It’s time.

The era of the old white male is over.

We now tell the stories and piece the dreams.

Those on the sidelines know the most integral things.

it’s not for me. i love you, mom.

I heard my mom cry mommy today.

Read it all; this is for her.

 

She described it as only daughters can.

Thin hands as blood drains away;

the sound of death on lips.

She knew, and yet it comes.

 

The dawn, I’d hope to think,

maybe we feel it as stitches:

It’s woven together in our sides,

It’s cloth or some such pulling thing,

Some corset of pain and sorrow; it pulls us together

As we fall apart.

 

Mi madre, maman, mommy:

How can you leave me

Does it all seem to sink?

Oh mom, my mom, my mother;

How can I act but those cubs over bodies

Push wake up push come back push help..!

 

My mother; it’s you- I grieve, but you grieve it all.

 

I wish so much I could make it all better;

I’m good at fantasies; I could help there.

 

But let’s not.

 

You’re hurting; no one can take that away.

No one else will write it or feel it but you.

 

It’s no one’s but yours.

Hospital Visit.

I’m unsure how to feel this sort of pain anymore.

Maybe the anti-depressants have done good work and paid their rent in my satisfied mind.

I’m still on a comfortable walk from Where I’ve Been to Where I’m Going,

but today I sit on a fence between worlds.

I see her lay on the emergency room bed; my dear friend, so unlike herself.

I know what she’ll say before she says it.

I know the fears and dead ends she runs into in her mind.

But I can only sit on the fence and watch angry doctors and nurses, sick of such disease and malcontent, and push and lift, and stay then leave.

I come somehow, slowly alive on the fear; this hospital fear, it bubbles like the Tar Pits and no one thinks too hard about it except those who can feel the dull ache and constant itch that circulates a disease like this.

I know the truth, so I say it in every way. I cry, I hold back. I am equal parts nagging and commonplace; I’m the prop in this room. And I’m okay with that.

I know the end. I’ve seen it.

These ends? They’re always around the corner for me, too.

But now I watch her bitten fingers clamp around me and clamor for the wrong kind of love; the right kind we in the room give to her is still unheard.

I miss her. I miss her so very much. She isn’t there; I need to retreat to save myself. To save all the ones who have sat on the fence for me. To those who listened to my excuses and little thoughts. I can only sit and hold her hand and tell her again and again how she is loved; I don’t want her to die. She says she doesn’t want to, either.

But soon she is discharged and says her insides are failing. And we have that look I’ve given to others. When you live so entwined with your end, it’s only familiar. The unknown under our feet, swinging on the fence.

Watching the Ferris Wheel. We could have watched from above.

But here is where we are now. The fence is where I leave them, somewhere between floor one and two of the parking lot of Kaiser Permanente off Venice. Somewhere there.

Him.

For every ounce of hurt I have faced, he offered a sea of love and gratitude. I have now paid attention to how our connection shaped me. In its purest sense, I felt awakened, more compassionate, and purely at my truest self.

counting breaths to fall asleep

I am a thing, human – strange,

My body is a thousand waving motions.

A million different particles that shift and work and move.

I undulate – I feel.

I weep, I breathe.

I’m constantly at work, all the tiny pieces of me.

I remember: a computer.

I smell, I dream.

I grow hair without asking to, and make up my own coloring.

I’ve been a tool of breathlessness, I’ve lived in others’ dreams;

But I’m a human, gross, alone –

moving through it all.

Tattooed by life and unexpectant,

amazing and alone, it seems.

first draft about Wonder Women

What’s a Superhero film? Why do I usually tear them to shreds?

I’m a film brat. I know it. Once in awhile people find it hard to discuss movies with me. Always, something sticks in my craw. I can’t take when people justify films:

“It was good, despite HIM being the director!”

“It was fun, even if it was a bit racist.”

“The plot didn’t make sense, but it was 2 hours away from my reality, so it did its job!”

Sigh.

But…I finally got owned by Superhero movie. By ‘Wonder Woman’. And I didn’t know for days.

The film was high-concept. I may be as detached from superhero movies as one can be, despite a history of loving the newspaper feel and ashy scent of a new comic when I was a child. I’m more nuevo-Russian and Andrey Zvyagintsev than action and USA-superhero adventure. More 8-minute shots of moody lighting than CGI-assisted high kicks and rig-aided jumps.

But inside me there lies a pop-culture heart that would like to love anything; even if I tear it apart internally. I also find Gal Godot easy on the eyes, and I wanted to see ‘Wonder Woman’.

From the start, I kept pushing my brat voice down inside and watched it:

  1. In ‘Wonder Woman’, everyone had a make-believe accent. I hated it but then in a split second it endeared me to the film. Almost as soon as I was pooh-poohing it, I thought: “This may be ridiculous, but it’s better than fake English accents on superhero planets in galaxies far away in everything else.”
  2. There was a woman, Diana, who wanted a destiny with no solid reason why. As soon as I rolled my eyes at the fact she would want to fight, I thought of my myself and friends. Why were we trying at this life at all? “Why should we need to be shown what we want? Why can’t we just want? We admire what we don’t understand already, and we work towards it often tirelessly. This is…startlingly true.”
  3. There was a disconnect between a daughter and mother. Then I thought… “A mother loves you in a way you may not understand, and you, as a daughter, want things she may not understand either.” Fuck…okay. This is making me want to enjoy this movie.

At this point, I’m realizing that I’m so engrained in this culture that I can’t NOT criticize it more than I ever would with a film where any male feels these things.

I’m complicit in a culture where what is normal is what others tell me what I want, tells me what female and familial connection should be, and tells me what an accent would sound like in a fantasy world. That I am even sitting there almost as a trained male gazer, questioning all I know to be true from even my own real-life experiences.

I’m already owned and we haven’t even gotten to the ‘World of Men’.

I giggled at light jokes about the Male Gaze shaping how we fit into their world. What we can and cannot do to fit into society.

I was chuffed when Diana walked into a war discussion with no embarrassment. I wish I could do that in my world; ask the questions I knew were right without fear of being fired or being shunned.

The fight scenes were fun. I found myself wanting to fight like Diana. I enjoyed a superhero who was emotional and honest; it made me want to be the same.

The outfits and the time-period were cool; the plot was straightforward.

There was a non-surprising turn where the “authority figure who you thought was on your side actually is your worst enemy” plot twist. That rang true for me, and maybe there is a universal feel within that one. Best friend betrays you, mother wants to hurt you, father needs to use you.

Anyways, there is much to be said about the details of ‘Wonder Woman’.

I stepped away wanting to see it again. For the music of Tina Guo (a talented cellist I knew from USC who deserves everything coming to her), for the diversity of the fierce Amazons, for the open-hearted hope that probably lies within all of us. For the fierce bad-ass power we may all want within us and our mental power-kicks, especially those of us in fields and worlds we feel marginalized in.

But I also stepped away denouncing a huge part of the film.

“IF THEY TOOK CHRIS PINE OUT, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO GOOD.”

I said. “Just take him out! Or let them not hook up! She doesn’t need that. If they even were chaste and loved one another from afar. Just take out the ROMANCE!”

And perhaps that movie could have been great or better without romance. It might have been. Audiences deserve a female-lead blockbuster where the lead doesn’t need romance to advance.

But then a guy from work stood up; younger than me and a USC graduate as well, and said:

“But we’re giving a powerful woman what all the powerful men in superhero movies have been getting forever. A romantic tie. All the superheroes have one, too. If we’re going to be equal, we’re just flipping the script.”

And then I saw it. Steven wasn’t necessary, just like all the women in the majority of the superhero movies that we’ve grown to know that have become our culture. His death was necessary to set off Diana’s quest, just as the majority of women have been in much of our superhero and literary culture. He felt ‘tacked on’ because WOMEN have felt ‘tacked-on’ in our cinematic and popular culture history.

He was charismatic, but expendable. Loveable and necessary. Not given too much of a backstory, because he advanced the narrative of our superhero. Great eyes, but he needs to die. He was the subversive shift that already know – this message that we need the opposite sex to change us and drive our force. We’ve been seeing it forever in almost all our cinematic superhero films.

He was what our female characters have ALREADY been for so long. If it makes us uncomfortable or comfortable, it’s something to investigate within our greater culture. Why do we need the opposite sex to change the direction of our driven journey? Do we need that driven journey?

In any case, superhero movies may not change much. But we have flipped the script. If it feels weird to some, let’s examine. If it feels right, let’s examine that, too.

But I was owned in my analysis of Wonder Woman. This is truly a classic Superhero Film.

you can’t always get what you want

 

One hot summer I went to Dana Hall summer camp something or other.

Lots of Lights-off and Pottery and Indoor Crafts.

 

With someone playing a guitar in what seemed to me a Music “Pit”: A Tiny Orpheum

or some such;

 

with handfuls of little girls

just being taught

the chorus to:

 

You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

 

I remember it like yesterday.

A girl named Sarah in white pants that got so dirty from throwing clay and the day;

no big Teachers;

little Kate covered in paint;

No AC and smocks still on.

 

It reverberated on white walls– and some young man

told us what to sing.

And our knees all pointed towards one anothers’; and there was a ceiling fan so high

you couldn’t hear it.

And it was the time for naps, the time of noon, the time Older People slipped away.

It smelled of chalk and paint and heat and a bit of clay from earlier.

 

And that young guy; he didn’t smile, he just played a chord and

told us about this Song and played it:

was it what he knew? last generation’s Wonderwall?

 

Another fan purred somewhere;

The amphitheater was small.

 

We were in a cone

of echo and future

and all we ever had to say

was

‘You can’t always get

what you want.’

 

you can’t always get what you want.

 

YOU CAN’T always get what you WANT.

You can’t ALWAYS get what you want.

 

you Can’t always get what You Want…

you Can’t always get what you want.

 

you can’t ever get what you want.

 

You can’t always get what you want –

 

But if you try sometimes..

yesterday’s gone

“..we’ve gotta keep moving on

so grateful for the moments..”

 

i’m stuck like thunder

on an old tape recorder.

all the power; all the purpose gone.

recorded as a rumbling

an echo

an afterthought.

 

what are You then

when you’re unaware your might

is fleeting

and just a depression

on cellophane;

recorded as background noise

on someone else’s tape of life.

Just over a week on Acamprosate.

sometimes you reach for a plug and it doesn’t fit the socket

and it’s funny

and getting ready in the mirror is a music video you know you’d look great in!

and you look fly and there are a thousand things that could happen and your body is warm and the nights roll on endlessly…

and you fall in love with your face in the mirror at odd hours when you reach your work hotel! and someone you know is there! and you go! and you meet!

 

but that was before.

Today was carrying a tv monitor, 500 Moleskins, and 10 devices to a sad meeting room; and being responsible for all.

It was seeing buildings you thought you knew; changed and gutted and now under construction; changing street patterns.

C-level badges were not working (their fault) – but you, you’re the the only one who can right it.

Right their stuff only; they’ll still ignore the things you need from them.

 

And you want to go back 6 years. 4, even.

escape.

 

but today a drink doesn’t work.

and time? it doesn’t matter.

 

And all day you, you think a drink

will help you fall

asleep

after all this, and rest.

 

no, it won’t. and it won’t ever.

you can’t feel that ever again, probably.

 

And then it’s 10pm in your 2nd bath; everything taken care of.

stressed but not overly so.

but you want that intoxication and that swirling dreaminess of liquor; for one sip of it to pass your lips and make the night something of fun or danger or meaning or significance.

 

and it’s not. and it won’t.

 

It’s not a night of that; it can’t be.

Your childish whims and drunken fancies and emotional upheaval – they’re gone.

They were nothing but your synapses.

 

Acamprosate tells you so.

It’s the harsh Christmas morning a cousin proves Santa isn’t real.

 

And so you take care of your 30 year old skin, and drink water, and sigh because…Yeah, that was.. something.. back then.

 

And you get on with your life.

And alcohol is gone.

 

It really is gone.

 

Not because you want it to be, yet.

Because the meds showed you behind the Curtain.

 

and there is nothing there.