nakedjen

Phew.

Sundance continues.  I was blessed to have sweet wonderful kind generous amazing friends shelter me from the crazy storm that socked Park City in piles of snow on Monday night after I helped with the British Film Commission party at High West Distillery.  That party was a huge fun noisy party, as all parties at Sundance happen to be, but I have to confess that the parties that combine Brits and distilled whiskey are especially fun. 

I don't think I've slept since before my birthday.  I'm still celebrating.  I've seen lots of really wonderful films and some films that made me cock my head sideways and wonder who on earth decided that making the film was a good idea in the first place?  But then, you know, not all of us like the same flavor of ice cream.  Which is why the aisles of the supermarket are filled with so very many choices.

Kudos to my dear friend, Ann Greenberg, for that photo.  I think it captures me, at Sundance, pretty perfectly.  It should be my calling card.  I've got boots on the ground every single day.  More soon.  Promise.

It takes a long time to grow young.

Every birthday is a privilege.  Mine is especially so because a little festival called Sundance happens to coincide with it each year and offers the perfect celebration of my journey on this planet for yet another trip around the beautiful burning sun. I never can remember how old I really am and I suppose that right there is a testament to a life lived well and out loud and in a furiously happy way. 

Here's to all of you who keep all of my candles burning so very brightly.  Your love is pure magic. Blessings to you.  Each and every single one. 

 

Collateral Damage

It is still so very early.  Not the hours, of course.  Not really in the number of days.  My heart was all in, deeply, just moments it seemed after he admitted that he knew and remembered who I really was and I didn't have to wear my clothes or play charades or worry about what Google might actually reveal.

"I'm doing my best to keep this particular relationship off the front pages of the New York Times," I said to him through the closed bathroom door on Tuesday evening.  From the other side, muffled, I heard him say, "And I appreciate that, you know."  

There are things we say, but there are things we do not say.  There are very smooth edges, but there are very rough edges.  The rough edges, the ones not so smooth, the ones that feel like the familiar old scabs from forgotten relationships, or old lovers, left there as badges of honor or glory or, well, maybe not either of honor or glory but to warn against the path that you already took and do not want to venture down again.

Still, I can't help picking at them.  Rubbing against them. Peeling away at them and pushing my professor this way, just a little bit, to see how he might react.  Can he take me this way?  Can he handle me that way?  Can I be just this honest with him?  If he comes home to find me in the dark under the covers in a fetal position with the dogs curled around my head having not moved for three days is that still going to be okay?

It is inexplicable, my obsession with the wounded spots that I feel need to be tested.  Especially since my professor didn't cause the damage.  He's innocent in all of this and his only crime is having agreed to love me. 

What's even more dangerous is this doesn't feel at all like a game, but like a journey my own heart, my soul, must take in order to truly trust him completely. 

It's a very terrifying proposition.

 

Everything's completely under control this end, how is it with you?

last night my professor's almost seven year old returned to our house from his mother's house where he spent last week. we were discussing his birthday, which is on saturday. and i asked him if he wanted a cake or cupcakes for his birthday party. and he looked at me and said, "well, nakedjen, which do YOU prefer?" and i said, "why are you asking?" and he said, "because it is YOUR birthday, too, and i want to share my cake with you!"

it was so cute. he was perfectly sincere. and he insisted that i come to his party and share that with him, too. because, you know, there's nothing better to do when you're turning 48 than bounce off all the walls. truly. and now that i think about it, perhaps there really IS nothing better to do when you're turning 48 than bounce off all the walls. 

later, we were curled on the couch with both dogs, as we do, and i asked him what he wanted for his birthday? and he started in about this video skateboard thing that his mom had already gotten him for HER house. and i explained that he really did not need TWO of those. and then i explained that on my birthday i actually GIVE people presents. and he said, "yeah, those are party favors..." and i said, "no, not really. i give the people most important in my life PRESENTS for being so lovely to me because i'm so grateful they're in my life..." and he sat quietly and then said, "what if i give YOU me, nakedjen, for MY birthday?" and i said, "why would you do that?" and he said, "so you could be a mother! you'd be really good at it, you know? if you'd just say yes and really try it."

the six year old who is about to be seven is really concerned that i chose NOT to be a mother. he keeps asking me to explain to him why i chose not to be a mother. and he keeps insisting that he wants me to be his step-mother. PLEASE. and i keep trying to explain to him, in my best and most gentle way, that he already has a very incredibly loving and great mother and i am not really going to be his step-mother or his step anything and the best i'm going to be is a special girl in his life who loves him and his father fiercely. a part of his family, yes. but i won't be getting married to his father.

i can't make promises to the seven year old or anyone about forever. i just can't. and i know his seven year old heart is fragile and all he wants is to believe that we all love each other and that his family will remain intact in some sort of way and not turn upside down and that when he walks through the door the same people will still be here that were here when he left. that the dogs will greet him with slobbery kisses.  that even if he's grown an inch and his pants are shorter and his shoes don't fit, that everything in this house will still be just as he left it.  that we're all still here with hearts beating outside our chests with love for him.  that's all he really wants.

but i can't make him a promise other than that i will love him. fiercely. and that we'll have cupcakes for his birthday. and that i will bounce off all the walls.  even after our birthdays have past.

that much i can do.

And So This Is Christmas

For a very many of most of you across the globe today there's a celebration today of a virgin birth.  A tale that has been told millions of times and interpreted in thousands of ways and used by lots of charismatic people to sort us into this group of believers and that group of believers and sometimes arguing over who has the most righteous Jesus.  Thing is, I think there was only one and today is his birthday.

Believers or not, I want to believe that we all have loving hearts and are all part of the larger cosmos.  That we really are all in this together.

At some point along the way, when this holiday celebration became so much about feasting around the cash registers of our great planet and less about connecting with the hearts that beat inside our chests, I just needed to retreat, to wave my own white flag, and the NakedJen Film Festival was born.

It's the non-celebration celebration.  Hugs and laughter is shared.  So are stories and real love.  And we do not have to worry about Uncle Larry drinking too much and embarrassing us by asking loudly why it is again that the ex-husband walked out?

We're in New York this year.  If you're in New York and feeling festive and in the mood to join us, come and join us.  For one film or for all of them.  We'll be so happy if you do!

We are all celebrants in our own lives, you know.  So however you choose to spend this day, I do hope you take a few moments to celebrate and love the people who matter most to you.  It's why we're all here.

the missing

i've been up since 4:20 a.m.  my professor flew to north carolina today.  there was no reason to be up at 4:20 a.m. exactly, but stella decided that was a great time to get up and i've been waking up at some time in the 4:00 a.m. hour for days and days and days and so this morning, it was 4:20 when stella and i rolled out of bed and walked downstairs and blinked our eyes open against the grey slanted light to discover that yes, in fact, those were snowflakes falling from the sky. 

i sat on the hearth in the dark and thought about a long life list of things.  it goes like that in those very early morning hours.  i wonder in my brain, almost loudly, about all sorts of things.  i resist the urge to turn on the computer and warm myself by its blue flame while i search for property in far off places like maui and mexico and the maldives.  a place other than here.  a place to disappear.

my professor stirred at 5:20.  a full hour later.  and we were all bundled and out of the house about ten minutes later.  they're quick.  my professor and his son.  his son was turned on like a bright shiny light and running at full-speed.  "do you like my skinny jeans from old navy, nakedjen?" "yes, you look quite handsome!"  "do you like my new hat?" "yes, it's awesome!" "it's a little big, but my head will grow!" "i'm going to miss you so much, nakedjen!"  "really, you will?"  "oh, yes, of course! i'm going to even miss the cats. and my mom, of course.  but it is hard to miss the cats and I'm going to even miss the cats!"

last night, as we were all lazing about on the sofa, piled on top of one another, arms and legs askew, the six year old told his father quite seriously that i'm a bit difficult.  i need such special care, you know?  special food. special sleeping arrangements. special dogs and special radio stations.  i have to shop at whole foods every single day or they will cease to exist! i can't eat hamburgers because then FAIRIES WILL DIE! 

you can always depend upon the six year old boys to give you a dose of your own reality just when you need it.  they'll happily put you right back in your special place in this world.

in the cold snowy dark i dropped them both at the airport this morning.  the six year old hugged me fiercely.  his father, my professor, hugged me even tighter and whispered that he already ached with the missing of me. 

i'll see them for the new year.  i also ache with the missing of both of them.  already.

White Knuckles

"Have you been hospitalized?"

"Not yet."

"I'm concerned that you want to just disappear."

"I just want to go somewhere other than here.  Somewhere other than Utah.  I'm really allergic to Utah."

"So, the thing is that you FEEL GOOD.  Who the fuck cares what it is that helps you to do that?  I'm calling in a prescription for you, but if you don't take it, it can't help you."

"Can't you just write me a prescription for Maui, instead?"

"Well, I could.  But I don't think your insurance will pay for it."

 

See Jennifer Aniston Naked

Impractical Love

I stood barefoot, aware that the tiles beneath my feet were not nearly as cold as I expected them to be on a night in December in Utah.  Last year, in the year without a furnace, my feet were never bare, or rarely bare, bare only because it was necessary to be bare in the short hop from shower back to half wet sliding into woolly warm socks. Here I was, standing barefoot, no woolly socks, aware of the splinter in my heel that throbs still, but is a constant reminder of how much he loves me.

Bare feet on cold tile floors and a splinter deep in my heel.  Impractical reminders of love, for certain.

I swam deep into his blue eyes and shared that November (or is it December? or is it just Utah?) is very difficult for me and I become less than a glittery spectre of the better pieces of myself.  I do not like the me of these dark and cold months.  The gratitude does not come so easily.  The gifts I love and long to share feel like they're buried beneath a snowbank, frozen, waiting for the sun to return. 

Is it any wonder, really, that we smack this season of our darkest days full of proffered presents and sugar laden feasts and manufactured good cheer?

I'm not particularly fond of the manufactured good cheer, but I am a big fan of the returning light.  Give me the sun. With a side of organic arugula.  Pretty, please.

I am the first to admit, right here, out loud, that I am cold and snappish, and my own boughs break easily during these cold dark days.  So forgive me for not tossing glitter bombs in your direction.  I've got them, as I know you've got them in all the colors of the rainbow, and perhaps the best remedy for all this dark and Grinchy green glum and gloom might just be an epic glitter bomb party. 

"My life is truly that much better because of you.  Thank you for being here.  Right here.  And for reading and loving me when you do."

I'm adjusting my tutu.  And my attitude.  And waiting for the sun. 

And saying grace for the splinter in my heel and all of you. 

 

 

Marching Off the Edge of My Map

1.  "We feel that medication is not effective for the treatment of your specific condition."

I really could not believe the words that I had just heard, so I asked the woman at Humana to please repeat what she had just said.

"We're declining to pay for that specific prescription because we do not feel it is effective for treatment."

"Can I just ask, please, when you became the doctors and got to decide what might or might not be effective for treatment of my very specific medical conditions?"

The woman at Humana didn't even pause and continued, "We're partners in your excellent medical care, Jennifer.  Your prescribing doctor will need to call us to discuss and authorize that medication for you."

"The same medication that I have been taking to help control my seizures for the last ten years?  That exact same medication?  The one you have decided with my excellent medical care in mind is not effective for treatment of my medical condition?"

"You will need to have your doctor call us.  Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

It's no secret that for a lot of my life I haven't even had medical insurance.  I happen to have it right now, but I'm not even certain how it is helpful when the people who are in charge of actually providing it get to make decisions about what is and is not appropriate in terms of medication for my specific condition. 

How is this good medicine? 

I do understand that there are profit margins to be considered, but the health and well-being of our fellow human beings should always come first.  I do not believe that allowing a computer generated data program to decide that one drug is more effective for treatment than another drug just because it costs twenty five cents less per pill is the best possible treatment for anyone. 

I have paid for my drugs out of pocket for a very long time.  Last week, I paid for my drugs out of pocket, again, simply because I couldn't wait for the insurance company to have a conversation with my doctor about what might be the best course of treatment for someone in my condition. So I'm paying insurance premiums for drug coverage that I really do not even receive. 

God Bless America.

 

2.  "I'll pray for you."

J is sitting across from me in the very crowded waiting room at our public mental health facilities.  I'm there because life turned upside down, as it sometimes does.  A trip here to find an angel in torn jeans and an ancient Ramones t-shirt and paint splattered shoes who can help make sense of the cacophony of voices screaming in my head just feels like a better option than another manifesto written in sharpie on the walls.  At least this time around.

"What are you here for?," J asks me.

"My head is full of all kinds of noise. I need help."

"Oh, are you schizophrenic, too? I am. But they're really good here. They'll help you. Do you do drugs, too, to shut everyone up?"

"No. Not anymore."

"Oh, that's so lucky. I try to not do them, but it's so hard."

"Are you here to get off drugs?"

"I'm here to stay off. I've been sober for five days. But it's so hard.  I was on Meth and I don't want to do Methadone.  But they're really good here.  They're going to help you so much."

"How were you paying for all those drugs?"

"Prostitution. I am always terrified I was going to get chopped up by a chain saw.  Getting in cars with strange men.  I'm usually so high, though, I don't even know what I'm doing.."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry for me. My mother did it, too. I've been out there since I was 16.  Do you read the bible?"

"I have read it.  I don't have a lot of faith in organized religion."

"You need to find religion, Jennifer.  It's the only thing that's going to save you.  Well, it will help you save yourself."

I hear my name called.  Intake. To sort demons from angels. To hear my own voice the loudest.  To love me.  Again.

"I'll pray for you."

 

3.  He slammed his fist on the counter and erupted.  In that instant, in that single moment of his anxious frustration, everything changed.

I had to leave.

In the leaving, in the walking out, in the moments of deciding that it was safer for my heart to not be there with him than to be there with him, I was so hurt and confused and small and broken that I lost all parts of my voice and could only barely whisper.

"I don't know."

I really did not.

Know.

We walk, in each relationship that we choose, on a fine edge between all that has come before and everything that we're choosing and hoping will be. We're not alchemists, exactly, of our hearts, though the wishes for just that can be bigger than either of us dancing the dance. 

My edge has thorny branches that reach out and stab at the most unfortunate moments. His edge is unchartered territory for me and the guazy veil that hides it makes the navigation to leap from my edge to his, the alignment of our selves against each other, sometimes more difficult than I wish it would be.  We have our old maps that we're trying to use and they're failing us.

Wishing and twisting and trying to find North, though, doesn't make either of our edges any softer or the navigation any easier. 

These moments of breaking happen, the cracks appear in the surface, the veil slips and allows a better view of things that truly terrify us.

The very bad endings of old fairy tales should never be allowed to write the beginnings of your new romance.

I love my professor in ways I did not even know I was capable of loving. 

This is all brand new and un-chartered territory.

That is what I know.

 

 

It's Been So Long

How do you get the naked girl to show up at your store grand opening? 

You give her free clothes!

Happy Naked Friday!