Category Archives: Writery things

Deliriously Delicious Life


You probably haven’t missed me, but if you have, you probably already know where I’ve been. If you don’t, here goes: I just got through a disgustingly expensive and time-consuming court ‘battle’ (that word came up repeatedly) over my son. This isn’t a blog where I talk about him, usually, but I figure I have to make some sort of excuse for disappearing. So that’s it. That’s my reason. I’ve had full custody since 2009, when I divorced his father; last year, I started homeschooling because my child was doing abysmally in school, and I rented a second home in his father’s neighborhood so he and the family could help me with the kiddo’s needs. That not only didn’t pan out, they ended up suing for full custody – and they lost, even though I ultimately went to court Pro se (meaning I represented myself).  He still has no custody, and he’s got a visitation arrangement that is actually less visitation than he had last year, but it cost both of us scads of money and it gave me several new gray hairs, and at one point the ex actually intended to use my blog about Loose Girl against me somehow (how?!). His family spammed my fundraising page and my friend’s blogs. His attorney made a huge issue in court about my anti-abuse pages I ‘liked’ on Facebook. And so on and so forth. There are lessons to be learned from this if you have the time or inclination (Marriage is generally a high-risk, low-reward thing, distance from exes is ALWAYS good, and if you have full custody, you have it for a reason so for Pete’s sake steer clear of asking the other parent to ‘help’ if you aren’t sure that their help will actually be helpful, etc.)  – but the biggest lesson is that if you have something to say, someone or several someones out there in the world will try to stop you from saying it. And when that happens, you have to make a choice. Your expression is your light; it is yourself. And you have to choose whether or not to let yourself be silenced, or whether to keep speaking out.

I choose to keep writing. I’m not ashamed of speaking out against abuse, writing about sexuality, or loving literature. The only thing in this  entire blog I’m ashamed of is that I have to confess to having married the sort of person I married in the first place – but life is a process, and I’ve moved on. Now that the mess is over for now, there’s a bit of PTSD, but everything is sweeter, everything is more open, and resuming real life is pretty awesome. So I can get back to the business of blogging, because I’m not ashamed of anything I have to say.

To quote Brian in Vanilla Sky, “It’s the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.”


The thing that buoyed me up during court is my personal philosophy: Pronoia. What is Pronoia, you ask? John Perry Barlow (yes, the guy that wrote for the Grateful Dead) defined it as “the suspicion the Universe is a conspiracy on your behalf.” Ages ago, I ran across a Rob Brezsny book in a Barnes & Noble while looking for a new Wayne Dyer tome. The unique cover attracted me ,and when I turned the book over, I noticed an endorsement by Tom Robbins (the best writer under the moon). The book was:

Pronoia Is the Antidote for Paranoia, Revised and Expanded: How the Whole World Is Conspiring to Shower You with Blessings

And it completely changed my life.

How? That’s the stuff of my next blog. Instead of delving into details, I’ll leave you with a remarkable quote from the book:

“Fairy tales tell of a magic cauldron that cracks apart when a lie is told by the people standing near it. There is one way to restore the pot to wholeness: Speak three great truths in its vicinity.” In my next entries, I will speak my truths.

Anais Nin: The Last Days

kraftSometimes I think I’ve made a clean break with Anais except for purposes of nostalgia, but when I saw Barbara Kraft’s memoir of the end of Anais Nin’s life I knew I had to read this book. Several years ago, I began a quest to understand the path that Anais took, and discern whether or not it brought her to a place of happiness.  Perhaps, I thought, if it had, I could follow her lead.

If you’ve been reading my previous blogs (or know anything about Anais), you know that the path she took ultimately led her to maintain open (and even bigamous) marriages and other relationships and run in a fascinating circle of  writers, artists, and other interesting people. Personally, I believe that Anais was one of the most talented female writers to have ever lived, but I got lost in the web of her writing and never got the clear, concise answers that I wanted.

Reading this memoir  took me a couple of evenings. Part journal, part biography, Barbara Kraft includes a lot of her own feelings about her personal relationship with Nin, acknowledging that she wasn’t particularly a fan of Nin’s work before she began being mentored by her. They established what seems to have been a close relationship, and Nin (by this time an icon of the feminist movement) encouraged Kraft to leave her unhappy marriage and publish her own journal, among other things.

The author of this book met Anais and her second husband Rupert Pole, and then independently met Henry and then  Hugo.
If you remember the story, Anais was married to the banker Hugo Guiler, with whom she had an open marriage. She met Henry Miller while living in Paris in the 1930s, and they established a clandestine relationship that lasted for years.  Other lovers and friends came and went throughout the course of the journals – all interesting, many famous – but the erotic parts were all intially edited out of her 7-volume published journals, preserving the people in her life from knowing the realities of her dalliances, glossing over truths. In the final stages of life, there is no more varnish.
Barbara Kraft met Anais during a time when the public perception of her was of a “pure” woman: one that was virtually untarnished by the influence of men. A woman that was true to herself and lived her own way. Women looked to her as a sort of guru, a guide – perhaps that way that I initially did.
When Barbara met Anais, she was living a seemingly normal California life with Rupert, in a small hous. He scrimped and saved his meager income from his U. S. Forestry Service career to build her a house  designed by Eric Lloyd Wright– a place he hoped to anchor her. Anais was young for her years, and in the height of her literary celebrity (despite being taken less seriously by more traditionally styled authors).
While battling cancer, Anais confessionally talked to Barbara in more detail the closer they grew. What is revealed in this book, in a very concise form, is much the same as a condensed version of the unexpurgated journals that Rupert edited and released for her. What is revealed in this book is the simple truth that Anais was a victim of childhood incest and spent her life struggling with poverty, dependent on men. The picture painted in this simple ‘memoir’ is of the “steel butterfly” – an elegant woman that was unable to stand alone, and so spread her dependence out in manageable doses.  Is it really that black-and-white? Obviously not, because she often depended on men to help other men in her life – for instance, doing  radical things like supporting Henry Miller  with her husband Hugo’s money and even financing the publication of Tropic of Cancer with money from one of her other lovers (Otto Rank).
Was Henry the “love of her life?”
Henry would send me twenty, thirty, and forty page letters. Often I received two in a week. They were rather intimidating… I could never respond on that level. Henry didn’t save them [her letters] for the most part. I was really the muse to Henry. I was never dependent on him. We were able to maintain the passion because there was no responsibility involved. I could leave Henry and go home to my husband, who took care of me.” She spoke in this book of how he was too unreliable to count on for anything, but so much fun. Anais needed reliability, security – and found her fun elsewhere, until her last several years. In the long run, though, she left Henry.
Henry always missed Anais, but married three times, divorced them all, disgusted that no real woman could meet his ideal.  Anais said

Kraft and Miller

Kraft and Miller

He said the most startling thing to me, Barbara. He asked me, ‘What has it all been about? What are all those words? Why all that writing? For what?’ “ According to Kraft, he told her that if he was reincarnated, he said that he wanted to come back as a gardener because writing is “a curse. Yes, it’s a flame. It owns you. It has possession over you. You are not master of yourself. You are consumed by this thing. And the books you write. They’re not you. They’re not me sitting here, this Henry Miller. They belong to someone else. It’s terrible. You can never rest. … I hate inspiration. It takes you over completely. I could never wait until it had passed and I got rid of it.” Regret at the way he’d spent his life.

Hugo was frail and old, by this time, and Anais still had a room in his place. He’d lost the money she depended on for years “gambling in the stock market,” and her diaries were supporting him. He kept her toothbrush and makeup where she left it, showing it off like an art exhibit, playing film reels of her to guests, saying in awed tones “This is the authentic voice of Anais Nin.” He didn’t even have her other home address, her other phone number; he knew she traveled, and her friends – their friends –  were in on the scheme of keeping her other life a secret. She wished she’d divorced him, made a clean break, but the marriage had been too long, she’d needed him too much, and she owed it to him to spend the end of her time repaying him for his years by taking care of him the way that he’d taken care of her.
Did any of that maker her happy?
When Anais lay fighting death, Barbara asked her the question of happiness:And the next day or the day after, sitting in my usual chair next to your bed, your hand hot and dry in mine, I asked you if you had known much happiness in life. “Hardly any,” you whispered, turning your head to look at out the window at the dank sky…
I never knew much about Rupert before now, but Anais seemed to believe that after years of men after men after men, that he was both solid and passionate. She  told Barbara “In Rupert I found the wedding of marriage and passion. Never deny passion, Barbara. You  never know where it will lead. Passion can lead to love.”
I believe that Rupert Pole was the love of Anais’ life. She was able to settle down with him to a life that appears smaller than many of the other lives open to her. In the end of her days, she was even willing to help him meet his physical needs elsewhere when she was no longer able.  And he devoted his entire life to her words, establishing a literary foundation in her honor, editing and publishing four “unexpurgated” versions of her journals, which included erotic content about her other lovers. He continued to support Anais’ legal husband, Hugh Guiler, even after her death. The woman he spent the rest of his days with as his companion was someone that translated Anais’ works into Japanese.
So- all of the long, convoluted journeying aside, she seems to have ended her days in a relatively normal, contented life, with a man that loved her very much, and whom she appeared to love as well. I suppose that’s about as happy as any ending can ever get.
The one unfortunate part of the book is that it seems that Barbara Kraft, as so many other women,  seemed to forget that Anais was human, and our choices are our own. No results are guaranteed from anyone else’s formula. There’s a twinge of bitterness and blame in this book for the consequences that publicly sharing her own journeys caused Barbara Kraft, and I can relate to that – which is sad, because our choices were really all our own.
Get your copy here.

God Hopping

You may or may not know that I write poetry when I’m tortured. Here is a transparent string of words for your perusal. Comments welcome…

God Hopping

Inscrutable priest
in absentia –
who is guarding the temple gates?
(let’s  do it on the altar.)
I’ve sacrificed you here a thousand times,
smoldering flesh
rising unto the heavens.
plumbing the depths of my
soul , indiscriminately
to an empty booth.
What happens if l lift the veil?
Bless me, father
for where I’ve been.
Every Judas earns his
silver’s weight in guilt.
blasphemers  desecrate the sacred
with false contrition
moneychangers sell
all the indulgences,
and hypocrites write the best prayers,
just as purveyors of unlikely hopes
make the best priests.
This is my body.
(Your love is better than wine.)
Too late I’ve learned that
when you live in Eden,
the Tree of Knowledge can only provide
a taste of darkness
by which to appreciate light.
Take, eat of the meat
I once offered to idols.
You were the iron, in feet of clay.
(I remember your love more than wine.)
Small gods lurking
in every shadow of my past
inspired no worship.
Lip services belying
my truths.
Pantheism is exhausting,
and Baal can’t bring the fire.
Day after day, the birds come
while I realize that you are the one that breathed
life into me.
Broken for you.
the priest has become my god,
and my desire is unto him.
This is my blood.
(Stir not up, nor awake my love, until he please.)
Sacrament to cure the love,
the sinner lays down her soul at the altar.
So much for Philemon and Baucis.

It has to be you.

What makes me a writer?

I was trying to explain recently how a writer’s thought process is different from the rest of humanity’s. (When I say writer, I am referring to not only traditionally recognized or published writers, but also the ordinary shade of flunky that holds a pen in hand, waxing lyrical while hidden in his closet.) In day to day life, the writer is the person who views each conversation from a bit of a distance, wheels turning furiously but not communicating as much as observing; the writer is the one who is constantly replaying and reexamining the minutest nuance or inflection long after the conversation has ended. The writer is busily trying to answer the questions that no one else knew were being asked, perhaps because they were asked in the two thirds of the conversation that were held in the writer’s head. The writer will press her own experiences through the sieve of cross-examination. She will disassemble the moment, examine each component and then reconstruct it, usually with a startling degree of accuracy.

The writer will sacrifice many more moments to fully experience this one.

Better than my explanation is a quote I found underlined from my long-ago reading of Volume One of The Diary of Anais Nin:

“I try to explain to her that the writer is the duelist who never fights at the stated hour, who gathers up an insult, like another curious object, a collector’s item, spreads it out on his desk later, and then engages in a duel with it verbally. …. That is why the writer is the loneliest man in the world; because he lives, fights, dies us reborn always alone; all his roles are played behind a curtain. In life he is an incongruous figure. To judge a writer it is necessary to have equal love for writing as for the man. Most women love only the man.”