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:
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