the other other other side

The pic above was taken by our latest budding photog Stella, again she's looking for a way out. Love the perspective of a three-year old. 

In therapy today, by the way I'm in therapy again, and as a stay-at-home mom I can think of nothing more luxurious than sitting in a childless room for fifty minutes talking about myself to someone who is enraptured by my every syllable even if she is paid.
In therapy today, I said, I can see three sides of the same coin. And then I said, I like that. I just coined a new phrase. Coined. Oh it just keeps getting better. I said this regarding my guilt, as in, I can see my side, the other person's side, and ugh, who, God's side? Yes, that sounds about right. So yeah. My Jewishy, ugly weeping salty guilt that throws out my back it's so potent and crusty. And I talked about it and then I sighed and it eased up a bit. What was the guilt about? Oh, you know, existing.

Drooping beauty below. I'm still floored by the fact that this shit grows in my fucking yard. Please excuse my language. I was just at a James Frey reading. The man says 'fuckin' a lot. 

Below, my bat mitzvah. No. Wait, it's my reading on Monday night at Book Court in Brooklyn. But the picture reminds me of the bat mitzvah I forgot to have. I'm wearing my beautiful new birthday scarf kind of like a tallis and I'm practically davening up there on the bimah, from nerves. I hadn't read in about five years, since Star Craving Mad came out. I'm white-knuckling the podium so I don't faint all over my neatly typed pages. It went well actually. Again, there's nothing better than pouring my heart out and having someone say, Thank you for sharing that and making me feel less alone. I appreciate feedback like that deeply and truly, every single time. No presh.

 So yes,
tonight I had the chance to pay it forward, at B&N in Philly where one of my all-time fave authors, James Frey read from his novel, Bright Shiny Morning. The place wasn't as packed as I thought it would be. I only had to wait about fifteen minutes to get my book signed.

Heart lodged in my throat, just like it was for my own reading, I managed to tell him that I'm one of his 3,000 Facebook friends, and that he's a huge inspiration to me. Afterwards I exited the store with my autographed book and snaking through the shelves I got all choked up and I'm still trying to figure out exactly why. I think it may have to do with recently having watched the documentary, Ashtanga NY, where at the end of class, students line up to approach Sri K. Pattabhi Jois and kiss his feet in reverence and appreciation, which might seem creepy and weird and culty to a lot of people I'm sure, because in America we're taught that all men at least, are created equal. And we don't go around kissing people's feet to show our respect, and we don't go around making displays of our humility. But the yoga is rubbing off on me and I am starting to get it.

I felt a kind of reverence for James Frey, not in a groveling, drooling stalky way, just grateful and humble, in this very unusually mature way where I wasn't trying to get a laugh, a wink or be self-deprecating. Grateful to get to shake his hand and talk to him and listen to him. Very simple stuff. But almost embarrassingly profound for me because I don't usually bow in respect, literally or figuratively, to anyone, let alone to myself. Except, ding-ding, light-bulb, on my yoga mat. Whoa. And the writing. In each of his books his words race off the page and straight into my heart and gut and it doesn't matter what public relations mess he's been in, I don't care about the three months or three hours spent in jail, I don't care. And anyone who can publicly endure the wrath of Oprah and then go on to write a book like BSM deserves a deep bow of reverence. Go James. You're a rock star. Namaste.