If you came to this page via the program from the Mortified show, please take a visit to my NEW SITE . All day yesterday, and then onstage at the Alberta Rose, I was singing his song, "I woke up in love this morning, went to sleep with you on my mind," not knowing he was in a coma. Oh, the timing!

Forever Mortified

Because I'm a frequent teller at the Moth story slams, people ask if I'm going to be on the podcast. I always say, "I hope so!" But this took me completely off guard- I got an e-mail from Neil Katcher, co-producer and "Chief in Charge of Angst" at Mortified, interested in using my Valentines performance in an upcoming podcast on the 70's. My first thought was, No. I never intended that material to go beyond the intimate confines of the Alberta Rose theater. I didn't even change the names. I didn't sign the release. On second thought... No!

Donna & Betsy before Mira Costa 10 year reunion, 1985

Why, when I finally get asked to be on a podcast, is it for the stuff that was never supposed to be seen??!! But there's something in me that wants out, I don't completely understand it, and after talking to Susan Danehy, local Mortified producer who edited my story, and having some reassuring e-mail correspondence with Neil, I started considering it. Often at times like this, I will have a telling dream. Which I did. Two, actually.

In the first dream, I'm driving in a small mountain town, and I run out of road. Can't go forward, back or turn around. Stuck. In the second, I'm on a mountain road again, cruising along free and easy, and take a curve too fast. You know that familiar dream feeling of putting everything you've got on the brakes, to no avail. I sailed off the edge and woke up thinking, "Is there nothing between stuck and flying off the edge?"

I agreed to an interview with Neil. The day of, I prepared by looking for my copy of Naomi Wolf's Promiscuities, so that I could sound smart and empowered on the subject, but I must have let go of it in one of my downsizings. I did find an envelope of old pics though, (including me & Bets) and Caroline Knapp's Appetites, (Why Women Want) which was similarly smart. The interview was much more difficult than I imagined. I just wanted to tell the truth- that's the driving heart of the diarist, I think- but first I had to find it. And he wanted to tell a story, of the 70's. He would ask what kids were doing, and all I really knew was what Betsy and I were doing. "Were kids doing wild and crazy things? Were there hippies everywhere? Drum circles?" Um... no. Everyone was surfing and playing volleyball, and getting high and listening to Zeppelin. It was like Neil and I were doing a 3-legged race together, our inside legs galumphing along in the burlap sack while our outside legs each had their own rhythm and their own destination.

I got off the phone in a daze and realized later, I just flew off the cliff. I'd completely lost control of my material- not the diary performance that I'd been worried about before but the new stuff, our conversation about my teen years.

Today this memory from five years ago showed up in my Facebook feed:

March 20, 2012 ·

Sunday I take my 1971 diary to the Jupiter Hotel to get screened for Mortified. What if my material isn't embarrassing enough? What if it's too embarrassing? What if it's just right. No matter what happens, I'm bound to be... mortified.

I don't know how this is going to turn out. I woke up before I landed. I did ask Betsy if she was ok with this going out, and sent her the performance. Even though I'd written, "It is hard to be around her all of the time. Or any of the time," she was fine with it. Said she had to re-do her mascara for work, from laughing and crying. 

And so... I guess... I just... trust...

It's all a dream anyway, right?

Let's Get Mortified!

To celebrate Valentines Day this year, I’ll be reading out of my teen diary for the Mortified Doomed Valentines show. Three audiences of 400 or so mostly strangers, at the Alberta Rose Theater in Portland, will hear about my adventures in promiscuity, coming of age in a southern California beach town, in the seventies. Yes, I’m what you could call, “privacy impaired.” It used to be that I just didn’t have good boundaries, and a strong streak of exhibitionism. But now that I’ve, um, matured, and even worked for years as a therapist, there’s something more to my enjoyment of “sharing the shame,” Mortified’s motto. When something potentially shameful is shared, it then belongs to all of us- my personal story becomes a cultural story. As my folk lit teacher Charles Ingham said back in the 90’s, about the diary, “it’s the voice of the tribe, spoken through the individual.” My story is of a dorky girl, who almost overnight was no longer a dork, (or didn't look like one anyway)

and had no training in how to handle the lusty attention coming her way. Male lust was nothing compared to her own, though. As 17 year old Donna says, “It’s great to be horny when you’ve got a honey… but when you don’t, God, it’s hell!”

                                                          

Ever since I was in the Mortified show 4 years ago, I've wanted to do it again. But it was a completely different experience this time. I've never understood how people can burn their journals, but when I got back into my older teen material, I was horrified. I did not like this girl. I told Susan I wasn't sure I wanted to do it after all. She understood, but she didn't let me bail. I sent her a dozen cringe-worthy pages and she cut, pasted, and most importantly, laughed her loud inimitable laugh, and somehow made that desperate sex-crazed girl someone I could look at with some affection.

Donna Otter & Betsy Lampert hunting for shark teeth

There's someone important in this story, my bestie, Betsy. What do you do when your best friend gets a boyfriend??!!! Oh did I punish her, and mope and do everything I could to make her feel guilty, but I think it's time to let her off the hook, because she did end up marrying that foxy surfer dude, and amazingly, they are STILL MARRIED!!! But wait... since she was going to spend her whole life with him, shouldn't she have spent her last years of high school with me, before I ran off to San Diego to become a poet? 

Betsy & Jim Dear at their daughter's wedding

Man, do I feel sorry for my parents during my teen years! They'd come of age in the Happy Days Fifties and were in no way prepared for the Free Love Seventies. I think they'd just like to forget that period of time ever happened, but sadly they raised a compulsive diarist, who loves to keep the past alive. I might still burn those high school journals though, after the show.

  

the Otter family in Manhattan Beach...1972?

"Events like that need a witness."

Sometimes my birthday falls on Martin Luther King day, like today, and also in 1997, the year I decided to celebrate by going on a solitary hermitage. I invited friends over the night before and asked them to bring gifts they found, or had. No shopping. The next day I set off on what turned out to be a simple and profound day, filled with disappointments, delightful surprises, culminating in a humble epiphany. Later I wrote a letter to my friends describing what happened that day. This is a small (for me) piece of that letter. I'm amazed that I remembered so much from the speech. I think that is due to being a lifelong diarist, but mostly to the power of the speech.

January 20, 1997

As you know, my plan for my fortieth birthday was not to have a plan, to somehow surrender, to stop trying to control everything, to just shut up and listen. All I knew was that I wanted to get next to the ocean. And I gave myself the task of finding a room somewhere and spending the night alone. It wasn’t exactly a vision quest I was on, because it already felt like I had too many visions. It was more of a clearing out I wanted, from the continual clutter, both internal and external. I wanted some peace of mind, and to see what was left of me when removed from my usual surroundings.

Sunday morning, I woke early in the stilldark, as I usually do these days, and lay there for a long time. I heard someone come in downstairs. By the time I finally got up and went down, no one was there, but Lois had left a note, “See you on the other side!”

I cleaned up a little, started the coffee, took a shower and put on my green bathing suit, then jeans and brown vest. I began to carefully collect the things I would take with me, which is always interesting when you don’t know where you’re going. I packed most of what you all had given me the night before: the portable altar from Mary brimming with blue buttons, old writings of mine & others, an instructional poem written on a coil of gold ribbon, a plastic baby Jesus, and the dice I’d rolled the night before to get snake eyes. The day before that, Deb gave me a day of adventure, at the end of which we ran over to Buffalo Exchange in Hillcrest where I hoped to grab a dress for my birthday party. I went right past the dress Deb pulled out, which I ended up buying- snakeskin printed fabric, covered with clear sequins! I loved the symbolism of it- shedding the old skin and all. I put it on around midnight. I packed Deb’s amazing round stone, which has “never been bought or sold,” the photo & poem from Dick and the wooden sculpture/compass from Stephanie, wrapped & tied up in a piece of her wedding dress fabric. I didn’t bring the eagle feather from Lois, but I did pack the seeds she gave me some time ago, pouched in leather with a Japanese coin. I packed Sarah’s little jar of tokens with the written description, and Leah’s ring of black pipe with the words in gold, “Believe it or not, this is just the beginning.” I added a blank canvas, 2 brushes, a rag and small plastic tray to be used as a palette and the new box of acrylics from Mom. I brought my hiking boots, hair dryer, I Ching coins & book, Stan’s waist pack with water bottles, tarot cards, my journal of course, and a new blank journal, also from Mom, in which an opening is cut out of each page to reveal a small shell.

 At 10:10, I was officially on my way. I drove west, not feeling excited- more dazed and tired. Not the kind of tired from too little sleep, more like tired from the first half of my life. I watched my thoughts like they were colored balls popping around in one of those push toys someone had abandoned in the back yard, the colors faded and sunbleached. It wasn’t until Miramar Road that I turned on the radio. A man was telling about the last hours of Martin Luther King Jr.’s life. I think his name was Reverend Kylie. I’ll paraphrase what I remember:

"It was as if he knew, as if he was preparin’ for his own death. He was tellin’ about the Mountain. (King’s voice comes in) “ I have Been to the Mountaintop. And I have Seen the other side. I used to want, in my life, longevity, but that doesn’t matter to me now. Because I have seen, and I am not afraid. I have seen, the Heaven, that is here for all of us. And I am not afraid. Mine eyes have seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord.” (Rev. Kylie continues) Everyone was cryin’. Men were cryin’. Preachers were cryin’ and we were turning to each other and saying, ‘What is This?’

"The next night I went to pick him up, to take him to dinner. Dinner was at 6, but I told him 5, because he was so slow. He’d called ahead and found out the real time though, so he was taking his time. The three of us preachers sat around in the room, doin’ whatever three preachers in a room do, then Martin was out on the balcony talkin’ to people and I was at his side. I told him he’d need a coat, and I turned to get it, and I heard the shot. He was down, with a large hole in his chest, and half his face blown apart. He was bleeding profusely. I tried to call for help, but my call never went through. The switchboard operator, the hotel owner’s wife, had gone outside and seen what happened. She suffered a heart attack and died the next day. I had seen my father change color when he died, and I saw Martin change color. “Oh my Lord,” I said. I got a bedspread and laid it over him, and (the other preacher) got a towel and pressed it to his head. There was blood everywhere. He was touchin’ him and comfortin’ him. Martin talked a little, and his eyelids gave a reflexive gesture, and he was gone.

"I had to ask myself, and I asked myself many times, ‘Why was I there?’ And I know now, it’s because I was needed as a witness. Events like that need a witness, and my job is to tell the story. I say what I saw. (Incredibly, the interviewer then asked this question) ‘Martin Luther King Jr. died that day. What, if anything, was born?’ (the Reverend answers) A movement was born. A man died that day, and his blood nourished the soil from which sprouted a movement, a movement which says, ‘No longer can you kill one man and destroy all of us.’"

Whew. I turned off the radio, repeated out loud the words, “I say what I saw,” and drove on.

"Mortified" moves, physically and emotionally

Last night was the first night for Mortified in its new location, conveniently located at a theater near me, none other than the historic Hollywood, 88 years old, yesterday. I went alone because I get a free pass for being a previous performer, and because it sold out so quickly my friends and fam didn't have a chance to get a ticket. It was strange to see my giant awkward pic from junior high show up on the pre-screen slideshow and not be able to nudge anyone and laugh, or be nudged and laughed at. I could only give her a nod and say, "hey girl, you haven't changed all that much. But you got yourself to the city of weirdness, so... good job."

I loved the show, as always. So funny. So painful. So tender. The one that touched me the most was the guy, Bill, who was always trying to fit in, be cool and get a date- the classic Mortified theme- but it wasn't until he went off to to nature camp with a bunch of scientists his parents' age, that he was truly seen, accepted, and valued. Kinda got me where I live.

I always have mixed feelings about the Mortified show because I want to do it again, and want to share more of my teen diaries. I've given up trying to understand why. Most people like to listen and laugh, and are horrified at the thought of being up there themselves. But there are enough of us others who long to be up there, "sharing the shame" that there continues to be a show. In fact, it's been more than ten years, in what, ten different cities?

When I published DonnaZine back in the 90's, I always included a diary feature, which satisfied the need to expose myself. What now? Oh yeah! I have a blog! I almost forgot about it. I was thinking I'd start publishing my diary of three years ago, about my move to Portland. It might be a book someday called, "Talk To Me In A Year" because that's what everyone said to me when I gushed on about loving it here. That stuff is too fresh though. It hasn't aged enough. I went roaming through my files and found a random entry from '91 that shows something of what life was life for this mother in love with her daughters, age 11 and 9. Since Serra became a mom, I've been wondering more about those years. Most of my journals are in storage, which is also a weird thing. I'm used to having them nearby.

I did find these entries today, and they remind me of things I've forgotten, that are still precious to me.

So here, because this is a way to keep them alive.

1-21-91, Monday, 8:21 PM

            Cherishing this last week with the girls before school pulls me in again. When Sarah comes out crying because she feels ignored by Leah and Jessica, then later by Leah and Justin, I don’t have to make any kind of anxious scene- I just go in and stand behind her, brush her hair while she reads at her laboratory desk. She needs attention? I give it to her. Simple. Last night I read to them as usual, out of “Dogsong” (an Eskimo story) and Russell is preparing to go out on the ice and become a man. Leah laughed and I told them that’s how it is in some cultures, that there is a ritual which allows/forces/encourages the child to become an adult. And just as Russell goes out to find his song, to “be” a song, I have poems. I “tell” them “Gift,” then Leah’s pumpkin poem, then Sarah’s Arianne poem. I’m not sure what they think, but there it is.

            Tonight I make a fire and part my hair down the middle so they can each have half my head. They brush and clip and tie my hair while I read to them of Annie Dillard’s childhood, of a time when she and some boys threw a snowball at a passing car and the man pulled over and jumped out and chased them all over Pittsburgh through the snowy backyards, through hedges, over fences. She loved it, has seldom been happier. Then Leah read to us out of one of those junk food teen-lit paperbacks- “Boy-Crazy Stacey” from the Babysitter’s Club series while Sarah got my whole head of hair to herself.

            Finally did something today that’s been bugging me- that tape for Grandma Otter. Read to her out of my religious journal, essays, poems, etc. Got the girls on too. Laundry, lots of ironing and listening to the news. Eight  P.O.W’s now, two from Camp Pendleton. It’s sounding like this could go on awhile.

            Stan gone a lot. Two trips coming up, too, at the same time I start school and take the girls to the Storymakers retreat. Lots of separate activities and not much time to talk about it.

10:20

This book of Annie’s brings up so many memories that suddenly seem important: two songs I memorized as a girl from my mother’s music: “Strangers in the Night” and “My Cup Runneth Over With Love.” (from the same era, I hated “The Girl from Ipenema”) The only soap opera I ever watched? Dark Shadows.

1-28-91, Monday, 5:45 PM

            PIPELINES BOMBED TO HALT SPILL. I gotta get this book back; don’t know what that was all about last weekend and I’m not sure I liked it. Too much wave and not enough particle? The girls though, were exquisite; a delightful and necessary presence.

            Today, a compliment? At the bank, a woman I know from girl scouts said to me, “I saw those socks and wondered who would wear those out in public. Then I looked up and saw it was you. I should have known.”  They’re the hot pink ones swimming with yellow, blue and green angelfish.

2-3-91

            Cleaning day. Sometimes I wonder what I’m passing on to my kids, what they’ll remember of me, what of mine they will take as their own. Each girl, of course, will come away with a different story, yet one night, over a bottle of wine, they will laugh hysterically over the shared memory- “Remember how weird she was about noise and how she made us put away every little thing, how she’d say, ‘It just bugs me!’ when the room would start to get out of order, how she threw my tennis shoes off the deck because I left them under the table!” “Again,” the other sister will add. Or will they remember “those amazing collages she used to do, the poems she wrote for us and would recite some nights at bedtime- remember some of her outrageous costumes- I couldn’t believe the time she picked us up for girl scouts in those jeans with the knees blown out, black lace stockings underneath.” I hope they remember it all, just as my mother fantasized I will write her story. Or maybe they could just remember what I forget.

            I read with a razor blade and pen. Otherwise it’s living without memory- the ideal, I suppose, for those zen guys, but I’m more interested in the “burrito theory of time” (from Peggy Sue Got Married) where the edges overlap. “You can fill it with whatever you want.”

            So about this need for order and cleanliness in my house. My English lit teacher, Henry Stiehl, discussing “the best novel in the English language in the last fifty years, Under The Volcano,” said the structure of the book is beautifully organized yet Malcolm Lowry’s life was chaos. And R.B. Sweet said the more talent, the more structure is needed. The wilder the mind, the stronger the fence. The wonderful thing, and I wish I had an example, is that the horse will eventually jump the fence, so the higher that fence is, the more surprising, desperate, and beautiful the leap.

            Gotta make lunch and take the girls out selling cookies, but remind me to tell you a secret about writing every day.

1:15

            Helping Leah make lunch menus but she didn’t like my idea: “The Mind Reader Diner- We know what you want before you do,” Or, “We made one thing and that’s what you’re eating.”

2-11-91, Monday, 10:40 PM

Girls off school today; we went to the zoo. I love them so much. I wanted to see them today and I can’t seem to do that at home where there is so much to be done. I gave them each two dollars to spend in the gift shop. They had a tough time making their decision and their choice reveals much about who they are. Leah bought a pair of sunglasses. Sarah got a rubber snake. Leah’s quite interested in growing up. They wrote out Valentines this evening with great enthusiasm. Leah chose cards with a puppy motif and lots of mushy messages. Sarah’s cards feature Garfield with lines like, “You’re my Valentine. Got a problem with that?” Sarah wrote a Valentine for herself too saying, “You’re a great kid.”

           

 Scene from the outtakes of "Mortified Nation." 

           

My Dark Side

Now that the new Mortified documentary is out,  I want to share my daughter Serra Sewitch Posey's post with you from last year about re-reading her teen diaries in preparation for the live show, and her new respect for her teen self, and for all teens "constantly pitting impulsive natures against common sense."

Respond to this post by replying above this line New post on theblanketworld My Dark Side by theblanketworld A few days ago I applied to be a part of Mortified, a performance where people read out of their teen diaries. Since then I've been slightly obsessed with researching my teenage self. Reading my teen journals is something I mostly avoid, due to the fact that they are so detailed and so emotional that it's almost like time traveling. After immersing myself in a few pages I look up dazed, disoriented, craving nameless things. I was so restless and yearning that my only comfort was writing, and write I did. Everything is recorded: outfits, conversations, meals, smells, dreams, thoughts, outings, songs, desires, anger, and lots of nonsensical ramblings that are a window to my subconscious. I've gained a new respect for my teen self since really surrendering to these journals. Yes, I was selfish and whiny and immature in a lot of ways but something I had forgotten was the transformative journey that I lived from age 12 to 18. Every day, the world changed. Every day I got a clearer idea of who I was and the life I wanted to live. Every day was a battle I had to face, and my armor was pink hair and plaid pants. Yes, I was a spoiled American suburban girl who never knew real pain or hunger, but I believe that I did suffer- I suffered as a person transforming from child to adult and truly grappling with big questions about identity, integrity, and love. I was constantly pitting my impulsive nature against my common sense. It's an intense time for any teenager, and I vow to have more respect for teenagers from now on, and the difficult path they're on. Here is a strange but powerful poem I wrote when I was 17: And here comes the West, rolling in like an old shoe It smiles with a gummy grin It warms my heart with its ashen odor I welcome it inside and it picks its nails with my clean silverware. Here comes the South, lurching and scraping Exposing ugly flesh and I turn away Rough clothes, symmetrical holes planned poverty, pre-wrinkled. Pocks in my face churn They lick the weather and cry out “Where is the comfort!” The East is lonely and makes its lonely way down the lonely road A single tear falls down burnt skin to lay in the center of a silver platter. Third course is served. Bloody scratches covering my arms like zebra stripes, sigh. Weary with love they fall, listless. Agreeing with the pocks, they chant: “Where is the comfort! Give us the comfort!” They moan with hunger They call for the North. The North cries with them, wrenching and heaving until all that's left is a wrinkled bag quivering in the wind, punctured with arrows and 3 silver swords. The swords smile slyly and wrap lanky bodies through and around the entire situation piercing flesh and singing sharply, soft sad songs of hearts ripped by vicious zebras and swords with good intentions. “We are your comfort,” they sigh. Inside the cave echoes loss, the stoned walls weep, the vast blue hums with electricity. Horse teeth bared, foaming thighs and rolling eyes, screaming, break through each slice. Inside the darkness whales of flesh hover, eyes glimmer Harmless bodies glide. The swords skewer each sniffling direction of the compass and dive deep down, shorting out their neon lights and dripping grins, hopeful hooves crash through clean round teeth. There is no more. There is no where. Everything lies in half- free but confused. Where is the rest of me? They bleed to death, still baffled.