Christina

Photo; Shandra Beri

The fear that kept you from basking joyfully in your life covers you now in the form of a thin white hospital blanket. I try to draw your attention through the triple-paned glass of your luxuriously wide, high window to see the finger-tip close, verdant mountain projecting its tranquil majesty into your expensive private room- but you refuse to turn your head to look. To you it may as well be a filthy parking lot hidden behind an ugly, soiled solid grey cinder-block wall. There was no true beauty in this life for you and it will not intrude now. The hallucinations that envelop you spill unedited from your lips and are painstakingly detailed and salacious; sex rings, bondage, slavery and a conspiracy of silence. In those looping, confused (and now opiated) utterances I can't help but wonder where is the peace from the god you spent a lifetime claiming? Where is the solid-to-the-core 'happy' you force fed everyone around you as your true self? In your final moments, the curtain is dropping to expose that which you spent a lifetime sublimating. Your brittle veneer dissolving into the barren gash where you always claimed your soul resided as you crossed yourself before every meal. Now you are whispering the bitter truth through gritted teeth; distrust, jealousy, sexual fetish, anger... emptiness. When you say my name, your eyes form suspicious slits and you only see a stranger.

Christina, I 'saw' you long ago. Through your carefully rehearsed, perfectly mannered daily performances percolated a simmering discontent. I studied it and marveled at your improv skills whenever I poked the bear by knocking you off your script. It was so much work for you just to 'present' Christina every day that I developed empathy for you- an empathy that eventually grew into affection. You were my unaware curmudgeon masquerading as a well mannered proper English lady. I enjoyed you tremendously.

Christina, you will not suffer. You will not be alone- but I am drenched in the awareness that you died so long ago this moment is almost unnecessary.

34 Years Ago Today...

 ... I lived in a 4th street 2nd story apartment in Santa Monica and if I stood on my balcony, tilted my chin up just a little, I could look past the gay boys giving each other anonymous sexual pleasure in Hotchkiss Park and focus my eyes on a tiny slice of ocean view. At that time I earned my living as The Worst Waitress In The World (not by intention, by default...) and spent every other moment writing songs, rehearsing with my band and listening to music- which was an accomplishment in and of itself because in those days, your favorite music was something you really had to make an effort to carry with you. We bought cassettes and LP's from the record companies, traded them among each other and then made mix-tapes (songs carefully stitched together from hours bent over bronze-age technology) of our favorite tracks so we could play them on a little battery powered brick called a Walkman. Punk had torn a refreshing hole into the fabric of popular music, 'Boy Bands' hadn't yet been distilled into a poisonous formula and the latest rounds of Congressional investigations into the 'Payola' scandals were a few years down the road. The vacuous hum of 'disco' was finally dying out and had everyone hopeful there would be 'real' music playing on the radio again. John Lennon and Yoko Ono had just released "Double-Fantasy" and it. was. great.

In those days we still had heroes and John Lennon was one of mine.

On the night of December 8th, I'd rushed out the door to a rehearsal with my Walkman pressed against my radio to record an interview that John was giving to promote "Double-Fantasy". I knew my batteries would run on and die long after the interview, but I wanted to listen to what John Lennon had to say and at that time it was the only way I could. I stumbled back home in the early hours and fell into bed. On the morning of December 9th, I woke to my telephone ringing off the hook and in my sleepy fog heard one of my band-mates tell me that John Lennon had been murdered the night before while we were at rehearsal. I turned on my radio and every station on the dial said it was true.

I pulled on my clothes and walked out my door. I needed to look at something beautiful. I needed to stand in front of the ocean because I thought it might be bigger than my broken heart. As I walked down Strand Street, Bob Dylan stepped out of a doorway with the same pain-filled, dazed expression I wore on my own face. He pulled the door closed, slipped his hands into his pockets, stood on the top step and watched me as I walked toward him. We held eye contact until I passed, but neither of us said a word.

Soon I sat myself on an alter of beach sand, listened to the choir of crashing waves, looked out into the endless cathedral of blue sea and sky and cried.

That Kiss

 

Photo;Shandra Beri

He pulled me up onto the bar and instead of the drunken tickle I was expecting, he pressed our intertwined fingers around to the small off my back and drew me in close. He woke me from my intoxicated laughter by looking into my eyes with absolute love and clarity. In that moment, so much passed between us that tears came- but they shined and balanced on the rims of our lower lids without spilling over. We had spent so much time together, confessed so many secrets, we already seemed to be one. He was my best friend and I loved him with every beat of my 20 year old heart. His free hand moved up the side of my body until he cradled my neck and threaded his fingers into the wet tangle of my dance-sweat hair. We stood on the bar, solidly embedded in that beautiful transaction while The Frolic Room spun around us and did not blink an eye. When he finally- slowly and deliberately- kissed me, every nerve ending in my body was tipped with a little green light and I felt myself hum with a sensation that set me afloat. I understood for the first time what the big deal was about being kissed.

Over the next few hours, that kiss sculpted us into The Oblivious Young Lovers we were. At closing time, it spilled us out into the warm night to wander over the stars of Hollywood Boulevard. Without trying very hard at all, I can still feel the wind breathing shapes onto the vintage silk of my dress as we paused our romantic amble again and again to press our lips together. That kiss bound us and came in like a hot tide to drag us out and ultimately toss us around in a sea of disheveled romance for years. That kiss became the one by which all others (not shared with him...) would be judged. That kiss was the starting point for my first grown up heartbreak. That kiss, with the backdrop of inexperience and fully intact optimism, I now know was the best kiss of my life.

Prisoners From Another Kingdom

He said the chimp was 5, but when I remarked that he seemed very small, the wrangler admitted that it was probably because he'd been sick for a few months. When I asked if he was well now, the wrangler quickly changed the subject. The wrangler was gruff and crotchety but he tolerated my proximity because I was careful to stand just far enough away not to disturb his ring of control. He spoke to the chimps ( there were two in case one was uncooperative when the camera was ready to roll ) like they were prisoners in a concentration camp; 'Stand up! Look away from that! Put your hands to your side and keep them there!'. Each time he barked out an order, the little apes fully complied but seemed to move almost in slow motion. They kept their heads perfectly still but I saw their curious eyes carefully, almost imperceptibly, moving to take in their surroundings from behind the iron bars of the wranglers voice. The entire interaction was awful and sad.

By the end of the day (in between takes) I'd worked my way into a running conversation with the wrangler in the hope that I might be allowed to interact with my poor little cousins in some personal way. After many hours of showing interest from a respectful distance, he relented and and directed me to stand next to the little male crouching on the floor. I held my hands behind my back and moved slowly forward (in the same way I had seen the chimps do). The little male looked at my shoes and then into the face of his 'trainer', 'You better be good!' ordered the man. 'It's okay...' I said gently to the little boy ape. The little ape slowly traced the shape of the rubber toe of my Chucks with his index finger. He felt the difference in texture between the rubber and the canvas of my shoe and then began carefully following the path of my bright red crisscrossing laces. He looked up at my face and I smiled. When he found the end of the lace, he slowly pulled until the bow was no more. 'Good job.' I whispered. 'You watch yourself!' the wrangler said sternly to the chimp. I stepped back not wanting the boy ape to be yelled at anymore. 'Thank you so much,' I said to the wrangler, 'that meant a lot to me.'

I looked into the face of the wrangler fully for the first time and saw that his skin was a healed jigsaw puzzle of scars. He tossed his long hair over his shoulder as he stood up and I noticed that his ear was missing. On cue, he began to tell me about the day it had happened. He was driving three chimps he'd raised from birth to their weekly romp in the wide open. As usual, all were uncaged in the van since they all enjoyed that. He said up until that day he felt like the chimps were his children. Without warning, his 'boy' (the other two were females) jumped on him from behind and began to rip off the wranglers face with his powerful hands. He said the only reason he survived is because he crashed the van (going 70) off the freeway, rolled out, kicked the door shut behind him and scrambled to hide in the dense scrub. The temporary confusion allowed him to do this unseen by his assailant.

Bleeding and terrified, he watched from his hiding spot as the powerful ape effortlessly ripped the door off the van and began a systematic search for him. His 'son' was later shot and killed, the two females recaptured without incident. He said it was a bid for dominance that he didn't see coming.

I looked down again at my miserable, sentient little cousin crouching in submission on the cold cement floor of the sound stage. I thought about how I would absolutely choose the freedom of death over 70 bleak years lived as a prisoner.

I thanked the wrangler again before I excused myself for the last time.

American Girl

I felt like shaking her and shouting, 'Look at him! Why are you wrapped up like a fucking mummy and sweating your ass off while your husband is wearing Versace flip-flops and a short sleeve v-neck douche-bag Ed Hardy tee shirt!' I wanted to shove her arrogant, hairy husband to the ground, snatch the scarf off of her head, grab her hand and run to my car like Thelma and Louise. I wanted to drive her to the cool, blue beach with the windows down and laugh while she wrestled with her newly free wind-whipped hair. I wanted us both to sing 'American Girl' at the top of our lungs as we wound our way through Topanga Canyon toward the water. I wanted to see her alive and fully herself. I wanted us each to drink exactly one too many icy, salt-rimmed margaritas at Casa Vista while we breathed in the briny ocean air and talked about what a load of crap it is to think that a deity might form it's opinion of you on the basis of fashion (if that was true, her husband was absolutely going to hell...). I wanted to hear her say, 'Guuurl, thank GOD you grabbed my hand and pulled me out of there when you did 'cause I was about to flip.my.shit. breathing that prick's exhaled hot air he sashayed around in his cotton tee shirt and 'Affliction' jeans!' I wanted to crawl into the cat box with her, talk like girlfriends and laugh like her god wasn't listening.

Instead, I stared at her long sleeve turtleneck and tightly pinned polyester scarf that left only the smallest possible area of her face exposed. I noted that she, in a modesty overkill, held her knees tightly together under her full length, heavy weight skirt. A layer of visible perspiration glistened on the backs of her hands and the part of her face that was not covered. When our eyes met, neither of us looked away. I knew she could see contempt in my eyes. It hurt me to think she had probably already assumed it was for her. I struggled with myself about how to reach out to her. Was she brainwashed? Would any clumsy words I uttered be anything but an insult? Would her husband (never standing more than a few inches away) beat her later if I spoke up? Would it make any difference at all except to make this crappy little strip mall shop feel more claustrophobic and hot? As I dug in my purse for a 10 dollar bill, I felt myself growing more angry.

I paid her husband for the cheap ear-buds I needed to get me through the weekend. I walked out of their stifling store into the obliterating 109 degree oven of the Valley. I forced my way through the searing heat waves rising from the tarmac of the parking lot. I slipped into my car, turned over the engine, blasted on my AC and wished she could have read my mind. I cued Tom Petty, cranked the volume up to 11 as I drove away singing 'American Girl' at the top of my lungs.

Back When I Was A Baby...

...my friend Pete and I had a band. We called it, 'In Vitro'. So. Much. Fun.

These are potato quality videos of that moment in time. Pete miraculously fished them out of the archives, transferred them from analogue to digital and sent them along (thank you, beloved friend!).

As ever, the tumescent, unbroken, incontestable armor of flaming youth made us blind to fear. We created accidental perfection from our incomplete understanding of the world and found ourselves soaring on a thermal of undiluted will when we attempted to fly.

Here's to running head-first toward whatever moves you. Cheers...

Pull Of The D.O.G.'s

 

photo;shandra beri 

Reasons To Have Another Dog In My Life;  being forced to play at the end of everyday no matter how shredded my human form is. Feeling surprised that even through the fog of my bitter exhaustion I still have the ability to smile back at someone being goofy just for me. Experiencing the contagious excitement cued by pre-dinner canine toe-tapping. Planning an endless succession of weekend dog-friendly road trips (out of guilt for long hours away at work) that in the end wind up actually renewing me. The illusion of safety (wild barking that would only ever lead to being licked to death if you actually hopped the fence- but still...FELT safe) and of course the overwhelming feeling that All Is Right In The World when the lion's share of your bed is being taken up by a content, deeply sleeping/snoring 4-legged friend (who happens to admire you more than you can ever deserve...).

The list of Reasons Why NOT To Have Another Dog is short; the responsibility. For me, there is a feeling of luxury attached to being totally unencumbered. I enjoy being able to change my mind on a dime and do...whatever without a thought given to anyone/thing other than my epicurean desires. This awareness has blunted the longing that tugs from time to time and keeps me from acting upon my periodic impulse to search out a new tail wagging buddy.

Still...

A Different Kind Of Monster

The child actress and the adult actress balanced on their high heels and shivered in response to the cool night air. Their costumes were intentionally slutty and correspondingly paper-thin. They both tried to take the weight off the balls of their feet by leaning against the dirty brick wall they stood next to. Just around the corner, the camera waited with its black, unblinking, giant squid eye while it's human handlers primed it for the shot. We were in a neglected industrial area on the outer edges of Chicago and though golden hour was long gone, the sky still held a spectacular, saturated imperial blue that made the distant lights twinkling at us from downtown look almost magical. The exterior shot we were waiting to get in the can was a continuation of a scene we'd filmed on a sound stage in LA and it had established the first 'big girl/bad girl' bond between the two characters the actresses played. The interior part of the scene had the girls successfully sneaking into a bar, initiating a fight and now about to 'make a run for it' into the gritty Chicago night. Within arms length of the adult actress stood her ever present real-life sycophants; a worn out, insincere old queen who fawningly reapplied her make-up in between every take with (as far as anyone could tell...) empty brushes and a snarly, leather-faced, chain-smoking, bad bottle blond who arranged her hair and loudly declared the importance of- and her unwavering allegiance to- the adult actress many, many times a day. Every utterance of the adult actress was echoed by them in some way (often simply repeated verbatim ) and every snarky, cutting comment made by her was reinforced with ugly laughter and knowing nods of agreement from the two- all of it of course executed in nausea-inducing unison. Even on days the trio was too tired or distracted to dominate the airspace within their usual 7 foot radius, their presence was toxic and most of the crew went out of their way to avoid their 'bubble'. On this night however, it was clear to everyone they were energized and ready to draw blood. In keeping with our well established unspoken protective alliance, we all stood away from them 8 feet and beyond.

The child actress was not so lucky. She waited mere inches away from the adult actress and her obsequious attendants in anticipation of filming the scene. She looked into the faces of the trio with innocence and a wide smile as she tried to find her way into their stream of shitty banter. The child actress interjected, '...is that so?' and lilted her pronunciation of  'so' ever so slightly up with a vaguely 'British' affectation. Upon hearing the verbal deviation, the adult actress's toothy smile froze upon her face into a kind of grimace. Without moving her body, she smoothly rotated the tip of her chin toward the source of the question and turned her full attention to the child. 'IS THAT SO? IS THAT SO? WHAT, ARE YOU FROM ENGLAND?!', she declared. The sycophants laughed with ugly approval. Those of us within earshot (but safely out of range...) exchanged flat, heavy-lidded, nearly imperceptible glances. The. Shit. Was. Going. Down. Again and it was a sure bet that not one of us was of the mind to divert those razor sharp words away from the child and draw a target between our own eyes. Over the walkie the 1st AD shouted, 'Okay, almost there... tighten up, people!'. The adult actress zeroed in, hooked the child by the proverbial nostrils and led her down the darkest mind-fuck she could manage in 37 seconds ('Do you have any idea what you sound like? You sound stupid! Say something else... see?! You think you're from England! Why would you speak that way? It sounds soooo fucking LAME! Hahahaha, you're stupid! Unbelievably stupid! Only an idiot would speak the way you're speaking!')- all of which was perfectly timed to reach a painful pinnacle in the same moment the 1st AD called 'ROLLING! ACTION!'.

On cue, the two actresses then took off running around the corner and down the sidewalk. The dolly carrying the camera glided flawlessly in front of them and slowed to an immaculate, weightless limo-stop just before the far corner of the block. The end of the scene found the child actress leaning breathless against the bricks of the building with a mixture of starry-eyed wonder and victory shining out of her characters eyes. Not even the tiniest thread of blood could be seen issuing from the humiliating verbal stabs she had just sustained in real life. The adult actress slid down the same wall a little further up, turned her face ever so slightly toward the lens and let the camera take in her vulnerable, complex and carefully cultivated portrayal of a person with the ability to care about the lives of others. With her big brown eyes, she beamed out earnest, unspoken questions about the wisdom and consequences her influence might have upon the young girl- take, after take, after take...