Brain Dump.

i could write about how beautiful winter is here

that right now the rain is dripping over the green and flowering
back garden and tree-hidden houses behind my building.

i could write about how i feel stuck on this writing/
self-inventory i’m supposed to be doing, and haven’t been able

to work on because we’re not doing it the way

it was designed, and i feel lost and unsupported

and conflicted about telling the person I’m working

with because i have before and things haven’t

changed, and I don’t know if it’s just me being

stubborn or avoidant or if this is really just

too precarious to attempt by myself, when

the work was designed to be done in person

with another person.

i could write about how i cancelled my audition

in san jose last night because a) i didn’t realize

how far san jose was, and b) i think i might get

the role I auditioned for on wednesday in Marin

and the plays run concurrently.

i could write about coming home last night, instead,

and “resting,” actually lying on the couch after cutting

up some beets and turnips and putting them in the oven

and putting a blanket over me and my heating pad and

shutting my eyes. and just letting myself and my eyes, especially,

rest while the vegetables roasted. how luxurious it felt

to simply do nothing – not nothing, aka watch netflix,

not nothing aka clean my house, just nothing, and not

nothing aka meditate, which could be similar but wasn’t

as my mind wandered and i let it, and i let it get a little fuzzy

and out of focus as my cat balled up in my lap to rest, too.

i could write about my friend texting me his friend’s dad is

about to die from cancer, and texting him my sympathy, but

that i wasn’t available to process around grief of that kind.

I could tell you, it’s because it’s too activating for me because

it reminds me that my cancer is only a year past, that last year

at this time i was preparing for my fifth and final round of chemo

and hearing about someone else’s cancer just reminds me how

close i am to mine.

                               but that’s not why i didn’t want to hear

about it. i don’t want to hear about your friend's cancer because i

don’t care. because i realized when i got his text that i am still

so viciously angry about what happened that i don’t have room

to be compassionate, really. because i only have room to think

about my own cancer, and to especially not think about it. to

not touch into the feelings I still have about it.

                                                                          and then we’re back

to the work that i’m not writing about right now that’s supposed to

exorcise and alchemize resentment and trauma and pain.

i could tell you that i don’t give a shit that other people have cancer

and you’re having feelings of finality and loss and grief, because

i sat in the sodden, rotten trench of it for a year, and i’m pretending

right now that i hadn’t. that i hadn’t had to think about mortality

every single day. that the finality of life wasn't consistently licking

at my ear, whispering about carpe diem and fatal rules about forgiveness 

as health. and boo-fucking-hoo that any of you now are called to
process such things with such naive surprise as if none of this existed
before it happened to someone you have a glancing acquaintance with. 

i could tell you i looked into the woman who’s profession is

helping others heal from trauma. and that my tax return might go

toward sessions with her, or someone she recommends in the east bay.

i could tell you that my eyes hurt from looking at computers all the time

and that i’m also grateful that my job doesn’t include working outside

in the rain or food service or pest removal or any other thing unpleasant.

i could write about any of these things. but
                                                                  i guess i just did.

Be of ... service?

When I first started to hear this phrase, and became conscious enough to hear it and its message, I said: No.

I feared that if I “gave of myself,” if I “give to others what was freely given to me,” I would have none left. I feared that if I gave to you what I had, there wouldn’t be any left for me.

Imagine a channel, a tube, a pipe, and into it is being poured all the light in the world. For the first time ever, the owner of that pipe feels what it’s like to feel grace, held, helped, hope. The owner of this pipe, however, has blocked off the bottom. Pinched it off like a garden hose—No, I will not let it spill out the other side. If I do, I can’t be sure that the water will fill my portion, I can’t be sure that my side of the channel will be full. I can’t risk not having what I have now. No.

Something happens, however, when you block up a hose like this—what’s inside the hose begins to turn and spoil, it loses some of its luster and charm. In the end, what you sought so hard to save and keep has rotted because you sought so hard to save and keep it.

I still fear that if I give of my time or attention or love, that I won’t have enough for me. Even despite all the evidence I’ve gathered as I slowly loosened my grip on the nozzle and let some of what I was receiving open toward others. I have plenty of evidence for the benefits of giving, and yet I still get scared.

I could also point to the outpouring of love and help I received when I was sick—and I don’t think that depleted my friends… Well, actually some it did, and one was able to say as much and I respected her need to back off from helping so much; and one was unable to say she was being depleted, and instead our relationship turned to one of resentment, and eventual distance.

I mean, I guess there is a way where giving can be depleting, and I think that’s where my sense-memory barges in to tell me to give of myself means to give away myself. But, I think this is a different manner of giving than the one intended by the “be of service” mantra. The kind of depleting giving is one where there is ego involved, and an expectation of something in return—approval, appreciation, reciprocity. Or, you give in a certain way because that’s the way you think will get you the order you want, the result you want for yourself or the other person.

The kind of help that I think I’m supposed to offer is the kind that really is “freely given,” demanding nothing in return, truly having no expectations of how the other will receive, or even reject, what I offer.

I don’t really know why I bring this up today, why it’s on my mind, except perhaps my review at my job happened last week, and I’ve been thinking about some of that feedback.

Actually, that’s probably a lot of it. A mentor of mine intones to me near constantly about my job: Just show up and be of service.

And to her, I say, F’ service.

It is hard for me to show up and be of service at my job. I know that it is, and it comes out in resentful ways as impatience, procrastination, neglect of detail. "I don’t know how," is really my answer to her advice. I don’t know how to be of service at my job. I don’t know how to appreciate every interaction I have. My job exhausts me. Being the front face of every phone call, every person at the door, everyone who wanders by the front office all.day.long.--and I can’t give all the time. I just can’t, and so I protect myself and my energies by being less than welcoming – which is the feedback I heard last week.

So, I found an image online from Elf, the Will Farrell Christmas movie. It’s of him wearing a huge, manicly excited grin, and the words, “I just love to smile. Smiling’s my favorite.” I pasted a copy under the receiver of my phone, and behind my computer monitor. It reminds me to smile, but not because of service. More because of sarcasm and irony. More because of contempt and rebellion.

I don’t know how to be of service at my job. I know I do tasks well enough, and so, I do. But, if there is a way to unkink my hose and allow some of the grace I know I have and have been given to even trickle a little more throughout the day, and not just toward my favorite people or assignments, … well, I suppose I’m open to learning how to be of service without getting dried out. 

Fortune cookie wisdom: Action is the key to success.

I didn’t actually set my alarm last night, so you get an abridged blog. I have an audition tonight in Marin, and I wanna make sure I shower!

I spent some time last night after I got home from rehearsal culling through the near 200 photos that the headshot photographer put in her gallery from our shoot a few days ago –they look AMAZING. Not “me” per se, though I don’t look half bad, but the style, the lighting, the cropping, the angles, everything, I am SO glad I paid for a professional shoot finally. As I’ve said, I love and appreciate how my friends helped me with some before, but this woman shot Rainn Wilson from “The Office,” and he got work… so…! Off to perfect my snarky, sarcasm then.

I can’t wait to write her a Yelp review, which is how I found her anyway. She used to work in LA, then was commuting to work here and in LA, and now is just here – to be close to her man, Aw…

Out of 200 photos, I get to chose two that I want her to “basic retouch,” and then I get all the rest by disc. Oh, the choices! But I’ve narrowed it down to half a dozen, with one being my stand-out – like, wow, Molly you look like someone who actually does this.

It’s again how I felt walking out of rehearsal at SF State last night – I said aloud in my car, “I’m so proud of you, Molly.” It’s such a nice feeling to have about yourself.

I also, last minute, a.k.a. Monday, signed up for an audition that’s being held this Thursday, and both tonight’s and tomorrow’s have very different needs for audition pieces.

Luckily, for tomorrow’s I’ve reached back into what I’d done when I was auditioning while I was a student at Mills, the piece I was using in the Winter of 2011/2012. I didn’t know if I’d still remember it, and I fell FLAT when I used it once then (“I’m sorry, can I start again; I’m so sorry, can I try it one more time”) – oh the poor auditors! I didn’t have it memorized.

But, as I went over it yesterday while driving to rehearsal, I realized, I do actually remember it mostly, and I can hope to get it by tomorrow evening (or just admit I don't, and use a notes) – Luckily, tonight’s is a cold-read audition, which means I don’t have to have anything memorized, I’ve just gone over the “sides” (the pieces of the play) that they want us to read from. It’s going to be a group audition, since all of the scenes have multiple characters in them. If I--- I was going to say, If I get this role…  but I won’t, not from fear of jinxing it, but simply because I want to remain true to my intention, which is to show up for myself to the best of my ability, and leave the results up to whatever they will be.

I’ll still be using my old headshot that I got a year ago, when I had like an inch of hair, but, I’m already in the door, the rest is up to the “me in person.”

Break a leg, Moll. Break a leg. (OH! And BREATHE!) 

The Runner

I attended the new writer’s group on Sunday that my friend put together of East Bay folks. We were circled in plastic chairs, old-fashioned arm chairs, and couches tucked inside the spacious two-car garage that had been repurposed into a library/workshop/extra living room. (Only in the East Bay!) I was one among 9 of us, the only girl, and though we spent copious amounts of time arguing whether Stephen King was a writer or a storyteller, and if David Foster Wallace was a genius or simply mentally masturbating onto the page, eventually, we did actually write some.

We wrote from a prompt I’d invented that morning, “You walk into a coffee shop and etched into the linoleum are the words:….”

In response, I came up with this story. No editing, no forethought, you just write, and when the time’s up, it’s up, and we shared around the room. I love that part of prompt writing in a group (not that I’ve done it much), but I love the variety of ways people go with something. The disparate styles we had became obvious, and also, we all visibly relaxed a little after the reading was through, as if we’d marked one another with a nod of approval, Yes, you are a writer, I feel comfortable having you in this group. It’s funny, but it’s also important, I think, to have that kind of respect for one another in a group like that.

We’ll see how often I’m able to attend. But I’m very glad I went.

The thing that’s been occurring to me about this story I came up with spontaneously is that I am the girl in it--the one we never meet. I am the girl who gets up in the middle of the night and leaves her lover. And then unceremoniously dumps him.

Fiction though that story may be, the seeds of myself are there. I was curious to find who in the story I was, since, well, I have an opinion that we are all or some of the characters we create. I am both the runner, and the lover calling after myself to please stay.

I think I’ve reported this anecdote before, how in college I was in a casual “relationship” with this guy, who was by all rights a decent fellow. One evening after we’d been in flagrante, he was holding me in his strong early-twenty’s arms and intoned that he’d like to take me out sometime, like, to dinner. I gasped, Why?? And he replied, because he liked me, and wanted to get to know me.

I never called him again.

I am the runner.

I have two songs in draft form, one that goes

Send me somebody that I can say Yes to.

Send me someone who I can come home to.

Just gimme somebody  somebody to make me say

Yes Yes Yes

and the other:

Married men make it so easy

To wanna misbehave

I never have to do their dishes

Just be their    sex slave

CHORUS:

I wanna be the girl who spends the night

And doesn’t sneak out around two

I wanna be the one who stays over

To wake up next   to you

I think my ambivalence about commitment is pretty clear! And to clarify, “Married Men” is a song, not an autobiography. It’s an impulse, a thought, a cop-out, a desire, a fantasy, an avoidance, a way to stay stuck and alone, since ultimately, I won’t follow through on those impulses.

So, I’ll work it out in song, in fiction, in blog. I’ll tell you how skittish I am, I’ll let myself be surprised at how I show up in my own work and reflect myself back to me. I’ll warm up to the sword-wielding, 2-a.m. sneaking, rabid runner. I’ll tell her that commitment to living in one place has only brought me health and stability; I’ll tell her that, in owning a cat for the first time, the love I have for her I’m happy and proud to give; I’ll tell her that in the many places I’ve used “Stability First,” I am the better for it.

And then I’ll let her go on a run. But maybe this one will be shorter. 

The Tell-Tale Heart

Written 2011:

i meet with a grad student who tells me not to take split-level poetry because all the under-grads write about is date rape – so i don’t tell him about the drunken carride from two strangers, later finding an earring twisted into my shirt, or being turned away from four Korean hospitals because rape is not an emergency.

i read an article on how to snag a man which suggests that women think about something naughty when out because women won’t pick up on it, but the men will – so, i imagine licking pre-cum from a cock, which provides a lascivious revolt against public decorum and not undamp panties.

but, in the unwalled house of my memory, these situations sometimes mix – and the salt sours, the armor rebuilds, and the currency of reality cripples.

In Bernie Siegel’s book, Love, Medicine, and Miracles, he reports that his research has shown that most cancer patients have suffered a significant breach in trust at an early age.

“I will slice your face with a razor blade/

and watch your smile fade.”

- The couplet I often recite in my head when I’m feeling cornered, scared, and angry.

I informed you a little while ago that it seems like repairing my relationship with intimacy, trust, and sex is probably back on the agenda. Yesterday, after my work at my shamanic journey group, this was made pretty apparent.

And luckily, one of my great friends in attendance told me afterward that our mutual friend is having a hugely positive experience with a therapist/healer around similar issues. I plan to contact her today.

In fact, I’d referred the same friend to my own “intuitive” (read: psychic), and it’s just humorous to me that me and this group of women have this rolodex of woo-woo witchy healer folks. And damned, if I’m not grateful for it.

For those unfamiliar, shamanic journeying (according to my novice understanding) is pretty much an intense meditation, but there’s a drum, the sound of which is purported to help induce a dream-like state—it’s like a guided meditation, where instead of listening to someone’s voice tell you to follow down a path in the forest, you sort of follow the drum, and make your own path through the forest. I’ve been journeying for years now, and find it to be one of the best and quickest ways to access internal information—however uncomfortable that information may be.

Yesterday’s overall message was that I have to repair my relationship to trust. Yuck.

It’s like trust for me is a broken port, and until it’s repaired, there will be glitches and sparks and melted fuses.

The thing about sexual trauma is this: you want to show people (the right people) the wound, you want to share about it, you want to exorcise it, you want to talk about it in order to heal from it, to release it and move on from it. You want to expose it to fresh air so that it heals instead of festers. You want to bring it into the sun and let the forces at work do their magic to create something beautiful out of something horrifying.

And yet.

Because of the nature of sexual trauma as a secret, and the prevalence of people dismissing it as exaggeration… You also don’t want to share about it. You are ashamed to bring it out, to tell anyone, to share about it. You feel that to mention it is to invite revulsion, rejection, dismissal. And perhaps, you have experience to back up that fear, and so you remain locked up tight with it, and it will continue to burn a hole in your heart.

The longer you hold onto it, the more painful it becomes, until it becomes something so immense in your heart and head that you can’t imagine that you can actually share it with other people, because it will overwhelm everyone, including yourself.

This, is why god made therapists. Healers. And friends with rolodexes.

The arrows toward healing this next came from “going in” to my meditation with questions about my recent fatigue. Over the last month or so, I’ve been so fucking tired, and my western and eastern doctors can’t figure it out, except that my eastern doc said, “You’re energy center is depleted.” Well, yeah. But why?

The information I got last night was that I have been fighting this, this knowledge, these experiences, this anger, this sorrow, … well, for years. I’ve been avoiding it for just as long. I’ve been fighting dealing with it, but it’s there. Believe you me, apparently, it’s there. And somehow my awareness has cracked open about it. Somehow, I am aware that I am exhausted from this fight, from this constant battle to suppress, dominate, and deny.

Some veil has lifted, some curtain shifted, and I am finally able to experience the exhaustion.

And if I want to get healthy, then I have to heal it. And if I want to heal it…--well, as I mentioned earlier, I’m more than a little ambivalent about doing so.

First things first. Call my friend who’s working with someone. Get that info.

Second thing? Ensure that I approach and treat myself with the most radiant compassion and care that I can muster, cuz,

We’re gonna need a bigger boat. 

The X Factor

Yesterday morning, after I left you with my maudlin, mildly self-pitying blog, I went to meet up with some folks, and I was able to identify the word for how I was feeling: deprived.

Usually in those groups, we talk about deprivation around things like clothing (wearing your boots even though they're falling apart), or entertainment (not seeing live music for months in a row), or food (not going food shopping). I use these as examples because I’ve “used” deprivation in just these ways. I’ve been in deprivation around all of these things, and am working my best to walk away from those ways of being and treating myself, through recognizing that there is enough in&of the world to get my needs met, too.

So, as I sat down with them, I was thinking about how, precisely, I was feeling about my lack of group interaction, and I identified the term deprivation.

In talking with them about it, I came a little bit further into it: I realized that what I’m missing is being “on.”

About a year ago, I walked past a restaurant where a good friend of mine was finishing up brunch with her husband and a friend of theirs. They waved me in to sit down, and I spent a few minutes talking with them—not catching up, just making conversation.

The same friend later told me that she’d never seen me like that. That, in fact, she'd never seen me with other people. That I lit up, that I was funny, and charming, and conversant, and “on.”

I was “on,” because being with other people like that, in that way, a small group that isn’t there to listen to music or poetry or go to a movie, in a small group where I can turn “on” my charisma—man, that’s what I’m missing.

I took one of those Meyers-Briggs personality tests, once as a fun, short version, and once where an actual trained woman interpreted my zillion answers to the zillion questions.

What she came out with was pretty telling to this new awareness: I fall so directly between being an introvert and an extrovert, that I’m neither an “I” or an “E”—I’m an “X.” (An XNFP, if you care to know.)

I need both. I am fueled and fed by both. I need the kind of quiet, introspective time with myself, and the quiet, one-on-one interactions where we can get really intimate and honest. AND. I need the loud, boisterous, active hilarity of being with other people, where I don’t know what conversation we’ll have, and I jump from topic to topic, volleying back and forth with others.

I miss that. I miss that part of myself, and I think that part of what I was recognizing yesterday was an atrophying of that side of personality. It really only comes out in those situations, and I’m simply not in many of those situations these days. (Although, flirting has a very similar timbre to it.)

I love feeling “on.” I love the rush of feeling expressive and funny and bold and intelligent. I love the rush of feeling the charm that pulses from me when I’m in that state of being. I love feeling charming. Here meaning, engaging, self-possessed, active, social, humorous, with levity. Oh levity. Donde esta levity?

That’s another longed-for part of that style of interaction—the levity. We’re not going to get deep here, those are the rules of engagement. We may not chat about Karl Lagerfeld’s new collection (necessarily) or what mascara we’re using (though we could), but we certainly won’t talk about deep self-work or spiritual progress. We’ll talk at that mid-level of fluff that happens when you’re engaged with friends and acquaintances in a social setting.

I’ve had plenty of opportunity, and continue to, to talk about the heavy. And although people say they hate small talk, I guess that’s sort of what I’m talking about – the chit chat and conversations that happen over a bowl of punch, as you float from one corner of a party to another, or... at a dinner party.

I’m glad that I have been able to pin-point what it is that I feel has been missing, because it makes it much easier to invite it into my life, and find and create opportunities for that kind of Upness to happen. More importantly, I’ve gotten to see why these kinds of interactions are important, and indeed critical, to my level of contentment and happiness. And just like the other places of deprivation I’d identified, I first had to admit that those things were important to me, that they were “needs,” not wants, not brush-aways.

However, I am sorry we both had to read through yesterday's navel-gazing blog to get here. ;)

Oh Envy, Have a cuppa tea & be off with yourself.

A coworker asked me what my plans were this weekend, and along with my regular commitments, I am also going to my friend’s poetry reading, the first meeting of a new writing group, and a shamanic journey group I attend monthly.

She said, Wow, I wish my plans included things like writing groups and journey groups.

I asked what her weekend plans were, and she said, they were having some friends over for dinner. That’s about it.

I said, Wow, I wish my plans included things like having friends over for dinner.

I live in the strange time/place between apartment- and house-dweller; between the young able-bodied, go-into-the-city-at-10:30pm-er (as I was invited to last night) and the slightly more cautious, actually-10:30-is-my-bedtimer. I live between the single person world, and the time of coupledom.

And in this place, though there is a ton to “do,” I feel a little lonely. Not for the partner, per se, but for the friendships that begin to fall away as a single person in a paired up world. Nostalgic for the times when a gathered group of women would carve pumpkins together on a Thursday night, for the time when there was occasion to take photos of a gaggle of folks, and a little longing for the camaraderie, simplicity, and elegance that “having some friends over for dinner” could offer.

I know life has different phases, and the majority of the things I’m doing right now (though they are communal, simply aren’t friend-inclusive) are in support of a grander plan and dream: acting classes, auditioning, rehearsals, practicing my lines and reading scripts. I know that this is an exciting part of my path, and, believe me, I am *stoked* to get to do these things, but I also recognize that a shift is occurring. I am on the blank page after one chapter has ended, and before the other has begun.

My friends will be at the writing group, the poetry reading, and the shamanic journey group. These are people who I can have hours’ long conversations with, and last week, did have coffee with one of them, but, I don’t know – there’s a zest of communal living that I haven’t replaced from the days of late-night group dancing and diner-ing.

Perhaps all things in order and in time, but I’m just noticing. I notice that I’d like to be someone who goes to dinner at friends’ houses. Maybe I just want to be able to invite people over to dinner, like I had been able to in my 1-bedroom in the city, but not in my studio in Oakland. I know that’s a part of it too. 

It’s interesting, isn’t it, that the grass is always greener?

I have plenty of people I consider friends—I’d just like to see them more often. And apparently, in groups. (I also recognize that I don’t want to be your token single friend in that group to whom you say things like, "Have you tried internet dating?" For more on this, see this article my friend sent me!)

That said, there’s a viewing party for ONCE upon a time I’m attending in a few Sundays at a friend’s; there’s a birthday party at my friend’s house in Discovery Bay next month that will bring out some of my most cherished friends and their families;

and, anyway, this navel-gazing blog is boring me. ;)

I have some people to go see, followed by shopping for a jewel-toned top for Monday’s new headshots, and a facial to help those photos come out awesome. Then line-learning, vegetable roasting, and poetry attending. My life is certainly full—now if it could also be a little more stocked with you.

What Would Hitler Do?

I heard a friend ask this last week, trying to indicate how we can choose to behave in the world—e.g. if we’re driving on the highway, and someone cuts us off… well, What Would Hitler Do?

His point was that we can choose to align our negative thinking with that Master of Disaster and flip them off, seek vengeance, and our own kind of selfish order; or we can choose to go another way with it, a way more forgiving, generous, loving.

Last weekend, I saw The Monuments Men, a movie about a group of Allies who endeavor to save the art that Hitler and the Nazis were ransacking from all around Europe, and intended to destroy if he was unsuccessful in his global domination.

He and his troops acquired and housed hundreds of thousands of sculptures, paintings and artifacts—at least according to the film. All diligently organized, categorized, catalogued, and stored.

And here’s what I’ve been thinking about, at the risk of stepping into a hornet’s nest:

All human achievement rests on the ability to bring about our will and our plans onto the earthly plane.

Let us for a moment, if you’re able, think about the achievement of this one man: he rallied a country in the midst of an economic collapse; he held one vision as the goal for his endeavors; he organized one of the highest levels of precision of action over a grand piece of land and over a series of years.

There is a saying about folks like me, that though we had self-will galore, we had the utter inability to point it toward a worthy goal.

And, I think the same is true for Hitler.

The man was organized. The man had vision. The man attempted to wrest out of the chaos of the world the kind of order he deemed positive.

IF this same man had been guided by the principles of forgiveness, generosity, and love… what on earth could he have accomplished?

If you can conceive of a Germany that pulled itself out of economic collapse by organizing itself around principles of helping one another, creating opportunity for all their people, celebrating inclusion of people of all religions and sexual orientations and ancestral background...

If, instead of the destruction of people, Hitler’s same brain and ambition were aimed toward the Jewish value of “tikkun olam” (to repair the world)—What on earth could have happened??

I get that I may sound daft, offensive, and totally inconsiderate of the crimes and atrocities that were in actuality wrought upon the world.

But, I also think there’s a huge lesson to be missed if we dismiss the fact that one man, one man who ate, and shat, and slept just like all of the rest of us, changed the entire world. Here was a simple and flawed human, just like us, who woke up every day with one goal in mind. It was a horrid goal, I concur and admit and agree and support. But, each day, Hitler decided that what he wanted to do in the world was the very best thing, and he didn’t let ANYTHING deter him from that. He continued on, like a (rabid) dog with a bone, and said, No, World, I’m going to do what I believe I was put on this earth to do.

That kind of certainty, if aimed toward the “right” objectives…? It boggles the mind.

Now, the important thing to remember, here, is the “right” objectives. The proper use of the will, as they might say. I wonder if Hitler had ever sat in meditation and tried to understand what the highest good was for him and those around him, if he would have had a different goal. I wonder if Hitler had tried to exercise, even ungracefully, the qualities of compassion and vulnerability, if he would have sought a different aim. I also wonder, if he had, if he would achieved anything at all.

But, then again, there are plenty of examples of compassion leading the way toward change.

If instead, with his proficient, tenacious, resourceful, determined, magnanimous personality, Hilter had had the heart of a Mother Theresa, a Ghandi, or even a Jesus, I believe we would have a much different answer to the question, What Would Hitler Do?

Grandfather/advised me:/Learn a trade/I learned/to sit at desk/and condense/No layoff/from this/condensery ~ Niedecker

For reasons unknown, I reached for the book of “Modern Poetry” that I bought for a class during my undergrad days. It lines my shelf with the Norton Anthology of Poetry by Women, one by Langston Hughes, and even a book on Greek Mythology that I haven’t wanted to part with in the 10 (jeez, can’t believe it’s been such a short time!) years since undergrad.

Maybe part of this memory-lane path was struck by my friend’s photo on Facebook of an abandoned shopping cart in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where I spent my undergrad years. Maybe I just wanted to read some poetry this morning.

It was interesting to me in grad school, one of the teachers asked us, poets all, if we had any books of poetry at home. My shelves, besides those few relic anthologies I rarely look at, pretty much housed some novels and a bunch of “spiritual” books.

I kept a few of the mandatory books we were required to purchase during those two years at Mills, and even found myself going to the poetry section of the bookstore once, purchasing from titles alone, Mary Karr’s Sinners Welcome and one with this lovely title:

            If there is something to desire,/

            There will be something to regret./

            If there is something to regret,/

            There will be something to recall./

            If there is something to recall,/

            There was nothing to regret./

            If there was nothing to regret,/

            There was nothing to desire.

by Vera Pavlova.

Tell me that’s not a great title! And message.

Poetry is a strange thing to “read.” There are some books you want to read page after page, because it does read like a novel, and you are impelled forward through the pages of the “story,” the landscape.

But, much of poetry insists that you sit with each piece, each page for longer than 30 seconds.

Much of poetry, in my own limited estimation, calls you to allow the words to melt like a fine piece of dark chocolate. You sense the bitterness, the sweetness, the texture, the mouth-feel. You turn it over and under your tongue, attempting to pry all the secrets out of this square bit of matter before it is gone. And afterward, you notice around inside your mouth where the taste remains, what it reminds you of. If you “liked” it.

Poetry is like that.

A marathon, not a sprint. An 8-course meal, not fast food.

Here is a piece from Pavlova’s book I shall choose at random, because I actually haven’t read the book, though I bought it two years ago – because poetry requires that time, and most times, us modern folk won’t allow it. So, here’s to taking a moment to savor the delicacy of language:

Eternalize me just a bit:

            take some snow and sculpt me in it,

            with your warm and bare palm

            polish me until I shine…

"With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility." ~ Stan Lee or Voltaire?

I recently had this text exchange with a friend of mine:

You know, whenever you in particular “like” something I’ve written, it makes me think that I have something worthy to say and a good way of saying it. – This scares the crap out of me. – Knock it off.

“Both those things are true! And isn’t that kind of fear thrilling?”

*thrilling*

I hoped the sarcasm carried through text.

Last night, I spoke to a group of gathered women, sharing with them my experience, strength, and hope for a little while.

Afterward, the feedback included sentiments like, “That was beautiful, eloquent, articulate. It was like a short story. You speak like a writer. That was like a TED Talk.”

Little do they, or you, know, that a tiny little shoot of a dream tucked inside my ambitious heart is to be a TED talk person – on what, ver vaist, but I suppose that’s not my business yet.

This Sunday, I’m scheduled to attend a small writer’s group that’s just beginning, friends and friends of friends. It’s supposed to be supportive, just evoking some words onto a page, doesn’t have to be Faulkner. But one suggestion is to bring some writing we’re working on.

And, my brain says, I don’t write.

Here’s what I say when people ask me if I’m writing: Well, I do this blog, but other than that, I’m focusing on theater right now.

I don’t really write.

I know this blog is something. And I know that it’s worthy of being written for me and for those of you that enjoy it. I (sometimes) know it’s not a “brush-away” thing, but it’s private, still, sort of. It’s not a public venue, really; it’s not something to read at a writer’s circle, or submit to a magazine or journal. And I feel really unclear about what kind of venue this, my, kind of writing belongs in.

I do also know that I am focusing on theater right now. To use the metaphor again of my internal round table (well, it’s rectangular, but you catch my drift), all of them/us want to act right now, and only half-heartedly do they/we want to write, in a professional capacity.

I know one of the detractors is fear. And that’s alright, I don’t have to tackle all my demons or desires at once.

A friend once told me this: The only difference between fear and excitement is breathing.

That kind of fear, the fear that I might have something worthwhile to say and share and give. Something people want to read and be touched and changed by. Something that gets underneath the armor of separation, and helps us all to feel a little more vulnerable, aware, to smile & laugh & relate. Yeah, the fear of that kind of power, and responsibility, is pretty big.

So, I guess I’ll just keep breathing. 

Voice of Dreams Past

When I left South Korea in February 2004, my neighbor and Canadian co-worker gave me a journal as a parting gift. I didn’t realize til later on the plane back to America that he’d written inside, “Good Luck on Broadway.”

I just searched my blog to see if I’d written about this segment of my life earlier, and I have, but it’s worth revisiting today.

When I left my ESL teaching post in Korea, my first “real” job post-undergrad, I had the idea I would come back to the States and “break onto Broadway,” that I would work my way through the underworld of New York, the clichéd waitress by day, actor by night.

As I was applying for jobs, I went to get my nails done—because surely that’s a priority to someone looking for food service work…? I was in the salon, and began to chat with the woman next to me. I told her about where I’d been, where I thought I’d be going, and she said something that infiltrated. To paraphrase: You know you have to start in community theater, right? It takes years to do anything worthy of note. You don’t just start at the top.

Her words, combined with a moment of clarity about my ability to cope with life on life’s terms, led me to abandon my dream, drive west, and set up a new life in California. You can read about that story here.

But.

Last night, I went to my first rehearsal for the new play I’m in. It’s a staged mock-trial about the Rape of Nanking by the Japanese during World War II. It’s not a Sam Shepard, or Shakespeare, or Kushner. It’s not something I’ll actually advertise to my friends to come see, because I believe there will be more plays, with better scripts and an actual plot that I will want to encourage you to see me in. But, it’s a start. And, as I wrote earlier, I’m happy to be in your bad plays. And really, I am.

But, this thing happened while I was waiting for my table-reading rehearsal to begin: I heard voices.

Specifically, I heard a woman, probably a young woman, as the rehearsals are at SF State, singing operatically, and there was a chorus behind her. When I heard it, I stopped short, and followed the sound.

I stood on one side of a wall, the theater on the other. It must have been the scenery shop, with spray-painted borders on the walls and floors, immense pieces of mirror and wood. The sort of haphazard array of items you think of in any work-shop. I stood there, and I listened to them sing. To the accompanying pianist, the voice of the director, telling them something I couldn’t quite hear. She lit up the whole place, this disembodied voice.

And I remembered that part of this whole thing for me. That part of the motivation, that part of the dream.

Because, as you may have (or maybe I should have) gathered by now, this theater thing and this singing thing are related.

I do know enough to know that what that woman in the nail shop said was correct. That it does take years. But what my 24-year old self wasn’t able or willing or balanced enough to say was, So what? Yeah, And? That’s what I’m doing here, lady—I’m beginning.

I could look around the room at the director and my fellow actors and report that they’re all 10 years younger than me.

I could stand in that hallway listening to the voice of my own aspiration and wail I should have studied theater in undergrad.

I could comb through my neglected childhood, and poke a finger into the wound of not being encouraged to pursue my talent and my dreams.

But, Julia Cameron wrote something very significant to her naysayers (internal and external) in The Artist’s Way when she began learning to play the piano in her 50s.

“Do you know how old you’ll be by the time you actually get proficient at this thing?”

Yes, the same age I’d be if I didn’t.

I saw my friend Matt onstage last week. He’s been working in the theater industry since his 20s, went to school for it. He’s 50 now. He's not famous. It's his first SF play. But he’s working. Always working. And he loves it.

And isn’t that the damned point. 

The Longest Lesson

There is a phrase around here that says something like, “Life is day at school: Some of the lessons are easy, and some of the lessons are hard.”

I went back into my email this morning to grab an old “Oprah/Deepak” meditation (because even though the last 21-day meditation “challenge” ended a while ago… the link still works!). The one this morning centered on the thought, “I attract that which I am.”

Sometimes I love this idea. I feel full of love and potential and vigor, and love that I am attracting that into my world and orbit.

Today, however, I heard that phrase, and my guts steeled a little. I attract that which I am.

This isn’t a tear-down of myself, but these few days, I’ve felt scared, inexpert, impulsive and mistaken. – I sent the blog that said I don’t want to “escalate” things with the 25 y.o. to the 25 y.o. … I wrote with it, There’s probably a better and more graceful way to let you know why I have to cancel Saturday’s date, but here.

And like pulling the pin on a grenade and handing it to him, I pressed send.

You can imagine this brought about a series of results and reactions, which I am now attempting to repair. Inexpertly. And perhaps unsuccessfully.

Yesterday morning, I did some writing about my motivations for doing this and had a conversation sharing this with someone else. It’s part of the reason I wasn’t able to write yesterday morning.

It feels sucky, is how it feels. It feels shitty to know that there are different ways to do things, and know you did it otherwise.

I feel sad because I (rightly) pulled the cord on a potential relationship, and I feel ashamed of how I did that.

It’s okay. I’m human and inexpert, and learning and growing and trying.

But, that also means I’m attracting into my world people who are the same – AND WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST BE FUCKING PERFECT?? Be kind, and honest, and simple all of the time? It would make this “lesson” much easier, wouldn’t it?

Can’t we all just get A’s, and “go to the head of the class,” and all be valedictorians?

Can’t we all just stop stubbing our toes against our own fears and hardships and boogeymen?

Can’t we all just have lives where we feel confident, expert, proud, self-admiring, and kick-ass?

Why, in order to get to all the above feelings, must we go through all the stubbing first?

It sense no make.

And I’m tired of being a flailing human being. I’m tired of doing it almost right, of showing up almost fully. I’m tired of almost feeling whole and complete and awesome.

Sometimes, I do. I won’t lie. Sometimes, I really really do. Sometimes it’s for minutes, sometimes for hours. And even a few times, for days, I feel like I’m really walking on a yellow brick road toward Oz.

And then the trees start to throw apples at me.

I *get* that “this is all part of the process.” But sometimes the process sucks.

And in my attempts to wriggle out of discomfort, I land in a higher degree. By being dishonest, abandoning my truth, trying to make someone else deal with feelings that are uncomfortable or pave a way for me that is less rocky, well—I know it’s the very absolute best that, as fallible, learning, human, I can do today. But I wish, well, I wish I didn’t take that person and potential friendship down in the process.

(End of tantrum)

(...maybe.)

in.to.the.light.

Over the past two weeks, I’ve had occasion to sit with two friends who shared with me about trauma in their past, as well as reading an article by a sexual abuse survivor about the upswing of the Dylan Farrow case.

A little less than a year ago, after I completed chemo, I started reading a book about healing that kind of trauma. As you may remember/know, it’s my understanding that disease can be a function of underlying emotional or spiritual dis-ease, and after my bought with cancer, I was (and still am) determined to do all I can to root out causes and dis-ease that may underlie the causation of cancer. The book suggested that before you really begin, you collect your army of support because the work would be intense. So, I sought out a somatic therapist, as the book suggested, and saw her a few times. I wasn’t a good fit, and I soon stopped seeing her, and soon stopped reading the book, maybe a chapter or two in.

However, this morning, I was toodling around on my phone, compulsively checking my email for the rehearsal schedule for the play in which I’ve been cast(!), and I clicked on the “Notes” app I have on there, wondering if there wasn’t some old “to do” list that may have good ideas for me.

Instead, I found a series of quotations from that book. A series of words that struck me, applied to me, and offered me compassion, understanding, and hope.

I … don’t really want to do this. Read that, re-read that. Tell you here. But, my friends, it is all related. Don’t worry, I won’t get specific here—it’s not appropriate, and not necessary—except to say my abuse was not incest or young child abuse, but simply a series of events from a youngish age into my 20s when I didn’t understand what No was, how to stop things, how to not go along.

But, apparently, several things in my current life are pointing me back at looking in that direction. And, from my own understanding and cosmology, the “Universe” tends to bring things up when you’re ready to deal with them. … And, if you don’t, you’ll be given occasion to deal with them later, we promise.

One of the quotes in my app says something about moving out of isolation into relationships. Va voy, if that’s not what I’ve been trying to do. And here is a hiccup I didn’t see coming. A gentle nudge from the Universe saying, Hey, there are these unresolved things. I know they’re hard, but you’re not alone, and we’ve already pointed some support structures your way, if you want to work on this now.

I may say, Fuck you. I don’t wanna.

I may call on the language I read once that said, Stop Identifying With Your Trauma. Don’t use it as a shield and a sword to say, LOOK SEE THERE’RE THESE FUCKED UP THINGS THAT HAPPENED, SO YOU CAN’T GET CLOSE TO ME, AND I’M TOO SCARED TO GET CLOSE TO YOU—BACK! OFF!

I could call on that language and say, see, I need to not look at this, because then I’m just wallowing in my past, instead of moving out of it.

See…. but the thing is. I haven’t wallowed. I’ve avoided. Plague-like.

Partly because “it wasn’t that bad.” Partly because it’s so damned fucking common. Heartbreakingly.

Partly because there have been other fish to fry.

And mostly because it’s really really hard.

I have some Louise Hay “Affirmation Cards” over my kitchen sink, so I can look at them when I’m doing my despised dishes. The one that calls to me about this reads, “All these changes are easy to make.” These patterns are easy to heal and change. Maybe. Maybe this is easier than I fear. The big boogey man with a flashlight projecting himself on the wall much larger than he really is.

It’s happened before.

I know it’s a heavy thing to lay out to you here, but I also know some of you are there, were there, get it, and are curious, like me, on how to go through this stage of healing. As always, I write this for us.

And now for something completely different!

in the eventuality of time, there is a sacrifice that must be made.

we are never sure what we must give up in order to move forward,

but we come to a bridge with a toll and are demanded a pound of

flesh in exchange for passage to the new place.

it is never clear if this new place is where we intend or

want to go but our anima will impel us forward along

the continuity of movement.

how many bridges we already traversed

does not factor into how many we must pass again. 

we may have already sacrificed pride

love

pain

fear

desire

isolation. and this bridge requires from us another token.

perhaps you feel like the knight in a monty python sketch,

quartered from limb and limb and limb, a torso now, you are

asked to divest even more from what you carry. perhaps though,

you are a lancelot, fueled and lifted, freed by all you’ve

been asked to dispense with, grateful for the chance to

expel another pebble from your shoe.

in the eventuality of time, we will all offer this sacrifice.

we must, because we are alive

and so, we do. 

The Wrestler

Do you ever notice how Jews tend to answer a question with a question?

Why shouldn’t we answer with a question?

Call it the Jew in me, call it the Libra, call it the overactive thinking machine tucked behind my eyeballs, but I question things a lot. And repeatedly.

Little though I know about Judaism and even littler about other religions, Jews are purported to “wrestle and grapple” with G-d. This is our purpose—not necessarily to obey a god, as perhaps some religions require, but to wrestle, argue, question, mull, and ponder.

I have a date with the 25 y.o. on Saturday. We haven’t seen one another since our “State of the Union” conversation last week when it was decided that we don’t see a relationship happening, but we genuinely enjoy one another’s company and also are very attracted to one another.

This led us to the conclusion that we won’t see one another less, and be in the ambiguity of friends but not friends. Until one of us doesn’t gel with the ambiguity anymore.

I think that one is me.

See, I sort of know this scenario: Now that we’ve agreed to be more “casual,” that probably means sex, which we haven’t had yet. In my experience, here’s how casual sex goes: You have good to great (and occasionally lackluster and regretful) sex with someone a few times. Maybe twice, maybe three times. And soon, since the investment isn’t really there, the communication begins to wane, you text one another less and less, until soon you don’t communicate at all, and sort of fall out of the orbit of one another’s lives.

So, for me, in my own experience (and I know this isn’t everyone’s), casual sex = the end of a potential friendship. It just does.

What I wrestle with right now, then, is how important is that potential friendship to me? How important is this person in the mosaic of my life? For now, not very, but as I said, we do have a lot to talk about and a lot I’d like to continue to talk about – beyond all the theater intel I want to glean.

So that’s not a very good measuring stick, then. Because it’s ambiguous.

Let’s try another model I use to tease out information from myself.

In meditation, I sometimes go to this long dining table in a small house. It’s a large, wooden, old-time crafted, dark stained table with divets and dents in it. A long-loved and -used table. Seated around this table are all the disparate parts of myself I've been able to gather so far: the brain, the nymph, the baker, the child, the sorrow, the jokester, the anger, love, vanity, warrior, healer, to name several.

So, I asked this gathered group: All in favor of sleeping with the 25 y.o.?

Up go the hands of the nymph and the brain.

All in favor of not sleeping with the 25 y.o.?

Up go the hands of every other entity at the table.

Hmmm. … Well, nymph, yes, of course, you lovely and talented minx you. I expect as much, and that’s okay. You’re at the table because you’re valued, and your vote has been heard.

Brain—I get it. He’s a wildly smart guy. The interest in long and winding pillow talk; the desire to be in close contact and proximity to someone who fires synapses you rarely use. I get it. I know you miss that fuel.

But… everybody else says we don’t want to do this.

So, still, this hasn’t been the clearest exercise in coming to a conclusion.

Finally, I ask the big question: Which action supports my highest good? 

And thus, it is clear to me, in this situation, to not sleep with him. If we can forge a friendship, great, and if not, I tried.

Because as I reported, I had some pretty great casual sex recently (well, a few months ago now)—with casual sex as my intention and feeling very good and happy with my behavior and outcome. And, don't get me wrong, when I can get it on the regular, please, I’m down. But otherwise, I’m okay without it. Sometimes I miss it, the connection of two bodies. But I also had some disappointing casual sex recently, and, well, not all sex is great.

I have previews that this sex could be great. I really think it would be. And I know the vixen inside me is just mewling to get some sexy-time on. To wield the tools and tricks we’ve learned, to sharpen them against someone who is well-matched, to exude Level 10 sexuality that I keep to a 4 (max) in regular life outside the bedroom.

I know it would be fun. But I know it doesn’t support my highest good, and my highest goals for myself. It doesn’t undermine them, per se, but it simply continues a pattern of behavior that isn’t the most fulfilling—and I think what I’m saying is that I’d like to be fulfilled. And therefore “filled” by someone where there is a mutual understanding of continued partnership and exploration.

I also know that I have often and many times been involved with folks and situations that my “dining table” wasn’t fully behind—and I’ve felt that … loss? emptiness? disconnect. I know this road.

I am a wrestler. I grapple and wrestle and tease and shimmy my way into and out of every eventuality. And though I have run the gamut of “pros/cons,” my ultimate guide can only be my highest good. Even when it means I miss a savory, delectable, oh-so-mouth-watering meal.

Get Real.

Blogger lets you see what posts are being read, how many times, and where in the world the reader is (HELLO! Those of you in Poland, Germany & Israel...whoever you are!). This morning, I saw that someone had read “Pulling a Carmen,” my first blog-a-day in November of 2011. I haven’t stuck with it daily, but fairly enough.

Amazingly, a) it’s the same things I talk about now (wanting to act and perform; letting myself be in a relationship; owning my dreams), but b) it also shows me where things have changed: I have been a bass player in a band – I certainly wasn’t in Winter of 2011 when I wrote that; I wasn’t until Spring of 2013.

In that blog, I write that my relationship with others is reflected in my relationship with myself: how am I not committed to myself and my goals? And here I am present-day, whittling down my goals to only theater, finally. 

This week, I wrote the lead singer in the band I play bass in that I can’t be in the band anymore. It’s sad, but I know it’s ultimately for the best. It’s a pruning game—like a bonsai. Or fichus. (cuz who doesn’t love the word fichus). And I think it will ultimately help me in my attempts to focus on and even achieve anything at theater.

I write about all the same things that I write about now, but I do think I’m at a different place with them. I mean, I guess I write about the same things all the time: relationships, healing, self-care, self-derision, past experience, authenticity, perseverance.

Perseverance. I’ve written a bunch about that before, but without one goal to head toward, the whole thing becomes dispersed, scattered, and ineffectual.

Yesterday, I put down a deposit for real headshots.

The friends I’ve had who’ve helped me out over the years produced incredible photos, artistic, fun, and fun to shoot—but they’re not “acting headshots.” And there just is an industry standard. I’ve been trying to get the name of someone from an actor friend of mine, but her voicemails are all garbled, and somehow it hasn’t been working.

Enter Yelp. Yesterday after some searching and clicking and emailing, I sent half of the $350 fee to this woman in Berkeley.

Later that day, I got emails back from my other inquiries, friends, who would be willing to do a much reduced rate, or photos in exchange for babysitting.

I cursed myself (mildly) for being so impetuous and imprudent, for not being patient and thereby “wasting” money.

And then, I looked at these friends’ websites, and I said, ya know, it’s worth it.

As Maybelline says, I’m worth it. (or is it clarol?)

Because, after hm, 3 years of headshots that I felt either okay, or less than okay about (fine photos though they were), I've been being prudent and cutting corners and trying alternatives--It’s time to put my money where my mouth is. And I mouth about being an actress.

Does this mean I’m suddenly an actress? No. Does it mean that I’m taking myself seriously enough to invest in myself? Yes. Does it mean that I can focus more on what I’m showing the auditors rather than what I’ve handed them, or emailed them? YES.

Because it IS my calling card, my first impression. And if I want to be a professional, I get professional help. If I want this to be real, then I get real.

I could look at that first blog and laugh/lament that I’m talking and writing and working on the same damned things 3 years later. And a little bit, I do. But I also recognize that big things have shifted since then, too. I’m glad to have this kind of record to mark my progress. Even when progress looks circuitous and labyrinthine.

The last line in that first blog is that maybe there’s a tall attractive employed funny Jewboy who is looking for a “writer/singer/actress…bass player.” At the time I wrote that, "bass player" was only a vague hope and notion, a funny, last second, "doorknob comment" throw-away, because you shouldn't really know that it's important to me. Today, I get to own that mantle. I am a bass player. I play bass, I’ve been in a band. And I am now hoping to own the mantle of actress.

If you glue it, they will come. 

BFGOG

This’ll be a short one, due to time, and that I feel quite drawn today (insert cartoon image of me—get it?).

I’ve been sitting with this phrase since last week, when two work occasions brought it to mind: “But For the Grace of G-d, there go I.”

The 16-year old sister of a student got locked up in a 5150 last week, for mental and drug-related reasons.

An unstable woman my age sought to get all bases of her soul covered by coming to my work before she gets sent away to jail.

It’s been 10 years, nearly 11, since I was in a padded room or a barred cell.

But for the grace of god, there go I.

Call it grace, call it luck, call it divine intervention, call it none of these. I don’t know why, and I don’t test my chances. As best I can, I stay in the middle of the boat, make phone calls, meditate, get outside help, and just continue to try, because there is a gossamer slip of distance between those lives and my own.

Call it whatever you want, including random chance. Just call me grateful. 

Maybe Baby

Here's the subtitle of the book of the same name: 28 Writers Tell the Truth About Skepticism, Infertility, Baby Lust, Childlessness, Ambivalence, and How They Made the Biggest Decision of Their Lives.

You can imagine there are a lot of thoughts about and sides to the story. I haven’t yet read the book, but I plan to. Because I fit in there, somewhere along the Skepticism, Ambivalence, and the unlisted Fear of Regret.

Yesterday, I attended a baby shower for a friend of mine. It’s the 2nd I’ve attended recently, but skewed very differently from the last one.

The first one was held in a yawning mansion in Russian Hill or Pacific Heights, some “you will never afford this” neighborhood. It was hosted in a home that would not be out of place in Dwell, or Architectural Digest, and peopled by beautifully draped women who would be staged in such a photo shoot.

The conversation was all about babies. When you were due, how many you had, getting into preschools, Diaper Genies, the best nappies, where you take your toddler.

The striking thing, to me, is that all of these women were intelligent, obviously savvy, had or have a career. And they were all talking about poop.

I was (very obviously) one of two women in attendance who was childless, and I felt so fish-out-of-water, I was relieved to leave and call a single, childless friend to … not commiserate, per se, but to, I don’t know, vent, maybe.

Yesterday’s event was entirely different. A baby shower, yes. Held in a gorgeous home with a catered lunch, yes. Obviously savvy, intelligent, careered women, yes.

But somehow, the conversations were completely different. Sure, there was some “helicopter parent” talk, a few “we’re trying to get pregnant” comments, and a story of a friend who bought a racecar, and by default, because of the cost of the car, decided she wouldn’t freeze her eggs. But mostly, these women were talking about themselves, their interests, and random wordly gossip; about new restaurants opening, the surprisingly inviting nature of the L.A. community, and, in one instance, syphilis.

Why was this event different? The two guests of honor would be at home talking with one another, smart, hilarious, worldly. I don’t know. But, I know I left feeling a hundred times different than the last time. I felt like a person who’d attended a party, not a single, childless oaf who didn’t fit in.

I have two friends back east in very different stages of the spectrum. One I spoke to in New Jersey last weekend told me she’d looked up freezing her eggs recently, as she’s back in her on-again-off-again relationship with a man in his 40s who's already been divorced and has two school-aged kids. He does not want more.

She just turned 33 and doesn’t know what she wants, but is scared that if she enters this relationship again, she is making a decision by default to not have children. And she definitely does want them. Just not now.

My other friend is 6 months pregnant, living in suburban Long Island in a new house with her new husband, having gotten pregnant on her honeymoon cruise through the Aegean. Really.

She is 35 and this is her first child, and because she’s one of the most straight-shooting women I know, I get to have all kinds of “what is it like” conversations with her—like, are you still having sex?

I called this friend yesterday while driving home from the baby shower, having been acutely aware after leaving the party that I probably won’t get to go to her shower. That I won’t really be there to be Auntie Molly to this child. It was a very different phone call; it wasn’t really about me, because I didn’t feel that my value as a human was called into question over the “Do you have children?” line.

My friend and I spoke about how the 30s are just this minefield of all this information, questioning, and decisions. I am imminently grateful that the parents I respect most are friends of mine who didn’t have their children until their late 30s and early 40s, and they are by far the most fully-formed mothers I know—with lives and interests and hobbies and careers. These are my role-models. And they help take the pressure off the ticking eggs in my womb.

My friend in New Jersey is surrounded by women our age who are in the depths of baby-land, and she gets the “you better do something soon” message mirrored back to her daily. The suburban life will do that more than city life, I think.

But I didn’t feel yesterday, after the party, after speaking with my pregnant friend, that I had to make any kind of decision. It felt like, Wow, this is a lot of information all we women have to wade through in our 30s. More observational than judgmental.

I don’t know if I want kids. I know I don’t want them now. I feel like in 5 years I might be ready, and may try then. I know for sure I don’t want to intentionally become a single-mother through mishap or I.V.F.

I know that I feel very selfish with my time and my life right now. I feel like the 5-years-from-now mark is one that caps the “trying to be an actress” portion of my life. In 5 years, I will hopefully have done something around all this, and I won’t feel that by having children I’m “giving up” myself and my dreams.

Because, despite my role-model moms being super and self-possessed and interesting, their lives still revolve around the upbringing of their children. And I am still just rearing myself.

I feel extremely grateful to not feel the pressure my NJ friend feels to make a decision now. I feel proud of my friends who’ve made the decision to have children.

BUT. I know many women, too, in their mid-40s who regret terribly not having children. And I know that option stands for me too. But, I’m also not willing to have children, to bring a life into this world under the shadow of longing, desperation, fear, or simply, “I want a legacy, and someone to visit me in the nursing home.” It’s the same selfish motivation.

So, back to Maybe Baby.

For now, Maybe Breakfast. Those eggs, I’m not ambivalent about.