Monthly Archives: November 2008

ILENE KRISTEN

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We are walking together on East Second Street when a woman standing in doorway to our right shouts out, “Hey, Delia! You’re my favorite bitch!” The shouting woman, who wears an ear-to-ear grin, is shouting to my companion who, upon being told she is the woman’s favorite bitch, is now also smiling. My companion waves to the grinning woman and says, “Thank you!”

It is some time in the 1980s and my walking companion is Ilene Kristen. At the time, Ilene was playing the role of Delia Reid in the ABC soap opera Ryan’s Hope. She now plays the role of Roxanne “Roxy” Balsom Holden in One Life to Live.

Delia, as you may guessed, was not a pleasant character. Ilene’s ability to play the role with uncanny expertise was and is testimony to her truly superb acting skills. How do I know this? Because I have known Ilene since we were something like 12 or 13 and were students at Professional Children’s School in New York City. Professional Children’s School, or PCS as it is more commonly know, was a private k-12 school for kids involved in the arts: musicians, models, painters, actors, dancers, composers and more.

While I was never liked school a whole lot, I loved PCS. It was like being among an endless supply of siblings. And, for me, PCS meant going to school with the two most beautiful girls in the world: Meg Gordon, a dancer, and Ilene, an actress.

Meg Gordon was in my class. She went to the New York City School of Ballet, had long straight glistening dark hair and looked like an Indian Princess. Ilene, then and now, has as beautiful a face as I have ever seen. I can think of no face more beautiful. Both Meg and Ilene were what I would, in later years, come to call, kneebucklers. My ability to look at them without my legs giving out from under me (or dribbling) was nearly always in question.

But while Meg was nice, she was distant and reserved. Ilene, on the other hand, could melt through any nervousness with genuine warmth, charm and kindness. She was and is amazingly smart, thus when I would talk with her I would find myself caught up in the conversation and lose track of the fact I was looking into a gloriously beautiful face with a smile so full of charm and warmth I swear it could turn ice into hot tea in instant.

Ilene, then and now, was never about her looks. She was about being Ilene, being the best actress and performer she could be, and she was and is anything but full of herself – and she is no bitch.

We were walking down East Second Street those many years ago because she was co-directing a short film I’d written called, It Was Your Heart I Wanted. While the film was never completed (my fault, not Ilene’s or anyone elses), it was about a couple whose marriage had ended because his violence had destroyed it. I named it It Was Your Heart I Wanted because then and now I think almost always two people could say that at the beginning of the relationship and they would be telling the truth. Moreover, the film was my way of continuing to work out what had happened in my first marriage. My violence destroyed that marriage. There is no easy way to say that other than honestly and openly. While I can never undo the past, I can at least be proof that it is possible to free of the disease of violence, which, like alcoholism, is its own form of addiction and requires intensive and likely lengthy treatment. To this day I believe, I know, that had I not had this hideous disease, my wife and I would still be together.

I reached out to Ilene to help me direct the film for several reasons. I knew I could trust her completely, I knew she was strong willed, brilliant, and fiercely committed to the quality of any work she was involved with. I also knew, and told her, that while I had no doubt I would direct the work honestly, I would be doing the work an injustice if I did not have a woman involved in directing it. And so Ilene jumped in with all her heart and believe me, her input was amazing.

Recently, as some of you who have been reading this blog are aware, I have had to re-apply for disability, a step I had hoped never to take. I have received help from some. Recently there was an e-mail from Ilene which read, “Hey darlin’, sent you a little something…..you’re in my thoughts.” It brought me to tears. People who love you no matter what can do that to you. Well, to me anyway.

A few months back, maybe longer, there was a reunion at PCS. Ilene let me know and offered to go with me and give me a place to sleep for the night. I couldn’t go, not because I didn’t want to, but because at the time the combination of brain injury, PTSD and depression was keeping me from getting out the door. Of course I wanted to go; not only would it have been wonderful to see Ilene and others, it would have been kind of heady to walk in with the most beautiful woman there on my arm.

Oh, one last thing…visit her website. She is truly a good and loving person and while she is definitely beautiful, it’s a shame you can’t take pictures of a person’s heart and soul; because her heart and soul are 100 times more beautiful then the beauty of her looks, and that’s saying something. If you go to her personal collection of pictures, you can click back to the days when I first knew her…if you look closely at her smile…you may just get a real feel for how warm and loving her heart is.

http://www.ilenekristen.net

Love you, Ilene

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DREAMS IN ISOLATION

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I heard Bruce Springsteen once say that a song title can open the door to the song. The same can be said of an essay title like this one, Dreams in Isolation. While isolation is a web many of us are caught in from time to time, it can be, if you allow silence or, for me anyway, music, a method of allowing an idea to move, shift, emerge. Dreams are allowed to come to light for the first time or come back into the light after having left for a time. The thing to do is pay attention and, if you like to write, write it down – if you’re fast enough.

Although I may not be as fast as I was some years back, I am honest now. Therefore, when I write things down, some silly twist of disingenuous ego doesn’t distort the phrasing; at least I don’t think so. God I hope not. You can spend an enormous amount of time second guessing things, don’t you think?

For years I have thought about writing an essay about my closest friend, Michael Sulsona. He is, in my heart, my brother. In more than 30 years of friendship, we’ve never had a fight. That’s remarkable. Even now as I ponder writing about him, I know I can’t get close to the extraordinary bond between us. I can tell you that our bond is built, not simply on a genuine love and respect for each other, but on our capacity to accept each other for who we are. I also think we have each seen so much brutality in life that we just don’t see the point in fighting.

Here, I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you a glimpse of Michael’s ability to right size a moment with an expertise matched by no one I’ve ever known. First, some background.

Michael was born and raised in Brooklyn. He joined the Marines when he was a teenager and went to Vietnam. When he was 19, he stepped on a mine and as a result lost both his legs above the knee. You take that experience and all else that comes with going to war and you know Michael has known and seen things the large majority of people have thankfully been spared.

As most of you know, I was held up and shot in the head at point blank range in 1984 leaving the bullet lodged in my brain and loss of hearing in the left ear along with the brain damage that happens when you don’t duck quickly enough.

I was living in New York City’s Lower East Side when I was shot and there came a time when I was having a lot of flashbacks. I called Michael and he said he’d come pick me up and we’d go for a ride.

An hour later we are stopped at a red light at East Second and Avenue A when Michael says, “Hey, you’d agree we’re a little fucked up, right?”

I say, “Well, yeah, a little.”

He says, “Whattaya mean a little? You got a bullet in your brain, fucked up hearing. I got no legs, lots of shrapnel in my body, fucked up hearing. Don’t you think we’re a little fucked up?”

I smile and laugh, “I guess so.”

He says, “You guess so? You see that woman?” and here he points at a couple in their twenties holding hands and crossing Avenue A. They were coming in our direction. They were both model gorgeous. He looked like he just stepped out of GQ and she looked like she just stepped out of Cosmopolitan. The what’s wrong with this picture aspect of this glamorous image was the pizza she had balanced on her head. Michael says, “You see her? She’s never stepped on a mine, she’s never been shot in the head, and she’s walking across the street with a pizza on her head. You think we’re fucked up?”

Like I said, I’ve never known anyone who can right-size a moment with greater speed, accuracy and humor.

As to what any of this has to do with Dreams in Isolation? I haven’t a clue. But hey, it’s my essay, and I can promise you one thing, I wasn’t balancing a pizza on my head when I wrote it either.

Love you, Michael.
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FRENZY SOFT MOMENTS

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It went from frenzy soft

Moments slipping deep into

Moisture warm sliding into

Each others center

Losing track of where body

Moments began and ended

This salacious duet seizing

The moment whole

Their passion

Diving deep and deeper

Into each other’s grasp

The walls of where

They were embraced

Fell full away into

Velvet warm black

Leaving the slippery glow

Of skin to skin sliding

In a creamy warm embrace

Their eyes puffy

In primal heart-soul rhythm

Her soft glistened wetness

Slid across his tongue dipping

Into her deeper tasting

 Seed in feathered droplets

Across her lips

Drinking

Each other dry

As their souls

Embraced

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HAPPY THANKSGIVING

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Happy Thanksgiving to each of you.

I know there are years, time periods, when some of us wag our heads and wonder what on earth we have to be thankful for. Consider this, for a moment. If you are reading this then this moment belongs to us, to you and me. This moment is ours, nothing can take it away. And while I do not know each of you personally, I do very much feel connected to each of you. Your willingness to read what I write humbles me. I am deeply grateful and thank you.

While this blog is not the size of some others, I can tell you that its readership has doubled in recent months and it is now pushing around 1,500 visits a month. I hope some of what you all read here helps your lives in some way. I know being able to write to you, for you, benefits mine.

So, as you go through Thanksgiving remember something. If you find yourself wondering what there is to be thankful for, do the following. Find a mirror, then look in the mirror. The person you see looking back at you is something to be thankful for because it is you.

If ever you lose sight of how valuable you are, let me know, I will try and remind you.

Happy Thanksgiving! Please travel safely…

Peter

More Water

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These are grueling times.

As many of you know I am in the process of getting back onto disability, a step I had hoped never to take again in my lifetime. In fact, I got myself off the disability rolls in 1992 soon after my mother’s suicide. But here I am again. Those close to me have rightly, and lovingly, reminded me that, It’s there for a reason, Peter.

I am in a very different place in life now than I was in 1984 when I applied for disability the first time after I’d been shot and badly wounded in a hold-up. I am, I think, more forgiving and more accepting than I was back then.

There are some I could, with great justification, sue. I have more than enough grounds and would likely win. While defamation of character among other things is not always easy to prove, it is if you have a drawer full of documentation, not to mention access to some reliable witnesses. Yet, despite the encouragement of some to go ahead and Nail the bastards, I’ve chosen not to. I think if each of us ran around seeking revenge for every misdeed inflicted on us in life some of us, those of us in the civil rights community for sure, would find ourselves doing nothing but. And then all our time would be consumed by bringing to heel those unhealthy souls in the world that lie about or bully others. Justice is not about revenge.

I have received some striking support from some extraordinary people. I’ve had survivors on fixed incomes shove a $5, $10 or $20 bill in my hand and say things like, Buy food, bro. We love you, you’ve always been there for us. It’s pretty special to discover that a $5, $10 and $20 can feel like a million dollars when given with so much love.

Then, of course, there have been those I would have thought would help and instead have fallen silent and still others who have said, Not to worry, we’re sending you something right away, and they don’t. I think people need to understand that people going through hard times deserve honesty and kindness from their peers. If you can’t help, don’t say you can. There is nothing wrong with that, and no one worth their salt is going to be upset with you.

There is something healthy about all this experience for me. Not pleasant, but healthy. Times like this right size a man (or woman). You are reminded that what makes you valuable is you. A woman I know taught me that Buddha believed life’s pain was rooted in our attachment and drive for material things, for they are what we are socialized (brain washed) into believing wealth is.

I know a man who died recently only days after turning 61. He was a wealthy man on the money front, but starved on the spiritual and emotional fronts. He told me once he woke up ever morning terrified, and so he would work from 7:30 in the morning until three the next morning day after day after day. Like so many of us, he was afraid to be with himself. I understand that because that was my lot for years. It isn’t my lot anymore, and the reason it isn’t has nothing to do with money or material things. It has to do with my sobriety, with being uncomfortable in my own skin, and having some good friends. This man was my friend once, and while our paths separated because we answered to very different drummers, we were ultimately opponents, I did love him and his death breaks my heart. Oftentimes you can dislike someones behavior without disliking the person.

I know some people today who are consumed with making money, being tough supervisors of people, ruling by intimidation; one fellow runs around telling the world he was in the Vietnam war when in all likelihood the closest he ever got to Nam was probably Newark. I know others who spew sentences of saccharin sweetness and compassion when internally they are neither sweet (remember, saccharin is a substitute for sugar, not the real thing) or kind. The thing that makes me feel good about me is that I know that many years ago I would have tracked down one or two of these folks and, as we said back in the day, caved their chests in, an expression I learned in reform school many years ago during a moment I was rudely, and painfully, introduced to the reality that the threat, I’ll punch you in the nose, no longer held sway.

The thing is, if the people who have intentionally wounded me over the past couple of years where themselves wounded in life and reached out to me, I’d go help them. Some might try to dissuade me, but they would not succeed.

Justice has nothing to do with revenge and revenge has nothing to do with strength. That is why the people I could easily sue are people I would help. Perhaps I am talking about some kind of emotional or spiritual non-violence. I’m not sure. I do remember that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Non-violence is like water. If you have a fire and you throw a bucket of water on it and the fire doesn’t go out, it doesn’t mean water doesn’t put out fire. It means you need more water.”
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