I grow clearer every day.
I grow clearer about what this life actually means to me, about what I want it to be.
I grow braver and then get scared and then grow braver again.
I grow hopeful and excited and stronger and wiser and wearier and warier and wistful.
I grow accepting of what I can not change.
I grow steadier, no longer a willow willing to weep with the whims of the wind.
I grow secure and stable and self-respecting.
I grow.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
It Is What It Is
I went to bed thinking of him, I awoke thinking of him. A week without whiskey, without boy-toy distractions, without transient travels from one good time to the next, was confronting and real and left me exposed to all of the pain I'd unwittingly been avoiding. It was eleven in the morning. The need to see Joseph became too intense to bear. I couldn't think clearly, couldn't stop my fingers from pressing "9" on the speed dial of my phone. It rang and rang and rang and I hung up before the voicemail answered.
I left my apartment and strode up the sidewalk to Santa Monica Boulevard. The smell of Mexican food wafted through the late morning air. I didn't meet the eyes of the people I passed, shielded behind the lenses of the Ray Bans Joseph had given me earlier this year. Could these strangers sense my distress? Or were they too caught up in their own thoughts to be affected by my anxious energy?
When I was three blocks from his apartment, I stopped, glancing wildly at my surroundings, not wanting to repeat old patterns, too proud to throw myself at his feet for the millionth time. I turned around, rerouting the course of events, retracing my footsteps with resignation. My phone rang from within my palm, a low tone that I'd assigned specifically for his number. I was surprised by how normal my voice sounded when I answered.
He had to leave for work in two hours.
Did he want to join me for a walk?
Yes, he did.
Shocking.
I went home and changed my clothing, smoked a cigarette, regrouped, then set off for Take Two. I saw him at the same moment he saw me. We both smiled. I waited for him to cross the street, my insides bouncing impatiently like a child in desperate need of urinating. My outsides remained still. When he reached me, I flung my arms around his neck, our bodies crushing together in a tight hug. My heels left the ground as he lifted me, pulling me as close to him as humanly possible.
Time. Quality time. Depressing time. Time spent talking about music and plans and money and life while cleanly avoiding the topic of "us." What was the point?
It felt like old times, times when he held back from physical touch for fear that he would lose all control. Him and his control. Me and mine. We both wanted the same thing, but our walk was a reminder that he was still too scared to allow himself the luxury of loosening his leash. As a result, he kept me on a short one, as well. If we could only have that afternoon again, the one we spent together before New York...if we could have that afternoon every time we met, all smiles and laughter and touching and talking and loving...if we could enjoy each other exactly in that context and call it a "relationship" and unclip the leashes from our collars and unfasten the collars from our necks and bound across endless fields of clover side by side, grinning ear to ear, euphoric hearts fit to burst...I would be the happiest woman alive.
As Jacob used to say, though, there's no "what if," there's only "what is." And in the case of Joseph and I, "it is what it is."
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
I left my apartment and strode up the sidewalk to Santa Monica Boulevard. The smell of Mexican food wafted through the late morning air. I didn't meet the eyes of the people I passed, shielded behind the lenses of the Ray Bans Joseph had given me earlier this year. Could these strangers sense my distress? Or were they too caught up in their own thoughts to be affected by my anxious energy?
When I was three blocks from his apartment, I stopped, glancing wildly at my surroundings, not wanting to repeat old patterns, too proud to throw myself at his feet for the millionth time. I turned around, rerouting the course of events, retracing my footsteps with resignation. My phone rang from within my palm, a low tone that I'd assigned specifically for his number. I was surprised by how normal my voice sounded when I answered.
He had to leave for work in two hours.
Did he want to join me for a walk?
Yes, he did.
Shocking.
I went home and changed my clothing, smoked a cigarette, regrouped, then set off for Take Two. I saw him at the same moment he saw me. We both smiled. I waited for him to cross the street, my insides bouncing impatiently like a child in desperate need of urinating. My outsides remained still. When he reached me, I flung my arms around his neck, our bodies crushing together in a tight hug. My heels left the ground as he lifted me, pulling me as close to him as humanly possible.
Time. Quality time. Depressing time. Time spent talking about music and plans and money and life while cleanly avoiding the topic of "us." What was the point?
It felt like old times, times when he held back from physical touch for fear that he would lose all control. Him and his control. Me and mine. We both wanted the same thing, but our walk was a reminder that he was still too scared to allow himself the luxury of loosening his leash. As a result, he kept me on a short one, as well. If we could only have that afternoon again, the one we spent together before New York...if we could have that afternoon every time we met, all smiles and laughter and touching and talking and loving...if we could enjoy each other exactly in that context and call it a "relationship" and unclip the leashes from our collars and unfasten the collars from our necks and bound across endless fields of clover side by side, grinning ear to ear, euphoric hearts fit to burst...I would be the happiest woman alive.
As Jacob used to say, though, there's no "what if," there's only "what is." And in the case of Joseph and I, "it is what it is."
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Last Dance
On Sunday morning, I awoke to the strains of music, though I knew not where it came from. I dressed and made coffee and then set off down the sidewalk for my bank, which is only a few blocks away. With every step, the music grew louder, louder, louder, until...
The source came into view. Beyond a small fence, a guy sat on a stoop with an accordion in his lap. A FOR RENT sign grew out of the grass a few feet from where he played, and I realized it was one of the apartments I'd wished had availability back when I was hunting for an abode nearly a year ago. I took a good look at the man. A bowler hat perched askew atop his shaved head. He had a tattoo on his neck and wore a ratty band t-shirt and pin-striped pajama bottoms and his feet were bare. He looked like a clown. A coffee mug sat next to him on the stoop, ignored, the contents most likely half-drunk and cold. He played on, oblivious or indifferent to my passing presence. I continued towards the bank to make a deposit.
On my way back, the man was still in the same exact spot, pressing and crunching away at his instrument, louder and louder and louder to ensure that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. I was struck by how similar it sounded to my organ, how haunting and creepy it was.
"Paris!" shouted another man from a balcony across the street, a smile spread across his nondescript face.
Paris, indeed. The accordion reminded me of Paris, and how could it not?
I remembered the Locks of Love Bridge, as Jacob called it. We purchased a small, brass padlock from a shop near our hotel, and with a sharpie, I carefully wrote our initials on its body, as well as the year. Then we journeyed up and down the city streets until we reached the bridge, walking across the wooden planks until deciding on the perfect location for our memento. I hooked it onto the chain-link fence, where it joined hundreds of other locks that hundreds of other lovers had secured there to commemorate their bond, their shared presence in the most romantic city on Earth. We photographed our hands with the lock. Then I removed the keys and threw them off of the bridge into the Seine, where, presumably, they remain at the bottom of the river to this day.
Five feet from us, an elderly French gent played an accordion oh-so-beautifully, hunched body swaying in time with his own chord changes. Jacob took me in his arms and we slow-danced cheek to cheek, my hands clasped around his neck, his hands on my hips, stopping only to kiss deeply, sweetly, sadly. Jacob tipped the musician generously, nodding respectfully.
It was our last dance and we didn't even know it.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
The source came into view. Beyond a small fence, a guy sat on a stoop with an accordion in his lap. A FOR RENT sign grew out of the grass a few feet from where he played, and I realized it was one of the apartments I'd wished had availability back when I was hunting for an abode nearly a year ago. I took a good look at the man. A bowler hat perched askew atop his shaved head. He had a tattoo on his neck and wore a ratty band t-shirt and pin-striped pajama bottoms and his feet were bare. He looked like a clown. A coffee mug sat next to him on the stoop, ignored, the contents most likely half-drunk and cold. He played on, oblivious or indifferent to my passing presence. I continued towards the bank to make a deposit.
On my way back, the man was still in the same exact spot, pressing and crunching away at his instrument, louder and louder and louder to ensure that everyone in the neighborhood could hear. I was struck by how similar it sounded to my organ, how haunting and creepy it was.
"Paris!" shouted another man from a balcony across the street, a smile spread across his nondescript face.
Paris, indeed. The accordion reminded me of Paris, and how could it not?
I remembered the Locks of Love Bridge, as Jacob called it. We purchased a small, brass padlock from a shop near our hotel, and with a sharpie, I carefully wrote our initials on its body, as well as the year. Then we journeyed up and down the city streets until we reached the bridge, walking across the wooden planks until deciding on the perfect location for our memento. I hooked it onto the chain-link fence, where it joined hundreds of other locks that hundreds of other lovers had secured there to commemorate their bond, their shared presence in the most romantic city on Earth. We photographed our hands with the lock. Then I removed the keys and threw them off of the bridge into the Seine, where, presumably, they remain at the bottom of the river to this day.
Five feet from us, an elderly French gent played an accordion oh-so-beautifully, hunched body swaying in time with his own chord changes. Jacob took me in his arms and we slow-danced cheek to cheek, my hands clasped around his neck, his hands on my hips, stopping only to kiss deeply, sweetly, sadly. Jacob tipped the musician generously, nodding respectfully.
It was our last dance and we didn't even know it.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Monday, November 7, 2011
Even The Facade Is A Facade
"I have the disease," the man said to me. "Show business is a sickness."
"Well, I'm not in show business. I'm an artist."
He shook his head knowingly, and I could tell he thought I was naive. I had him fooled, though, him and everyone else. It's like Rocco always says: "Even the facade is a facade."
I know what I'm doing.
Sort of.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
"Well, I'm not in show business. I'm an artist."
He shook his head knowingly, and I could tell he thought I was naive. I had him fooled, though, him and everyone else. It's like Rocco always says: "Even the facade is a facade."
I know what I'm doing.
Sort of.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Whims of a Madman
I remember how cold the studio got last winter. I began keeping horse blankets in the trunk of my car, knowing a jacket wouldn't always suffice.
Joseph and I secretly planned to co-write and record a song to give Rocco for his birthday, but really, it was an excuse to spend time together alone. Just the two of us. My heart pounded as I walked up the ramp to the iron gate, just as it had for months and months. Anytime he knew I was coming, he'd leave the glass door unlocked and I'd push gently, quietly, hoping to catch him by surprise. Every time he laid eyes on me, I could see his composure fracture as his heart skipped a beat, and I always struggled to contain my identical reaction. We were magnets that fought to repel the attracting force, but were always drawn together at precisely the same moment. We were both shocked by the crackling electricity that led to hugs that led to quivering breath that led to touching and eroticism unparalleled by any other sexual experiences either of us had had to date.
Yes, the kissing was intense and perfect. Yes, our bodies fit together as though they had been made specifically for one another. Yes, I replayed those scenes in my head long after they had initially taken place, and to this day, he is the best lover I've ever had, the only person I fantasize about. It was the other stuff, though, that meant the most.
We sketched funny pictures together in his production notebook, laughing at our mutual inability to draw people of the opposite sex. When I began playing the piano, he sat behind me on the bench, his legs on either side of my legs, and slid his hands beneath my hands. I giggled uncontrollably as his fingers flew across the keys, my palms riding piggyback on the whims of a madman.
It took all of ten minutes to co-write Rocco's song, ten more minutes to record it. I replay my copy of it from time to time and am brought rushing back to those cold nights in that dimly lit studio, falling deeper in love with my future while running further away from my past.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Joseph and I secretly planned to co-write and record a song to give Rocco for his birthday, but really, it was an excuse to spend time together alone. Just the two of us. My heart pounded as I walked up the ramp to the iron gate, just as it had for months and months. Anytime he knew I was coming, he'd leave the glass door unlocked and I'd push gently, quietly, hoping to catch him by surprise. Every time he laid eyes on me, I could see his composure fracture as his heart skipped a beat, and I always struggled to contain my identical reaction. We were magnets that fought to repel the attracting force, but were always drawn together at precisely the same moment. We were both shocked by the crackling electricity that led to hugs that led to quivering breath that led to touching and eroticism unparalleled by any other sexual experiences either of us had had to date.
Yes, the kissing was intense and perfect. Yes, our bodies fit together as though they had been made specifically for one another. Yes, I replayed those scenes in my head long after they had initially taken place, and to this day, he is the best lover I've ever had, the only person I fantasize about. It was the other stuff, though, that meant the most.
We sketched funny pictures together in his production notebook, laughing at our mutual inability to draw people of the opposite sex. When I began playing the piano, he sat behind me on the bench, his legs on either side of my legs, and slid his hands beneath my hands. I giggled uncontrollably as his fingers flew across the keys, my palms riding piggyback on the whims of a madman.
It took all of ten minutes to co-write Rocco's song, ten more minutes to record it. I replay my copy of it from time to time and am brought rushing back to those cold nights in that dimly lit studio, falling deeper in love with my future while running further away from my past.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Thursday, November 3, 2011
I, Alone
"What if you didn't go out with other men to distract yourself from hurting over Joseph?" asked my therapist. "What if you simply stayed with the pain..."
"...instead of running from it?" I finished. She nodded. "And just worked on my art and music?"
"That's the perfect outlet for everything you're feeling," she affirmed. "You can channel all of your emotions into your songs."
Every session, she brings up one of the main objectives I'd come to her with in our first meeting.
"You said, 'I want to learn how to be okay on my own, without a man...to feel complete just as I am, as an individual.' Joseph obviously has a lot to work through right now. Rather than feeling as though you're waiting for him, maybe you can look at this time as being solely for you, for doing all of the things that fill you up as a person and better your own life."
Even as I cried over Joseph, over the ever-dawning realization that I loved him above all others and wanted a future with him, her words hit home and sank in. Seeking the company of other men hasn't been making me feel better anymore, as it had initially when I was desperately trying to get over Joseph by any means available. No, I don't need to shun human contact altogether and turn into a hermit, but perhaps continuing to date isn't the answer. I can get to know people as they continue to come into my life and set boundaries based on what feels right. Hooking up with Harvard isn't going to feel right. Sharing my body with anyone other than Joseph isn't going to feel right.
And so I'll work. I'll see friends and family and write and sing and play. I will learn to stay with the discomfort that often accompanies solitude until I reach the point where I, alone, am enough.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
"...instead of running from it?" I finished. She nodded. "And just worked on my art and music?"
"That's the perfect outlet for everything you're feeling," she affirmed. "You can channel all of your emotions into your songs."
Every session, she brings up one of the main objectives I'd come to her with in our first meeting.
"You said, 'I want to learn how to be okay on my own, without a man...to feel complete just as I am, as an individual.' Joseph obviously has a lot to work through right now. Rather than feeling as though you're waiting for him, maybe you can look at this time as being solely for you, for doing all of the things that fill you up as a person and better your own life."
Even as I cried over Joseph, over the ever-dawning realization that I loved him above all others and wanted a future with him, her words hit home and sank in. Seeking the company of other men hasn't been making me feel better anymore, as it had initially when I was desperately trying to get over Joseph by any means available. No, I don't need to shun human contact altogether and turn into a hermit, but perhaps continuing to date isn't the answer. I can get to know people as they continue to come into my life and set boundaries based on what feels right. Hooking up with Harvard isn't going to feel right. Sharing my body with anyone other than Joseph isn't going to feel right.
And so I'll work. I'll see friends and family and write and sing and play. I will learn to stay with the discomfort that often accompanies solitude until I reach the point where I, alone, am enough.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Stay The Course
"You're so precious," he said as I wept into the phone. "You're a precious, creative being and you're presenting yourself as tits and ass."
Hearing him frame me in that manner put my existence into glaring perspective. I'd been steadily losing myself in whiskey and hot guys and image and modeling. What was I doing? I'd been conflicted about modeling since puberty. Being told by my mother that I was beautiful in a "unique" way but too ethnic to ever make it in that world filled me with the perverse desire to prove her wrong. Perhaps knowing now without a doubt that I could do it if I really wanted to is enough. Returning to the center of my being feels like the more righteous path. My art, my writing, my music and my ability to create all three in a truly profound sense fills me with beauty that emanates from within and makes my exterior appear more lovely than it might actually be in reality. Stay the course, do not deviate from the weight of genius, heavy though it most assuredly is. Even if no one is watching, even if no one is listening, I must resume the life I was born to live.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Hearing him frame me in that manner put my existence into glaring perspective. I'd been steadily losing myself in whiskey and hot guys and image and modeling. What was I doing? I'd been conflicted about modeling since puberty. Being told by my mother that I was beautiful in a "unique" way but too ethnic to ever make it in that world filled me with the perverse desire to prove her wrong. Perhaps knowing now without a doubt that I could do it if I really wanted to is enough. Returning to the center of my being feels like the more righteous path. My art, my writing, my music and my ability to create all three in a truly profound sense fills me with beauty that emanates from within and makes my exterior appear more lovely than it might actually be in reality. Stay the course, do not deviate from the weight of genius, heavy though it most assuredly is. Even if no one is watching, even if no one is listening, I must resume the life I was born to live.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Monday, October 31, 2011
I Would Wait 1,000,000 Years
I met Harvard while working as an event assistant at the Halloween party he and his two roommates were throwing. His 6'5" frame and big, goofy grin made me feel uncharacteristically small and safe. I felt guilty that I wasn't actively busting ass the entire evening; Harvard and the other guys kept sidetracking me with great conversation. Harvard in particular seemed to "get it." Our conversations about art and writing and music were fueled by alcohol, yes, but were deep and probing and even challenging.
He lent me his namesake sweatshirt when the night temperature began to nosedive. His friends and roommates knew better than I that an old, worn hoodie bearing the "H" initial was significant and akin to territory being marked; I was just cold and grateful to not be cold any longer.
Harvard and I kissed in his bedroom and it wasn't very good when he rushed in drunkenly, though I was still a bit turned on. I slowed down the pace and it improved technique and sensation. When he pulled me down onto his bed, whiskey rocks sloshing around while cupped in my right hand, I shut it down.
"I like you," I said as we got to out feet, facing one another. "Let's leave it at that and continue getting to know one another."
"Okay," he said amicably. "I like that."
My costume was so understated, my makeup sparse and yet, I received an unending amount of male attention. While successful and living rather lavish lives for dudes in their mid-twenties, I soon picked up on their nerdiness. I wondered how often they encountered cool, hot girls. Being Ivy League-educated, they ran in slightly higher-brow circles than I, though my ability to overwhelm their brains in conversation was satisfying to my ego.
I "worked" the party for twelve hours and then went home to crash. Joseph texted me when he was on his way the next morning. I quickly showered, threw on shorts and a cami, and grabbed the bag of lunch goodies I'd bought for him the day before. Barefoot, I walked it down to where he stood beside his van. We hugged, oh how we hugged, his lips on my bare shoulders and neck, our stomachs kissing fervently as our groins fought to stay in check. He went on and on about my sweetness for buying him food, knowing he'd be locked in a studio for fifteen hours and wouldn't have time to go foraging in the midst of engineering. I looked down shyly, my wet hair falling into my naked face. How interesting that I enjoyed letting him see me without makeup, that he was one of the few who ever had or ever would. How interesting that I'd made out with another man only a few hours earlier and still loved this one more than I'd ever loved anyone in my entire life.
I never used to understand how people could say they loved one person and still be able to connect and get intimate with another. Now I do. I understand because the person I love and want to be with can't or won't or isn't ready to be with me, though I know he wishes that wasn't the case. Maybe someday he will be. In the meantime, I have a life to live, with new people to meet and new experiences to have. I move forward externally, yes, but internally, I would wait forever.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
He lent me his namesake sweatshirt when the night temperature began to nosedive. His friends and roommates knew better than I that an old, worn hoodie bearing the "H" initial was significant and akin to territory being marked; I was just cold and grateful to not be cold any longer.
Harvard and I kissed in his bedroom and it wasn't very good when he rushed in drunkenly, though I was still a bit turned on. I slowed down the pace and it improved technique and sensation. When he pulled me down onto his bed, whiskey rocks sloshing around while cupped in my right hand, I shut it down.
"I like you," I said as we got to out feet, facing one another. "Let's leave it at that and continue getting to know one another."
"Okay," he said amicably. "I like that."
My costume was so understated, my makeup sparse and yet, I received an unending amount of male attention. While successful and living rather lavish lives for dudes in their mid-twenties, I soon picked up on their nerdiness. I wondered how often they encountered cool, hot girls. Being Ivy League-educated, they ran in slightly higher-brow circles than I, though my ability to overwhelm their brains in conversation was satisfying to my ego.
I "worked" the party for twelve hours and then went home to crash. Joseph texted me when he was on his way the next morning. I quickly showered, threw on shorts and a cami, and grabbed the bag of lunch goodies I'd bought for him the day before. Barefoot, I walked it down to where he stood beside his van. We hugged, oh how we hugged, his lips on my bare shoulders and neck, our stomachs kissing fervently as our groins fought to stay in check. He went on and on about my sweetness for buying him food, knowing he'd be locked in a studio for fifteen hours and wouldn't have time to go foraging in the midst of engineering. I looked down shyly, my wet hair falling into my naked face. How interesting that I enjoyed letting him see me without makeup, that he was one of the few who ever had or ever would. How interesting that I'd made out with another man only a few hours earlier and still loved this one more than I'd ever loved anyone in my entire life.
I never used to understand how people could say they loved one person and still be able to connect and get intimate with another. Now I do. I understand because the person I love and want to be with can't or won't or isn't ready to be with me, though I know he wishes that wasn't the case. Maybe someday he will be. In the meantime, I have a life to live, with new people to meet and new experiences to have. I move forward externally, yes, but internally, I would wait forever.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Ready Aim Fire
Walking to 7-Eleven this morning in new flats, their stiffness rubbed against the backs of my heels, creating blisters. Deja vu shot through my brain to the forefront of my consciousness and I saw us so clearly in that Paris drugstore. I sat in a chair and he knelt down on the floor before me, sliding my foot out of the offending shoe as I extended it towards him like a queen to her minion. Tenderly, he applied a thick bandage across the bloody, oozing blister, gently smoothing and adhering it to my bare skin. He purchased extras to be used over the next few days until I'd healed, until my limp had disappeared and the shoes were sufficiently broken in. Then carefully, he slipped my foot back into the new ballet flat, kissing my knee as he stood, clasping my hands and pulling me up to face him. Lovingly, so lovingly, he kissed me on the mouth and brushed my hair from my face with his hand, his eyes smiling into mine. Walking along the Rue de Rivoli and beyond was instantly painless (physically) and the enjoyment resumed (presumably). Two months later, I filed divorce papers and with them, that memory. The triggers are everywhere, though, and there's no telling when or where they'll be pulled. Ready. Aim. Fire.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Brain Food
In order to satiate the body, the mind needs to feel full. The brain needs to be fed new information, to learn fresh details, to chew and churn and break down and digest. Focusing on a man, a guy, a boy is comparable to bingeing on candy, abandoning efforts at good health in favor of the quick fix, the sugar high, and the crash, therefore, always leaves one feeling sick and empty and unfulfilled. Protein, carbs, and fat balanced in small, complementary servings provide just enough fuel to press on, to persevere, to sustain livelihood while maintaining an enviable waistline.
So what is my true sustenance, if not the affirmation of superficially gorgeous men?
Writing songs. Singing. Recording. Learning bass. Playing the organ. Exercising. Driving. Reflecting. Working. Brainstorming. Laughing. Daring to dream even as I continue to age, believing my time in this body, mind, and soul to be of great worth. When I pause from the mindless chaos and contemplate that I create my own meaning, that I attract the good, the bad, and the ugly into my space by virtue of the energy I am putting forth, determination floods my being anew. I could have been born in the most dire of circumstances, facing insurmountable adversity; instead, I have every opportunity within easy access of my greedy fingertips, just waiting for me to be bold enough to reach out and grab it.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
So what is my true sustenance, if not the affirmation of superficially gorgeous men?
Writing songs. Singing. Recording. Learning bass. Playing the organ. Exercising. Driving. Reflecting. Working. Brainstorming. Laughing. Daring to dream even as I continue to age, believing my time in this body, mind, and soul to be of great worth. When I pause from the mindless chaos and contemplate that I create my own meaning, that I attract the good, the bad, and the ugly into my space by virtue of the energy I am putting forth, determination floods my being anew. I could have been born in the most dire of circumstances, facing insurmountable adversity; instead, I have every opportunity within easy access of my greedy fingertips, just waiting for me to be bold enough to reach out and grab it.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Next Destruction
The trip to New York threw me off. I've been fighting to regain my footing ever since returning home and can't seem to get my head on straight. Jerry. I loathe Jerry now. I feel creeped out when I think of how cold he was following our first night together in his apartment. It was exactly what I wanted, though. Our time in Santa Monica had been too perfect; his consistent, near-daily communication via text for the ensuing month had been too exciting; and none of it had been substantial. I wanted to race across the finish line and end the suspense.
So I ran. I felt the panic in my chest, the sense of urgency to escape. I obeyed the fear, bent over backwards for the thrill of my own doom. A plane ticket, a secret, a nausea, a red flag, a gut instinct, a dread, a knowing. It was the knowing that makes me ill after the fact, the knowing deep down that it was all wrong but fleeing towards it nonetheless. Who does that? Who ignores reality to one's own demise? I do.
I presented a photoshopped version of the picture, airbrushed and denoised and tinted in golden, sepia tones for all to look upon and admire and praise. I hid the blemishes and dark circles and poor lighting so well that I even fooled myself, forgetting that anything lesser existed. I may or may not be a pathological liar to the teensiest extent. Sometimes the complete and utter truth dawns on me after weeks, months, years of perpetuating bullshit. And then I remember. Quickly, though, ever so quickly, I switch the settings back to present the facade most flattering to my persona. Only those closest to me ever call me out, and even then, I'm pretty good at fooling them, too.
Jerry. He'd been so attentive that day in Santa Monica. We'd gotten to "know" each other for three short days while working as models in fancy underwear. "Oh, you like Sour Patch Kids? You like drinking chocolate milk while smoking cigarettes? Meeee toooo..." After the gig was over, we ate bar food at Yankee Doodles, drinking at eleven in the morning. He slung his arm around my chair, kissed me nonchalantly in mid-sentence as the whiskey pulled me under a pleasant haze. We played pool and made out in between shots. We smoked outside on a bus stop bench, asking each other questions and allowing time to gently unfold before us. The weather was perfect. We sat in the park overlooking the ocean. We strolled down the boardwalk. We lay in the grass, napping and kissing and talking and enjoying. How beautiful we must have been to the tourists and transients, two young lovers, tall and pretty, one blonde one brunette, both thin and so very genetically blessed.
He held my hand as though we were a couple, and it felt intimate and serious. We made out fervently in the parking garage, standing next to my filthy car. I wasn't nuts about the way he kissed, like a tongue-happy teenager oblivious to proper conduct in public...but I loved the attention, the way this gorgeous guy desired me so unabashedly. And then it was time for him to leave, to catch his flight back to New York City, to work for the marketing company that had enlisted both of us as underwear models. To my surprise, Jerry proceeded to text me morning and night in the days and weeks to follow, lavishing me with compliments and attention and inquiries as to how I was doing. He wanted to see me soon, he wrote. We video-chatted once, spoke on the phone twice. Most girls would have simply enjoyed the flirtation and left it at that, writing the experience off as a fun fling incapable of picking up momentum due to the small detail of, oh, three thousand miles worth of distance. I, however, became hellbent on earning enough money for a plane ticket.
The pressure in my chest killed my appetite and drove me onward. I worked and hustled for more work and had trouble sleeping. Jerry seemed as excited as I did at the prospect of my visit. And then there I was, boarding a plane to JFK. I took a shuttle to Jerry's midtown apartment. Upon seeing him step off the elevator, the reality hit: I barely knew him. What the hell was I doing there?
We fucked twice that night, without condoms, and it was empty. He seemed to enjoy the experience initially, but I was immediately mortified, uncharacteristically self-conscious as my instincts stepped in and warned me to protect my heart. The next few days grew progressively worse, with Jerry acting cold, distant, almost angry at my presence in his quarters. I attempted to speak with him about it to no avail. He alluded to some sort of awful "thing" that had happened a month earlier, saying he didn't want to go into detail, but that he was still sorting through it. Okay. What did that have to do with me? Why hadn't he discouraged me from visiting?
The final straw was when I awoke to him fucking me from behind, sans condom, coming inside me, then wordlessly getting up to go shower. No kisses, no touching, no pretense of care. It was humiliating. I was sick inside a Starbucks bathroom, puking as sweat poured from my clammy skin and drenched my clothing. Texts and phone calls from Joseph came through all the while, with him desperately professing love while still refusing to claim me as his own.
Operation Self-Preservation was invented by Necessity in the wake of my foolhardy actions. I called my closest girl friends. I went out with a Brooklyn pal. I stayed with my best guy friend from high school for the remainder of my trip. He'd moved to the Upper West Side from SoCal a few years earlier, was a huge success story as a self-made entrepreneur. He treated me like a queen, we had amazing conversations and food and drinks and took walks in the park...everything I'd wanted from Jerry. I was hired to model in my underwear in a 5th Avenue storefront window, dancing half-naked for five hours as passerby gaped and photographed my lithe body. I took taxis and subways and roamed the streets, feeling empowered and emboldened while simultaneously loathing my own existence.
I returned to Los Angeles, to Joseph's coexisting love and fear that went nowhere and caused nothing but confusion and heartache. It's been two weeks since I returned and I miss the daily texts from Jerry, wishing I could go back to the excitement of the unknown. I wish Joseph would man up and make me his woman already. I'm getting tired of this freedom, this independence, this wilderness. It's exhausting, navigating the various pitfalls of being attractive and talented and running scared throughout. I want to be taken care of, to take care of someone else. I want Joseph. Until then, I await the next young, arrogant bastard, the next distraction, the next destruction. Until then...
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
So I ran. I felt the panic in my chest, the sense of urgency to escape. I obeyed the fear, bent over backwards for the thrill of my own doom. A plane ticket, a secret, a nausea, a red flag, a gut instinct, a dread, a knowing. It was the knowing that makes me ill after the fact, the knowing deep down that it was all wrong but fleeing towards it nonetheless. Who does that? Who ignores reality to one's own demise? I do.
I presented a photoshopped version of the picture, airbrushed and denoised and tinted in golden, sepia tones for all to look upon and admire and praise. I hid the blemishes and dark circles and poor lighting so well that I even fooled myself, forgetting that anything lesser existed. I may or may not be a pathological liar to the teensiest extent. Sometimes the complete and utter truth dawns on me after weeks, months, years of perpetuating bullshit. And then I remember. Quickly, though, ever so quickly, I switch the settings back to present the facade most flattering to my persona. Only those closest to me ever call me out, and even then, I'm pretty good at fooling them, too.
Jerry. He'd been so attentive that day in Santa Monica. We'd gotten to "know" each other for three short days while working as models in fancy underwear. "Oh, you like Sour Patch Kids? You like drinking chocolate milk while smoking cigarettes? Meeee toooo..." After the gig was over, we ate bar food at Yankee Doodles, drinking at eleven in the morning. He slung his arm around my chair, kissed me nonchalantly in mid-sentence as the whiskey pulled me under a pleasant haze. We played pool and made out in between shots. We smoked outside on a bus stop bench, asking each other questions and allowing time to gently unfold before us. The weather was perfect. We sat in the park overlooking the ocean. We strolled down the boardwalk. We lay in the grass, napping and kissing and talking and enjoying. How beautiful we must have been to the tourists and transients, two young lovers, tall and pretty, one blonde one brunette, both thin and so very genetically blessed.
He held my hand as though we were a couple, and it felt intimate and serious. We made out fervently in the parking garage, standing next to my filthy car. I wasn't nuts about the way he kissed, like a tongue-happy teenager oblivious to proper conduct in public...but I loved the attention, the way this gorgeous guy desired me so unabashedly. And then it was time for him to leave, to catch his flight back to New York City, to work for the marketing company that had enlisted both of us as underwear models. To my surprise, Jerry proceeded to text me morning and night in the days and weeks to follow, lavishing me with compliments and attention and inquiries as to how I was doing. He wanted to see me soon, he wrote. We video-chatted once, spoke on the phone twice. Most girls would have simply enjoyed the flirtation and left it at that, writing the experience off as a fun fling incapable of picking up momentum due to the small detail of, oh, three thousand miles worth of distance. I, however, became hellbent on earning enough money for a plane ticket.
The pressure in my chest killed my appetite and drove me onward. I worked and hustled for more work and had trouble sleeping. Jerry seemed as excited as I did at the prospect of my visit. And then there I was, boarding a plane to JFK. I took a shuttle to Jerry's midtown apartment. Upon seeing him step off the elevator, the reality hit: I barely knew him. What the hell was I doing there?
We fucked twice that night, without condoms, and it was empty. He seemed to enjoy the experience initially, but I was immediately mortified, uncharacteristically self-conscious as my instincts stepped in and warned me to protect my heart. The next few days grew progressively worse, with Jerry acting cold, distant, almost angry at my presence in his quarters. I attempted to speak with him about it to no avail. He alluded to some sort of awful "thing" that had happened a month earlier, saying he didn't want to go into detail, but that he was still sorting through it. Okay. What did that have to do with me? Why hadn't he discouraged me from visiting?
The final straw was when I awoke to him fucking me from behind, sans condom, coming inside me, then wordlessly getting up to go shower. No kisses, no touching, no pretense of care. It was humiliating. I was sick inside a Starbucks bathroom, puking as sweat poured from my clammy skin and drenched my clothing. Texts and phone calls from Joseph came through all the while, with him desperately professing love while still refusing to claim me as his own.
Operation Self-Preservation was invented by Necessity in the wake of my foolhardy actions. I called my closest girl friends. I went out with a Brooklyn pal. I stayed with my best guy friend from high school for the remainder of my trip. He'd moved to the Upper West Side from SoCal a few years earlier, was a huge success story as a self-made entrepreneur. He treated me like a queen, we had amazing conversations and food and drinks and took walks in the park...everything I'd wanted from Jerry. I was hired to model in my underwear in a 5th Avenue storefront window, dancing half-naked for five hours as passerby gaped and photographed my lithe body. I took taxis and subways and roamed the streets, feeling empowered and emboldened while simultaneously loathing my own existence.
I returned to Los Angeles, to Joseph's coexisting love and fear that went nowhere and caused nothing but confusion and heartache. It's been two weeks since I returned and I miss the daily texts from Jerry, wishing I could go back to the excitement of the unknown. I wish Joseph would man up and make me his woman already. I'm getting tired of this freedom, this independence, this wilderness. It's exhausting, navigating the various pitfalls of being attractive and talented and running scared throughout. I want to be taken care of, to take care of someone else. I want Joseph. Until then, I await the next young, arrogant bastard, the next distraction, the next destruction. Until then...
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Life Goes On
I awoke to this email, titled "Regretfully":
Elle,
I feel like I've kept you waiting long enough-- probably too long, and I owe you some sort of statement.
After weeks of non-stop, painstaking deliberation I've concluded I just can't move forward with dating right now. It's a wildly erratic debate in my mind and the extreme uncertainly of it seems like reason enough to hold off for now. It's definitely made me realize how little I understand of myself, and how much I care for you. I'm beginning to REALLY feel like I need therapy!
I'm terribly sorry to do this via email, but it seemed like the best way to just say it.
I tend to feel like we can still work together and bump into each other normally etc, but I'll defer to you if you feel otherwise.
Also, I realize that I forfeit the right to be "possessive" in any way, or a "caretaker" or whatever, so that's something I'll need to work thru.
I'm so so so sorry big mama for the pain and stress I've caused you. I've meant you no harm at any point but I know I'm a bumbling and clumsy idiot that has not treated you as well as I could have.
Lots of work ahead but can probably discuss this further if you like, tho I feel like we've probably covered all this pretty well in past convos.
I hope this finds you ok big mama. Talk to you later,
j
Tired, hungover, and a bit sick to my stomach/heart, it took me two hours to write back:
Joseph,
Elle,
I feel like I've kept you waiting long enough-- probably too long, and I owe you some sort of statement.
After weeks of non-stop, painstaking deliberation I've concluded I just can't move forward with dating right now. It's a wildly erratic debate in my mind and the extreme uncertainly of it seems like reason enough to hold off for now. It's definitely made me realize how little I understand of myself, and how much I care for you. I'm beginning to REALLY feel like I need therapy!
I'm terribly sorry to do this via email, but it seemed like the best way to just say it.
I tend to feel like we can still work together and bump into each other normally etc, but I'll defer to you if you feel otherwise.
Also, I realize that I forfeit the right to be "possessive" in any way, or a "caretaker" or whatever, so that's something I'll need to work thru.
I'm so so so sorry big mama for the pain and stress I've caused you. I've meant you no harm at any point but I know I'm a bumbling and clumsy idiot that has not treated you as well as I could have.
Lots of work ahead but can probably discuss this further if you like, tho I feel like we've probably covered all this pretty well in past convos.
I hope this finds you ok big mama. Talk to you later,
j
Tired, hungover, and a bit sick to my stomach/heart, it took me two hours to write back:
Joseph,
I would have preferred to say all of this in person or even over the phone, as what I have to say is quite lengthy. A long, wordy, manifesto of an email will have to suffice.
I called last night to tell you what I've concluded, which is that the process of deciding whether or not to date someone shouldn't require days, weeks, and months of deliberation. People jump in headfirst all the time - for better or worse - because for them, it's too exciting not to, and no one knows what the true nature of each respective relationship will be until they're actually in the midst of it.
One of my greatest fears hasn't been that you'll hurt me - I've already experienced that with your repeated, contradictory behavior and feelings towards me, which have alternately and simultaneously been exciting and confusing and depressing. One of my greatest fears is one and the same with your own: that I will inevitably hurt you. Even though a big part of me longs to be with you, to be yours in every way, another part of me knows that I'm still not ready to belong to anyone...not even to you, whom I love so deeply. Would I cheat? No. But would I feel trapped and freak out and have panic attacks and pick fights with you to get you to leave me? Probably.
We know each other so well, perhaps because we are, indeed, very similar creatures. The big difference between us is not that you are conservative and I am uninhibited; it is that I am far more self aware than you are. Even though my behavior is sometimes strange and imperfect, I am always able to get to the bottom of its cause and apply improvements and revisions accordingly. You, on the other hand, rarely know how you feel about something until you are too consumed by it not to, and at that point, it's often a huge dose of pain administered all at once, rather than the smaller day-to-day doses that would be easier to manage if you allowed yourself to receive them. Joseph, you've had a lot of pain in your life that extends beyond your distrust of women.
I see my brother, Louis, in the same predicament with marijuana that you once were. His entire life centers around the drug and the stupid toys and the music he's drawn to as a result of constantly being high. He's such a good guy, but he's angry and in pain and trying to avoid feeling any of it. I imagine your immersion in smoking pot stemmed from similar emotions. You downplay - at least to me - how incredibly hard it must have been on you and your family to deal with your brother's mental illness and everything that went along with it. So much of the attention must have been focused on him as a result of his actions, with you taking a backseat a good part of the time. Your brother initially got attention for being athletic and outgoing, then later, for being problematic and troubled. What about you? You've reassured me that you still received proper attention from your parents, but whatever situation we're raised in is our normalcy and it can be pretty difficult to see our upbringings objectively...so I can't help but wonder as to the reality of yours and the effect it had on you. Nobody smokes pot for a decade, all day every day, unless they're trying to avoid some massively bothersome internal shit.
And then your mom, watching a strong, capable woman physically deteriorate...
Two of the most important people in your life are afflicted with ailments beyond their - and your - control, and I know your own various physical and mental afflictions are incredibly frightening for you to fathom. So it makes sense for you to maintain a controlled environment in any way possible, and that, sadly, means not truly letting anyone else into it. Joseph, I represent everything that could potentially throw your world out of whack. Since you have already experienced the pain and heartache and drama associated with your brother and mother, it's terrifying to risk heaping additional devastation onto that which you already carry...and bury.
From my end, holding your emotional well-being in my hands would be a huge responsibility, and one that I wouldn't take lightly. What I realized long ago is that your issues extend far beyond anything we could simply talk out, rationalize, get to the bottom of, and move forward with. We've gone around and around in circles to no avail. Your hesitance to date me is rooted in so much more than my marriage/divorce/record/rape drama, all of which were valid reasons to put on the brakes, but considering our otherworldly attraction and connection, none of those issues are what's truly lying at the core of your fear. Yes, therapy - not merely self-help books and CD's - is something I emphatically want for you, and I can give you the info of my counseling center, which would be the most cost-effective route, or have my dad recommend someone great. As someone who has been in survival mode for as long as I can remember, I plainly recognize that you're in the same predicament. I avoided therapy for years because I knew it would force me to examine realities within myself that would be excruciating to see. What if it broke me, what if I couldn't function thereafter once I allowed myself to feel the weight of it all? The first month was intensely uncomfortable, but now, I look forward to each session, to the opportunity to dig in and do the work. I am stronger and clearer and can feel the constant growth...even as I continue to experience the setbacks and disappointments that result simply from existing on this planet and partaking in society.
If my trip to New York ultimately served as a catalyst for you deciding, at long last, to seek true understanding of yourself, then it was worth it. I never wanted to inflict pain on you, but rather, had ruled you out as a possibility months earlier. Our incredible afternoon prior to my trip didn't change that, because I knew that the song remained the same as far as your desire to truly be with me was concerned. I figured that as a single woman, I didn't owe you or anyone else an explanation as far as my behavior was concerned. Jerry was a flirtation, a fun fling, but he also took an active interest in my life. He visited his parents in Ohio and sent me a picture of an organ from the 1880's that resides in their living room, knowing I'd trip out. He asked great questions and noticed that my eyes change color and appreciated my sarcasm. There was certainly substance to our communication, mutual interest in each other's lives and passions, and after a month of experiencing that on a daily basis, it didn't seem unreasonable to either reaffirm or deny our connection in person. I wanted to know one way or another so that I didn't continue to put time and effort into someone who may or may not be worth it. I made sure my family and friends had all the info, that I had back-up options if the Jerry situation was a bust. Indeed, it wasn't what I'd hoped for, but at least I know. Better still, that experience helped me to achieve even more clarity as to what I ultimately want in a relationship, when I am eventually ready for something serious. For now, I am drawn to the non-committal type of male as a sort of insurance policy against the type of relationship that could lead to marriage and kids and boring predictability. Having a boyfriend whom I could have fun with and enjoy the company of without things getting too serious too fast? Yes, that's something I'm open to, and what I'd thought, perhaps, Jerry would be.
So what does this mean for us, as you are deferring to me on that topic? Joseph, I can not imagine not having you in my life. Your decision is exactly what I expected following your emotional eruption, as you only seem to want me when you think you've lost me. The possibility that you could have me always brings you back to your senses. With zero manipulative intent, I am telling you now: you can not have me. I will, however, be your friend and creative partner without condition. If so desired, I will be your confidante, sounding board, honest council. I care so deeply for you and suspect I always will, but I deserve to be pursued with conviction and without hesitance. Anything less than that is detrimental to my own emotional well-being, as the mixed signals are too much of a mind-fuck to be healthy. I knew this already and had fully owned my decision, but your reaction to my trip was momentarily confusing and caused me to re-examine my convictions anew.
What I need right now, and desperately so, is my music producer. I need assistance and advice on the damn album artwork so that I can release the record. Is the whole world waiting with baited breath? No. But for my own sake, for the sense of accomplishment and completion, I need this to be done. Please, sit down with me, guide the process a little, and then let's be done with it. I have shitloads of marketing ideas and need this record to be available to the world at large. And then I want to make another record, and another one after that, and if you want to be part of that, great. If not...if it's too difficult emotionally...I'll understand. But I feel like this...all of this...needs to be done so that a new chapter can begin. I can email you what I have so far, and then I need to have something uploaded to TuneCore by Sunday, have a release date officially set, and move on. Please?
I'll be around until 2, if you want to talk...about you/I/music/therapy/whatever.
Elle
And he simply responded:
Elle, thanks for this. I think a written manifesto was good, obviously there was lots for you to say & for me to digest.
I'm working all day, but by all means send the album art. Are you still unhappy w/ it?
I'm working all day, but by all means send the album art. Are you still unhappy w/ it?
And I sent him the album artwork and, as requested, he gave me his opinion. I had a good therapy session, rife with epiphanies; a great modeling casting, which might lead to catalog work; and now Leann's coming to swoop me up for a much-needed night out on the town. Obla-di-obla-da, life goes on, oh, nananana, life goes on.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Come Cut Me Open
Drunk-blogging is even worse than drunk-driving, but it seems as though I am committing both crimes tonight.
Being home in the warm safety of my bedroom feels orgasmic after a night of drinking with my brothers in Venice, where they reside. The two main bars on Abbot Kinney yielded success for my ego, but little for my soul. Jackson posted something on Facebook about couch-hunting with his "lady," which brought me spiraling back to the life-changing nights we had shared this past August. His attention was a tease, a promise of a life I had only dreamed of, but someone else had played the game better than I and won his affections...and commitment, so it would seem. Jackson's accomplishments in the world of pro-snowboarding were above and beyond that of any men I'd dated thus far, and the brief time we'd spent in each other's arms provided a glimpse into a life of luxury, of carefree indulgence and childlike wonderment that I'd never before allowed myself to fathom. I suppose it wasn't meant to be, that I have some greater purpose in store that would have been squelched had I devoted my time to fulfilling his every desire. Still, though, that delicious taste of "what if" continues to haunt me in the form of status updates in the virtual realm of social networking.
And then there's Joseph. As I traversed the 10 East with Jameson coursing through my veins, I fumbled with my hands-free technology in order to place a late-night phone call to the one who continues to rear his ugly head. Leave me alone. Don't profess your feelings only to retreat into silence. Of course he didn't answer - he was most likely still plugging away at work, immersed in his passion, his profession. Good for him.
I question my desire to have a man in my life. Why? Why do I crave that attention so consistently? I am more than this biological clock ticking away within an empty womb. I possess talents and creativity and an imagination as limitless as the Universe itself. As my brother pointed out tonight, though, our respective drives toward success are purely ego-based. In the end, none of it means a goddamn thing. No one will remember our accomplishments one hundred years from now. Why do we hammer ourselves into the ground, beating ourselves up for not being further along than we currently are? No one else is keeping score. Ambition is thinly-veiled vanity based on our own self-perceived potential for greatness.
I am still drunk. I should not have driven home. In Los Angeles, one in three will be issued a DUI, and those are merely the ones who get caught. We all drive under the influence, we all risk our lives and the lives of those around us every time we get behind the wheel. It is a part of this culture that I have only recently joined. I am so late to the party, regressing with every birthday. They all think I'm five years younger than I actually am, an old soul that not only caught up to herself, but traveled back in time and continues to do so, erasing the years with every sip of whiskey, every devious smile. So what?
I went to two modeling castings today. I look the part, act the part, and no longer know who I am. And you know what? They all fucking eat it up.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Being home in the warm safety of my bedroom feels orgasmic after a night of drinking with my brothers in Venice, where they reside. The two main bars on Abbot Kinney yielded success for my ego, but little for my soul. Jackson posted something on Facebook about couch-hunting with his "lady," which brought me spiraling back to the life-changing nights we had shared this past August. His attention was a tease, a promise of a life I had only dreamed of, but someone else had played the game better than I and won his affections...and commitment, so it would seem. Jackson's accomplishments in the world of pro-snowboarding were above and beyond that of any men I'd dated thus far, and the brief time we'd spent in each other's arms provided a glimpse into a life of luxury, of carefree indulgence and childlike wonderment that I'd never before allowed myself to fathom. I suppose it wasn't meant to be, that I have some greater purpose in store that would have been squelched had I devoted my time to fulfilling his every desire. Still, though, that delicious taste of "what if" continues to haunt me in the form of status updates in the virtual realm of social networking.
And then there's Joseph. As I traversed the 10 East with Jameson coursing through my veins, I fumbled with my hands-free technology in order to place a late-night phone call to the one who continues to rear his ugly head. Leave me alone. Don't profess your feelings only to retreat into silence. Of course he didn't answer - he was most likely still plugging away at work, immersed in his passion, his profession. Good for him.
I question my desire to have a man in my life. Why? Why do I crave that attention so consistently? I am more than this biological clock ticking away within an empty womb. I possess talents and creativity and an imagination as limitless as the Universe itself. As my brother pointed out tonight, though, our respective drives toward success are purely ego-based. In the end, none of it means a goddamn thing. No one will remember our accomplishments one hundred years from now. Why do we hammer ourselves into the ground, beating ourselves up for not being further along than we currently are? No one else is keeping score. Ambition is thinly-veiled vanity based on our own self-perceived potential for greatness.
I am still drunk. I should not have driven home. In Los Angeles, one in three will be issued a DUI, and those are merely the ones who get caught. We all drive under the influence, we all risk our lives and the lives of those around us every time we get behind the wheel. It is a part of this culture that I have only recently joined. I am so late to the party, regressing with every birthday. They all think I'm five years younger than I actually am, an old soul that not only caught up to herself, but traveled back in time and continues to do so, erasing the years with every sip of whiskey, every devious smile. So what?
I went to two modeling castings today. I look the part, act the part, and no longer know who I am. And you know what? They all fucking eat it up.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I'm Hungry
Joseph had tried to pussy out of seeing me a week ago, devastated over the Jerry situation and still not ready to face reality. I told him I'd arranged my entire day around our meeting, that it had been his idea in the first place, his last-minute flaking had been an issue for as long as I'd known him...and it wasn't cool.
"Meet me outside, dammit, I'm on my way."
I sped thirty minutes through the winding side streets of Los Angeles, making my way to eastside suburbia where he'd been staying with our mutual friends, a married couple with issues of their own, out of the need for comfort and solace in the wake of my actions. I was almost there when the red light at Alvarado and Glendale forced me to slow to a halt. A dirty homeless man sauntered from one idling car to the next, holding a sign that read, "I'M HUNGRY" and rubbing his belly to illustrate as much. Normally, I hand Clif bars out the window when beggars approach, loath to chance my hard-earned cash being spent on drugs or booze. Always, smiles of gratitude stretch across their weather-beaten faces, thanking me profusely and uttering, "God bless" while clutching their protein-packed prize. This one was different.
Something about his face repulsed me. I didn't feel sympathy or even pity as I did with most. He had a sour, arrogant expression that reminded me of somebody I used to know. I almost refrained from moving, almost kept my eyes glued straight ahead, waiting for the light to turn green. Almost. The thought of someone, anyone, being hungry without the means to feed himself tugged at my conscience until I grudgingly felt compelled to rifle through my purse for my last Clif bar. I could barely afford to feed myself, but here I was, about to give a hand-out to some asshole who had made poor choices throughout his life and fucked himself over. I rolled the window down, hand extended as he approached. When he saw what I was offering, his face wrinkled up in disgust, recoiling as though I was attempting to feed him dog shit.
"I hate those," he spat, "They give me a headache."
"Well, fuck you, then!" I yelled, frustrated, slamming my foot down on the gas as the light finally turned green. My car lurched forward and I sped around the curve onto Glendale, tearing up the 2 North in a fit of rage. The nerve. The fucking nerve. I knew, deep down, that I wasn't actually pissed at the homeless dude...although I was pretty flabbergasted at his response to my charity. I was pissed at Joseph, at the predicament we were now in, at the gas I was wasting on this drive when I knew that it would only lead to the same type of conversation we'd already had a countless number of times. I was pissed at myself...and I was hungry.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
"Meet me outside, dammit, I'm on my way."
I sped thirty minutes through the winding side streets of Los Angeles, making my way to eastside suburbia where he'd been staying with our mutual friends, a married couple with issues of their own, out of the need for comfort and solace in the wake of my actions. I was almost there when the red light at Alvarado and Glendale forced me to slow to a halt. A dirty homeless man sauntered from one idling car to the next, holding a sign that read, "I'M HUNGRY" and rubbing his belly to illustrate as much. Normally, I hand Clif bars out the window when beggars approach, loath to chance my hard-earned cash being spent on drugs or booze. Always, smiles of gratitude stretch across their weather-beaten faces, thanking me profusely and uttering, "God bless" while clutching their protein-packed prize. This one was different.
Something about his face repulsed me. I didn't feel sympathy or even pity as I did with most. He had a sour, arrogant expression that reminded me of somebody I used to know. I almost refrained from moving, almost kept my eyes glued straight ahead, waiting for the light to turn green. Almost. The thought of someone, anyone, being hungry without the means to feed himself tugged at my conscience until I grudgingly felt compelled to rifle through my purse for my last Clif bar. I could barely afford to feed myself, but here I was, about to give a hand-out to some asshole who had made poor choices throughout his life and fucked himself over. I rolled the window down, hand extended as he approached. When he saw what I was offering, his face wrinkled up in disgust, recoiling as though I was attempting to feed him dog shit.
"I hate those," he spat, "They give me a headache."
"Well, fuck you, then!" I yelled, frustrated, slamming my foot down on the gas as the light finally turned green. My car lurched forward and I sped around the curve onto Glendale, tearing up the 2 North in a fit of rage. The nerve. The fucking nerve. I knew, deep down, that I wasn't actually pissed at the homeless dude...although I was pretty flabbergasted at his response to my charity. I was pissed at Joseph, at the predicament we were now in, at the gas I was wasting on this drive when I knew that it would only lead to the same type of conversation we'd already had a countless number of times. I was pissed at myself...and I was hungry.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Monday, October 17, 2011
King Charles
Charles texted me today. It's been months since I've heard from him, though he's been on my mind lately and I had a feeling after he randomly "liked" one of my older photos on Facebook that he was gearing up to get in touch. He said he's been in NYC for the past month, hoped I was doing well, would like to meet up for coffee sometime after he returns to LA on Friday. I haven't responded yet.
Charles and I met at a West Hollywood bar one Saturday night last April. I was with Lynne, uncharacteristically wearing a fire engine red mini-dress with the intent to meet someone hot. I succeeded.
"I want that one," I told Lynne.
Charles was wearing a black beanie and kept catching my eye from across the crowded room. We both gave in at the same moment, smiling and high-fiving one another above the heads of the shorter patrons as a sort of mutual congratulations for being the sexiest people in attendance. I drunkenly toyed with the two necklaces that dangled down his lean chest before embarking on the who-what-where-when-and-why niceties. He told me I was refreshing. Beautiful. Cool. Smart. Sexy. Lynne generously confirmed all of the above and, perhaps too generously, invited Charles to come hang out at our pad. Definitely not my idea. I'd been content to exchange numbers with him and call it a night, but Lynne operated differently. Lynne's influence, after all, had conjured the red mini-dress.
And so began a casual fling with someone who was, as fate would have it, fresh out of a relationship.
"It's bad timing," he would say. "I wish I'd met you a few months from now, when my life wasn't such a mess. Why do you have to be so fucking amazing?! I hate you."
Charles and I would stay up all night, flipping through videos on YouTube of indie artists and bands that he needed me to hear. He opened my ears to new, obscure music that fired up my own musical inspiration anew, shaking me out of the old-and-familiar rut I'd been stuck in without even realizing I'd been stuck in it to begin with. King Charles, CocoRosie, the tUnE-yaRdS, Angus & Julia Stone, Cold War Kids, The Avett Brothers, Frightened Rabbit, The Cool Kids, Born Ruffians, and so many more. Knowing I play the organ, he even found an old PJ Harvey cover of Peggy Lee's "Is That All There Is," which is so tripped out and dark and hypnotically melodramatic...in other words, just my steez. In turn, I introduced him to Devendra Banhart, which was more than enough repayment for all of the above, as far as Charles was concerned.
We played music and sang and drew designs all over each other's bodies as candles cast a soft glow from every corner of my bedroom. Unfortunately, the sex was highly dissatisfying. It became apparent to me that Charles was still involved with his ex and therefore, incapable of achieving even momentary emotional intimacy with me when it came time to get hot and heavy. Our chemistry was amazing, yes, and his kisses were steamy, but he had difficulty staying hard and would try to play it off like he was holding back out of the desire to be "good." Usually, whiskey was involved. Always, I enjoyed his company, regardless of the fact that his penis knew it still belonged to another woman. Charles recognized all too clearly that I wasn't the girl he could simply screw around with, that I was relationship material and he had to be careful with my feelings. As his ex continued to dominate his existence, I began to lose interest, knowing it couldn't go anywhere, not caring to be the one he called late at night after the two of them had fought and he didn't want to be alone.
Still, I've checked in on him via Facebook, doing my fair share of "lurking" whenever the urge hits, curious as to how he's doing and still thinking of him fondly. He sparked my passion for discovering largely undiscovered music, hunting for treasures buried beneath the mainstream. There's a part of me that would love to show off all of the amazing, obscure songs I've found in the months that we've spent apart. There's another part of me that's wary, knowing (by virtue of Facebook-stalking) that the ex had joined him for at least a week in New York during his trip. And then, beyond that, is the curiosity. Coffee seems harmless enough. I'll text him back tomorrow, make him wait a whole twenty-four hours so he sweats a bit. I think of Joseph...
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Charles and I met at a West Hollywood bar one Saturday night last April. I was with Lynne, uncharacteristically wearing a fire engine red mini-dress with the intent to meet someone hot. I succeeded.
"I want that one," I told Lynne.
Charles was wearing a black beanie and kept catching my eye from across the crowded room. We both gave in at the same moment, smiling and high-fiving one another above the heads of the shorter patrons as a sort of mutual congratulations for being the sexiest people in attendance. I drunkenly toyed with the two necklaces that dangled down his lean chest before embarking on the who-what-where-when-and-why niceties. He told me I was refreshing. Beautiful. Cool. Smart. Sexy. Lynne generously confirmed all of the above and, perhaps too generously, invited Charles to come hang out at our pad. Definitely not my idea. I'd been content to exchange numbers with him and call it a night, but Lynne operated differently. Lynne's influence, after all, had conjured the red mini-dress.
And so began a casual fling with someone who was, as fate would have it, fresh out of a relationship.
"It's bad timing," he would say. "I wish I'd met you a few months from now, when my life wasn't such a mess. Why do you have to be so fucking amazing?! I hate you."
Charles and I would stay up all night, flipping through videos on YouTube of indie artists and bands that he needed me to hear. He opened my ears to new, obscure music that fired up my own musical inspiration anew, shaking me out of the old-and-familiar rut I'd been stuck in without even realizing I'd been stuck in it to begin with. King Charles, CocoRosie, the tUnE-yaRdS, Angus & Julia Stone, Cold War Kids, The Avett Brothers, Frightened Rabbit, The Cool Kids, Born Ruffians, and so many more. Knowing I play the organ, he even found an old PJ Harvey cover of Peggy Lee's "Is That All There Is," which is so tripped out and dark and hypnotically melodramatic...in other words, just my steez. In turn, I introduced him to Devendra Banhart, which was more than enough repayment for all of the above, as far as Charles was concerned.
We played music and sang and drew designs all over each other's bodies as candles cast a soft glow from every corner of my bedroom. Unfortunately, the sex was highly dissatisfying. It became apparent to me that Charles was still involved with his ex and therefore, incapable of achieving even momentary emotional intimacy with me when it came time to get hot and heavy. Our chemistry was amazing, yes, and his kisses were steamy, but he had difficulty staying hard and would try to play it off like he was holding back out of the desire to be "good." Usually, whiskey was involved. Always, I enjoyed his company, regardless of the fact that his penis knew it still belonged to another woman. Charles recognized all too clearly that I wasn't the girl he could simply screw around with, that I was relationship material and he had to be careful with my feelings. As his ex continued to dominate his existence, I began to lose interest, knowing it couldn't go anywhere, not caring to be the one he called late at night after the two of them had fought and he didn't want to be alone.
Still, I've checked in on him via Facebook, doing my fair share of "lurking" whenever the urge hits, curious as to how he's doing and still thinking of him fondly. He sparked my passion for discovering largely undiscovered music, hunting for treasures buried beneath the mainstream. There's a part of me that would love to show off all of the amazing, obscure songs I've found in the months that we've spent apart. There's another part of me that's wary, knowing (by virtue of Facebook-stalking) that the ex had joined him for at least a week in New York during his trip. And then, beyond that, is the curiosity. Coffee seems harmless enough. I'll text him back tomorrow, make him wait a whole twenty-four hours so he sweats a bit. I think of Joseph...
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The Average American vs The Eternal Scrapper
The Average American mainly looks forward to The Next Meal, wondering what to eat and when to eat it. The AA listens to Top 40 radio, too lazy to seek out and explore the new, undiscovered indie no-names. The AA watches sports as often as possible or gets mani-pedi's on the reg. The AA works the same job day after day and knows exactly how much money will be left over for beer once all the bills have been paid. The AA Couple gossips about other AA Couples, gets engaged after dating for the "right" amount of time, spends every second thinking about and planning The Wedding while completely neglecting The Relationship. After the excitement of The Wedding has dissipated, it is clear that there are no genuine interests or passions to speak of, and thusly, procreation must occur so that the focus can then be poured into The Baby. Blogs, magazines, cable TV, phone apps are places where Life occurs...until Death embraces yet one more person who made zero positive impact on this planet while alive. Consume and conquer until consumed and conquered.
It is sobering to realize that some of my dearest friends - and even a couple of family members - are AA's.
They look at me as they would an animal in a zoo. I am to be admired and marveled at and claimed as a favorite, but never truly understood. I am an artist, a freak, a dreamer. I write songs and make music and perform in shitty clubs and fuck male models and listen to obscure bands and jump from one freelance job to another just in time to pay rent. I get by on Looks and Luck and Street Smarts. I am pretentious without meaning to be, an unintentional hipster who would rather spend money on cigarettes than food. My life is difficult and challenging and uncertain and bizarre...but it is always interesting, always gratifying, always wrought with the trite search for depth amongst the shallow society that I partake in.
I am the Eternal Scrapper.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
It is sobering to realize that some of my dearest friends - and even a couple of family members - are AA's.
They look at me as they would an animal in a zoo. I am to be admired and marveled at and claimed as a favorite, but never truly understood. I am an artist, a freak, a dreamer. I write songs and make music and perform in shitty clubs and fuck male models and listen to obscure bands and jump from one freelance job to another just in time to pay rent. I get by on Looks and Luck and Street Smarts. I am pretentious without meaning to be, an unintentional hipster who would rather spend money on cigarettes than food. My life is difficult and challenging and uncertain and bizarre...but it is always interesting, always gratifying, always wrought with the trite search for depth amongst the shallow society that I partake in.
I am the Eternal Scrapper.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Jerry
It's fair to say I'm disappointed. I feel used and let down and dirty and annoyed. The excitement has been decimated, blown to smithereens, crushed to dust. To add insult to injury, he had a small penis.
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
Pretentious Indie Song of the Day:
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