Why I am Not Voting

Why I am not Voting

I am not voting this November 3rd. The guilt is almost paralyzing.

I have voted in every election since I was 18. I rocked the vote in high school and college.

I made calls and begged for money for Obama.

I attended town halls for health care and local theatre and unleashed heavy anger on those anarchist who refused to vote.

I wrote a poem about it, yet

I am not voting this election.

I already ripped up my “application” to apply to be on the list to be sent a “registration form” to fill out and see if I am still eligible to

request a “mail in ballot”.

City hall is within walking distance

so I could easily go pick one up, or go wait in line to vote.

It is very convenient, yet

I am not voting in this election. I feel like I am being disloyal to a family credo that placed voting as the highest communion

over kindness.

A get out of jail free card to be greedy and judgmental.

I am not voting in this election not

because I love Trump or Hate Biden.

I feel that I have to defend my… choose… so that the club I pledged to as a teen won’t

send the tar and feathers to dis-embowel me or pull a henry8.

I am terrified as I write this that NASA surveillance is going to put me on the naughty list and

I won’t get any cold pizza at the volunteers party.

I have been consistent in my passion for voting and

took my responsibility very seriously. Have they earned my vote all these years? Will they notice that I skipped one election.

Will my name appear on there list of “target undecided” that cost,

i dunno a milly maybe two; but I am bad with money so

I will leave the statistics to the political organizers. Besides I never really had time to

account for the money that went in to securing my dutiful vote….. in their favor.

No favors for me though, how strange.

I could say that I am just too tired to vote, or too busy trying to make money and

feed myself. I can use the excuse that nothing ever changes so why bother. I can also use the excuse that with all that money my ‘party’….of choice raises,………… they have failed

to make my process of voting

any easier.

I could ask where does all that campaign money go and

why has not my favorite candidate sent someone to my door

to collect my vote and

give me money and

register me for a beneficial health plan.

They……. it doesn’t work that way. They ………say that

I am lazy. But I always vote.

Never too lazy for that.

Then I feel better for four years.

Working and

complaining and

arguing and

slaving until I get the privilege to vote again.

I am not voting in this election.

I am a bad girl.

I am a very bad girl. The elf on the shelf would be furious. Please don’t tell on me………

Yes it was RapeCUz

my cousin raped me. I just realized that she raped me. I was 12 and she was 16. I spent my whole life thinking that she was a child and that i was somehow at fault because I was going through puberty. It never dawned on me that 16 year olds don’t molest 12 years olds, especially their cousins. It is not normal yet I punished myself for allowing her to touch my breasts. I doubt I had any significant breast but I remember that exciting time of life reading “Are you their god it’s me Margret” and feeling like my boobbie buds were the biggest things in the world.

I am angry that my parents and her parents (my aunt) did nothing to protect me or comfort me. I am angry that they did not allow me to grieve my sexual innocence then and at age 7 when my oldest brother fondled me. I say fondled, though it was so much more, but he was 12. A true child. That did not excuse him from years after of inappropriate touching that finally ended when I called him out on a butt slap. I was 22. My family has since disowned me for addressing these truths out loud and to them I am now dead. I am taking my power back from keeping the family secrets for a family that does not exist anymore. I was raped by my brother and my female cousin and my parents did nothing about it. Just because I was a victim does not mean I am a victim. It happened and I have a absolute right to be angry about it. I have the right to be Sad about it. I have the right to feel hurt by it and most of all I have a right to talk about it. Whenever I want, however I want and as often as I want. Child Abuse is never acceptable no matter how bad their PARENTS had it. Child Abuse creates CHILD abusers. The rest are left to murder or suicide. Anger is a natural response and needs to be felt. Hug your children often. If you spend more time yelling at them than holding them:::: Get thee to therapy right away or dial in friend. Be kind to children and don’t be afraid to be nosy on the ones who have the saddness in their eyes. You could be their only hope. We are all each other’s children.


Hello ladies,

I really want to explore this issue of the me too movement. While there are fringe elements that want to use it to create vengeance against innocent bad behavior, we must get to the underbelly of how we are all effected by sexual abuse..

In our culture we tend to look at abuse in relative terms, meaning only those who suffered battery or rape can fit the criteria of joining the conversation. This is what i had been told my whole life by family members who were afraid to look at the side effects that come from minimizing a woman’s fear and pain.

I spent almost 40 years trying to mold myself into this perception that i was fed in which i was told to compare myself to others who suffered more. This became the excuse to which I subconsciously buried the trauma while still trying desperately to find my own peace with it.

The muzzle is the smoking gun that causes an issue to blow up and create total destruction of the people’s lives that my adult self had relationships with. This invisible sadness that can never quite be taken seriously unless there are bruises, blood and blatant discrimination.

I have many things i would like to explore about this topic and not all of it will be in this writing but I have come to a point where I can’t ignore it any longer. For many woman we are face each day with folks who grow uncomfortable with our story and dismiss us by convincing us that we are dwelling on the past. Well the truth is, the past will repeat unless it is address in a meaningful way according to the victims sense of healing.

There is no time table for healing and there is never a reason to forget the abuse we suffered. It is, and always be part of our story and in facing it until we get to the root is the only way to educate young woman and men to keep their bodies safe.

I don’t have much knowledge about the men’s perspective but I welcome any stories of your suffering. I feel like part of the reason we have not solved this insidious issue is because men and woman still view each other on different islands. I am guilty of this absolutely but I recognize that when we stop communicating with each other and sharing our gender shames, we tend to “other” the other.

Men become the villains’ and the perpetrators and woman become the hysterical emotionally unstable ones. In my life, this belief was perpetuated by my father who refused to admit that I was sexually abused and that I hold scars for a lifetime. My mother, following suit in order to not upset my dad was unable to discuss it without going to guilt and shame that made her the victim and forced me to take care of her feelings.

Being a woman who spent my whole life as a performer and spent my young adult years in hollywood, I was very aware of the sexual tension that exist in world that sizes an actor up by their physical appearance. As a survivor I found myself torn between allowing myself to be in my sexual beauty; for my own enjoyment as well as to be a viable casting choice, and protecting myself from unsolicited advances.

Like most woman, my subconscious used weight and baggy clothes and hard as nails serious artist, to build a wall from this very real energy that exists with men of power. The casting couch is an easy place to fall for any girl or boy, let alone if you have a history of trauma. I had many close calls and I used promiscuity with my boyfriends to guard myself from this pitfall.

When a woman walks into a room she is automatically sexualized. This is a fact that many fathers or bosses understand. We are expected to deal with as our problem and create an identity that is strong, confident and masculine like while still maintaining our female sensuality.

If we allow ourselves to be truly vulnerable and we get violated, it is seen as our fault. No woman, girl or teen can get away with being completely comfortable with our bodies when at every turn there is a man who want to have sex with us. Woman need to be on guard at all time because we never know if we are going to be over powered, manipulated or worse dismissed for not doing the flirt thang and entertaining the inappropriate behavior.

Woman in this culture have been forced to be surrogate men in a pretty dress but when we complain or show our pain we are seen as weak and crazy. I am not blaming men for this because my mother was just as demoralizing to my experience as my father. We all have male and female energies within us and this issue is less about gender and more about denial.

We both normalize, not only the sexualization of individuals, but also the shut up and do your job mentality. Now is the great shift and the me too movement is not going away no matter who claims it to be invalid. Speak up, speak out and most important share your story with a person who has empathy. Telling our story to people who don’t get it will just re-traumatize you. I have been shouting at the rooftops for years to stone hearts and the result has been extreme self loathing and isolation.

There are people who understand and many more people who share the same pain but it takes time to sort out who those people are. My hope is that children will be given these tools at a young age so that they can avoid the life roadblocks that these traumas cause in relationships, career and self esteem.

We no longer, men and woman, need to feel like we are the problem. When we choose to not shut the fuck up, we will eventually see a tipping point where are precious little humans can live in world where they feel safe in their bodies. Why the fuck not??


Hello expressionist. Welcome to my rant. Since we are all in quarantine and not able to meet in person I must get my fix somewhere. Your welcome by the way. Here is my question to the mass or just one of you. Who are you being in the face of Covid?

This is the question i have on my mind as i watch the mainstream conversation on basically all my favorite television outlets. My frustration continues to grow as I see our country do the same bypassing that we always do just with a more somber tone.

In my world covid is teaching me to go within and clean out all the old past chilhood trauma’s that have interfere with my life. For my new earth friends they are collecting and distributing food for community members in need. For some they are using the opportunity to better know their family, friends and especially their children.

I see some of this reflected in the “media” aka “US” but it tends to be the background story to yet again another dog and pony show political showdown. It seems like covid is become a cash cow for the news to reinvent themselves without digging into the real issues.

I worked in the news field during college and know all about agenda setting and attention grabbers, it is the reason I ran for the hills and decided to go to LA to be a movie star instead. Broadcasting is a typical plan b for most actors on the east coast, much like being a casting director is the backup plan for those out west. Pretty talking heads that say very important things but have no skin in the game.

How we have boiled it all down to confirmation hearings and trump and the election is baffling to me. We live in a world with the most educated journalist and many letter carrying professionals yet the tone is the same across the board. Are we really thinking that all our problems are going to go away by voting. I know that is not something I usually say but we are in the now and the now reality, plus history is showing us that it is not enough.

This plague may pass by us with nothing but some clever biographies making the same talking heads even more rich than they are now. Some industries will collapse and some will be created. We know the routine, we have lived it many times over, but when are we going to shift the conversation. I picture a day when every major news organization presents like a charlie rose or a tavis smiley show. I am sure there are other out there that you can substitute for my examples, but the point is we must take the noise down ten notches.

I am not against debate or protest but can we have that be the side dish and not our main sustenance. My anger and fear is that we as a country will yet again waste an opportunity to talk the real talk. Katrina, Sandy, Sandy Hook, 911 and Breonna Taylor only scratches the surface. Expressionists it is up to us. The brave truth tellers to open our throat chakras and be the counter culture. I don’t see any other way but to ask yourself Who am i being in the face of covid?


Dear universe, I am putting in my request for my dream lover. Not the type that i have tripped over before. You know the ones who matched my list, bought me chocolates and parade me with flowers and wine. I am asking for a real love, a true love. A man who is there for me through thick and thin and holds me accountable to be there with him in good times and bad.

Dear universe, I know I have knocked on the wrong doors and chased after the unavailable but I had to know what love was not in order to know what love should be. A man who has the guts and guile to show his ugly face, his crazy side and his tender fears and holds me accountable to do the same.

Dear universe, bring me a dream lover that is not a dream but a living breathing human that knows that the greatest courage there is lies in opening the heart to get broken. i have messed it up universe a million times but through those mistakes i have learned what showing up is not in order to know what showing up should be.

Dear universe, bring me a love of a lifetime and the bravery to admit that this earth life is not meant to be alone despite what the negative voices say in my head.

Dear universe, bring me a love that is solid in frienship, companionship and honesty. Allow me to be a loyal advocate and compassionate listener and to hold him accountable to do he same.



Hey ladies…

Hey What….

Hey ladies…

Hey What…

why do we need to prove our worth by the amount of money our men make?

In my 20’s the first question asked of me was where am i from

in my 30’s it was what do i do for a living

in my 40’s it is no longer a question but a concern not only that i don’t have a man or kids

but “maybe you will find a rich husband”

yeah that will make everything ok.

Hey men

Hey what

Hey men

Hey what

stop asking me why i am alone

ask me what i am reading

stop asking me why i have no children

ask me what project i am working on

stop asking me to be your sex toy without commitment

ask me what vision i have for my life.

Hey children

Hey what

Hey children

Hey what

be a friend

ask questions

be clear in your convictions

and aim higher than being

than having

a RichMan


once upon a time in a village of gold a very curious little girl went out into the forest to find a prince. Along the way she met squirrels and owls and coyotes, each one by one taking her by the hand and whisking her away to the enchantments of the woods.

Exhausted and weary from playing with all the creatures of the land, the young maiden laid down for a rest by the babbling brook. As she came out of her slumber a majestic figure approached her and lifted up her head to the light in the sky, twinkling and glossy. Unfortunately the animals grew jealous and sent in the snakes and the bats to puncture each toe and and each finger so that she can walk no more towards the dream of her prince.

Desperate to hold on to this royal boy suspended just out of reach, the majestic figure suddenly dissolved by the bite of the scorpion and bid her farewell never to be seen again. This little girl wept and howled, much like the fisher cats. This little girl retreated and regressed much like the momma bears hibernating in the winter; until she found herself all grown up and naked in a field of lilies.

This lovely girl, now a lady creeped down into the stiff grass to search for wild edibles to sustain her on her journey through the weeds in the valley. Running, skipping, jumping and bouncing under scorching sunbeams and shivering star dust she tripped and fell flat on her face and got stuck in the mud.

Frozen in suspense to the flora seeping into her nose and sand filling her mouth she grabbed tightly to an invisible rope back up to standing. Emerging, dirt ridden skirt and grey hairs matted down by leaves and twigs, she witnesses her ugly reflection in a puddle nearby. She spent a moment and an eternity studying this impression barely recognizable yet mesmerizing.

Lost in thought and safe from the viscous beings of the dark, a warm sensation hugged her back like a snug bug in a rug. Not wanting to scare this comfort away, she sat in stillness daring not to turn her head but instead sat dazed at her own eyes fawning back at her from the crystal clear waters. Eons passed and still she would not move from this gaze or the warmth, praying to keep it forever.

Finally she grew lonely and looked up to the oracle in the banyan tree for guidance. Tentatively she confessed that as nice as that reflection and that warm hug may be, she still deeply longed for her prince. She sat like a totem statue listening for a pin drop, when a fierce gust of wind that stretched each of the tentacles of each of the branches of the great banyan had attached itself to her shoulders, hips and ankles and twisted her around like a tornado in slow motion.

It Lifted her up with the grace of a feather to the top of the mountain and to the bottom of the well and back to her perch on the ground decorated by brown eyed susan’s. As she regained her balance she searched frantically for her puddle and cried out for her lost warmth, fearing moving made it gone. She walked aimlessly for centuries making meaning from the vision until one day, surrendering to the memory and regret the maiden got so distracted by a luminous bed of buttercups.

A childlike glee swept throughout her soul as she recreated all the wonder that buttercups bring, not thinking of her prince or her puddle or that warm hug. All she saw was yellow yellow everywhere. A yellow better than gold and better than silver. A yellow so pure that nothing else can exist. Am i dead, she wondered, not really caring and just basking in the fleeting moments of pedal after pedal. Then, as if by magic, this lonely girl captured a face in the center of a daisy poking its head out off in the distance.

She spotted two eyes, a nose, and a mouth etched into each new seed ready to be set free by the hummingbird. She stared closer as the daisy seeds morphed into a man just like her, with mud on his face and dirt in his mouth. She noticed he also was enjoying the endless color of yellow and the simple joys within that garden of flowers. And…In that moment she knew that her king was staring back at her and she never again went searching for her prince. The End

Solitary Journey

Being an artist is a solitary journey. I am Jane Eyre watching my word children and book husband dance before me. The fear and delight of letting my secret skeltons out of the closet like fireflies or butterflies desperately catching and releasing.

Rumi gave us bird wings as a map to independent isolation and a volcano simmering to create a new island. Maybe in Hawaii where the sand settles to host the mainland then plunges’ into the ocean for a future to rebirth.

I contract and i expand within my own source of validation praying for life to take notice. Pretending to not care as the fist open and closes. Wanting it forever open but rumi told me no.

He gave me that guest house to sit and ponder on its friends and enemies and endlessly capturing the not quite there and good enough. Are we connected to an invisible master or have we lost our minds. A thin veil between mastery and muzzle. Lined up so pretty to throw a buck or two into the tip jar and grateful to be invited.

A hobby that overtakes all my waking and no person can truly see. Pushed aside to make room for overhead lights and back to my cubby little girl fancy. When are you going to grow up. echo when are you going to get serious. Words of pain do not pay the rent so back up and allow me to be better than you.

Pride to make mistakes and prejudice to tally my knowledge and memorize my labor. A Coppermine testing my skin to see what is below the field of brain rantings to be part of the group. King James reminds me of the simple gift of not knowing intelligence and off the beaten path towards Edenborough castle that I see through this obscure camera. Melting at the drop of water but a symbol none of us can deny.

I am on a solitary journey with the way set forward by the lost writers we celebrate on a silver screen.