The Death of Emily Dickinson

I am homicidally depressed today.

So, naturally, as one does, I seek to blame someone --anyone other than myself-- for the psychological hazing being inflicted on the freshman that is my head.

Tonight (this morning?), as I bend over to ask Otter, "Please, sir, may I have another?," I choose to turn my ire on someone truly underserving. But, as she is --or was-- infinitely more talented than me...well, that makes her a prime target. That she's already dead? All the better. (See the above use of "homicidal" for reference.)

Yes, as loathing her may somehow salve my wounds and, for the moment, keep me out of the pen, I have chosen to unleash my inner Patrick Bateman on Emily Dickinson.

That talented bitch.

Yes who are you, MISS Dickinson, to lecture me on hope? Talking all "feathers" and "perches" and selflessness...What would you know of hope?

For all intents and purposes, you were a freak! A social outcast! Holed up in your own home...afraid to even venture past your front door. Wearing white all the livelong day! Hasn't anyone ever told you that white is not at all slimming?

Oh! And I've seen the pictures. Believe me, girlfriend, you could use all the help you can get! It's no wonder that man you were pining over never took a second glance at you...and you're going to tell me you never stopped hoping?

Bitch, you must have feathers in your brains! ...

Readers, I don't think it's working.

For no amount of bile-spewing nonsense aimed at another person is gonna mend this Pacific-sized rent in my soul.

My soul -- where "hope" is supposedly perched.

...

Emily, if I may, I actually find you lovely.

Tonight, in my darkest hour, your poetry --never meant for publication, written solely for your eyes --echoed in my poisoned brains.

Like most things "mean," my mud slinging stems from jealousy. Envy. Bitterness. Failure.

For, according to your own pen, you never lost that little bird. But me? Well me...

"And sore must be the storm; That could abash the little bird; That kept so many warm."

DLP

Sometimes I wonder where you are

and if there's a girl in my stead

in your bed?

Could it be the weather

the cool fall to tether

my soul to the words that you said?

The leaves change and maybe

when you call her baby

and--like me once--she does spread

Over football and coffee

and please take it off me

I just can't get you out of my head.

Smile Though Your Heart is Aching

When at my most charming, odds are I am seconds away from suicide.

The only thing keeping me going?

This repulsive little dance of wit and grace I do for you.

Diligence!

I don't know how they find me, but they do and I cannot get away.

I hide behind pseudonyms and middle names, refuse to give out information, and sit, aloof, in the corner with my nose buried in a book, but they find me. And, despite my characteristic "leave me the fuck alone" scowl, they continue to do the most terrifying thing I can imagine...

They ask me for advice.

...

I've always viewed success as a substance best measured by a combination of two things: 1. productivity 2. happiness or sense of accomplishment (which, to me, are generally speaking the same things).

By my own definition, I have had some measured success in the entertainment industry. I have also had some epic failures. But through the world's eyes, I know I remain a sea monkey in the vast ocean of production. A speck in the universe that is film/tv/news.

So how, where and why do these people find me?

And, more importantly, why do they give a damn about what I have to say?

Recently (within the past week) I have fielded no fewer than three emails from complete strangers (how did they get my personal email? Your guess is as good as mine.) telling me that they are production professionals (one editor, one DP, one writer) offering services and seeking advice.

My brow furrowed at each request.

Why the fuck are you asking me?

From my vantage, it is nothing short of obvious that I am flying by the seat of my pants - following what is, to most, an unreachable goal fueled by an impractical passion.

I've been courting the poor house for years now. Taking on projects for less than no money. Speaking lines written by writers with no concept of the Oxford Comma and enduring directors who wouldn't know the lens from the tripod on which it's perched.

Who the hell wants to listen to me anyway?

Friends, it dawned on me today that I am living a brave life. An insane, ludicrous, pie in the sky, how in the fuck do you expect this to work (I dunno but I just know it's gonna) life.

And I can't afford to go to the doctor. Or get my teeth fixed. Or have my hair professionally dyed. Hell, I can't even afford the good toilet paper.

But somehow, people out there see what I am doing. And while the naysayers of the world poo poo my efforts, there are a few likeminded souls (Lord, what fools these mortals be!) who actually might like to follow in my footsteps.

I wouldn't recommend it.

Hell, run for the hills, I say.

But for those few strangers (fans?) writing to me, the best advice I can give is to turn you around and point you to someone smart. Someone not me.

My dears, I give you George Bernard Shaw--mixed with a hint of Erin's own recipe: "network, network, network!" and "follow your dreams. Even into the pits of hell. Follow your dreams."

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man." - George Bernard Shaw

Sometimes

Forgive me, but I'm feeling ugly today

So my make-ups a little bit thicker

my smile's just a little bit slicker

my temper a little bit quicker.

....

Forgive me, but I'm feeling wretched today

so my shirt may be just a tad tighter

my hair may be just a tad lighter

in 3...2...1 princess to fighter

...

Because baby, I'm feeling ugly today

and until you show me you're a "sticker"

until my heart knows not to bicker

until my outlook's a bit brighter

until the world gets a bit righter

Everything's just gonna be wrong.

Opportunity Knocks?

Missed opportunities give me fits.

It's only 11 a.m., and already I've missed four...and those are just the obvious ones I can count.

In this life there are so many things dependent upon so many other things which are, in turn, contingent on other things and...whoa. All of the sudden, I need some Excedrin Migraine.

How in the world are we--mere mortals--expected to navigate the snake-infested waters of chance, while most of us are too busy flailing about, sans flotation devices, with nary an idea of how to swim?

Forget medal placement, I'm just tryin' to survive here!

As of this moment, I have left the house only once today. In that time, I witnessed the following scenarios and resisted my impulse to act. Had I acted on each impulse? Well, let's just say we might have had another "sweet pussy" situation on our hands.

1. The security officer at my therapist's building was standing alone, looking forlorn and singing to the radio. I had just had a waking dream/fantasy about starting a true-life musical on the streets with a random stranger when I encountered this officer. My impulse was to speak to her...or, at the very least, join in her song and make real the fantasy in which I had just indulged...but I did neither. Why? Because I was in a hurry. Things to do...

2. Upon exiting my therapist's office, I encountered the same officer. Engaged in the same activity. To the same results. Why didn't I act this time? Cowardice, most likely. Though I told myself it was because my feet hurt too much to dance. Note to all: NEVER let your feet hurt too much to dance. Blisters? Fatigue? Bunions? Dance anyway.

3. I passed a rather dumpy young student on the street. She was wearing a "Rent" t-shirt and carrying a large lunch bag. When she saw me, she looked down. Eyes down, chin down. I could tell she wanted to melt into the pavement. I wanted to smile at her, but I knew she wouldn't have seen it. As we passed, I resisted the urge to literally touch her arm, smile and tell her to lift her chin up. That everything was going to be okay. But I walked on by. Opportunity to brighten someone's day? Missed.

4. While approaching my car, I noticed I was also approaching a strikingly handsome young man with broad shoulders and lovely, lovely...well, everything. Our eyes met. But I didn't say anything. We passed. I reached my car and felt that tingle...you know the one...when someone is watching you. I turned and looked at Pretty. He turned, full blushed, and smiled. And then? My dumb ass got in the car. Why? I told myself it was the blister I'd developed from my insistence on inappropriate but enviable footwear. Really, it was just because I wanted to get home to my humdrum life and not take any chances today.

5. On my way home, as I took a cat and nine tails to my mind for missing so many opportunities, I passed a camera crew. Within walking distance of my house. But I didn't stop to offer my services. I didn't great them and "network." I just drove right on by. Why? Because it was easier. And, my friends, because I am a coward.

For as much as I talk about capre diem-ing the shit out of life, I am, at my core, a lazy goodfornothing who'd prefer to sit in her kitsch-glam apartment writing her observations on life rather than actually going out and living it.

The proof? I should walk up the street and hit up that camera crew. But instead I'm gonna do my dishes. I'm gonna wash my work uniform. I'm gonna shower and put on clothes and engage in the same ol' routine 'cause it's comfortable and 'cause I'm lazy.

I'm gonna do everything as I've always done...and then wonder why nothing ever changes.

Out Of My Reach

I saw a red, red rose today

discarded in a lillypad pond.

To its right

A blue, blue crane.

In my awe, I desired each

Knew I would cherish the wealth

But the crane flew at my approach

And the flower was out of my reach.

Sweet, Sweet Pussy

I purchase perfumes with a zeal most women reserve for the acquisition of Jimmy Choos, so when I tell you that the lil' ol' lady at the grocery store smelled like manna from Heaven--well, you can rely on me as a credible expert.

I first caught her scent when she whizzed by me in her electronic wheelchair in the deli meats section. Such was the aroma that I simply could not help but turn my head.

Two packages of pita and some raspberries later, I encountered her--and her mountain of frizzy black hair--in the plums isle. I could not resist remarking... "Excuse me, ma'am? I couldn't help but notice that you smell AMAZING? May I ask what perfume you are wearing?"

With a smile, she said, "Of course. Come here and let me whisper in your ear."

Ummm...I found this odd...but, as I attract odd like trash does flies, I figured 'what the hell?'. So I shrugged and leaned in closer. This is when she whispered in my ear, "Sweet Pussy."

Ummm....WHAT!?!?!

Certain I had misheard, I asked for a repeat.

"Sweet Pussy."

My eyeballs fell out of my skull.

As I bent to retrieve them from the tiled floor of the Edgewood Kroger, my new, best-smelling senior friend asked me, "now what do you think of that?"

...

My dears, I am not often at a loss for words...but any mention of "pussy" by a woman likely older than my grandmother (though equally inappropriate) knocked me square on my ass...And I should have stayed there. Because granny had one helluva follow-up.

...

"What do you think your man would say if you wore it?"...and then, I CANNOT MAKE THIS UP, she took a knowing glance at my...*ahem*...yeah. Yeah she did.

I'm sure I sputtered. I was--howdoyousay?--flummoxed.

But is this the end of the encounter? Oh no, my friends! No...

"My gentleman friend...he always says I smell so cleeeaaaan. What do you think that means?"

Erin's Mind: "Run Erin! Run NOW!" Erin's mouth: "Umm...I am boy retarded. I never have any idea what they are thinking...so... All I know is that they are pretty and I like to look at them."

"Oh really?," she says with sudden and discomforting interest. "And what about the ladies?"

WHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Is this geriatric, wheelchaired minx propositioning me in the produce isle?!?!?

"Ummm...it takes a very special lady. Very special. I'm pretty keen on the menfolk."

"Oh," she responds. Knowing nod. And as she begins to scuttle away, "Well, you can find sweet pussy in Little 5 Points."

Sure. Sure I can.

But where can I find my wits?

'Cause I seem to have lost them in her sweet pussy...

Salvation is Gay and Died in 1900

I am somewhat saddened by Oscar Wilde's status as a gay man.

Somehow, that he died almost 100 years before I was even born never seemed to be an obstacle to our incontrovertible destiny of a lifetime spent side by side--evenings on the front porch, waxing philosophic on literary brilliance (coffee and cigars involved), days spent pouring over the works of the Masters...our brilliant children going on to to be sole saviors of the contemporary literate...

Yes. Death and the subsequent decay were mere setbacks to my plan...

But while at least part of me continues to believe that I can alter both space and time to make this marriage work, I fear our kismet has been met with an unopposable obstacle.

You see, my soulmate is gay.

And while I love gay men and would still bend time, move space, conquer death and battle the decay with copious amounts of Pet Formula Febreeze, it seems no amount of godlike power can turn the man's tastes.

Which sucks for you people.

'Cause who's gonna save you from yourselves now?