I was kissed by a homeless woman named Emily…

I was walking back to my apartment (yeah!) in NYC from somewhere (this was a couple weeks ago) when a woman, probably about my age – 40 something – jutted out from underneath the overhang where she was simply standing with several small, dirty, white plastic bags of stuff (her belongings?) hanging from her thin arms.

I was smoking and she asked me if I could possibly spare a cigarette.

Perhaps it was her shy but bold approach to me, or our similar features – she looked like she could be my sister – or something else entirely, but I had to stop and say yes.

I handed her two Parliments from a near-full pack (would I have given her my last two?) and before I could pull back (if I were to have such a reaction) she had placed her wet, lipsticked lips on my lower right cheek (and very close to my own lips, I remember thinking).

My body jerked away from her for an instant – did she notice?  Why did I have such a reaction?   Was it simply because she was a stranger or was it because I knew she must not have had a bath for quite some time?

Walking to the comfort of my apartment – ever more grateful for the roof over my head – I thought of my physical reaction with disgust for myself.

It had not even been a month since I left the homeless shelter, yet I was recoiling from a sister in need.

I am ashamed for myself, yet I also understand the fear.

How many of us are thisclose to being one of “them”?

Your thoughts?

Manhattan Days

I have not been sucked down a wormhole, but I haven’t been writing here either. Still getting settled and adjusted to the energy and activity and constant stimulus that is Manhattan.

Don’t get me wrong: I love it here and am so grateful to have an apartment and sharing it with a long-time dear friend and looking forward to the opportunities that the city offers.

A bit anxious about getting work as money is tight, but trusting it will come in time.

Had my first Manhattan “gig” on Tuesday: sitting for a portrait class at the Grand Central Art Academy. Eight art students staring at me for four hours (with 5 minute breaks after each 20 minute session.) Interesting where one’s mind goes during that time. Forced to sit still and focus eyes on one spot (I chose the backside of a male nude drawing) is quite challenging – but freeing at the same time. And at $15 per hour, I’ll do it again.

More musings asap.

Gotta go take my resume around.

Okay, it’s later.  My ears are frozen (yesterday lost my favorite hat and don’t want to spend ten-plus-tax to buy a new one – I’m holding out hope to find the fave, warm one.  Westerly’s Health Food Store on 54th and 8th?  Public Library on 1oth and 51st?  In the darkness, under my bed?) but it was for a good cause.  Eight resumes handed out to the doormen at Broadway shows:  “A View From the Bridge”, “A Little Night Music”, “The Addams Family Musical”, “West Side Story” and others.

See, I used to work in the Wardrobe Union on Broadway back in the late eighties – until I hit bottom with depression and anorexia.  Had to leave the city just as I was getting a foothold.

Twenty years later I am back in NYC, in an apartment right across the hall from the apartment I left in 1990!  My former neighbor still lives there and is still a good friend and had a room to let to me.

And while we are on the subject of full circles:  Yesterday I went to an AA meeting and it was not only in the same building but the same ROOM where I took acting class in 1984-1986 with Sonia Moore.

I don’t know what more to say other than:  SOMETHING is going on here!  It’s like living in a parallel universe!  Only this time, this universe is much more solid and sane.

P.S.  Overheard today:  “I used to wish I was the figment of someone else’s imagination.”

New York City: Day One

Whew.  I made it.  No longer homeless.  But feeling less-than-grounded right now.  High spirits and low-level anxiety about my move from homelessness to home in Manhattan.

Went to a noon AA meeting today – nice, solid group of folks.  Already asked to speak at an upcoming meeting in February.  Guess I didn’t sound too rambling when I shared. 

Without the noise and need to follow rigid schedule at Homeless Solutions (where I resided 3 1/2 months until yesterday) I feel a bit at sea.  But with AA as my paddle and my Higher Power as my life raft I feel confident I can maneuver the waves and changing winds with grace and ease.

And when the fear and/or joy seem to become too much to handle alone, I can always come here to share.

Cheers to all.

I still don’t know…

Well, I still don’t know what exactly it is I am angry about.  But I think I am getting closer to the source.

It is me.

I am angry, mostly, at myself and this I must release and get over.

And I need to release it in a NON-DESTRUCTIVE way, i.e:  don’t drink it away; don’t overeat it away; don’t complain it away; don’t try to sleep it away; don’t try to (fill in the blank) it away…

I need to journal and WRITE it away.

I also am really craving to perform again.  When I was active as an actress I was able to release a lot on stage – but in a healthy way.  Performing on stage also helped keep me in touch with my own feelings – when going for the “truth” in a scene I needed to be connected to the truth within my own self.

That is what I am angry about, I suppose:  At my self for stuffing down my own truths and letting them begin to tear me up from the inside out.

Repression is dangerous.

Telling the truth can FEEL dangerous.

Every day, in every way I am getting closer to my core, my center and my truth.

What are you repressing?  And how does it affect you?

What is it that I am so angry about?

What is it that I am so angry about?  What is it that I am so angry about?  WHAT is it that I am sooooooooooo angry about?  What the f*#@ is it that I am SO angry about?  What is IT that I am so f*#@ing angry about?  WHAT IS IT THAT  I AM SO ANGRY ABOUT?????!!!!!!!!  @#$%^&*()@????!!!!!!!!!!!

And why can’t I figure it out?

Can you?

And what is it that are YOU angry about?

Comments and replys are encouraged.

Limbo Land

Feeling a bit in Limbo these days.

Still living in the Homeless Shelter, but knowing I am moving into an apartment in Manhattan at the beginning of January.  Christmas is coming fast, but not quite here.  The New Year, too.  End of a decade.

My life seems to be changing at furious speed, but I feel like I’m in slo-motion.  Kind of like a character in a play – but at intermission.  A lot of the drama has unfolded and some of it has passed – but the climax is still ahead and waiting to be revealed.

This is my popcorn time, beverage and stand-in- line-for-the-restroom time.

And the excitement (for me) is rising as to what new adventure is coming my way – but I have to hold it in or channel it in some positive way.  (Chain-smoking cigarettes I can’t afford to buy is not the positive choice here.)

So how to bide my time?

I try to stay focused in the present – but sometimes the present in front of me or surrounding me is a bit, um, unpleasant.

So, I try to focus on the positive.  Which is that I am MOVING INTO NYC IN JANUARY!

Then that starts the whole cycle over again and I find myself impatient, or bored, or both.  THEN I beat myself up for not being more grateful for what I do have:  a roof over my head, warm meals in my belly, and even the companionship and good-will of some of the women with whom I share a dorm room at the shelter.

Tonight I have something to look forward to.  A stranger I met gave me a pass to the final event of the Film Critic’s Film Preview Festival here in Morristown, NJ.

Hopefully I’ll be able to see the whole thing before having to leave to catch the 9:30 shuttle van back to my temporary home.

Whatever I get to see of the event, though, is more than I had planned on getting to experience as of this morning.

Life is full of good people and random acts of kindness and surprises – and things to look forward to.

I AM MOVING INTO AN APARTMENT IN MANHATTAN IN THE NEW YEAR!!!

In case you couldn’t tell:  I am very excited.

Now, in the meantime,  I must remain present, and patient and productive.

Dressing for “Success”

This morning two of us shelter gals were taken to “Dress for Success” – a wonderful non-profit that takes donations of interview-worthy clothing and gives it out free to women in need.

For an hour or so, C. and I got to try on an assortment of dress pants, casual tops and even shoes and winter coats.  My weight is fluctuating between sizes these days ( thanks to all the pasta and cake served at the shelter and soup kitchen – but I am NOT complaining – too much) so I couldn’t find any pants that fit right now but they allowed me to leave with six new tops in assorted styles, two pairs of shoes, a fall coat, one scarf, a handbag and even some jewelry to accessorize.

I tell you, it was like having an early Christmas. 

Now I have to find places to where all the goodies and “succeed.”

(I WILL be wearing pants.)

“Being Homeless is NOT a Death Sentence”

“Being homeless is NOT a death sentence.” 

This line was uttered this morning at the shelter where I currently reside.

It doesn’t have to be a life sentence, either

How to write a Novel (or anything!) while living in a homeless shelter?

How to write a novel when you are homeless?

My mind wanders to other places:  Why won’t the noise at the shelter subside long enough for me to string a few calm, coherent thoughts together?  Why can’t I get a good night’s sleep without taking medication that leaves me drowsy and disorientated in the morning? How many precious minutes until the public library closes before I have to get on the shelter van and go back to chatter central?  What if this a waste of time?  What if I can’t get it together enough to hang on to a decent, safe apartment long enough to get this Novel done?  Who am I to write a Novel?  Can I go to the depressing place the main character currently exists in and then pull myself out of that psychic hell, back to my own have-to-pull myself-up-by-the-bootstraps-or-slip-into-my-own-kind-of-hell reality?  Again, is this a waste of time? Yours, mine, or otherwise?

How does one know what time is worth? 

Living in a homeless shelter, even one that is considered being:  “one of the best in the country” can be quite arduous and disconcerting.

Patience is something one must practice every day.

Waiting is mandatory; definitely not  optional.

Earplugs are helpful.  Women can snore like lumberjacks, too.

Plastic bags are the luggage of the residentially challenged.

Times for everything “normal” are scheduled by rules:  Up, bathed, bed made, self fed and caffeinated by 7:30 am; van runs to town (and everything else) at 6am, 7am, 10am, 11am (except weekends) and from town at 1:30pm, 5:30pm (pray the van has room for you), 7:30pm and 9:30pm (pray you don’t miss this van or you miss curfew); medication dispensed at 6:45am, 8:30am, 7:30pm and 9:30pm (pray you don’t miss taking your “meds”); mouths shut and lights out at 11pm.  (Sleeping not guaranteed – even with meds taken.)

Belongings being searched and body being randomly drug and alcohol tested upon re-entering the shelter are lessons in humility.  (Many don’t – or can’t -learn this and are given a “72”.  That’s the hours they must leave and go – somewhere – until they can return and pass the search and piss-test.)

Self-care is mandatory and privacy is non-existent.

Food is provided at breakfast and dinner; quality and taste are not guaranteed.

Lunch is available at a local church’s Soup Kitchen.  The line is long; the tempers often short and pasta with meatballs sided with canned green beans are the staples.

Tolerance for weight-gain (when not needed) is a gift I’ve not yet received.

Finding excuses not to work on “That Damn Novel” ever-present.

Suppressing (channeling?  evaporating?)  my anger at myself for getting myself to a place where I need to live in a homeless shelter:  Priceless.

Finding the confidence to keep going on a day-to-day basis? 

 Mercurial.

Yesterday…

Yesterday…

A guy named Charlie was at the soup kitchen.

His short beard was little protection from the -8 degree wind-chilled weather outside.

He had given away his hat and gloves even though he himself lives outside – in the woods – somewhere.

He had used his last dollar to take the train from Dover to Morristown so he could meet with his Mental Health case worker because he has run out of his medication for bi-polar.

The case worker didn’t show.

He drank a cup of hot coffee and told me his woes.  No money to take the train back to his sleeping bag and tent.  I gave him all I had in my pocket: $2.80.

I worry when I don’t have enough cash for cigarettes.  I feel so small.

And sad for the man who has so little but gives away his gloves and hat.