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:
Showing posts with label indie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label indie. Show all posts
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:
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:
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:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)