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Why I Wear Black
27 · Nov · 2002
I was President of my Baptist church youth group. I say this like it was a pin I earned and wore on a pooh-bah hat at secret meetings.
Well, okay, I was elected to the position, but I was the obvious choice at the time. Who else would have done it? And I did have enough guts to admit to my fellow youth that I had fallen prey to peer pressure that summer retreat by taking a puff off a joint before I threw it out the thirteenth story window. It was Us against Them, right? And all the Christians at DCHS had to unite.
But I was living a double life, making new friends. That was the year I started wearing a lot more black.
My new friend Mikayla, who I met in Play Production class, looked like the lead singer of Four Non Blondes. She fell out of a Pretty In Pink Movie, with her own style, her own opinions and her own way of scaring the hell out of high school boys. What made me like her though, was that she was so nice too – not an easy thing to come by with high school girls.
It was required for Play Production that each student attends one play a month and writes a review for our teacher, Mr. Payne. I had found a small local theater called Carpenter’s Square which was in the heart of downtown and produced the most controversial plays. But of course, I didn’t know it at time. One weekend Mikayla and I went to see Equus. The program said:
“EQUUS depicts the story of a deranged youth who blinds six horses with a spike. Through a psychiatrist's analysis of the events, Shaffer creates a chilling portrait of how materialism and convenience have killed our capacity for worship and passion and, consequently, our capacity for pain. The play explores questions about what is Normal and to what extent society will go to normalize people - or to lock them away somewhere if they can't be normalized.”
I took the opportunity away from my lockstep routine to dress a little less uniformed that night. Mikayla showed up in a long black skirt and her signature matching lipstick. I barely moved during the performance, and when it was over, I was sure I wouldn’t be telling my youth group about it. There was insanity, horses and finally, nudity. Looking back now, I remember the shock on Mr. Payne’s face when I told him we saw Equus. If there was an age requirement for that show, I suspect some scheming volunteers at the theater overlooked it. Mikayla and I were always the youngest patrons.
Another person who started going to plays with me was a tranfer student who ended up in Play Production only because he enrolled late. His name was Craig and he hardly uttered a word that wasn’t sarcastic or out of place. But he had true blonde hair and looked great in a pair of jeans, so I took him to the strangest performances I could find and hoped he’d eventually hold my hand. By the time we saw the Elephant Man, I was a seasoned pro and soaked up every scene. We were invited to the cast party where Mikayla lit up a cigarette on a long stem filter like she was Greta Garbo. I had a glass of champagne and eyed the lead actor through the smokey haze.
My secret world of theater was one pleasure in my life that went unchallenged by my conservative friends because they knew nothing at all about it. As long as the title was tame, I could have been watching live porn for all they knew. Of course, this wasn’t the case, but that fact alone was a learning experience. Even before radio stations started playing 2 Live Crew, I sat in Carpenter Square Theater and learned what art is.
Several years later I was in the audience of another Oklahoma City theater and watched Craig’s on stage performance in the most moving, disturbing play I have ever seen – The Metaphor. His character as tortured Man was so believable; I struggled not to jump onto the stage to rescue him. If the Metaphor were a movie that year, Craig earned an Oscar. Who knew that within that fair haired, shy boy was a genius actor with depth beyond words?
And that is precisely my point. If art, in whatever form, has a purpose, perhaps it is to draw out of us the people we really are. All the emotion, whether it be anger, contempt, delirium, tears or unbroken laughter, this is who we are. Nobody can paint a portrait, sing a song or dance in such a way that it MAKES you feel anything. Good art simply makes you see something about yourself you didn’t see before – even if that something is a dislike for the feelings inside you. A crazy photographer I once worked with said “I can’t make you feel anything. How you feel and react to a situation is your choice.”
Get to know yourself. Experience art.
Penny René
_______________________________________
Suggestions for theater pleasure:
Art – by Yasmina Reza
How I Learned to Drive – by Paula Vogel
Equus – by Peter Shaffer
Why Hannah’s Skirt Won’t Stay Down - by Tom Eyen
Posted by Penny Rene at 02:53 PM | TrackBack
Sex and Love
17 · Nov · 2002
Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken.—Jack Kerouac
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I usually don't have that much of a problem getting the average man to want me. Though I assume I must be vain to even say that, the fact is, most men want any decent looking woman to have a physical relationship with them. A long time ago I accepted that men communicate on a more physical level than women do. They are SHOW men. I think she’s beautiful = I want to kiss her. Women tend to be the verbal ones, they want to SAY how they feel, exploring every angle. I read somewhere recently “How to please a woman? Love her, die for her, take her to dinner, miss the superbowl for her, buy her jewelry, listen to her... How to please a man? Show up naked, bring beer.”
My problem has been that I consider myself to be atypical. I write out how I feel, but once I know how I feel, I’m not afraid to show it. In my mind, this made for a well rounded, grounded me. What could be better than grasping the language of both sexes?
I read somewhere that the average American male has anywhere between 30-50 sexual partners in his life. I remind myself of this when I am with my female friends and they complain about their boyfriends or husbands who want sex “all the time”. I’m not ashamed of my sexuality. I enjoy being a sexual creature and wish I had a few female friends who felt the same. If I were a man, I could report that my number of partners is below average. As a woman, the world would have me believe I best not report at all about sex.
This part of who I am has always conflicted with what I was taught a woman should be, not only as a Christian, but just as a “good woman’ in today’s society. It has not been easy to sit through these years of church sermons about the sanctity of marriage anymore than it was to listen to the one night stand stories friends have told me. I had to create a happy medium – away from the guilt, while still recognizing that sex is important enough to only share it with someone that I love.
But that is easier said, isn’t it? Getting those two aspects of a relationship to line up is about as easy as getting a call back from the Pope. Because the twist is knowing what love is in the first place. And love, real love – even now I still question my ability to identify it. Factor in God and alcohol and I don’t know how anyone ends up having the nerve to proclaim their undying love in a legally binding ceremony.
I’ve been fumbling around lately, trying to figure out what all of this means to me. Could it be that because I have meshed love and sex together, that I am have trouble relating to both men and women? My women friends either don’t enjoy sex or feel guilty for enjoying it because they are no help trying to talk about it as a vital part of a relationship. And my male friends…. Well, today it feels like many of them want to have sex with me, but don’t see me as a viable person to have a committed relationship with because I’m not virginal enough.
There is nothing worse than feeling wanted for only part of who you are. As often as I have experienced the feeling that a man is only intoxicated by my sexual side, he must have felt the same emptiness for every woman who only wanted his emotional side and put his sexual needs on the back burner. I mean, if sex is not important, why does the entire entertainment industry revolve around it?
I used to be much more calculated in my relationships. Even before a first date, I knew how important a person would be to me, how much of my true self I’d reveal, how physically intimate I’d be. Of course, this was my way of protecting myself, to always be in control of the game. But this only resulted in me trying to be dictator of my emotions. I found that though I can control my will, I do not control my heart. I don’t know how many good men I confused with this control issue, but I imagine it was too many.
I now know a man who I suspect has a similar plan. He has very specific goals for his life and there is little, if any room for error. An error, if I understand him correctly, would be an emotional connection to a woman. I almost envy him for still believing he is in control of such a thing. While he is able to slice into me and allowing himself to love only parts of who I am, I look at him and wonder if he has ever been loved for all of who he is.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Someday I may come to you and say
that I’ve turned my love away and I’m finally letting go
Someday everything may change and I tried to wish it all away
But I’m still waiting, filled with such disdain
It seems I’ll always be waiting
- Bullets of Orange “Listen”
Posted by Penny Rene at 05:21 PM
Blog Like Me
14 · Nov · 2002
I have been sneezing and coughing for five days. After interrogating every person I’ve smooched in the prior week, I have narrowed down the virus carrier to the sanitation worker who stops by on Mondays or the gentleman I became addicted to two weeks ago. Have them arrested and tested! Just a little hokey-jokey for you parental types.
Alas, I have spent too much time alone with a box of Kleenex.
Finally back at work this morning I looked for a little writing inspiration via internet diaries/ journals. Most of you probably don’t realize that milk memo is not the only writing project in which I am a lazy participant.
No, there are several other places in this World Wide Web where I speak my mind freely on subjects ranging from the war in Afghanistan to those little nervy guys who suggested that a cell phone would give me “freedom” It doesn’t matter that maybe no one is reading my quips where I allow my
other 86 personalities wander about. That’s what I like about it. No pressure.
And if you have taken the time to surf that far into places like diary.com, you know what I mean. It is completely liberating to say what you feel, take ownership of it by attaching your pen name (or real name in some cases) and throw it out there to the public. Someone CAN read it, and that’s
what makes you feel brave. You take that chance. And honestly, someone like me IS reading it, though I will not likely write you a note to say so. I mean , I’m just checking to see that my flyaway wit is just as careless as the next girl or guy.
You should try it. You don’t even need the internet. You busy right now? No? OK. Now pull out a blank piece of paper and write this at the top:
“Five words for this day”
Now write down, in no particular order, the first five words that come into your mind. Done? Now, date it and sign your name. It doesn’t have to be your real name, just one that - if I hired an investigator, we could narrow it down to you as the author. (I used to use Rene’ only) Right. Pick up the piece of paper, fold it in half twice and do one of the following:
-
throw it out your office window (this works best if you work in a
tall building downtown)
- put it in a magazine or table book at the local coffee joint
- lodge it between the slats of the picnic table at the park
- leave it sitting on the shelf at the library or book store
- make it into an airplane and throw it down the hall of your
school
- put it into an envelope and mail it to a random address you pick
out of the phone book
- drop it in the trash of your house if you have housemates
Someone is bound to read it! Just knowing that is.... well it’s like therapy, with no negative feedback. Or talking to a stranger on a plane.
(Thank you to my new friend Tobias from Stockholm, by the way) Everyone is
always saying that we should talk about our feelings. That we should get it
out, let go. Maybe all the internet confessors are on to something. Well, at
least they serve for an interesting read on bland working days.
examples of infinite wisdom found on the net:
i had a dream last night wherein i was walking around manhattan with a
very bright and erudite Chihuahua. and at one point we were in a room and
when i opened the door there were 3 little spider monkeys standing outside
the door. so i invited them into my house and that's when i woke up. which
is kind of a shame. cos a dream that involves talking Chihuahuas and 3 fun
spider monkeys should go on for hours and hours.
in the dream it seemed like the most natural thing in the world that this
little Chihuahua would be able to speak. and, for the record, she was a very
bright and well-spoken little Chihuahua.
we're in Florence. which is a very beautiful city. but even the most
beautiful city in the world can't hold a candle to a talking Chihuahua and 3
spider monkeys. --moby
October 3, 2002
ˇYears ago, when I told a friend that I'd begun dating someone new, she
was hurt and jealous. She made a crack about me working on a screenplay with
the new girl; I˙d been writing one with her (never to be finished, of
course). Now, I think back and consider this curiosity: I like to work on
projects with the people I˙m involved with. That might be the key reason
why my marriage was doomed: She had no such drive, no obsessions and
passions. My friends and lovers must have more than a dayjob inside them.
They must be wanting.ˇ Jeff koyen
Monday, Nov. 04, 2002 - 6:03 p.m.
At the beach in santa monica I had written "I love you mom + daddyˇ in
the sand when a not too young, not old stranger came up and asked me the
time. That was his intro into showing me his hotel key. "I love coming to
the beach", he said. He was poor and wearing no underpants, his thin
trousers revealed. I was worried he'd steal my bag. I' just dialed
mum's work and when she answered he didn't leave. Finally I explained I
was a bit busy. "So you want me to move on." "I'm afraid I do."
- penny rene
Posted by Penny Rene at 04:52 PM | TrackBack
Hell, If It's Over...
7 · Nov · 2002
For the last seven days the same song was in my head. It didn’t matter that I saw a total of ten live performances in six days. The same lyric hung in my ears as if it were continually being broadcast over an elevator speaker. It was Matchbox 20’s “Rest Stop”
“While you were sleeping
I was listening to the radio and wonderin’ what you’re dreamin’
When it came to mind that I just didn’t care.
And I thought
hell, if it’s over, well I had better end it now before I lose my nerve
Are you listening? Can you hear me? “
I don’t know who I would sing this song about. No one in particular comes to mind. But there it was, falling softly from my lips at every pause, every lull in conversation.
Meanwhile, thanks to some stored up frequent flyer miles; I left Nashville last Friday to visit my friends Erin and Mike in Burbank. This trip was my opportunity to investigate California once again and reassure myself that Nashville is better for someone like me. (whatever that means) I went there with the expectation that I could enjoy a bit more sun, rejuvenate myself by taking in the ocean, and lay the “what about LA?” question to rest.
Instead of feeling griped with anxiety at the sight of the jammed freeways and surgically enhanced egos, I found myself wishing I had made the trip sooner.
So it really threw me that the above lines were stuck in my head during this trip instead of something more suitable like Sheryl Crow’s “Soak up the Sun.” Even when I saw her convince a mall crowd from a stage on Sunday I still ended the day with the nagging lines from Rest Stop lodged in my mind.
At the same time, something else peculiar was happening. My cell phone wasn’t ringing. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it as much if it weren’t for the fact that Erin’s phone was ringing every ten minutes. Bad reception, I guessed. But by Monday night I figured it out. No one was calling. And in a half joking, mostly deflated way I sang these words to myself.
“While you were sleeping
I was listening to the radio and wonderin’ what you’re dreamin’
When it came to mind that you just don’t care.
And I thought
hell, if it’s over, well I had better end it now before I lose my nerve
Are you listening? Can you hear me? “
It was about no one in particular. Just me.
I’m not very good about knowing when to walk away sometimes. I would have every relationship, every friendship last until the end of time. I would watch it suffocate in my hands before I would let it go, because I could never trust that something good would choose to leave and return to me. But at this moment, I’m thinking about a lot of my friends in Nashville and the dreams I had when I first arrived here in 1995 and I am seeing that I have pushed enough. The friendships have evolved and the dreams and plans have rearranged themselves. Both are starting to suffocate.
Right before I left for LA, someone reminded me that the words to a song don’t have to rhyme. I had just been quoting one of my songs to him and though he hadn’t meant to hurt me, this little tidbit was like a thorn in my side. I have said before that all of our relationships, however beautiful, are at the mercy of our ability to communicate. “Are you listening? Can you hear me?” What I have been trying to communicate to my friends and family the last six months has not been getting through. For whatever reason, I’m more misunderstood now than I ever was and some of you are even worried. The words don’t rhyme. They never did. Never will. And you have to trust me when I say it’s alright.
I put myself out here and I do it by choice. It’s not all narcissistic and angry. It’s about not giving up the search for the highest truth, even if it means exposing the ugliness of us, of me. I’m not a brilliant writer. I’m not even a brilliant person. But there’s no way I’m giving up, giving in or selling out. See, I’m okay with taking the fall, but I’m not okay with taking a fall for nothing.
Again, thank you for sticking with me. I hope you enjoy my latest poem below.
Oh
The beauty
is
chaos.
Posted by Penny Rene at 02:45 PM | TrackBack