Imaginary Lives/Week 2

I am a taxi-dancer. It's the 1920's, the Jazz age is in full swing, and I've just gotten off the bus in a bright and dangerously new city that is always being written about in the back pages of my hometown newspaper. I ran away from home. My mom will miss me and I do feel bad for her. I'll call her at the end of the week if I can scrape up enough for the phone booth. I have exactly ten dollars in my purse. It's all the money I managed to bring with me. I didn't realize the bus ticket would be so much. I tried not to eat too much but after a day and a half on a crowded bus I finally had to put something in my stomach. I've got exactly one nice dress and a pair of high-heeled shoes in my bag. I saw the ad in the newspaper as I sat in a diner drinking watery coffee and eating a slice of stale toast. Now here I am in a dancehall dancing every night for ten cents a dance.

I started out at a nickel but because I was willing to stay the extra hours my boss gave me a raise. It's not too bad. My legs and feet are swollen by the time I get home at 3am but at least I have a clean room and my own private bathroom. My boss fixed that up for me. I can sleep until 2, get a bite down at the corner deli, and be at work by 6. The men aren't too bad. I've gotten used to the smell of whiskey on their breaths and old cigarette smoke in their clothes. I just hate the ones who don't shave when they rub their scratchy faces against mine. They leave my skin raw. At first it was really annoying but now with one look to Henry, the dance-hall keeper, he comes over and pulls the guys back by their collars. It chokes them some but after a while they get the idea.

I've made a few friends. Henry is great but I don't like him that way and I've told him this many times. Shirley and Bonnie are quite a pair but they allow the men to do other things and I don't want to even though it might mean less hours on my feet and more money in my pocket. I save every dime I can. When I have enough I'll move on to New York City. I want to be a real dancer on the stage, and sing, and act. I have to act every night now as it is. I have to pretend I like these men that come in and dance with me. I have to pretend that I'm their girlfriend every night. I've come up with at least ten different names that I know they like. It's tiring. You have to keep it all straight in your head. Luckily I have a good memory. So I know I would make a good actress because they have to memorize all those lines. Yeah, when I get to New York I'm going to be a star.

Imaginary Lives/Week 1

I've begun a new journey which is an extension of the one I took back in June when I went to Santa Fe. I've been reading The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. It's a book that fuses the 12-step program for recovering addicts and a spiritual journey to recover your lost sense of worth and creativity. It's a 12-week course in which each morning you must dedicate time to writing three, long-hand, pages of stream-of-consciousness writing. It's a bit like Natalie Goldberg's ten-minute writing practices in which you pick a topic and then blitzkrieg writing on it for ten minutes. Both are fabulous techniques. And in fact Julia Cameron sites Natalie Goldberg's
Writing Down the Bones as a must read in the Appendix of her book. It's amazing that I've had Natalie's book, I studied with her this summer, and when I came back and finally dusted off my other creativity inspirational books I find her name in many other writer's reading lists. It's all synchronicity.

Okay, in week one of TAW, there is a task called imaginary lives. If you had five other lives to lead what would they be? Here is number 1: Actress

I want to be a villainess on a Mexican soap opera. I watch all those novelas every night and I have to admit that the evil woman who wrecks havoc throughout the entire story line is gorgeously bad. I mean vile. She gets to sleep with all the leading men. She tricks them into doing whatever she wants, she's beautiful beyond words, deadly in every thing she does, and is not above using every dirty trick in the book to get her way. She doesn't shy away from murder and mayhem. I want to be that persona so I can be evil for just a little while, but know deep in my heart that it's all pretending. I want to be revered and feared at the same time. Loved and loathed. Vilefied and deified. My name will burn on the lips and in the hearts of all people who meet me and yet I know that my regin of terror will one day come to an end. And then I can step out of those satan-on-heeled shoes and become me again. I want my face plastered on magazine covers, followed my paparazzi, and catered to at my every whim. I want to walk the razor's edge of life in the fast lane but maintain my well of goodness. Is that possible? Acting is all fantasy all the time. I want to act out my fantasies. And my biggest fantasy of all time is to be the world's most reviled bitch, but one who never-the-less commands the respect of all who cross my path. Why do I want to be such a bitch? Perhaps to make up for all the times I wussed out and was run over like roadkill on the side of the highway of life. At least bitches get to speak their minds before they get their comeuppances.

I suppose I could speak my mind too. But it's more fun to write about it. I'll be a bitch with words. Actually I am that already. Let's call a spade a spade shall we? In my private journals I rip to shreds those that have hurt me though I would never dare to tell them to their faces. OOOOOH, now I see the purpose of the exercises. Dig deep and see what's there. It's what I was taught at the writer's conference. I was hurt in the past. Now all I want to do is hurt back, twice as hard, all those who ever hurt me. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Now I see why my heart has turned to ice. And how do I melt it? And who will be strong enough to still be standing when all the melt-water floods the terrain?

I don't really want to be an actress. Because in a way I've been acting my whole life. I've been pretending that everything is fine instead of voicing my true opinions when something was bothering me. Everything is not fine right now. I have no job. I am still alone. And I still hurt. Okay, now that it's out in the open I am going to work on making it better.

Is it possible to be haunted by a name?

Yes. And the name that haunts me is Michael. The warrior arch-angel who slayed the dragon. The being whose name means "He Who Is Like God". A fierce force to be reckoned with. My first serious boyfriend was named Michael, but I never called him that. He was always Mike. Mike was a dullard. We were together for nearly two years. I almost married him. He was white, from a mediocre middle-class family, the youngest of four children. He had no ambition, no inspiration, no creativity in his soul, nothing to distinguish him from the huddled masses, but yet I loved him because I was young and foolish. The sun set and rose with him and to me he was like a god. The sex was good, but after a while it became routine and boring. I ignored it because I felt that love would conquer all. He broke up with me and that pain drove a knife through my heart. It was intense. It was a consuming pain that hurt me deeply for six-months. And when he came to his senses he came groveling back. In triumph took him back. But it was an empty victory. I realized after a few weeks that I didn't want him anymore. Another six months went by and I gave him back the shiny bauble he had given me to seal our fate. I left him sitting on a pebbly, dusty drive-way, and have never seen him since. He will always be Mike because he never gained the status of Michael.

The second time Michael came through my life he was in the form of a tall, icy-blue eyed, dark haired, lean-bodied, well-endowed male. We met through work six years ago. And to further drive home the mystical allure his middle name happens to be Angel. I thought truly this is a gift from heaven. Michael and I began an affair that still continues to this day even though we have had numerous relationships, months, even years when we didn't so much as touch each other in- between the times when we do come together because we are like a drug one to the other that we can not give up. Oh we have tried. We have stopped speaking to each other, we have had other relationships as I said, but in the secret afternoons, in the dark, cloudy, stormy, rainy season we come together and the connection is not just about sex anymore but something else we don't say out loud. I love to kiss his full, bee-stung lips. He loves to mold himself into my body. We don't need words to express our true feelings. He has always been Michael, never Mike, never that common, cheap name that means nothing. Michael is my secret. A deep secret that I let out in bits and pieces to my friends. And since my friends are so scattered and varied than none of them have the whole piece that would complete the puzzle. And so Michael remains just for me that same guy, frozen in time, when I saw him for the first time, and felt true desire for another man. I finally dared to break my marriage vows with him. He was and is my drug. I have loved him like acid. He burns away at me. Then he fades out when things get too hot for him. He fades out because he is the one falling in love with me and he can't face it. So he takes a time out and I look up one day to discover that it has been a month, then two, then three and I haven't heard from him. I feel his absence like noticing a piece that is missing from a broken glass. But inside I know that he will call again because he can't stay away forever.

And so it came to pass that last year he faded out and another Michael took his place. Michael W. was a another white, middle-class, tall, blue-eyed, sandy-haired, handsome man that I happened to work with. Just as Michael Angel stepped out for roughly nine months Michael W. walked right in and went beyond what Michael Angel could give me. Michael W. began as Mike to me. Just another colleague. Another administrator I felt I had to be wary of and whom I didn't trust. But as fate would have it we began a car-pool. And that led to an intense friendship. And that led to an emotionally charged affair of the mind and spirit. At first he was just Mike, another Mike, another coincidence in my already crazy life. Then we began to spend more and more time together; lunches once or twice a week, trips to the museums or a walk through a cemetery, walks in the park, swimming during lunch periods, a foreign movie one afternoon, coffee-shop breaks, trips to the ER and the hospital, professional development workshops. And through it all we discovered how much we had in common, how perfect we were for each other, how alike our minds were but how unstable our personal lives were. Sometime during the year he dissolved from plain old, dull, one-track mind Mike to dynamic, inspirational, deeply profound, creative, highly intelligent Michael. A shining being in my mind who finally lived up to the name of "He Who Is Like God". I believed here was another gift from heaven, but one that came with a heavy price. Michael W. is married with two children. And though with me he felt things he'd never felt before it still wasn't enough for him to give it all up to follow me down my path. We never consumated our physical relationship, but there were plently of hugs, hand-holdings disguised as moral support, and longing looks in our eyes. An affair purely of the heart and soul. Now Michael W. is leaving me to pursue a different path. A path that is leading him to Florida. Will he forget me and the hot summers of Texas? Will he regret not having stayed and followed that tiny voice in his heart that said "Maybe, just maybe it can work with her"?

And as if to further drive home the point that he is leaving and I will probably never see him again Michael Angel drifts back into my life at the same exact time and we come together for a few hours every couple of weeks. And as I look up at Michael Angel's face and stare into his blue eyes another set of blue eyes momentarily take up residence and I yell out "Michael, Michael..." And sometimes I don't know which Michael I am screaming for but it doesn't matter to the Michael in front of me because how else can a woman simultaneoulsy disguise and have out in the open two such grand feelings for two different men and neither be none the wiser? Why, by having both such men share the same name. And neither knows about the other. For I have never discussed my personal intimate life with Michael W. and though I used to talk about it with Michael Angel I don't any more. So he has no idea I developed such a deep connection to Michael W. I am a deep well of secrets and sometimes I feel that I will collapse under their weight and drown.

I should hate him

But I don't. Instead I feel nothing for Scott anymore. After all this time things finally start to fall into place. The asshole lied and cheated on me always. He was never there for me. He used me. He kept me working at a job I detested because I earned more money than he did but prevented me from going any further because that would mean I had to work nights. For the record I will state it here. I supported him. I worked my ass off our whole relationship while he did his art. I put his ass through the master's program. And I actually believed him when he said he wasn't fucking his models, our friends at the time, Tiffany, Heather, and Annette. Now he is finally earning the recognition he deserves. Great for him. He is a talented artist. But a manipulating, coniving, lying, hypocritical bastard one at that. It was all jealousy on his part. Oh, Scott is a sly one. But one day the truth will all come out. Oh I will be dragged through the mud too. I did have my flings with Heather and Annette too. But which came first the chicken or the egg? In this case it was the big fat chicken whose name is Scott. Damn but it feels good to finally get some of this crap off my chest. I will stop feeling so bad that I did crazy things in the past. I will stop beating myself up for my marriage going all to hell. I will stop feeling sorry for that asshole who really doesn't deserve it. I will stop trying to always be the one who bows my head. For this one time only I will not take the high road and try to be the gracious one. Fuck that.

Hmmmm........I need to to start fulfilling the role of the bitchy ex-wife.

Let's see......a hypothetical conversation between me and my ex-husband.

L: Do you still love me?
S: What? Excuse me?
L:It's a simple question. Yes or no?
S: Do you still love me?
L:No. I used to. So much. Crazy, obsessively, and beyond imagination in love with you I was once. But not any more. One day I woke up and found that I couldn't even stand to be in the same bed with you. Your very touch made my flesh crawl.
S:I don't love you either. You hurt me. You left me. You took my son away from me. In fact I hate you.
L:Hate implies that you once felt very strongly for me and it proves that you still do. Feel very strongly for me. Only now it's hate. But I feel nothing for you. Not even hate. There is a hole in me where you used to be. It's scarring over now. But the hole beneath is still there. Funny thing about holes. They don't always have to be filled up. Take the Grand Canyon. It's a majestic, beautiful, national landmark. For it shows the unbelievable forces of nature in all its glorious and furious passion. Forcing water through its cracks, like tears falling from the eyes of mother earth, to gouge out another mark, to show how immense love can be. And what happens when it turns to destruction. Love is awesome. But fearsome too. It takes you to such grand heights. But when it crashes it crashes like stones hitting the earth and then all that's left are the holes. I'm happyu now with my hole. Mother earth is still alive. And so am I.
S:You make no sense. That is so stupid.
L:For you of no faith and no love yes. For me it means that love is still within me. But no longer for you. Never for you again.

My faith is keeping me alive and strong despite all the crap I am going through. Jesus did say to forgive your enemies. To turn the other cheek. Oh, that is a hard lesson. I don't think I have forgiven Scott. But I must learn to. If for no other reason than I can't carry this toxicity in me any longer. Hmmmm...........must learn to forgive..............

A slow summer heat

My summer is coming to an end and I face an uncertain future. I was forced to resign from my job at the high school where I worked because I have not passed a test that says I can be a teacher. Amazing. The states are in an uproar over education. Budgets are cut every year and school districts everywhere are crying out that there is a shortage of teachers. Gee, could it be because Dubbya's No Child Left Behind is a monster that has finally ripped off its mask to reveal its true horrid face? Could it be that teachers these days shy away from the classroom because all they do is teach to a test and the teacher certification standards are now based on passing these horrendous tests? Because teachers don't go into this career for the money. 15 points on one test is preventing me from having a job in the state of Texas. 15 points separates me from a classroom filled with kids that need me. 15 points is making my life a living hell. It has left me jobless. Damn it all to hell.

On another note my writing is taking off. Oh I had my moments when I came back from my trip where I literally did not leave my house, or eat, or do anything other than stare at computer screen playing mindless games instead of writing. But now I am energized because that means I am this much closer to acheiving my dream. It is a really wonderful dream. One in which......Ah now wait I can't give it away just yet.

Let's see in other news my son Max turned 9 on July 15th. Wow, he is getting so big. Alas, his birthday always falls in the summer month when he spends it with his father out in West Columbia. During the summer months I see Max every two weeks. I usually have to schlep myself up to West Columbia and I end up spending one or two nights there. At first it was awkward. But this is reality. The reality is Max's father, Scott, and I divorced four years ago. Every summer Max spends it with him, but Scott, never being one with much in the way of trying to keep a decent place to live, takes Max to his mom's house in West Columbia where Max stays for two months. Scott lives there too on and off throughout the year and during the summer. Since it is an hour and a half's drive each way from Katy I spend the night. I either sleep on the couch or in an extra bed in Max's room. This is the house where Scott grew up. Where he spent his entire childhood, his school years, and where as an adult, with me and Max a year after he was born, we lived with his parents. And now I am the ex-wife coming down to visit her son. Scott and I and Max do things together as a family for Max's sake. But I am always struck and awed at the incredible distance between Scott and me. If it wasn't for Max, Scott and I would have nothing to talk about or any reason to see each other.

It's as if we were each on a tiny island with nothing but vast amounts of sea and space between us. We never speak of the past, we never speak of our present, and we never speak of our plans for our futures or for Max's. Sometimes it still fills me with sadness that we spent 11 years together but when we are together now it's as if it never happened. The only proof that we have that there was ever a bond between us is Max. And Max makes it all worth it. He is the only really good thing to have come out of my marriage to Scott. I don't ask Scott about his life or who he's seeing or what he's up to. He never asks me either. I don't care anymore what happens to him. But I do care that he doesn't take care of himself or do enough to try and make a more stable home for when Max is with him. When we are together I sometimes treat him as I have treated my lovers in the past. Cold, distant, and trying to just get through the day. We say really mean things to each which we disguise under sarcastic jibes one to the other which Max doesn't pick up on. But one day he will. Max is not a fool. He will figure out one day that his parents have a barely tolerable relationship now.

My divorce, even now four years later, still has deep reprecussions. I don't hate Scott, but I am still filled with such anger and bitterness at how things were between us and the way they ended. These feelings are there simmering beneath this glossy surface and I have to admit that I still have issues with my marriage and that is why I have been in such a deprived, emotionally sterile place these last four years. But I am through trying to cover up a bad marriage and trying to excuse some of Scott's behavior. I am sure to his circle of friends I am the queen Bitch of all bad relationships. But fuck it all. He fucked me up and that is the truth. I am sure I did my share to him. But now I really want things to be better with my relationships and I want to do things the right way. I want to fall in love again and marry again and have more children. I want that very much.