Hand me a pencil
And I'll write you a story A sad, melancholic tale of an epic fail; a search for glory I will tell you all about a boxer Who could no longer feel his fists It will be a love story of a man to himself And action sequences full of twists This man could be anybody But he happened to be the son of God It was obviously kept a sealed-tight secret Or else he'd be outed as a fraud But this man is not the hero of my tale Oh heavens, not at all But rather the real star in my eyes Is in actuality - this man's FALL. Because to fall from grace one must let go Let go of power, let go of any trace And face the ungraceful emptiness That every human being must face: To live on earth is to be small And longing to reach the tallest hill But to be taken on a ride of curses And the damnest of them all; 'free will' I wish you gave me an eraser So I could start anew, a fresh beginning One that's hopeful and full of joy One of a boxer who would be winning And to this tale I say 'enough! It hurts to write you, it's a sore!' But a writer must tell the truth as it is No matter the battle, no matter the war Art is there to persist and so are we The small flawed humans beings that we are And now I wonder who's the hero of this tale Perhaps the writer is in fact the real star Because she swims with sharks And tells the tale Regardless of the pain it carries She goes to the belly of the whale Maybe we can all learn from artists such as she The ones who carry on despite the rain And show us how to gracefully fall from grace And that even in the fall, there is so much to gain.
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You were born to a story and you were born with a story to tell.
There are not many things I am SURE of, in this confusing journey of being a human being, but that I am sure of. We ALL have stories to tell. From the time we open our eyes - we are players of our own story, and the narrators of it. Sometimes our story sucks. It's dark, raw and painful. Then - we may tell a story of victimhood, or survival against all odds, or a story of hardship. But nonetheless, a story... any story. Stories are created equal in their value. They differ in tone, morality and outcome, but they are equal in their pursuit to shed a light on humanity. We are all storytellers. Sure - some of us (me included) tell the story by putting pen to paper (Or, um, hand on a keyboard) BUT, others tell it by simply BEING it. By living their stories day in, and day out. We all move around the world with a story - whether we know it or not. I am justice:
I flow everywhere, like water I am sharp like metal I hurt like fire. Don't make me a trendsetter With your signs and empty words It means nothing To the lawmakers who wrote me To the one that fought And are fighting For some sanity In the crazy For some balance In the upside-down I run societies and tear apart families I see no sides to any box I see no box I am justice I am a goal AND A destination I am old AND I am new But a trendsetter - I am not. *** Mr. Bitterness and Mrs. Innocence are neighbors.
She lives in the first floor, he is in the second. No one above. No one below. For years, the two occupy the building of two, and for years, they have not said a word to each other. They are both city folks, you see, and both have so much in their lives, to notice each other let alone acknowledge each other's existence. And besides, the two never really bother each other. Mrs. Innocence tends to take her showers in the mornings, Mr Bitterness takes long baths at night. She enjoys live music on Friday evenings while he is out for his weekly bowling games. They have never interrupted each other. UNTIL one day, the trash chute was clogged. Mr Bitterness took down his trash right at the moment when Mrs. Innocence went out to water her plants. The two faced each other for a long moment. Who will make the first move? Finally, Mrs. Innocence opened her mouth to speak. 'Hi.' 'Hello. 'Hi. Yes. Hi. 'Hey there, neighbor.' 'Howdy!' 'Oh, huh, yeah.' 'Yeah...' Silence. The two have mastered years of small talking but nothing prepared them for the awkward meet up between each other. Some people bring up the awkwardness in us. And when Innocence meets Bitterness, well, it's FIREWORKS of awkwardness. What followed this encounter, was a series of bizarre encounters, and before long - the two became friends. An unlikely pair: he with his rye and bitters and her with her wide eyed stare and red wine. They spent many nights sitting, lounging, drinking, reminiscing on old days, on births and deaths, and all in between... Until one day one couldn't not distinguish between the two any longer. They became inseparable. A team, a unit, a family of contrasts. They let each other in. Her-- with a little bit of bitterness in her life, and him -- a little bit of innocence. BARRY:
Hello, neighbor! I live just down the street. Right at the corner on the top of the hill. My house is the one on the right. Yes, yes, the purple one with the yellow veranda out front, and the wind chime. My son sent it to us. He bought at in Afghanistan when he was stationed there. Anyways, the purple house down the street - that's me. And I, well, I don't know if you noticed, but my plants... my sage and basil... they're not looking too good. I don't have a green thumb, I'm afraid. My wife is... WAS the one with the green thumb in our family. Bills I can handle, dinners too. I'm a master at laundry. Even hand wash, really! But gardening... I don't have it in me, and Rebecca is probably yelling at me up at the heavens for killing her favorite tulsi plant. Some people call it the money plant. You know it? Anyway, see, I'm a widow. And when Rebecca... left us, left me... she didn't leave a manual, a guide, an instruction book on how to tend to plants. She was so good to them, Rebecca. So good. Treated them like they were her children. loved them, talked to them. She even sang to them once or twice. And they grew bigger and more beautiful in her presence. My wife, see, she was a simple woman. With simple goals, and wants, and needs... but how she made others feel was her biggest wealth. She was rich in love. And she had the greenest thumb I had ever seen. Until one day I saw you and your exquisite rose garden. Lovely. Just lovely. Your green thumb must be at its prime. 'Prime'. Hm. I am well past mine, but my wife used to tell me 'it's never too late learn something new...' I want to make her proud of me, up in the heavens. So... will you give me some gardening tips? LISA:
Competent. Compassionate. Smart. Thick skinned. Who we are looking for has to be all that. And more. Focused. Patient. Firm. Think sensitive teacher meets no-nonsense warden. Winning combination. Only combination that can take this job. A no-politics person. We don't care about your political views and by 'we don't care', I mean we don't want to know your political views. If you come here with an agenda, we will know. You can expect a thorough background check, medical records and screening of any and all social media posts you have ever published or commented on. This is a tough one for many, it sure was a tough one for me... privacy is a right to some of us, a virtue to others. To obtain this position - you must know beforehand that your privacy will be breeched. Please understand, it is truly essential for any prospective employees to prove to us that they align with our value of 'Patients Are Human First.' Considering our patients' backgrounds, you can imagine how tough it is to find the proper care these patients require. The world thinks they need to be ostracized, cancelled, locked up on an island. Or worse. We don't. We believe in providing healing, a second chance, an opportunity for rehabilitation. We are focused on the mental health of our patients and the challenges that their cases raise for us. There. That's the spiel. And... if you wonder who's position you are applying for... it is MINE. Those things I told you one must be to work here? I'm none of those things. Yeah... I take things too seriously, I judge every patient's every word, I lose my temper and don't work hard enough. Oh. And I'm political, all right. You bet I'm political. And after eighteen years on an island with fifty seven pedophiles - I think they need to be ostracized, cancelled, locked up on an island or WORSE. Or worse. Much worse. So, yeah. After eighteen years, I couldn't do it. Maybe you can. Maybe you are thinking right this second 'I can change them...' I remember that feeling myself... and maybe you WILL change them, or maybe THEY change YOU. And years from now, you will stand right here, saying the same words I am saying right now to some young hopeful care givers looking to change the world. And that's MY spiel. Once you fill your application, you can leave it on the desk. Candidates be notified by mail. Thank you for coming. INTERVIEWER: 'If not now, when? If not I, who?'
JACKIE: Something along those lines. INTERVIEWER: I'm all ears. JACKIE: Well... see, this is Hollywood, right? We all know about the sexism, racism, ageism. We know and we suck it up, because we also know we are in the business of the replaceable. You have a problem with this or with that? With that asshole or that cunt? You don't want to take your clothes off? You don't want to share credit? Take a pay cut? You had the audacity to speak up? Yeah, you are replaceable. I am replaceable. We are all replaceable. And when you are in Hollywood - you are reminded of that fact every single day. So when a co-worker of yours, a colleague, a peer, a brain trust homey, drops the bomb of ageism at your feet - he is expecting you to suck it up like you always do. Expect you to melt inside and turn into the little useless little girl you once were. And HE - yes it's always a HE in these toxic environments - chooses to remind you of your age right when you feel on top of the world. Because a woman in her prime - cannot be PRIMAL. A woman in her prime is called crazy when she voices out her opinion. or worse - her feelings. A woman in her prime needs to be told 'sit your ass down and go back where you belong.' Stay terrified to get old and be replaced. So yeah, I figured 'if not now, then when and if not I then who' and called out that motherfucker right where HE belongs. Shamed him so he can go back to feeling like a little baby breastfeeding on his momma and knowing damn well who's boss. And that's, honey or baby or sweetie - is how your deal with pricks in Hollywood. You DON'T let them nail you. And if they prick you and you bleed? Take that blood and turn it into venom. Wrap that venom in a bow and a pretty dress and make it into art that will shake that status quo once and for all. In plain English? Write a tell-all book and find yourself sitting for an interview with the Barbara Walters of your time, while your ex colleague is wondering what the hell happened to his career. And that - to answer your question - is what it's like to be a woman in Hollywood. It's toxic as fuck, and you SWEETIE - are the cure. When I feel overwhelmed, I find making lists incredibly calming and satisfying.
I have no clue why, but I learned long ago to not judge what works, but rather go with its flow. So in the spirit of going with my list fetish flow.... here is a partial list of things that I miss, in no particular order: *My niece and nephew. Their squishy cheeks and contagious joy... *Going to sleep not worrying about taking off my make-up. (ah, those were the days... pre-puberty) *Life without social media. *Phone calls. Long ones into the night... *School! Yes, really. school is wasted on kids or teens or college students. In my 30s I can't think of a better party than anything nerdy that expands my brain... *Live television. I mean, I know it still exists (it does, right?!?) but who watches that since the Netflix streaming revolution?!? *My teen years' hutzpah. I know too much now, and have lived in the US for too long...sigh... *Believing I would win an Oscar at 18. (Clearly, I had high expectations from myself) *THEATRE. (Really really really miss theatre, my first love... my first community...) *Every house, apartment and room I ever lived in. Why is it the we develop such intimate relationships with... walls?!? *My childhood dog, Pinchi. *My grandparents. Wish I could know them as an adult and not take for granted my limited time with them. *Every set I've ever been in. (Really really really miss being on set.) *New York *Portugal *Being a child. Seeing the world from a child's eyes, and the deep knowing that comes with. *Every boyfriend I've ever had. (Well, in second thought... maybe not ALL of them.) It's no secret that Tom Rosenthal's music has been singing to my soul this past year. I can't get enough of his tender heartfelt voice and poetic melancholic lyrics. Every week, I check his page, trying to see if I can see him perform live in the near future. His current European tour sadly doesn't align with my schedule... but I am getting my 'fix' by listening to him repeatedly on Spotify and scouting his brilliant artistry on youtube. This one is a current favorite of mine. It's a personal song he wrote this past year after his father passed away. The intimacy and heartache in his voice and lyrics give me chills. Chills full of feelings: "And so to the last night of your stay, waited all night and watched you sleep. I've never done that before. And you know what? It was the best night of my life. To be close to your dreams for the very first time." Remember when you were so little --
that your feet would dangle when you sat around at the kitchen table? Yes, that little. That little girl you were is there with you all along. Sometimes she comes out to hide in fear or shame, sometimes she comes out in arrogance, sometimes she comes out in silliness... but she is always there, with you every step of the way, as your feet get bigger and touch the ground, and as they shrink or begin to fade away. She is always there, by your side. Hold her close. Tell her you love her. Sometimes she comes out because that's all she wants to hear. Hold that little self in you warmly. Hold her tenderly. Tell her anything you want to hear. She may not understand it -- but one day she will. One day YOU will. |
AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |