Archives for November 2012



I love new journals. When I start a new journal those first few pages are perfect. That perfection, well, it doesn’t last more than about seven pages. My handwriting gets messy and I cross out words, lines, and sentences. I put big “X”s through whole paragraphs and even might write the word SHIT in big capital letters under the X. I wish I were neater.

Some people are neat, really well put together. They’re ironed and buttoned up, pressed and lip-sticked. I want to be one of those girls, the ones that never leave the house without their lip-gloss. I bring it with me but then I forget to put it on.

Like this girl I bumped into from high school at LAX. She looked as if she were off to brunch with girlfriends in her ironed white champagne flute and perfect hair and makeup. I think her $500 designer jeans were even pressed. When we were kids we’d dress up to fly, because back then flying was fancy with winding first class staircases and piano bars in coach, but not now. I had to run into her? Now? When I had no make up on, not even my lip-gloss. My hair was greasy and it was caught between my shoulder and the strap of my travel bag, pulling my head to the right. I hadn’t washed it since my haircut and color two days earlier. I spotted her as I was pulling my hair free.

I thought she looked familiar, but everyone in LA looks familiar. I assume they’re an actor. At some point isn’t everyone in LA an actor? She wasn’t an actor. She was Trista. Popular Trista. Pretty, thin, long legged, perfect Trista. She hadn’t changed. Except maybe her chest, it was fuller, plumper. It could have been a Victoria Secret Wonder treasure.

“Carolyn, how are you?” she asked. “Come sit here.” She patted the empty seat next to her. I plopped my bag on the floor and sat down. She rambled, talking on about herself and her life. She said she was still living in Beverly Hills, that she was on her way up to San Francisco to visit family, that she was a writer.

“Wow” I asked, “what do you write?” I had been taking my Method Writing class for a couple of years but I still was shy about calling myself a writer. When I met anyone who was a writer I wanted to know everything about what they wrote and if they were they published and did they love writing as much as I did?

“I write screenplays and I’m a copywriter and …and” her eyes widened, she looked surprised, as if she had seen someone from high school that she didn’t want to see. She was glaring at my left hand. “…uh…you’re MARRied?”

“Yes.” I said, “We got married in ‘03”. It’s as if a cool breeze had blown through the terminal. Her dark brown almond eyes narrowed, they got darker. They seemed almost black. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention. I could see her cheeks blush. She looked away toward the gate and her hair flew behind her. She turned back, flipped her hair over her left shoulder. Cher used to do that with her hair on the Sonny and Cher show.

“Who are you in touch with from high school?” She asked. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone from high school.

“No one.” I said.

“Really? Aren’t you close with anyone?” She asked. “Those were the greatest years! I had so much fun. I loved high school.” She had friends, she was gorgeous, she was on the volleyball team, went to dances, had dates; of course she fucking loved high school.

“Trista,” I said, “those really weren’t my favorite years.”

“Wow, that’s too bad.” She said. “I just had dinner with Veronica Frank. You two were friends back then, weren’t you? And Jeannie, you remember her don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Veronica and I were close, Jeannie, not so much.” Veronica and I had a falling out after college, she wasn’t thrilled with my choices and made it clear: ‘You’re wasting your life away in Santa Barbara slinging hash, that’s so beneath you.’ Jeannie and I were never friends.

“Oh! You know who looks aMAZing?” Trista reached out and touched my arm. “L.S.” She said.

L.S. was my big crush, from that first day in 7th grade homeroom when I sat in front of him. He’d pull at my hair; tap my shoulder, lean forward in his chair and whisper in my ear. Our teacher, Mr. Markovich would scold him. “Mr. S.,” his voice reverberated, it felt as if the windows might shatter, “How is it that life hands out bowls of cherries and with you, I’ve received a bowl of the pits?” I fell hard for L.S. Trista knew it. Hell, everyone knew it. In eighth grade L kissed me behind the double doors of the multi-purpose room. I was in love. High school was going to be great. We’d have so much fun at dances, ooooh and he’d take me to the prom and we’d be high school sweethearts. That didn’t happen. In fact, he didn’t talk to me for four years. None of my friends from grammar school did. I don’t know what happened exactly. At first, I was devastated, and then I moved on. I made new friends that I don’t keep in touch with, like Veronica.

My wedding ring must be Trista’s kryptonite, because when she looked at it, she morphed from a grown up person bumping into a high school acquaintance to a cattish high school prom queen threatened that someone might steel her bedazzled crown.

I should show her a picture of Bill and me just to fuck with her. That’s not nice. Here’s the thing L.S. isn’t my kryptonite. He hasn’t been for a long fucking time. After graduation I turned and walked down the front lawn of Beverly Hills High School and didn’t look back. That was that. High school was done and my yellow brick road adventure started. Hey, I’m glad for Lee, good for him, that he looks amazing. And Trista, well, I wish her happiness. I wish Lee happiness too. I mean, don’t we all deserve happiness?

“That’s great.” I said to Trista. I smiled.   




The musty smell of old books
Thinned sepia pages fragile between my fingers
Dust particles and life dance in the sun’s rays
And the clicking of my fingers on the keys of my board
is music
And the words
The words
The words
Flowing onto the white page
And time
To watch it all
Swirl around me

Isn’t it funny
how right before a cry
tears sting a little
at least they sting my eyes
before they cleanse
right before my cry
like some of the lyrics an old friend sang
right before I was caught
by ambush
my tears taste like salt
sometimes I let them run down my cheek
and I catch them in the corner of my mouth
or stick my tongue to one side and taste my brine
and I’ll pick up my journal
and write all about it
each and every surge

and how a sneeze tickles
before it brings so much relief
a big sigh
that says that felt good

dark chocolate moments, maybe a 72%
I’ll even go for the milk or
God forbid the white
even though once the full woman at the counter
of Sees Candies scolded, “That’s not even real chocolate”
It’s still sweet and creamy

and the sun warm on my skin
and the smell of a used bookstore

and growing up
the leaves
piles and piles and piles of
raked leaves
and the damp smell of a real autumn
and the crisp burning logs in the air
and the tingling of my dry skin
tight cracked smiling lips
after being out playing for hours
and tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich
for lunch

and the waves                                          
and the sand
and the dolphins
always the dolphins
don’t they just
the dolphins
in the calm oceans, rough oceans, surfing the waves,
blue ocean
grey ocean
green ocean
dolphins’ ocean

and the sky is my canvas
to paint my colors and mood and images
and through it all
what amazes me so
is that there is always something

A Love Poem


Entry October 12

Grey fog hovers low waiting to meet the sun and diffuse into the day  

The colors are rich and dark in the dull light

I don’t look…I remember

I keep my eyes closed


I reach my arm across to his side of our bed

I can still feel the warmth of his sleeping body

I can still hear his heavy rhythmic breaths in and out

I can still smell his perfumed musk…a memory on our white sheets


I catch my breath in my chest… I hold it there

And I wait…listening to the morning stir

The crying bird outside our window…Is she searching for her mate?

Feeling the nest emptied?


I can’t let go and breathe out…let my day begin without him

Without his arms wrapped around me

Without his whispered good morning on my neck

Without his lips brushing against my cheek

How long can I hold this moment and my breath and our memory?




The Truth Is…

This election has really been crazy.

That’s an understatement, I know.  This election has really made me crazy. Truth be told, I’ve let it make me crazy.    Not, lock-me-in-the-loony-bin crazy, but crazy enough.  This election did something else, it got me to speak my mind.  To let my voice be heard.  More so than just this blog, but in a way that might make people… uh, um, feel uncomfortable, or, you got it,  not like me.  Oh My!

Listen,  I’m sure many have un-friended me on Facebook. That’s okay.  I admit I’ve gotten caught up, watched too much news, read too many news articles on line.  I’ve let myself feel the affects of all of this and I’ve shared a lot of it. I’ve spoken up, said my piece at the risk of losing ‘friends’. At the risk of being ridiculed, at the risk of being attacked or even worse being made fun of. 🙂   That’s okay, because I did what I thought was right.

I know there are two sides to every story and then there’s the truth. The truth is what seems to get twisted, buried, diffused, taffy pulled, cooked, baked, silly puttied, melted, condensed and trivialized during elections, at least during this one.

I don’t like lying.  Most of the time, if someone says something to me, I believe what they’re saying.  It’s Bill who’ll say, “Hey, they’re lying”.  Like the way sales people inflate their revenues, stuff like that.  The election, well it’s easy, just fact check.  Find out who’s saying what and if they’re super biased and then make a determination for yourself.  Not everyone does the fact checking, so I did it for myself and then I shared.  I feel uncomfortable with all the spinning.  I don’t spin, not webs anyway.

I’m into the truth. I’m not a good liar.  Get this, if I’m upset with someone, I’ll avoid them until I’ve had time to sort out what is my part in the situation and how I can communicate it with diplomacy and kindness. I’d rather do that, because I can’t pretend. If I’m upset with someone I can’t look them in the eye.  I’ll look away.  As you can imagine, sometimes this doesn’t go over so well. I’ll get hunted, tracked down until I can’t avoid any longer.  Sometimes even the response,  “Hey, let’s talk next week.” or “Hey, I need some time, a little space, can I get back to you?”  or “Hey, I need some time to process what you said” doesn’t work.  Sometimes it does and other times it doesn’t.  We all have our own time frames for speaking our minds.  Me?  I need time to process what I’m thinking and feeling before I put it out there.

There is no time in elections. At least it doesn’t feel like there is.

I’m grateful that we’re here; at Election Day and that I have cast my vote. I’ve spoken with my tiny black circles of ink on a ballot. I received my red white and blue flag sticker that says “I Voted”. When I was younger I used to think, how can my vote make a difference. I know better now.  If everyone thought that way, well, then no one would vote and where would we be? So I share, Please Vote on Facebook, I tweet it, I Google plus it. (Who would’ve thought, we’d be tweeting or google-plussing, or Facebook-ing.  Shotgun on the new verb usage!)

Let Go

Today I’m taking care of me. I’ve done my calls, my posts, my shares, my campaigning for my guy.  I’ve used my voice. I’ve voted. Today I’m taking care of me.  Today I’m going to change the subject, abruptly. I’m leaving. I’m ascending into myself. I’ll be spending four hours at the S Factor in LA, diving into my hips, my circles, my curves, my swirls, my song, my motion, my music; cascading into my own rhythm and groove. Disappearing into breath and movement.  Gliding into firefly, half pint,  snake, Peter Pan, ballerina, pole bend, Tinker Bell.  Submerging myself in breath.  I’ll  let my hair fly while I vanish.  My hands, my skin, my legs, my chest, my heart and my soul, will exhale.

In the dark room, loud half notes, whole notes, quarter notes circulate in and around metal poles, rub up against cool walls and wood floors and tickle the back of my neck, drip down my back, caress my belly and my thighs.

Dropping my tension, fear, anguish and frustration in the basket at the door and  picking up my faith and power as I slip  into myself with a sweet smile.

Like I said, I know there are those who have abandoned me on Facebook, we’re no longer ‘friends’ or they’ve  blocked me or hidden me. I know this. I know a lot. I know that it was important for me share what I thought was true. To spread what facts I could.  Not as much to convince someone to believe differently, that never works, but for me personally to step into my own light and share in an even bigger way.

Speaking up and out and finding my voice in this election has been an important part of my journey. Sometimes people are open and want to look at both sides, find their own voice and speak what’s true for them and if I can help with that process for just one person, than all that un-friending is worth it!

As a woman and as a human being, I want to share what I have to say. This is important. You don’t need to know my favorite color, but you might need to understand what corporation is supporting what proposition and why. What’s in it for them, what’s in it for you, what’s in it for us? So if what I’m feeling and what I believe is something that could make a difference in the world, then I’ll say it.

The truth is I’m empowered because I can say it and I do.
The truth is sometimes people might not like what I have to say and

What’s Yours?

The truth is I’ll say it anyway.
The truth is I’ll say it with kindness.
The truth is I have a lot to say and
The truth is I like to say it with the written word.
The truth is I am creative, I am a writer, and I am a poet.
The truth is that people float in and out of our lives and sometimes we’ll never know why.
The truth is that I’m okay with all of it, the floating in and the floating out, the floating.

The truth is just what it is…