Sweat Lodge in the Poconos

It was a perfect weekend. Tranquil lake, morning dew, warm fire and spiritual beings gathering for an experience. It was different from the one I partook in last year. The one that changed my life. This one was lead by Lunging Bear. Tall, gentle voice, and blue-eyed leader. He was having problems with his prostrate. TMI? Well, that's what he shared.

His goal was to take us in and out. One swift motion. He smudged half-heartedly and recited none of the rituals. A cd played in his S.U.V. and the hypnotic voice instructed that if a woman was on her moon cycle, to be sure to share this with the chief. I did as instructed.

Lunging Bear looked at me with dismay. His blue eyes widened and he whispered, "You will have to do a separate sweat. Otherwise, you will drain me of my energy. You see?" I was a little annoyed. It wasn't just that I would have to paddle back to the other side of the lake and wait an hour or so, it was that so many people were turned off to this sweat because he was a man that preferred to have the women dressed in long gowns upon entering the wee-pee (or tee pee, as it is more commonly known). Time. Patience. The bane of my existence, really.

The long hour passed, and I watched the sun move from the sparkling angle of the trees, to the shining kisses on the waters' edge. They shone like diamonds. The ripples calmed down to a faint murmuring reflection. I was calm. I was ready.

I entered in the wee-pee. Fully ready to disclose my intention. Lunging Bear sat outside and smoked his Marlboro reds. "Go in," he said. "Don't I have to re-smudge?" I asked. "No. You're fine," he answered cavalierly. I was ready. I was waiting for an awakening. I went in the wee-pee and only about 5 people (from the 35) remained. Some where lounging in bikinis, some were in full gear. I sat close to the rocks and breathed in serenity and centeredness.

There is a tradition among the Indigo people whereupon women in their moon cycles are asked specifically to sit on the Earth and feed it with the milk of human suffering. It reminds nature to awaken and protect, as it had so many centuries ago. With mindfulness, I let the drops kiss the Earth. I let go.

Lunging Bear entered the wee-pee, and when the panels closed, we were cloaked in darkness. He went through the ritual. "What are your concerns?" he asked. In a round-robin fashion, people shared their most intimate worries. He spoke beautifully. He called in all the spirits of healing. A calm swept over our little clan.

"What are you grateful for?," Lunging Bear then asked. I could hear some people hyperventilating and weeping. So much had been revealed, so many wounds were exposed. Three people expressed their gratitude. So many more sat in silence. Lunging Bear retreated. I was anticipated the four directions, and found myself caring for two spirits, like wounded fawn. I gave reiki to those remaining. I called healing and pure energy and spirit to come and infuse this wee-pee. When I retreated, the sun was setting. I felt the trees call to me and awaken an appreciation for having fed them with the milk of human kindness. I was no longer afraid of the woods. I was no longer afraid of the Earth. I had transformed in a different way. Thank you Mother Earth!!! Abundance is my birthright, and you have shown me the way.

Labels: Native American, reiki, Rumi, serenity, sobriety, Sweatlodge

80s Night

Dressed from head to toe in sequins and tafetta, I hurredly made my way down the street. It was one of those rare occassions where I bumped in to numerous people I knew. One man in particular got out of his seat at a cafe, and came to kiss me hello. I think it was the first time he had ever seen me in anything other than moisterizer, lip gloss and black cotton clothing. The tingling in my mind from the excitement was enough to take my breath away. I raised the hem of my skirt and rushed away, feeling a little like a prom queen.

High school was a foible I rarely think about. Many students, aeons older and more cultured, barely looked my way when making plans. I had always thought it was a cultural divide or perhaps a blue-blood "you weren't on the boat/had to be there" sort of thing. It always left me with the stain of disappointment. Here, however, was a way to revisit that in another decade, at another place, with different people. What was different?

For starters, I was happy to be taking part of this exciting evening. My girlfriend is getting married in a castle, and for fun, her bachelorette party was held at an interactive show in the old Webster Hall. That alone was a receipe for disaster, I thought. When I arrived, they were all gathered on the stage with images of Billy Idol, the B-52's and other classics on the jumbo-tron video screen. Instantly, I was brought up to the stage and a party ensued. The circular, tribal mandala of young souls screaming their faces off and letting loose was the closest carnage of souls exchanging joy, that I'd experienced since sweat lodge.

When playing dress up, surrounded by actors and great friends, it's even greater to do it in the context of what might have been. Ain't sobriety grand?

Labels: awesome 80s, bachelorette, prom, Rumi, sobriety, Sweatlodge

Fringe, newbie style

I walked out of the theater. Barely able to remember why I'd gone. "Oh, yea," I thought duly, I owed the guy a favor. It was one of those storylines that I really can't stand. Apocalyptic propaganda. Between the over acting on behalf of the leads, and the rambling script, I could think of another exciting way to spend my evening...namely, in bed watching the paint from my ceiling curl forward.

I wish I'd discovered this blog in advance, http://newbienyc.blogspot.com. It actually gives a really comprehensive run down of the fringe festival, and actually, everything high culture. Alas, I was left to my own discoveries, and really, I was doing a favor for my friend. He was actually stellar, and I really wished he had more dialogue. The endless rambling of the monologue-driven piece was mind numbing.

I ambled about like a blinded deer. Seeing other dazed and confused theatre goers crowding around a plume of smoke, I walked over to see if anyone was willing to share their cancer with me. In typical smoker's camaraderie, numerous packed were extended to me. Variety is, after all, the spice of life. I chose a peppermint patty flavored smoke, and found a bench to sit on and wonder if it was worse to kill myself SLOWLY with a cigarette, or put a gun to my pounding temples.

"That bad, huh?" said a fellow smoker. I smiled, weakly, and looked at him and said, "I guess I've seen worse. When I was high." We both laughed. "At least we have the huddle of misery to gravitate to after, I suppose," I added. "It would be nice to have a peace pipe, I guess. Or peyote," he said.

It was the magic word. I heard myself tell him that he should try out a sweat lodge then. "Sweat lodge?" he asked, bewildered by that phrase. "Oh! I didn't make up the word. It's a real thing. A Native American ritual that takes place every Fall." Before I knew it, I spent the next 10 minutes talking to him about sweat lodge. The leather tee-pee on the side of the hill in the Catskills, surrounded by wildlife and white-tailed deer, the smudging ceremony before entering, the intention given to the head honcho, the four directions, the camaraderie. He looked at me as if I had suddenly shown him a magic doorway to an emerald city. It is possible to find a silver lining in everything. Magic doors and ‘what can I learn and give today’ thinking. I walked away from the smoky theater, having bid adieu to the fascinated stranger, and off I went, like some type of satirical highlander, to spread knowledge of parallel realities. Gosh I’m full of it.

Labels: festivals, fringe, Rumi, Sweatlodge

Bloggermouth

The New York Times prints all the news that's fit to print, and myspace/Facebookers type all the gossip that's fit for consumption.

Cue the Disneyland, "It's a small world after all" music.

In an office setting where there was little chance of ever seeing this person again, I spewed venom on my page about an impropriety on this person’s part. Simply put, I set a boundary about revealing my personal information, and this person continued to pry. I blogged about it.

I remember a conversation I had with one of my friends. She had been dating a man who blogged about all of his sexcapades on-line. As life would have it, this woman read his blogs. He blogged about her. He had bloggerhea, it seemed, because all of their news was front page business for all of his internet-nerd friends. He was macking himself out on this page at her expense.

Now, don’t get me started on my castigations or aspersions on social networking sites and their identical tapestry to petty high school cliques, however…time came for me to be bit by the very same bloggerhea bug. I BLOGGED about this person. I blogged about this person in the pettiest of ways. “Look what they’re wearing” “I don’t want this person to be…” insert self-important ideas and beliefs about my superiority over this person. So petty, so small, so not going to get back to this person, I thought. There it was though, the obvious distance the next time I saw them. This person read my nasty blog and was offended. Another person read my blog, thought it was about them, and were also offended. In this anonymous world of ‘he said/she said’ it is always safer to remember it’s a small world, after all.

Labels: blogging, Recent News, Rumi

Chick Support on the Side

Curiouser and curiouser...
A few posts back, I was smack-talking about women recently. 'Why don't they have your back like men have for one another?' 'Is it really a chest-smacking caveman support, or are women really more of the quiet steady types?' Then it happened.

I was sitting in a meeting, baring my soul. It was one of those gut-wrenching, 'here is my heart and all of the blackness it contains' soul-ripping/gut wrenching/purging-type of shares that was laden with fear, tinged with self-pity and aching with vulnerability. Who IS this, and where did you put my social mask? The verbal diaherrea poured out with little control:

"I had a show last night and it was great. I feel so empty though. I made mistakes. I promoted another show at this one, and the club owner warned that I would be cut from that club. He looked at me like I was a calculating parasite. Oh my God! I wasn't even trying to do that. I didn't KNOW!!! And then, the famous comic from the long running and popular t.v. show(anonymity intended) came up to me and was hugging and kissing me. It made other comics come up to me and treat me as if I were somehow able to give them something. The booker asked me how I knew him, and I think thought we were sleeping together. And thennnn...I inadvertantly insulted an executive at HBO, thinking he was a comic and making fun of his moustache (my way of flirting), only later to find out that not only was he married, but he was an executive at a television station I've been courting all summer!" On and on this rambling fear spewed. Down, down, down the rabbitt hole of despair.

It was during this display of demons that my power possee of pretties took me out for some tea and sympathy. We gathered around the table and after our orders were secured, bared our souls to one another, collecting the consciousness of love, as only spiritual beings are capable. It was during that time that something magic appeared. The inner glow that had drawn me to these beings began to beam like a bright star on a dark winter's night. All of our lights shone as one.

I mentioned it again. "Sweat lodge is coming up this Fall." There was another woman at the table who shared her excitement and encouraged her participation this season. As I looked around, self-consciously hoping I didn't sound like a Geico commercial-with some gimmicky attempt at slickness for sales for personal gain, I couldn't help but to remember that this is what life was like before t.v. Human connection. Looking at my life from this perspective, their souls shone like a campfire, and mixed opinions were shared and polished like precious gems. "This is what it must have been like before Starbucks!" I thought. Sitting around, enjoying one another's company, sharing new passions and building additional ones, the activity of new plans bubbled up. “Count me in!” “Yea, give me more info!” “I’d love to do sweat lodge.” “Wait. Didn’t you lose your mind last year doing that, and haven’t shut up about it? I think I’ll go.”

When the night drew to a close, I took a deep satisfying breath and gathered my things. As I walked past the Carlye, I remembered the numerous evenings of pretense. A child in an adult world, really, observing cultural norms of a world that I once would have raped and pillaged to be a part of. As I contemplated my satisfaction at exposing the Queen card and all of the Queen's men, as it were, I thought about the relief that comes from playing it straight. No games, no control, no struggle to maintain order in any court or any form of beheading...just satisfaction at knowing that women really do have your back on the sideline. Acceptance, progress not perfection and girlfriends!

Labels: Rumi, sobriety, Sweatlodge, women

i heart all of ny

Last week, the unthinkable happened. Was it the begining of Sodom and Gamora? Would we really have to gather the creatures two by two? Or was some level of cosmic consciousness involved when they released Bruce Almighty that caused city-wide flooding, causing the subway system to come to a screeching halt?
Unless you were living under a rock, or your very own biodome, you knew there was a problem with mass transit caused by flooding in the Financial District. However, while it seemed the world was drowning and canoe seemed the only logical form of transit, I saw, yet again, human spirit alive and well in this city.
The morning breeze gently blew in soggy whispers in the wee hours of dawn, and I sleepily shut the window closed as I resignedly slipped under the crisp Egyptian cotton sheets. It was roasting just the night before, but there was some comfort in hearing the pitter of rain. Back to bed I went, lazily thinking, “I’ll run tomorrow”. Never in my consciousness did I think that there was trouble brewing beneath the streets.
I walked out of my home in the morning, ready to begin my routine. I bumped in to a handsome man, who came right up to me and told me that I should know, that if I am thinking of using the subway, not to bother. It took him ½ an hour to get out of the subway. There was no chance that the subways were running. They were all under water.
It seemed too strange to be a made up story, and I as I took his word for it, I almost floated by the chaotic line to get IN to the subway. Most people were in a robotic fog, and where forcing their way down jammed staircases while others were screaming “the subway is OUT OF SERVICE! Don’t bother!” It was then that I began to see my city, as if it were for the first time.
Quaint tree-lined sidewalks, ordinarily barren at this time, were filled with pedestrians. Door men walked out of their towers, to see and interact with people who were walking south. Many pedestrians called out in neighborly ways, making sure that others knew that they were aware of the subway problems. This walk, as pleasant as could be, had the best of New York. The best park in the world, fountains in honor of Venus de Milo, production crews assembling to film SEX IN THE CITY-THE MOVIE, joggers and designer dogs, joggers, Horse-drawn carriages, coffee trucks and smoothies to go, mobile creperies making their way to prime real estate, all seemed to flow in a rhythm that was silently trudging ahead.
Was it my perception of a silent and friendly City which had colored my view, ever so slightly with a rose hue, or is this really New York, and the reason why I love it so?

Labels: new york, Recent News, Rumi, subway

Woman's man?

I've always been the type of person who enjoys real conversations. I am not all that interested in hearing who has a sale at what store or at what price. I believe I have a limited time on this planet, and my goal is to maximize all I can in this lifetime to create the greatest good involved...and yes, pardon me, but I do NOT believe that the greatest good could be found at the Barney's end of the season sale. No offense, I just don't.
I have considered producing, as a way to make the voices that I enjoy, be heard more often. This has put me in an interesting power position. I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think I was a man. What I mean by this is that suddenly, men in my field who were so cutting and rude, are suddenly more willing to listen, be curteous and helpful. In many more instances though, their agenda to be promoted by me are as flimsy as their excuses for not helping before.
This got me to thinking about male/female dynamics in the work place (because that’s what I do when things don’t go my way, and I feel like I could do better), I ask: “How this would be different if I were a man?”. Well, for one thing, I imagine if I had to pee, I could just whip it out and go in a phone booth…which was ONE in a series of things my mind was bitching about the night of the show, while I was blind from rage with all that went wrong, and needed to go to the bathroom besides.
This actually just made me think about a male comic I know. A male-comic was promoting his show, and I even received an email from one of his friends, another man, forwarding the message on and plugging the show: 'you should go, he’s really funny'. Meanwhile, that comics’ jokes are all about shitting in a Jacuzzi. Now, I don’t mean to cast aspersions on other people’s pleasures, but...really?
I’m not sure what this is all about. Is this about a preference for scatological humor, or does it have to do with the fact that there is power in numbers, specifically, men’s numbers? I have seen it so many times. Men back each other up. Women will SAY that they do, but statistically, mean are more loyal to one another than women are. Don't get me wrong, I have wonderful girlfriends who are there for me, but there is a different type of bonding when men are involved.
I know: I've fallen into the trap. I pair up with a guy, thinking that their friendship is going to be more uncomplicated than one with a woman, only find out, with bitter disappointment, that at the end of the day, a guy is always going to back up his buddy. Always. A woman: she checks out as soon as she gets married. This isn't your run-of-the-mill bitterness: this comes with tested data.
I just wonder: when are we, collectively as women going to stop listening to the serpent in our garden of Eden and help one another?

Labels: Rumi

Why hugging and laughing go together

The road to enlightenment is paved with good intentions. I find that on this lonely road of happiness, there are two things that seem glaringly obvious to me: everyone seems to be looking outside of themselves for happiness, happiness is an endangered species.

That may seem like a bold and sweeping statement, so please allow me to explain. It has been quite a number of months that I have dedicated my life's work to making people happy. Specifically, through laughter. Now, this is no small task, considering that my natural default is set on 'death and destruction" mode. It is very simple, really, we live in a culture where all of our major holiday's are glorifying death, our news (and news' worthy items) are bent on displaying human suffering, and I know from experience that if you are happy, there are always a pack of people talking behind your back, calling you phoney or ripping down your efforts.

I will not bore you with details, but I will say this: after I received my hug from the hugging saint, I went about to share that energy with others. I took on the daunting task of spreading that energy in to my career. I found ways to incorporate hugs and laughter in to everything I do. In this journey, I found two things: first, if you click on the picture, you will be redirected to the clip on youtube "free hugs". The simplest way to describe this is one man's wish to get and give hugs all over the world, because he just wanted to be greeted with a hug at the airport. There was acutally OPPOSITION to this effort! The second thing I discovered was: when I set about to rise to the occasion and step on to a higher platform, I had direct attacks on my person, venomous rumors spread behind my back, and a very dark ignoring energy. I guess it should not surprise me, but it is a little perplexing.

Why wouldn't people want to join together in something that binds...that doesn't have to be about tearing others' down or perpetuating negativity? I can only guess it is because gravity sets the default at the lowest bar. Happiness is a work out, and maintaining that happiness regardless of the circumstances, requires great spiritual work.

That's enough from me. This little rant is for those who believe in the power of love, and unabashedly spread it around. We are all little bits of a whole that make us one. One human, one love, one hope, one peace. So here it is....my wholehearted hug...just for you. It is all around us...we must just open our hearts to receive and spread our arms to give...and when all else fails, go to a comedy club!

Labels: hugs, laughing, Rumi, sobriety

I hugged the sun yesterday

I got derailed on blogging on account of a hug.
Let me explain. Three years ago, as I was glowing at a Spa downtown when a man who looked like Jesus (only sexy and in a speedo. Ok. Imagine speedos were sexy…then J.C. with more muscle mass…then…roll!)

So, he told me that he loved the beads I was wearing. I looked at him, and thought him to be as wholesome as an apple beggin to be taken a bite out of. I listened some more to what he had to say. He told me that if I enjoyed yoga, then I would have to see Amma Chi. Who IS this? He said, ‘the hugging saint.’ Thus began a quest to see her.

I’m not going to get in to the dirty details, just suffice it to say that I finally FINALLY saw her yesterday. Here are the points I wanted to outline:

1. I remembered my intention to honor the mother, and Amma is doing Mother Earth’s work. I honored the memory of that and all of the women who occupy this Earth, taking on causes greater than themselves, finding the courage somehow to forge through and bringing joy to the world in some form.

2. it was a really long day (2 hours sleep the night before-BIG MISTAKE) getting all sorts of miscommunication and FINALLY getting my hug 13 hours later.)

3. the build up to the hug reached mythic proportions...but ultimately, I think it was a sound idea NOT to film the actual hug (that private moment was bliss!)

4. I was probably the biggest freak show on the way up to see her because I couldn't stop crying and I was having heart palpitations

5. One of the ushers gave me reiki, and I chillaxed a bit

6. When I was one person away from her, I swear it felt like I was Icarus approaching the sun

7. I gave her the headband I designed that day (as people typically give offerings)

8. She was stunned (as evidenced in her eyes). She looked to her ushers, and the ushers looked it over (as it was not the usual offering)

meanwhile...

9. I entered her embrace, and it felt like I felt just before I entered that tee-pee, just before sweat lodge (which I did after my 5th step)...like she was channeling EARTH MOTHER and I was channeling CHILD

10. My heart will never be the same again.

Labels: healing, hugs, reiki, Rumi, Sober Travels, Sweatlodge

Treasure in the Park

Sorry I've been so quiet lately. The frenetic pace of the City when the sun comes out is almost viral. As we speak, I can barely hear myself think because of the noises competing to make their own symphony. Yet, there it is. Like an oasis in the City. Bryant Park.
It may seem rather plebeian of me to mention something so basic. The Park. Not THE park (as in the Central one) but the one between Grand Central and Port Authority. Next to the New York Public Library, across from Nat Sherman. That one. Did you know there were treasures hidden within?
As I was filming a pilot, reviewing scripts for ideas with my sketch comedy group, working on new material to perform for my stand-up act and looking for locations for a show I’m producing, I suggested to take a meeting in the Park. Off in the distance, I could see well dressed couples drinking clear glasses of Chablis. Laughter tinkling like the best polished crystal. The symphony of birds chirping like Texan lavender. As my footsteps neared the granite walkway, the crescendo of the orchestra reached new heights. There they were, the participants of an elegant opera, in grand New York City style.
As I made my way to a new found slice of serenity, I caught a glimpse of my old thinking like a hiccup, or a faint echo. It wasn’t such a long time ago when I would not have even known that every Thursday one can go to the concerto in the park. The sense of community and peace is like nothing I can describe, and tastes sweeter than any glass of anything I’ve ever put my lips to.

Labels: Bryant Park, Rumi, serenity, sobriety

Horoscope or horse-schiite

Often, it's necessary to dig in a different direction...especially in New York...and most especially after you have had your ass handed to you on numerous occasions.

Cut to: reading a newspaper and fixing your gaze on something that tells you "Associate only with those who are positive thinkers and who want to advance their lives". Seems simple enough, eh?

Add to that: burned out New Yorker, looking for a balm to cure that sun starved itch. Enter: new 'hot spot' complete with swim up bar.
I was invited by a dancer friend who told me that this was a party that could not be missed. So, off I went, with bikini in tow, and had a really lovely evening hanging out with beautiful people....drunk and not.

I had it in my mind to have a great time, and so it was. What I found most valuable, though, was not the smoking-hot boys, or the ultra cool women but the absolute vacation in midtown vibe. Transported for a few hours, I found a type of bonding that I had been missing. There were other people who actually parroted what I was thinking: it's nice to make a human connection, isn't it?

Indeed 'tis, indeed 'tis....

Labels: Boys, new york, Rumi, sobriety

Here Comes the Sun

My mind races. I have many things I have to accomplish, but I am living in yesterday right now. Looking absentmindedly at the river, I recall the past couple of days.

I had a show last night at the number one comedy club in America. It was a show that I was promoting for one month. For all intents and purposes, this was going to be a great slot, a wonderful opportunity, and the best show ever.

Here's what actually happened: no one showed up for me. I was not able to perform. This was the first time I had been benched at a show. Any other time I had promoted a show and not enough people showed, my time was merely cut. I was still able to play.


How it works: when there are shows at a comedy club, you can either have a spot, be a regular, be featured, be an m.c. or it could be a bringer show (where you have to bring people). This was a bringer show, but it was also a showcase of new/up and coming comidiennes. The owner of the club was watching to see which comidienne he would 'pass' next. This means that he was looking for someone to add to his regular team of comics. This is also the third show that I have heavily promoted in the hopes that I could submit a tape that Comedy Central has been expecting since February.

How the night unfolded: Receiving numerous cancellations, I frantically got on my computer, sent messages, texts and talked on the phone for what seemed like hours, trying to get people to come. The only calls I recieved where from other comics calling to tell me to give messages to the booker. Never mind. I would face my fear. My people would come.
Arriving at the club 45 minutes before the show, I watched everyone arrive. Ten minutes before the show, I watched one comic down a couple of beers, another smoke 4 cigarettes, and yet another drink copious amounts of Robotussin and then chase it with a white wine spritzer. Five minutes before the show, I watched my colleagues' loved ones wish them well, as they took their seats. One hour in to the show, I watched many other newer comidiennes, take their shot and perform to a warm and lovely crowd. One and one half hours in, I watched my comedy idol perform. One hour and forty five minutes later, I grabbed my things and bolted towards the door. The hot tears that had been welling up all night could no longer be held back.

As I tried to make my elegant exit, my best friend in the business grabbed my arm, pulled me in to her arms and comforted me. The repressed tears rolled down rapidly with an intensity that almost made me wonder if steam was going to emit from them. As I was reduced to a second grader, she asked me what was wrong and I croaked out "I feel like I have no friends". The booker then saw me, and made a couple of light hearted attempts to make me feel better. They both said they knew that I was one of the hardest working comics there. Sympathy has a strange way of actually making me cry harder.

Gathering the last bit of my pride, I made a few weak jokes, grabbed my jacket and walked out the door. The sun had set and the air had a Spring chill to it. More comediennes tried to stop and chat, but I told them I had to run. Then, it happened. A comic who has a special and various t.v. shows under his belt grabbed me by the arm and began to talk to me. Apologizing for being rude, I made a comment that I was rushing home to work on my suicide plan.

"Some women masturbate to release the pressure, I cry and work out the details on how I'm going to kill myself". While he laughed, he handed me his card and told me that he wanted me on one of his shows. Tucking it in my pocket, I made a couple more jokes and said my final good byes.

Two days before: Mother's Day. Making my way out of town, I was off on my timing for the entire day. My family gave up in frustration (as they wanted me to visit the cementary with them). This was the first Mother's Day without my grandparents or favorite uncle. They talked about a family vacation, and offered me a 'discount' on it. I reminded them that I had no set income and that it would be tough to come up with the deposit right now. My sister snickered under her breath, "what else is new"? After a full day of activities, I had to leave right after dessert was served. "I have a show tonight," was all I could say when the disappointed looks were accompanied reproaches of "do you have to leave so soon?" I did.

Mother's Day, evening: Chris Rock dropped in to perform...yet again. This time, he patted me on my arm! I felt like I had arrived as a comidienne.

RIGHT NOW: The Hudson River lops before me at its languid pace. The sun shines brightly. There is not a cloud in the sky. I have several phone calls from friends who called to apologize about not making it last night.

HERE COMES THE SUN, I say. It's all right. It's all right. Little darlin, the smiles will return to the faces now...

Labels: Celebrity, drinking, Enlightenment, Rumi, sobriety

Men looking for wives and babies?

His eyes flirted with the sun like pinwheels of color and soul. It helped that they also undressed you fully with their intensity. Those LIPS, though...Ay! He had the kind of lips that begged to be smooched. Actually-they were like a fruit pop in the summer: sweet, luscious and ripe for the sucking.

I spent a full afternoon downloading his pictures, forwarding them to my friend, with a 'what do you think' note attached, as well as obsessively reading his blogs. All the while, I was looking for clues for compatibility. He had a couple of really deep blogs, but they were lyrics or poems written by someone else. A hack, eh?

He blogged, in one, about how he just couldn't have sex without love anymore. The IDEA that a man his age would even be THINKING about that, well, it was shocking! I'm so used to oversexed, sex-starved, shallow New Yorkers, that this anomaly was as refreshing as an Arctic breeze in the Spring. He was ripe, though, for this kind of blog as he had just come back from a wedding. The last of his friends got married. He wrote how he played with his god-child and thought that he could get used to this. That's what he wrote. Aw, right? Wants to get married...annnnd have babies? Alert the presses!

I melted when he told me that he wanted to have a child who looked just like him. That's not my button, either. It was the juxtaposition of this seemingly stoic caveman-slash-athlete with a tender need for procreation...it was, well...confusing.

I had put my privates in a proverbial mason jar when I got sober. "Concentrate on yourself" many elders told me. This was something that took some getting used to, but once I learned how to transmute my sexual energy into creative energy and saw how much I was getting accomplished, well...I didn't want to give it up all that quickly. It has been over a year, though, and my born-again virgin status was vibrating like a kitchen timer. Boys seemed to be coming out of the wood works.

My contemplation of my ever growing hymen gave out to the tug of war that came with persistence on his part, just as I was looking at his lips with drunken lust. THIS is worth tossing away months of self control: drunken lust! While we kissed like horny teens, my mind judged with stern reprobation. "Is this someone you are serious about? Is this someone you can REALLY build a family with?" and just like that, I shut my mind up by saying, "But I'm not looking for that right now. I just want a little sample. Is that so wrong?" Who WAS this new person? Kids, marriage, serious relationship??? Ugh. I was losing my edge.

Wherever those doubtful thoughts bubbled up from within me, were mirrored in him, for he broached the topic of a 'serious conversation' with me. We actually had a mature chat about the goals we had. That's when he told me that HE was celibate, before I even told him that I was! He said he was 'working on himself'. That he was looking for the REAL thing. He actually said, "I can't have sex. I'll get too hurt." I stared at him in amazement. Mostly, because not a stitch of my clothing had fallen by any waist, shoulder or even collar-side.

"Now, is he just TRYING to get me to fall in love with him?" I cynically thought. Before I could judge it any further though, I just thought it interesting. There was a time when I could only find shallow men in hot pursuit of animal gratification.

Now, I can only find guys who can't commit to having sex because they aren't "ready." They exist, these strange relationship types. Here, here to the attraction factor!!!

Labels: Boy Stories, celibacy, Kissing, Rumi, sobriety, transmutation of sexual energy

Drums along the Hudson

It was a simple Sunday, like most others. I awoke with the streams of the morning sun dappled along my face. Would I carpe diem, or carpe sleepum? That was the question.

In a fit of adrenaline-slash-guilt from pissing away the week, I quickly put together a coordinated designer outfit. If I was going to schlep around the tip of Manhattan, I was going to do it in style. Without even second-guessing, I hailed a cab. It was only after the driver pointed out that it was kind of ironic to take a cab to go hiking, that I even dared look at the impropriety of it all.

I was going to hike at Inwood Park, and then check out Drums Along the Hudson.

What followed once I arrived can only be described as magical. The sun was just making it above the ridge of clouds, and the dew was magically placed along the moss-yes, folks, moss along the granite boulders. Hiking shoes leading the way, I melted as I saw a brook make its way along the rocks and roots. Many trees were falling from the attachment of poison oak vines that were sapping its vitality. My goal was to make it up the mountain, along the terrain and back down before my coffee was digested.

I had a black out. That's the only way I could describe it. Miles away from any car or exhaust, hearing only the sweet chirping of chickadees, woodpeckers and bluebirds, as only a natural symphony could be composed, I found myself seduced by the sounds of this elegant bird score. I looked in wonder, as I heard the whistling of baby hawks, making their way to their nests. I sat on a collapsed tree trunk, with gruel in my hands, in utter amazement. This was still Manhattan. I was deep in nature, surrounded by oaks, cherry blossoms and white birch. My jaw dropped and I was humbled as a cardinal swooped down and took a kernel from my hand.

Hours later, I made my way out of the forest, and yes--I could see the trees--and just as I went to leave this paradise, the scent hit me. It was the smell of sweet sage which I had discovered during sweat lodge. My nose followed the murky sweet smell. This was a renaissance. The rebirth of connection.

Making my way to the origin of the sage, there were a line of women singing tribal songs with melodic drums beating in union. The songs were familiar from that day in sweat lodge that changed my life. Upon halting, I looked around and it was a greater circle than I had ever imagined. My feet were firmly planted on the ground as I watched Native American children playing with Aryan families, dogs rushing under alpaca wool, and glimpses of feathers and fur peaking beneath headdresses’. The familiarity of the music and the large circle took me back.

Transported to the tee-pee once again, I remembered my vow, "I have come to honor the mother" I said. As we faced the North door of the journey, I ran out of the tee-pee in a full sweat. Everything had become light. The thoughts and visions of my colleagues played out in their chakras like cartoons. Kneeling and panting before the burning oak, I knelt carefully and purged my inner demons, "Bring us back to nature! Remind us of our connection to the divine source!" I uttered, as the tears flowed from my sweaty face.

Picking myself up off of the ground, I wearily made my way back in. Seeing the shining faces in the dark, I knew my prayer had been for them all. It had also been for my home.

Although this event may not be repeated in this area, it jump-started a reminder: there are many events like this that celebrate nature and Native Americans. The realization of this, the serendipity of being at this event without warning and the smell of sweet sage, cleansing my aura yet again, played out like a distant dream, trying to find a voice. Our little island is jam-packed with surprises, isn't it?

Labels: festivals, Native American, Rumi, sobriety, Sweatlodge

Celebrity, celosia and celibacy at Tribeca Film Festival '07

I was at the Tribeca Film Festival opening night. A launch party for a little film that a friend of mine was in. It was not as glamorous as certain high level movies by casa de Weinstein, but it was enough to make me want to cry out in anxiety all night. This ‘small scale’ event attracted big names in Mexican cinema and some actors that I haven’t met, but have seen and respect. They were all there, all swarmed by people, all being adored. I stood behind, watching in utter fascination. How much longer would it be before that was me? Is that what I even wanted? I saw the caterers go by, with their trays of delectable treats. One by one, the treats were turned down, in exchange for the smiles and looks of unending adoration and phrases filled with praise.

The event was supposed to celebrate a friend of mine who was in the film. I was dressed to the nines, as they say, and should have been glowing from the excitement of being in the ‘inner circle’…or closer to it, anyway, but all I could think about was what I was not getting. Even yesterday when asked what the name of the film was, or where we went after, I drew a blank, because all I was focused on was my inadequacies and how far away I was from where I wanted to be, and how my date was getting more attention than I was. With all of these self-hating thoughts floating through my head, I turned to other thoughts.

It is amazing how much money goes in to these events. This was not even the A-list party, and the wait staff alone tipped the bill over in to the thousands. Each person must have spent, I don’t know, $200 at least, just to walk out of their door.

That took about two seconds. I went back to analyzing the events of the night. Cute boy. Check. That feels good. Film festival. Check. That feels good, too. Jealousy over actors in the lime light. Um, not-so-good. Feeling sorry for myself for having to take the back seat on this one, instead of being the guest of honor. Um, danger? Bad territory in the head. The amount of parties I must have missed in a life time due to bad decisions from my past life. Ugh. Get off this train of thought. The amount of tall blonder white women at that event and how badly I feel about my body when I compare it to people who have had plastic surgery and designer work-outs/meals. Danger, danger!!!! Approaching dangerous ground…will implode in 5, 4, 3, 2…!!!

How often do I go for the things that destroy me? The minute I began to obsess about the things that I did NOT have, the tapestry of my inner happiness began to unravel. By remembering that I can get off that run away train and be in the moment…I can approach terra firma and live. I chose to obsess over my date’s perfect lips and how they would meet mine by the end of the night. Celibacy be damned, celibacy be damned!

Labels: Boy Stories, Celebrity, celibacy, Internet Dating, new york, Rumi, sobriety, tribeca film festival

Four Directions...never lost

I had exactly 20 minutes to get to the Warehouse in Jersey. It would be a feat in and of itself to get there and be able to put on the show of my life. I ran through Times Square, seeing flashing lights off in the distance and breathing hard to catch my breath after many start and stop again sprints. It was time to make a good impression, but I knew I was cutting it close. In my frenzy, though, I had a yogic chant blaring in my ear.

ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha; ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha

It felt like the first time I had ever really seen Times Square. Off in the distance, the blaring horns of the cabs, the homeless men begging for cigarettes, the bright lights and excitement of the Madam Tussad's, Olive Garden and Cold Stone all in a row waiting for tourist patronage. Feeling beads of perspiration, I tried to ignore the fact that my coat was too heavy for this time of year. It was a gorgeous, yet chilly Spring day. Then, it happened, the combination of the chanting, my racing heart and a tree that I had never noticed before, slowed the shutter of my mind down to simple photos. The bloom of the tree took me back somewhere magical. It was as if I had taken a quantum tranquilizer, and everything progressed like slow moving images. There, plain as day, were the inner lights of humanity on display. Some where dim, some were brightly light with excitement and hope and still others were extinguishing at a rapid rate. Auras on display. The sadness of the human condition was extinguished by the popcorn blossoms in the distance. How long had it been since I watched a tree bloom?

ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha!

The chant promised the removal of obstacles, and here was this bright sun and life, as I had never noticed it before, coming towards me. The sadness in the face of some was too much to bear. As I slowly turned, internally, there was a compass that was leading me to the gate I would have to go out of. Everything seemed slower. Even now, the cursor and my typing seem to crash down at an almost stopped rate. I had to hurry, I had to make my bus, I had to run!!!

In the corners of my mind, I remembered how often I would laugh at people who had travel anxiety. This was not an anxiety to leave the City, although I do admit to suffer from separation anxiety when I pack my bags and watch my loved City disappear in the distance. No, this was a community. This was my family, as I had seen them on display in the streets, so asleep, yet so much a part of my experience. I stood in the Port Authority, with the chain stores each beckoning my attention, and the stress of so many faces on parade. That is when it appeared. The knowledge of the four directions that I had brought with me from sweat lodge.

The chief had sprinkled bear claw shavings in the hearth, and said, "Migwich" to the buff, scantily clad farmer boy who carried the molten rocks in. I surpressed my sexual urges and tuned in. She began the ceremony by making a cross with her hand. She began to chant in a native language, which strangely seemed familiar to me. She spoke to us in the darkness of the tent, and all that was seen was burning embers of the bear claw residue. "There was a time when this motion meant the four directions. It was not what was taken from us. It was not symbolic of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. It was the four directions. Mental, physical, spiritual and emotional compasses that provide inner guidance. You can never be lost again, for this will be your compass." Yet, here I was, in the middle of Port Authority with no clue as to where I would go next.

The sweat began to pour down my face. Asking numerous "authorities", I was sent in four directions. Each door I went out of, I would feel the steamy stench of asbestos hit my senses like a truck. Retreating back in the depressed artificial lighting, I remembered that day, that spiritual experience, and the reason that even this 'stress' did not penetrate the way it once would have. "I have to get to Jersey in 20 minutes. I have no idea where I'm going. I will be okay, though," I soothingly said to myself. Mothers with babies ran by, everyone, it seemed expereriencing the confusion I felt. Then it happenened...an opening in the middle of the floor, like a compass. I could hear the explanations, North: giving it away; South: compassion and healing; East: the door to the direction you are headed; West: the door of intention. Intention...I looked at the rushing people, and felt a little less like a New York in that instant. Something greater than myself, spun my heel in a semi circle and I almost went skipping across the high gloss tile, down the escalator, gliding miraculously to my gate.

When my ticket was collected, the chant slowed down to a halt. Breathing heavily, I took a deep breath. Not sure of what had transpired, and lost in thought, the bus slowly pulled out of the gate. We were in the sunlight once again, and I could see the stadium off in the distance. "How long had I had this compass?" I wondered, as the last beads of sweat formed on my brow. Time. The human construct, yet necessary barometer of measurement, had been on my side this time. Perhaps I was leaving the tribal beats of the City drum, but for a brief moment, I was connected by something greater than myself, and I found the direction within. The one that is infinitely connected to Source. For the first time in a long time, I felt lucky. I did.

Labels: New Jersey, Rumi, sobriety, spiritual, spring, Sweatlodge

13 going on 30

I was at a bar mitzvah this weekend. Excuse me, I was at an ostentatious display of wealth, posing as a bar mitzvah this weekend. I was there, not as a guest, but as entertainment: singing for my supper, as it were.

Hired to dance, I found myself spending more time doing mental push-ups: fielding questions from horny 13 year olds, and having my teen-pop culture trivia challenged. Due to my perpetual struggle with a Rip Van Winkle-esque quest for enlightenment and media fasts, I was sorely lacking in my relatable topics. Since when, I asked myself, had the quality of conversation been contingent merely on consumerism? The pattern of these conversations were painfully traceable and remarkably similar to boarding school.

Approach. Introduction. Some interest in what I have to say. Try to impress them with my career. Ok. I got their attention. They ask for proof. “Tell me a joke” they say, one after another. The pattern is always the same. The answers change. As the night goes on, it gets better. My teen culture answers.

What the hell am I doing? If I show that I’m up on the trivia, I will be “accepted”, which means ‘ka-ching!’ at the end of the night and more events where I’m booked. At what price, though? Will I have to now go back and listen to the hideous music, watch the denigrating shows and learn the limited dialogue? This was the reason I went to sweat lodge to begin with. To purge myself of all of these illusions.

Something is different and wrong with the new generation, I thought. Children fed on the milk of instant gratification grow in to spoiled and materialistic adults. Housed in the gentrified neighborhoods of privilege, are nary concerned about ground water issues. Clothed with the sweat of third-world country children, they can never be truly be concerned about the world around them. Supplemented with a stream of gossip posed as news, have no choice but to be obsessed with celebrity. This is my generation.

The hostess is wearing a designer gown. She is a social x-ray. Painfully thin and over tanned, she runs around with a Di Vinci porcelain veneer smile, coordinating with the MC to hand out party favors, which are PSP’s. One child is complaining, “Can I change this for an ipod, I already have one of these?”

There is a mocktail hour. Mini alcoholics in training. Out of a sea of blue blazers and khakis, one child with an impish grin and flat Asian features and spikey hair, stands out. One of the children says, “Well, this one has no opinion on this subject. He’s poor.” All of the children laugh cruelly and say, “It’s true. He’s poor. Aren’t you?” He nods, dutifully, and answers the same. Immediately, I’m reminded of Kenny, the impoverished character in the SOUTH PARK cartoon. They have no idea what that is.

After a DREAM GIRLS show, the time approaches, again, to face off with these little turds. One brags of a party he went to in absentia of parental supervision. “The house was trashed and the parents arrived to a child peeing on the wall in the living room!” Another one whines, “I didn’t appreciate Devon taking a picture of my butt.” Yet another is in the bathroom, crying, because she defended her friend and the boy called her a tattle telling ‘douche’. She does not know what that word means, but bawls, “I’m so embarrassed. I feel as if I ruined your party and you are going to be mad at me.”

Recommitting to my conversational agenda, I realize that I am being paid to talk to children who are 13 going on 30. They emulate their parents by conversing about yachting this summer in the Riviera and Hillary Duff. Very close to giving up, I look around the room. I see the “poor” Asian child looking as sad as I feel. I approach him and whisper in his ear, “You may be poor in material wealth, but you are rich in the experience of being a survivor. Don’t ever forget that!” I walk away, and I see a group of children surround him. Later, he is on the dance floor and they are chanting his name while he raps an Eminem song. I may have to take my own advice.

Labels: bar mitzvah, Celebrity, parties, poverty, pride, Rumi, sobriety, teenage

Losing my religion

Labels: Enlightenment, friendships, love, Rumi, sobriety, Sweatlodge

April showers bring crushes and flowers

Spring, believe it or not...is here. Here are a couple of rantings that went on in my head for three different men: He is soooo cute! I love the way he wears his hair slicked back. He looks so debonair. Just the fact that I’m using a pseudo French word to describe him hints at the desperation with which I try to be sophisticated for him.


This one has a smile that would melt Tibetan ice caps. He has dimples that twinkle and match his sunny personality and bright periwinkle eyes. He is just the right height. He has a great body and obviously takes good care of himself. He is also an older man. I feel a mixed sense of exhilaration and taboo just having this sort of connection. My friend sees the way that we talk to one another, and later whispers, “you guys have this weird thing” and I nod while giggling uncontrollably, because SHE sees what I am feeling!

Wait! I am not sure if I remember that guy from long ago. I feel as if we somehow met a while back. He has movie-star good looks. It is hard not to dive in his arms and ask him to make out with me behind the coffee machine. I could be reduced to a sniveling child around him. It is not just the fact that he can wear a muslin shirt with khakis with equal grace and ease as he can a tuxedo, or the fact that he is well-traveled and elegantly gentle. He is enigmatic, and I’ve always been a sucker for a riddle.

[I am grossed out with myself for even wanting so many men in such an animalistic way. I try to be ‘breezy’.] Oooo, no this is the one! I feign indifference when he tells me that he wants to talk to me, or asks me where his hug is. It is the fact that even men stop still when they see him. That when he takes me in his arms, even THEY catch their breath. Like, my stock goes up just being around him! I see the looks. The other men will look at me in a way that says, “wait?! Did you just KISS him? Is there something else I should know about you?” I SEE it. The times when it is most obvious is when I am wearing my warm up pants and mismatched jacket. When my tussled hair is wrestled back with a single band, and I wear moisturizer and lip gloss. I think, “He gets me. He knows that the exterior is not important.” THAT is when I feel inspired to take it up a couple of notches’ and let him know that I’m capable of looking sooo much better. That sounds so cheesy, but I keep it in to remind myself of what happens to me when I am around him. All of my reason goes out the door, and I find myself saying, “Are you REALLY coming to my next show? Oh my g! I just got butterflies. Wait, no, my phone is just on vibrate!” I feel like we are 3 inches away from kissing every time.

I breathe. I remember the feeling of overwhelming love that I had in the sweatlodge. It is normal, it is lust, this time. I can have something deeper and more beautiful...like I experienced feeling so many distinct energies meeting in the matrix of love in that sweaty tee-pee last spring. As I step back, that old familiar lust gnaws at me. I try to remember how good it feels to maintain my focus on enlightenment, but I just imagine my scent rubbed on the last one's linen sheets as I unabashedly run around how God made me in his Flatiron District loft. Maybe he’s really dim-witted, I hope, as I briskly walk away, attempting to shake it off.

Labels: Enlightenment, lust, men, Rumi, sobriety, spring

Difference between stars and sycophants

At 5 hours of sleep, my alarm clock rings and my heart is racing. When my feet hit the floor, there are already numerous things I must accomplish in order to obtain my long term goal. Immediately, I am in a New York state of mind. I rush up the hill, and try not to step in dog poo or run over osteoporosis-ridden biddies or strollers. I swiftly go in to the deli, as if my rhythm were a dance. I grab my cup of coffee (as if I were doing so from my pantry), and neatly grab the stack of coins (pre-counted for the precise amount) and drop it on the counter. “Thank you werry much!” she says, as she is used to this routine and is actually grateful I’m not taking up more of her time.

I walk past the couple who hand out Metro and AMNY. Sometimes, if it is placed in front of me just so, and there’s no one in front of me, nor a politician waiting to shake my hand that I need to avoid, I’ll grab one to read on the subway. I run down the stairs, out of breath after the 5 block sprint, and slip my metrocard out of my pocket. In hand, I swipe it with the adequate wrist action, so that I don’t have see those condescending green letters blinking “Please swipe again”. I swiftly make my way to the part of the platform that I need to get to, in order to avoid the inevitable wait that it will take if I’m in a different car and have to make my way through the crowd. I enjoy the violin playing the theme from the GODFATHER on the platform. I drop money in the case, just as my door opens.

When the door opens, I step in and jockey my position in front of the door. The race has begun. I adjust my hair and make-up in the reflection of the windows, and manage to stand clear of the closing doors, and try not to take the “move Bitch!” comment from an angry passenger that is just entering the train, personally. I look at the digitally displayed time. “Shoot!” There’s never enough time, it seems. The doors open and I run, like a scene out of CHARIOTS OF FIRE, up the stairs, then down the stairs, then up the escalator and out the door. I find the number of the building I am looking for. “Breathe. Stay focused.” I walk through the door, and grab the sides on the table. “Nice to see you again,” the cute receptionist chirps. I walk into the main room when called. “Hi! Please stand on the X. Slate your name”, the casting director says.

Today, I’m reading for a feature film. I try not to care who is staring in it, or if I will be surprised and meet the producer today. I stay in the moment and breathe. “Can we see you do something different?” I smile and then rip out a scream and collapse to the ground. “That’s great!” she says. I give back the sides, grab my jacket and run out the door. I run from appointment to store, to appointment to meeting to fellowship, to a café where I have coffee with someone who is counting days. I breathe.

I run to the opposite side of town, as I am making edits to a script I am writing which I will discuss later with my co-writer. I go to the comedy club, ready to perform. Chris Rock is performing new material. 45 minutes of hilarious stuff. I remind myself that he has been working at this for a really long time, and I am well on my way. “Don’t compare, don’t despair!” I breathe. The show is great. The crowd goes wild. Joy and laughter are the pervading consciousness of the room. I meet up with producers and developers after the show, and I pitch ideas. There is interest and an opportunity to pursue these contacts further.

I thank them, run out the door and meet up with my co-writer. He is 45 minutes late. He does not call. He told me he has written a script, but upon examination, I realize it is just 3 sketch ideas scrawled on a scrap of paper. I breathe. There is a manila envelope I grab out of my bag and I pull out 8 typed pages that I just stapled on my way out of a casting director’s office. I hand him the script, and I launch in to my schpiel. I am dealing with someone with the intellectual capacity of a squirrel. This is the second meeting we have had, third serious discussion about this project and 14th hour of my life that has decayed on this project. He criticizes the ideas, and offers no solutions. He has done none of the preparation he has promised. He asks me to introduce him to my agent.


With this, I conclude this portion of my day, and hastily put my notes back in my bag and politely walk away. I breathe. As I push the doors open of the café, I wearily walk to the corner and hail a cab. The temperature has dropped, my left shoe has gouged a blister on my Achilles heel. My back is throbbing, and as I try to adjust my posture, hot tears roll down my face. Internally, I am a seething caldron of rage. Instinctively, I know that this is another dead-end. I throw my head back, and exhale. The cabby asks, “Miss, is this your stop?” I nod, swing my legs out of the opened door, hand him the crisp bills and say, “Keep the change.” I shut the door, look for my keys and go inside. When I open my door, I prepare for bed, and the rage has subsided. I transmute that pain and shrug, saying to myself, “fodder for my art.”

See, there are some people who pick up fashion magazines, read gossip columns and watch gossip t.v. shows in order to reach “fame”. Then there are others who are just really trying to do a great job, who so passionately are trying to change the way people think about the world, that every minute of their lives is dedicated to making this happen. Those are the people everyone else follows.

Labels: Rumi