Tag Archives: Amber Heard

The Amnesiac.

Foreboding sounds, weaving movements, fueling explosive force. Being too close, too near the source.

My body, splitting in half – one part feigning calm, the other fortifying for the fight.

Setting my sight on the escape plan, relief in knowing there’s always someplace else to go.

The aftermath. Indigestion, and stark recognition that only I would ever know.

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Alcoholic amnesia is real.

Scientific studies: done. Papers: published – in peer reviewed journals. Conclusions: reached.

Drunks.

Don’t.

REMEMBER.

Some have multiple identities, early childhood trauma causing their brains to diverge until personality becomes an adaptation instead of what the rest of us would learn to call our selves.

Those who pile on other agents – hallucinogens, opiates, stimulants……the brain responds. The save file sorts. The neurons, hormones, proteins…..all converge to devise a plan to find homeostasis, to maintain balance.

https://www.alcohol.org/comorbid/amnestic/

And, at what cost?

It’s hard for the rest of us self righteous slobs to imagine losing most of the hours in a day or days to a black out of time. It’s harder yet to endure when somebody we love is missing them, particularly at our expense. Soiled underwear; dishware and glass, smashed; random condoms and strange clothing; interiors, trashed. And, all the protestations, escalating to fever pitch. I DIDN’T DO IT. IT WASN’T ME. I WASN’T THERE.

What about these convicts who don’t remember brutal murders?

How far does temporary insanity stretch?

What’s the ratio of impulse to conscience? When does the brain flip the switch?

And, is there a drug to produce total recall?

Talk about an assault to the senses. How would one live through that scenario?

From this range, seems like an even trade.

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© 5/7/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. No copying in whole or part, including translation, and sharing permitted by direct blog link exclusively – no RSSING. Thank you for the respect.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Breaking The Horse.

There are a few things about which most of us know nothing.

Rendering a wild horse civilized is likely one of them.

This past week, we all had the opportunity to be introduced to that remote subject. Our tutor was none other than actor, daughter, sister, mother, horse breaker…..Amber Heard.

Asked to describe her childhood, by a defense lawyer in court, she complied. Seems her father was the professional – a Texan, a rancher, and a specialist in the art of taming equine mammals for use in either breeding or racing. As a young girl, self described as the one designated to “be the boy”, Amber was placed on the animal’s back as soon as she was able and taught the skills which, as she outlined, were twofold: a.) stay on the horse, and b.) stay on the horse.

Taming the wildness in these 900+ pound creatures was simple, yet profound: remain on the horse’s back, whatever it took, until the horse gave up trying to toss you off.

For as little as we do know of life even after living a few decades, many of us do learn the value of guiding metaphors. This writer could not miss the one portrayed by this story, nor its power over a growing girl’s future outcomes.

To what end would the young horse breaker mount the wild man named Johnny who said he loved her? His habits bred behaviors in both himself and her which, according to her account, became at times life threatening. Could he be tamed? The possibility was at the mercy of her resolve; she would stay on. Did he want to be broken? His desires ceased their power; she would stay on. Would she be thrown? She would get back on. Amber would remount her wild horse, and remain, until he let her stay.

None of us is immune to the forces which compel. Whence these arise can be found in our deepest past. How we are trained determines in large part the manner in which we face life’s obstacles, and what we define as these can become our targets.

Did the daughter of a Texas rancher set out to vanquish the howl of the wild? Clearly, she learned to fight the bucking stallion. But, did she choose her prey, or did it choose her?

This is something only the horse whisperer knows.

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© 5/7/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Please respect your fellow creatives in the effort. Sharing by blog post link, exclusively, and not via RSS. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

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Amber Heard.

When Katrina died, I hit my first writer’s block.

Having read about this affliction, I would smirk at the thought; how could a true writer find no words?

In my case, there was little warning; I’d typed her name, in the title of what was to be another of many tribute pieces, only to find myself staring at the white screen. I could not begin.

But, after spending several hours this weekend viewing reruns of the Depp/Heard defamation hearings, I woke up this morning thinking of Katrina.

We’d first met when she was a piano student of Sam Rotman at Mercyhurst College, myself on staff playing for the students of vocal and instrumental performance. Forty years old, I was teeming with climaxing hormonal energy, overjoyed to be in such close proximity to fresh, anticipating youth. Katrina was a bubbling post-adolescent with residual acne and raw authenticity. Bearing a gift for theater show tunes, she brought cheerful joy into the room and loved everyone she met.

The tenor, to whom I’d been assigned, was her boyfriend. I played his senior recital, and we became well acquainted. At the time, he called Katrina his good friend and it wouldn’t be until I happened to catch them in the library after the recital exchanging a quick kiss on the lips that her actual status would emerge. I would learn, years later, that many men often categorized the women in their lives differently than the women who regarded such men.

Katrina was generous with praise. She was specific, for example, in acknowledging the thumb technique required in the piano accompaniment for the Britten after that recital. Vivid, to me, was the smile on her face and the light in her eyes. Knowing the part, she showed genuine collegiality and deference toward me, an act of humility.

Years passed. I would next see Katrina at a music faculty meeting, within the district. Myself having been at the high schools, I’d bid down to primary level and she appeared as a newest hire among them.

Katrina had changed. Now, she sat silently, her deference manifesting minus the characteristic extroversion, watchful and attentive. Her skin was smoothe and clear, her countenance thoughtful.

But, her reputation as a music teacher and theater pit pianist had spread quickly. The kids loved her. The staff loved her. The casts adored her. Everywhere she went, she still brought the light of her spirit and a selfless enthusiasm devoted to the successes of her charges. Silent at faculty meetings, Katrina conserved her energy for use where it mattered most.

Amber Heard sits in court, silence enforced. Her presentation is physically flawless. Perfectly tailored clothing, expertly fit; hair professionally set; complexion that of painted porcelain. Structurally, her face is enviably beautiful, its profile completely balanced, its angles bearing not a single weakness. One can marvel looking at her as if viewing one of the Creator’s most outstanding moments.

But, like the many masterworks of Rodin or Michelangelo, she appears as any stone sculpture. One searches to find the soul in her eyes. One notes the fleeting curl at the left corner of a petulant lip. One, as a member of her audience, contemplates what if any nourishing life might be found there.

Among contrasts this, the most stark, I think of Katrina. Cancer ravaged her neck and throat, seizing her ability to swallow. Still, she smiled, directing whatever ounce of remaining energy she had toward her daughter, Amelia, and her husband, Mark. To the end, she was ever focused on the needs of those to whom she was devoted, almost as sacrifice. Their world without her is a gaping and grasping testament to being loved entirely.

What the price of a selfish life?

To what end?

About that, I have no more words to say.

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© 5/1/22 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in part or whole (including translation) permitted without direct, written, signed permission of the author. Thank you for being the better person.

littlebarefeetblog.com