He Said,
She Said (Hills Like Black Fucking Elephants).
“I don’t understand,” she
said. She said that all the time because
in fact she never did understand. She
never understood anything because she was always searching for, expecting a
different answer.
“You don’t’ understand
because you don’t listen to me. You
never hear what I have to say. It’s like
a constant fucking duel where I say something and you decipher it to be
something else. It’s exhausting,” he said.
“That’s not fair,” she said
carefully as she defensively put on the gloves getting ready to fight, fight
back, fight to hold back the tears. Her
cheeks were getting red. She could feel
the heat and thought if she changed gears and reached over to kiss him she
might be able to burn him. Instead she
sat frozen, confused wondering why they were having this conversation
again. “I’m sorry. I thought I was being cool. I thought I was giving you space. I thought I
was chill.”
“No. No you’re not chill at all. You’re emotional and needy. I told you I wanted to be alone but you came
over anyway. I told you I was tired but
you wanted me to stay awake. I told you
I was happy but It wasn’t enough. Nothing is ever enough with you.” He didn’t say this directly to her. They sat on the couch, she looking down at
her hands, the broken nail and her index finger that she nervously began to
pick at while trying to digest his words while he lit up his fourth cigarette,
exhaling purposefully in front of her.
She stopped smoking three weeks ago and now currently jonzed to light one
up but it would mean she failed. Another
failure; Another diagonal slash through a row of four straight lines, over
dozens of pages of mistakes, regrets, questions.
“You know what I think?”
“Lay it on me baby, why stop
now?” he laughed but it wasn’t because he found her funny.
“I think you’re scared. I think you’re running. I think every time we have a good week you
have to reevaluate and decide this isn’t what you want. I mean it’s confusing. You want me, you don’t. You’re here, then you’re gone. You’re present then disconnected. You want to be in a relationship and then act
as if it’s a drag. Honestly, what the
fuck do you want because I want this, I want you, I’m happy, you’re happy then
BANG you stop showing up.” Then the
tears began to roll down her cheeks and she turned her head slightly to the
right, eyes cast down, away so he wouldn’t see, but he did and he did nothing.
“I gotta go, I got shit to
do. I’ll call you later, ok?” He got up and grabbed the crushed pack of Marlboro’s
and headed toward the door without even looking in her direction. She stared in
disbelief and secretly screamed to herself, Run,
Run, Asshole, but instead said, “Sure, talk later.”
The call never came and she
knew that it wouldn’t. She tried for
days to figure out what went wrong. What
did she not hear? How can someone want
you and not want you at the same time?
It made her think there was something seriously wrong with her
personality or judgment of character. Why was it not okay to voice that you’re
lonely and feel empty while sharing the same bed night after night?
She liked to believe she was
a great communicator. Talk it out if
it’s in the way. Don’t let the shit pile
up. Maybe guys don’t like to talk about
anything. Maybe he did talk and she just didn’t listen. That’s what he said, so she has to believe
that’s what happened although in defense, she didn’t really feel heard either.
It’s like that Hemmingway
short story, Hills Like White Elephants, where a couple is ending their
relationship and say everything in a lonely silent afternoon but the truth. Except this story takes place in LA and that
story took place in Africa. The
elephants were white, exotic, special whereas these elephants were mammoth like
the ones stuck in the LaBrea Tar Pits at the Los Angeles Country Museum of Art. If they were to come alive and escape, you
know they would trample all over you. Kill you.
Both stories, she thought
quietly in her head trying to shuffle all the many thoughts into organized
categorizes, were about couples who didn’t quite like each other. Empty as the
word that finally found it’s own place.
“I am empty.” She closed her eyes and laced her long thin hands over her
chest and took a long breath in, held it to the count of ten and slowly let it
go.
The Cleans
Here's a blast from the past published by Moxie Magazine back in 2002.
| The Kiss of Deathby Elizabeth Decker She never expected to hear from him again. Never. So when the phone rang in the middle of the afternoon she thought nothing of it and answered on the second ring, "Hello?" "Hey Gail," came the voice on the other end. She felt sick, about to vomit, then remembered the feeling of spit dripping down her cheek. She remembered the crack made in the wall when he missed hitting her face with his fist when she told him she wanted to leave. She remembered the anger, the blame, and the insincerity of it all. But what she remembered most was being locked out in the cold. She hadn't remembered these things in years. She shivered as the voice on the other end continued, "It's Robert." "Robert who?" she questioned. But she knew. She knew his voice. She knew the sound of his breath before he spoke a word. Four and a half years later she could not erase the sound of his voice, the deep resin that seemed to growl and purr at the same time. It sounded sexy once. Like the first time he ever called when her boyfriend Matt was away in California searching for his self, when he phoned and said, "Hey Gail. Want some company?" It sounded, at the time, so comforting, so inviting that she couldn't resist the invitation for some spicy Indian food which led to after-dinner drinks at a bar next door because the night was still young. In the end, silently curled up like a spoon against his warm body, she slept feeling safe, captured by his strong sculptured arms. Gail stood in the middle of the room not believing her ears, not knowing whether to hang up, scream, or laugh. What she did notice was that after many years the sound of his voice had only one effect: repulsion. "It's Robert. Robert Shaper," he said slowly. She noticed a sigh or a huff. Maybe the conversation was not going the way he intended. So she tried to help. "Oh, how can I help you?" she asked, as friendly as the IRS after April 15th. "Well," he started again, "I heard you had a kid. I wanted to find out how you were, what's up?" Unbelievable, she thought! His overconfidence in calling after so long and after such circumstances only reinforced that the size of his ego left no room for human compassion. "I have another call waiting. I can't talk to you," said Gail but before she could hang up he cut her off. "Call me at the office. You have the number." And Robert hung up leaving Gail standing in the middle of her living room with her mouth open. Yeah right, she thought, in my back pocket. Four and a half years ago in the dead of winter, she called a number that used to be hers to ask permission of the man on the other end to come and get the rest of her stuff. She felt scared and inferior. It seemed much colder than ten degrees outside. "Gail who?" was all he said when she identified herself. Gail, the woman you wanted to marry, then tossed aside after she discovered your affair with your secretary. The woman who wanted to leave but who you threatened into staying. The woman who you trusted to raise your daughter. “Robert, it's me, Gail. You told me to come and get the rest of my stuff. I don't have the keys." "Oh right, Gail. Come in an hour, I'm busy now," and he hung up the phone. Robert was cold and in control, the way he liked it. That night, Gail sat in front of the stove to keep warm, drank two glasses of merlot, and made mental notes of the things she’d left behind so she could get in and get out. There was her camera, a Cannon AE1, along with a couple of lenses she had collected over the years. Her favorite was the wide angle. She loved to view the world from behind the camera that sometimes acted as a curtain separating her from the outside world. She had a gift, which could make time stand still just long enough to snap a picture. She captured moments in time. There would be a few clothes upstairs in the master bedroom closet that would be hanging next to his in plastic, if he ever thought to pick up the dry cleaning at the place on Willow Street. In the basement was an area Gail had transformed into a fort for his ten-year-old daughter, a private place where a little girl could think, where her active imagination could carry her away from the doldrums and confusion of life as a girl whose parents live in separate states. On the cold cement floor Gail had laid the handwoven African rug her parents had sent from Morocco and then made a table out of crates and a headboard from her old bed. She set up paints, colored pens, and paper so Tina could paint. Tina loved to paint. Her mom was an artist. The rug's going to be hard to move, she thought. How the hell am I going to get it out by myself? "Oh God!" she gasped. The time was a quarter to nine. Almost an hour had passed. She worried that if she were late he wouldn't let her in. She grabbed her coat and a hat and checked for the gloves in her pocket because she knew the steering wheel would be cold. It took ten minutes for the car to start, another ten to make her way to Lincoln Park, and ten more to get up enough nerve to get out of the car and walk to the door. She rang the bell and waited. No one came. She rang again and waited for about fifteen minutes. As she turned to walk away, the outside light came on and there was Robert looking as smug as ever, a silhouette in the door looking out. His face was cold and hard as he said, "You're late." "Yes, well sorry," she apologized. "I’ll call you tomorrow and set up another time." She began walking down the icy steps, then lost her footing and fell to the ground, hard. Sitting on the ice with her back to Robert, she tried desperately to hold in her cries of pain as she heard him laugh. "God you're pathetic," he sneered. "Come in and get your shit." How could he be so cruel? But she told herself, go in, get the stuff and let it be over. No more excuses luring her over to try and talk her out of leaving and dramatically threatening to kill himself as a last result if she walked out the door. Gail of course knew that he would never do that. He loved himself too much to take his life and she knew that he would never leave his daughter. The only good thing about him was Tina. Once she was inside, his mood seemed to change. He was warmer. "Would you like a glass of wine?" he asked. She noticed there were already two dirty wine glasses in the sink. One had pink lipstick on it. He was either "busy" with his secretary or had staged it just to make her jealous. Probably the latter, she thought. Who wears pink lipstick in the middle of winter? Even whores have more taste than that. "No thanks. I stopped drinking," Gail said without meeting his eyes, and set about gathering up her things. It took all of ten minutes to get her stuff. The clothes weren't upstairs because he never picked up the dry cleaning, (a year later she would get a bill). The African rug in the basement was too heavy to carry herself. He wouldn't help if she asked. Chains, chains, and more chains, she thought. I'm chained to this fucking house. How much could the rug be worth? Does it matter? Fuck it. "I'm done. Thanks Robert. It was nice to see you." "Was?" he said. Robert stood in front of the door with a glass of wine in his hand. He looked a little crooked to her although he was standing straight on his feet. She knew one leg was shorter, but why hadn't she ever noticed how deformed he was? "Stay for a drink," he said in a soft voice, the voice he’d used on Valentine's Day a year ago when he said how much he loved her and tried to convince her that he would never stand in the way of her freedom. Get out of his house, her inner voice screamed, but he stood in her way. Robert put down his glass and moved closer to her as she stood frozen in the hallway not knowing what to do. How much had he drunk? Her eyes darted from his to the sink in the kitchen, then back to him. Hard to tell. He was always good at keeping his composure even when fully loaded. "I miss you," he said. "Really, I’ve got to go. Please move," she said calmly. "Not before you give me a little kiss. For old time's sake." "You’ve got to be kidding, right? Goodbye Robert," and Gail pushed her way to the door, holding only her camera. "C'mon Gail. One little kiss. Then you can go, you stupid bitch!" He lunged for her and dropped his glass of wine, which shattered on the floor along with the camera, which she dropped in fear. He held her shoulders tightly as she struggled to break free. "Just one little kiss," he repeated between clenched teeth that reminded her of a mad dog. "Let me go!" she shouted as she tried to knee him in the groin, because that always worked on TV. But she missed and it made him madder. He grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her neck down and began to slobber all over her. He pulled and pulled as she started to beg, "Please let me go," until she was pinned to the floor. "Just one fuck for the road," he laughed as he tore off her clothes. She lay helpless on the floor. He was too strong to fight off and when he was done, he stood above her and pulled up his pants and said, "There Gail. Maybe now you are pregnant and you’ll have to come back.” He was sick, she thought, and no matter how hurt she was she would not cry. Now four and a half years later, she sat in her apartment staring at the phone in her hand. The question he’d called to ask floated back to her and her mind was racing with all the things she wished she could say. A kid? she wanted to say. Yes, I have a child now, but it's not yours. Yours died on a cold February night, only five weeks old, when it was sucked from my womb and discarded in the trash. I couldn’t justify bringing a child into this world conceived out of hate and anger and violence. So when I discovered I was pregnant a month after you threw me down and fucked me on the cold tile floor, I did not hesitate to find an abortion clinic. I killed your baby as I wished I had killed you, terminated your existence. That baby, your baby that you forced into the world as you forced me down on the floor, on my back, helpless, is the same helpless baby I set free. And now, four and a half years later, you call out of the blue and ask how I am? HOW I AM? But instead Gail said nothing, and as the beginning of a smile started to spread across her face she hung up and went into the bathroom to clean the toilet. Elizabeth Decker is a writer who has published over 175 articles on wellness for www.robeks.com. She is also a published poet. Currently, she is putting together a book combining her art, short stories, and poetry. (c) Elizabeth Decker Submit your comments on this story to our MoxieTalkdiscussion group by clicking here! You can also send your comments directly to the author using the form below. You can do both by typing your response below, submitting it and then copying it, going to MoxieTalk, and pasting it into the form there for posting a message. |
He and She Meet at the Scary HEB
A study of a non-relationship...
April 7, 2014
My starvation to be loved keeps me dangling from a rope
silencing my voice from the highest branch of the Weeping Willow, hidden in the
back behind the barn, swinging slowly back and forth, frozen in time…Damn I
keep making the same mistakes
Anger
“What the fuck are you talking about? I’m complicated, COMPLICATED? Intense?” I
scream in the middle of the parking lot at the HEB as my eyes burn holes into
his dark, tired sad eyes, I notice his lush puffy lips. He reaches out to touch me, maybe put his
hand over my mouth to shut me the fuck up and I resist, ready to kick as he
tries to pull me close. I hiss a little
too loudly, “You didn’t even thank me for the rose petals I sprinkled on your
lawn, who doesn’t thank a person for that? Are you scared?” Before he can speak I notice that the truth
is staring back at me. I can see his eyes flicker left and right searching for
a quick escape. I am a little scary,
maybe.
Sad
“I don’t understand why you don’t want to be with me,”
feeling empty and nearly invisible as the sun sets over the parking lot of the
HEB, I keep my sunglasses on because I can barely bring myself to look at him.
He’s not mad. I peak out over my black rims and see that he looks nearly as
lost as me. His drooping eyes even
heavier, the circles darker, his lips quivering upside down. “Elizabeth, I don’t know what to say. You’re
a little intense.” I try to digest that word, INTENSE, as I dissect the unidentifiable
food at my feet, on a plate of black tarmac.
“I’m just trying to be honest, “ I whisper.
“Really, you mean it never occurred to you to thank me for
the rose petals I sprinkled on your lawn?
I shout over the top of four children bouncing little heads, all under the age of ten hanging from the
grocery cart filled with processed food as their two parents drive their cart
right between us. Separation. There’s nothing more private than picking a fight
in the parking lot of the scary HEB as the sun dips down behind the glowing Austin
city skyline. “You’re a musician, I bet
you were sitting there sipping your coffee, wondering which groupie was adorning
the great guitar players lawn.” I actually
spit on that delivery by accident which didn't make me seem pretty cool, so I turned to the shopping cart full of dirty fat children and yelled as loud as I could, "Shut the fuck up!"
Childhood Memory Scribed Under Five Minutes
Feb. 26, 2014
Where's daddy? I ran upstairs skipping one step at a time, dragging my index finger along the railing on the second floor passing first my bedroom, then my parents. I heard him laugh and then heard another voice. Uncle Phil? As I approached my brother's room at the end of the hall I ran right into my daddy as he was coming out of the room, my head reaching right below his chest. "Hey, hey where's the fire?" he asked. Uncle Phil came up behind him.
"What are you doing daddy?"
"Nothing," they laughed as if I wasn't there. Something seemed sneaky like the time I hid my allowance in the top of my dolls head so my little sister wouldn't steal it.
"What are you doing in Brad's room?" They laughed some more and then my daddy turned to Uncle Phil and said, "Let's get a drink."
My Mother Never...
Feb. 19, 2014
My mother never stood up for me. When my father told me I had mosquito bites
for tits she never said, “Frank, stop it!”
When my father called me a slut for wearing Candie's Shoes with designer
Calvin Klein Jeans and black eyeliner as I came down the back staircase, into
the kitchen to have breakfast and catch the bus to school, she never said,
“Stop it Frank! She’s a teen and experimenting with her look, her identity.” She never said anything. She simply poured my father a cup of coffee
and said, “Would you like your eggs over easy or scrambled?”
One night when my father was away on one of his mysterious
business trips, which were always a gift, a time where I could relax, breathe,
be me, I walked into the kitchen. My
mother was at the island moving expertly cutting multi-colored vegetables,
dicing raw chicken, blending a cream sauce.
She moved like a dancer between island and stove. My mother was an expert chef. She didn’t notice the parrot flying through
the open kitchen window. I stood, mouth
open because I’ve never seen an exotic bird in Connecticut other than the caged
lovebirds my father kept in the green room.
This was different. It seemed
like an omen, the perfect moment. I
walked silently, slowly, deliberately to the place where the professional
knives were kept, in a teak wooden box.
There were nine. I grabbed hold
of the largest then sat on the kitchen floor between the island and the well
stocked-fridge. I gazed at the blade and
it shimmered in the early evening light.
The parrot screamed and I whispered, “I’m going to kill myself’.
Naivete
Feb. 18, 2014
When I was a little girl about 7 years old I had a recurring
dream that frightened and confused me. I
was alone, outside in what seemed like a garbage dump. No color, no objects with the exception of an
innocent white daisy growing on a mound or dirt. I stood memorized by this beautiful, symbol
of life, healthy, ready to reach up to the sun. Drenched by water, waiting to
grow. I felt at peace like anything was
possible until terror struck. A giant
bulldozer appeared out of nowhere and dragged it’s big mouth across the bottom
of the empty earth collecting mounds which is mercilessly rolled over the tiny
flower, covering it, smothering it, killing it until it disappeared. I cried and awoke to a dark room, terrified I
too had died.
The dream occurred often and I can’t remember if I told
anyone then, my mother or father or sure if I did, they wouldn’t understand the
symbolism of what I experienced. I was
alone in my thoughts afraid to go back to sleep night after night, afraid the
tiny flower would not survive although I prayed it would.
The bulldozer was an angry, violent presence and threatened
the innocence of the beauty of such a young vibrant life. I’ve questioned the dream and brought it up
years later with several therapists.
They thought the message was quite clear. The loss of innocence. My naiveté throughout the years surprises me
to this day. Did I really not know? Was
it only a dream? Was I the flower afraid
to grow? Who put out my light an laid me
to bed, deep under the earth at such an early age? I mourn for the flower to this day but have
not experienced that dream in many, many years, not even a thought until now. Live,
breathe, grow, I whisper. I will
nurture you back to health with water and light. Pay no attention to the death on the other side
of the hill. What is enough, enough for me?
Life is and the self worth to grow despite the dangers around me.
Oral Surgery
I want to be touched, fondled, excited to the point I crawl
out of my skin. It’s been a while. The date with the guy two weeks ago after
months of flirtation and stolen kisses didn’t quite turn out the way I planned.
In the morning I felt more naked than a corpse, empty like the stained bottle
of merlot left on the kitchen table the night before. The desire still burns as tiny beads of perspiration
bubble up between my breasts. He was a shitty lover. I’m still wet. I’m still hungry.
All of a sudden my impending oral surgery doesn’t seem so
scary.
Anesthesiology? No I
want to watch you move, eyes wide open, working expertly, methodically yet
tenderly to heal, heal my broken dead nerves.
I want to look up into your eyes as you slowly move the needle into my
mouth injecting the serum, removing the pain, and numbing me of my desire to
love. I only want to be with you,
hypnotized by your dancing blue eyes of light. I want to reach up and comb my
fingers through your jungle of dark hair. You look happy and if you weren’t
floating over me with a five inch needle about to plunge into the roof of my
mouth, held open by a cold, hard, metal device, I imagine you surfing in
Hawaii, your flat stomach, strong legs and tight ass obvious now even under your
ripe green doctors uniform. I greedily remove your clothes, pulling the drawstring
of your pants with my teeth exposing your gleaming, tight athletic body. Lay down next to me, I moan. You whisper,
this won’t hurt at all….
How are you doing? Do you feel OK?
I don’t feel anything but everything all at the same
time. There is an electric current
running through my entire being.
That’s good. I’m
going to go in nice and slow, making a slight incision on the roof of your
mouth. Don’t move.
Do whatever you want. Take me. I’m yours, completely. I surrender.
I’ve never had surgery before and the experience felt
virginal, which left me on the edge of a cliff wanting more, expecting pleasure
with the unstoppable pain.
February 11, 2014
Here's a defining biz moment, an exercise I worte for my Fire & Flow Bootcamp:
I wasn’t home from Europe for more than five days when my
father entered my bedroom at 7am, opening each blind loudly and yanking the
sheets off my bed, “Good Morning Sunshine,” he bellows “time is money! I left
the paper on the kitchen table,” and just as abruptly, he left. What the fuck, I moan as I dig a gob of
sticky sleepy from the corner of my eye with my coral colored pinky nail. The color matches my interview suit. I hate the day before it begins.
My mother is in the kitchen as I peak from around the corner
of the door and whisper, “Is he still here?”
“No, you’re safe. Sit
down and eat.” My mother hands me a cup of coffee as I take my seat at the
front of the Decker unemployment line of shame.
On the table next to my Florida grapefruit, sliced in individual sections
for easy spoon removal, is the Sarasota Herald Tribune neatly folded open to
the classified section with seven, SEVEN jobs circled in bold, red marker. I
look up at my mother in disbelief, “Car
Sales? CAR SALES? Why is he doing this to me?”
“He’s just trying to help.”
“He’s and asshole.
I’m not staying here. It’s not
even my home. I’m going back to NYC.”
“Well,” she treads lightly, “you passed on that opportunity when
you left for Europe.”
Ouch. The reality is
that I was offered a job, my dream job in the Children’s Editorial Department
of E.P. Dutton when a graduated school in May but declined because I already
had my planned, unplanned three- month backpacking trip to Europe with a guy I
invited at the last minute, who my father hated. He didn’t speak to me when I left and now
only when he wakes me up or yells at me when I come home without a job. “I’m not staying here,” I said more to me
than to her.
I spent the last three days in the car travelling as far as
Orlando interviewing for secretarial and sales positions in generic, strip mall
offices with florescent light and shiny people in pastel colors. The idea of going out again into the
oppressive summer heat was more than I could stand. I took a sip of coffee. “Mommy, can you hand me the phone please?” Determined, I dialed NY even though I knew
the job wouldn’t be waiting for me. I was not going to give up and even more
important, I was not going to live in Florida!
A week later, I was on a plane, dressed in black ready to begin my first
post college job in the Publicity Department for Adult Books at E.P. Dutton.
Fire & Flow
February 5, 2014
I'm doing it! Got my second article in last night, watched as many video's as Rachel suggested and bought A Whole New Mind by Daniel H. Pink. I'm connecting with other writers across the globe and becoming inspired again.
The week has been quiet, introspective. I feel like I'm finally allowing my experience with David to work through me as I should have upon arriving home. The message is super clear: Slow the fuck down. Everything up to this point was my interpretation of my reality, not the reality that was before me. I get it now. I'm here. As the Prophet Omega states: I am what I am and that's all that I am and I am it.
I thought he liked me but focussing on the moment, it was SO obvious that was not the case. One shouldn't work so hard. So my brain went a little crazy. It's my thing but Ive regrouped, replaced the spark plugs and cleared the road ahead. I'm good. I'm really good.
COMMITMENT
February 1, 2014
I began a group writing webinar last week called Fire & Flow with the enthusiastic guidance of the talented Best Selling Author and Creative Cheerleader, Rachel Resnick. My goal is to tell my authentic story and integrate that with a successful business plan. It's all a little daunting because lately I haven't been too proud of my choices and I'm afraid of being discovered as a fake. But here I am, ready to expose all (in good time) and come out on the other side.
One of our homework assignments was to listen to TD Jakes Sermon on Commitment, which I just finished and the one thing that stood out within the first ten minutes was: "My vision is tangled. Waisting time and losing life equates misery. Until you see it as Misery, you can't change it."
One of the reasons I signed up for this webinar, which challenges my ADD, was to engage in my life, my story, be present, join the party and not the one going on inside my head but the one with the outside world. I explained why I was there: to finish two novels, build my business, create something...Im not sure what. Rachel yelled, Elizabeth Get Focussed! Choose one thing and Commit! There you go. It's the fundamental thing that has been missing in my life, certainly for the past five years. What a waste. I've just been going throughout the motions and honestly, even that's been hard. Hiding behind my "talent" I have been able to camouflage the commitment to my writing and art. To my voice. To my helping people.
I love that TD Jakes kept repeating the word RECIPROCITY. You can not have a relationship without reciprocity. Without it, the relationship will die. Do I give as good as I get? I think I do for other people but not so much for myself. Don't we all treat ourselves like our own worst enemies at time?
In trying to figure out what my story is, which is leaning towards the examination of my past relationships with the semi-active titles of Lost, One Night Stand, Running and Exposed, I'd like to take notice of his comment, "Try and get someone to fall in love with the me if I've never discovered myself." True that. I've been working on that but it's been a really crazy week and I finally got the message. I heard it loud and clear. Time to clean up, get focussed, BE Committed.
In case you're curious about the areas of commitment TD Jakes is speaking of, there are four:
1. To God: He gave you life so you owe him a level of commitment; a return on his investment.
2. To Family: If you're not committed, you're not going to make it. Believe in We/Us not Me/You.
--Interesting. I had an old boyfriend point out in the three years we dated and had a baby together I never once referred to US as We. Always Me. Sigh.
3. To Church. I've explored a lot but I am not currently a member of any church.
4. To Your Dream. My dream is to write a best-selling novel based on screwed up relationships; Create a larger audience for my Creative Discovery Workshops and become a TED Speaker.
Rachel is yelling again, "Focus Elizabeth! Too much, you're all over the place. Start with a blog."
HER
January 24, 2014
Spike Jonze nailed it. I thought his examination of where relationships might be going are truly poignant and it's sad and a warning. I would really love to have a conversation with him.
Here's where we're going if we're not careful. The emptiness of trying to connect. The digital age is taking us so very far away from having a REAL relationship, a one on one conversation, looking into another persons eyes, it's easier to hide behind our computers, our iPhones, to pretend we are anyone other than who we are. We can be detached and is that really bringing us closer to love, to true human connection? I don't think so. Internet dating. Sex texting. Exposing ourselves behind our keyboards. We can pretend or be daring but is it honest? In my opinion, it ends up being lonely. It's not real. I've been writing a novel based on a one night personal encounter that discharged an intense 17 day 1,172 text conversational realtionship that held so much promise, sh*t I was ready to relocate to the cold North East if I was asked, but in the end I was told by the other party who flooded my iPhone with promises of love ever after, that lightening doesn't strike twice, we have a chance ~ only to be woken up by the fact that, "Sorry, I'm a tactile person, long distance doesn't work for me." I was scorched. iOS? Human? Is there a difference in this digital age? Show up. You want it, go for it. Be present. My story had some red flags so it's not that simple but if I were able to work it out one on one, truly connected through the intimate stories we shared through our texts and long distance conversations, it might have ended differently. But I realize now, it ended how it did. Empty, void of authenticity. It was a pretend romance built on a distant memory that faded when the hot New England summer simmered down to the crisp cool and quiet deterioration of everything that was green and alive.
Going Home. January 23, 2014
I began a group writing webinar last week called Fire & Flow with the enthusiastic guidance of the talented Best Selling Author and Creative Cheerleader, Rachel Resnick. My goal is to tell my authentic story and integrate that with a successful business plan. It's all a little daunting because lately I haven't been too proud of my choices and I'm afraid of being discovered as a fake. But here I am, ready to expose all (in good time) and come out on the other side.
One of our homework assignments was to listen to TD Jakes Sermon on Commitment, which I just finished and the one thing that stood out within the first ten minutes was: "My vision is tangled. Waisting time and losing life equates misery. Until you see it as Misery, you can't change it."
One of the reasons I signed up for this webinar, which challenges my ADD, was to engage in my life, my story, be present, join the party and not the one going on inside my head but the one with the outside world. I explained why I was there: to finish two novels, build my business, create something...Im not sure what. Rachel yelled, Elizabeth Get Focussed! Choose one thing and Commit! There you go. It's the fundamental thing that has been missing in my life, certainly for the past five years. What a waste. I've just been going throughout the motions and honestly, even that's been hard. Hiding behind my "talent" I have been able to camouflage the commitment to my writing and art. To my voice. To my helping people.
I love that TD Jakes kept repeating the word RECIPROCITY. You can not have a relationship without reciprocity. Without it, the relationship will die. Do I give as good as I get? I think I do for other people but not so much for myself. Don't we all treat ourselves like our own worst enemies at time?
In trying to figure out what my story is, which is leaning towards the examination of my past relationships with the semi-active titles of Lost, One Night Stand, Running and Exposed, I'd like to take notice of his comment, "Try and get someone to fall in love with the me if I've never discovered myself." True that. I've been working on that but it's been a really crazy week and I finally got the message. I heard it loud and clear. Time to clean up, get focussed, BE Committed.
In case you're curious about the areas of commitment TD Jakes is speaking of, there are four:
1. To God: He gave you life so you owe him a level of commitment; a return on his investment.
2. To Family: If you're not committed, you're not going to make it. Believe in We/Us not Me/You.
--Interesting. I had an old boyfriend point out in the three years we dated and had a baby together I never once referred to US as We. Always Me. Sigh.
3. To Church. I've explored a lot but I am not currently a member of any church.
4. To Your Dream. My dream is to write a best-selling novel based on screwed up relationships; Create a larger audience for my Creative Discovery Workshops and become a TED Speaker.
Rachel is yelling again, "Focus Elizabeth! Too much, you're all over the place. Start with a blog."
HER
January 24, 2014
Spike Jonze nailed it. I thought his examination of where relationships might be going are truly poignant and it's sad and a warning. I would really love to have a conversation with him.
Here's where we're going if we're not careful. The emptiness of trying to connect. The digital age is taking us so very far away from having a REAL relationship, a one on one conversation, looking into another persons eyes, it's easier to hide behind our computers, our iPhones, to pretend we are anyone other than who we are. We can be detached and is that really bringing us closer to love, to true human connection? I don't think so. Internet dating. Sex texting. Exposing ourselves behind our keyboards. We can pretend or be daring but is it honest? In my opinion, it ends up being lonely. It's not real. I've been writing a novel based on a one night personal encounter that discharged an intense 17 day 1,172 text conversational realtionship that held so much promise, sh*t I was ready to relocate to the cold North East if I was asked, but in the end I was told by the other party who flooded my iPhone with promises of love ever after, that lightening doesn't strike twice, we have a chance ~ only to be woken up by the fact that, "Sorry, I'm a tactile person, long distance doesn't work for me." I was scorched. iOS? Human? Is there a difference in this digital age? Show up. You want it, go for it. Be present. My story had some red flags so it's not that simple but if I were able to work it out one on one, truly connected through the intimate stories we shared through our texts and long distance conversations, it might have ended differently. But I realize now, it ended how it did. Empty, void of authenticity. It was a pretend romance built on a distant memory that faded when the hot New England summer simmered down to the crisp cool and quiet deterioration of everything that was green and alive.
Going Home. January 23, 2014
A week back from my LA journey where I left 6 days of
perfect 80 degree temperatures back to Austin where we are now experiencing
freezing rain and snow. It’s hell out
there with flashing lights and sirens in my back yard. The Ben White. Travel safe. Although the temptation was
there for a warm cuddle this evening, I’m happy to remain at home watching
American Horror Story with my son. Does
writing get any better than this show? I find myself constantly bighting my
lip. A bittersweet farewell to Jessica Lange’s Fiona. Will there be a Season 4?
My LA “trip” delivered: going home, friendship and
extraordinary transformation. I was also
able to finally eat on Sunday the 19th.
I have great friends and it’s not easy for someone in
Hollywood to pick me up at the airport at 6:15pm during rush hour. But she did.
It was magical arriving at the airport and travelling through Hollywood,
the old stomping grounds. Every turn was
familiar and I felt like a giddy child weaving my way up through the hills with
familiar conversation with one of my best gal pals, after two years of not
seeing each other, it felt like minutes.
Friendship forever and honestly, that’s what it’s all about.
My friend Michelle, totally supporting my weird diet and
cleanse struggled to find a restaurant where I could have something delicious
to eat. We settled on Franklin &
Company where I could scuff down a huge plate of Brussels sprout salad and
purified water. Funny that everyone
sitting on either side was talking the BIZ.
It reminded my of the first time I arrived in LA from Chicago in
1997. Rita Flora on La Brea. Similar conversations. Exciting.
Energy. I miss the vibe, this
very unusual place where magic is created.
I felt alive.
We met later with her main squeeze, a spawn from Hollywood legends. He’s cute.
They are in love and I am so happy for her. We moved on to the Piano Bar in Hollywood
where I witnessed tragically hip people hanging out (it’s all about being seen
in LA for the young) drinking very expensive drinks. I drank water. Their friend Jason, the pianist was probably
the best I have ever seen so I thank them for bringing me there. A dark, sexy red-hued venue with wafts of
organic cigarettes and grass filtering from the you can smoke outside but there
are no walls separating us from you. The
people at my table had their own silver flasks.
Enough said. Jason, the pianist,
flew his hands across the keyboard like nothing I have ever seen. True passion and enormous biceps. It takes a lot of energy to be able to play
like that.
I was met later by my friend, a single mom like me, happy to
be out jonzing for an expensive cocktail having finished the screening and Q&A at a Hollywood event for the film
Philomena. Yes, the Dame was there. I
was invited but my plane landed too late.
I think it was all a win at this point.
Love all around. Back
to the valley. More conversations. Keeping with the strict diet. I woke the next morning and made my way
downtown to the LA Art Show, VIP and I was completely inspired and met some
very cool peeps. Petra is one cool lady
and more people should be looking at the Gloria Delson Gallery. Later, I drove
to the reading of my friend Leslie’s work in progress play and I was blown away
with her intense recognition of difficult family relationships, and her
apocalyptic view of where we are heading.
I hope to see this play tour the country. It is so relevant. She is an amazing playwright.
From there I went to Pasadena to heal, hosted by my very
favorite Alterna-Bad Mom on the Porch Criminal In Crime E. and my loving
Shaman. Demons were met. Layers were
shed. Death, Respect, Rebirth. Love all
around. Two extremely intense days, which
I will write about later. Clift notes.
After that event, I found myself in Beverly Hills and this
is funny…. One of my favorite
restaurants. Il Pastaio. I had to have linguini and clam sauce. Not on the menu but had to have it. They helped me out. Expensive as it was, it was
worth its price in entertainment. Paparazzi
flooded the place because of some reality stars I did not know. Miami House Wives. Bentleys, Rolls Royce, the
cars with the horses…so funny. Skinny middle-aged
women coming in and out, I’m guessing size negative zero with lips that look
like a fisherman had just hooked em balancing on five foot stilettoes
heals. What a life. I think I combed my hair and put on some chap
stick.
We swiveled down some drinks, (because now I can), and my
old friend Matt joined us who I couldn’t be more proud of for his tremendous
growth. I adore you Matt!!!
I went to Manhattan Beach earlier to support my friend’s
purchase of a home in a great school district.
I get that. I love her for doing
it and I am so very proud of her.
That’s what mom’s do…but now I realize why I left. I can’t afford California anymore although
I’m going back, again and again and again.
I love you and thank you for making my journey so
special. Ready to move into the next
phase….
January 15, 2014
Cramped in a flying grey hound bus somewhere between Austin and LA. The last 24 hours have been difficult, challenging, flat out sucky and it began by opening the $448.21 electricity bill from the City of Austin. “Didn’t I just pay $228? Last month?” I asked the customer service rep.
She replied, “Yes, Ms. Decker you did?” I was dumb silenced. But….how…? She seemed to channel my un-vocalized question. Judging from the wait for an actual person to pick up the line, I wasn’t the only one with questions. “You see Ms. Decker, we went through a cold spell a few weeks ago (Yes, for FOUR DAYS) and your heater has to work extra hard. Plus our rates just tripled.” There you have. The rates just tripled.
I’m trying to take a vacation, something I don’t do very often and it’s not like I’m going to Paris, Hawaii or the Plaza in NYC. I’m going home, to see my friends, sleep on their couches or if I’m lucky, my own bedroom. I’m going to work with a Shaman. I’m going to a museum, hopefully several. I’m going to see a staged reading of a new play my friend is work shopping. I’m going to see an agent. I’m going to see a writer. I’m going to see my friend who is the founder of an LA film festival to see if that film-noir-neo-western written by the very young entitled Italian film maker I had the fancy title of “Producer” has a chance to be seen. I’m going to drive along the PCH. I’m going to find out if I want to move back. I’m going because I NEED to.
Lucky me. There is a guy sitting behind me writing his lyrics with giant headphones and he’s rapping it all into his iPhone. I think I’m going to freak out. Really? REALLY? Can’t he go rap in the bathroom. I tried to ask him to shut the fuck up politely before the top of my head blew off covering the adjoining rows of passengers with my brains, but he was way too into his music and didn’t see the bomb about to self destruct. I’m a little on edge. I’ve been a little on edge for a while, thus the visit with the shaman. I’m hoping he can cure me. Cure my crack addict obsession with pain. He started rapping again. It’s a nightmare. Did I just not leave my sixteen year old, Ralph Lauren-Brooks Brother- fashionista rap protégé at home to escape that noise? At least the guys creating and will probably be on Jay Leno tonight.
Do I want to move? I’m not sure so I need to get clear. Owning a home is stressful. Property taxes are right around the corner, right after this trip, right when I get back home and buy groceries, pay the rest of the bills, fill up the tank and begin to look for a job that isn’t an insult to a highly creative, accomplished, celebrated, educated, middle-aged single mom.
I’m now asking for help. Help from my most successful friends in Austin and LA. I’m asking for work, a project, something that pays the bills. I’m letting go and changing direction. I’m going to finish my book. I’m about to embark on an 8 Week Boot Camp with Rachel Resnick, which promises to kick my ass, enlighten and make me rich. Money back guaranteed. Write my story, my passion, my scene to be seen and heard by millions. Inspiration galore all the way to the bank. Maybe I’ll start with the arrest…
January 14, 2014
Sometimes there’s nothing to say.
January 12, 2014
I skipped a day. I thought about just writing "tired" but went to sleep instead.
I couple of conversations have repeated similar themes in the last 48 hours. Simplify is one. The people I've been talking with , men and women, are examining their lives, what works and what doesn't work. A lot of this centers around relationships and people who have been unhappy. My question, if you're unhappy why do you stay? Why do you want to be with someone who doesn't support you, help you grow, help you move through your life? The answers are always complicated. And I'm like, why does it have to be so complicated? Why does it have to be hard? It shouldn't be so hard if you're with the right person, right? Some of my friends are trying to move from point A to point B and I think it's brave and healthy. A lot of people are selling all their stuff. Scaling down, emptying out the closets. Some friends have sold everything and left the country. Others moving to a new city. I spent the better half of last year selling my house and moving down front eh isolating hill to S. Austin. it took a ton of energy and resources but now I'm here and ready to engage in what the community has to offer and it feels really good.
I took a walk around Town Lake this morning with a friend and it was cool to discover we have the same goals for 2014. Keeping it simple, not attaching anything to the outcome, living healthy and surrounding ourselves with healthy interesting people. Do what you love. Be with people that build you up, not tear you down and stop giving things away for free.
Own it. It's your life.
January 10, 2014
I love my friends. There's nothing like spending the afternoon with Deb at Pink out in Dripping Springs. It's more than hair, it's therapy and I was all too happy to share my experiences moving into the New Year. A few job prospects that are outside the box, at least the box I've been living in for the past several years, a potential romance and my commitment to make the year all about me. She listened intently as she painted my hair in sun kissed strokes, smiling, loving the direction I was taking. "I'm owning the year Deb. It's all about me!" The thing about Deb, she's more than a friend. She's family and my spiritual guide. She has been since the day I met her five years ago when I first came to visit Austin, prior to moving here which happened to be four months later. I've often felt like this is not my home, somehow feeling I made a mistake but what I realize now is that it is home. Home for now and I'm going to embrace it. I have some great friends, interesting work and my son is very happy. It's all good. I made a conscious decision to make peace with whatever uneasiness and doubt I've been feeling and just owning it. It's powerful when you change your perspective from negative to positive. People, those that you know and even strangers react differently...like that situation in Whole Foods I mentioned the other day, people are drawn to positive energy. What took so long?
Today, I had many calls today from friends in Austin and LA and a very sweet email from a client I'm working with. The Austin friends: One friend whose wedding I could not make called to say she was back from her nuptials in NOLA, I was missed and could we get together. Another, a blast from the past Khabele days. A single mom like me , who is thrilled to learn I live downtown and that she now has someone to hang out with, so we made plans after my return from LA. A New England girl like me, transplanted in LA only to find herself now living in Austin (the refugee for many Californians). I also heard from several of my friends in LA. Yes, I have a car to borrow, no problem. Yes, I'll pick you up at the airport, another I'll drive you to the airport, no cabs! There's a staged workshop reading of one friends new play. I'm there! Thursday during the day, I am thrilled to be invited to the LA Art Show held at the convention center. I think it's like Art Basil in downtown. What's cool about this is my friend works her ass off and this is the first time the Gloria Delson Gallery has a booth, which means it has a VOICE at this incredible event. Kind of like being nominated for an Oscar. Hot shit. I'm also represented in the gallery's BOOK, although I have no work there myself. That in itself is pretty cool. Friday morning, The Olympic Spa with E. Nice way to relax, center and pamper before the Shamanic work on Friday and Saturday evening. Sunday Brunch with a dear friend who is anti-communicating via the phone, text or any sort of social media so I'm excited to have the face to face. I actually PREFER the face to face. I must take a walk on the beach Monday and I don't care who comes and I'm totally happy going solo as well. I just need to gaze out upon the ocean.
I have to share the email that was sent by my client (and now friend), a brave, extraoridanry woman who took a chance to move into her creative space. I have been working with her for the last several years in my Moody Me/Creative Discovery Workshops. It's humbling for sure and I am so grateful my work is able to make people feel this way. Thank you.
"A BIG THANK YOU for your help up with my book. I am so humbled and overjoyed that you would want to participate. Frankly, I could think of no one else I would want to guide me through this journey. You have been so instrumental in my overall growth as a person. You've given, by example, the permission to express ME, without guilt, doubt, fear and judgement. You've helped reveal the LOVE I have within and that is one of the most special gifts anyone could give."
All in all, not such a bad day!
January 9, 2014
I'm going to scream. I have just spent an hour and a half arranging and editing and lost everything so I'm going to keep it short.
Starving for eight days was way easier than eating for four. In the last two days, the integration of my food choices have left me cranky, tired and a little depressed. I had great intentions waking up this morning to write after my one cup of coffee. ONE. probably my first mistake but it's not like I'm downing a pot and my son bought me this really fancy Bosch Coffee maker for Xmas so it would be a shame if I didn't use it. Honestly, the coffee was not the problem. It was the three table spoons of macaroni salad (from Whole Foods) that I topped my fresh mixed green salad with that pushed me on a downward spiral. It tasted so good, after I polished off the salad that I spooned the rest of the tub of macaroni into my hungry mouth. 30 minutes later, I just wanted to crawl into bed and die. OK. I get it. Starch is the bad guy. I need to reread the integration diet again and get back to basics: raw veggies, fresh juices and mild soups. I also need to start meditating because with the addition of food back into my system comes the old stories, most not very pleasant resulting in a bad mood. This year's going to be about finally, FINALLY cleaning up all that garbage too.
At least I broke down and got the dryer complete with the fancy steaming device I thought would come in handy for our closet full of wrinkled cotton clothes. It's being delivered on Saturday.
January 8, 2014
It started out a great day and ended up shitty thanks to processed food. I honestly think I can lay some blame on the french fries at Mighty Fine. Good going down but wow, did I experience a mood shift 30 minutes later. Coincidence? Not sure. Reaction to criticism by the teen boy? Maybe a combination of both. In any event I went from calm to cyclone and now I'm in my room trying to put it all in order. If it's food, that's really weird. Not weird because I know food does affect your moods but I guess I've never experienced it so dramatically and that could be because it's the first greasy fast food Ive had in three weeks. Can you imagine if I ate the burger?
JANUARY 7, 2014
Today is officially the first day of my New Year and I'm going to commit to committing to write everyday from now until December 31st, 2014. Huge undertaking as I usually have great intentions for the first ten or so days. I can even stretch it out a month and then life takes over and I lose track and I have nothing written by the end of the year. So here I go.
Why is today, 1/7/2014, the first day? Because I starved myself the first seven and stayed up until dawn thinking about how to move into 2014. I couldn't sleep because my brain was buzzing with new found curiosity and energy brought on I'm guessing by the detoxification that was occurring in my body and the food depravation. Thinking about anything was better than thinking about food.
Friends thought I was crazy to begin while the holiday festivities were still going on but I got a call from my friends Dan and Maria who just returned from Columbia and said they were beginning on Sunday, Dec. 29th and was I ready? I said sure, why wait. So I went out with a bang on Saturday night with friends, drinking wine, eating everything I could (so against the philosophy of this cleanse!) and laughed like I haven't in a long time. I woke early the next morning and filled a liter jug with warm water and two tablespoons of sea salt then proceeded to chug it. Instant results incase you are wondering. From that point on, I lived off 64 oz to 70 oz of "lemonade" a day, sneaking a single black eyed pea on New Years Day for good luck.
My intention was to cleanse only for three days but I didn't get any of the side effects (nausea, hunger, headaches, cramps, crankiness) that I read about so I kept going, throwing in the towel at 8 days only because I ran out of maple syrup and I didn't want to spend another $20 dollars for another jug. I also lost wight according to the droopiness of my jeans and I dint think I could afford to lose any more. I tried to keep a diary since it was my first cleanse but got all the days confused and ended up giving up on day four. It wasn't very interesting anyway.
What is now interesting is the aftermath. I'm weening back into real food, living off juice the first day, soup the second and mixing vegetables into the diet on day 3. I feel good. I feel really, really good. Better than I have in a long time. I have energy. I'm happy. I actually got dressed up today and was told by my son that I look pretty. Then while shopping at Whole Foods I was approached by four different people telling me how beautiful and well dressed I was...that I have some kind of light around me so they had to come and say hello. Seriously.
The Cleanse changed my daily habits and addiction to bread and cheese. It changed my point of view. It slowed me down so I could focus on a plan moving into the New Year. My 8 day Master Cleanse has been a personal success for me.