Tuesday, September 9, 2008
2:05 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I'm trying to get my family back.
I'm sorry I haven't written for a while. I feel overloaded and too emotional.
I've lost a lot of my family for a variety of reasons. But what I'm trying to do now is get some of my family back. This is not an easy thing to do, when years go by without communication or when there are bad feelings that have not been dealt with.
I'm trying to get my son to help me talk to them. James is easier to talk to than I am. And, anyway, I always do things alone, it seems, so it's time I got someone to be on my side.
I'll let you know if any progress is made. Maybe you're trying to get your family back, too. We should support each other.
I'm braced for rejection but I am eternally hopeful.
Love,
Shelley
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Tuesday, August 19, 2008
2:01 P.M.
Dear Friend,
You notice how people don't answer questions directly anymore?
This makes me crazy. When I watch TV shows where someone is interviewed, a question is asked that should be answered directly with a yes or no. But the person answering doesn't respond with a yes or no. In fact, he or she doesn't even answer the question. They go off and give an answer that doesn't even make sense. Now why do they do that? I don't know, but I wish they'd stop.
Do you agree? You better answer with a yes or no.
Love,
Shelley
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Tuesday, August 12, 2008
9:55 A.M.
Dear Friend,
I remember the moment I got the nerve to permanently quit office work and write full time.
I thought it would never really happen. I went through many false attempts from age 27, when I discovered I was a visual artist, to 50 years of age. I started out doing secretarial work from high school because my mother told me to become a secretary, back in those Neanderthal days.
When I discovered art at 27, I fell in love with it and I quit my secretarial job to devote all my life to the visual arts. I worked as an independent fine artist for about five years but I still had to temp secretarial work during that time to pay the bills. I've had many different office jobs since then, never being able to make a decent, steady living from my art work.
Then I discovered writing 15 years ago. I was, again, working as a secretary, but now the conditions were different. I had started my first novel, Swimming Naked with Jellyfish, and was totally in love with it. Also, my father passed on and left me some money. One day, I became so full of nerve and desire to stay at home and write my novel, that I just quit my office job. I knew I could survive if I lived cheap.
I remember that morning when I awoke with no job. I was almost delirious with ecstasy, not having to go to that job anymore. But I was also full of faith and trust and determination. I went to my computer and continued writing my novel. While I was writing, I thought about my job without me at that desk, I thought about all the people going to their 9-5 jobs and getting that regular paycheck and ohmygod, what did I do?, I thought about all my friends who were at their office jobs and thinking that I'm crazy. But I think they were envious.
For many months, I doggedly went to my computer every day and wrote but in the back of my mind, I worried about not being at an office job and how insecure I was feeling. After a while I got used to that lifestyle and, many years later, I finished my novel, which will be selling on Amazon in about two weeks.
I love my independent writer's lifestyle and after 15 years, I almost feel secure.
Love,
Shelley
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Wednesday, August 6, 2008
10:39 P.M.
Dear Friend,
For years, I've been lamenting the death of good music, but, lately, I think I'm beginning to understand a little bit about today's music.
Yeah, I love the lyrics and music of Cole Porter, the Gershwins, Irving Berlin, Rodgers and Hammerstein, and the singing of Sinatra, Bennett, Garland, Fitzgerald, Astaire. Oh, they all make me swoon. But I also love Rock and Roll, the music from my era—the Beach Boys, Elvis, the Beatles, Cream, Creedence Clearwater, Chuck Berry, Donna Summer. I love to dance, so I was a dancing queen in the 70s and I still am. Once the 80s came, I was lost in the dust.
I didn't get the music of the 80s or 90s or 2000s, for that matter. I couldn't even call it music. None of it. I couldn't call none of it music. And the lyrics! They just made me laugh. Those were lyrics? The same line was repeated over and over and over, with an ooooohhh, in between the over and over. But then I realized that Rock and Roll started the over and over simple, repetitious lyrics and the guttural sounds.
I was really thinking long and hard about today's music. I know that music reflects the society that produces it. When I was a teen, we used to make fun of the adults because they didn't get Rock and Roll, and we got it. So, here I am, an adult who doesn't get today's music. But instead of constantly putting it down, which doesn't get me anywhere, I decided that I very much want to understand the society that produces today's music.
What I came up with is the realization that today's music and lyrics can be created by ordinary people. You don't have to, necessarily, be a gifted or brilliant lyricist anymore. You don't have to go to school to study for years how to compose a song or how to write lyrics. Anybody can do it. That's the thing. Anybody can do it. The elite stigma of writing a song is over. You can put down a beat you like, you can use very simple language and repeat it as often as you like, you can write about anything you want. This is the Everybody era. Not just the Cole Porters of the world writing music, but the woman who cleans the houses of the Cole Porters can write music and lyrics too. Today's music is more real. It reflects the realness of today's life. The realness of ordinary people doing ordinary things, like working at a 9-5 job you hate, like constantly being unemployed because you don't know where you belong, like feeling lost in the world or angry or sad or rejected. The world of music is wide open now. And, also, anyone who creates a hit can possibly become an instant millionaire. Hey, it's better than playing the lottery.
But, I must say, I do miss the clever lyrics and the beat I can dance to.
Love,
Shelley
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Thursday, July 31, 2008
10:24 A.M.
Dear Friend,
There's a tug of war going on between my writing and my new religion.
It's a long story but I've decided to convert to Catholicism from my present Protestant faith. Yes, I am Jewish too. I'm a hybrid—Jewish in heritage but Christian in faith. As a Jew, I crossed the bridge from the Old Testament into the New Testament. Anyway, back to the Catholic Church.
Yes, it's kind of crazy for me to enter the Catholic Church because I'm socially liberal—a devout Feminist and Pro Choice advocate and an advocate of Gay Civil Rights including marriage. So there I am, utterly opposed to what the Catholic Church "dictates." And that's another problem I have with the Catholic Church, that they dictate to people. Like it's a dictatorship. And me, the natural-born rebel, nobody dictates to me.
But I want to enter the Catholic Church because I feel that only they can build a solid Christian foundation beneath me. I was an atheist for 59 years and it has been only four years since I found God and Jesus and the Bible. I spent my first 3½ years in the Protestant faith but found that earth beneath my feet too soft and full of earthquake faults.
Back to writing. So I love to write. And I love to write these letters to you in my Personal Diary. And I love my novel, Swimming Naked with Jellyfish, that took me 14 years to write. And it's up to me to market my novel. And there's a lot of work in marketing a new book. So I started the Catholic RCIA conversion schooling with a very nice man who I like. But this very nice man who I like said something I did not like. He said to me last Tuesday, while pointing to the Catholic Catechism book, that this book was more important than my novel.
Well, I didn't erupt all over him at that time, I wanted to temper my rage, but I erupted inside and said to myself: No! My novel is more important than that book! Look, this is how I feel: My novel is very important, God is very important, the Catholic Church is merely a vehicle that helps to take me closer to God. Maybe because I wasn't born Catholic that I don't find the Church very important. To me, churches and priests and pastors and popes are conduits between me and God. Hey, I lived an independent life for 59 years and, guess what, I'm still independent.
So there's a tug of war going on with my time. What to do first? I have my new, beloved novel coming out in August and I have tons of marketing and promoting work to do. I have weekly reading/thinking/writing RCIA work and I also go to weekly Bible study classes where I also have reading/thinking/ writing work. The good news is that RCIA is for nine months, so that will eventually stop.
I guess what I'll probably do is the work that is due that day.
Love,
Shelley
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Wednesday, July 30, 2008
4:33 P.M.
Dear Friend,
May I tell you how I paid off my $50,000 credit card debt?
The background: I was in a relationship with a woman in 1992. We were together for 19 years. She was diagnosed with a terminal brain degenerative disease which put me in charge of our family—Janet, James, my 12-year-old son, and I. Up until that time, I was the flighty artist, charging to my heart's content on my four credit cards, while Janet, the bookkeeper, who was supposed to have her two feet on the ground, was charging on her six credit cards. One day I sat down to do an accounting of our bills and discovered we had accumulated $50,000 in credit card debt.
The cure: Knowing me, it was probably the very next morning that I cut up all of her credit cards and cut up two of mine. I left myself with a Master Card and an American Express green card (I just liked dealing with that company). These cards didn't carry an annual fee. I made up my mind that I wouldn't use my credit cards until this debt was totally paid off. I stopped shopping. That means: no clothes, accessories, household objects, drug items. I remember I used to go to a nearby suburban hotel, look for a cleaning woman's cart alone in the aisle and steal the complimentary shampoos, conditioners, soaps. I only bought what we absolutely had to have.
For dinner most nights we ate pizza or a bowl of spaghetti. We didn't go to the movies, we didn't go on vacation, I cancelled our daily newspaper delivery, I stopped buying and sending out greeting cards. If we were invited to a wedding, bar mitzvah etc, I gave half of what I normally would give.
On my two credit cards that I cut up, I wrote letters to these banks, telling them about my new medical and financial hardship and that I was closing my account. I negotiated payoff terms with them. I paid off 60% of the balance on one card and about 70% on the other. I had to fight viciously with those men to get the balances down. They played hardball. Then I wrote letters to Janet's banks and informed them she had a terminal illness which prevented her from working and paying off this debt.
To get my mind off my troubles and fill up the time I used to spend shopping, I enrolled in an adult-oriented college to get my degree. I had only nine credits towards a bachelor's degree, so there was a long road ahead and I relished the hard, consuming work. This college worked with me in a payment plan suitable to my income.
The first couple of years were really hard because those bills went down ever-so-slowly month by month. It was like a drip in the faucet. After three and a half years, I paid off the last penny of my $50,000 debt and never had credit card debt again. After five and a half years, I received my BS degree.
The moral: If you really want to pay off a debt, you will find the way to do it.
Love,
Shelley
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Thursday, July 24, 2008
1:41 P.M.
Dear Friend,
Women and girls: You want to know what and where your G spot is?
A guy I was dating in the 70s showed me. You don't want to be told where it is, you want to be showed. But, of course, I will tell you.
What it is: The G spot is a highly sensitive, or highly orgasmic, area in your vagina. It is probably the most sensitive spot in your vagina. If you just feel inside, you can't feel it with your fingers—the area is smooth, like the rest of your vagina. But when you are aroused, you or your partner can then feel the G spot bump deep within the tissue. I would guess the area is about the diameter of a nickel.
Where it is: If you're lying down on your back, it is located in the beginning part of your vagina, on the wall closest to your front, as opposed to the wall closest to your back. The area is located just below your clitoris. So I'm guessing, like the efficient plumber that God is, your G spot shares the same nerve-endings and blood vessels that are contained in your clitoris, which is directly above it.
To really feel its full power, rub this area directly. You'll see what I mean if you use the tip of your finger.
Have fun.
Love,
Shelley
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Monday, July 21, 2008
8:35 P.M.
Dear Friend,
Boy, yesterday was a real manic ride.
In the morning, I flew up to the mountaintop, head over heels in love, but by the end of the day, I had fallen headfirst into a pit, a pit of rage, betrayal and depression.
You see, it's all about a TV show. I discovered a TV show on AMC called “Mad Men,” about the men who worked on Madison Avenue (New York) in advertising in the 1950s-1960s. Now, I love that whole era...that era of Doris Day, that era of JFK and Jackie, that era of my youth. I was hooked on Mad Men. I fell so hard, so fast for this show, that I sat and watched it from 12 Noon to 9:00 P.M. straight. Oh, I was planning to watch the whole damn Season One Marathon! Yes, the whole damn thing, from 12 Noon to 12 Midnight. That was my plan. I was even thanking God I didn't have commitments that day and that my husband isn't demanding. This show hit me like pow. It was a nine hour orgasm (well, really six hours) like my cocaine orgasms used to be. I loved everything about this show:
the graphics of the opening credits:
the Hitchcock music,
the Hitchcock man falling down a skyscraper,
like Kim Novak falling in “Vertigo” or like James Stewart falling in “Rear Window.”
the flat look of the graphics, the two-dimensional flat look,
the GQ-handsome, sexy Mad man of the opening credit graphics.
all you could see was a solid black figure of a man, no details,
as if you cut out a man doll.
the black of his black was very black.
and the white of his French cuffs sticking out of his black was very white.
the white of his white was very white.
at the end of his hand was the one constant in the whole series: the cigarette.
the cigarette, the real star of the show, was forever smoking.
matthew weiner's characters, story and dialogue were the best.
powerful, smart and sexy, biting and brilliant, lean.
the actors were good because the writing was good.
Now that brings me to my big fall. Somewhere around 6:00 P.M., I realized I wasn't in it. I wasn't in it anymore! I mean, I didn't even realize I was in it. I only realized I wasn't in it when I suddenly felt myself out of it. I said to myself, Wait a minute. What's going on here? What happened? And then I saw that the writers changed. Instead of one man, the creator Matthew Weiner, writing it, there were now two other people writing it. No more Matthew Weiner. No more powerful, smart and sexy, biting and brilliant, lean. No more good actors. No more good story. But I couldn't believe the new reality. My mind refused to accept this new banality. I was denying that my love had disappeared, like a lover who stops calling you and you keep waiting anyway.
Then I got angry and I fell into an angry rage. But I couldn't stop watching it. That's when I fell into a depression. So I clawed my way out, shut off the TV at 9 and went to sleep, hoping I would be recovered by morning.
I did recover, but my heart is still broken.
Shelley
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Wednesday, July 16, 2008
4:02 P.M.
Dear Friend,
Now maybe this isn't the No.1 topic of conversation in America, but I am fascinated by UFOs visiting our planet, and I wonder why we are not talking more about this.
"Larry King Live" has had a recurring series of programs on the subject of UFOs visiting America and other countries on our planet. These programs have included experts in their fields and eyewitnesses to the sightings. I also read news articles on the subject of sightings by people from other countries. I can't say that I believe that people are actually abducted but, based on visual proof and sincere testimonies by people all over the world—both everyday people and people in positions of authority, I most certainly do believe we are visited by unidentified flying objects that are not from our planet. Whether there are creatures inside those objects, I don't know because we don't seem to have proof of this.
It's almost comical that our federal government ignores this reality as if they were stuck in a 1950s denial mentality. And then they get the Armed Services to harass and threaten eyewitnesses to stop talking about what they saw. Actually, I think our government's behavior is an outrage. They should be talking, documenting, investigating, sharing information with other global governments and generally supporting American citizens in these sightings. It is their responsibility, as our leaders and protectors, to do so. By putting their heads in the sand do not make UFOs go away.
I would like to see a global conference on UFOs by the governments of the world's nations, as this fantastic reality needs a planet to planet dialogue.
Love,
Shelley
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Sunday, July 13, 2008
12:11 P.M.
Dear Friend,
Yankees great, Bobby Murcer, is a very sweet man and, yesterday, he passed on.
I say "is" because his soul is still with us. I used to always say that someone has "died" but I'm not going to say that anymore. Yesterday, I got it. I heard someone talking about this and I just got it. The Holy Spirit helped to clear my mind so I could see this reality. I do believe in a human's soul and spirit, so it's easy, really, for me to believe that the body has died but the soul passes on to the Spiritual World. But, actually, the soul still stays with us in our day-to-day lives too. Now I'm confused. But back to Bobby. So Bobby's soul is still with us—it's just his body that has died.
This subject is not over, more to come later, because I realize I don't really know the difference between the spirit and the soul, how they "pass on" but stay with us too, and I want to tell you what happened when my father's soul visited me in my kitchen several months ago, but I have to go now and attend a Democratic Party party.
Love,
Shelley
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Thursday, July 10, 2008
2:53 P.M.
Dear Friend,
Okay, America, let's get its and it's straight.
I am tired of going around with my pen and correcting signs in my community where its and it's are misspelled. I've seen this misspelling all over the place...on websites, in The New York Times even, but the other night when I saw it misspelled in a movie preview on a theater's big fat screen, I said, "That's it!" So I'll tell you quickly and easily here in my Personal Diary how to tell them apart and how to use them correctly.
Forget about possession. It's not about possession, it's about contraction.
TO USE IT'S: If you can substitute the words, it is, for it's in your sentence, then you use it's.
Example: "It's that simple." (It is that simple.)
TO USE ITS: If you cannot substitute the words, it is, for its in your sentence, then you use its.
Example: "Its simple rule is easy to learn." (You can't say: "It is simple rule is easy to learn," so you use its.)
Okay, now?
Love,
Shelley
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Wednesday, July 9, 2008
10:06 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I just saw Ingrid Betancourt interviewed on "Larry King Live" only a week after she was freed from her kidnappers.
It's amazing that she wanted, that she has presence of mind, to appear on worldwide television to talk about her ordeal only one week away from her horror. What strength she must possess, to endure seven years of unspeakable terror. I can't imagine, I think most of us cannot possibly imagine any part of her life in the last seven years and that what we cannot even imagine lasted for seven long years.
She wouldn't talk about two aspects of her ordeal: if she was sexually abused and how she was punished after she and another hostage returned to their captors after a failed attempt to escape. (There might have been more areas she didn't want to relive, as I tuned in after the interview began.) She said she wanted to leave those memories back in the jungle. I imagine, I say tenderly, that at some point she will begin to talk it out, begin to free herself of her immense, intense pain. Isn't talking the best, the only way of truly freeing oneself? Writing a book is a good way of getting it all out. I know this is true.
She said she stayed alive in her desperate hope to see her children. She said she never lost her faith in God. But I think there is more to her than hope and faith. She goes deeper than even that. Her mettle has been tested. She is changed forever. She went into the jungle one way and she has come out of the jungle another way.
I will follow with the curiosity and concern of one human being towards another Ingrid Betancourt, as she walks down her new path in life.
Love,
Shelley
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Tuesday, July 8, 2008
9:09 P.M.
Dear Friend,
The next great rights movement in America is the Gay Rights Movement.
Except that the Gay Rights Movement has been the next great rights movement for the past ten years. It's a slow simmer of a rights movement. You don't see mass numbers of people marching in the streets, getting arrested on purpose or holding big demonstrations, like they did in the Civil Rights and the Women's Rights Movements. Maybe that's because most gay people are too afraid to be themselves in public. You don't see celebrities and public figures demonstrating with gay people, like they did in the other movements. Maybe that's because being gay is still the biggest taboo in America.
You know it's still the biggest taboo in America when even young actors in liberal Hollywood and New York and young entertainers in the sexually expressive music industry are too afraid to come out in the year 2008. When I hear a rumor that an actor is gay, all of a sudden she or he disappears. I saw a very hot young female singer on “The View” TV talk show stopping just short of declaring that her girlfriend is her girlfriend. All the women skirted around, avoided and were disgustingly politically correct about not calling her girlfriend a girlfriend. But when Lance Armstrong was recently on the show, they asked him a hundred times about “his girlfriend,” Kate Hudson, even though he was with her only a few times in the public eye.
All these fears against gay people will eventually fall, just like the fears associated with the other rights movements fell. These fears have to fall. They have to fall because it's right for them to fall.
Gay, bisexual, transgender people have a right to be themselves and they have the right to receive all the rights accorded straight people. They will no longer be denied.
It's just taking a little longer for them.
Love,
Shelley
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Friday, July 4, 2008
2:45 P.M.
Dear Friend,
26 to 7, baby—where's the rivalry?
I'm talking Yankee talk, now. I never bought into a Yankees and Red Sox rivalry. This is a fabrication made up by the teams's PR people and the press to generate more interest and sales. There is no rivalry, with the Yankees winning 26 World Series and the Red Sox, 7. There is tension, yes, there is Red Sox jealousy, yes, but there is no rivalry.
And I won't give Boston the 2004 or 2007 World Series because they don't deserve it. In my mind, champions should win championships. Not bullies. The Boston Bullies are no champions. They play dirty. They've been playing dirty the last five years by consistently and increasingly hitting our batters intentionally. And they've continued to hit our batters because they were getting away with it, because the umpires didn't discipline them and because Joe Torre didn't get off his ass to object and protect his guys. I always thought it was ironic that Torre has a foundation to protect physically abused people but when his guys, for years, blatantly got hit over and over again, he just sat there without doing a thing. Do you think a pitcher who throws a 72-year-old bench coach to the ground deserves to win a World Championship? I rest my case.
I, for one, thought that Torre should have been let go three years before he left. 2004 said it all for me. It was time to shake up the Torre Yankees. We've been taught this lesson many times before—what goes up, must come down. I want my scruffy '96 Yankees back. I can't stand this passive IBM team. It's time to let go of Derek. I don't think I like his current attitude. It's time to let go of Jorge. He's with Derek. We need a whole new team. A new team for a new stadium. New guys. Young guys. Scruffy guys. Guys who will charge the pitcher's mound if they get hit. Hungry guys, who don't have a ring yet. Guys who don't make $10 million a year yet.
Hungry for 27.
Shelley
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Thursday, July 3, 2008
11:07 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I love my pearls.
I used to think my favorite gemstone was the emerald because it's my birthstone. I was under the misconception that you had to love your birthstone. But I only thought I loved the emerald. I didn't feel it. It's true I love a certain dark green color known as British Racing Green, but I could never find an emerald in that shade.
What I really love are pearls. Classic round white pearls. They take my breath away. I love to feel them, love my hands on them. I played and twisted my necklace so much one time that I broke the strand. After I paid to have it restrung, I tried to handle them more gently. But it's really hard not to touch my pearls. They want to be touched, said a pearl expert one time. Pearls are warm gemstones.
When Hank and I got engaged on February 14, 1999, he asked me what kind of engagement ring I wanted. I told him I wanted a pearl. I know you're supposed to want a diamond, and they are very pretty to look at, but diamonds are cold. Pretty, but cold. I want pretty and warm. So we went to a favorite jeweler where I could design my own ring. I had the most superb time looking over their many different pearls, in various shades and hues, in different sizes. Then I gravitated to one. This one iridescent pearl, creamy in its mother color, had the most subtle hue of baby pink. This pearl went deep. The color seemed to emanate from a place deep inside the pearl. It has a soul. I chose tiny sparkly diamonds to accent the ring on either side of the pearl. Pearls and diamonds are lovely together, as long as the pearl dominates.
I worked at a library last year. The first day I dressed for work, I decided to wear my single-strand pearl necklace and bracelet. I wore them almost every day that I worked there. Now I knew this was a bit showy for daytime wear and with casual clothes to boot, but I got tired of my beautiful pearls sitting in my drawer, waiting for that special occasion, so I decided to wear them and that was it. Who decided that pearls can only be worn for dressy occasions? Was it the same person who decided you can only wear white from Memorial Day to Labor Day? It amuses me to think that maybe someone at the library, staff or patron, assumed I was a Westchester lady because I was wearing my pearls and working at the library. They could not have been further from the truth. I hate the word "lady" and never want to be associated with that repressed word, and I was wearing my pearls because they're too beautiful to be kept in the drawer and not admired by other people.
So if you have pearls hiding in your drawer, wear them to the supermarket and let's start a lasting trend.
Love,
Shelley
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Wednesday, July 2, 2008
10:55 P.M.
Dear Friend,
In my dream of dreams, if I were President of the United States, the first thing I would do is move to repeal the Second Amendment of the Bill of Rights and ban guns from everyone but law enforcement and the military.
A gun-free America is my own personal wish. Not a day goes by that people aren't killed by guns—children, teens, adults, seniors. Children sitting in their bedrooms killed by a stray bullet. Students in school on their way to class mowed down by a crazy person. A wife and children killed by the husband. A pregnant woman killed by the father who can't handle the responsibility. A store employee gunned down by a robber. A three-year-old kills himself while playing with his father's pistol. A teen killing another teen because he's gay.
It doesn't make sense to just read these stories in the paper everyday and not think of doing something about it. I don't think gun control will work. It hasn't worked yet. These state-by-state laws are meant to be confounding and impossible to uphold. I think we are beyond gun control laws. I say let's be smart and ban guns in America. So what if some people complain that they can't kill any more deer. Who gave them the right to kill another creature anyway? So what if some people feel the need to protect their homes. How are all the other people who don't own guns protecting their homes?
Killings by guns is preventable. All we have to do is ban them. Aren't we fed up with gunslingers controlling our town like in the Old West? Don't forget that James Arness would come to the aid of the town and arrest the gunslinger. That's what we need now. Someone or something to provide law and order. We are losing law and order in America to the people packing guns, who drive by and kill innocent college students just walking in the street.
If we were a gun-free society, just think how much more peaceful America would be.
Love,
Shelley
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Tuesday, July 1, 2008
7:43 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I run a workshop called "Conversations About God."
This is a group I started three years ago where we get together in person and talk about God. My group is not about religion, it's not a Bible study, it's not about anything fanatic or weird. We're just regular people who enjoy talking, or enjoy listening to others talk, about God.
Some of us express our belief and love for God. Some of us express our uncertainties about whether God exists. We talk about our trust in God, our fear about God's powers, our undying faith. Sometimes a person with weird, extreme beliefs or ideas will pop into our group, express their ideas, then leave after they talk and before the group wraps up. Some people prefer not to talk at all but just sit and listen to the rest of us and just be part of the group.
I believe that God, through the Holy Spirit, comes to us ordinary folk through signs. These signs come everyday, in little ordinary ways and sometimes in very wow ways too. It all depends if one is open to these signs. I try to be open. I think we all, who believe, try to be open.
I feel very gratified when people stay and want to talk a long time. Usually, the group goes two hours. People reveal, sometimes for the first time, an epiphany experience they have had. And since I've had my own epiphanies, I believe what they say. Others confide an intimate religious experience they or some member of their family have had. Others simply say they have a deep faith that never goes away. Ultimately, we nurture each other and bask in each other's faith-full glow.
I especially love the sweet smiles on most of our faces as we talk about God with love.
Love,
Shelley
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Monday, June 30, 2008
4:19 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I've been slowly falling in love with Norman Rockwell's work.
At first when I saw his work years ago, I was an art snob. I thought his work was cute. Sentimental. Very Americana (but said in a belittling way). I just didn't get it. I was only looking at the sprinkled cinnamon sugar on top of the homemade deep dish apple pie.
On our way home yesterday from our vacation, as we did two years ago, Hank and I stopped off at the Norman Rockwell Museum in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. We had a wonderful time at this very comfortable, contemporary, nicely sized (not too big, not too small), pretty museum. It is located on beautiful and generous land with plentiful and free parking conveniently close to the museum. There are so many things going on that one can hardly get bored, and I easily get bored. Two floors exhibiting Norman Rockwell's prolific work, a well-done video on the life of the artist. A children's creative room with big round tables, drawing supplies and paper, and padded mats to sit on the floor. We enjoyed the healthy, homemade-type, fairly priced delicious food on the lovely covered terrace overlooking the lush trees and gardens. And I especially loved their moderately-priced gift shop filled with a great variety of practical items for both adults and children. I walked away from this museum with admiration because it carries on Norman Rockwell's legacy of values: respectfulness, quality, consideration, plentitude of American spirit, decency, creativity and much more. But I also walked away with, among other dear purchases, the print called "The Runaway."
"The Runaway," 1958, is my favorite Norman Rockwell painting. It makes me cry. I thought it was just a simple painting. At first you see a cop and a small boy sitting on revolving stools at a counter in a 1950s diner with the waiter on the other side of the counter engaged in conversation with his patrons. But as I studied this painting, its pathos began to emerge.
The picture is a tight shot of the three of them, all looking at each other, talking. You see the cop's profile, looking down at the boy to his right. The cop is respectfully and warmly leaning towards the boy and he has a caring and kind look on his face. We see the waiter's full face, as he is facing the artist on the other side of the counter. With cigarette in his mouth, he is friendly, and looking down and smiling at the boy. His hands are clasped on the countertop and he is warmly leaning towards the boy and the cop. The boy is looking up and facing the cop. We see that the profile on this small boy, about age eight, has an expression of sweetness. He is thoughtfully listening to the cop. On the floor by this runaway is his torn-off long tree branch with a tied-up bundle of all his worldly and most prized possessions at the end of it. The satchel's red cloth is probably his mother's large square scarf. But the story doesn't stop there.
You see the vast differences of the cop's and the boy's bodies. The backs of their bodies, in this painting, are telling the story. You see the huge difference in their rear ends. (I can't help but to wonder if Rockwell has a fascination with rear ends because I see them frequently in his paintings.) The cop is a large man, tall and beefy. Sexily strong and beefy to this author. The boy is nicely thin in a solid yellow tee shirt, blue jeans, white cotton socks, fairly new brown leather shoes with laces tied, hair neatly combed. He has his jacket on his lap. He is a well-taken care of boy, but he is nevertheless running away from home. The cop is in his blue uniform, hat on head, and with his gun in its holster on his right side.
I wonder why the boy is running away from a home that taught him how to take good care of himself and that provided him with food, shelter, clothing and nurturing? Why is he leaving his parents, possibly his siblings and cousins, his buddies at school and church, his neighborhood friends, all that gives him security? What pain or driving force is motivating him? What is in his bag—a few favorite toys, a couple of Snickers, a Topps Stan Musial card, a Spalding pink ball, a few sticks of Juicy Fruit gum, maybe his favorite dead fly in a clear plastic box? You know there's no fresh underwear in there. So he stopped in at his local diner on his way to the outside world to have a Coca-Cola or a malted?
I also look at the lives of the cop and the boy. The cop was once this boy. He, at one time, had the boy's carefree, pain-free body. But the cop's back and rear end now tell the story of a man with all the burdens and responsibilities of life that a man can possibly withstand. He probably has a wife and children to provide for. To provide food, clothing, shelter, health insurance, life insurance, vacations, savings, a fund for his children's college education. His feet probably hurt and are sweaty in those heavy, rigid black leather shoes. His physical and emotional bodies probably ache from his stressed-out personal and professional pressures. But though the cop must maintain a demeanor of strength and preparedness to the community, to this little boy who is about to run away from home, he is gentle, patient and kind.
Norman Rockwell is so gifted at understanding people and such a genius in his skills and details. It's not enough for his talent to just paint the picture of people, places and things. That's too easy. He strives for a higher stratosphere, to tell a story that unites all of them.
I've been an artist for over 30 years. I've studied art from all over the world and from many different eras but, for me, the best artist, the one who is most satisfying, the one who moves me the most, the one whose work is the most incredible is Norman Rockwell. He is a symbol of America if ever there was one. But he is also a symbol of humanity. His themes are global and timeless.
As my love for my country deepens, my love for Norman Rockwell's work grows.
Love,
Shelley
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Sunday, June 29, 2008
10:32 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I'm a writer who doesn't like to read.
For years, I was too embarrassed to admit this, but it serves no purpose to lie. Lying only digs the hole deeper. And the deeper the hole, the harder to climb out. So, I prefer to tell the truth however ludicrous it may sound. It is what it is.
As a writer and author, someone is bound to ask me who my favorite authors are and what my favorite books are. The fact is, I have only one favorite author, Edith Hamilton, and my one favorite book is her "Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes."
Throughout my budding career as an author, I always heard the pros say: Writers must read. Read a lot of books. The more you read, the better the writer. But I just can't read so much. I can hardly read a little! I'm such a slow reader. I've had problems with reading my whole life. Although I enjoyed writing essays in school, I had to force myself to read the required reading and often read many sentences over and over until I understood them. My mind wanders off. My imagination takes off. So many words trigger images in my mind and I get distracted. That's the artist in me, I guess. I'm a strongly visual person. And words trip an emotional tie to my heart and I have to stop reading and ponder the feeling the word is evoking.
I like my writing, I'm very satisfied with it. I think it's fairly good because I truly write from my heart. I've also received very good reviews of my work from publishing professionals and accomplished writers. So, although I wouldn't recommend that writers don't read, I, for one, cannot.
And to further shock you, my favorite thing to read is People Magazine. I love People Magazine. I love all the pictures, the narrow columns of words make it easy on my eyes to follow the text, the true and concise way their writers write the stories, the simplicity of the words used, the design layout of the magazine, and, of course, the subjects of the stories themselves. It's a quality, truthful magazine, not a rag. I know that everything I read in People Magazine is true and I can pass the gossip on to my friends.
My motto today is that you don't have to fit the mold to be a writer.
Love,
Shelley
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Thursday, June 26, 2008
12:25 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I'm a food lover and I get disappointed a lot.
I enjoy cooking food...it's tremendously creative, enormously pleasureable and deliciously satisfying. I strive to cook every single ingredient properly and to present the food on the plate like it was a beautiful collage. I guess that's the artist in me. Okay, I'm a food snob.
Hank and I are on vacation. We're staying with friends at a nice hotel in Massachusetts. It's not fancy, but it is nice. Food is served buffet style. Sometimes the meals are well done and appetizing, like your mom cooked it with love, but yesterday we were served a dinner I couldn't eat.
A London broil-type steak in a thin flat au jus gravy was served sliced on a metal tray. It was cooked to standard...well-done medium rare, hold the pink. I don't know, something about it turned my eyes off. Like it could have been served at an assisted-living facility. I imagined it even had that odor surrounding it. A tray of fried-looking soggy halibut was offered for those who cannot eat assisted-living meat. The limp fish wasn't even sauteed in lovely buttery garlic to tempt us or flamboyantly broiled so its peaks are charred like a Baked Alaska. The prerequisite tray of “medley” vegetables was well-intentioned. A dietician would have applauded its virtue...the variety of colors, nutritional balance, and wholesomeness, but to me it looked like a prep person opened an industrial-sized bag of frozen vegetables from some food company owned by Dow Chemical, boiled them and dumped them into another metal tray. I don't think a sauce accompanied them. The kitchen was probably too afraid. Another tray had a bright green food inside. I really love that color green, but the spartan thrown-in green beans could not lift my appetite, which was now dead on the floor. So it came as a shock when I saw that the salad bar actually had fresh artichoke chunks not in that marinade, tabouleh salad, potato salad, and nice big fresh mushrooms generously sliced, in addition to the usual salad bar ingredients, so I filled myself up on that.
Mmmm, I wonder what's for dinner tonight.
Love,
Shelley
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Monday, June 23, 2008
10:17 P.M.
Dear Friend,
David Steinberg, where the hell are you?
If David Steinberg is reading this, I want to know what happened to you? You're my favorite comedian. Why aren't you on TV doing standup or doing a concert? I saw your interview show on TV but I could barely watch it. I wanted you to talk. I wanted to hear your jokes. I didn't want to hear the other funny people doing their shtick. I wanted your shtick. I kept thinking, "No, you shut up. I want David to talk!" I never watched it again. It was way too frustrating.
A lot of comedians make me laugh but there is no one who makes me laugh the way you do. You make me laugh ALL the time. Not just some of the time or most of the time, but ALL of the time. So I while I laugh out loud at all your jokes, I also laugh at you just silently standing there and thinking of your next joke and tilting your head, while your face starts to go into that grin. I'm already laughing. I figure, if the joke makes you laugh, that's good enough for me.
I don't even know, really, why I love your comedy so much. What the hell is it? You're so understated, what is it? Is it your understated and silky smooth delivery? Is it your understated and silky smooth delivery and your dry wit? Is it your understated and silky smooth delivery and your dry wit and the way you ooze out the joke? Is it your understated and silky smooth delivery and your dry wit and the way you ooze out the joke and the way you laugh at it first before I do? Is it your understated and silky smooth delivery and your dry wit and the way you ooze out the joke and the way you laugh at it first before I do and the words you use? Or is it your understated and silky smooth delivery and your dry wit and the way you ooze out the joke and the way you laugh at it first before I do and the words you use and the way you see life in such a funny way? Huh?
I miss you, David Steinberg.
Love,
Shelley
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Sunday, June 22, 2008 2nd letter
12:16 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I love to write in moody weather.
It's cloudy, raining and thundering. There isn't anything else I'd rather do than sit here and write to you. But this is not why I'm writing.
I had a strange talk yesterday with a stranger about God.
You know, God loves to connect us humans to each other, so it's no coincidence that this stranger's name is the same as my father's—George. This is a small sign from God. So Hank and I were at a friend's house yesterday. This friend is Catholic and I would say that most of the people there were Catholic. Hank and I decided to walk to the end of the property and sit for awhile. This couple walked over and we said hello. George and I comfortably slipped into a conversation about God. I told him I was an atheist for 59 years and four years ago I found God, after experiencing an epiphany. I told him that I'm Jewish but during my epiphany, I saw that Jesus the Christ was truly the Messiah and that God wanted me to be Christian. So I told George I was a hybrid—Jewish in heritage, Christian in faith. Although I started out in the Protestant faith (because I have socially liberal views), I told George that I was in the process of converting to Catholicism.
George was truly interested in my epiphany and wanted to hear all of it. So I told him. Well, not everything that I'm telling you now, but most of it:
I was in my car running errands one hot sunny day in late July 2004. It was just another ordinary day, or so I thought. As I lazily turned the corner at the intersection of Pleasantville Road and South State Road in Briarcliff Manor, New York, I glanced over, as I always did, at a church's directory sign on the lawn which always had a witty or wise saying posted on it. That day it said:
“You say there's distance between you and God. Who moved?” br />
Well, that saying stopped me dead in my tracks and changed my life forever. I stared at those words, oblivious to traffic around me and horns honking behind me. I answered the question—that it was I who moved, God can't move because He is all around me. Then I wondered why I was answering that question when I didn't believe in God? I started to tremble and cry. I didn't know what was happening to me and it was scary. I remember I had to make a split-second decision: to either stop these thoughts and feelings and continue on my way to run errands or stay with these feelings. I saw a fleeting, ethereal visual of myself alone in the universe with nothing but darkness around me. Although I felt so lonely, I decided to stay with my feelings.
I pulled across the street into a library's empty parking lot, turned off my car and just sat there. Suddenly, I looked down at my chest and saw that my chest was ethereally opening up. It was weird, but I saw wavy air go into my chest. Although I was a little scared by all these events, I decided to trust this unknown thing happening to me and let it take me over.
A serene contentment began to wash over me and I became aware that I was opening up to God. Visions and signs that I had experienced in the past came alive again in my mind and I started to play a spiritual game of connect the dots.
I thought about the day I saw a ghost. It was January 12, 2002. That was a shocking but enlightening experience, for more amazing than seeing this wonder, the ghost served a greater purpose in my life. I never believed in the spiritual world or anything associated with it. I had the mindset that if you couldn't prove it, it didn't exist. This ghost opened the door for me to the spiritual world, proving that there really was a whole other world than the physical world. I remembered that I wondered: Wow, now that I know the spiritual world is real and that ghosts are real, what else can I believe in? The answer came in my very next breath: God. But, still, my belief in God didn't kick in for two more years.
Connecting to another dot, I thought about that day in 1974 when I saw a sign from God. Talk about a shocker! It took me 30 years just to process this information and accept it. This is what happened: I was feeling pretty despondent at that time, having spent four years trying to make a living as a visual artist in Manhattan but failing. Not knowing how else to support myself, I enlisted in the Army. As the day of my training grew near, I was becoming increasingly anxious and fearful. I was a free spirit and knew I would hate losing my freedom.
Three days before the big day, I was sitting on my bed, staring out into my room. It was daytime. With the suddenness of switching on a light, a brilliant white Christian cross in the middle of a brilliant white glow suspended in midair appeared before my eyes. The cross was about ten inches tall and the cross and glow sat eight feet in front of me, a little lower than eye level. It was a plain cross with no detail. Its vertical and horizontal bars were elegantly narrow, ends cut straight across. The glow's rays didn't take up the whole room like you see in those scary movies but were contained to just outside the cross. The glow was like a ball of light.
Although the cross and glow were as intensely bright as a flame, I stared easily at it. I never doubted what was before my eyes. I never said to myself, What is this? or Why is a Christian cross coming to me, I'm Jewish? Actually, I was not thinking of anything. My mind, as I remember, was empty. I was transfixed by this incredible sight, spiritually locked into it. But I was aware that it was calming me down, making me feel peaceful. I didn't decide that day if I should go into the Army but when the time came, I made the crystal clear decision not to go.
Still connecting the dots, I thought about other signs I had received from God: At five years old, I was in an acute state of anxiety because my beloved father had moved out of the house. I became physically paralyzed and on the verge of an emotional crisis. This is what happened: I was standing on the threshold of my apartment, wanting to leave it to visit a friend in the building. But I couldn't move. I couldn't walk into the hallway and I couldn't walk back into my house. I stood there for I don't know how long and began to panic. Then God spun a warm, ethereal cocoon around me, protecting me from an evil chill invading my being. He released me from paralysis, when I got the idea to put out my arms and twirl off the threshold and into the hallway. So I twirled and twirled myself back to sanity and all was well again. ~ When I was a teenager, I used to call my mother the Jewish Jesus Christ because she was so compassionate and giving and would give even to those who hurt her. ~ I always liked churches and felt serene in their sanctuaries. ~ About thirteen years ago, I received a vision of our human existence on Earth and saw that we have many millenniums of life still ahead of us. ~ The number 3 has always been my favorite because of its profound nature—Father, Son, Holy Spirit, for one.
As the last dot was connected, a floodgate opened and all the Truth came pouring out. It is all true, I realized. There really is a spiritual world. There really is a God. Jesus really is the Son of God. The Bible really is true. I really was saved by God that day in 1974. I knew then that God wanted me to be Christian. In that instant, I went from believing nothing to believing everything. In my heart, I converted from Judaism to Christianity.
So back to George. After I told George my epiphany story, we all talked some more about God and things of a spiritual nature. George really enjoyed talking about God. When it was time to say goodbye, that's when this strange thing happened.
George and his wife started moving away from us, when George, looking earnestly and seriously at me, told me I was doubting my faith. While he was slowly walking away, he put out his arm and pointed his finger at me and told me with a serious look on his face that I was doubting God's existence. I told him he was wrong—I told him I never doubted for one moment for the last four years God's existence, not after my epiphany and all my concrete and visual signs from God. But George kept insisting that I was doubting and he said even my husband knew I was doubting. I looked at Hank. I stared at Hank and asked him if this was true? Did he know? But Hank was speechless. I was flabbergasted.
George and his wife were gone now. But George got to me. What he said and with the self-assurance that he displayed, he got to me. I was sitting there, limp with no strength. I said to Hank, "Who does he think he is? How does he come off saying that to me? I don't feel like I'm doubting. I never felt that I doubted for a minute these four years, that God is real." Hank said that the mere fact that he's gotten to me, must make it true.
I just sat there with Hank. My mind was frozen in disbelief. For the rest of that day, I was cut off from everyone at this BBQ. I was in another world. I mean, I functioned normally, but I was in a fog. I knew that I would write to you the next day to tell you.
I still don't know what to do about what this man said to me.
Love,
Shelley
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Sunday, June 22, 2008
ll:49 A.M.
Dear Friend,
Well, I got back in.
In my June 18 and June 20 letters, I told you I was going to experiment taking my antidepressant during the daytime, instead of at night, so I wake up 6:00 A.M. instead of 8:00. Pamelor has a sleeping agent in it and makes me wake up later. For three days, I took it during the daytime, but this new schedule messed up my body and mind, as I detailed in those letters. No can do. So I went back to taking it at night and now I feel like my old self. Whew!
Drugs are powerful stuff.
Love,
Shelley
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Friday, June 20, 2008
1:36 P.M.
Dear Friend,
It's now Day 3 in my experiment to change the schedule of my antidepressant.
So, in my June 18 letter to you, I told you I was taking Pamelor/nortriptyline for 14 years now. I love and need this supportive aid for anxiety and depression. But it also has a mild sleeping agent to keep me asleep at night, which is good. The bad part is that I sleep through that very early time of morning, 6:00-8:00 A.M., which I actually love.
I decided Wednesday morning to rearrange my schedule of taking them so I can wake up early. Instead of taking them at night, I would space them out during the day. So here it is Wednesday, I mean Friday, three days into my experiment and it's not working out. See? I can't even get the day of the week right.
I feel tired, for one thing. That's probably due to the sleeping agent. But my mind is off. I was talking to a friend this morning and, sometimes, I couldn't find the words I needed to express myself. It feels like certain aspects of my thinking, comprehension, mental alertness are closed to me. Like I can't get in. Like you go to your home and the door is locked and you don't have your keys and you can't get in. It's strange. Definitely don't like it, so I'll go back to my regular routine.
Hope I can get back in.
Love,
Shelley
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Wednesday, June 18, 2008, 2nd letter
12:18 P.M.
Dear Friend,
When grief is new, it is bigger than your being can bear.
I just watched Tim Russert's funeral on TV and when I saw his son, I started to cry. He was standing at the top step of the church with his mother. There were no other tender, young human beings around, at that moment, who he could share his fury and disbelief with. Just older people whose pain have already toughened their souls. My heart is breaking for him, because I remember.
I remember the morning after the day someone I loved had died. I remember those mornings. I woke up and I sat up in bed and immediately went into a surreal world of panic and disbelief. Was I dreaming? Was my mother really dead? Was my father really dead? Was Janet really dead? Oh no, it can't be!, I begged. The pain was so sharp, it stopped my breath. My mind, heart, body and soul were scurrying around, running for cover, running for shelter. I was in a state of terror, fury, sadness, denial, sharp and numb endless emotional pain all at the same time, from the second I awoke.
I remember my son, James, 16 years old when his "Janet," my partner, had died. When he was a young child, he didn't know how to introduce her, his co-parent, so after he introduced me as his mother, he then said: "This is my Janet." James didn't cry when she died, as far as I knew. I do remember one time we were standing at the window of his bedroom and I saw a tear or two in his eyes, but that was it. He didn't really cry. I kept waiting for him to let it out because I didn't know what he was doing with all his pain. But he remained stoic. He even managed to talk about her at her memorial service in front of everyone with no prepared notes, without breaking down a little. He's now 28 years of age and I'm still waiting for him to cry.
So I stared at Luke. I could watch only him. He didn't know what to do with himself, standing there "all alone." He twisted around to the right, he twisted around to the left, he ran his fingers through his hair, he wiped his eyes and then he rubbed his nose. Over and over, he did this. My heart felt that he didn't know what to do with all of his new grief, so new and fresh and pungent. But the adults around him knew what to do with their grief. It was especially sad to see him "alone" at that moment, when you feel so awfully alone. Alone, because no one can share your grief with you. You can share your happiness with others, but grief you must stew in alone.
I think the best way to describe a new grief is that image, I believe of Christopher Reeve in "Superman," when someone he loved just died, and his rage jumps out of him and wails for all humans on Earth to hear, and for his family in the heavens to hear.
Oh Lord!, the tenderness of youth, it slays me.
Shelley
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Wednesday, June 18, 2008
6:41 A.M.
Dear Friend,
I love my antidepressant, but—
I take Pamelor, or nortriptyline, as the generic is known. This supportive aid has saved my life. I've been taking it for 14 years, ever since I found myself barely able to cope with life because of a sudden and deadly health crisis in my family that thrust me into great responsibilities and great stress. So I'm a strong proponent of antidepressants if you need them and when they work for you.
Both my mother and father suffered from anxiety and depression and my father also battled seasonal depression. My father's issues were more severe than my mother's.
Nortriptyline has three components: one for anxiety, one for depression and one to aid in sleeping. The amazing part is that if I don't take the pills at night, I wake up as if I never took a sleeping agent in my life, whereas the anxiety and depression agents linger. The anxiety and depression components, which help to increase serotonin levels in my central nervous system, work great. Everyday, they work great. It's the sleeping agent that I have a problem with.
The good part of the sleeping agent is that I stay asleep at night, don't have night sweats, don't have the nightmares I used to have, although I also rarely dream. The but— part is that I miss my mornings. I only take 20 mg at night but I'm sluggish at waking up, which is around 8:30 or 9:00. If I don't take it at night, then I'm up my normal time, around 6:00 A.M. But I awake so clear-headed, so charged, so creative. I love writing in the early morning when life has just begun to begin.The early morning is such a sweet time of day.
Today, I think I'll try an experiment so I can wake up early in the morning. Instead of waiting until tonight to take them, I'll take one later in the morning and the other later in the afternoon. I'll see if that works. I'll have to monitor myself closely. If there's too little of the drug in my bloodstream, I start to get jittery and I can't think straight. It's really an awful feeling. Hard to describe. I don't know if this is from low serotonin levels or if I'm addicted to this drug. Can't seem to get a straight answer to this.
Antidepressants are powerful drugs and they must be treated with respect and used with careful scrutiny. I once had a very bad reaction to another one. A few years ago, my doctor and I decided that I try going off nortriptyline and try a newer type. We decided to try Paxil. It alludes to peace, so that sounds good, right? (I was always a sucker for marketing.) To make a long story short, under doctor's care and taking the lowest dose of Paxil, I nevertheless awoke one morning and got this uncontrollable urge to run out of my house naked and I also remember eyeing a knife in my kitchen and wanting to hurt myself. Fortunately, I was able to keep my sanity and muster all the strength in my being and go, fully clothed, to my neighbor and ask her to take me to the emergency room of my local hospital. I gratefully went back on nortriptyline.
So I'll let you know how my experiment goes...I'll know within two days, for sure.
Love,
Shelley
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Tuesday, June 17, 2008
4:49 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I think I may have a half-brother.
This is all so very strange. About two years ago, I received a letter from a man who claimed he was my half-brother. I was so shocked by this letter, coming out of the blue as it did. I knew my father had a son with another wife (my mother was his first wife) but I never met this person, knew very little about him and forgot his name most of these years. My father talked little about him, so I just didn't think about him.
So, out of the blue I get this letter from a man telling me that he's my half-brother. Right away, I went into manic mode of extreme happiness. You see, aside from my son and of course my husband, I have no other family. They are either dead or dead to me. I was just never lucky with family. I'm not blaming them 100% and I'm not blaming me 100%, but I will assume my share of the blame. So since my sister and I don't speak, the thought of having a brother was wonderful news.
He and I began an emailing relationship. My God, where does one begin to get to know a brother you haven't known all your life? He wanted to know about our father. He was also estranged from him since he was a teenager. Boy, my father never did like his kids's raging hormones! I was 17 when he and I stopped talking.
So this man wanted to know about my father. There was so much to tell. My father was larger than life. But since I wrote so much about him in my autobiographical novel, Swimming Naked with Jellyfish, it was all out of me and I had no problem giving this man much detailed information and describing many memories.
The problem set in when this man couldn't handle the details and what I was telling him. You see, I'm an open person and I found out that he was a closed person. What I told him started to give him great pain, anxiety, depression. It brought up bad memories. After a couple of months of talking, he stopped returning my emails and didn't return my phone call. I had to let it go. I had to let him go. That was a painful time for me. A time when my hopes for a brother were shattered.
So now I question who this man really was. I really don't know. He might be some loony. Men can be very strange, sometimes. He emailed over a photo of him and I thought he looked like my dad, but the truth is, I don't know for sure.
When my novel gets published next month, I'm thinking of emailing him and letting him know about this book. He can do what he wants with this information.
Although bittersweet chocolate is wonderful, bittersweet life isn't.
Love,
Shelley
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Sunday, June 15, 2008
2:13 P.M.
Dear Friend,
There are two sentences in my novel, Swimming Naked with Jellyfish, that I really love.
I mean, I love my whole book—every sentence, every word, but these two sentences were special. They took on a life of their own as soon as I typed them on my monitor. I wrote them, for heaven's sake, but when the words hit the white screen, they turned right around and hit me in the face.
One was:
In a home created by ill feelings, a baby cannot escape damage.
I am this damaged baby, living in a home where my parents didn't love each other and where there were other profoundly bad feelings. For many years, I wanted this sentence to be my book's one-line descriptive sentence. I really felt it summed me and my story up. (My book is an autobiographical novel.) But as my novel got closer to publication, I changed the one-liner. I felt this sentence was too down, too dark. And as I describe in my story, Iris liked when the lines she drew on her face (brow, eye-liner, lip-liner) went slightly up at the end. So no matter how down I get, I like to pull myself up again. At some point, when I was getting ready to begin the publishing process, a one-line description blurted itself out to me. This one I liked. This one stuck: Swimming Naked with Jellyfish is the coming-of-age story of a girl who hates semicolons, loves extremes, and lives her life exposed.
The other sentence was:
Not strong enough to cope with adult emotions, he was barely able to live a human life.
I'm talking about a character named Joey here. Joey's old-world Italian mother never allowed Joey to grow up. I thought that Joey lived an agonized life. He had so many quirks about him, so many socially-shy qualities. But many times I also felt that I wasn't strong enough to cope with adult emotions, and that I was barely able to live a human life. In fact, I thought I wanted at one point to have inscribed on my grave stone: "She was barely able to live a human life."
But I don't feel that weak anymore.
Love, (In my last letter, 6/13/08, I didn't sign it Love because I was angry.)
Shelley
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Friday, June 13, 2008
3:52 P.M.
Dear Friend,
The sound of a siren makes me cry.
When I hear the siren of a fire engine, a police car or an ambulance, I start to cry. I try to stop myself because I'm embarrassed if anyone sees me crying over a little thing like that, but the feeling comes from a deep place inside and I can't stop the tears from coming out of my eyes.
Today, Des Moines, Iowa is making me cry. To see the flood waters taking over that city is not only very sad but I also feel a fury for those people. Why isn't our president in Des Moines right now? Why isn't he there, in person and on the phone with all the people who can give immediate help to those people?
I don't know about you, but, to me, THE NO. 1 JOB OF OUR FEDERAL GOVERNMENT AND OUR PRESIDENT IS TO TAKE CARE OF AMERICANS. When I see a devastation in any part of my country, I want to see not only the mayor and the governor of that state on the phone, pushing those buttons and appearing on TV news shows connecting with the rest of us and telling us what action they took, but I also want to see my president there in person, also making those phone calls, pushing those buttons to get immediate help, and appearing on TV news shows telling us what action he/she took. That's the kind of America I want.
I don't want my president to be meeting with the Prime Minister of Australia over tea while Americans are suffering a terrible devastation. I want him there. That's where he should be. Instead of the federal government spending that day $1billion on new guns for our soldiers, I want that $1billion to be spent that day on housing, furnishings, food, clothing, cars, and start-up money to help all those people get back on their feet.
That's the kind of America I want.
Shelley
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Thursday, June 12, 2008
10:31 A.M.
Dear Friend,
When you're a non-traditional rebel, like I am, life can get pretty confusing.
For instance, today I'm having lunch with a woman who I know from business but who I also feel is my friend. She's a nice person and we have stuff in common. When we had dinner a couple of weeks ago, she picked up the check. Now, I didn't expect that. I thought we would just split the check. Maybe because I hired her services, she felt she wanted to express her gratitude. I don't know. I don't understand business ways sometimes. I'm non-traditional, so I don't always follow the rules. This is a sticky thing to talk about with her and I know I'll say the wrong thing and feel like a jerk.
So today we're having lunch. I would like it to be easy. Just a friendly lunch, no business, and we split the check. But now I feel a sense of obligation to reciprocate and pick up the check, and also because I want to, because she's a new friend who is nice.
That's it. I think I just resolved it. I'll pick up the check and tell her how I really feel—that she's a new friend and I think she's nice and I want to pick up the check because I feel like it.
Whew! It's great talking to you. This is so nice.
Love,
Shelley
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Wednesday, June 11, 2008
1:05 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I'm bothered by blogging.
Let me explain this page to you. This page is my personal diary. I wanted to have a personal diary so I could write to you almost every day. I really love writing letters. Something about writing a letter that is just so intimate. More intimate than even talking to someone in person sometimes. Something about putting my thoughts and feelings in the written word is just so satisfying. Maybe it's the artist in me who loves the pretty black letters against the pure white background. I have a thing for the colors black and white, which I explain in my novel, Swimming Naked with Jellyfish.
Back to blogging— Now I know blogging is the biggest thing but, frankly, I didn't want a blog. I hope you don't mind. I'm not a blogger. I don't have that kind of time. If you want to respond to something I've written, please write to me on my Contact page. Although this page is not set up yet, it will be soon and you can contact me then.
I will respond to you—if your comments are sincere and decent.
Love,
Shelley
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Monday, June 9, 2008
2:25 P.M.
Dear Friend,
Well, I have my raw almonds, dark chocolate and cold water, so I'm ready to write to you.
I don't know about you, but I hate this weather. It's 97 degrees, sunny and humid. Is it September yet? Florida will never see my face for more than a week.
I feel like talking about my husband, Hank. I talked so badly about him for the first several years that I owe him. If you're on and off with your husband or boyfriend, take heart. I broke up with Hank six times before I married him. I had several good reasons to break up with him, and none of my girlfriends told me I was crazy for leaving him. I should tell you, though, that our issues were not about addiction, abuse or unfaithfulness. But, you know, after eleven years of knowing him and seven years of marriage, I realize that I'm not perfect either. Yup.
We were both in our fifties when we met, so we were each shlepping a big bag behind us. We knew the bags were there. We just couldn't see them. And so we fought and broke up, fought and broke up, fought and broke up. After about the fourth breakup, I began to see a strange thing happening—a love was growing. I realized that each time we got back together, I was loving him more and more and he was loving me more and more.
The sixth time we broke up was right around my birthday. That was a momentous day. I think God planned out my birthday to make a point. May 2 came and I received only one card. My son didn't send me a card and all my friends forgot. My family, well, I was never lucky with family. I received only one phone call that day.
Hank sent me one of his beautiful, specifically-written cards. The Hallmark greeting was so personal to me that I swear he has this little elf hidden somewhere who writes out cards just for him to give to me. So when I saw his card that lonely day and read the words that always hit a nerve, I melted. I remember that I cried. Then the phone rang. It was Hank. He called to wish me a happy birthday and asked if he could take me out to dinner and a movie. That man had guts. I rejected him so much and so sharply, I couldn't believe he was coming back for more of me. Hank knew that my favorite date was dinner and a movie. On the phone, I began to cry and I realized that he was my best friend. I mean, I actually remember opening up to him. I let go of my stubborn, one-way mind and I opened up to this man who was making me feel good on my birthday. So what, I thought, if he had this thing wrong with him and that thing wrong with him. He loved me. After our date, I don't know how it happened, but we started talking about getting married and I never looked back.
Yes, we've had many fights during our marriage, but now we've reached this level playing field and we are both standing on equal ground. I was never happy with a man unless I was on equal ground with him.
I am happy with Hank...he is the light to my darkness...he is the Jesus to my intolerance...he is the keel that steadies me.
Love,
Shelley
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Saturday, June 7, 2008 (2nd letter)
10:22 A.M.
Dear Friend,
I like to watch golf matches on TV to relax.
Golf is the only slow thing left on TV. I love to see those beautiful golf courses. The artist in me really gets pleasure by their elegance, their natural beauty, the different beautiful green colors, their cute sand traps, the calming water. And I love the whispering of the TV commentator.
However, I wouldn't play the game...I tried it a couple of times and found it painfully boring.
Love,
Shelley
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Saturday, June 7, 2008
9:44 A.M.
Dear Friend,
I'm sorry I didn't write to you yesterday.
I hope you're not mad at me or feeling hurt. It was a very busy day and it just flew.
The weather today is ugh! HHH, hazy, hot and humid. I wilt like a lettuce leaf in the humidity so I won't be happy until it cools down in September.
Today, Hank, my husband, and I are visiting a dear friend on Long Island. She's a snow bird (6 months in New York, 6 months in Florida) so I've seen her three times in the last two years. I'll never be a snow bird. For one thing, I love New York's four seasons and, for another, I like the winter. And I love New York. I'll never leave it again.
I lived in Los Angeles for eleven months in 1989. I hated Los Angeles. People told me that New Yorkers either love or hate L.A. Well, I was one of those New Yorkers that hated it. Maybe some other time I'll go into more detail, but let me just say right now that I hated the sun shining every fucking day, all year long. At the end of my stay there, I used to close all the blinds in the house, stay indoors all day, and go out at night and do my shopping. In a nutshell, I thought that L.A. was like Sodom and Gomorrah. Let's leave it at that, for now.
Last night, Hank and I had dinner out with friends. We got on the subject of politics (how could you not, these days!) and people were getting passionate—that means, raising voices and getting emotional. Now, I personally love when that happens because then I get to know who a person really is and how they really feel. I was raised with arguing and debating and fighting, so this behavior doesn't frighten me. I like it. And I like to get passionate too. I don't hate a person because they're showing me their insides. I respect them for it. It takes courage to open up to people.
Sorry, but I have to go now. I hope you'll miss me. I need to be missed. I'll try to write you tomorrow.
Love,
Shelley
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Thursday, June 5, 2008
6:32 P.M.
Dear Friend,
I hope you're feeling better than me.
Right now I'm hating computers. I wasted five hours today on this stupid machine and bit off a nail till it hurts. It's an old habit. So I was trying to create a photo book on an internet site and, five hours later when I learned that all my preferences and the 80 photos I spent three hours selecting were gone, I was in a fit, crying, exhausted and I cancelled my plans for the rest of the day. I mean, I didn't even feel like being polite and calling to say I couldn't come. Usually I'm considerate of people's feelings, but when I feel this way, just leave me alone.
Otherwise, I'm a happy person. My website is finally up and you're reading this. Well, I would be happier if my 28-year-old son would talk to me. Now he's being cordial, so that's an improvement from not talking at all. I guess he got tired of acting out his first year of living in Zurich, Switzerland. Hey, he wanted to live in Europe and now he's living in Europe. I guess he's finding out it's not so easy moving away from your home country after all. America is a great country. I'm not saying it's the best country in the world because there are a lot of great countries. I'm just saying that my country is also a great country and I think my son is starting to realize that America is not such a terrible place after all. But it's too late. He's there and he can't just pick up and move back. He moved too much in the last four years. It's involved.
Parents: I warn you about two things. Be careful about letting your child live for a year in a foreign country in one of those student foreign exchange programs. And having just one child may seem easy but if he or she won't talk to you, you won't have another child to go to and you'll feel like you have no children at all. That's how I've felt for many years.
Why is he mad at me? I don't know. He doesn't really know himself yet. He's never been able to really express his issues with me. It goes very deep. More at another time.
Now I want to watch a movie to forget the day I had. I'm so excited. I love movies and I just bought three DVDs from Wal-Mart for just $7.50 each. But what's great is that they're twofers. Two movies on one DVD. And they're good-quality movies—no weird tech stuff. A $20 movie for $3.75. Love it. I think I'll watch "The Magnifcent Seven" with Yul Brynner. I've never seen this great, old-fashioned movie and I'm in the mood for a movie set in a time before computers were invented! Let's see, what shall I eat for dinner? I skipped lunch so I can splurge with my dinner calories. I'm in the mood for a banana walnut smoothie and two squares of Trader Joe's Bittersweet Chocolate With Almonds.
Gee, I'm feeling much better now! Speak to you real soon.
Love,
Shelley
