Posts Tagged ‘AA’

So, I’ve been doing the black/white thinking again, which always comes from the ego nature.  Do I self-publish, just finish out the book, and pick up the checks in an hour? LOL, I’m not that stupid. Maybe.  But of course, Gandalf the Magician is Grey. The Middle Pillar, The Middle Path. Nothing in excess. My Book Doctor says, you have the chops, girl, it’s all right here, now SLOW DOWN. Forty years ago, my  Teacher of Teachers David, told me that my karma was to learn patience, and I thought my life pay-off would take until I was 21, 25 at most. Now I’ll turn 60 on May 1st of next year and I still don’t grasp the waiting. The Great Work indeed. It’s just that my ego is wearing down, although my mania keeps on throbbing, 20 hours a day. Luckily, it’s not a matter of self-publishing or Random House, the urgent throbbing issue I’ve pondered all week.  Hey, they in the expensive suits never did it right anyway, even with my first, The Main Event. That was on professional wrestling and Vince McMahon promoted it in his own arenas and TV shows. The Dial Press did doodie. Sure, the books looked nice, but the re-printing took forever, the product never arrived when I was there, and I could go on. All the white glove prestige still stands though. Even today. Until they slap a fancy cover on it and take 90% of your earnings, you can’t really be a writer, an author. Self-published? Gawd.  You must be bad. Fifty Shades of Why Can’t Everyone in The World Stop Talking About This?  Because Rachel, the Book Physician is right. It’s a fluke. A Powerball ticket. Like the one pretty girl who comes here from Kansas (I live in LA, right near Hollywood Blvd., which isn’t Hollywood) and becomes a movie star without knowing someone or being the daughter of someone else. A fluke. You have to write a good book. My professor/mentor John, who liked to put his hand up my skirt (hey, this was way before Anita Hill and sexual harassment as a concept) said: “you have to decide, do you want to be rich, or do you want to be great?”  I always thought both would be fine. But Gandalf is gray,grey, whatever. LIVING UNDER THE INFLUENCE is a fine first draft, well, 3/4 of a first draft. It has several problems. I don’t even need a doctor to focus light on them, but then again, Rachel is brilliant and a mighty fine writer, so much so it would be nice to have her sit with me one day a week. I was an editor for 30 years, and about the writing, well, you can go to https://www.amazon.com/author/robertamorgan and see I am an author of more than one book,  also you can go here: http://www.robertamorgan.com and learn all about me, at least on the surface. They’re both near the very top layer of the onion’s skin. Living Under The Influence now, it exposes the 2nd through 25th layer, and Rachel, darn her, caught me right away. Well, there’s so many more, aren’t there? The whole thing, Roberta, is that you’ve had this amazing and tragic life, being SO honest no one ever wrote this way but BS you’re not, things just don’t jive. Making things a little too nice, too packaged and just when you can’t deal, oops, off you go to another chapter in time and place, which is one excuse for why you fought for non-linear excerpts from the 1960’s through to the present, from the suburbs of NYC to Los Angeles via London and Miami Beach, till the bitter end. Yes madam doctor, I run from the worst of the truth in myself but mostly in others. Hell, we all do it. Drugs, lovers, booze, divorce, talking too much, spending, moaning, whatever–stay away from the real deal here. But this book, what is special was not that I messed around with Jagger or had a radio show the night OJ ran, or went to Woodstock, or got a DUI because I had a nervous breakdown in LA. What made and will make this book a different memoir is that it’s a big life I’ve had and will continue to have, and it’s time to pause and write about it all, like the fourth step of AA, the complete moral (hate that word) inventory. THE TRUTH. And yes, it will hurt me writing it, and hurt others when it comes out. But they must be written as scenes, not like reportage. Right down to the core of the onion. They will set me free and hopefully, will touch people about the human condition of pain, survival and possible redemption. That the Higher Self can win against the ego nature if it is ever vigilant, moment by moment, no matter what crappy things happen to us at however young we are. Or whenever. The first polish has to be redone from the top. It seems, LOL, that I was not only slurring my speech, courtesy of modern psychotropic drugs. I was slurring my words on the page! Withdrawing as I wrote, Rachel was astonished at how I went from competent to okay, to good to WOW as she read my 300+ms. I’ll tell depressed and anxious writers in the future not to take all those pills, or they’ll slur their prose! When it comes down to it, I won’t be able to bail my love and I out of an-all-work-no-play situation in flash time. I always told my students and writers to count on at least three drafts, a good year or more of crafting. I knew that, yet I didn’t. The ego remains the child who steals the cookies and hopes she won’t get caught. But she will, and yet she tries for decades. When she learns, she can move on. Satan or God can publish this book. Doesn’t matter. It’s the book that matters, the only thing which counts for anything in the equation. Not the links, clicks, likes, shares, tags, blogs, websites, publicity, apps. The Book. Everything else stands in service to that, as it should be. Lose sight of that, and we’re lost. Wish me well on this journey; it’s getting closer to the last chance Texaco.Image

 

Los Angeles, Present Days

AB541 Three Month Program of Classes begins the round of stupidity.  You get the list of what classes you have to do, then hunt for one on the internet that isn’t in Arizona.  The 541 classes and the

12 NA classes are for?  I don’t know.  The court.  But you end up with three sheets of thin paper which crunches in your handbag because on your first day in AB541, where you pay $760, they tell you to add another six classes.  Why? New rule.

I find my first AB541 class on Hollywood Blvd and Cahuenga, which should take me ten minutes, but like all things in the last five years, I’m so nervous I get there an hour before.  Although they’re gentrifying Hollywood, this ain’t the bit. And if I hadn’t spoken to the girl on the phone, it would have been hidden.  Over a massage place on Hollywood, on the side.  It was a souvenir shop, and in the back, on the second floor.

Parking up the road costs ten bucks, but everyone else seems to know where to park that’s free.  I know I’m in the right place because about a dozen hunched over men and three girls are smoking, trying to drag something out of the filter.  They don’t seem to see me there.  Average age of the group: 22.  They talk about cars, speeding, beer parties, pools.

Gradually, a big guy, still a decade or so younger, comes out and they all greet him.  He lights up and shakes my hand, knows my name.  Brings me up to sign some paperwork.  A schedule of dates.  This gig is a one hour “movie” and a one and a half hour meeting, nothing like NA or AA, just like a requisite…something.

We all trudge into a room, after signing our names, paying our money.  I am still invisible and that does not really change much.  When I speak it is school again, last kid on the team, almost two years younger than everyone else except this time the other way around.  Ma, or grandma, dressing too cool, hair too long, but hot body.

The guy, Dan the counsellor turns off the lights. Cheap TV, he turns on the tape.  A female doctor is at the podium discussing Prescription Drugs: A Menace on The Road.  Found that out lady.  Her monotone does me in.  I nod off at least twenty times.  People turn around and stare.  This will be a recurring problem, and could be dangerous, as well.  Did I just shoot up before attending? Will they demand a drug test and cart me off again?

Suddenly, the lights come up and I rouse.  This first time no one catches that I missed three-quarters of the film.  Small mercies.  We get a 15 minute smoke break.  Better than prisoners.  Awkward,’cause I’m still like a lawn chair, even when I smile and try to ask a question.

A few speak Armenian, a few Russian.  One girl is rich but thinks she is a prostitute and all the men hope she is.  Also thinks she can drive her father’s car with no problem.  I suppose girls with sixteen different shades of highlights do not belong to Mensa, but then, neither do I for different reasons, like they’re boring snobs.

Head guy Dan comes out for a smoke and here I see his bitterness with the system, or just his act.  Sure, to do his job you need a long checkered past of jail, drugs, alcohol, lord knows what else. Then you have to go to school.  The school part I’d like.  I was always reporting on, reading about, and fascinated by criminals.  But this is petty shit in my eyes.

Too bad the state doesn’t see it that way.

We got up to the meeting, go around the room. I’m already in panic.  It’s the wrong place, though the girls at the desk and Dan waves it off, although I’ll learn in the future that even when you don’t make a mistake, they make it a mistake.  Wrong form, right typeface.  Right type, wrong form.  Go straight to jail.

Everyone in the room has “blown” a something or other. A .17 or the saddest one, a poor Mexican fellow with a .09; the legal limit being .08.  Nice cop for busting him and taking away all his hard saved funds for a family home.  They come around to me.  Only thing I’ve blown lately is Brian.

“I’m not a drinker,” I say, and eyes narrow, as though I’m a spy. “I was busted for drugs.”  Now they look at me like a dirtbag in an alley.

“Man, oh man,” one guy says.  “Those NA meetings are so depressing.”  And these are?

I see most of these people are almost done.  No one tells you what to do.  What do people with no money and not a stinking clue get through this? They go to jail, and then lay tar on roads for 100 hours.  For a first offense.

I recently heard some NYPD stories.  About people being sobered up in the station if they had no priors.  Of cops sharing boozy war stories.  In New York, we know what crime is, and how to treat which ones accordingly.  Back in the day, Grace and I were smoking a joint semi-secretly down 15th street, too young to know how we smelled.  A cop came from behind us and we jumped.

He whispered, “Got another joint? Smells like great stuff.”

That was MY city.  All of a sudden, I’m in Singapore, getting 1000 lashes.

15 more weeks of this.  Bullet through head.  Don’t have a gun, so there’s no choice.

One funny story: a morose girl tells of her field test when arrested in which you have to do various acrobatic tricks with your eyes closed.  I’ve asked friends, even trainers, and not one could do them.  She tell us she was ordered to stand on one leg with her eyes closed for five minutes. She tells the cop:

“Shit! I couldn’t do that if I was sober.”

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David taught me all about the teachings of Ernest Holmes and The Science of Mind.  Basic metaphysics, but too much Jesus for me.  Down the block is Spirit Works, based on his teachings.  Wow!  The signs.  These are the NA meetings.  My good friend, who’s been through it all via AA, warns me.

“Don’t volunteer to share.  Just do the time. And for God’s sake, don’t say you’re a writer.  These people are terrified.”

The Anonymous part is read, read, and read again.  It has no legal binding, but it is an ethical one.  So I will be general, although I’ll mention that I nod off here, too and everyone looks at me.  They’re much older for the most part, many who make me feel young, so they think I’m still “using.”  Which I am, because only a skillful psychiatrist can wean me off these cocktails in a year or more.

I am fresh meat; everyone wants to be my sponsor.  It’s supposed to be same gender, but there’s one gay guy who makes this his life’s work and cures everyone.  I may take him yet but so many of these people appear to be Stanford Clean.  Don’t like therapists.  Are accused of being a crutch or a cult.  A cult, I can see, but whatever works.

They have rituals, like a church.  Celebrating months, years sober.  Birthdays.  announcements.  Then reading from cards.  The infamous Twelve-Step Program.  Won’t buy the book, it’s all boiled down on the Net.

People cry a whole lot here, for there are sad stories to tell.  My friend explains that booze does damage more slowly, while drugs do you in quick.  Shows you how much he knows, being an ex-alkie.  I took Xanax for 30 years, two milligrams a night.  Smoked marijuana just to get to sleep since college.  No more photographic memory, but a lot of good shit published.

I didn’t know at which meeting, but I admit to having taken a Xanax the night before. (I had to share, I am a performer, and if I don’t, I nod off.)

A woman shuts me up, tells me I can’t share because that’s the rule.  You must have at least 48 hours clean.  I start to cry and cry and don’t stop. Look at the floor with hatred.  She tries to apologize; others touch my shoulder.  Only later do I realize how selfish I am, how like an addict.

Like an addict?  I am one.

I have made people who already are miserable feel even worse.

Like instant karma, I trudge back home, and there is a thick envelope my lawyer said would never come.  From the bowels of Hell itself, the DMV.

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David would be beating me with a metaphorical stick.  A magician has power, he is never overwhelmed.  He has courage, he walks through adversity.  And all these memories.  How have I not forgiven, let alone forgot?  Tonight I sit with another bureaucratic mistake, another debacle to handle which may or may not work out and I feel like Job in the Bible.

How?  Because I’m getting better at what I do. These last few years have humbled me, sweetened me, and left me prone to forgive weakness.  I thought I knew it all, that I was chosen.  Fact is, if you think that, you probably have a lot of learning to do.  That’s why most of the Holy in the East are beggars.

So one day I will forgive. Until then, I’ll try.

(I will say that I have always been a sucker for those old fortune-telling structures, the kind with the wax dummy that moves its hand over a deck of cards at fairs and amusement parks—and Las Vegas, where I found one.  The card was happy enough for my 50 cents, but it said watch out for my “karma.”  Just one word. MOTHER.)

When I walked out of the NA meeting crying, I had a breakthrough with my old here again, gone again Brian.  Up and down Brian.  Just stop taking drugs Brian.  He saw the state I was in.

“You mask your pain with all your rituals and sleep and OCD,” I said, finally, after 40 years.  “I mask mine with drugs.”

He held me, shaking and crying in the parking lot, for a good half hour.  Next week he was back to the same warm again/cold again Brian.

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