For 15 years I’ve been working collectively making theatre; and 80% of the time I’m in the room I can’t shut up. I’m loud, opinionated and passionate. I care a lot. I’m sure it’s annoying as fuck. I tell my collaborators when I think they’re off the mark. I fight for my ideas. I’m fine getting into conflict and hashing out shit. I also like being challenged and stood up to. But it’s exhausting. Being the one in the room who knows the best way to do everything. So, about half way through every creative process I’m in, I start feeling shame. I shut my mouth and sit on my hands and my mantra becomes “be good Emelia, try to be good…” But I can’t. My pressurized neutrality never lasts more than 15 minutes and soon I blow up even bigger than if I had let it out in a slow leak. Do I really think I’m going to change after 37 years? My first ever report card said that I “needed to learn to listen more and talk less.” I’ve been a loud-mouth since the day I was born. But you know what, I make good stuff and I get things done. So love the bitch. Because she’s you and she always has been; and she’s not going to change. Ever. No matter how much you try and squish and push and cram her into a crack, she will bloom out like an indestructible fungus of light. And that’s the best news you’re going to get all day.
I don’t have a problem saying No.
My parents tell me it was my first word.
No. Way. Man. was the first phrase to be exact.
I have really good boundaries.
“No. I don’t want to”.
“Maybe next time”.
I just finished babysitting your baby today. I have salmon stuck on my neck and in the crease under my left breast.
My eardrum is damaged due to high frequency screaming.
I had to hold her while I was peeing…
I may be the only 33 year old in the western world that has not gotten the full meal deal when it comes to waxing so I thought it was high time. I was unclear about options, rules and etiquette so I spoke plainly. I would like the front to look tidy. I would like the undercarriage clean. Why am I doing this? I started to wonder as I took off my pants and lay down on the dentist’s chair. To be completely honest it’s because everyone else is doing it. It’s because I’ve been told that ‘keeping it real’ is considered grotesque. It’s because when my hippy 9-month pregnant friend walked naked into the living room the other day and I saw her huge bush enter the room before I saw her belly I thought, “How on earth could her partner navigate through all that?” I gotta’ simplify. So here I am lying supine with nothing but a cable knit sweater on and the tension is palpable. Am I ready? Will I falter? My esthetician is 21, soft-spoken and clearly wise beyond her years. I feel safe with her. She has walked this journey before. There is mantra music playing in the background. Whales, bells, flutes, chimes and another sound that reminds me of a whispering baby. The relentless repetition calms me. She asks me to put one leg into half Bodda Konasana. I am suddenly exposed as she assesses the situation. She can’t even begin at the bikini line as first she has to clean up all the way down to my knee. My first experience in this practice is deep humility. “Sorry” I want to whisper “I’m sorry that my hair grows.” She finally moves into the bikini line area and this is the first time…
I just saw the gnarliest squirrel running along a telephone wire outside my hotel room window. It looked like a cross between a ferret and a pencil. Most of his hair was gone except for random tufts sticking out along his thin belly but he seemed quite jaunty and free. It’s destiny that I see this squirrel today because he reminds me a lot of me.
It’s surprising how little I care for my looks…
Even if yourself is a real know-it-all critical asshole sometimes.
Really be that ass.
Deeply love that ass..
You do not know me but you sleep beside me every night.
I cannot seem to manage this PMS thing. I’ve had my period for 22 years and it still sneaks up on me monthly. I kinda go off the rails. First off, I have no perspective that this hate I feel is hormonally induced. When I am bleeding I truly in my deepest heart know that I: 1. Need to break up with my man. 2. Need to quit my job and re-start my life. 3. Everyone around me is out to ruin me. 4. Everyone else is a stupid douche. And this happens every month. This knowing that the people I normally love and cherish are evil and are trying to hurt me. This reality that I am fat and horrible and a waste of space. I know this. I am not being dramatic here for literary purposes, I really and truly see the light and I KNOW. It is scary because I feel as if I have no control over this monthly madness. That is what it is- I have a total lack of reign on my emotions. I have no ability to distinguish between my period thoughts and my normal thoughts. I scare myself. I’m no fun to be around. I’m tight and mean. I want to rip myself out of my own nasty skin and slaughter happy families. Someone once told me that menstruation is a time where once a month a woman gets to really react without sensors to how she actually feels in the world. She gets to be honest with herself. If that’s the truth I am in big trouble. I wish I could go into a Red Tent. I wish I could take myself out of the world for a week and not worry about being an asshole or feeling horrible or if…
I get along quite well in crowds because I become all elbows. Put me into a situation where I have to get my immediate family out of some sort of military takeover and I will get us across the last free border just in time…
When I take an airplane I always bring something fizzy to drink in my carry-on luggage. As I go through security I ready myself in anticipation. Of course, they find the liquid and they say “sorry lady, you are going to have to drink this before you go through security or leave it behind.” I then tell them “I have diabetes, I need to carry sugar with me at all times and unless you want to see a woman in a diabetic coma, this better not be a problem.”
And they let me through.