Caffeine War

Hello Out There,

I just reread my old posts.  I have eight followers. In one post, I announce that I've given up exclamation marks. In another post, I announce that I'm sober. Both things are no longer true. Well, actually I am sober but I stopped being sober after I wrote that post. I'm what they call in AA a "habitual relapser."

But I have news for you. Good news, if you're like me. A habitual relapser. (Or is it an habitual replapser?)

At any rate, I'm sober like three weeks. And the craving was crazy intense UNTIL I gave up caffeine. Horrors, you say. (I'm going to stick to my ban on exclamation marks.) Horrors, you say. I realized I was really hooked on caffeine when I realized if I had to make the choice between coffee and wine, I would choose coffee. And I wanted wine. Bad.

But that's not why I gave it up. I mean, if knowing you were hooked was all it took, we'd all be straight up. No. I gave it up because one day last week, I drank my usual two cups (yes, I only drank two cups a day.) And didn't eat all my breakfast. And had to take a sleeping pill to get to sleep. Did I mention that I'm an insomniac? Hence the title: Maura at Night.

So I cut down to one cup a day. Guess what? I slept like a rock. And then it hit me. I've been torturing myself drinking coffee since I was fourteen years old. That's when it all started. Depression. Sleep disorders. Obsessive thinking.  Low self esteem. (That's a given.) Followed shortly by loss of virginity. More losses of virginity. Drinking gallons of beer. Discovering scotch. Real foolishness. Heartbreak. Divorce(s). I can trace it all back to drinking coffee. This isn't a joke. This is my reality.

I have been betrayed by coffee. I know this is an unpopular position. Most people - myself included in the past - do not want to hear about this. I am liberated. I am caffeine-free and I'm not going back.

I have not craved alcohol since I gave up coffee. I mean, I would still like to drink. But it's not making me crazy. Wine is a fond memory.  I feel, I really feel that my fourteen year-old self is standing by. Cheering me on. Calmly. Hand on my shoulder and all that. I might make it after all.

Love,
Maura at Night

The Cusp Of Everything...

...in other words, I don't have a title. I suppose I should have a subject but the truth is, I'm bored and feeling guilty - always guilty - that I started this blog and then stopped. So here's what is going on. I'm sober 7 months. Last time I wrote I was sober 4 months. (I know because I just reread my last blog and said so.) I really still want to drink. And I'm thinking of taking LSD. If I could locate a guardian who would keep me from smoking cigarettes, I so would drop some acid. Or eat mushrooms. Or something.

Maybe I'm just getting old. Well, truth. I'm about to turn 59. It's unbelievable. I haven't felt - really felt - like I'm aging until now. Because after 59 is fucking 60. And I can't pretend Prince Charming is going to rescue me anymore. He definitely wants a younger lady.

My dream is to somehow have enough money to rent a room with a nice bed. And have a maid come in once a week. And I'll just live there. I can eat very well in food co-ops. And hang out at libraries. Well, I don't know why I said that. I don't go to libraries except to meet people. Then I take pictures of all the books I want to read. I don't have much memory anymore. So I take pictures or send myself texts. And then they disappear.

I really thought something would "happen" by now. You know what I mean. Some kind of penetrating notoriety or... fame. (I'm into the dot dot dot thing.) I did take a stand-up class and lo and behold, I got up and did it. It's on YouTube. Check it out. I'm pretty fucking funny. Then I did the act again for a bored audience. At least they were bored before I got up and remained bored while I was revealing my silliness. So now I realize I have to really "work the crowd". I'm going to take an improv class next. I will probably hate it. But if I want to do stand-up (and I have something to prove to myself), I have to be ready for anything. Because I always want to win. Which takes me back to my previous statement. That I thought something would happen by now. I guess I haven't given up.

Here's a poem for today.

Hey baby, have you tried Baclofen?
It's a drug for drunks.
Cures anxiety.
Makes you normal. Again. Or for the first time.
Happiness is a stable mind.
The Baclofen people say that we're addicted because we're anxious.
Hel-looooo.
They say it's scientific.
So give me some!
I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.
Either give me some Baclofen or some really good red wine.
Because I'm REALLY FUCKING ANXIOUS ABOUT IT.
Okay, I'll just chug a Diet Sprite.
And drill out the lining of my stomach.
One way or another - I'm pretty sure I'm fucked.
Baclofen. Baclofen. Baclofen.
Sounds like the name of a Prince from a Mel Brooks movie.
Baclofen. I love you, Baclofen.
Lay me down and do me, Baclofen.
I'm really all yours.

Good night- Maura at Night

No exclamation point

Hello Everyone,

I'm back. Did you miss me? I'm trying not to use exclamation marks and here's why. They're overused. I hate false enthusiasm. Happy birthday (!), everyone posts on Facebook. To people they don't really know. I do it all the time. But now I've stopped using the exclamation mark. It's a form of protest. Try this out. "Congratulations on your anniversary." Or, "I'm so sorry that happened." Or, "Happy birthday." Or, "That's hilarious." Or, "I can't wait to see you." Or, "Have fun." Or, "You're wonderful." The last two I actually lifted from Facebook just now. Don't they look more sincere without the exclamation mark?


Here's the other trouble. I'm trying to be humble while writing this but at the same time trying to figure out how to get people to read it without posting it on Facebook. I mean, is there any other thing in the world except frigging Facebook? I'm getting sick of it. No offense to anyone. But it's really kind of disgusting. All this self-absorption. 


I started this blog a few years ago. I had just quit drinking after eleven years of trying to be a social drinker. I had been sober twelve years before that. Well, I relapsed after a year and three quarters and drank for a year or so and now am sober again. (I almost capitalized "again". The same thing as an exclamation mark. Or is it point? I forget.) I'm sober for almost four months. I want to drink almost all the time. I go to meetings, I fantasize about killing myself and I also fantasize about moving far away and starting over again as a social drinker. I have an AA sponsor who is really nice but I feel guilty whenever I talk to her. I know it's not her fault, but I feel like she's judging me. I try and tell her sober stuff and she sort of goes, "Uh huh." Like she's waiting for me to tell her something better. But I don't have anything better. I'm just trying not to drink and I really, really want to drink. (Now I'm thinking that not using capitals and exclamation marks is sort of passive aggressive.)


There is absolutely no way anyone is going to find this blog unless I advertise it. I mean, there is simply too much stuff on the internet. It's absolutely amazing. And I'm so glad about it - I can look up anything I want. I'm tempted to create an avatar and start a new life. Like a role playing thing -I'm sure they have them. Trouble is that I think I would never stop. Let's see, I think I'd like a fantasy life on the internet as a lesbian, as a dude, I think that's all. I must be queer. I keep thinking that if I'm sober long enough or simply live long enough I'll find out I'm a lesbian. I am attracted to girls, I just don't want to have sex with them. For that matter, I don't really want to have sex with anyone. I'm kind of over it.


So that's all for now. I think good blogs are kind of short. It's asking a lot of people to read your crap in the first place. Well. Signing off. I hope I become famous one day (after I'm dead) and then this blog gets discovered and all my wisdom gets uncovered.


Signed,
Maura At Night

Laurette Taylor, Anecdote #2

First of all, thank you to everyone who has sent me links and stories about Laurette. My journey has just begun to discover more about this fascinating genius, acclaimed as the greatest actor of her time. Maybe all time? No one can ever know, nor should I even suggest it, but suffice to say that she riveted audiences and her peers alike. Everyone who saw her work on stage and wrote about it, said virtually the same thing. There was no one like her.

I have found in the New York Library many pieces about her in Special Collections and have learned that she wrote about how she prepared for her roles. More on that another time.

Laurette grew up in in a brownstone in West Harlem, NY at 52 W 125 Street. I went there yesterday and lo and behold, it is now part of a business district. Downstairs is this gorgeous vintage clothing shop that also sells a skincare line. The store is called b.o.r.n. (borrowed, old, refurbished, new). The owners are two beautiful men whose names are Jonathan Bodrick and Tynae Abdul.

Laurette's mother was a seamstress in the late 1800s and early 1900s and employed as many as a dozen seamstresses at that address. The upstairs is still used as an apartment but I suspect that Laurette's family occupied the entire building. I think she would love this place.

Meanwhile, check out b.o.r.n.  This establishment has incredible style and the owners and the customers are all BEAUTIFUL!!! I felt like I was on a movie set, the music was funky and just loud enough so that you could still hear yourself talk. But the mood in there was unlike any other place I've been.

52 W 125th Street, Harlem. Go see it.

Laurette Taylor, Anecdote #1, Ben Wiggins Contributor

Laurette Taylor - Anecdote #1, Ben Wiggins Contributor

Spencer was about to go into rehearsal in “The Rugged Path” and, having been of the stage for some fifteen years, was concerned about projection.

“Help me, Laurette,” he said. “How do you do it?”

She snorted, “How do I do it? Like this!”

She reached down, picked up one of her feet and lifted it so that we could see its blistered and bleeding sole. She dropped it and showed us her other sole. The same.

“That’s how,” she said. “I grab that goddam stage with my two feet and send it right up from there through the rest of me and out to them.”

Even Spencer was astounded.

— Tracy and Hepburn: An Intimate Memoir by Garson Kanin

Dear Blogworld,

It's been ages since I last wrote an entry. Not surprising - it's sort of me, myself and I here. But I've spent the last year in Manhattan, and now going back to Vermont, then to Portland, OR for a year of so and I'm kind of out of sorts. In the past few months I've 1. Graduated with my MFA in playwriting, 2. Signed an option with a producer for one of my plays in Los Angeles, 3. Become unemployed, 4. Had my one year anniversary with no alcohol or pills even SLEEPING PILLS!!!, 5. Well, I guess that's about it.

Today I went to The Museum Of Moving Image in Queens with my friend, Janet. I told her I wanted to curate independent films that haven't been distributed. She thought I might get some inspiration and HOLY SHEET, she was right.

Here's what I'm thinking:

Independent film makers give me permission to use scenes from their movies that I will mix in some fabulous and heretofore (is that a word) unthought of method. Okay, that's a stretch. But kind of like being a curator except that I'm going to tell a story with THEIR stories and also find and use archival footage that isn't copyrighted. Not sure what all this is about. I just want to do it. And then figure it out. Maybe a documentary about these filmmakers and their stories? I don't know. But I would love to hear from you if:
A. You have any idea what I'm talking about.
B. You can help me understand what I'm talking about.
C. You are an independent filmmaker.
D. You have some ideas and suggestions of other work that is exploring film collage.

All right, there's more. Janet - beautiful, talented, inspirational - told me about an actress named Laurette Taylor. Ever heard of her? Me neither. She died in the 1940s and was the most admired actress of her generation. But mostly she was a stage actress and did not make films, or at least, not many. She apparently rocked New York with her interpretation of Amanda in Glass Menagerie. I've decided to spend the next few years - or whatever it takes - researching her life and writing a play about here. I would love to hear from you if you know anything about her.  Laurette Taylor. Maybe you heard it here first.

To recap:

Film collage
Laurette Taylor

Thank you for reading, if you are.  I'm happiest when I think I have a plan for the future.

Maura At Night

Pancakes For Breakfast

Hello everyone,

"Everyone" sounds hopeful. I know I'm writing to myself, but that's okay. Here's the update. Ninety days sober as of yesterday and I'm falling apart. I'm doing everything I can to be happy and healthy and I'm either losing my mind or dying of cancer.

Last night I'm watching TV and suddenly I see a luna moth flying around the room. I'm in NYC so it's a bit odd. Finally, it lands. It's not a luna moth. It's the biggest friggin' flying cockroach on the planet. I find a notebook, throw a punch, and it falls to the floor and scurries like a cartoon character under the radiator. And I'm all alone. With that thing. Can't God come up with some other kind of torture?

All right, that's a heavy load. But I didn't create cockroaches. And since when do they grow to the size of sea turtles and fly?

Now to the cancer thing. I'm in pain. Like, really in pain. In my mouth from a failed root canal and other historical surgeries. And I feel terrible. My ears hurt, I staggered when I tried to walk an hour ago, I lost my balance. This is brutal. Depression does hurt, if that's  what it is. And today is a day off. What do I do tomorrow when I try and work?

Here's a poem for today:

He sat across from his daughter at the diner
In a booth, he filled the seat easily, she was
like a prettily dressed mosquito and made as much noise.
The waitress asked what they'd like, she used a little pad
to write down their words.
"Eggs over easy and pancakes for her - do you want bacon or sausage?"
"Both."
"You can't eat both. Okay, bacon and sausage."
Her fine blonde hair had been arranged by her mother, two pigtails and plastic clips.
How do I know?
The way he kept his eyes on her.
No divorce here.
The plates came, he cut her pancakes while she colored.
He took a bite.
"How are the pancakes?"
She made a face at him and stuck a forkful in her mouth.
He took another bite and kept his eyes on her.
She sang a little, then looked around suddenly.
"Is this place for real?"
"Have a bite of your bacon."
She considered, then jabbed a piece with her fork.
"You eat it."
So he did.
"How's the sausage?" he asked.
"I hate sausage."
She arranged and then rearranged little pieces of pancake
then smushed the whole business to heck.
He ate another bite and kept his eyes on her.
Outside the traffic roared down Route 22 East
one of those divided highways that once you get on
you can't really get off.
They were going somewhere after breakfast
perhaps daycare, perhaps to Grandma's.
Perhaps his wife had a dentist appointment
perhaps it was an emergency.
He was unused to breakfast in the diner with his daughter
on his own, by himself, he wasn't sure of the rules
he wasn't sure what to do if she didn't eat her pancakes
and he wasn't going to take any chances
so he never took his eyes off her.