Although we are both struggling writers, my life is different from Mark’s. I am an independently wealthy trust fund baby living a guilty, limousine liberal, bohemian, La La Land life. I come equipped with a newly renovated house on the hip west side and a husband that I can’t commit to, yet refuse to leave. I love him, yet I can’t keep still. Instead, I run hither and dither, a renegade rebel of a wife, acting out like the spoiled rotten dilettante I am. That is, I refuse to stick with anything real— like getting into therapy with my husband. Furthermore, my writing and little challenged brain have been nothing more than a repository for some giant University trash bin. I allow this to happen because I fear real life. And so, I am vested with two Masters Degrees in the liberal disciplines from second and third tier Universities. Right now I am working on my third. When will I begin serving myself, and stop swinging from one thing to the next? Could this man Mark and his very different life quell any of it? Of course not. It’s just another one of my delusions.

Yet, people suck me in—make me aware of my broken parts. And I love to get sucked in. And when a fellow human’s struggle tugs me under in an emotionally intense way—I want to wade in our collective mental gunk. In short, my keen interest in the human condition prompts me to express it on the page. Will Mark take me to this creative space? It feels like he already has, as this is the first piece I’ve written in over 6 months. In fact I know that I am here, in that ugly messy, painful, wishing, wanting, garden of earthly delights type place. So much for going within and sitting in silence. I just don’t want to make the time right now. I tell myself that I can bare the pain that I am experiencing. That nervous queasy frenetic energy that pushes me onward. I don’t want to calm down. Presently, I like being an obsessive compulsive psycho. Mark and his funky life juices have seeped into the quagmire in my head and compel me to create. Silence may be golden, but not right now. Sitting in stillness, conjuring forth my inner light, would just make me aware of how ego driven obsessing over the connection we made the other night is. With silence and some perspective, I’d be too serene and blissed out to even sit in front of the page because my angst would be quelled. Right now I’ve turned my back on awareness. I prefer to wallow and suffer. Oh well. I guess I’ll have to die and relive it the right way the next time.

I need these thoughts of him in order to rev up my mental wires and liven the circuits that have lain dormant for awhile. I know that the kingdom of heaven is within, but looking outside feels like inside right now. How did Jesus do it? He must have truly been Christ like. I’m just a slave to my ego.

I love to gather up the angst and the pain, and feel the heat of the messes that I get myself into—the sloppiness that makes me maniacally alive. As I said, I’m in school again--- this time studying psychology. I like exploring the gooky stuff. And if writing and exploring get me to that raw place of self discovery then why haven’t I written for myself in so long? Why another degree full of useless papers? I guess I am afraid of actually being taken seriously. Better to be the fun party person, cruising from one course to the next, headed nowhere, caught up in the process—swinging like a tired old cave girl. Always searching.

That’s why I found Mark and picked him up after our improv comedy performance. Mark is an integral part of the little theater that makes me feel as if I have family in this monstrosity of a city. Ever since I met him, I’ve wanted to get all tied up with him. And I did. Although, I had no business driving him home in my condition at 3 AM. But I wanted to stay with this sad man, who after a few drinks together confronted me with my worst nightmare which is the prospect that I’ve ended up a pathetic waste. It made me want to spit sand, sitting together on the beach, obliterating ourselves with libations, him poking fun at the party girl persona I portray. He kept repeating, “Listen to how you’re talking!” It’s true that I love to study, but I don’t hang out in an academic world. For me, it’s mostly booze and parties. My observations are usually astute yet are heavily interspersed with “fuck” and “like, ya know?” No one besides my father ever calls me on this. And so, Mark’s comment on my chosen mode of expression tapped into a desperate place. The place of a girl who couldn’t deal with the upper class Midwestern world of good schooling and cocktail party philanthropy —and so she left it. She’s now, a quasi academic drop out in Venice Beach---looking for the next buzz and then sweating her guts out in Yoga class to even it all out. And this man had the gall to fucking bring it up.

After he pointed out my propensity to speak a metal head/Valley Girl version of Gen X vernacular, I knew that He thought that I was a lost and jaded soul. I was taken aback at first, eyes widening and gripping the sand, and then desperately tried to speak a language I have for the most part forgotten. Glaring at him I began,” I certainly didn’t mean to offend you with my use of slang, would you prefer I communicated like a pent up snob? But it was useless. And so I sat there sulking like some pathetic Courtney Love creature that missed a court date. I had to show him differently.

I needed to captivate this man. Like a comedic knight, he shows up at our beginner level class, and rouses hope in the struggling writers and actors who also make the theater their home. We are aware that he’s known success-- although I understand that he struggles with life— and it takes a fellow sojourner to fish that one out. All of this is what my intuition told me before I sidled up to him at the bar near the theater after our performance. I followed my senses because I can’t stay away from people who allure me, whose angst might go deeper than my own. I knew I couldn’t stare each week at his unshaven face, and watch his awkward off stage stance complete with nervous rocking motions without making a move.

I felt he was clogged up and choking. In an in-between stage, career wise, after quitting his job as a writer for a popular TV series. I could see this in his demeanor-- standing up there on the dilapidated stage too talented for us, lighting up our insides with his wacky, inventive improvisational antics—coming alive for a brief moment-- coming around us—to incubate in this place where he is revered. Where people love him in spite of it all. Everyone wants him, including me.

I love a smart man who is brave enough to shun the corporate world and chase what calls him. That night he made me face myself--the underachiever, who uses high end spas and meditation retreats as if they were the Betty Ford Clinic--- and once she’s cleaned out and infused with a sense of perspective, she goes back to a life of senseless partying and more school, cranking out papers like an idiot savant. What have I ever stuck with long enough to make a difference?

 I wanted to be with this man who has at least chased his own light for awhile. And so we were each other’s escape late into the night as the car sped along-- the stereo blaring-- me belting out David Grey’s sad songs: Something in the heart of me is telling me its time to meet the eye of destiny and leave it all behind...little rich girl singing like Janis Joplin to this British pop star’s sorrow. Mark was amused, laughing at my drama, spilling red wine all over my plush Mercedes as it swerved recklessly down the 10 freeway. We drove east and then north and landed in a run down garbage strewn area off of Sunset. No wanna be artsy fartsy bohemian renovations were going on here. He lived right in the seediness, still struggling to make it all happen, the neighborhood a testimony to his perseverance—his dream. And we had to park a good ways away and stumble to his place. And thinking about it I am still awakened in spooky fragile places.

I feel lucky to have ever stepped through his door. I was right; he comes to the theater to suck from its nurturing umbilical cord, waiting to be born again. Warming himself until the next project comes along. I knew it immediately as I walked into his small apartment and saw humanity oozing everywhere-- in the spill stains and mold—humanity in the dust and grime. Hundreds of books spilling out of shelves in every small corner, blanketing him with words and ideas. Books on mourning, grieving, and the meaning of life….books on every subject were there--- but mourning and questioning were the theme. A storm of self inquiry sat on the floor and beckoned me. A beautiful mess had fallen from nicked wood. And as I looked at his statues of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas I knew that this was samsara, the wheel of life. His sorrows spewed all over the space, all over me--  us playing it out. I was a willing receptacle—opening to him—to that night-- where his human condition displayed itself in all its unresolved glory. The place was caving in on itself, spilling forth pleas for health and healing, for an end to suffering. The dust settling into the furniture and fixtures, a reminder of our struggle--- an homage to the dust of his father, to whom he couldn’t give a proper funeral.

We talked well into the morning on a lumpy red velvet sofa half drunk and stoned, sand between our toes from the intimate pow wow we had on the beach a few hours earlier. I never saw a kitchen, just the living space and later a small bedroom also enshrined with books.

The next morning I shat in a small cramped bathroom after holding onto him and him to me. Sitting on the toilet, my knees nearly pressing against the cabinet beneath the sink, I was surprised I could let it go so easily with this man I hardly knew. I thought about our night together, listening to the sirens outside-- a reminder of our own fragility. As I stood to wash my hands, I found yet another pamphlet on mourning. I took it out of the sink. The pamphlet was dry. No water stains. I pictured his father dying alone with no friends or family, aside from Mark holding his hand. The helplessness he must have felt in knowing that a traditional funeral was impossible. Did he feel guilt that his dreams left his pockets empty? And then my initial observation concerning the pamphlet’s odd placement occurred to me again. Why was a dry pamphlet laying in a sink? Had he washed his face or brushed his teeth before he left his space and we connected last night? I breathed in, thinking of his earthy smell, his unshaven face, and wondered. Perhaps he didn’t clean himself. The unstained pamphlet lying in the dry basin told me so. Did he almost not go out that night? Did he stand in the bathroom trying to sooth himself? Was it the last thing that he focused on before he left? Did he read it, his eyes then meeting the stained mirror-- did he bore into himself-- as he fought what kicked inside of him? Did the affirmations of self help give him the courage to go out for the night and leave the pain that spilled out around him? These thoughts overtook me as I stepped back into his room-- and crawled into him. And in doing so I felt the weight of his crowded space begin to cover me.

He confided that since his father’s death, life was still pretty gray, and looking at him I said that I’d hoped that our connection added color. I wanted our being twisted up together to mean something—to propel us forward on our paths as we both stumbled on life’s wacky wheel.

I still want to know him enough to one day watch his transformation. To be moving on this crazy ride and suddenly discover a new breed of books and creations that will one day lay on his floor. I see their unformed titles swirling in the ethers. I want to be there when his Buddhas and bodhisattvas are candle lit, and the books are free of dust. To lie on the floor and suddenly notice that the garbage is emptied. I want to be blown away by a tsunami of new epiphanies. And I know that this day will come. Whether or not I have a place in it, I can see it. His interests so many. The shelves so full. I want the night that we spent together to have planted a positive seed. Did it?

I feel very alone, yet connected to our collective human struggle as I write this. Perhaps we will never meet again in the way that we did and I need to let it go. The rope is swinging again and the tired old cave gal is ready to transform. I had the wine that he spilled scrubbed from my car today. Can I leave this story behind? Or use it as a tool for transformation? Will I get in therapy with my husband, and begin untangling our short circuited wires? I don’t want to swing so far away that the rope won’t propel me back. But I have to get away. I can’t face the theater since our night together. I have tried, but I couldn’t perform during rehearsal the other night. I couldn’t face this man while floundering with such emotions. My own bookshelves have now thrown up on me and my bag is packed. I’ll travel to the spa in Arizona and do my own kind of mourning, as I detox from the booze, nicotine, and emotional drama. Perhaps there I’ll garner the inner strength to live out my own dream. This time I’ll really start living it. No more false starts. I want to write and create—to help others on their journey. Right now I feel pretty cut up. Yet I know that the messy complexities of the human Spirit are oozing out my fingertips. It’s as if I crawled inside him, and witnessed his struggle. And in feeling it it, it gave life to my own.