Morning Pages

Somewhere between Astoria, Queens and SoHo in the early morning hours. You know, those 2 hours between still, dead night and early morning light… when morning commuters share the train with the those suffering from last night’s party…

A girl tries to settle her heart with “Morning Pages” (longhand, stream of consciousness writings done first thing in the morning). It doesn’t last long.


Morning vs. Mourning…

Perhaps we know there are no endings, only new beginnings.  It’s time for mine.

We were dancers in the night, but it’s time for me to move on and make love to the morning, give in to her succulent kiss, her igniting touch… she sheds light in the darkness and reveals a new world. My new love.

I am exposed.

My skin sucks to her warmth, her rays bring me the color my life has lacked for so long.

Sorrows once drowned in celebratory whiskey shots of youth, high heels and drunken declarations of love… are now invigorated and repurposed in the buzz of my morning dark roast. (I love you, coffee, I do.)

She sees me without shadows; in the morning sun there is nowhere to hide.

In the morning sun, the flowers stretch yearningly to the nourishment they need. I begin to bloom.

The night’s thumping bass is replaced by morning songbirds.

In the night, the memories recall,


calling me to




to the life in shadows.


I hide beneath the covers, and await the warm embrace of my love, the first kiss of mourning rays… I can’t breathe in the waterfall of memories as I call



the nights before.

Flooding my bed…. in the waking rays.

I try sleep through the night. Shut my eyes…

But find myself here, again.


I didn’t move to NYC to be a full-time slave waitress. I’m a fucking cliche. A number.

But I haven’t even tried. I haven’t been auditioning. At all.

This new project is a true gift… a huge wake-up call to how out of shape I’ve gotten creatively.

I’m stifling out here… in this restaurant. Letting people label me as insignificant. Letting myself drown in a gray stew of ordinary. Unnoticed. Unimportant.

…I treated myself that way.

…I let him treat me that way.

Worst of all… I believed it.

I want to explore the sights and sounds of New York that inspired me a lifetime ago from miles away, but I find myself growing cold to the place of which I’ve hardly made an acquaintance. I hope I get to work on time. It hardly seems fair to not be able to sleep all night, wake up 4+ hours before work and STILL be late… I’ll “create” being on time. [Author’s Note: I didn’t]

I don’t want to go. I’m starting to loath this place. I don’t like how negative I can get for no logical reason…

…but here I go.


I am exhausted. So. Fucking. Exhausted.

And bloated. Damn beer.

But happy. And inspired. And excited for the future. I have no reason to doubt this director, right? He never doubts himself… and he’s gotten very, very fair with that.

A model to live by.

Discipline seems to be my biggest lesson right now. Self discipline, especially. I am in control. For so long when HE and I were in the thick of it, and even while on tour, I complained on feeling like I didn’t have control. Like everything was happening to me. And though I spent the majority of 2015 reading about how life is about perspective and action, for the first time, my heart believes it.

I need a massage.

Or a message? Was that what the director’s talk was about last night? The beers? Running into Paul Haggis? Is this the beginning of everything I was destined for?

[Author’s Note: It was]


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