LA Stories: VeilFire

The best part of feeling a little heartbroken is that it's proof-positive that up until very recently, your heart wasn't 100% broken.
And if it wasn't TOTALLY broken before, and it was brave enough to reach out, then it's probably not irrevocably broken now.

So, like the Death Star, it will again be Fully Operational.

As artists, we tend to wear our hearts on our sleeves. This is a terrible idea, but Jesus I really think it's the only way I wanna be. Even though I'm strongerbetterfasterharder, I chose to maintain that character trait. I wear my heart on my sleeve. It keeps my other organs from getting sh*t all over it. Yesterday I was reminded that yeah, in terms of my ex, I got a little gut punch, but I also dodged a bullet. I love that quote from HIMYM: "I made the greatest Train Dodge since 'Stand By Me." ...Well, not that first kid, but the other kids."

And that's how it feels at this point. Of course it initially hurt to hear that my ex was engaged, but it was no surprise. He had to propose to her to justify what he did to me. ("See, it was worth it, right?!?") Someday I'll wish them well, but yesterday wasn't that day. I've been on an amazing adventure the last 2 years, but sure I'm still allowed to feel the feels I feel. That's because I'm not a f*cking monster. I'm allowed to miss the good parts. Then I remind myself that he definitely sucked a dude's dick. Keeps it really simple that way.

After a really good chat with a really good friend, watching the sun set through a thin sliver in the Universal Studios Employee Parking Garage, I cried out all my sad and felt much, much better. Getting past the raw emotion that honestly, I hope I always feel, because it is a spiritual rocket fuel, and listening to a rational voice asking me if I wanted him back after everything he did to me made it very easy: No. Aw FUCK NO. We made speculations about the success of an marriage between a homewrecker and a liar. And then I felt better.

I had a trio of besties meet me at my apartment, and, true to form, they came bearing vodka and incendiary devices. Aaron, Arica and Chelsea arrived and scooped me up. I'd been planning on driving my Celica to California myself, and as such had loaded it with everything I needed to Get Rid Of but couldn't simply throw away. Some of these items I'd already given to Chelsea for various art projects- I'd been on a big "let's do constructive things" kick, but this last item in particular was a Big Ticket Item and needed proper care and handling. And fire.

It was my wedding veil- which I'd found in a box at my mom's right before I moved.

It's been in the trunk of my car, waiting for something special. Fortunately, we had something very special in store. Aaron drives and spirits us away to Chelsea's Thotful Spot, in a recreational area hidden within the city of Los Angeles. We park at a distance and, already giddy from the night air, bound across the streets to an open gate. The heat of the day had dissipated, and the sleek coolness of the night breeze, smoothed even more by a brief skim over a green lake, greeted our flushed faces. I breathed. And it felt so good.

"Pair up," Chelsea said, and two by two we held hands and made our way down a somewhat steep hill covered in row after row of bright white rocks. Like layers of shark's teeth, they gleamed up in the moonlight. I smiled seeing Arica and Aaron work their way down, Aaron in his famous boots and Arica in a borrowed pair of my shoes. The shoes are a gift from my mother, who would have an instant coronary if she had seen what we were up to.

Chelsea holds my hand. "Sorry guys," she says, "I got dibs on the stilt walker." I laugh and we pick a path down, sure-footed as cats all nimbly pimbly and high off a moonlit adventure. We reach the bottom of the slope and a dusty dirt path awaits. I don the veil, which also luminesces in the magic night, and feeling the breeze blow the tulle behind me like a forgotten useless ghost, we walk down the aisle, staying hand in hand.

Eventually we arrive at the Tunnel- kindling is gathered and Chelsea lifts the veil from its position over my face and kisses me. This is the second time in my life this has happened. I was grinning like a fool on both occasions, but this time there were no tears. The filmy gauze is spread over the kindling, and I pour some extra flammable 3-in-1 glue over it as an insurance policy.

Sparklers are administered- the very same sparklers I'd entrusted to my friends the day I left California, promising to come back. They'd been kept, because my friends believed in me. Aaron takes my phone to document the event, and Arica, Chelsea and I each use our sparklers for a different sort of Independence Day.

The veil goes up beautifully, the flames glinting on the Swarovski crystals hand-placed by someone who also loves me.

I thought of the woman who made the veil as it burned. I thought of my wedding. I thought of my ex.
And I felt... love.
Giggling beneath the streets of Los Angeles with sparklers in my hands, I felt so much love.
The veil had to go. I had to let go of that last little piece to get past the emotional hurtle of the day, and I let it go in spectacular fashion.

The little pyre blazed, mirrored by the tiny fireworks on our hands, until not single scrap of tulle was left- even the bag I'd brought it in- everything burned, burned, burned until the hurt from the day was gone, replaced by the warm glow of love. Only the embers remained.

Hello Ember. I know you.

You are the same ones burning in my heart.

But the ones inside me aren't a brushfire threat, and eventually the embers became ashes. After a quick vodka shot, for the safety of the City of LA, and also because it was the right thing to do, we peed on the ashes. All four of us. So hard to do that while laughing so hard. It seems to match the same sentiment my ex ultimately had for our wedding, so perhaps that'll be my toast to them after all. Mazel.

By now I'm intoxicated by night and moon and breeze and fire and oh yes maybe a little vodka- we have a DD, but we also have the park to ourselves, so we plop down by an emerald green lake as the wild geese call out to one another. I can hear their sounds reverberate through our tunnel, reminding me that eventually every living thing, veil, goose, good intention or lie, eventually becomes ash.

All we have is the exact Now.

Someday I will be ash too- and I'm so fucking grateful for every moment I spent surrounded by the love I felt this night. We chat, we share, I am again blown away by the artistic talents of my friends as the most amazing pieces are shyly passed around on iPhones. A nosy turtle periodically pokes his head above water to listen in until our inevitable laughter frightens him off. No one looked at a watch, but suddenly we all collectively knew it was time to go.

Denny's to-go, a shared bottle of wine back at my place, and some sweet goodnights at my front door. It was a really good night, friends. If I am ash tomorrow, I will be thinking not about pain, or regret, but about how grateful I am to have been allowed this opportunity. And if someone pees me out, I hope they're having fun. It's only fair- and it feels AMAZING to have your giblets that warm.

Burning Butterflies

About a month ago a great friend invited me to go camp out under the stars in his backyard and make a little campfire. I was promised marshmallow roasting, so, done deal. If you want to guarantee I'll attend something, offer me any food on a stick; it is my kryptonite.
Knowing there would be fire, I took the opportunity to get rid of some old paperwork I had sitting around.

This was not just ordinary paperwork- this was 16 years any written word my ex had ever given me: notes passed in school, letters, slips of paper with a simple heart left on my windshield, anniversary cards and eventually marriage vows. "Treasures" I'd hoarded over the years, relishing any line penned by the man I loved. I worship the written word, and I worshipped him- I thought if he wrote it, if must be true. He didn't care much for writing, so there wasn't that much in the stack.

He would often draw a creepy "The Crow" face at the bottom of his correspondence in his early work. His spelling and grammar never improved beyond that, but I oh-so-lovingly lowered my standards and became ecstatic with any inked "proof" that he was thinking about me. That night at the fire, I re-read the words he'd left behind as cheap red wine coursed through my system. My friend kept stoking the fire, keeping it orange and bright and eager to cleanse.

Another pal kept us all chatting amicably to keep the mood light.
"Look at this one," I'd say, on the verge of tears. "This is the one where he promised to-"
"Ah, that's so cute," she'd cut me off. "Throw it in the fire."

Glistening liquid eyes and Blood-Alcohol Content made focusing hard, but I forced myself through every letter of every letter, chastising myself for reading so much into so little. I never wanted him to spend money on me- I'd even made a big deal out of not letting him BUY me anything for Valentine's Day, instead asking that he write me a love letter. My grand plan was to make a book to chronicle our affair for our kids to see one day.

Instead, this is the one (and only) Valentine's Day missive I ever received: "Roses are red, Violets are blue, let's get a philly cheesesteak - ..." The last line of the couplet didn't rhyme. It was a request for a oral.

I'd watched on Feb. 14th from my mother's kitchen as his car pulled up in the driveway. He'd forgotten it was Valentine's Day, but suddenly remembered my request, and had scribbled this out on a page torn from his notebook. I'd been disappointed and kind of offended at the time (I was 19,) but I convinced myself that he'd get it right next year, and I'd leave this one as a private "sexy" letter, just for me.
Evidence that I was wanted.

I didn't know at the time it'd be the only Valentine's Day letter I'd ever get. (He chose not to participate in the rest.) I guess it was too much to ask from him. Later he would leave me on a Feb. 12th and file for divorce on Feb. 14th, then lie about it for four weeks and "suddenly decide" after I sent him, of all things, a love letter.

I emailed him a list of 100 moments I loved in our lives together. He came to where I was staying that night and told me he was going to leave me anyway. Such a softie. He'd written me a few attempts at steamy pages over the years, but they were all thinly disguised requests for one act of passion or another. He'd start off musing and objectifying my body with all the literary craft of a 14-year-old, then eventually sort of start whining for sex.

There were letters explaining actions, there were letters of excuses, there were letters shaming me for being upset about him cheating, then shaming me for being jealous or suspicious. I'd kept those letters too- he so rarely put ink to paper... I just wanted a record of some sort.

"Look at how hard he tried."
"Throw it in the fire," my friend says, rubbing a soft circle with her hand on my back. "Let it burn."

Never was there an apology. Never was there an answer- just...bullshit. As the flames turned the paper to ashes, I felt a sense of relief- like in destroying these lies I was released from the hold they'd had over me. Knowing now what I know about this man and seeing 16 years of collective ego and falsehoods formed a more cohesive view of the writer. He'd been the same person all along- I just wanted a love story so badly, I pretended a last-second request for a blowjob was romantic.

Finally, the heavy-hitters...
The bottom of the pile of my inverted life: the wedding papers. I burned the cards first. All the glitter, jewels and ribbons melting into black char and unrecognizable carbon.

Then the vows. Oh, I cried hard when those went up in flames. Such pretty promises- I'd kept every one of mine. Reading his broken word again hurt me hard- I had truly been veiled, covered in a pretty snow job of white pure gauze and chiffon. The veil burned too. And the garter. And the ring box. And the paper I'd saved and been using to wrap his anniversary gifts in each June 19th. I even burned the Grinch Nose he'd been wearing when he proposed- the latex and paint burst into flame, and melted away like a melting green glacier. A tiny iceberg.
(NOTE: Ladies, if a man is hiding his face when he proposes, RUN.)

The last things to burn were the gifts we'd exchanged on our wedding day, which without any prior planning, had coincidentally both involved butterflies. I'd found a wind-up butterfly in a crafts store, and wound it up so when he opened his envelope, it would spring out into the sky and flutter away. I instructed him to open it outdoors. When he did, and he read the card, I'd inked my promise to him (to never bring up his cheating again): "With this butterfly, I am forgiving AND finally forgetting. I am letting go of my anger, fear, suspicion, and jealousy. When you see me again I'll be in a cocoon of white silk- a butterfly waiting for your release. Tonight we'll say goodnight to our friends and our family, and when it's just you and me we'll slip out of this chrysalis and into a new life together. I love you and I can't wait to start life anew with you as my husband."

He gave me a video game.
"Fatal Frame 3: Crimson Butterfly."
(It's a Japanese Horror game and it's actually pretty cool. I enjoyed it.)

I loved our dual butterflyship. Our wedding was beautiful. We cried together as we read the vows he'd later throw away and I'd be forced to burn.

A friend had retrieved and saved the wind-up gift, and I sobbed as it went into the fire.
That was the last thing I had to let go of: my own eager willingness to turn a blind eye. I didn't explain the significance of the winged messenger to my friends, who held me and kept chatting like people do when they're distracting a child from a booster shot. The yellow and black wings went up in flames, and it charred into nothing more than ash and wire.

I didn't want to burn my butterfly. I fucking LOVE butterflies. I wiped hot tears away and spoke instead of trivial things until I laughed again.

Eventually, the coals died down and we went to sleep on the pool deck. My friend made himself a stack of blankets to burrow under, and I slept in my clothes and my wolf hat snuggled tight in a nearby sleeping bag.
The chilly night passed and the sun came up.
The next morning I opened my eyes and FELT the day. I had no headache. I felt clear. I felt lighter.
The haze and smoke of the night before was gone, and only the faint smell of smoke lingered in my hair.
I breathed. I was breathing. I was OK.

I sat up and smiled at my friend, who grinned back at me from about 6 feet away as I slid slowly out of my silky sleeping bag.
The first words spoken to me that day were these:

"Good morning, Butterfly. Time to come out of your cocoon."

I will never know how I've wound up so lucky to spend my life with these incredible friends. The friends who let you burn when you need to, cry when you need to, and without any explanation, see you clearly first thing in the morning as you truly are: a singed-but undamaged, free Butterfly.