Notes From The Author

"My Soul Mate Was Aborted!" was, essentially, written as a procrastination tool while I was developing various television shows and films. While most of the entries are based on facts that occurred within my life; some -- I've taken creative liberty with. I refer to this genre as Punctuated Realism.

This novel (which exists in digital format) was written in a three-tiered metaphoric structure to emphasize the life lessons and story lines that I felt, needed to be shared.

The effect of using Punctuated Realism allows me to keep what is mine; private. The rest (like all good stories) is left up to your imagination.

It is said by those who have read this book that it is a cure for the broken hearted. Since my heart was healing while I wrote this -- I am happy to share it with you as a remedy.

May you always be able to look within yourself and find the truth of who you really are.

The End is Always The Beginning

"Do you want some more chicken?" my friend asks as she heads back to the barbecue to turn off the propane.

"No, I'm stuffed." I tell her and readjust myself in my seat. I hate it when I eat too much.

"Are you sure?" she taunts, but I gesture that I'm about to explode, and so she simply places the leftover chicken on a dish.

"So, are you all clear with the...you know..." asks another friend, sitting across from me, as she wipes some barbecue sauce from her daughter's mouth.

"Any more aneurysms?" I fill in for her. "Uh...should be." I say, and cross my fingers. The survival rate from the type of hemorrhaging I had is less than 1%. I shouldn't be here...except, I am. So, from here on in, I'm going to embrace this second chance and not live in the past. I'm tired of all my regrets having so much power over me; so that's where they can stay -- in the past; where I won't be.

Life, is a gift.

"Excuse yourself!" my friend scolds her three year old who burps loudly and then laughs at our startled reaction.

I miss the unencumbered freedom of being a child sometimes.

"So, seeing anyone?" asks my friend, as she sits back down at the table and pours out some more wine for the three of us.

"No one special," I say and think about all the suitors who have popped out of the bushes as of late. I must be giving off some sort of exhilarating vibe that they're attracted to. It is, more or less, raining men.

Losing 20 pounds probably didn't hurt either...

"So, tell us!" they say in unison like school girls. They're both married, and so, I guess I'm earning my lunch by having them live vicariously through my dating life.

"Well, there's not much to tell. I mean, it's just early days. Coffees here, and the odd drinks on a patio there. I'm not really dropping anchor with anyone until I see that they are willing to rise to the occasion, and besides; I don't know any of them well enough to drift off into happily ever after land." I motion for my friend to fill up my wine glass again.

"That's good. Keep it light. Date as long as you can. Trust me -- I wish I could go back to those days sometimes. Don't get me wrong, I love --"

She's interrupted by my phone ringing.

I ignore it, and take another sip of wine.

"Aren't you going to get it?" asks my friend as she motions for her daughter to go and play in her sandbox.

"Uh, no." I say. Why? I'm having a nice time with my friends. I have voicemail...

"Maybe it's Prince Charming!" says the other one and laughs, while she wipes the crumbs up from around our friend's daughter's plate.

"I doubt it." I say.

A moment later, my phone beeps to let me know that there is voicemail.

"Don't you want to check it?" they basically say in unison.

I don't ~ but I do, just to appease them. I roll my eyes as I listen to voicemail prompts before collecting my message.

"You have WUN! UN-HERD message," says the lady in my phone.

BEEEEP

"Hi, Karen. This is Alex calling from Warner Brother's. We've read your script, titled "Human Frailty" and we'd like to set up a meeting for you to come down here and talk with us about it. Have your agent give us a call to set it up. I can be reached at..."

I slowly lower the phone.

"What is it?" says my friend. She's concerned. The shock on my face must have scared her.

"It's good." I say and collect my thoughts. I concentrate on pressing "9" on the phone to save the message.

Must not accidentally press "7" and erase the message...

"A date?" says the other as she picks at the leftover potato salad.

"It's Warner Brothers," I say -- but then I start to get really excited, "They want me to come down to LA to talk about my script!"

"That's great!" they say in unison, and both stand to walk over and give me a hug.

"What's so great, mummy?" asks our friend's daughter from the sidelines. She looks up from playing in her sandbox.

"Auntie Karen is going to be very famous!" answers my friend as she finishes hugging me.

"Famous like Diego?" says the three year old.

I laugh.

"Bigger!" I say and we each raise our wine glasses to toast the good news.

And the indigo and pink light grows as it swirls between all of us, the three year old, and the birds in the trees; before turning around the corner and traveling towards the neighbor's houses.

Lauryn Hill - Everything Is Everything
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**********************************THE END*******************************






















"Mia, iz dat it? Der iz no more stories fer da people?" Consuela sulks, "Becuz I have da storiez dat I wanna tell da people when we iz in da LA!"

She's becoming vehement.

"Relax," I tell her "this is just for now, OK?" I say and rub her back. I readjust her scrunchie because her hair is coming loose.

"Becuz, da people I iz sink dey wanna go wis us to der LA, no?" says Consuela. She fidgets while I fix her hair.

"We'll see," I tell her. She crosses her pudgy little arms in defiance, and so I raise my eyebrows and stare her down -- to remind her who the boss is. A moment later she uncrosses her arms and gives me a big fake smile as a peace offering.

"I iz just sink itz stoopid if we iz not tell da people when we iz in da LA," she says.

"Consuela," I snipe at her, "For now -- let's just focus on one thing at a time, OK?"

She's starting to get on my nerves.

Why the hell did I promise to bring her to LA with me?

"And right now, I need YOU to help ME with packing." I snap, "So friggen get to it!"

She glares at me for a moment, before grabbing her Swiffer and storming out of the room; "Yer iz can't be means to me, Mia, I iz won't let you!!" she wails.

I laugh.

"For now, can you please stop fighting with me and help me?" I yell to her.

She pops her head around the corner, "And da people?" she says.

"Fine, we'll bring the people to LA. Now...will you help me pack?"

Why is everything such a friggen big ordeal with her?

"OK!" she says and gives me a big smile. This time it's real.

"I love you, Mia." she says and then turns around the corner.

"Ditto," I say back; but I'm not sure she heard me. I look around the room and take it all in. The months of crying. The weeks of angst. Now, I'm going to miss this apartment. Because, after all, this is where it all started.

From here on in, nothing will ever be the same.

And that, of course, is a good thing.

Awake

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

My heart is beating steady. I'm still groggy, and my throat is dry. I start to hear the shuffle of people around me; and so, I open my eyes.

My lids are heavy, and at first I'm only able to open them a sliver; then a crack. Then just my right eye fully.

"Mom?" I say barely above a whisper.

"Oh my God! Oh! Thank God!" my mom says and rushes over to my side. I take a look around the room; white light pours in. It's a sunny day. My father stands from his chair and walks over to my side. He makes a joke.

"What do you do for an encore?"

He does that when he's uncomfortable. I can see some water welling in the bottom of his eyes.

"She's awake," says my sister. I try to open my left eye to see where she is. The other side of the room is adorned with teddy bears, flowers, balloons, and cards. My friend peeks her head in the room from out in the hall. Her face is white; and she's holding tightly on to her baby. A moment later another friend of mine walks in -- and another.

I try to blink away the film on my eyes so I can have a better look.

"My head is fucking killing me!" I whine.

They laugh.

"Yep. She's back!" says my sister as she walks over to the other side of the bed. The doctor walks in a moment later and uses one of those light pens to look into my eyes. He speaks to my mom, telling her how my recovery is going to be. My mom nods furiously.

My dad walks over and kisses me on the forehead. My friends start to cry.

I am loved.

A moment later I begin to see the white and pink light dance between all of us; as the doctors and nurse do some perfunctory assessments. I'm not exactly sure what happened -- but I know that from here on in everything is going to be ok.

I make a motion with my hand to get my mother's attention.

"What? What is it?" she asks.

I try to motion scribbling with my hand; but I'm too weak.

"I think she wants something," my sister says.

"What do you want? I'll get it for you." says my mom.

"A pen..." I say. "And some paper."

"Maybe it's difficult for her to speak?" offers one of my friends.

"No," I say with a clearer voice, "I think I'm ok to talk -- just, you know, really tired. No, I want to jot some stuff down before I forget." I tell them.

My sister hands me a pen and pad that were next to the phone, on her side of the room.

"Don't push yourself," she says to me.

"I'm not -- I just really have the sudden urge to write." I say.

And the doctors and nurses continue to fuss, while I jot down some ideas before they slip away.

Daughter Daughter

"Daughter," God says to me as I try to regain my balance on the mountain side. It's a bit crumbly where I am; and I'm barefoot -- so I have to distribute my weight carefully.

"God?" I say. I can't really see him because there is too much mist. "I can't see you," I tell him, "Can you maybe do something about all this mist, and maybe...some shoes if you don't mind?"

A moment later the landscape transforms from a cliff-like mountaintop; to lush hillside. Red poppies scatter across the field, and the sun peaks out from behind the clouds every so often.

"God?" I say, assuming the sun is him. It's not like I've met him face-to-face before.

"Karen," he says back. I still can't see him. I look down at my feet and see a nice pair of silver slippers...they fit perfectly. I give him a thumbs up -- where ever he may be and say, "Thanks for the shoes!"

It's silent for a while, so I take a stroll on the hillside. I like it here. Peaceful. Quiet. Safe. I take off my slippers for a moment and let the grass tickle the bottoms of my feet. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my legs and arms; and the moment I think I might need some sunblock a large sunhat appears on my head. It's red, with a large brim. Like a lady at the horse track in the 1920s.

A bench materializes in front of me and so I walk over to it and take a seat. I put my slippers beside me on the bench. Since the ground isn't a rocky mountainside, I don't really feel the need for them right this second.

A moment later God appears and takes a seat beside me. Indigo and white light flow like electric currents out from him; it travels through my heart before leaving my body and continues flowing through the air. A moment later the light passes through a rabbit that is munching a flower; and then travels around the bend.

"What seems to be the problem?" he says. I think he's trying not to laugh. There's a sparkle in his eyes...so I know on some level that he thinks my little act of rebellion is funny.

"I hate it down there." I say to him. I feel bad that I'm being so negative...and even now, having not been on Earth for a few minutes; I'm almost forgetting how painful it really is...but, since I've come this far in my decision not to return -- I might as well be honest about how I feel.

At least...I think I still feel that way.

"The problem isn't Earth." he says with a big smile. It must be so funny to him; knowing everything that he knows and watching the rest of us stumble our way through it.

"Uh....yeah the problem is Earth." I say to him with a sharp tone. If the problem wasn't Earth and all it's friggen crap then maybe I would still be down there...

"No, it's not." he says, trying to hold back the laughter. "The problem...little one...is how you react to Earth."

There's silence.

I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn't. He leans back on the bench and closes his eyes to bake in the sun for a moment while I process what he just told me.

"Well, how else am I suppose to react?" I ask him. He can't just bait me with an answer like that and expect me not to want some more information.

"Uh...not the way you've been acting -- that's for sure. Poor me. All about me. My life is so difficult. I was a child genius. No one appreciates me. Blah. Blah. Blah. It's nauseating how self-absorbed you really are. That is the reason you're having problems." he says and the indigo light pours thicker. I feel a waive of euphoric energy pass through me; and I take a moment to recuperate from the jolt of it all.

"Uh...I don't think you're entirely right on that." I say, "I'm a good person -- it's not my fault that I'm having such a hard time finding love, solidarity, or a fledgling career. There's demons...remember?" I tell him matter-of-fact. I want to cross my arms, but I can't because the energy is pouring into my heart.

"Uh...first off," he says mocking my voice, "the demons can't harm you if you don't let them. You have the seed of the entire universe inside of you. Second, the love -- the solidarity...the career -- you'll never be satisfied by any of those things. That's why you're depressed. You're looking for external validation."

I sit for a moment and process what he just said. I guess I am a bit depressed...

"I didn't create you so you could focus only on yourself. You're there to share. It's the only way you'll ever feel complete as an entity. Give and you'll receive. It's a universal law because I designed it that way." he says. He's not smiling at me anymore.

"But I do share," I say back in my defence.

"No you don't -- not at the level that you need to really fulfill you. Your depression comes from not giving of yourself as much as you need to...you're too afraid."

I think about what he says for a moment. Is that really the answer? Stop being afraid and just give more of yourself?

"You need to deliver the information more softly, remember -- she's still learning," says a woman who walks over to me and kisses me on the forehead. Pink and white light flow from out of her, through God, and my heart, and the little rabbits that run around the field.

They both speak in unison, "Karen, what are you so afraid of? We've given you the power of words...so now, now my dear -- you need to go off and use it. Share what knowledge you have and not be afraid of what that exposure will do to you."

Then only the woman speaks softly, "Nothing bad will ever happen to you. Do you think that we designed the world so you would suffer? You're not suppose to suffer. You're suppose to enjoy your life -- in abundance; and to the fullest."

I shake my head -- because I'm pretty sure when I was down there I tried to do that -- and it didn't work.

"Am I your daughter?" I say to God...who I now understand to be both of these entities in front of me...and watching the energy pour from both of them into everything around us; including myself -- I think I get what they mean when they say I have the seed of the Universe inside of me.

"You're all our sons and daughters. You're us, just in the flesh -- and we want you to succeed spiritually. Look how far you've come!" she proclaims, "before you descended you were never attune enough to be able to talk to us. Just look at you now!" she says with a smile.

I know that if I could be able to tap into her while I was on Earth, it might not be so bad...

"You've come so far, there's no need to give up just yet. Share more of yourself -- stop being so afraid; and you'll see. The depression will lift. You will be happy."

"I will be happy..." I repeat softly, as we all stand. They link arms and walk beside me. The pink and indigo streams of energy channel stronger through my heart; and I feel rejuvenated.

"Karen," they say "this is the truth of who you are. Just look for us in your heart, and we'll be there -- you needn't look towards anything else. And..." they say with a smile, "you'll be surprised how when you stop looking towards others to fill the void; how very quickly they will all rise to the occasion."

I believe them. At least, I so very much want to believe them. It sounds so simple. Could it be?

"OK," I say and nod. "I'll give it another go,"

And a moment later I feel the whoosh of being sucked back into my body.

Not again!

"Not again!" I say and roll my eyes as St. Peter walks towards me with a Dr. Pepper. He motions for me to sit beside him; and I do so begrudgingly.

"I'm not going back down there," I say and motion for him to unlock the Pearly Gates.

He looks at me stone faced. I know he's assessing just how serious I was when I said that. I watch him watch me for a few more seconds, before I break my gaze and take in my surroundings. It's nice up here. There's no bullshit; no backstabbing. People really care about you because they are a part of you. There's no demons here -- I can actually exist as God intended me to.

Why the hell would I ever go back?

"We had a deal," he says matter-of-fact.

"Deal schmeal," I say and pick at my cuticles. I refuse to make eye contact with him. I don't care what he has to say...I've had it with Earth. Stupid Earth and it's stupid bullshit.

"We HAD A DEAL!" he yells at me. The heavens rumble a bit, so I look up.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I start. Just who does he think he is? It's my soul and I can chose to renege any damn time I feel like it. I hate it down there. It's cold, and secular...and no one gives a shit about you. I really don't see what the big deal is, anyhow? I'm already here...

"Excuse me?" he says and leans back. I think I startled him.

"You heard me," I said and walk over to the gates. I try and shake them open -- but they won't budge.

"Let me in!" I say to him without looking over my shoulder. I continue to shake the gates in case someone on the other side will take pity on me. "Hey!" I yell into the mist in case anyone is there, "Someone...anyone...yoo hoo...."

Peter walks over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. I calm down for a second. He motions again towards the the La-Z-Boys, "Please," he says softly.

I take a deep breath; but I don't know why...it's not like I need to breathe up here...must be habit? In any case, I breathe, walk over, and plunk into the chair beside him. He formulates his arguments and so, in the meantime, I grab the remote control and fidget with the buttons. I might as well have a nice neck massage while I listen to him.

"Karen," he starts "You have to go back down there. It's part of the deal."

"What deal are you talking about?" I start in on him, "I did what I was suppose to...went down...was a good person, blah blah blah. Tried to share some insight; no one listened. Had a brain aneurysm -- and now I'm back -- so wha-at is the big deal?" I say while I increase the intensity of the massage.

"The BIG DEAL," he starts "is that you have a mission to complete. Remember? It's why you went down there in the first place?" He glares at me...well, it's not really a glare because he's all holy and what-not, but it's a really, really, strong stare.

"Send someone else," I say and take a sip of my Dr. Pepper, "I'm not climbing that mountain again...and if you're so hellbent on waking the lot of them up, why don't you go back down there? Huh? You think you're scot-free because you started some formalized religion? Think that frees you from having to go back? Well, guess what mi compadre -- it doesn't. Hanging upside down on a cross doesn't clear you of anything. You think you can make a difference -- be my guest. But I am NOT GOING BACK DOWN THERE!" I say, and slurp on my Dr. Pepper some more until it's almost done.

"This is not good," he says and stands to pace.

"Free will, baby." I say, "Deal with it." He turns towards me, his jaw drops -- but then he regains his saintly composure.

I reaffirm my position, "You know, Peter, I'm fine with just hanging out here -- you don't have to let me in; but I'm telling you RIGHT NOW, I am NOT GOING BACK!"

I put down my Dr. Pepper and cross my arms for emphasis. He starts to speak, so I plug my fingers in my ears, "La La La La La La La...I can't hear you...La La La La La--"

He rips my hands away from ears and pins them on the arms of the recliner. "Karen! This is not my decision. It's not your decision. There are things that are suppose to channel through you. You have NO CHOICE but to go back. Don't you care what happens to them?"

I start to think that maybe I still am possessing some of the selfishness I had while being in Human form. I care...of course I care -- but it's just so impossible to get anything done down there!

Sigh.

"Of course, I care." I say, and he releases my hands.

He sits beside me and takes another silent moment before speaking, "You are very different, I can only imagine how hard it has been for you." He's trying to be compassionate.

I start to let my defenses down. Peter's just doing his job by not letting me in. I'm sure he's not trying on purpose to aggrivate me...or maybe he is?

I try to explain to him how I feel, "It's not that I want to give up. It's just -- I'm not getting anywhere; and you don't remember -- or maybe you do, but it's really painful to walk that walk down there. I'm constantly battling negative thoughts. Every demon in hell is taking a swing at me. I get it; the bigger the level the bigger the devil...ha ha, but the fact is, I'm tired. I don't know if I can even do it anymore." I take a moment to see if he's really listening, which he is, "and that's the truth." I say.

Peter twirls his thumbs while he contemplates a bit more, "I see," he starts and then plays his trump card, "Well, we both know it's not my decision."

He raises his eyebrows, but I call his bluff. "Fine!" I say defiantly and stand from the chair. I brush off some cosmic dust as I readjust my hospital gown. I tie a knot in the back because I just realized that my ass has been hanging out this whole time. There. Better.

"Fine," I say, "It's not your decision. I get that. My bad. I'm throwing in the towel early. Where is the big man?" I say and stare him straight in the eyes so he knows I'm not bluffing.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" he says.

"Yep," I retort, "Let me talk to God."

And with that, I'm transported to the top of a mountain.

Slight Consciousness

Where am I?

My throat is dry, but I can feel tape on my lip and I know that there is some sort of tube going down my throat.

My breath is stale.

I try to open my eyes, but I can't. I can hear voices coming from the next room...or hallway. They're muffled.

I try to speak, but my mouth won't open. I'm too weak.

Someone enters the room. A moment later I feel them wrapping some sort of fabric around my arm. They're taking my blood pressure.

I try to make a sound, but it's useless. I still can't open my eyes.

A moment later, they leave. I hear them scribble something on a clipboard, and then drop it back into some sort of slot at the end of my bed.

I'm in a hospital...

A long time passes before I hear more voices. I'm tired. My heart hurts. There is a pain in my chest that travels down my left arm. I feel dizzy, then nauseous, then tired.

I think I fall asleep again for a while.

***

When I wake up, there is a man's voice talking to someone beside me. I try to speak again, but I can't.

I still can't open my eyes.

"...major hemorrhaging," I hear the man's voice say.

Is that why I'm here?

I try to speak; but nothing comes out. I realize I can't move my head -- or my arms. I'm tired. The pain in my heart happens again, then travels down my left arm. I feel weak, then nauseous.

I drift away...

..."Slow down, baby" he says.

We're driving on the I-90, and there's a state trooper ahead. I push the brakes; but a bit too suddenly -- and so, I jerk the car. He doesn't seem to notice, but simply readjusts in the passenger seat and falls back asleep. I turn down the radio and open the car window to let in the cool night air; hoping it will keep me awake. I'm tired, but I want to enjoy this moment for what it is. Peaceful. Perfect. Just me and him, driving along.

Crickets are chirping...

...and I'm sitting beside the pond. My Fisher Price radio falls into the pond because I was leaning too far over to see the fishies. A moment later I fall in...it's dark in here -- and there is very little light. Where is Mummy? I don't know how to get to the top! I don't know how to swim!

I see my radio floating in front of me. I reach my hand out to grab it, but then something yanks me and I'm pulled out. I cough and cough and cough.

"Karen! Are you alright?!" Mummy yells at me, as she takes off my wet sweater and brushes back my hair.

"I'm sorry, Mummy. I was trying to see the fishies!" I cry.

"You have to be careful," she yells but then kisses my forehead...

..."What happened?" I say to Consuela. We're sitting cross-legged hovering in the air above my comatose body.

"I iz don't know!!" cries Consuela. She grabs a hanky from her sleeve and begins to dab her eyes.

I stare down at my lifeless body and notice a white string that attaches me to it. I'm still alive; sort of.

"What do you mean you don't know!?" I yell at her, "You're suppose to be WATCHING OVER ME, remember? That was the deal! You take care of me, and I work on making a comfy life for us, huh?"

She cries even louder. Snot runs down her nose, and she blows it again into her soggy hanky.

"Knock it off!" I say, and begin to survey the room.

Funny, how I'm here knocking on Death's doorstep and there's not a soul in sight. Not a card or a flower.

I obviously matter to no one.

"MIA!" Consuela wails, "Dis iz NOT Good!"

I reach my hand out to comfort her, but she's too busy sobbing into her hanky to notice.

"But Consuela," I say softly, "what good am I doing here if no one cares?" I try to rationalize with her -- but it's no use. A moment later, I feel the tears start to well in the bottom of my eyes.

Nobody cares that I'm here. I didn't matter to anyone.

My heart hurts, and then the pain travels down my left arm. I feel weak, then nauseous. Then tired.

"I'm so tired," I say to Consuela. She nods.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore," I say.

Consuela sobs even louder. The white rope begins to tug at me, and I slip back towards my body.

The last thing I manage to see before I re-enter, is the heart monitor...the lines wiggle slightly; and as I slip back into my coma, I see a dead straight line start to travel across the scree--

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

I step out of the shower and dry myself off with the towel before wrapping it turban-style around my head. The mirror is fogged and so I use my forearm to swipe a clear spot; and take a good, long look.

I don't recognize the face staring back at me -- but I do the eyes. They've been with me since childhood. Although my body often morphs around them; they're always there, a stagnant consistency.

I wait until most of the fog lifts, and stare at my shoulders. In a few days I'll be 33; my Jesus year. Have I done anything revolutionary with my life? Do I want to? Am I capable?

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm trying so hard, spinning my wheels in the same place that I haven't even checked to see if the muddy road ahead is worth venturing on?

Why am I so crazy?

Tears start to well up in the bottom of my eyes. I've become a sad, pathetic mess. Unaccomplished. Forgotten. Alone.

Even Consuela has been keeping her distance from me lately.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm here? What is the point? I'm sure God or the Universe didn't create me to be a bundle of talent and potential...all so it could get wasted away inside an overweight depressed underachiever...

I hate my life.

I stare in the mirror some more; as a familiar ringing sound occurs. It's more like a high pitched monotonous frequency:

Teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

I try to ignore the ringing so I can get back to berating myself. My life is a reflection of my inner self deprecation...or is it? Sometimes I walk around astonished that the world I've managed to create for myself is one so lack-luster in excitement. One completely void of love.

It's stale.

The ringing continues even louder and I cock my head to the left; careful not to overthrow my turban, and try to shake it away.

But it doesn't go.

And then I see it --

Almost invisible at first; but through some of the faded mist of the fog from my shower, I can see that it's there. And the tears begin to fall.

The black sinew has an almost invisible-like appearance; but somehow the mist on the mirror allows me to recognize it's presence. I peer closer to gain a better perspective on the coil. As I do so, the ringing becomes fragmented, then sharper -- then louder.

I widen my eyes in and effort to allow more light in, to see if that will offer any more clarity on what I think I'm seeing.

But it doesn't. And seconds later the remainder of the fog on the mirror completely disappears and I'm left blind again to the coil that is wrapped around my upper left arm -- or was it my neck? I didn't have the best look...

I start to think about the negative thoughts I was having moments earlier -- and how they never entered my mind as a child. I never doubted myself way back then...

How did I become this self-loathing pathetic excuse for a human being? No wonder no one wants to be with me...

The ringing stops. I wonder if it has a connection to the coil? Could it be some sort of demon frequency?

This is not how my life is suppose to go...

Why is it that everything negative depresses the hell out of me? And everything positive fills me? It's as if we weren't created to live or function in the negative...

The negative is a lie? From the demons?

My head starts to hurt. I feel a drop of something on my forehead and so I look up towards the ceiling. A hole is there and from it, I can see the claws of a demon yanking on something -- perhaps my coil that I can no longer see. As the claws yank, I notice a yellow liquid running downward towards me. From time to time the velocity gains such speed that the odd drop will leap from the flow and land on my towel -- or forehead.

The liquid is poisoning me...

I think I hear the demon cackle, but then I start to think about all the things that irritate me; and make me angry. I start to remember everything bad thing that eroded the essence of who I was; that happy, carefree, fearless little girl from not so long ago.

The world did this to me...

Or did it? My heart is racing. I try to take deep breaths because I want to leave the bathroom; but I can't. I'm immobilized. Trapped. Fixated on all the things that make my life so difficult. All the things that make me hate being here.

I know the yellow liquid is causing me to become weak and drowsy; and so I take a seat on the bathroom floor and put my head between my knees.

I'm overdosing on a demon's toxic elixir.

I close my eyes. Sweat begins to pour heavily from my forehead, and my breathing becomes shallow.

I want to throw up.

Somehow, I'm managing to levitate my rational thoughts above the negative ones that the demon pours into me.

Maybe I am still that happy, carefree, fearless girl? Maybe my whole messed up unfulfilled life is a lie?

But before I can complete the train of thought I'm battling to formulate, I feel the faintness from the mental exhaustion take over me -- and I become light headed. I see a drop or two of my own blood hit the bathroom tile, before I close my eyes. And as I listen to my heart skip a few beats; I hope I remember what I was thinking.

Somehow, it may be the only line of defence I have to get me out of this mess.

And then I pass out.

Ribbit Ribbit

I sip my tea and watch the storm pass from the cafe window. He's already ten minutes late -- most likely because of the weather, but I'm half-wishing that he won't show up. I'm actually having a nice zen moment here, by myself, sipping my peppermint tea. I could even write here...

The door opens and some of the rain gushes in, and he enters. Wet. I waive and do the perfunctory smile, because it would be mean to let him scour the place and try to pick me out of the crowd. He sees me, and then motions that he's going to order a drink at the counter before coming over. I nod.

Take your time...

I look back out the window at the rain gushing down. Sewers overflow. Cyclists are being forced to take cover under small overhangs on various store fronts. Cars swerve on the road because they are unable to see the white lines.

I stare out the window a bit more, and the rainy intersection fades into various scenes of past first dates; missed connections, and romantic encounters fraught with pending failure.

"Hi" he says a little too enthusiastically for my liking, and sits down across from me. I smile, but I already know that very instant that I'm not attracted to him.

Give it a chance...

I try not to compare him to all the qualities I did like about my Ex that he doesn't have, or the Ex before him, or all the men I've dated in general. My mind wanders and I start to try to calculate just how many bad first dates I've had over the past 20 years or so? Could this possibly be #157?

Sigh.

"Hi," I say back. He's dripping with rain. This bugs me. I try to focus on something positive and notice that he has lovely eyes.

"Did you want to maybe take a moment, and go dry yourself off?" I say, and point towards the restroom. It really is bothering me that he's sitting there drenched.

"I don't know what I can do to fix it," he says.

Sigh. Useless.

"Don't worry, I just didn't want you to feel like you had to come right over here and chat...seriously, feel free to take a moment and dry yourself off. I won't mind." I say again.

But he shrugs his shoulders and starts the small talk. I notice that his voice is unusually high for a male, and I start to wonder if perhaps he may be gay? I try my best to listen to him -- after all, we're stuck here until the storm is over; and at the very least, it's a conversation with someone new.

Five minutes into it I want to rip my teeth out of my mouth to quench the boredom. There's no chemistry. He doesn't get my jokes. I'm pretty sure he's three to six months away from leaping out of the closet.

Just then -- lightening strikes the bank across the street.

"Did you see that!?" I say, and stand to see if I can get a better look. It was riveting. Shocking.

He doesn't budge, and simply says "Yes," as if I had asked him a question on a multiple choice exam.

I'm officially on a date with Rain Man. Boring, Repressed Homosexual, Rain Man.

Sigh.

I hate Internet dating.

The storm clouds cause the outside to have an evening-like darkness, and so I catch a glimpse of my face in the window. The reflection is primarily washed out by the bright lights inside the cafe; but I take an account of my face and how it hasn't change too much -- despite the weight gain.

I turn my attention back to my date and estimate that it is another 20 minutes or so before the storm passes.

Not much longer now...

I try to be compassionate towards my date -- despite the obvious lack of compatibility or shared interests. Maybe he's just being polite too? Or maybe he's so deep in the closet that he might actually think this date is going well?

I'm smiling.

Maybe I shouldn't smile so much so he doesn't misinterpret where I'm coming from? But I shouldn't censor myself should I? I'm just being me. I don't owe this person anything. There are no guarantees that I'll like him; or want to have a second date.

Maybe he's just riding out the storm as well...

My phone rings; but I don't answer it. But then it rings again. I see the call display and notice that it's my friend. I apologize and tell him that my friend is probably trying to confirm plans because I'm suppose to meet with her afterwards.

I ask him if he minds if I call her back? Normally, I wouldn't even answer the phone out of politeness ~ but since this date has a shelf-life of less than 20 minutes, I've decided to not be on my best behaviour. It's pointless, but I don't have any animosity towards him. It's circumstantial. He's just a harmless atom bouncing around the Universe trying to make some sort of connection. But since it won't be with me, I'll steer clear and let him continue on his way.

The storm isn't letting up; so he offers to get me a refill of my hot water while I call my friend back.

"Something bad happened," she says in a dry tone. I laugh. It's a classic line from Sex and the City.

"Well..." I tell her, "my ass is kinda stuck here until this storm lifts."

We make plans to meet at a bar in about 30 minutes and I'm off the phone by the time he comes back with my tea.

Nice guy. But we have nothing in common. And he's most likely gay.

As he sits, I notice a glimmer of sun peeking out in the horizon behind the dark clouds. I tell him that I think the storm is over, but he doesn't seem to care.

"I have to leave in about 20 minutes," I say, as I put my phone in my purse. "I'm suppose to meet my friend."

He nods. We finish our drinks and have some more boring misdirected conversation. I look around the cafe and notice a hodge podge of mismatched couples having polite conversations.

I'm in some sort of dating purgatory for the lost and hopeless.

But at least you're putting yourself back out there. It's hard to move forward...you have to kiss a lot of frogs...

I look at my frog, and gesture that the storm is over and it's safe for him to hop back into the bog. He stands and walks me to the door. I don't even extend my hand for a shake when saying good bye. A simple waive and 'nice to meet you' will suffice.

And with that, I turn my back on another bad date. But this time I laugh, because it is kind of funny -- and no real harm was done. My guardian angels almost got it right; he looked good on paper, and he wasn't bad looking -- if you didn't count the ultra-feminine voice.

I walk down the street avoiding puddles, and extend my hands in the air in a desperate plea towards the heavens or whoever is watching over me, and yell; "Almost...so close...just next time -- not GAY, and not BORING!!"

I'm pretty sure they heard me. I'm hopeful for my next encounter. Besides, no one has ever died from a bad first date...at least not that I know of.

Aerosmith - Dude Looks Like A Lady
Uploaded by Skeupon.

The Rapist - Pt. 4

Tap Tap Tap

Someone is tapping on my door. I roll over and ignore them. I manage to catch the time on my VCR; it reads just after 3am.

Tap Tap Tap

It's probably some drunken frosh wanting a condom. I put my pillow over my head and take a deep breath. I hope I go back to sleep quickly.

"Karen," someone whispers from the other side of my dorm room door.

"Karen?"

I continue to ignore them. A moment later they try to open my door; I can hear them jostling the doorknob, but it's locked.

"Karen?"

"Go AWAY!" I yell at them, and roll over in my bed again. I'll be glad when I don't have to live in residence next year.

Tap Tap Tap Tap Knocky Knock Knock Knock Tap Tap Tap Tap...

I begrudgingly throw on a sweater, and stumble to the door.

"Whaaaaaaat?" I say, agitated and annoyed as I crack my door open a few inches. The bright fluorescent lights of the hallway stream in and temporarily blind me. When my eyes adjust I see one of my frosh standing there -- her face is white, and there's blood on her hands.

"I need your help," she says quietly.

"Are you ok? What happened!?!" I say. The blood has jolted me awake. She motions for me to be quiet and so, I grab my slippers and slip them on my feet before following her down the corridor. She uses her elbows to push through the doors leading to the staircase, and we go down the stairs to the floor below me. I skip ahead of her and open the doors to the next floor so she won't get blood on the handles.

My mind is racing with possibilities...

We enter the hallway -- but the lights are out. Strange. We approach one of the dorms in the middle of the hall, and the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand up again. In the dark I can see a small stream of blood pooling on the floor in front of the entrance way. I brace myself for when she opens the door...

Inside the dorm room, one of the desk lamps is on. Her roommate sits on her bed, knees against her chest; crossed at the ankles. She's naked from the waist down -- and her shirt is torn. There's blood on her arms.

I take a step towards the roommate but am stopped by something on the ground. I look down at my foot to see a leg, which turns into a body -- and blood is flowing from it.

"He was raping her," says the roommate.

"Oh, my fucking God!" I say, as I try frantically to process everything that is going on. How did I not see this bleeding body which was clearly in front of me as I entered the room?

I shake my head.

"Call 911," I say and walk over to the girl. Her eyes are vacant. She's fueling with hatred, and stares straight ahead at the wall opposite her. She doesn't acknowledge me, her roommate, or the bleeding body on the ground.

"What happened?" I say as I look at the body; part of me wants to leave him there to die -- but I don't know that I have it in my to be so vindictive. I try to step around the pool of blood so I can crouch down and see if he is still breathing...realize there is no way that I'm not going to get blood on me; and finally, kneel in it and stick my ear near his mouth. He's face down on the floor, so it's difficult for me to tell. But I don't think he's dead just yet.

"Call 911!" I yell at the roommate who came to get me.

She sits on her bed opposite her roommate, grabs a cigarette, lights it, and says "Let him fucking die."

She walks around me, and approaches her roommate who still stares catatonically ahead. She's traumatized, no doubt. She walks over to her, and brushes her blonde hair away from her forehead, peers down and takes a long look in her eyes before saying, "It's gonna be alright."

I stand up, and walk over to the phone on the desk and pick it up to dial 911.

"911, what's the state of your emergency?" says the operator.

"Um, someone has been stabbed..." I start. My voice is shaky. "I think, I think he's still alive. There's a lot of blood. He was raping someone -- I don't know what happened exactly. There's a lot of blood. Can you please send some help?"

I continue to give the operator the details of where we are. I'm present, but not. It's like someone else is on auto-pilot and using my body and voice to relay the message. It's as if I'm not really there.

I get off the phone and start to think of what I need to do next. I look at the body and remember that I should stop the bleeding.

Why didn't I think of that before?

I open one of the girl's closets and grab a scarf; I don't know if it will work or not, but I use it to try and tie it around the neck. I have no idea what I'm doing. Does the blood flow up the neck or down the neck? And if I tie it too tight -- won't I choke him?

She's stabbed him in the back part of his neck, just above the shoulder. I think...I think he is maybe dead already?

"Let him fucking DIE!" yells the roommate. From outside I hear another frosh and another. They're starting to stir.

"I can't let him die -- do you know how bad that will look for you? Come on, help me try and stop the bleeding." I plead with her, but she refuses to help and simply sits next to her roommate and strokes her hair.

The roommate is still catatonic.

"It's ok. It's ok. It's gonna be ok." she sings softly to her, while I slip around in the blood trying to stop the bleeding but having no idea how.

I know on some level this is all my fault. I know that if I had reported what I knew months ago that this wouldn't have happened. It's just...it's just...I didn't really want to believe it.

The sirens start to approach and become louder by the second. In a moment the police will be here -- or the ambulance? Or the firetruck? I have no idea...but I can't sit here and watch this asshole bleed out and not do something. My conscience is tugging at me.

"What the hell happened?" I say to her, "You need to tell me what happened, RIGHT NOW!"

"The creep thought she was here by herself; but I was just in the washroom. When I came back I could hear her muffled screams -- so I grabbed the letter opener and stabbed him, to get him off of her. There's no way I would've been able to pull him off."

And that was it. Her statement. Simple. Blunt.

That's probably why the hall light was off -- which they never are. When he opens unlocked doors he doesn't want to wake anyone unnecessarily with the light streaming in.

This is all my fault...

I look down at my hands and see them nervously trying to stop the bleeding with the scarf -- but there's no use. I'm pretty sure by now he's bled out. I can hear the footsteps of the emergency people -- whomever they are; firemen, ambulance, police...they're just coming through the doors at the end of the hall.

They'll be here any moment.

"Just tell them exactly what you told me," I say, as I stand and look her square in the eye. "And if you're smart you'll start playing the scared victim who didn't know what else to do. Unless, that is, you feel like going to jail for a while."

She takes a drag from her cigarette and nods.

I suppose that is why she woke me up in the first place.

Me and Robbie McKee

I grab a coffee from the buffet, and take a seat at the end of the board room table. I've been lucky enough to score a small table discussion with Robert McKee ~ story consultant to Hollywood's elite.

It's a Q & A session, but as cliche as it makes me; I'm looking forward to it. I'm Nicholas Cage playing Charlie Kaufman in Adaptation. Sitting in front of Robert McKee is a right of passage for anyone who wants to be taken seriously as a story teller.

Most of the people in the room hover towards the side of the table where he'll be sitting, so they can sit a bit closer to him; but I take my seat on the other side of the table. Like an estranged Aristocratic wife in the Renaissance; I'll sit far away and let my husband entertain the masses while I sit and absorb what I can.

My mind wanders as I sip my coffee and wait for the session to start. I wonder if there will be any insight from this? I look around the room -- the people all have a look of desperation in their eyes.

Someone please acknowledge me...Someone pleeeease validate me...

I'm embarrassed to be associated with them, and glad I don't have anyone sitting beside me at the opposite end of the table. I think my neurotic counterparts have paid to have Mr. McKee tell them that they are good enough; and that the world will accept them if they just hone 'this' and tweak 'that'.

I wonder if he gets sick of patting people's backs? Writers are a pain in the ass no matter how you cut it. Self-deprecating. Low self-esteem. Completely self-absorbed. Lazy...

He enters and takes a seat at the opposite end of the table. Some people immediately stand and clap. He rolls his eyes and tells them to sit down and knock it off.

I'm starting to like this guy...

"Why are you here?" he says to the room. We briefly make eye contact before he does another scan to take in all the faces.

Someone raises their hand, "To learn from the best!"

Kiss ass...

"Kiss ass! Quit your bullshit!" he snaps at them.

I think we're on the same page.

"Why ARE YOU HERE?" he asks them again. I've removed myself from the question because I know why I'm here. I'm here as a right of passage to see if he can add anything to my technique. I also want to see if he sees story telling the same way that I do.

No one answers.

He rolls his eyes again, "YOU ARE HERE," he starts; and everyone gleefully nods like little drones, "YOU ARE HERE BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU SUCK."

I laugh.

Everyone looks at me.

He's right though...

"Well then, make us better!" a keener near the side of the room chimes out. They all begin to chirp like little birds in a nest waiting for the dadda bird to feed them worms.

"Yes. Make us better," they chime.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Now, I'm really rolling my eyes.

I look at the clock. We're here until 8:30. Over two more hours to go. It's going to be a long night...

"Do you want me to spoon feed it to you, then?" he asks the room and they nod with excitement. I think his lack of interest is lost on them.

We make eye contact again, briefly.

"Alright," he says and begins, "a good writer gives us the bitter truth. And the bitter truth is a character living their life in conflict. This conflict of life is based on the reality of scarcity; like time, or love, or food. And the character dealing with this scarcity endures enormous consequences."

The room is silent. Yoda is levitating in the woods.

"People always ask me," he continues, "Robert, what is your favourite movie? And I laugh. I never tell anyone what my favourite movie is because I don't see what purpose it will serve. But I can tell you this: Romance equals Commercial Success. Take Titanic for example..."

He scans around the room. Everyone is silent. I want to hear what he has to say about Titanic because it is my all-time favourite movie. Followed by Sense & Sensibility, and then The English Patient.

I want to know what this Prick has to say about it; because I don't care what he thinks. That movie was great. Hands down. No argument there.

"Titanic had huge commercial success. I had a niece that watched that DVD every day until it wore itself out -- and I had to buy her another one. Now personally, I can't stand the movie -- but the tenants of a good story were there. There were characters, dealing with the scarcity of freedom, happiness, and free will...and they fell in love, and he died. Boom! 400 million dollars in North America alone."

Well, of course he doesn't like Titanic...it's a movie for teenage girls. I was 19 at the time when it came out. It was the middle of Christmas exams, and I couldn't run to the theatre fast enough to see it. I think I saw it five times in two weeks, and bawled my eyes out every single time.

Prick.

"Romance is huge. Another movie that I hate that did the same thing was Sense & Sensibility..."

My mind starts to drift but then catapults back when he says this. This is my second all-time favourite movie...and I have a really hard time believing that the world's leading authority on story and structure has a problem with it.

Maybe he's really telling us something for those of us who are listening? Maybe Robbie is being cryptic...

"Take nowadays for example," he continues, "what would you do if a boy suddenly showed up on your doorstep every day and professed his love and sent you flowers?"

The room is silent so I speak out of turn, "File a restraining order." I quip.

He laughs with the rest of the room; and we make eye contact.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" he says with a glimmer in his eye, "there's no Romance anymore these days?" and smiles.

"It's scarce," I ping pong back to him. The room is oblivious.

He continues talking about this dramatic sequence, and that meaningful plot point. From time to time he bitches at the room for not participating in the Q & A. He tells them that they're writers so they should be able to engage in a dialogue; not wait for someone to spoon feed it to them.

They clap.

He berates them some more.

They clap harder.

I sigh.

And then he starts surmising on how horrible The English Patient was. How this sucked, and that sucked, et cetera; et cetera.

And I smile. Because I'm pretty sure that the world's leading authority on story telling secretly loves the same movies as I do. What are the odds that he would randomly pick my top three movies of all time? It's just too coincidental.

For the rest of the Q & A I sit back and let him bring worms to the others -- but they can never keep them in their beaks. They lack the coordination to be able to feed themselves; and I don't think he can be bothered to keep picking up their spillings and giving it back to them.

I'm not sure who is more relieved; him or me, when the session finally ends? On my way out I tell him "thank you", and he nods his head and smiles one more time.

"Don't be so quick to file that restraining order," he says to me, and winks. We have a fleeting comaraderie.

I smile back because I want him to know that I actually got what he was saying -- and appreciated it. "See you in LA." I say, as I zip up my coat and put my hat on to brace the cold winter air.

And with that, I walk out the door.

Bathroom Revelations

"G'night." I say to one of the girls in publicity as I walk past their cubicles. We're releasing the last 'Lord of the Rings' this week, so they've been pulling a lot of all-nighters. My tenure on the movie was done a couple of weeks ago ~ just had to finalize some of the wording on the contracts before signing off on delivery of the legal materials.

I hate distribution...

Well, I don't "hate it", hate it. It's just not exactly what I want to be doing. It's not my ideal job. And the pay is shit.

The people are alright though...and the parties aren't bad either.

I've already been here longer than I want to...

I'm starting to get that same feeling again; like the one I had in fourth year University -- that I'm suffocating. I can't breathe in this job. It's not for me. The knots that are accumulating in between my shoulder blades make it almost impossible for me to sit at my desk. I'm jittery. And the people in my immediate division depress the shit out of me.

I'm not suppose to be here...

I walk into the bathroom to splash some water on my face before I head out into the cool dark night of winter. For some reason I head towards the sink with the drippy faucet. I turn on the water, cup it in both of my hands, and splash my face. I do this a couple of times. The ice cold water numbs my cheeks and makes me feel relaxed. I look up. Underneath the fluorescent light I take a long hard look at myself in the mirror above the sink. The water slides down my forehead and collects in the crevice of my eye socket before gravity takes its toll; and the water travels towards the bridge of my nose.

Drip. Drip.

The water drips unevenly from the tap. I look down at it and try to tighten the handle, but it doesn't work. I turn on the water again, hoping it will flush out whatever might be remaining in the faucet -- and then tighten it again.

There. Better.

I look at myself again, the water drips off the tip of my nose and onto the collar of my shirt.

How did I get here?

The toilet flushes and a colleague of mine comes out from the stall. She's one of the people I get along with.

"You going to the release party tonight?" she asks and turns on the tap. I reach for a paper towel to pat my face dry.

"Nah, I went to one a couple days ago...I think I'm gonna pass." I say.

She looks at me while she washes her hands and says, "You sure?"

I nod and fake a smile. The tears are beginning to well a little in the bottom of my eyes. I don't want her to be nice to me, because I want to not like it here. It will make it easier to leave.

"What's wrong?" she says, and a tear falls. I run into the stall and grab some tissue before coming back out.

"I think..." I start, but then look at her to make sure she wasn't just being polite. She looks genuinely concerned and even tells me that it's alright to tell her, so I continue. "I think...I think I hate it here." I say. Suddenly I can breathe a little better.

"Yeah," she laughs, "Your job sucks. If it makes you feel any better, I hate it here too. Just between you and me, I'm actually resigning and going to move to New Zealand. Made some good friends with the Post people on Lord of the Rings and one of them offered me a job...so I'm taking it." She then puts her index finger to her mouth and gestures for me to not say anything.

"I'm very jealous...and happy for you. New Zealand looks gorgeous." I say.

"So, what do you want to do if you don't want to be here?" she asks.

"Well," I say, "The whole reason I got into this industry was to maybe have my own production company one day -- you know, make my own shows."

She nods. I know she's actually interested.

"But, I needed to pay the bills -- so I took this stupid job and between you and me; I have nothing in common with the people in my area. They drain me. I can feel my life seeping out from me every time I walk in there." I say.

Am I being to harsh? Maybe I have PMS?

My colleague nods and says, "The people in your area SUH-UCK. I hate them too and would stick a letter opener through my eyes every morning if I had to sit there. You're a trooper. I don't know anyone who would want to sit with all the data entry geeks."

She's right. I report to the same psycho-bitch that the data entry geeks report to; so I'm stuck sitting with them. And the psycho-bitch wasn't always a psycho-bitch. She was so nice in the beginning. But now, now maybe because of the winter darkness; she's turned into a friggen nightmare. Either that or she's overdosing on hormones trying to get pregnant again...

I nod. "They're impossible to have a conversation with. I try and tell them what I like or dislike in a movie ~ and they just stare at me blankly before typing data back into the computer. It is MIND NUMMMBING!" I say. God, I'm starting to feel better already.

"I couldn't even talk to them about the Matrix!" I continue. I'm on a roll, "what kind of people don't want to have a conversation about the Matrix? I mean, come on! I try to start this dialogue with them about how disappointed I was with the sequels, I mean; really -- they had this amazing concept and they friggen threw it away! If I were writing the sequels I would have split them and made two convergent realities -- and released them on the same day!"

I start to get excited as the idea is rolling out of me, "And I would have the two alternate Universes interacting with each other to tell the whole story -- a sort of, 'choose your own adventure' type of thing, if you know what I mean." I look to her to make sure she's following. She's nodding along so I continue,

"And...and you would have to see both movies to get the complete story because each alternate reality is consequential of the other -- and what happens in one reality directly affects the other...and they would both be working towards the same outcome: destiny. They would both be working towards ridding Earth of the aliens that are feeding off the human brain waves!" I say. The plot starts to rework itself in my mind and I get lost in my train of thought.

"Girl," says my colleague, "You are in the wrong place. Start writing -- you seem to be good at it. And if you change your mind about the party tonight, give me a call. I'll come meet you at the door or something." she says. Smiles. And walks out the bathroom. At the same time her boss walks in and give us both a big smile before running quickly towards one of the stalls.

I grab my purse and head out the door before the bathroom starts to get stinky.

I should be writing... I think to myself as I head towards the exit reworking what I would have done if I were assigned the Matrix sequels.

She's right. I should be writing.

Third Eye

"Consuela!!"

I'm all disoriented.

"CONSUEEEEELAAAAAH!" I scream even louder. I'm in a mad panic. I've just opened my eyes from what I thought was a waking dream -- but in reality, it seems, it's not.

"GET THE FUUUUCK IN HERE!!!" I start wailing, and close my eyes. It's a grey day out. And even though both my eyes are closed I can see everything around me -- through my forehead. It's as if there is a mini movie screen playing all the things around me.

Consuela enters the room out of breath. "What???? What iz der problem???" she says. I've frightened her, but I don't care. There is some serious heavy shit going on right now.

"Hold up your right hand!" I tell her.

"Mia, why iz yer talking wis yer eyes closed?" she asks me.

"Shut up and hold up your right hand!!" I tell her.

This is not NOT happening to me...

Consuela walks closer to the bed and lifts her arm.

"Your RIGHT hand!" I snap at her, and she switches arms.

"Mia," she says softly, "I iz don't like dis game, ok?"

I take a deep breath, I need to calm down if she's going to help me. "Now hold up some fingers, but don't tell me how many, ok?"

Consuela nods and through my tiny movie screen in my forehead I can see her hold up three fingers.

"How many fingers are you holding up?" I ask her.

There's silence.

"Answer me! How many fingers are you holding up!" I scream.

Consuela lowers her head. I've hurt her feelings.

She'll have to get over it.

"But Mia," she starts "yer iz said dat do not tell yer da number before, right?"

She has a point.

"I know what I said before, but I need you to tell me now, ok? I need you to tell me when I ask you...got it?"

"Got it!" she says and stands a bit more erect. "Der is tree fingers."

Shit!

"OK, change the number of fingers" I say and watch her switch to one finger. "Now," I say very seriously, "how many fingers?"

"One" she says.

"Don't move!" I tell her and look around the room. I see the time on the clock radio...it reads 8:07. I turn back to Consuela who is no doubt very confused because I'm talking to her with both eyes closed.

"What time is it, Consuela? Look at the clock beside my bed and tell me what time it is."

"Mia," Consuela starts, "Der iz maybe somesing wrong? Yer is wanna go to da doctor?"

"Just tell me what time it is!" I snap.

Why do I always have to repeat everything with her?

"Eight oh Eight" says Consuela.

I whip my head back to clock - and sure enough, it's changed.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!

I must be dreaming.

"Consuela, can you please pinch me?" I say. I've calmed down a bit because panicking isn't going to help resolve the problem. She reaches out her chubby little fingers and grabs the skinny part of my wrist -- and pinches.

Ouch!

OK...I'm obviously not dreaming.

Consuela takes a seat on the edge of the bed and I sturdy myself a bit before trying to open one of my eyes -- but then it happens again.

And so, I close my eye.

"Miaaaa," Consuela whispers, "Why iz yer eyes dey closed?"

I don't answer her. How do I tell my somewhat limited housekeeper that when I open my eyes, I see a pipeline into Heaven?

I take a deep deep deep breath, and calm my heart down. The pulse in my neck begins to subside, and I feel my shoulders soften.

"Consuela, I can explain in a little bit, but for now -- can you please sit here?" I ask.

She smiles and says, "Sure, no problem."

I brace myself, and slowly begin to open both my eyes, and as I do -- the movie screen of this reality, that I can see in my forehead, transitions to a tunnel; at least, I know it's a tunnel -- but it has the depth of one millimeter -- and I can see through a circular peep hole larger than the size of my head, all the wonders of Heaven.

"Holy shit!" I say. I make eye contact with Consuela, who now knows that she needs to sit still at the edge of my bed and remain calm. Through the peep hole I can only see about three feet deep. A white foggy light washes away anything deeper. I turn left and right to gain a better perspective -- but I don't see anyone; and since I'm limited to the peephole, I can not see the ground. I'm not even sure how far into the atmosphere I am.

With my human eyes; in this dimension -- I look around and see all the surroundings of the life I know. My old VHS collection, a favourite stuffed animal, some favourite perfume bottles on a bookshelf.

And through the peephole, I see something way more alluring. More enticing than anything material that this world could, or would ever give me.

I see home. Void of anything material. Void of status. Just pure acceptance; as if I'm an organic component of it -- except in a spiritual sense.

"What yer see?" asks Consuela from the edge of the bed after a few minutes.

"Promise you won't think I'm crazy?" I ask. She nods. "I think...I think I see Heaven." I say.

Consuela immediately does the sign of the cross and begins to pray feverishly. She closes her eyes and begins to whisper bullet-fast Spanish prayers under her breath. As she does so, the pipeline becomes smaller rather quickly.

"Stop that!" I yell at her. She does -- and the pipeline freezes.

"Now, just take a deep breath and calm down." I say to her, "There is nothing to be afraid of, ok? Nothing is going to hurt you. I'm just having some sort of weird spiritual insight." I tell her and reach out my hand so I can hold hers.

She scooches over to me and wraps both of her pudgy hands around mine. "OK, Mia. I iz not afraid." she tells me.

The pipeline resumes to it's normal size.

I sit there for what seems like another half-hour or so, looking left and right like a submarine telescope -- trying desperately to see anything past the foggy white mist. But I can't.

It starts me thinking, about life -- specifically my life. Why I'm here. Why I'm seeing this.

A moment later, Consuela speaks "Iz yer talking wis God, Mia?"

"No, I don't see anyone -- only clouds, I think" I say to her. I can't tell if it's clouds, or mist, or a blinding white light; like how a room looks after you come in from the bright sun.

"Consuela," I start, all the while turning left and right to see what I can see, "when you were praying before; you were afraid, right?"

She nods yes.

"You know," I tell her, "when you did that -- the pipeline to Heaven became smaller, hey? Isn't that interesting? I think...I think you're not suppose to pray when you're afraid. And by that I mean, you're suppose to remove the fear from your heart when you pray. It's like a better reception or something."

"Ahhhh," Consuela says and nods in agreement, "Dat iz good to know. Cuz sometimes I iz praying and I iz crying and scared, and dat iz when I iz sinking dat da praying iz not working. But den sometimes I iz crying so much dat I iz not scared anymore when I iz praying -- yer know, just maybe tired; and sometimes dat iz when da praying it really works. I sink yer iz right, Mia."

I continue to turn my head left and right -- but never see anything more than the mist. A moment later the pipeline disappears. I ask Consuela to make me a strong cup of coffee.

I have a lot of writing to do today.

The Japanese Bride

"Der yer want dis one to go too, Mia?" Consuela asks as she carries the Mac computer out from the storage closet.

"Yep," I say and point to the pile of other stuff that I'm going to sell.

"I iz dunno about dis Craigslist," Consuela mumbles as she bends over to place the computer on the floor near the pile of purses, shoes, and housewares.

"I know," I say to her. After all, wasn't there a Craigslist killer? I'm actually looking forward to getting rid of some of this stuff...it's just sitting here; in my apartment -- and I desperately could use the cash.

Consuela walks back into the bedroom to forage for some more goodies, and I stare stoically at the screen trying to figure out how I'm going to stretch what little money I have left to me.

I'm officially an almost-starving artist.

Sigh.

Consuela comes back out with some trinkets, and memorabilia from my travels. When I think about how I would sneak some of them past border guards -- and how I one day dreamed of having a mansion with a living room adorned with the stuff; it saddens me that I'm going to be selling it. But, if this all works out -- I'll be able to travel again. I'll be able to go back and buy more treasures.

For now, I need to stay in the problem-solving mode of my brain. I need cash -- and I can't sit and look at pretty things any longer because they aren't paying the bills.

I walk over to Consuela who is sorting through my treasures and pick up one that I really love.

"This one," I say to her, "This one -- I need to keep." It's a Japanese wooden doll. The villagers presented it to me the day I left Japan; as a way of saying 'thank you for coming' and, 'we really hope you actually find someone who will marry you soon'. It's a wooden bride; and although at 24, marriage was the last thing on my mind, I see it now as an object filled with good intentions. So, I want to keep it -- even if it means going without my vitamins this month. No one else will love it and appreciate it the same way that I do.

"What iz her, Mia?" Consuela asks and places it on the coffee table away from the other merchandise.

"It's a Japanese bride," I say -- and laugh.

I wonder how horrified they would be now -- 7 or so years later, to find out that I am still not married? At the time I politely took the gift, and as I got into the van to head to the airport I rolled my eyes...because to them, I only mattered as an individual if someone married me. They couldn't place me as a single, liberated woman. I was strange to them.

When I was 24 it annoyed me. But now, I look back on it in a different way. Now I think they were worried about me being on my own and wanted to know that someone would be there for me. So now, I love the doll -- because it symbolizes their affection for me; not their judgement.

Funny how the same token or action can have two different perspectives depending on your state of mind...

"Whatz her name, Mia?" Consuela asks as she pulls down some board games to add to the pile on the floor. I guess she saw me drifting into space, and staring at the doll. The doll doesn't have a name -- because up until this very moment I haven't named her; I didn't appreciate her as much as I realize I do right now.

"I don't know..." I say and pick the doll back up again. Her wooden face stares back at me; only slightly dented from some sharp object in my suitcase, no doubt.

"What should we name her?" I say to Consuela, who walks over and picks up the doll in her chubby little hands.

"Iz yer doll Mia, yer should give da name, ok?" says Consuela as she hands the doll to me and then walks over to the kitchen to pull out appliances and plates that I no longer need.

I can't believe in the midst of a life-crisis, I'm actually taking a moment to name a wooden doll that I can't part with.

What should I name her?

What does she symbolize?

When I first got her, I was insulted. Now, I am flattered. There's a duality to this doll that represents me, my thought life, and how I see the world...

Does everything have that effect? Is everything painted a certain way depending on how you feel about it? Can people morph in front of you just like the doll has for me over the course of time?

And if people change...is it really that they've changed? Or my perspective on them has changed?

I walk back to my desk and grab a coffee. My thoughts are getting too convoluted; and I need to get back to work.

Consuela comes out from the kitchen with an array of unused kitchen utensils and accessories -- that I once thought were so important and couldn't live without; and now, they are of no consequence.

My brain flexes and I think I feel a headache coming on. My thoughts are spinning. I'm starting to see that everything I think I know is only a reflection of my state of mind; of my interpretation of the situation -- of my perspective.

"So, what yer iz name her, Mia?" Consuela asks as she dumps some more stuff on the floor.

"Reika," I say and turn back to my desk.

"Whatz it mean?" Consuela asks as she pulls some books down from the shelf.

"It doesn't mean anything," I say, "I just think she looks like a Reika."

And with that, I sit back at my laptop and continue to write.

Happily Ever After

"And they lived happily ever after," Mummy says and closes the book. My sister is already asleep, and so I look at Mummy and ask her if she can read the story again?

"No. Time for bed, come on." she says and tucks my sister in. Daddy usually reads us the stories at bedtime but he is working, and so Mummy is reading tonight.

I got to pick the story from the shelf.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Mummy says to me as I walk out of my sister's bedroom across the yellow carpet and go towards my bed.

I don't wanna go to sleep...

"Night," I say and head towards my room.

"Karrrren," Mummy says slowly, and I turn around. She is pointing at the bathroom. I have to brush my teeth.

I walk over to the sink and Mummy sits on the tub and watches me, to make sure I do it ok. I pull out my little yellow stool and step up to reach my toothbrush.

"Do you need help with the toothpaste?" Mummy asks.

"No! I can do it!" I tell her. I'm a big girl. I don't need her help!

The toothpaste is tricky, but I only drop a little bit in the sink.

"Don't make a mess," Mummy says. I think she's tired.

"Mummy," I say to her. She points at my toothbrush and so I start to brush my teeth. Mummy tells me to rinse out the sink when I'm done so it is clean for the next person. When I finish putting back my stool I walk over to Mummy and give her a hug.

"Mummy, will I live happily ever after?" I say.

"Is that why you like the story?" she asks and then takes my pony tail out so she can brush my hair.

"Yes." I say to her. I like the story because the girl is so pretty and the Prince is so handsome and he loves her like Daddy loves Mummy.

"I want to be a Princess when I grow up," I tell Mummy as she brushes the knots out of my hair.

"You can be anything you want to be," she says to me and kisses me on the forehead. "There, all done. Off to bed."

I tell Mummy to leave the light on in the hallway because I don't like it when the upstairs is dark. She says she will leave the light on in the bathroom and only close the door a little. I think that will be ok.

I crawl into my bed under my Rainbow Brite covers and look out the window at the stars and the clouds in the sky. I wonder what I will be when I grow up? I hope it is a Princess. Princesses marry the Princes and live happily ever after.

And I want to live happily ever after too.




Taylor Swift - Love Story - music video

A sign?

"I hate my life!" I say as I cross my legs and lean back in my chair.

Dr. G, stares back at me stone faced. I look at her waiting for a reaction, but there's none. I sigh and look out the window. It's a bright sunny day, there's not a cloud in the sky. On days like these when I was in Japan, the sky would be filled with dragon flies. I'd walk out onto my balcony and overlook the river that strolled down the mountainside; and I'd see waterfalls, and monkeys, and dragon flies. It was as if the heavens were sending little reminders that life is magical, mystical -- enchanting.

I miss seeing dragon flies.

"I haate my life," I say again with a smile. I know she's waiting for me to elaborate, but I won't out of stubbornness. I want empathy, sympathy...validation.

"Write it down!" I say half joking, and point to her notepad while dictating; "Patient hates her life -- remains optimistic with sense of humour but is feeling despair!"

We laugh and she writes in bold I HATE MY LIFE and shows it to me before we move along in the session.

"At least I still have my sense of humour," I say and stare back out the window again.

"Karen," she says, "You don't have the luxury of living in your feeling brain at the moment. There are serious financial implications to what you are doing; you need to start using your problem solving brain and turn away from your feelings."

We sit and stare at each other for a few moments.

"I know," I say, "It's just devastating to admit that a career I've worked so hard towards is about to concave on me."

I look out the window again, then grab a Kleenex because I feel the tears welling up in the bottom of my eyes.

"It's only temporary," she says, "you haven't failed. It's just that what you are good at -- your industry, is going through a recession."

I start to think about how much money I used to make, and how much money I'm not making at the moment.

If only banks would allow an equity loan on screenplays...

And then I start to think about money, and how backwards the world is. How my self worth is wrapped up in how much money I'm making. Have a house? Successful! Work at Starbucks? A loser! Even though I'm happiest writing -- and have burned through whatever savings and lines of credit I had available to me; I'm worthless to the world...at least, in a material sense.

This world is so backwards...

It would be so much easier if currencies were based on good intentions, or kindness...maybe that's what Karma is all about? Some sort of spiritual currency...

"Can't I use my feeling brain for one more day...you know, mourn the stagnancy of my career?" I ask half-joking, half-not. But I already know the answer.

"No!" she says.

As I walk out, I try not to think about the economic impasse that I'm in at the moment. I look up at the sky and wish that there were dragon flies dancing around to remind me that the world is full of magic; and in an instant anything can happen.

And, as I walk along I see something on the sidewalk in front of me. At first it looks to me like a twig or a small branch laying in the street; but then I notice exactly what it is.

It's a dragonfly. The largest dragonfly I have ever seen. It's the size of a hot dog with a wing span of at least 6 inches in either direction. At first I think it's a child's toy...but as I walk closer to it, I see the wings are slightly vibrating -- it's real.

I crouch down and stare it straight in the face. There are no dragon flies in the city -- and certainly none this big that I've ever seen. It's positively prehistoric.

I wonder what it means? I hope it's a sign for good things to come. I hope the dragonfly signifies that all hope is not lost; not yet. That I'm not a failure. That something good is going to happen soon. That Karma is shuffling her way through the Universe to rectify my economic fallout -- because I am a good person. And good people shouldn't suffer.

In any case, it was nice to see a dragon fly -- despite the fact that I have no idea what it means.