On Weeping

I moved to Chicago with the intention of starting over. Wiping off the cliched slate and attempting to move forward instead of in circles - it's a hell of a lot harder than I originally envisioned. I naively thought the move itself would remove my past, quell my defenses, and generally make me better. And while I know I am in a better place, feeling safer than I ever have; I realize I still have to deal with this shit. Distance is not my savior. Performing again on a regular basis does not redeem my personality. Finding a new home does not make every last nightmare evaporate. But I am dealing with my life. Finally. When you leave your home, leave your family, your best friends -you are forced to sit with yourself and cope.

Admittedly, I'm not one who cries. But I've wept more since I've arrived in Chicago than I have in years. And we're talking straight up wailing, heaving on the floor style weeping. And for awhile, I thought this meant I was weak and still stagnant. But then the realization trickled over the course of technical rehearsal week and opening night at the theatre - it's not weakness, it's just living. And I have been numb for a very, very long time. I'm no longer somewhere where someone can swoop in and pick me up off the floor. I have to find the strength in my hands again, push my pale face away from the cool of the linoleum and keep going.

The fatigue of fighting to gain self-confidence and being okay with what I see in the mirror is wearing, but I am not lost anymore. I am honestly coming to grips with how incredibly lucky I have been. I am starting to see what I have instead of what was taken from me. It's looking at the possibilities that is starting to keep me sane.

So I am starting over knowing that I still have work to do. But I am finding strength in what lies ahead of me, instead of trying to garner my courage from the fight of my past. At some point it will all become moot and I will only be myself in the present. And that's all anyone needs.

Boobs and Birds

It's getting close to the opening night of Temple of Boobs. I have done many a show that I've loved. But Temple of Boobs has become a show that I am both proud of and grateful for it's personal impact. Aside from being my first Chicago gig, it has started to give me a level of confidence I wasn't expecting. I have always had a wretched sense of self-esteem and skewed vision of my capabilities. Growing up as I did, developing and surviving with multiple addictive behaviors, and hitting a mental concrete floor on numerous occasions - I became abrasive, inexcusably blunt, and ugly. My past was my excuse for my behavior - I deserved to be an asshole and I deserved to do whatever I pleased with my own body.

Now, at almost thirty years of age I am learning how to be okay. Being with Geek Girl Burlesque is the first time I've had to be okay with my body; since I get down to only the essentials while I dance. Sure, it's a physical hurdle my formerly anorexic self is proud to have surpassed. But it has really become more about letting go of the bullshit I've clung to for all these years. I don't have to be afraid to the point where I am on a constant defensive; and I have a reminder that I never have to be in a place that I can't leave.

Coming to Chicago, being in Temple of Boobs - has begun stripping me of how unattractive I have felt since I was a little girl. It's not gone by any means, but the facade is cracking somewhat. I'm encouraged by the strength of my fellow Geeks, and determined to find my place while becoming the kind of person I want to be around.

My grandfather once had a sermon about always burying dead birds. And my affinity for sparrows grew out of retaining that lesson. I don't even remember why we were supposed to bury them, I just knew that even the tiniest bird deserved that much respect. And to be a bit trite, I've always felt as if I was that small, insignificant sparrow. And I'm content with that thought because they can fly. And you can see me fly (and dance) starting October 28 at Gorilla Tango.

The Smartest Idiot I Know Revised

Somewhere, underneath dirty tank tops, pairs of Chucks, and copies of poetry collections I've been meaning to read, are the last remnants of my self-dignity.  I've decided this is as good a time as any to pick it up off the floor, run it through the delicate cycle, and let it air dry. Granted it may not fit like it used to; but at least it'll cover the necessities.  And like my favorite hoodie from high school, I'll keep wearing it till the zipper breaks and that shoestring thingie falls out. 

We are all allowed periods of utter stupidity.  Mine lasted many, many months after I got divorced. Like an episode of mono, my wretched bout with asininity just hung around.  It's amazing how much stupidity can feel like superiority when you're at your weakest.  I was sleeping with men whose intelligence level was so far below mine that I may as well have been making love to damp beach towels.  The conversation would have been better anyway.  I've now come to realize I was only seeking to feel a sense of normalcy and to fill a need for being desired.  And on my way to this conclusion I have been down every emotional road possible.  I like to think of myself as a Kia - functional, but oddly unpopular.  People see a Kia trucking along and think, "Huh. Wonder
how long that thing is going to hold up; maybe I should just rear end it now and put it out of its' misery." 

I know I'm a creature of comfort with a disturbing need for someone (anyone) else's approval.  Learning to feel self-sufficient alone is a trying and enlightening venture. I'm beginning to wonder how many times I'm going to have to claw my way out of a trash bag before I realize that I don't need to be validated by a man.  One would conclude that in twenty-nine years an individual would have "found" themselves. I don't even know where to start looking.

Here's how it works when Rebecca consorts with the opposite sex:

Say I meet a man I like.  A nice man.  An attractive man.  A witty man.  A "god help me if he likes punk rock and bacon half as much as I do" man.  Like the Olympic winner I am, I manage to foul it up in a matter of weeks.  My inability to maintain a sense of decorum; paired with my coarse humor and stout drinking mentality, leads to an inevitable Death Star-like explosion.  Nerding out might factor in as well.  It's like an out of body experience.  I watch myself sabotage what might be a damn fine little fling.  The whole while, I keep trying to stop myself.  But to no avail, I am waving my arms like a possessed nun screaming obscenities at the more stupid side of myself.

I look back on my idiocy, and as I approach turning thirty I feel less apologetic about my personality.  I effing love punk rock, I write better than I speak, I'm a recovered anorexic who loves cured meats, I like to scrap fight and get bruised up, I've got a filthy mouth and a scarred ankle.  I read.  A lot.  Maybe if I embrace that aspect of myself more instead of trying to be something beautiful and tame; I will be less likely to feel like the bottom of a shoe after a night in a Wrigleyville bar.  It sometimes seems I'm not a lady
worth keeping around to some, and that is okay.  I'm beginning to understand that concept.  It sucks epically, but I'm still alright.  I don't starve myself anymore to make amends for what I can't be or to make myself as physically unappealing as I feel.

With these words I realize I am indeed the smartest idiot I know.  I am simultaneously brilliant and utterly stupid when it comes to men.  I suppose if they weren't so damned attractive I might have better luck maintaining my sensibilities.

Sometimes ... I Got Nothing

It's been a week of writer's block.  And a day of complete worthlessness.  I listened to the strained sounds of coffee brewing, spent a grey afternoon on top of cold sheets, and kept my eyes closed for as long as possible.  I attempted to hack out some poems earlier, but they all wilted on the page.  I thought about posting some old pieces, but that felt too defeatist.  So, these are the thoughts of the thoughtless.

I'm not really thoughtless.  In fact, I have far too many items competing in my brain blurred by recent rejection of the amorous sort.  It happens every time I face the self-doubt of not being what someone else wants.  I have so much I want to say only to have it take the shape of heartache hangover and verbal vomit.  Words attempting to capture brief and lovely moments - thinking the words on the page makes those moments real, permanent.  But what I typically end up with is an abstraction of what went wrong. 

I suppose if I learned to doubt myself less and discipline my writing habits more; I'd be more prolific and effectual.  If I learned to not take every slight personally, I wouldn't churn out drivel such as, "unlike the descents before, this one hasn't bruised or caused a minor concussion.  It has merely left me fidgeting with bits of loose gravel and pressing the rough edges into the soft spots around my knee.  Envisioning the trickle of blood and consequent rust tint around a future scar."

I'm hoping after a few more rehearsals I will have new inspiration for posts.  Posts about celebration of the female form, humor, shaking my "thing," and adventures at the Tango.  I promise to spare you all of self-deprecatory pieces about failed dates - unless they end up being incredibly humorous.  Which knowing myself, is a distinct possibility. 
 

On Time

I have always been overly obsessed with time.  Even when I was a child
I could never accomplish tasks quick enough, or grow up rapidly enough
to keep pace with outside elements.  I was stuck being forever too young.
I felt time had lost me and I would be continually trapped in my youth.

I remember the day time sped up. 

I was fourteen.  My grandmother picked me up from high school.  I recall
cursing due to embarrassment around my friends.  She drove a silver Thunderbird.
I got in the car.  It had maroon felt seats and felt like a hearse.
The words got lost and I shut down because I knew without hearing.
They had taken my father.

And in that car ride, I saw my childhood slip away.  I knew I wasn't an
adult, I was simply surfing a line between dependency and blankness.  Then
the years of being a lucky girl ensued.  It seemed before I could get
a breath in, I was going to college, getting married, working, playing
with my dogs, getting divorced, living alone, existing.  The
days passed after that, mesmerized by prescriptions and alcohol.  Somehow
thinking that was how life worked.  And one day they would take me
away too.

With the prompting of those closest to me; I started emerging from living
in the bottom of an hourglass.  I stopped feeling too old, like I had grown up too
quickly, missed all the opportunities of youthful endeavors, and I started moving
my ass.  And with no time lost, I was in Chicago. 

It has been one month.

And sometimes I still feel like I'm not moving quickly enough, accomplishing enough, or
I begin to panic about failing.  Then I remember that the better part of my life is always
going to be what is ahead of me.  I no longer need to measure time in years, achievements,
or the grey beneath my eyes.  In fact, I don't need to measure it at all; otherwise, I forget to
live.  Stop trudging through the past, cease to obsess over the future, just be here -
now.

On Becoming a Geek Girl

Well, it was my first professional audition in five years.  I almost vomitted on the bus ride to the theatre, envisioning tripping over my feet and landing directly on my face during my two minute movement piece.  After timidly walking onstage, I decided to dance barefoot.  The director asked if I was ready and all I did was give my customary thumbs up over the head, the music began...loudly.

I stopped shaking and just danced.  Every pocket of fear and intimidation went to hell and I danced.  And I ceased to feel too old, too unattractive, too short, too untrained.  It was me, the director, and Lloyd Cole's "Past Imperfect."  After my last series of leaps, I realized I had survived.  I also realized I hadn't sucked.  I felt calm, thinking I made it through my first attempt and I would go on to audition elsewhere with more confidence.  Then he said, "I'm calling you back.  Can you be here Saturday?"  And I almost vomitted from shock. 

This morning I got to read, do comedic voices, and talk about Indiana effin' Jones.  All while we drank coffee and ate donuts.  Can I say that a burlesque troupe that eats donuts is certainly one I can get on board with?  And the other "Geeks" that joined us were friendly and beautiful.  After an amazing two hours I heard the glorious words, "You are cast.  Congrats on your first Chicago gig."  And I skipped out of the theatre like an eleven year old girl and called my mother.   I still have an obnoxious grin on my face.

I was so painfully quiet and shy up until I graduated high school, it sometimes seems strange that performance is what I would chose to do with my life.  And after telling myself for many years that I was content to do it in my "spare time,"  I feel so amazingly fortunate to know now that it is no longer a hobby.  I may not have a day job yet, but I'm in a $&^)! show y'all.  

Relationshit

Well, Chicago, so far I've rediscovered faith in myself, found safety
in the uncertain, and now it seems I'm learning  how to not sabotage
myself in relationships.  This is probably fairly valuable, as I am 
divorced and relatively inept at dating.

It's almost as if I foul up any relationship prospects intentionally.  I anticipate
the forthcoming rejection either because I'm not young enough, attractive
enough, or I've just got too much "baggage."  Call me Samsonite if you
will, but we've all at least got a carry-on that comes with our
present personages.  I realize that it's a self-esteem issue I've carried
with me since I was a child.  Growing up in a household where I was
either the most remarkable little girl, or a useless, unworthy child led
me to believe I was powerful refuse.  It's a strange complex I've been
attempting to disassemble, and recreate myself without that part of my past.

My father would tell me I was the only reason he was alive, and then
he'd let me read his suicide notes.  He never literally killed himself,
and I naively thought I saved him.  But then the next day I was ungrateful
and he'd pull the car over on the side of the road.  And we'd sit there.
Alone.

I'm sure it appears that I have "daddy" issues.  And sure, like so many
other women out there, I do.  It is the one man in your life who is
supposed to think you are the most beautiful and brilliant girl in the
world.  And I was only that girl on a good, less crazy day for my father.
A fine, tremulous line I walked because I hated the dark, but it
was unavoidable.  And I came very close to letting it devour me whole,
believing every man maintained a well disguised Mr. Hyde.  At some point,
they'd unleash the violence and disdain; so it was up to me to be the
saboteur.  And in the wreckage, I failed to find grace.  I became the one who
would cause the insanity.  I suppose it felt appealing for awhile.  Comforting
almost, as I disappeared into myself.

But, here, in this city of 2.8 million separate souls I feel less
powerful.  It's a power I need to let go of finally.  I am almost thirty years old
and I have been hopelessly digging my nails into the idea that I must
constantly be on the defensive.  I don't feel that so much now.  Maybe,
it's the physical distance between myself and my past; or perhaps it is that
I finally realized that whatever semblance of a father I had died a long time ago.
I let the manipulation and anger go with him, and I will cease to create chaos
where there should be only curiosity.