I always knew Daddy wasn’t around. That he wouldn’t be.

That was his choice.

“One night stand” is a hard concept for a child to understand.

But Momma always insisted I was a product of Love












An ol’ journal entry… the “J” series.

…I never was a fan of popularity.

2/11/12                                                          J-1

He grew accustom to girls dancing around him in their melodic gaggle, waddling, squawking. Their giggles like quickly plucked strings, shrieking gossip like the piercing shock of an over-played flute.

He mastered The Charming Disposition (#22) when wearing the Mask of Sincerity (#78), crooning with The Caring Voice of Concern (#53). He flashed the White Pearls of Charm (#66), easily folding, bending, squeezing young, fluttering hearts into his toy chest. He lingered over the box, humming along to the hopeful beating against the entrapment. Quickly, swaying hearts latched to their unlikely chance of being his, like a calf to his mother’s teat; savoring the sweet, nourishing nectar of self convincing delusion.

His sustenance and passions always within reach, he wanted for nothing, needed nothing.

The Night gathered her winds and teased the toy box open… finding new mischief to amuse herself with. He fell victim to curiosity, toppled over himself when he noticed her.

She was not like the hearts that resided in his toy chest… She possessed the wisdom of one who had seen many moons, yet she had walked no more steps than the symphonic giggling gaggle He surrounded himself with. She possessed something He never had before, something He could not identify.

Unfamiliar with her ways, The Boy displayed his Best Mask (#77), voiced his best rehearsed Concern (#53.2) with perfect pitch, flashed his Pearls (#60-69).

The Woman did not find validity to the Grande Presentation, but the persistent, Wicked Night Moon got her way. Curiosity took over for the unmatched pair.

The Night sighed a breath of relief. Of Release. Nearly erupting through the seams… long overdue.

He found himself in unfamiliar territory. He knew sex; he possessed a self-proclaimed crown in the matter. But this was strange…Her force, her commanding presence. She had a desire for more than pleasing him. She met him, surprised him, demanded things of him, challenged him. She showed him sensuality and self knowledge. His chest felt tight as she grabbed something intangible. The two took a breath and dived in.

It was awkward.

At times, painful.



He was unprepared, insecure, incompetent. Underwhelming. Vulnerable.

He was cold, uncovered. Naked. Exposed.

He held on to her as he glided into sleep. Trying to keep the moment, the feelings , the magic, the Ecstasy, the indescribable.

She slipped out of his grasp in the early rays. Long before waking hours, maybe moments after he drifted to sleep. She wouldn’t return. She wouldn’t say goodbye. She wouldn’t see him again.

He awoke, with tousled sheets and a slight imprint as the only remains of the night before. The only evidence of his journey the human portal to the divine. It was real. It was bigger than Him.

He softly caressed the lines where her body had lay



“Lie”,  his mind echoed… he was without his mask and his eyes burned with arrival of pure, first morning light, untainted by the day’s abuse, unsaturated by his tinted lenses. Seeing everything for the first time, He realized: He was alone.

He always had been.

His toy box tumbled restlessly. The boy opened the lid, forgetting his Song of Concern. His Charm tarnished, his Mask cracked and frayed.

The young hearts surrounded him, but their once soothing melody was now a cacophony of superficiality. The hearts took turns soothing and comforting The Boy without effect. He lead them back into the toy chest and shut them in again. Clouds covered the golden morning light until the room appeared dull and colorless again. It was dark. The music stopped. The boy buried his head in his hands and cried.

Ode To The Old Us

An old journal entry to an old friend. Long lamented, never sent.

Someone once asked me about the closeness of female friends… sisterhood. This might be something like it.

March 2014- New York, NY

You look so beautiful lying there. So serine. So peaceful. It’s nice to see your shoulders down and free of stress, even if you have to be unconscious for it. I’m glad that you at least have your dreams to run away to.

You’re paler than I remember.


It reminds me of when we were little. You: Blonde curls dancing just behind your pokey ears. Even as a child you were so sure, so graceful. Me, round red Irish cheeks exploding with laughter as I tripped and toppled over my feet and stumbled with my words to express ideas. We’d stay up late nights on our weekly sleepovers, giggling, secrets escaping our lips in hushed whispers, safe in the cover of darkness and a Winnie the Pooh comforter.

It’s funny how long it took us to be friends. I always admired you. You thought you were better than me, and I believed you. This gorgeous, smart, talented, graceful, fearless force. Even my Mom wondered ((aloud)) why I couldn’t be more like you. And boy, did I try. But I always fell just beneath the shadow of your radiant successes. Your courage, your maturity, your fierce independence, your unwavering self confidence, your ambition, your hunger for adventure were the weights coaxing my heavy sighs.

You held my secrets, you were my laughter. My sister. My heart. We grew up together. Faced life and death together. Gave away our hearts and mended them back whole again…together.

You protected me from hash realities no little girl should have to face. You cried the hardest at my mom’s funeral. Because when I lost, you lost. When you hurt, I hurt.

I’ve always compared myself to you. Measured my self worth with your accomplishments.

You were an endless, untouchable flame. You were going to take over the world, and I believed it!

I imagined us at this age, you, off discovering new lands and species and curing cancer and foundations and families and living and full, fruitful life filled to the brim with the viality this world has to offer.

You were the adventurer.

I, timid, awkward, ready to follow.

You’re my best friend, My love for you is immeasurable and incomparable to any other. Because it is endless and unconditional. It’s not obligatory because of a blood union. We are united by spirit. We have no choice.



My radiant friend is trapped inside with closed blinds. My adventurer lost her curiosity to explore.

*A sigh of stagnant, lifeless air. *

 I don’t want to lose you.

I can’t lose you.

You are my entire coming-of-age story… you’ve painted every memory with me, danced through life lessons, you’ve been my anchor, my muse, my biggest competition, my best friend and my worst pain in the ass. I love you.


I remember you used to tan this gorgeous hue of gold effortlessly, any time the sun was out. You coaxed me outside with the promise of endless summer days and boys. You mastered athleticism the way I had mastered sarcasm. With a hair flip, you dominated everyone in your path. You threw on a pair of jogging shorts and a tee shirt we probably found at a thrift somewhere, and easily maneuvered the large city park field like an Olympian. And I, overly, poorly made up (and always dressed inappropriately for the occasion), would sit on the bleachers, skin sizzling into a deep red (to match my unfortunate shade of blush) and wonder if the “ultimate” part of Frisbee was the glistening, shirtless high school seniors.


But your skin is now an unrecognizable shade of marble-gray. Deep purple hues hang on your eyes forcing them into a half-conscious, swollen gaze. The girl who once embraced the vibrant energy of the living world around her, now has to numb herself just to coexist with it.

Have you eaten?

….Please just fucking eat. How can I care for you from miles, years and identities away?

I know it’s my fault.

Every phone call I never returned. Ignoring the signs. Taking you for your word when you told me everything was “fine”. Pretending you sounded the same. Pretending we were the same.

You sleep in the fetal position, as if holding together what is left of you.

… I keep my promise, crawl over to you, and hold you. Protect you. Love you.

I will hold you for the rest of our lives if that’s what it takes.




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]