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:

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:

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:

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:

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,

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?

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:

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:

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: