.”)

I’m off to the pharmacy now. Thank Heavens for generic meds.

MCO 2005

March 14, 2005

I confess I am feeling the after-effects of getting off my anti-depressant on Friday, having run out of the doctor’s samples. I will re-up with the next influx of funds, but last night I had my first nightmare in a very long time. Frankly, I think people’s dreams are usually boring to hear about, so I will spare you.

There is plenty to do, depression or not. Given how long yesterday’s entry was, I’ll keep this short.

MCO 2005

March 12, 2005

I woke up reciting a simply phrase in my head: "Clearly, I'm supposed to be writing."

So I am going to work on typing up a short story I wrote in prison for blogging, and sharing tomorrow at a meeting Andrea is having for her "Golden Hour" project, which takes theater, readings and lectures into Nursing and Convalesent homes. As this story takes place in such a venue, it should fit right in.

I went to a luminous Crytstal Meth Anonymous meeting last night. The sobriety there is very hard won, and each and every one of those who shared was extremely authentic. The speaker was extraordinarily insightful and grounded. And yet the threat of relapse, for most (I truly have been blessed with an alleviation of all craving) hovers in the air. It is like the forbidden fruit has been tasted, and the snake hisses in the ear of so many. But not a body doesn't leave feeling much better, if just for today.

MCO 2005

March 11, 2005

I didn't get the job at Being Alive, though I was reassured I was a very strong candidate. Evidently they had quite a time deciding between finalists.

I am of course disappointed, but pretty okay with it. My plate is so full I wondered how I would manage a full-time job. I'm certainly not taking it personally.

If anyone has a suitcase full of small, unmarked bills lying around, please send it. (I can ask, can't I? I mean you never know.)

MCO 2005

March 10, 2005

I haven’t heard back from Being Alive yet, and to tell you the truth, it’s sort of pre-occupying me. So I just went ahead and emailed them and asked for a status update.

Bereft of anything uplifting or interesting to share personally (being so pre-occupied), I am posting the following from my friend Hunter Payne, hoping by chance there might be a reader who can help. (This is a project generating from his participation in Landmark. They encourage you to create BIG possibilities, as you will see.)

Hi,

Just a note to let you know what we're up to over here. Somewhere in the midst of releasing NAILED we started up a project to raise $25,000,000 for the victims of the tsunami. We're putting together CD compilations of hits or rarity tracks by major artists as well as tracks by celebrities who are also accompished musicians. Although we've just started, several artists are already associated with the project (at this point Ray Charles and Jackson Browne are the only names we can mention, but there are several others), so, needless to say, we're very excited.

It's been only two months since the tsunami hit and it's already beginning to leave our awareness. We've all seen footage of the devastation but, if you're like me, the footage doesn't really tell the story. What tells the story are the accounts of parents losing their grips on their children and watching them wash away, of towns being obliterated in a flash, of hundreds of thousands of instant orphans, many of whom are being sold by profiteers.

I'm writing today because we could use some help. If you happen to know a suitable household-name musical artist or celebrity, or you know someone who does, please email us back. We've found the easiest way through the maze of contracts and clearances is through the artists themselves.

There's a blurb on the project below and a very incomplete list of suitable participants.

Hope you're well and happy, and thanks for your consideration,

Hunter

ALL-STAR TSUNAMI RELIEF CD COMPILATIONS

The Situation: The UN and Relief organizations are very concerned about the inevitable falloff in support

The tsunami left 288,000 dead, 500,000 injured and 5 million homeless in Asia and Africa. Fundraising was brisk in the first few weeks following the wave, but relief organizations are now very concerned about the inevitable falloff in support after this initial spurt. To underscore this, a few weeks ago Kofi Annan appointed Bill Clinton as special envoy to "ensure the world doesn't forget the needs of those devastated by the December 26th disaster." (Read: People have shot their wads and billions more dollars will be needed over the next 10 years.)

http://www.cnn.com/2005/US/02/01/clinton.tsunami/

We Can Raise Millions - With Ease: Millions of dollars can flow continuously by providing the public with great music and letting them know the proceeds are going to the tsunami effort. Our goal is to raise $25,000,000 and we can do it.

The Project: First an eclectic CD compilation across genres of hits by top musical artists and tracks by musical celebrities, then a series of CD compilations according to genre to follow. The tracks could be the hit versions themselves or they could be different versions by the artists - demos, alternate studio versions, live versions, acoustic versions, outtakes, basement tapes, covers of hits by other songwriters, rarities, etc. These are tracks that already exist, that the public is dying to hear. Their use would be non-exclusive.

Win-Win-Win: The obvious winners are the tsunami victims, almost none of whom have the means to put their lives back on track. The music-buying public obviously also wins. And the artists...... They do good, they look good, and they get their music to people who may have never heard it before.

Needed Now: Your Help! If you happen to know a suitable major musical artist or know someone who does, we need your help in contacting them to see if they would be interested in participating in this effort. We need artists'/celebrities' commitments in a few weeks (by March 21st).

There will be copious media coverage. For those artists interested in further supporting the project, there will be ample opportunity for them to make appearances on behalf of the compilations.

The need and ability to raise relief funds is now. Please contact me at your earliest convenience if you know of an appropriate artist/celebrity for this project.

Eric Clapton

Paul McCartney

John Sebastian

Stevie Wonder

Sheryl Crow

Alicia Keys

Lucinda Williams

Bonnie Raitt

Ozomatli

George Harrison

Sarah McLachlan

Michael McDonald

Sting

Black Eyed Peas

Norah Jones

Eric Clapton

Garth Brooks

Kenny Chesney

Dixie Chicks

John Mayer

Maroon 5

Willie Nelson

Buddy Holly

Tim McGraw

Faith Hill

Coldplay – Gwenyth Paltrow

Ani DeFranco

Green Day

James Taylor

Bruce Springsteen

and any one else of their ilk......

Steve Martin

Jamie Foxx

Jack Black

Will Smith

Jada Pinkett Smith

Martin Mull

Kevin Bacon

Tom Hanks

Katey Sagal

Christina Applegate

Viggo Mortensen

Kevin Kline

Thanks so much for your help.

Contact: Hunter Payne hunter@TsunamiCD.org">hunter@TsunamiCD.org

MCO 2005

March 9, 2005

Well, time do fly, don’t it? I don’t know what prompts me to make this particular observation on the most non-descript date imaginable (sorry to any March 9th birthdays out there) but wasn’t it just yesterday that I got out of the Big House? (November 17th to you newbies).

In Landmark they remind you that kids can’t wait to get up and never want to go to bed, (boy was that me as a child) and as an adult you can’t wait to go to bed and can’t stand to wake up. I still love going to bed, and love sleeping, but I have been finding it harder to sleep late. I got up to move the car before 8 am street-sweeping and decided I had too much to do to go back to bed. Chalk up one for Landmark.

I have not, helas, kicked the smoking habit. I hang my head in shame. But I am enjoying it more, deciding that since guilt is not working as a motivator, I might as well drop it. Who knows if this is the real reason cancer rates for smokers are so much higher in some countries than others? Maybe it’s the guilt that gets us as much as the smoke. I will probably have to meet a non-smoking boyfriend who hates the stuff and who withholds kisses if I puff. I’d like to think I’d choose a smooch over the deadly weed any day.

On that note, I’ll leave you to work on a long-ass to-do list, leaving open the door to another entry if there’s news on the job front. I’m getting a sinking feeling about it though. In my experience, when they want you, they usually know right after the last interview. If the job isn’t mine, than it wasn’t supposed to be.

MCO 2005

March 8, 2004

What a day. I don’t know whether it’s the effect of Landmark or not, but I am so much more aware of how much so many other people seem to come from fear, and the need to be right. Which is why I am trying to remind myself to come from love, and let go of my own need to be right. It’s too early to see if I am successful in recalibrating some of my relationships, but so far, it’s been working reasonably well.

My visits to the blog went way up, so I guess the Being Alive article is doing its work. I received a lovely letter from a gay, former corrections officer who expressed his appreciation of the article and his regret that I didn’t have a better view of those in his profession. He clearly was one of the good guys, and justifiably proud of his career. I’ve asked his permission to let Being Alive publish his letter.

I also received a letter from Thumper, the handsome Rumanian who I became close to at Delano. Talk about someone whose present, affectionate behavior was hard to square with stories of a hair-raising past. But I will write him back, because I believe in redemption.

Tonight is the last night of Landmark, when guests have the opportunity to see what it’s about and register themselves. This is assumed to be a marketing ploy on the part of Landmark, but believe me, after you go through it yourself, you view it as a gift you want nothing more than to share with your friends.

I need to get ready, as I have to battle rush-hour traffic to get there in time.

MCO 2005

March 6, 2005, Evening

Well, I completed the Landmark Forum this evening. It is quite an amazing thing, all in all. Very smart and empowering. I can’t possibly do it justice by trying to describe it though, so I won’t. It really needs to be experienced. But I recommend it highly.

It is also exhausting. And despite that on the surface, it is like comparing apples and oranges, AA actually fares very well in comparison. The end results of both are about transformation, in that fundamental respect they are ultimately similar.

So I did “cut” the last two hours of the course to make a meeting. (I cleared this with the Form Leader). It was the longest I’d gone without a meeting since returning to the rooms in December, and it was nice to be home.

I did meet some cool potential new friends at Landmark, in particularly a lovely, smart Rumanian architect by the name of Ileana. It was nice to feel I am expanding my friendship base in L.A.

Tomorrow I should be hearing back from Being Alive, Tuesday at the latest. Meanwhile the newsletter is going to be arriving in mailboxes and in doctor’s offices this week. And I received an email back from a film subtitling job possibility, the same for which I had applied pre-arrest. It is a translation test, and in the spirit of not counting my chickens, I will fill it out tomorrow.

All in all, optimism runs amok.

MCO 2005

March 5, 1 a.m.

A quick note to say I am exhausted from 16 hours straight doing the first day of the Forum.

Frankly, the meat of it is not that different from the original EST, and I realized how much that experience impacted me and altered the way I operate in the world from then on. And a great deal of it is covered by the steps of AA/NA, even though similar processes in essence are described much much differently. But much of it remains interesting and the bulk of the good stuff happens tomorrow and Sunday.

But I think it is rather odd that they give you homework for the night when they know you will come home at 12:30 and have to get up before 7, AND tell you to make sure you get a good night's sleep.

I am choosing the good night's sleep.

Good night.

MCO 2005

Thursday, March 3, Late

Tomorrow, March 4, I’ll be doing the first of three days of the Landmark Forum. I’ll be coming home pretty late and don’t know if I’ll be of a mind to blog, but I’m sure I’ll have something to say before it’s over.

The Being Alive Newsletter finally came out, and it is fun to see my article in purple and white.

I’m taking the opportunity of the Forum to quit smoking. I have to do this. It’s an insane, horrible, expensive habit. And believe it or not, more addictive than crystal meth.

Oh, and Martha is free! I don’t care what anyone says, I like her. And boy, do I know how she feels right now. Martha, call me, I can walk you through this!

MCO 2005

March 3, 2005

Well the 2nd interview with Being Alive went very well, at least it seemed so to me. Let’s hope it seemed so to them. I can say one thing with some confidence, if they choose somebody else, he’s really good and will do an excellent job. And in such a case, I will still write for them and perhaps do some volunteer work. Although the idea of having to re-embark on a job hunt does scare the bejeebuz out of me. The responses to my resume were on the woeful side. (Not the quality of them, but the quantity—or lack thereof).

I would say 90-95% of the speakers at AA. or N.A. range from decent to very very good, tending toward the latter. But once and a great while you hit a real clinker, and last night was one of those nights. I had more insight in my toenail than this guy had to share in 30 minutes, and he had 7 years of sobriety. I was just grateful that there didn’t happen to be any newcomers present, because if it had been my first meeting, I might have taken years to come back. I don’t share this to be pissy, just to let you know that I’m not on such a pink cloud that I see the program as universally brilliant. Being clean or sober, per se, is no guarantee of wisdom or growth, but then again I didn’t know this guy when he was “out there,” so for all I know he’d come a very (very) long way.

MCO 2005

March 2, 2005

Well, what I day I had yesterday. And what an evening.

First of all, I got to see a copy of my Being Alive article, although the actually newsletter comes out today (the day of my interview, how lucky is that?) I realize the vast majority of you won’t be able to actually see a hard copy, so I have it reprinted below. For any of the readers who’ve followed my story for a while, you may want to just skim it or skip it entirely. No one will know and I forgive you in advance.

But I do pray you to celebrate with me my wonderful experience at Highland Grounds. I performed with 6 other really excellent writers, two of whom stood out in my estimation. Grant Albrecht is a leading-man-handsome actor/writer who’s written “A Obstacle Course in Miracles,” about his (devoid of self-pity) travails with a spinal cord condition that requires use of a cane and sometimes wheelchair. Coley Sohn read her essay “What a Waste of a Beautiful Pair of Breasts” about the loss of her “boobs” to breast cancer, and was equally funny and moving. But really, all the particpants were top-notch.

What positioned me to make a particular impression was that I was the only one who didn’t share a 10-15 minute-or-so seriocomic essay. My two pieces were short, and I was pretty sure none of the audience members could have remembered hearing an ex-drug dealer/writer gone to prison who lived to tell the tale.

I got up on stage aware the intro had got their attention and put the (full) house at ease with a joke: “I’d like to thank the Academy…” Then I told them Hilary Swank had nothin’ on my styling leather pants, and they laughed again. Then I set the scene of cleaning the bathrooms at Redwood Hall and read the following, which some of you may remember:

Timing

This morning I was cranky, from lack of sleep. The night before, several of my neighbors seemed to be under the delusion that somehow, loud whispers were not audible to those within earshot. I soldiered on through breakfast, and then on to cleaning toilets, a task made particularly irritating due to traces of vomit

on one commode.

Lest I sound lacking in compassion, the digestive upset was decidedly not due to bad food or stomach flu. There are several users of heroin here, and one of the side effects of getting high is regurgitation. It is done extremely quickly; they often barely get to the bathroom in time. I have witnessed this unfortunate trajectory several times during my morning cleaning.

Of course, my bunkie Earl had to come in to take a piss, and of course he had to say "you missed a spot," and laugh at his own joke. We bantered back and forth and the last remark in our exchange was mine, an exasperated, "someone has to clean up after the junkies!"

As if on cue, a regular offender tore into the bathroom, grasping a sink just as

he hurled. We all stared, a bit open-mouthed at his incredible timing, and

seizing the moment, I struck a Vanna White pose and framed the offender with a semaphoric flourish. "Thank-you!"

The hapless heroin addict quickly washed down evidence of his crime, and he

exited stage right as fast as he entered. Earl could hardly stop laughing, and

recounted the story throughout the dorm several times before getting back to our bunk. I finished cleaning the bathroom, but I wasn’t nearly so cranky anymore.

Then I told the audience I was primarily a comic writer, but you’d never know it from the next piece. (I was the only one to read a poem, which also set me apart. And X had listened to me in the car and suggested just the right delivery, keeping it slow and forceful, and using the mike to accentuate the sonority of my voice.)

Strange Friend

Neither impatient nor loud

He was very easy to ignore, at first.

But he made himself felt

In the deep of my gut,

Not content, after all, in the shadows,

Where he lurked

Unseen by most

But not by me.

If I could not ignore him

Perhaps I could know him.

Make a friend of this friendless stranger.

The friendless are eager

To be friended.

So now I have this nameless friend

A friend for life, he likes to say.

He drapes himself about me

And listens with both ears

So patiently.

So patient.

But my new friend is jealous

As new friends sometimes are.

I must turn old friends away

Even show my love the door.

My friend has made it clear

There’s room for only one—

Including me.

Now that no one’s left

From the life I’ve left behind

My friend declares it time

For dreaming.

My friend is wise

By closing them, my eyes are opened.

The morning light springs hope eternal.

But horizon light is setting sun

My tunnel’s end has come

Hope falls eternal.

If I knew his name was death

I did not know I knew it.

And it can’t be said

I did not choose

To not know

What I should have.

That the friendless

Are friendless

For cause.

And the bliss of ignorance

Is no bliss

At all.

My delivery really was quite on, a friend who came to see it said it was perfect. The audience was certainly rapt, and Carolyn Simpson and Meredith Trainor, the effervescent duo who produce the show every month (they did a great job of choosing the pieces, and placing them in just the right order) let me know they felt as he did. (And I by no means stole the show, it was truly an ensemble group without a weak link.)

They sold little booklets with all the pieces at the show, and I bought one. To see 2 works of mine in print in one day, what a rush! I managed to distribute some cards and hope to stay in touch with Grant Albrecht in particular. All in all, I experienced the heady feeling of being seen as a writer worth reading and listening to, holding my own with the other professionals with whom I shared the stage.

In fact, I probably chose “Strange Friend” because it was the poem my cellie Drifter performed as his own (through the cell bars) on talent night in Sycamore Hall, during the one week I was in the maximum security wing at Chino Reception. I vowed that would be the last time someone would do my stuff without crediting me. I don’t begrudge him the affirmation he received that night, after all that was his world, not mine. This was my world. I’m so glad I finally got here.

Here’s the Being Alive Article:

To any long-term readers of the Being Alive newsletter, you may recognize my name from a series of essays I wrote on a wide range of topics in 1999. After a year, I felt I had temporarily exhausted issues I wanted to discuss. While this was true, I also found my own life slowly changing focus as I was overtaken by an addiction to crystal methamphetamine.

I had long been a recreational user, but I fell in love with a drug dealer, and with it came increased use and availability. At the same time, I was not achieving undetectablilty with my drug regimens, and occasionally suffering bouts of AIDS-related illnesses, not to mention suffering from side effects from the treatment itself, more common 5 years ago than now. No doubt my less-than-perfect compliance in taking the pills on schedule played a role, on top of, of course, of the meth use itself.

My drug dealer boyfriend was sent to prison. Instead of learning from his experience, I found myself progressing to daily use, which felt less toxic to me personally than the cycle of bingeing and recovering. I was able to sleep, eat and pursue creative projects while high. Of course, entire swaths of time were dedicated to the hunt for sex and having sex itself, but because HIV had decimated my testosterone levels (I have been positive for 20 years), the meth played a major role is making me feel sexual at all (or so I believed. I was afraid if I stopped, I wouldn’t be without any sex drive, and wouldn’t feel like a man at all.

Of course this was an expensive habit, and I felt terribly guilty accepting help from my mother and using it for drugs. So I started to buy in bulk, selling it to a select circle of friends so that at least my portion was free. Inevitably, this led to more requests from a widening circle of “friends,” and the heady rush of not only free drugs for myself, but extra cash. Within a year I was doing quite well. I had assistants who walked my dog and washed my dishes. I subsidizing a legitimate business from my dealing profits, which was supposed to take off and allow me to withdraw from the illegal doings. And over the years, living under the specter of AIDS (I was technically full-blown) I had developed a mode of thinking almost entirely in the present tense. Long-term consequences were for people who were going to be around for the long-term. I wasn’t. In fact, I counted on it. I had cheated death for so long I was completely certain it wouldn’t dare cheat me.

Ironically, my drug dealer boyfriend, to whom I had written faithfully, got out of prison and got sober. I stayed away, respectful of the sanity of his decision and remarkable aware of the insanity of mine. But altering the equation seemed increasingly surmountable. I now had a payroll, and an addiction that had me by the throat. I tried to get off of the meth twice, on my own, but the lure of the money and to a certain degree, status, was too powerful. Everyone I knew used, I was obviously very popular (if for the wrong reason). I was simply not strong enough to quit the business and the using, although I recognized intellectually that disaster was inevitable.

I got away with it for three years, and I think became addicted, as much as anything, to getting away with it. Finally, I put my resume together and landed a job interview. I was determined to start working, quit the business and get sober. Three days before my interview, someone (I never found out who) informed on me and the gig was up. I was arrested on February of 2004 and sentenced to 16 months in prison. With half-time, I ended up serving 10 mon