Late last night, after Thanksgiving dinner and too much coffee, I watched a movie. Once a week, Trinity and I borrow DVDs from the library. She gets four or five, a combination of The Wiggles and some wildlife docs for kids, and I pick whatever catches my eye. She watches her DVDs all week. Mostly I just look at the boxes and return mine unviewed. But last night I was alone, so I watched “In The Cut”. And then I turned on the Director’s Commentary and watched it again. I might have wanted to listen to Jane Campion anyway, she’s such a fascinating filmmaker. But what I wanted specifically, last night, was to sit longer with the many questions the film raised in me about what it means to be a woman, to be married, to be a parent and to be a sexual being. In the film, the main character, Franny, is played by Meg Ryan - not “Meg Ryan.” If I’d never seen her before I would have thought “Wow, what an amazing actress that woman is.” But because it was the actress formerly known as “Meg Ryan,” I just kept thinking “Wow, I can’t believe that’s ‘Meg Ryan’.” Franny, a writing teacher, is going about her business in her reserved, literary way – single but not looking – when she hooks up with a HOT police detective investigating a murder in her ‘hood. In this movie, having been directed by a woman, “Hot” means “Hot.” Like bad, real hot – not Leonardo cute “Hot”. Or Brad Pitt chiseled muscles “Hot”. “Hot” like he learned how to fuck from an older woman when he was fifteen “Hot” and he’s gonna do it to me now. Like my old boyfriend Johnny The Marine, who used to shave the girls’ legs in summer camp when he was twelve “Hot.” “Hot” as in “I wouldn’t be caught dead looking at you twice, hot, you didn’t even go to college, but I’ve got to have you inside me now – HOT.” Like, for some reason my brain isn’t functioning and I’ve become an animal and I’m about to ruin my life, Hot. But Franny doesn’t ruin her life. Something is awakened in her. Something disorderly, chaotic, unliterary. And real. Experiences occur. And that’s where my questions arise. Because I’ve had that, I’ve had those – those awakenings. Johnny The Marine – he had a drinking problem but he also had… something… that caused me to curl up on the floor in withdrawal the nights he couldn’t come over. Adam Newman - he kissed me, almost on a dare, during a drive home from our first day of work together, and fireworks exploded in both our heads. Ollie – I recklessly savored his cock in the stairwell at work one night when both of us simultaneously realized…something, that was going to last us for more than a year. But I’m married now. I lived the dream. I found the guy. He was hot, and he loved me, and we wanted to make it forever. And now we have a little girl and, actually, the sex gets better and better. The sex gets better and better – with work. But what about the animal? The animal who just wants IT, not the work it takes to get it with her husband. How is she satisfied? I said to Brian last night, before my second viewing of the film – “It’s women like me who are vulnerable. We’re happy and comfortable and then…bang. We can get dragged under.” Because there is something so ALIVE about letting the animal out of her cage. So what does a woman, a wife, a mother, do to feel THAT alive? What does she do that doesn’t compromise her family, her life, that very security that gives her the confidence to know she COULD easily seduce the paperboy, or the bouncer, or the police detective, if she wanted to? What does a person do when there’s seemingly no substitute for getting swept away by unexpected passion? What else feels so alive? Polyamory, with its commitments to communication and feelings is not what I’m talking about. I’m not talking about having MORE lovers. I’m talking about risk and transgression. I’m talking about what seems a lot more plausible when you’re not responsible for another human being’s health and happiness, when you’re not building something that will take years to achieve, and would take years to repair. In fact, I have known mothers who still indulge in such things. And while, on the one hand, it looks dangerously exciting, on the other, it looks profoundly regressive, irresponsible, immature and unappealing. And yet I too want to live. I have no answer except to live each day, authentically addressing truth as it arises and asking myself whether and where I feel alive, feel passion and feel pleasure. Because, after sleeping on it for a few hours, I realize that I do believe it’s possible to circumvent the hidden sabotages of a comfortable life. But it does take work, and it takes far more courage than dropping one’s pants in a stairwell at work or daring to kiss a stranger. As any snowboarder or mountain biker can tell you, courage itself is enlivening and exhilarating. Risk is what gets the blood pumping. And there’s plenty of it to be had, not only on the slopes or in the dirt, but in marriage, in motherhood, in friendship, and, in my case, on the page. We, especially women, just don’t have as many movies, books and TV shows to show us what it looks like to take them.

My friend, whom I shall call Brewster because she’s like a grown-up Punky Brewster, invited me to some Burning Man-esque event earlier this evening. (Burning Man is an annual festival of outrageous creativity and freedom that occurs every Labor Day in the Black Rock Desert near Reno, Nevada). I don’t get invited out often, especially not by fabulous poly-amorous hairdressers who swear they’ll be out all night and won’t go home before 4. But the sheer un-likeliness of the invitation was enough to make me consider it. That and the fact that, not only have I not been out dancing in a long while, but I haven’t been to anything remotely Burning Man-esque in an even longer time. In fact, the last time was a pink-themed party in 2002 where I wore a pale hued cocktail dress and dirty danced on a platform with a petite Asian girl named “Spicy Taco.” “Spicy Taco” appeared later in my life as an ultimately unwanted houseguest, so maybe that evening soured me on the party scene. Nevertheless, I like Brewster and we’re becoming better and better friends and I was flattered she asked. Still I vacillated. Throbbing, freakish dance parties are seductive and I was conscious of the threat that tonight posed. What if I liked it too much? What if I never wanted to come home? What if I got sucked into the lifestyle of a committed Burner (chronic Burning Man attendee) and started spending all my money on groovy party costumes and RV rentals to get me and my Burner friends to the desert? What if, when I did come home, life with Brian and Trinity seemed boring and I became dissatisfied? What if? So I pulled some tarot cards – ALWAYS useful for tricky decisions. And this one turned out to be a no-brainer. If I went to the party, I’d experience “satisfaction, the good life.” If I didn’t go to the party - there was the vague threat of some unwelcome change in my life, maybe even the kind of change that would convince me that I better start going to more parties. Thanking the cards, I put my trust in Spirit and excavated my leopard print pants from the dusty box in the attic where they’ve been since my pregnancy. (Two Thanksgivings ago I was labeled “straight laced” by a friend’s adolescent son. But it was only because he’d never seen my leopard pants.) And I went. It was great. I danced. I saw friends. I boogied down. And I came home - remembering that having fun is what inspires me to write in the first place. In this case, I’m inspired not only to share the above silly tale but also to share the beauty I experienced tonight. The beauty that was the revelers, decked out in their finest party clothes. Party clothes that, for Burners (and their fellow travelers), are much more than finery and much more than what single girls where to lure single boys, and vice versa. Party clothes that are an opportunity for dreams coming true. Tonight I saw apocalyptic desert dwellers a la Road Warrior and Dune. I saw braids circled in elaborate spirals straight from the Oola-the-slave-girl dance scene in Return of the Jedi. I saw little girls all grown up who still dreamt of being fairies. There were girls in sexy lingerie paired with furry moon boots (Playboy meets the Ice Planet Hoth?) and dudes with shaved heads and bondage gear. It was truly wonderful. In fact, there were many girl-love-goddesses out tonight – and they weren’t predominantly dressing for men (though, of course, there was some of that). Instead, I saw women dressing in their idea of what sexy is - dressing in what made them feel sexy. Because women want to feel that power -and they want to feel safe with it (as do men). For so many women I’ve known, the rave scene, and the Burning Man scene, were blessings because they created that safe space for being (or pretending to be) The Naughty School Girl they had inside. Or The Dominatrix. Or The Oversexed Space Alien Chick. Or Xena. Without having it be a problem. And, honestly, in the past I’d been threatened by it. Such girls in their fishnets, push-uppy doodads, and matted scarlet dreadlocks, looked like they had it all figured out and had mastered the elusive games of sexuality and appearance. But tonight from a new vantage point: of being a mother, being 37 (happy birthday to me!), and being engaged for almost two years in a Landmark Education workshop dedicated to playfulness and fun, I saw something else. I saw an innocence that’s inside everyone if they take enough care and time to look. I saw marvelous three year olds dressing as the princes, princesses and tiger butterflies of their dreams. I saw the heroes people wished they were, or even knew they were inside, but whom they don’t get to be every day at work, at school or at home. And what I understood tonight, what had eluded me until now, was how beautiful and freeing it is to wear one’s fantasies on the outside in a game of make-believe that’s normally reserved for three year olds who want to dress like princesses every day. And I wondered why more grown-ups shouldn’t be allowed to dress like the fantasy desert and space dwelling apocalyptic love god/desses their dreams? If only for a night. I mean, if going out is supposed to be fun…why not have some FUN? Aside from the killer animal print pants, I didn’t have a costume tonight. But next time…maybe I’ll be a Polar Ice Cap Warrior or a turbaned and silk swathed Mystery Girl. Or maybe I’ll dig a little deeper and uncover my own undiscovered inner Princess, the sexy one with all the answers.

Yesterday, my mother-in-law and I hosted an event to familiarize our friends and family with this year’s election issues and to give everyone an opportunity to mull about the meaning behind the myriad propositions that clutter our California ballot. The event took about two hours, and we didn’t even get around to talking much about the candidates. The exception to this was that Brian educated us on the role of the State Controller (who has the power to audit state expenses) and how it’s been unusually politicized this year due to an influx of special interest money into the Republican candidate’s campaign. For those who are not overly interested in politics, or not interested at all, I highly recommend having such a get-together the next time elections come around. Each person who RSVPs is assigned one or two propositions/candidates to research and then reports back to the group. It’s not about personal endorsements, as much as it is about issues and though it’s not required, we occasionally end up with a consensus on how we’re going to vote. Consensus was unusually difficult this year, however, since there is so much going on in California government, and the issues are so large and complex. Often how we each said we were going to vote (and if you do this at home, remember, no one is FORCED to say what they think or how they’ll vote) was based on very specific and personal criteria. Our group was comprised of a single mother of three, a chef, a journalist, an actress, a minister, a stay at home mom (me), a non-profit employee, an independent film distributor, a retiree(I think), and an alternative energy engineer/inventor. That said, here is a brief summary of the 13 Propositions on the Culver City Ballot (if you’re in LA, you have some more, but we didn’t cover those) and some of our observations: Proposition 1a Transportation Funding Protection: In the past, the constitution was re-written to allow the state government to re-appropriate money earmarked for transportation for other things (cause everyone always needs more money in California). This proposition states that this money can no longer be so cavalierly re-appropriated. In the future, a state of emergency would have to be declared first and the money would have to be paid back with interest. OBSERVATIONS: one of the few propositions that was solidly supported with a YES. Proposition 1b Highway Safety, Traffic Reduction, Air Quality: Money for the above. OBSERVATIONS: If you were gonna borrow money and pay it back over thirty years with interest so that you end up paying almost twice as much as you borrowed, is this what you’d borrow money for? No Consensus. Proposition 1c Housing and Emergency Shelter: Money for the above. OBSERVATIONS: If you were gonna borrow money and pay it back over thirty years with interest so that you end up paying almost twice as much as you borrowed, is this what you’d borrow money for? This initiative covers the most vulnerable of California Citizens. And yet the question remains, how much of this money will really get to battered women and the homeless? No Consensus. Proposition 1d Kindergarten, University Public Education Facilities: Money for the above. OBSERVATIONS: If you were gonna borrow money and pay it back over thirty years with interest so that you end up paying almost twice as much as you borrowed, is this what you’d borrow money for? Not only that, but keep in mind that each school must come up with a 50% matching fund to match whatever the state doles out. So while everyone agrees that schools need money, what about schools in poor areas that are not likely to be able to raise the needed funds. Beverly Hills will be fine, what about less prosperous areas? Again, is this the best way to address the state’s very real educational needs? No Consensus. Proposition 1e Disaster preparedness and flood prevention: Money for the above. OBSERVATIONS: If you were gonna borrow money and pay it back over thirty years with interest so that you end up paying almost twice as much as you borrowed, is this what you’d borrow money for? This is an infrastructure issue. How vulnerable IS California to flood? How weak are our levees? Is this just hysteria generated by Katrina? Or a lesson learned from Katrina? No Consensus. Proposition 83 Sex Offenders and violent predators “Jessica’s Law”: This is a VERY costly project that would involve tagging every registered sex offender with an ankle band FOR LIFE and tracking them VIA GPS. For Life. Also, it would legislate the areas in which registered sex offenders could and could not live, in regard to schools and parks. OBSERVATIONS: It’s designed to protect children from predation, and yet an overwhelming majority of cases occur within the home. It addresses tragic, and sometimes seemingly preventable cases, of stranger abduction and molestation. But again, is this the best way to do this? It has been a resounding disaster in the state of Iowa, where the state association of prosecutors, who endorsed it in the first place, are now agitating for its repeal due to the burden it has placed on law enforcement tracking registered sex offenders. NO. Proposition 84 Water quality, safety and supply: Money for the above plus parks, beaches and habitat protection. OBSERVATIONS: Putting money into maintaining things that draws millions of tourists to California every year looks like good sense. This is the kind of thing that will pay for itself in terms, not only of preserving infrastructure and the planet, but in generating income. YES. Proposition 85 Waiting period and parental notification: Require parental notification for a minor to have an abortion, and mandates reporting requirements for all physicians who perform abortions. OBSERVATIONS: Uh…NO. Proposition 86 Tax on cigarettes: An outrageous hike on cigarette taxes. $2.60 a pack. OBSERVATIONS: As our alternative energy guru said, “Call it what it is - a sin tax.” For all of us non-smokers, we said, “What the hell…YES” Proposition 87 Alternative Energy Research: Taxes California oil producers and gives the money to alternative energy research. OBSERVATIONS: Alternative Energy guy, who knows a bit about such things, was only lukewarm. Government programs are so…compromised…the money will most likely go straight to GM, et. al. so they can continue giving lip service to how committed they are about alternative energy. On the other hand, it’s hard to see how voting for this could hurt…except for the possibility of importing more oil into California and drilling less of it here. Is that bad? YES. Proposition 88 Education Funding. Real property parcel tax: Everybody ponies up $50 for education. OBSERVATIONS: It’s only $50, people. YES. Proposition 89 Political Campaigns: The campaign reform bill. It’ll raise corporate taxes for a general campaign fund, which may hurt smaller businesses. But it will create a new distinction called “Clean Candidacy” which means a candidate has taken no “special interest” money. OBSERVATIONS: This actually made me consider running for office. YES. Proposition 90 Government acquisition: Complex. Please read about it elsewhere. OBSERVATIONS: I’m serious. On the one hand, Golden Bridge Yoga in Hollywood is allegedly under siege by LA to sell so that something else can be built on its site. Only this proposition would save it. On the other hand, it opens the door for an enormous upsurge of lawsuits against the state by companies who claim that a law, any law, has damaged their business. Apparently, it’s a bait and switch operation that I can’t even understand myself. But I don’t like the smell of it. NO NO NO. Candidates: We had greens, libertarians and democrats present. No Republicans to speak of, I don’t think. And, like I said, we only got around to Controller. Vote CHIANG. The other guy has been bought by the software firm INTUIT who want to prevent California from distributing an easy tax preparation software that will hurt sales of INTUIT’S TURBO TAX. LASTLY – From the looks of it, the state of California is a mess, financially and legislatively. But is borrowing against the future the best way to bring meaningful change to a situation? If you love living on credit cards, or know nothing about responsibly managing a household or business, this may look good to you. But as someone who works diligently and with passion to not only improve my surroundings but to live within my family’s means, this looks disastrous. It wouldn’t work on a microcosm and it surely will not sustain a macrocosm. There is so much room for creativity and resourcefulness in so many of the areas mentioned above that more than handouts from the government, circumstances demand a greater level of community awareness, involvement and action. Relying on the government to stingily hand out borrowed money only creates more debt and is ultimately disempowering while cooperation and creativity can make anything possible. November 6, 2006

I could have two blogs on Zaadz! But right now, since I can't, I've opened a second blog on Blogspot, where I will be summarizing the readings I do as a tarot card reader. For those who are so inclined, the address is: http://jesicastarotnotes.blogspot.com/ Love jes

This was going to be Trinity’s first Halloween trick or treating. It was very exciting to plan for. But on the morning before Halloween, at precisely 8:03 a.m., things took a turn. Rambo, our downstairs neighbor’s sweet little six-month-old kitten-cat, and our dear friend, was hit by a car and killed. For some time, Trinity had already had a fascination with death. She watches a lot of animal documentaries, so her biggest association with death has been the evisceration of prey by predatory cats. In fact, every time she hears that someone or something has died, she asks “Did their insides come out?” In this way, she is the typically inquisitive, and socially inappropriate, pre-schooler. So when Rambo was killed, she asked to see his body and saw that his brains, in fact, had come partly out of his head. Then we stood by as Nicky, Rambo’s owner, did the hard work of digging a grave in the garden outside. We were all very sad. By then it was still only 8:30 a.m. The rest of the morning went by in the classic grieving fog I recognized from the deaths of people I’ve known, but was surprised to experience regarding a cat, especially one so young. But Rambo had become such an integral part of our every day routine – he would often sneak into our house when we opened the door, and then politely go once he was found out – that his presence was clearly missed. Especially by Trin. And then it happened. I haven’t read up on this, but I suppose it must be there in the child rearing literature – “the day your child discovers death”. Many, many tears were shed that day, and not just for Rambo. Because on “the day your child discovers death”, there appears, for the first time, the hard, inescapable reality that everyone die. Everyone. Trinity. Me. Brian. Trinity’s friends Lucy and Maleia. Maleia’s mom, Meaghan. Baby Michael next door, and his mother Jennifer. Grandma Doris. Everyone. As Trinity continued to inquire about the mortality of everyone we know, each affirmative response from me was followed by an even deeper wail, as she learned that being alive is itself a terminal diagnosis from which no one is immune. As every parent who has ever faced this moment has most likely felt, I wanted so much to lie. I wanted to say “I will never die. I will live a long life and you will too.” But I couldn’t. The most I could say was that we can hope for that, and pray for it, but that there are no guarantees. Death is unpredictable that way. And as the day went on, we talked about what it must be like to be dead – and how all our dead loved ones will be there to welcome us when we cross over. There was a time, about two years ago, when I felt physically haunted by death and the spirits of some people who had passed. I was working nights on a television show, and one of the editor’s girlfriends had committed suicide not long before. His computer was chronically malfunctioning, and many times alone at night, I’d feel her presence there with me. While the story had a happy, non-spooky ending, during that time, feeling freaked out, I consulted a Yoruba priest. Expecting him to prescribe some otherworldly exorcism technique, instead he recommended that I start reading up on and familiarizing myself with death. So I read several books on near-death experiences (NDEs) as well as books on various other “supernatural” phenomena. Until that point in my life, I had been very, very uneasy in the presence of death and anything related to it – uneasy as in feeling overcome by heart-palpitating, nerve-shattering, panic-inducing terror. But, surprisingly, the books helped. Not only did I overcome the fear, but I gained a valuable education as well. Not only regarding death, but regarding the importance of grief as well. So even though I hadn’t read those parenting books that would have taught me how to deal with the day Trinity discovered death, I felt prepared. For I’d only recently really discovered it myself. Consequently, we spent the afternoon at a shop in Santa Monica that specializes in the skeletons and skulls related to Day of the Dead, and went to a Day of the Dead prayer circle in our neighborhood on November 1. Lastly, we hosted a funeral for our neighbors last night – to celebrate the beautiful and special kitty who’d given us all so much love and joy. It was wonderful to feel that, though we are so seemingly different, we’d all been brought together by our love for Rambo and our feelings of loss and grief at his passing. It was also wonderful to hear Trinity remind everyone that Rambo was now with Buddy, his best friend, who not long ago had also died from a traffic-related accident. So it turned out to be quite a memorable Halloween/Day of the Dead week for us here. We weren’t just playing make believe when it came to the skeletons and ghosts. We were dealing with the real thing. And it was one of those weeks that made me proud to be a mother.

It’s been twenty-two days since my last entry: you might say I’ve been on hiatus. In that time, I’ve attended a family reunion in Memphis Tennessee and returned home to discover my computer was in a coma. I’ve spent a day with one of my dearest friends in the world and run into someone in Trader Joe’s I hadn’t seen in fifteen years, but had just been thinking about (randomly) the day before. And I’ve been drumming up business for myself as a tarot card reader and developing a series of children’s books. Busy, busy, busy. And throughout it all, I’ve been thinking about this blog. Not taking notes. Not writing entries. Bu just thinking. Every day, if not all day, then a good part of it – thinking, thinking, thinking. That last entry got some people really heated up. And in heating them up, I got heated up too. Wondering once again what this blog is about. Wondering what it is I want to say. And wondering how I want to impact you, my audience And what I’ve come to is this - it’s a question worth asking. And, in fact, the value may be more in sitting with the question, even writing about the question, rather than in rushing to find the definitive answer. Though every guide to blogging says “pick a topic and stick to it, or your audience will get misled, bored, annoyed, etc. and go away” I ask you to bear with me, be with me, engage with me, and with the writing, because I think the gold will be in the process. A process, I’m realizing right now, that might well be called “The Birth of a Writer.” In case you didn’t know, and you probably didn’t, I never intended to be a writer. At least not in that “I always loved writing stories” kind of way that seems to mark so many writers from birth. Instead, it just kind of happened. When I was growing up I wanted to be a famous movie director. I loved movies. Over the years, I learned as much as I could about them. I studied them. I memorized them. I took myself to obscure revival theaters and watched films the average teenager had no interest in. One of my favorite books was “Masters of Light” about the techniques of great cinematographers (I highly recommend it) and my heroes, my Gods, were George Lucas, Steven Spielberg and Alfred Hitchcock. Here’s a story: in high school there was guy who really liked me and asked me out on a date. He let me pick the movie and I suggested a double feature of Pabst’s silent classics “Diary of a Lost Girl” and “Pandora’s Box”. To my surprise, he accepted and I was thrilled at the thought of introducing someone new to the joys of Louise Brooks – thrilled that I could share my passion for all things black, white and celluloid with someone who cared. But then, in the East Village darkness, he was more interested in getting a hand job than in watching subtitles and I was supremely disappointed and…aghast? For the vestal virgin of cinema that I was, in the sacred temple that was Theater 80 Saint Marks, it would have been a sacrilege. Yes, I liked movies very much. And over time, I realized that the best way to make one would be to write one. And I became a “writer”. Sort of. The rest…later.

Though the Sixties Generation is thought of largely in terms of their idealism, I believe they should, unfortunately, be acknowledged as much for the blows it suffered: blows that, for many sensitive souls, were beyond disappointing – they were devastating. In 1992, I attended a week-long meditation retreat led by Ram Dass (if you’ve never listened to him speak – get a CD, he’s phenomenal). One afternoon, a woman my parents’ age shared that she’d cried herself to sleep many nights during the last years of the Vietnam War because she hadn’t been able to stop it. In her, I saw the shadow under which I’d grown up and under which my parents, particularly my Dad, had raised me. But it wasn’t just war, it was assassinations and Watergate that hovered ominously over little-me. And so it was, that in the shadow of such devastation I was parented: certain that change was not possible, certain that I could not make a difference, certain that nothing I did would ever be enough. Certain that the dark side would prevail. And then Reagan was elected. Tonight I saw the movie “Half Nelson.” It was very sad. But I am very happy I saw it. I’ve never seen a movie in which the pain that the addict was trying to kill was so apparent to me: in which it was a pain with which I too have struggled so much. “Half Nelson” is the story of Dan Dunne, a wannabe do-gooder junior high history teacher. Dan’s a sensitive soul who wants to make a difference in an enormous and painful world - but he has no clue how to do that, or even if it’s really possible. So he smokes a lot of crack. Extreme? Maybe. But, to me, the crack is just a device to infer that someone really present to the pain of our contemporary circumstances might need some drugs, heavy drugs, just to function… Indeed, someone foolish or vulnerable enough to hope they could make a difference, and really want to believe they could – might need drugs. Someone who grew up with Sixties parents all too aware of the differences they didn’t make – might need drugs. Someone feeling all this, without god, without healing, without community – might definitely need lots of drugs. Or TV. Or credit cards. Or gambling. Or sex. Just to get by. “Half Nelson” is about the broken heart that lies beneath so many of us – the broken heart we numb daily to avoid what’s outside our doors. After becoming a new mother, my numbing capacities had been exhausted, were non-existent. There was seemingly no pain I didn’t feel. Venice Boulevard was a holocaust of planetary dimensions; the car exhaust was a crime against all sentient beings, the traffic noise a din of horrific proportions, the asphalt a scorched and encrusted scar on the earth. And this was just one block away from me. I didn’t dare turn on the TV. But even worse than my own sensitivity was the awful knowledge that this must be how it is to be born into our world a trembling blank sensory slate. Now, who wants to even admit that? Let alone experience it firsthand? It’s too much. But at least, normally, we have our coping mechanisms, whatever they be. For too long I didn’t. And I can say, it nearly drove me insane. But through the healing that ensued, I have attained a degree of we-can-change-the-world idealism I would never have thought possible: a learned idealism, tempered by life experience and an ongoing education in how to hope, how to believe, and how to act, in the face of disappointment and failure. In fact, through what has ensued, I’ve learned that the way for me to handle the pain – of Venice Boulevard, of melting polar ice caps, of mass extinctions - is not to pursue numbness but to practice community… And to commit to, entreat, thank, praise, and simply speak with…God. Normally I’d soft-pedal that last part and, euphemistically, call it “faith” or “spirituality” – but when it comes to what I believe it will take for well-meaning people to “save the world” I’m not gonna pull any punches. You want to live in the trenches? Heal the planet and all its inhabitants from global warming, global greed and global hatred? You’re gonna need assistance – from plenty of people AND plenty of spirit. Call him/it/her what you will, you’re gonna need God on your side. Or at least SOME higher power. (Especially since all those bad ass fundamentalists think they’ve got a lock on HIS love. God bless ‘em.) I keep trying to end this on some witty glib note, but there’s none to be had. I believe in God. And I pray. And I believe. And watching “Half Nelson” with a kind of open mouthed stare I had a distinct “There but for Grace go I and so many of my loved ones…who aren’t addicted to crack but sure take a lot of anti-depressants” kind of feeling.

That last go ‘round was a doozy for me and left me with a lot to think about – foremost being that, for a person who haughtily refers to the “middle class” and its related issues, I didn’t even have my own consistent definition of the term and, in fact, at different times, had used it in contradictory ways. This was quite enlightening and alerted me to the fact that, in short, I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about and that the unexamined word is not worth saying or writing. So, for clarification’s sake – my own even more than yours – here is my personal guide to “the middle class:” “Middle Class” – as in “I can’t stand those middle class Westside Moms.” Here, when I say “middle class” what I’m really referring to is a cultural habit of conformity as well as a (seemingly) narcissistic over-concern with the minutiae of one’s own, and others’, diet, exercise, parenting, spiritual growth and consumer habits. By the way, this is not uncommon among people living in West LA, and if you want to learn more, watch the movie “Friends with Money” written and directed by Nicole Holofcener. Aside from the ludicrous proposition that Jennifer Aniston would be so strapped for cash she’d work as a maid, it’s a thought provoking examination of who the hell these people are. And while the characters are in no way “middle class” – in fact, they ‘re quite affluent – they harken back to a certain source of my life-long class confusion/resentment. This was the fact that, when I was at Vassar, I can’t remember anyone ever referring to themselves as being rich. Everyone was just a variant on, yes, “middle class.” (Unless, of course, they were “nouveau riche”, but no one ever called themselves that – that was a finger pointed by someone else.) At the time, and even now, I bristle at this social convention because it implies an insensitive denial of the fact that not everyone has as much money, privileges and resources as everyone else. “Middle Class” – as in “Even the middle class is working class these days.” Here I’m referring to the American Dream of a family where only one parent HAS to work, in which health insurance is a given, and people are commonly able to own homes and take vacations while working a leisurely forty-hour week. THIS definition of “middle class” has pretty much ceased to even be a dream and now lies somewhere between a delusion and a cherished memory from yesteryear. “Middle Class” – as in “With a credit card, there’s pressure on everyone to seem like they’re middle class these days.” This refers to what some call a “lifestyle” but which is, more accurately, the chronic wasting disease of living on credit in order to buy the trappings of what used to be an unremarkable middle class life (i.e. vacations, plentiful groceries, meals out and electronic accessories). So, there you have it – I think: a term which I’ve used to cover cultural mores, financial circumstances, consumer habits and conformist sensibilities. From now on, I promise, I will be more precise. And for anyone out there with dreams of being a writer – having a live audience of real live readers out there has done more for my writing than anything I can ever remember. Thank you to everyone for your contributions, whether you sent them or not, to this lively discussion. It’s pushed me up a notch in my standards for topicality, word usage, expressing my opinions (the fewer the better) and clarity of thought. It’s also done wonders in terms of no longer having to be liked by, and in agreement with, everybody.

Speaking of class inevitably struck a nerve, something that has always been true in the United States – a nation ostensibly founded on its elimination. So I am both excited, and chagrined, to be the recipient of such passionate feedback, some of which I share with you here: FROM BHC, a 36 year old mother of two who has spent the last few years traveling around the world - “THERE IS NO SPECIAL SKILL OR KNOWLEDGE THAT GOES HAND IN HAND WITH BEING MIDDLE CLASS... If anything, I would argue, THERE IS A LACK OF KNOWLEDGE AND SKILLS THAT COME WITH GROWING UP MIDDLE CLASS and of course, even more so for the upper middle class and upper class. Because kids who grow up in middle class and upper middle class are usually very sheltered. They are not taught how to do things for themselves, instead things are done for them. And then when they go out on their own, they don't know how to cook, do the laundry, balance their check book, save money, how much they should spend on food for a week, how to fight for a job, or anything that they really want... Middle class people do not learn how to fight for what they want. And in this world, if you are not prepared to do that, to fight for a job, for a person, or a cause, you live a very nice, boring life.”   “The US has the least amount of class issues than any other country I have been to or seen… that's not to say that we do not have our issues, but it is nothing compared to other countries. We do have a middle class. And we have class mobility, more than any other country in the world. And there are thousands of examples of that in the US. In most other countries, this does not even exist…   “I know it is impossible to give you the perspective I have from seeing all these countries that I have seen. But believe me, we have it easy in the US…That's not to say we should rest on our laurels and think we've arrived, that is not what the US is about. But there are so many more possibilities for every person in the US if they really dig in and go after their dream. Immigrant stories keep proving that every generation…   “So, in the most loving way possible, with real respect and caring, I am saying to you, free yourself from yourself, Jesica…You see, I have even more of a problem with class than you do because I was brought up middle class and it did not give me shit… You were blessed NOT to have grown up middle class. You were blessed that people and jobs were not handed to you on a silver platter. And your daughter will also be blessed. So, MOVE ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”   FROM WA, a baby boomer, and also a parent, living in Florida – “SOMETHING IS WRONG but we mustn't whine about it (like I do much of the time). We need people in your generation to DO SOMETHING about it. Run for the local school board…then run for the State House and then on and on until you can do some universal good and continue to make movies and write books, but not whiney ones...Don't give up the ship. Right now, we don't know if it's a little leak or if we've scrapped an iceberg, but we mustn't stop bailing (yet) tempting as it is for me to take my family and emigrate to Canada or New Zealand or the Netherlands...The whole shebang is ironic except for the human tragedy and pathos and my fear for my son and your daughter's futures.” and then… “You should perhaps consider figuring out what has been lost in America to take the middle class as we knew it in our youth out of fashion…and you will have stumbled upon what perhaps will be your legacy as a write, film-maker, journalist, essayist, pundit or whatever you choose…Why the hell has the wonderful American magnum-opus gone out of fashion with our masters? “A real writer at some point ceases to see "things" as you do: personally, with a sort of "grudge". That is why more of us are not real writers…because we cannot rise out of the small personal grudge-mode and into the Universal. That's what you need to be working on as a person because you can be the one who makes a difference. You can rise out of the small and into the large and thus command an audience. No one wants to be taught by a whiner because, save for a few exceptions like Rodney Dangerfield, it is not uplifting. Well, enough. I hope I made a little point here. Keep up the great work! From LR, a healer, living on “the fringe,” on the east coast- "...we ALL have a problem. …Anyone pretending otherwise, is doing just that - pretending. I have been reading your blog and noticing that the issue of sincerity is at it's heart. Being sincere with your own feelings is not an easy thing to do because it means admitting that you are pissed off, out of line, spiritually lacking and sometimes just plain off the mark. These are the very feelings that mythical middle class America tries to pretend do not ever pertain to THEM… “I stopped watching TV many years ago. I was tired of feeling condescended to, tired of feeling like a freak that didn't fit any 'demographic'. Then, I took it a little farther, and unplugged from everything for about a year, had a self-imposed exile in a cabin on a lake in rural North Carolina…During that period of time, I reconnected with nature, with silence, and with my inner being. I was extremely impoverished monetarily, but discovered a richness of another sort. When Sept. 11th happened, I was in the woods, walking with a troupe of dogs. It was this event that prompted me to come 'down from the mountain', so to speak. I returned to the northeast of my upbringing. but I never returned to television. “I’m not at all trying to pretend I have things figured out. I don't have anything close to the so-called American Dream. I live on the fringe, having come up against so many bald-faced lies and inconsistencies in our civilization, that I just don't want to make nice-nice anymore. The way we live is not sustainable…we are witnessing the breakdown of all the structures that once defined this country, and were the foundation of our belief in 'justice for all'. It's people like you, who are sort of intraclass, that can see and expose the lies for what they are… “I applaud your honesty and your guts to be public about it all. Silence and pretending to be more than we are is a form of oppression. There is another meaning for the word 'class', and it has to do with inner fortitude and grace under fire. It's a fine word, and a wonderful thing to aspire to...” From DD, a grandmother and interfaith minister in LA – “I still remember the period in my life -- in my 20s --  when I realized that I was neither lower class nor middle class, but "lower middle class."  I shrugged and moved on.  It didn't really seem to make a difference. In your case, I think being raised by a left-ish Jewish intellectual in the Bronx, NYC helped to make you "class conscious" in a particular kind of way, as a hangover from that Marxist-Leninist-Socialist debate that raged in the early part of the last century.   I think it is charming, not alarming.  None of us can really escape where we are coming from.  I'll always be a cornball from the Midwest, fighting with my peasant roots -- that is, until and unless I embrace them totally.  And move on. You are, indeed, working it out.  Work it, girl.” From KL, a minister and poet, living in North Carolina - “I'm glad you talk about class--it's very important, and weird. And amorphous. There's a "class" thing that's not about money, but taste and education… A lot of the "middle class" [is] working-class people making bad economic choices and running up debt so they can live a middle-class lifestyle - because that's what all the advertisements are telling them to do. The more I read about how little people are saving and mortgage defaults, the more I feel sorry for the middle class rather than envious, because a lot of it is a sham held up by debt. Living within your means gives you more security in the long run, even if it's not as fun sometimes. That's what I tell myself anyway. "

I pissed somebody off. An irate, or maybe just extremely annoyed, reader called me. Didn’t write. And asked “What’s this thing you have about class? Why are you so obsessed with whether or not you’re middle class?” I don’t know, I told her. I’m working it out. “Well, you obviously have a problem,” she insisted. And that was pretty much it. So do I have a problem with class? Am I obsessed with being, or not being, middle class? At one time I clearly had a problem. I had a problem when I got to Vassar College, straight from my “elite” New York City high school, and discovered that I’d only been taught a fraction of the literature and history my private school peers had been taught. And then I had a problem when my boyfriend and his friends went to St. Maarten over spring break while I stayed home and picnicked in Prospect Park. And I had a problem still again after I graduated, when my mom didn’t understand the “internship” model that was ushering my friends into their first professional opportunities, without being paid. And I had to get a job and support myself. Pronto. Yes, I did have a problem. I’d grown up not only with expectations but with dreams of great worldly success and fabulousness. But the hard truth was, when I went out on my own, that I had not been raised with the skills and knowledge that went hand in hand with…what? Being middle class? Or maybe even being rich? Either way, I had a problem, and I had a grudge. I felt disadvantaged. But I got over it and now it’s more like an inquiry. And, yes, occasionally, a strong prejudice. Of course, on the other hand, I still have what you could call a “problem” with living in a country that is clearly demarcated along what some call “socio-economic” lines and what some call “class” - but which almost no one ever talks about. I have a problem living in a culture in which almost all TV shows, movies, magazines and newspapers are directed towards this maybe mythical “middle class” demographic that has the resources to do everything “right” – eat the right food, send kids to the right schools, raise children the right way, take the right vacations and have the right opinions. I have a problem with it because it doesn’t reflect reality. In our culture, not everyone has the money, education or resources to do those things – many of which contribute greatly to the health and vitality of both individuals and communities. And yet, the messages I receive every day – every time I open a magazine, or watch a network television program – is that I don’t exist if those aren’t available to me. Our culture does not speak to a huge spectrum of the American experience, and much of that “oversight” is based on class and money. Look, I don’t even know what “class” is. Really. But I’m trying to understand it. Just as I’m trying, as always, to find my place in a culture that makes artificial divisions that I don’t necessarily agree with. In fact, more than that, I’m committed to creating my place in this culture – a place beyond class, and beyond race. A place beyond easy divisions. I’m making a stand for myself, and by extension perhaps, for Americans (and all world citizens) as human being. And when I get tripped up is when I see people having conversations I don’t like. And I make them wrong. And I start seeing them as my enemy (like shark mother) instead of seeing them as people who, like me, are struggling to make their lives work – somehow – during what I believe is a particularly challenging and disheartening moment in our collective history. On the one hand, as a writer I want to be provocative and I want to get people talking about the things that really matter to them. On the other hand, it’s easier to play it safe and dawdle in the “it’s so hard to get into a good pre-school” play yard. Because then people don’t call me up and call me on all kinds of things. But I don’t want to live a safe life. I really don’t. And I’m ready to make public mistakes if it’s in the name of discovering, and sharing, something greater that makes a positive contribution. And just like I always say, I’m sorry if it doesn’t all make sense yet, but I’m working it out. September 20, 2006