I woke the other day with a fierce need to be around running water. I took a bath, and then still, a shower after that. I stood by the sink and listened to the water running down the drain. Finally, I informed vogue of this odd desire which was consuming me, and she decided to take me hiking the next morning where we could settle ourselves by a rushing creek and twiddle our time away.
This we did on Sunday, and the dogs, too, accompanied us. We laid out a blanket of the course sand and she played with her tarot cards while i searched the rocks for colors which entranced me.
The sound of the water put my mind at ease and I waited patiently while she gave me a reading on my past present and future, according to the box of cards.
It assured me that my visual nature was indeed a plus. That now was the time to kick up my heels and celebrate, and that I should not be worring myself with a timeline of growth, my evolution would come in time.
"Huh", was all i could think to respond to such a thing.
It had in fact answered my question. Perhaps only slightly more accurate than if i were to thumb through a dictionary and point randomly to words while posing to myself questions that plagued me.
But I promised myself on this trip that my mind would be closed to nothing. As detatched from the use of tarot cards and crystals as I may be, they are there none the less, and heavy within the mind of my Vogue. And frankly, Ive nothing against crystals.
It's all mind over matter, this I believe firmly.
Each stroll down the street, or hike through Vallecito brings me home with pockets full of rocks. Always slightly dissapointed in the vibrancy of colors that seems to fade once removed from water, I gather them together in a bowl and keep them wet so as each day brings for me an explosion of unreal shades.
I catered a wedding party this weekend. Vogue passed the job of bartender off to me, which pleased me greatly. People do so adore the individuals who brings them alcohol. And with my constant rounds, there was not a dry glass in the house.
I was given ridiculous tips just for keeping the glasses full. An older gentleman by the name of Alan took to me right away. The older gents usually do.
He assured me that my freckles were not only beautiful within themself, but an irish badge of honor and strength.
I thanked him, as beliefs such as that are a dying breed. But freckles are no badge of honor, I thought, it is wrinkles and grey hair that speaks of such things. Freckles just...are.
Winter approaches, I can feel it in the air. It taunts my poor Vogue, whose heart grows with sun and not shade.
She confessed to me that the Colorado winters bring much bitterness for her. And I assured her, that with my love for snow and cold, and hers for sun and heat, our moods would bind together to form a peaceful balance.
There will be allowed no such disruption of peaceful snow covered lands with bitter revelries for long lost summer. It will, after all, come again. Just after Spring, as it does every year.
But she will hear nothing of my musings for snow capped mountains. She remains in a silent denial that Summer is gone, that we are no longer in sunny southern California.
I, on the other hand, dance to the moonlight in anticipation of those beautiful crystals of falling ice.
Well, Vogue came through on the leg wax threat. It was fortunate there were no other appointments in the building, as I'm sure my manic screaming would have frightened off any other potential wax-ees. What woman would choose to do that more than once, i wonder?
The same women, I imagine, that chooses to birth more than one child.
Masochists.
Its madness, I tell you.
While my days here are never dull, with my Vogue nearly always within arms reach, I do find myself missing my east coast. I promise a trip to NYC for my dear Vogue. She will love it, I know. And NYC will love her.
A true mafia buff, she will have me taking her on tours of where the NY Boss' spent their days. She demands musicals as well. As she does Tiffany's, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton....
It comes to me every now again, this sadness for my lost city. It creeps on me as I lay in bed, or while reading a book that takes place on familiar streets. It comes to me with the sight of soft pretzels, with the scent of roasted nuts, with every pause at pricey shop windows. And it sinks down to the core of me with every snow fall. The longing intensified by the nagging feeling that there is little chance Ill find myself living there again.
And people continue to ask why, if I love it so, I choose not to return.
Brooklyn and Manhattan were noble and generous lovers for years. But time and circumstance drew us apart, as time and circumstance tend to do. Nothing is written in stone, nothing in life is. But when I think back, fondly, to my dear, dear city, I remind myself that I had great love there. I had it. And no matter where this world takes me, it cannot never remove that fact.
I existed in NYC, and NYC continues to exist in me.
Reasons of more depth are between me and my city. I do not kiss and tell.
This simple Colorado life is not unpleasant for me. I find myself quite at peace here, in fact. Waking every morning to a beautiful woman laying next to you is never a bad thing for the spirit.
But I know that if not for Vogue, Id not have found myself here. There is something truly disturbing about living in a town where everyone knows everyone else's name and business.
I am silent and anonymous by my nature, and such things do not suit me.
I saw my first true cowboy the other day. Lasso and all! Ruggedly handsome and chivalrous with the tipping of his hat, he was herding a flock of sheep down the main road in Bayfield. There I was, trapped in the car, layers of sheep on both sides of me.
They baa if you baa, Vogue showed me. I could not understand what in the world these cowboys were doing, marching hundreds of sheep over 50 miles. Is this not 2008?, I asked Vogue. Can they not truck them?
No, the cowboy life requires that they do this march, and spend their nights in the open fields that are designated to them for rest. Twice a year, they do this. And twice a year, for several days, the people of Bayfield get stuck in a herd of sheep on the only main road in this town.
The same women, I imagine, that chooses to birth more than one child.
Masochists.
Its madness, I tell you.
While my days here are never dull, with my Vogue nearly always within arms reach, I do find myself missing my east coast. I promise a trip to NYC for my dear Vogue. She will love it, I know. And NYC will love her.
A true mafia buff, she will have me taking her on tours of where the NY Boss' spent their days. She demands musicals as well. As she does Tiffany's, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton....
It comes to me every now again, this sadness for my lost city. It creeps on me as I lay in bed, or while reading a book that takes place on familiar streets. It comes to me with the sight of soft pretzels, with the scent of roasted nuts, with every pause at pricey shop windows. And it sinks down to the core of me with every snow fall. The longing intensified by the nagging feeling that there is little chance Ill find myself living there again.
And people continue to ask why, if I love it so, I choose not to return.
Brooklyn and Manhattan were noble and generous lovers for years. But time and circumstance drew us apart, as time and circumstance tend to do. Nothing is written in stone, nothing in life is. But when I think back, fondly, to my dear, dear city, I remind myself that I had great love there. I had it. And no matter where this world takes me, it cannot never remove that fact.
I existed in NYC, and NYC continues to exist in me.
Reasons of more depth are between me and my city. I do not kiss and tell.
This simple Colorado life is not unpleasant for me. I find myself quite at peace here, in fact. Waking every morning to a beautiful woman laying next to you is never a bad thing for the spirit.
But I know that if not for Vogue, Id not have found myself here. There is something truly disturbing about living in a town where everyone knows everyone else's name and business.
I am silent and anonymous by my nature, and such things do not suit me.
I saw my first true cowboy the other day. Lasso and all! Ruggedly handsome and chivalrous with the tipping of his hat, he was herding a flock of sheep down the main road in Bayfield. There I was, trapped in the car, layers of sheep on both sides of me.
They baa if you baa, Vogue showed me. I could not understand what in the world these cowboys were doing, marching hundreds of sheep over 50 miles. Is this not 2008?, I asked Vogue. Can they not truck them?
No, the cowboy life requires that they do this march, and spend their nights in the open fields that are designated to them for rest. Twice a year, they do this. And twice a year, for several days, the people of Bayfield get stuck in a herd of sheep on the only main road in this town.
Operation Cowboy
On September 17, 2008, I woke from a gin and tonic haze at the ungodly hour of 7 am after a month of going to bed at 4 and waking at noon.
I flashed a courteous smile to my mother who, in her infinitely maternal martyrdom had forgone her own good morning cup of decaf for my necessity of regular in an effort to pump me full of enough caffeine to get me coherent and functional and on my way to Phase Two of my "plan"; Operation Cowboy.
I jumped in the shower and pondered to myself as I lathered what in the world had compelled me to pick up my beloved east coast life and head across the country to reside in Bayfield, Colorado, of all places.
I then reminded myself that this all had something to do with the reevaluation of existence. I chose for my companion on this wayward journey one of the few people in the this world to know all the darkest secrets of said existence and STILL invite me to live with her for the next 6 months.
Pulling out of the driveway, Ricky Nelson sang great praises to his sweet Mary Lou, and the hot breeze outside my window carried blossoms of those dearly missed crepe myrtles.
The flight attendants on my flight were, I can only guess, sniffing glue in the back of the plane. Which might explain them blasting YMCA and offering free drinks to anyone willing to dance down the aisle.
Sorry intoxicated airplane workers, this woman doesnt dance to drink. She does, however, drink to dance, on occasion.
My gorgeous partner in crime, my Vogue, met me at baggage claim. From the moment my plane landed I was bombarded with text messages inquiring as to my position. I replied, sadly, that while in a layover in Vegas, I had decided to stay there and try my luck as a showgirl.
I don't think she bought it. She did, however, tell me I would wear the tassels well. I'd much rather see her in tassels. But I thank her, all the same.
Emerging from a thin hallways in one of those rare travel warps where everyone is going only one way, I could see her pacing back and forth. But they had in this airport the kind of gynormous revolving doors that always make me pause at their opening. I have visions of being sliced in two if my steps are not timed correctly. I let it spin around a few time and waited for it to be all mine so I could hesitantly and frantically swing through and embrace my love standing just a few feet away.
We had a roadtrip teaser, with 3 1/2 hours of driving thru New Mexico to Colorado. My window gazing greeted me with rocks such colors Ive never known. These rocks of flame called out to the fire lover in me. They captured my heart with their colors, and I happily burned with them.
Then suddenly, the rock turned to forest. Deer, horses, and hawks emerged. The air smelled of wild flowers. And something was missing....Smog.
Id somehow become accustomed to it again during my time in LA.
There was champagne to drink upon our evening arrival. Melrose place and 90210 to occupy our tired hours. The kind of laughter that brings unstoppable tears has consumed these days of mine. And the hours seem shorter here, somehow.
Ive seen many cowboy boots, but surprisingly few massive belt buckles. I imagine this will be amended, however, when we enter the Billy Goat Bar in Bayfield.
My dear Vogue informed me that I was not to feel as if I had to dance, were I asked to. Slightly offended, I told her, "Just who do you think I am? I'm a New Yorker at heart, after all. No one makes me two step!"
Well, maybe Danny Nucci could. But then, that goes without saying.
I lazily fill out my applications and wait to hear if I will be bartending or waitressing in these coming months.
I spend my unemployed hours reading in her spa's waiting room, taking awe-inspiring hikes through thick forests, driving around the 4 blocks that make up this town, and meeting all the people who Im apparently supposed to remember.
There is always so much gossip in these kinds of towns. It makes me glad I never grew up in a small town. But rather, I emerge into this place as Vogue's "New Yorker". As if the Yankee hat I always have on isn't a dead giveaway, or the seemingly random accent that occasionally appears out of nowhere when I say words such as "coffee" and "door".
Each individual I meet comes with a story once they have departed. His wife left him, she's a total drunk, their mother just died...on and on.
Being the roommate of the town spa's owner, Im privy to all sorts of interesting tidbits. I may not like gossip, but I do enjoy stories.
There was a car theft here the other day, for example. The car was somehow moved without the use of keys or hot wiring from a shopping mall parking lot and moved, oddly, just a few blocks away to the bank.
The mystery intrigued locals for days until it was discovered that an angry individual had moved the car with a forklift because her place of business was in that shopping area, and she simply felt she had every right to control the cars which remained parked there after business hours.
There is a disturbing fact about this small town I cannot quiet let go of. No one locks their doors. Not just their house doors either, mind you, but their car doors. Vogue leaves her keys either on her dashboard or in the ignition. Every time. In my distrust, I grab them on our way out and stick them in my pocket.
Perhaps if the car theft victim had left her keys in the car as Vogue does, the stolen car would not have had to risk damage via the use of forklifts.
Vogue hooked me up with a free massage last week. The second I've ever had. The very first, in Brooklyn, did not end well for me. In fact, where it ended was with my head looming over a toilet bowl. No one told me that it was water I should be consuming afterwards, not beer.
It stirs up all those toxins, you see. And adding more to it is just, well...stupid. Now I know.
I flashed a courteous smile to my mother who, in her infinitely maternal martyrdom had forgone her own good morning cup of decaf for my necessity of regular in an effort to pump me full of enough caffeine to get me coherent and functional and on my way to Phase Two of my "plan"; Operation Cowboy.
I jumped in the shower and pondered to myself as I lathered what in the world had compelled me to pick up my beloved east coast life and head across the country to reside in Bayfield, Colorado, of all places.
I then reminded myself that this all had something to do with the reevaluation of existence. I chose for my companion on this wayward journey one of the few people in the this world to know all the darkest secrets of said existence and STILL invite me to live with her for the next 6 months.
Pulling out of the driveway, Ricky Nelson sang great praises to his sweet Mary Lou, and the hot breeze outside my window carried blossoms of those dearly missed crepe myrtles.
The flight attendants on my flight were, I can only guess, sniffing glue in the back of the plane. Which might explain them blasting YMCA and offering free drinks to anyone willing to dance down the aisle.
Sorry intoxicated airplane workers, this woman doesnt dance to drink. She does, however, drink to dance, on occasion.
My gorgeous partner in crime, my Vogue, met me at baggage claim. From the moment my plane landed I was bombarded with text messages inquiring as to my position. I replied, sadly, that while in a layover in Vegas, I had decided to stay there and try my luck as a showgirl.
I don't think she bought it. She did, however, tell me I would wear the tassels well. I'd much rather see her in tassels. But I thank her, all the same.
Emerging from a thin hallways in one of those rare travel warps where everyone is going only one way, I could see her pacing back and forth. But they had in this airport the kind of gynormous revolving doors that always make me pause at their opening. I have visions of being sliced in two if my steps are not timed correctly. I let it spin around a few time and waited for it to be all mine so I could hesitantly and frantically swing through and embrace my love standing just a few feet away.
We had a roadtrip teaser, with 3 1/2 hours of driving thru New Mexico to Colorado. My window gazing greeted me with rocks such colors Ive never known. These rocks of flame called out to the fire lover in me. They captured my heart with their colors, and I happily burned with them.
Then suddenly, the rock turned to forest. Deer, horses, and hawks emerged. The air smelled of wild flowers. And something was missing....Smog.
Id somehow become accustomed to it again during my time in LA.
There was champagne to drink upon our evening arrival. Melrose place and 90210 to occupy our tired hours. The kind of laughter that brings unstoppable tears has consumed these days of mine. And the hours seem shorter here, somehow.
Ive seen many cowboy boots, but surprisingly few massive belt buckles. I imagine this will be amended, however, when we enter the Billy Goat Bar in Bayfield.
My dear Vogue informed me that I was not to feel as if I had to dance, were I asked to. Slightly offended, I told her, "Just who do you think I am? I'm a New Yorker at heart, after all. No one makes me two step!"
Well, maybe Danny Nucci could. But then, that goes without saying.
I lazily fill out my applications and wait to hear if I will be bartending or waitressing in these coming months.
I spend my unemployed hours reading in her spa's waiting room, taking awe-inspiring hikes through thick forests, driving around the 4 blocks that make up this town, and meeting all the people who Im apparently supposed to remember.
There is always so much gossip in these kinds of towns. It makes me glad I never grew up in a small town. But rather, I emerge into this place as Vogue's "New Yorker". As if the Yankee hat I always have on isn't a dead giveaway, or the seemingly random accent that occasionally appears out of nowhere when I say words such as "coffee" and "door".
Each individual I meet comes with a story once they have departed. His wife left him, she's a total drunk, their mother just died...on and on.
Being the roommate of the town spa's owner, Im privy to all sorts of interesting tidbits. I may not like gossip, but I do enjoy stories.
There was a car theft here the other day, for example. The car was somehow moved without the use of keys or hot wiring from a shopping mall parking lot and moved, oddly, just a few blocks away to the bank.
The mystery intrigued locals for days until it was discovered that an angry individual had moved the car with a forklift because her place of business was in that shopping area, and she simply felt she had every right to control the cars which remained parked there after business hours.
There is a disturbing fact about this small town I cannot quiet let go of. No one locks their doors. Not just their house doors either, mind you, but their car doors. Vogue leaves her keys either on her dashboard or in the ignition. Every time. In my distrust, I grab them on our way out and stick them in my pocket.
Perhaps if the car theft victim had left her keys in the car as Vogue does, the stolen car would not have had to risk damage via the use of forklifts.
Vogue hooked me up with a free massage last week. The second I've ever had. The very first, in Brooklyn, did not end well for me. In fact, where it ended was with my head looming over a toilet bowl. No one told me that it was water I should be consuming afterwards, not beer.
It stirs up all those toxins, you see. And adding more to it is just, well...stupid. Now I know.
Ive also been threatened with a leg waxing. This does not please me. But Im sensing it is inevitable. I sense this, you see, because that is exactly what Vogue has told me.
It seems that I have no say, once I enter this spa, in the things that will be done to my body. Lash tints, I also hear, are on their way. Why people would dye their lashes is beyond me. Why women do any of the baffling masochistic things they do in the name of beauty is beyond me.
Except torturous heels, obviously. I mean, that's just common sense.
But then, I certainly did enjoy gazing at those fabulous models that roamed the streets wild in Manhattan. Seeing as I so enjoy the end product, I should perhaps not mock the process.
Better them than me, is all I can think to say.
Has Anyone Seen My Mind Lately?
My mind has run wild these past few days. I've found myself chasing after it, down the cold, empty streets. I'm hot on its trail, it seems at times, but then I turn a corner at it is gone!
Ive heard it's been harassing friends at all hours of the night, writing nonsense on scraps of paper for discovery in the morning, planning trips it has not discussed with me.
It has been listening incessantly to Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones. But that's not all... I woke one morning with Ricky Nelson in my head.
In ransom to itself, it has demanded I remain away from IM and e-mail. Away from the computer in general. But Ive snuck onto myspace now and again, and here I am now pleading with my friends and family to please return my mind to me if it should one day show up on your doorstep singing "It Ain't Me, Babe".
But be warned, it is presumed loud and crazed.
For the love of Jeebus, don't bring up Vonnegut, cross country road trips or the Large Hadron Collider. Just throw a burlap bag over it and ship it to Lexi's.
Many thanks.
Ive heard it's been harassing friends at all hours of the night, writing nonsense on scraps of paper for discovery in the morning, planning trips it has not discussed with me.
It has been listening incessantly to Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones. But that's not all... I woke one morning with Ricky Nelson in my head.
In ransom to itself, it has demanded I remain away from IM and e-mail. Away from the computer in general. But Ive snuck onto myspace now and again, and here I am now pleading with my friends and family to please return my mind to me if it should one day show up on your doorstep singing "It Ain't Me, Babe".
But be warned, it is presumed loud and crazed.
For the love of Jeebus, don't bring up Vonnegut, cross country road trips or the Large Hadron Collider. Just throw a burlap bag over it and ship it to Lexi's.
Many thanks.
The Modern Masochist
Okay, so there is this bathroom appliance out there called Epilady. Ladies, Im sure you've heard of this sadistic grooming tool.
For you unaware male readers, an Epilady is a nifty little invention which is basically a series of tweezers torqued up and used to mercilessly rip the hair on the legs straight from the follicle.
It does NOT come with single serving doses of morphine.
What a world!
My mother had the original model when i was a kid. Back then, it worked on coils which snagged the hair as it vibrated. This newer model, as i said, is just a bunch of tiny tweezers.
It is equally as painful as I remember the original being.
The newer model does offer a sort of safety feature for people like me. When leaning over it, it will not grab hold of any dangling hair from your head, rip it out and entrap it in it's cruel metal jaws.
In my panic to one such occurrence, I cut off my tangled hair and shoved the Epilady, clumps of hair and all, back under my moms counter. I then sauntered out of the room with a lopsided hair-do and a non nonchalant look on my face.
As one of only 2 red heads, Im fairly certain I was pegged for this.
But then, mom was used to finding clumps of my hair all over the house.
This contraption, whose tagline in ads should read "The appliance for the modern masochist!", provides slow release pain in bi-monthly installments.
All for your convenience.
For you unaware male readers, an Epilady is a nifty little invention which is basically a series of tweezers torqued up and used to mercilessly rip the hair on the legs straight from the follicle.
It does NOT come with single serving doses of morphine.
What a world!
My mother had the original model when i was a kid. Back then, it worked on coils which snagged the hair as it vibrated. This newer model, as i said, is just a bunch of tiny tweezers.
It is equally as painful as I remember the original being.
The newer model does offer a sort of safety feature for people like me. When leaning over it, it will not grab hold of any dangling hair from your head, rip it out and entrap it in it's cruel metal jaws.
In my panic to one such occurrence, I cut off my tangled hair and shoved the Epilady, clumps of hair and all, back under my moms counter. I then sauntered out of the room with a lopsided hair-do and a non nonchalant look on my face.
As one of only 2 red heads, Im fairly certain I was pegged for this.
But then, mom was used to finding clumps of my hair all over the house.
This contraption, whose tagline in ads should read "The appliance for the modern masochist!", provides slow release pain in bi-monthly installments.
All for your convenience.
Fan-demonium
I am DESTRUCTOR!! ROAR!As my brother Hollywood put it, "Even when your not here you still fuck things up"
With all loving tones intended...Im sure.
Of course, that was another incident altogether, several days after Id left the scene of the crime.
It was an innocent enough mistake! Too many glasses of champagne seemed to wipe clear from my mind the fact that the ceiling fan with a missing blade was NOT to be turned on.
And in my defense, I didnt mean to turn it on. I was looking for some light in that batcave of his.
It started off fine enough, a little wobbly, sure, but certainly nothing to freak out about. Not just yet, anyhow.
But it rapidly began picking up it's pace, swinging wildly in all directions. I screamed for Hollywood. Hollywood would fix it, I thought, Hollywood can fix anything! Trying my best to keep my cool with Alexis laughing uncontrollably in the corner, nearly on the floor in tears, I stretched my hand into the death trap above my head to pull the damn cord I knew had been there just a moment before.
But it was gone! In the erratic swaying, it had been sent up and over, wrapped around the top of the fixture.
Alexis, between her tears of laughter, screamed at me, as best she could, not to be sticking my hand up there.
"What the hell do you want me to do?!? I gotta turn it off!" Again, I screamed for Hollywood, who was in the kitchen making taquitos, completely unawares to what his darling older sister was doing to his room.
Dust from the blades flung itself into my eyes, and I turned my head away in time to hear a rather unfortunate creaking and then the feeling of plaster falling on my head. A glance upwards showed a slew of wires, still connected with the ceiling- dangling beneath it a three-bladed fan significantly closer to my head than it was just a moment ago.
With plaster now not just in my hair but my eyes, after having just blinked out the dust, I realized I was blindly shoving my hand into a very bad situation, and my head too, for that matter. I can't be sure, as it all happened so fast, but I vaguely remember Alexis, still laughing, grabbing my other arm and trying to pull me away.
But common sense demanded that I keep a hold of that thing. I had visions of that opening scene from Ghost Ship, where the metal wire snaps and cuts everyone in half. The best slice being the ship's Captain who has the upper half of his face removed. Awesome scene. Awesome. But not something I wanted happening to me. True, it wasn't a one inch cable moving with ridiculous momentum, but a wayward swinging fan seemed equally as dangerous were the wires to snap and the contraption to go flying. And frankly, I've become rather attached to the upper half of my face.
"Close the door!! Close the damn door!!" I screamed. Hollywood would see this soon enough, but I doubted it a good idea to allow the whole household to see what this off and on house guest had done to the property. Not until we could at least get it to stop spinning, anyway.
It was then that Hollywood walked in. What a scene! His sister covered in plaster, holding a spinning fan just above her head, her friend cackling madly a few feet away, probably on the floor. And him standing in the doorway with a baffled look on his face.
I had to stop myself from asking him where my taquitos were. One thing at a time.
Ian would tell me later that evening that every time he left the room, he half expected to come back and find a small fire burning in the corner, me laughing on the other side of the room swearing I had no idea how it happened.
This isn't an entirely inaccurate assumption, i must say. Given enough time, I might very well have started a fire. I may still. These things happen....to me. Or because of me, if you want to be technical.
Electronics are not a friend of mine. I want them to be. Ive no problem with them, but they sure as hell seem to have a problem with me. Remotes, computers, ceiling fans, they are all out to get me, I tells ya!
Eventually Ian got the fan turned off and left to shut off the power to the house so he could cut the wires and remove the dangling disaster.
Standing on my toes, still holding the thing above my head (and let me tell you those old ceiling fans are h-e-a-v-y) I realized I needed more documentation of this event and made Alexis switch places with me while I rummaged for the camera amongst the mess of scattered clothes and plaster dust.
I admit...I may have been taking my sweet time finding it. I was curious just how long she would stand there. A LONG time, it turns out.
"Hurry the fuck up! This thing is heavy!" She told me after about 5 minutes.
"Oh relax, what is your problem? I gotta find the camera. There, I got it. Oh wait, I have to delete some old photos..."
What a trooper that one is. By the time I got the photos deleted, the flash turned on and the shot framed, she was whining too much to get more than one shot. This was it:
Fan-tastic.
I told Ian just to put it on my tab.
Good Times.
Ive lost my poetry.
Not the poetry of wildflowers and fair maidens, nor that of lost loves or jaded spirits. But the poetry that resonates within daily existence, that perpetual fuel of conscious thought. Emerging at times when there would appear to be no significant thoughts at all.
I had it by the nape of the neck not so long ago. But it slipped from me somewhere, as it tends to do from time to time.
And each morning I wake in shrouded silence, I wonder- where has the poetry gone?
I search in the most common places for items misplaced. but it is not, i find, in the couch cushions, or under the bed, nor even in the fridge, though that a favorite for socks.
I wait inside the sunsets for clues to where its gone, I wander the dark streets where more than once Ive found it again.
Ive no fear that it will return to me, in time it always does. But these hours without it ring in my ears, they dull my days and empty my nights.
In my searching I remember the moments I had it. Those moments, so fleeting it seems to me now, where I held it firm- my fingers entangled within its locks, being led as surely as I was leading it.
I wait with patience, as it is all I can do, and set on the door step the lures I think it will come to.
I wait and I wonder, and I remember and I plead. For each second that passes without its song is as a thousand years to me.
This I bear in mind as I'm shaken from my peace, it will itself restore. In time, it will rebound. Keep open your mind to the rhythms it exudes, do not chase; but open wide your windows lest it hears your call and covets return.
I abide.
Not the poetry of wildflowers and fair maidens, nor that of lost loves or jaded spirits. But the poetry that resonates within daily existence, that perpetual fuel of conscious thought. Emerging at times when there would appear to be no significant thoughts at all.
I had it by the nape of the neck not so long ago. But it slipped from me somewhere, as it tends to do from time to time.
And each morning I wake in shrouded silence, I wonder- where has the poetry gone?
I search in the most common places for items misplaced. but it is not, i find, in the couch cushions, or under the bed, nor even in the fridge, though that a favorite for socks.
I wait inside the sunsets for clues to where its gone, I wander the dark streets where more than once Ive found it again.
Ive no fear that it will return to me, in time it always does. But these hours without it ring in my ears, they dull my days and empty my nights.
In my searching I remember the moments I had it. Those moments, so fleeting it seems to me now, where I held it firm- my fingers entangled within its locks, being led as surely as I was leading it.
I wait with patience, as it is all I can do, and set on the door step the lures I think it will come to.
I wait and I wonder, and I remember and I plead. For each second that passes without its song is as a thousand years to me.
This I bear in mind as I'm shaken from my peace, it will itself restore. In time, it will rebound. Keep open your mind to the rhythms it exudes, do not chase; but open wide your windows lest it hears your call and covets return.
I abide.
At times myself tells me I should best be writing. And then I reply "Oh shut up self! Ill do as I damn well please! Why, if I want to sit and stare at a blank piece of paper for 45 minutes, I will!"
Sometimes, myself slaps me. Sometimes, I deserve it.
I heard an interesting point a few moons ago, just before my phone decided it would no longer remain charged. Of course, my charger remains plugged into a hidden outlet at Hollywood's house.
So it goes.
But the point was pertaining to an observation I'm all too familiar with; that the majority of people never seem to grow out of high school. "It's the theory of relativity," I was told "You can only see the difference in perspectives once you step aside from your current point of view." And this is true enough.
Not enough people ever feel the need or desire to step aside. Stuck in the perceptions they were born to; perhaps fearful of what a new sight would do to their blind securities, perhaps in denial that anything outside of what has already been learned by them even exists at all.
"Some people just don't want the truth." And this, too, is true enough. True, and eternally frightening to the likes of me.
I came across a forgotten feeling this evening, somewhere between dinner and cocktail hour.
So forgotten, in fact, that i first thought it was the flu.
But it was not an attack on my immune system, as id original thought, rather a subtle underlying loneliness that seemed to sneak up on me from nowhere. Impending, perhaps, from the upcoming departure of my sister, my better half, and my niece. Perhaps due to the uncertainty 2 weeks alone with my mother will bring, or the distance Ill soon know from my brothers, my friends out here on the West coast. Or perhaps still, none of these things singularly, but all of them conglomerated with others unknown.
It was not unwelcome. An underrated emotion, much as fear and anger. As any that is not joy or peace, it would seem.
I reflect upon my friends now, upon the people I miss. a hodgepodge of emotions and beliefs, ideas and ideals, but ultimately- and almost entirely- a sort of bohemian beatnik society. Dig it sweet.
Rebels at heart.
My secret kindreds share with each other an unquenchable thirst for life. Roaming the streets of their scattered cities and towns in search of this world's offerings. Little care given to whether they be dark or destructive, joyous or enraptured . Their interest is in favor of enlightenment, however it may come, which carries with it an unbounded ecstasy- often times intensified by the desperate wanderings of the uncertain and unfamiliar.
This one certain thing I have learned from myself and my loved ones on the matters of life and living, this one point I will leave this world swearing by: Feel as much as you can as often as you can. Do not discriminate but rather discern. no emotions, be it love, hate or careless indifference leaves you without lesson. No experience, if you are experiencing it correctly, leaves you without growth.
One can only hope.
Not to say I think it particularly healthy to brew in anger, resentment, pride or jealousy (to list examples of the 'negative' form). But know them, yes. Know them so you can know the joys of not knowing them.
I cannot conceive it healthy to brew in anything too long, or exclusively. The more time that passes in jubilation or admiration, lets say (to list examples of the 'positive' form), the more that seeps, the cloudier your vision becomes. Until soon you can see nothing. Until soon you are left blind.
Its all about the variations, the textures. Im all about the textures. I may not exude them, but I certainly hunt them out in the people I spend my time with.
I live vicariously through my cross country friends this summer. They place their lives into their backpack and ride or drive themselves across this country, stopping as many places as possible. I hope one day to do this too.
First...money. Yes, money first. This would have been wise to have when I first decided to cross to the other side of this country a month ago. Then a car, or perhaps a bike. And then I too shall see these things I'm told about.
I too can witness the shoe-licking phenomenon taking place amongst the buffalo folk.
I can witness the angry suburbias, the desolate fields of urban existence, the fiercely wicked city streets, all of which span almost perpetually across this land. The gaps filled by lonely interstates begging to be appreciated. Fear not, my lonely roads, though Ive yet to grace your crumbling asphalt, I appreciate you for all you represent to me.
Freedom to roam.
Your darkness is only half the appeal.
Sometimes, myself slaps me. Sometimes, I deserve it.
I heard an interesting point a few moons ago, just before my phone decided it would no longer remain charged. Of course, my charger remains plugged into a hidden outlet at Hollywood's house.
So it goes.
But the point was pertaining to an observation I'm all too familiar with; that the majority of people never seem to grow out of high school. "It's the theory of relativity," I was told "You can only see the difference in perspectives once you step aside from your current point of view." And this is true enough.
Not enough people ever feel the need or desire to step aside. Stuck in the perceptions they were born to; perhaps fearful of what a new sight would do to their blind securities, perhaps in denial that anything outside of what has already been learned by them even exists at all.
"Some people just don't want the truth." And this, too, is true enough. True, and eternally frightening to the likes of me.
I came across a forgotten feeling this evening, somewhere between dinner and cocktail hour.
So forgotten, in fact, that i first thought it was the flu.
But it was not an attack on my immune system, as id original thought, rather a subtle underlying loneliness that seemed to sneak up on me from nowhere. Impending, perhaps, from the upcoming departure of my sister, my better half, and my niece. Perhaps due to the uncertainty 2 weeks alone with my mother will bring, or the distance Ill soon know from my brothers, my friends out here on the West coast. Or perhaps still, none of these things singularly, but all of them conglomerated with others unknown.
It was not unwelcome. An underrated emotion, much as fear and anger. As any that is not joy or peace, it would seem.
I reflect upon my friends now, upon the people I miss. a hodgepodge of emotions and beliefs, ideas and ideals, but ultimately- and almost entirely- a sort of bohemian beatnik society. Dig it sweet.
Rebels at heart.
My secret kindreds share with each other an unquenchable thirst for life. Roaming the streets of their scattered cities and towns in search of this world's offerings. Little care given to whether they be dark or destructive, joyous or enraptured . Their interest is in favor of enlightenment, however it may come, which carries with it an unbounded ecstasy- often times intensified by the desperate wanderings of the uncertain and unfamiliar.
This one certain thing I have learned from myself and my loved ones on the matters of life and living, this one point I will leave this world swearing by: Feel as much as you can as often as you can. Do not discriminate but rather discern. no emotions, be it love, hate or careless indifference leaves you without lesson. No experience, if you are experiencing it correctly, leaves you without growth.
One can only hope.
Not to say I think it particularly healthy to brew in anger, resentment, pride or jealousy (to list examples of the 'negative' form). But know them, yes. Know them so you can know the joys of not knowing them.
I cannot conceive it healthy to brew in anything too long, or exclusively. The more time that passes in jubilation or admiration, lets say (to list examples of the 'positive' form), the more that seeps, the cloudier your vision becomes. Until soon you can see nothing. Until soon you are left blind.
Its all about the variations, the textures. Im all about the textures. I may not exude them, but I certainly hunt them out in the people I spend my time with.
I live vicariously through my cross country friends this summer. They place their lives into their backpack and ride or drive themselves across this country, stopping as many places as possible. I hope one day to do this too.
First...money. Yes, money first. This would have been wise to have when I first decided to cross to the other side of this country a month ago. Then a car, or perhaps a bike. And then I too shall see these things I'm told about.
I too can witness the shoe-licking phenomenon taking place amongst the buffalo folk.
I can witness the angry suburbias, the desolate fields of urban existence, the fiercely wicked city streets, all of which span almost perpetually across this land. The gaps filled by lonely interstates begging to be appreciated. Fear not, my lonely roads, though Ive yet to grace your crumbling asphalt, I appreciate you for all you represent to me.
Freedom to roam.
Your darkness is only half the appeal.
Quiet
I can't sleep.
Or I wont.
Its hard to tell now which is true. Maybe both.
There is nothing now but the glow of the screen. I imagine myself within a cave, the only sounds belonging to the crickets outside a window my mind tells me is near.
Perhaps if I were to close my eyes, lay down in bed, sleep would follow. but something keeps me from this, and I am inclined to hold steady. Im not ready yet to give into the night. Not yet.
The nights are quiet here, but pass quickly,and in a blur. From midnight, now suddenly, 3 hours have come and gone.
Can this be true? I'm in no position to argue with the clocks. they speak, after all, in humming tones I cannot replicate- in waves I do not understand.
Time is no more than a myth to me. I thought an understanding would come to be between me and it, but we've yet to find one that benefits us both. I can only assume what it tells me is accurate. To a point.
My internal clock is somehow months behind, often times years ahead.
There is no order to these things. Not for me. But ive come to peace with this. Still...understanding? Rather, it rings in the resemblance of placation.
There is no understanding for me and time.
Time and space.
Space and reality.
Its all a matter of perspective.
And I lack the perspective this world seems to run on.
And I've no true desire to catch up.
Certainly not at 3 am on a quiet Friday morning, in the chilling solace of Sun Lakes.
Or I wont.
Its hard to tell now which is true. Maybe both.
There is nothing now but the glow of the screen. I imagine myself within a cave, the only sounds belonging to the crickets outside a window my mind tells me is near.
Perhaps if I were to close my eyes, lay down in bed, sleep would follow. but something keeps me from this, and I am inclined to hold steady. Im not ready yet to give into the night. Not yet.
The nights are quiet here, but pass quickly,and in a blur. From midnight, now suddenly, 3 hours have come and gone.
Can this be true? I'm in no position to argue with the clocks. they speak, after all, in humming tones I cannot replicate- in waves I do not understand.
Time is no more than a myth to me. I thought an understanding would come to be between me and it, but we've yet to find one that benefits us both. I can only assume what it tells me is accurate. To a point.
My internal clock is somehow months behind, often times years ahead.
There is no order to these things. Not for me. But ive come to peace with this. Still...understanding? Rather, it rings in the resemblance of placation.
There is no understanding for me and time.
Time and space.
Space and reality.
Its all a matter of perspective.
And I lack the perspective this world seems to run on.
And I've no true desire to catch up.
Certainly not at 3 am on a quiet Friday morning, in the chilling solace of Sun Lakes.
How Do You Close a McDonald's Window?
In a matter of days, I will once again be reunited with the missing halves of my horn and halo.
There will be much laughter, much drinking, and probably...much trouble. Oh yes.
Get your bail money ready, my friends. It probably won't be necessary, but it would certainly put her father's mind at ease.
Yep, after 9 years, he still calls me the devil. It's the red hair, you see. Yes, I return. But then, the devil never really goes away.
Las Vegas was ruled out, much to the relief of family. I'm told that Alexis and I in Vegas may not be the best idea. But c'mon people, it would be legal this time!
Oh, memories.
For those of you unaware, this is the girl that helped release me from myself. It had been a long time coming.
It really wasn't because of her, but it did happen with her.
And regardless of what her father and my mother may have thought, there was nothing done within each other that would not have been done anyway.
There was just more laughing.
And really...we were 17. I mean, surely, we've grown up at least a little since then. True, we haven't see eachother in something like 6 years, but Im guessing we're significantly more chill.
My few weeks back West have been surprisingly fulfilling. But now it is down to business. Oh demons, time to show yourself. I'll not chase you down, but I will keep my eyes open.
And something tells me if anyone is going to help bring those demons out of hiding, it's going to be the one who was there when all those demons were formed.
There will be much laughter, much drinking, and probably...much trouble. Oh yes.
Get your bail money ready, my friends. It probably won't be necessary, but it would certainly put her father's mind at ease.
Yep, after 9 years, he still calls me the devil. It's the red hair, you see. Yes, I return. But then, the devil never really goes away.
Las Vegas was ruled out, much to the relief of family. I'm told that Alexis and I in Vegas may not be the best idea. But c'mon people, it would be legal this time!
Oh, memories.
For those of you unaware, this is the girl that helped release me from myself. It had been a long time coming.
It really wasn't because of her, but it did happen with her.
And regardless of what her father and my mother may have thought, there was nothing done within each other that would not have been done anyway.
There was just more laughing.
And really...we were 17. I mean, surely, we've grown up at least a little since then. True, we haven't see eachother in something like 6 years, but Im guessing we're significantly more chill.
My few weeks back West have been surprisingly fulfilling. But now it is down to business. Oh demons, time to show yourself. I'll not chase you down, but I will keep my eyes open.
And something tells me if anyone is going to help bring those demons out of hiding, it's going to be the one who was there when all those demons were formed.
"There's thoughts in that mind that I would give my last arm to know"
I'm all foggy.
It happens.
My niece discovered the spiral on the back of my neck. Now all my spirals have been anointed with Sofia kisses. This pleases me.
My body is exhausted, but my mind wont let me rest.
This happens too.
So it goes.
I'm told Im too flaky. Too apt to wander. Too careless. These things float around my head. They are there, but in no true capacity to myself.
I'm anxious. Baffled. Bewitched. My hair is under attack. I'm wary of waking up blonde, Ive been warned this might happen. I must be cautious of drinks given to me. Some desire to remove my luck. For what purpose, I do not know.
It is in my DNA, I tell them. And now I worry of gene manipulation. Id be wise to keep these things to myself. But Ive habit to speak and act first. Considerations follow later, if they follow at all.
I tell myself I am getting better, but Ive no proof this is true.
It is not luck anyhow, not really. Id say I'm Even Steven, but then, my name isn't Steven. And I'm not sure I'm especially even.
Perhaps I should be drinking fermented tea to better restore my balance. Labels tell me this.
I have my doubts.
I suspect my niece knows more about this world than she is letting on. Ive been imploring her to reveal her secrets, but she only throws her head back and laughs.
Perhaps that is her secret.
I dig her sweet.
It happens.
My niece discovered the spiral on the back of my neck. Now all my spirals have been anointed with Sofia kisses. This pleases me.
My body is exhausted, but my mind wont let me rest.
This happens too.
So it goes.
I'm told Im too flaky. Too apt to wander. Too careless. These things float around my head. They are there, but in no true capacity to myself.
I'm anxious. Baffled. Bewitched. My hair is under attack. I'm wary of waking up blonde, Ive been warned this might happen. I must be cautious of drinks given to me. Some desire to remove my luck. For what purpose, I do not know.
It is in my DNA, I tell them. And now I worry of gene manipulation. Id be wise to keep these things to myself. But Ive habit to speak and act first. Considerations follow later, if they follow at all.
I tell myself I am getting better, but Ive no proof this is true.
It is not luck anyhow, not really. Id say I'm Even Steven, but then, my name isn't Steven. And I'm not sure I'm especially even.
Perhaps I should be drinking fermented tea to better restore my balance. Labels tell me this.
I have my doubts.
I suspect my niece knows more about this world than she is letting on. Ive been imploring her to reveal her secrets, but she only throws her head back and laughs.
Perhaps that is her secret.
I dig her sweet.
Boil and Burn
Do you ever get the feeling that the Universe, in its infinite wisdom, is intentionally keeping information from the likes of us?
I pondered this today as I watched the wind carry off with itself my remaining sense of time and space.
In all fairness, Id not had much to begin with.
Dark matter continues to elude me. I rather enjoy the extensive potential for answers such uncertainty provides. With no positive answer, after all, are not the possibilities limitless?
My mother, in her parental insistence, asks relentlessly what my plans for the future are.
Plans? Future?
I don't even have plans for the present.
After more than two decades, I'm baffled she still thinks to ask. Oh, but she does. Quite often. And my answer never satisfies her.
I think, then, she must keep asking in hopes that my shrug will turn into a well formulated, clearly defined, and bullet-pointed arrangement for the map of my life.
But Ive never been very good at navigation.
Ah well, it is not really the destination that calls to me anyhow. And as Ive no clear destination in mind, this is quite fortunate.
I fantasize of fitting my existence in a backpack. What do I really need, anyhow, but my sunscreen and a few outfits? At this point, I could do even without my shoes. Well, most of them. Id need at least one pair of heels. Brooklyn Love, or Shoes of Doom? Ive yet to decide.
My life a constant battle with the accumulation of useless possessions.
My heart is a vagrant.
In the next room, my step father battles with a stapler. It pleases me to know I am not alone in my arguments with inanimate objects. I suspect, however, that in this house I'm still alone in being argued back by them.
Those remotes are truly sassy, with an array of buttons which never seem to do the same thing twice.
But then, they are nothing compared to the toasters.
I pondered this today as I watched the wind carry off with itself my remaining sense of time and space.
In all fairness, Id not had much to begin with.
Dark matter continues to elude me. I rather enjoy the extensive potential for answers such uncertainty provides. With no positive answer, after all, are not the possibilities limitless?
My mother, in her parental insistence, asks relentlessly what my plans for the future are.
Plans? Future?
I don't even have plans for the present.
After more than two decades, I'm baffled she still thinks to ask. Oh, but she does. Quite often. And my answer never satisfies her.
I think, then, she must keep asking in hopes that my shrug will turn into a well formulated, clearly defined, and bullet-pointed arrangement for the map of my life.
But Ive never been very good at navigation.
Ah well, it is not really the destination that calls to me anyhow. And as Ive no clear destination in mind, this is quite fortunate.
I fantasize of fitting my existence in a backpack. What do I really need, anyhow, but my sunscreen and a few outfits? At this point, I could do even without my shoes. Well, most of them. Id need at least one pair of heels. Brooklyn Love, or Shoes of Doom? Ive yet to decide.
My life a constant battle with the accumulation of useless possessions.
My heart is a vagrant.
In the next room, my step father battles with a stapler. It pleases me to know I am not alone in my arguments with inanimate objects. I suspect, however, that in this house I'm still alone in being argued back by them.
Those remotes are truly sassy, with an array of buttons which never seem to do the same thing twice.
But then, they are nothing compared to the toasters.
"Zuh?" is for..."Zombies"?
I had an interesting lesson in violent male bonding dynamics last night. Two best friends, who swear they are closer to each other now because of this game, sat facing in folding chairs while each took turns punching the other in the jaw.
Oh yes, you read that correctly. It was disgustingly fascinating. They were so cordial.
"Okay man, which side, left or right? Okay, you ready? This side? Okay. You sure your ready?"
Pop!
And the room would go up in a roar. I sat there, shaking my head but unable to turn away. For round one, anyhow. By round two, however, I relocated to the kitchen, but found myself pacing and turning back to see.
There was no hate behind it. Not anything being truly directed at the other person. No bad blood.
And they'd shake it off and let the other take their turn. They sat only inches from each other. They really did seem to be bonding over it, oddly.
Like a tamer version of Fight Club.
And I turned to my brother and the rest of his friends, asking if this something all guys did, as Id never been privy to witness such a thing before.
As if it was odd that I was asking this question, they rolled in laughter and assured me it was not.
The one sat talking, with his jaw beginning to swell, tonguing his teeth in search of blood, about Zombie invasions. A book, I must now read, called World War Z, fascinated me. Written by Mel Brooks' son (Whose name, i apologize, I cannot remember), it is a compilation of first hand accounts of zombie attack survivals during the great zombie invasion of something like 2013.
The other, who had located blood on his battered right side, laughed as a plan of escape was being mapped out by his brother in bruises.
But this is a serious matter, you know. And so i turned to him and said quite frankly, "Oh no, you have to have a plan in the event of a zombie attack"
He did not agree with the seriousness of the situation, or so I gathered from the odd stare which accompanied his acknowledgment of my focused tone.
But bloodless over there, his eyes more red than a Rossetti girl's hair, jumped in excitement that another recognized this very probable threat.
Fear not my siblings in Zombie awareness, there are others all over. We must determine meeting places for when the time comes.
Sadly, the place to be at the Zombie Apocalypse (in absence of a well stocked, well quarantined military base) is going to be Walmart. Preferably in a small town. And before they open. Certainly not one of those 24 hour monstrosities . But one without any active personnel.
I mean, they've got weapons, ammo, food, televisions, camcorders, first aid, bathrooms. No showers, that is true enough, but it is strongly locked down, once the glass doors and windows are secured. And surely, even if surrounded by zombies, in a pinch, there will probably be at least one or two cars in the parking lot or nearby. All in all not a bad set-up
And you know what car would be wise to find? Thats right, none other than the environmentally thrashing Hummer.
These thoughts keep me up at night.
That, and the sound of jaws popping.
Oh yes, you read that correctly. It was disgustingly fascinating. They were so cordial.
"Okay man, which side, left or right? Okay, you ready? This side? Okay. You sure your ready?"
Pop!
And the room would go up in a roar. I sat there, shaking my head but unable to turn away. For round one, anyhow. By round two, however, I relocated to the kitchen, but found myself pacing and turning back to see.
There was no hate behind it. Not anything being truly directed at the other person. No bad blood.
And they'd shake it off and let the other take their turn. They sat only inches from each other. They really did seem to be bonding over it, oddly.
Like a tamer version of Fight Club.
And I turned to my brother and the rest of his friends, asking if this something all guys did, as Id never been privy to witness such a thing before.
As if it was odd that I was asking this question, they rolled in laughter and assured me it was not.
The one sat talking, with his jaw beginning to swell, tonguing his teeth in search of blood, about Zombie invasions. A book, I must now read, called World War Z, fascinated me. Written by Mel Brooks' son (Whose name, i apologize, I cannot remember), it is a compilation of first hand accounts of zombie attack survivals during the great zombie invasion of something like 2013.
The other, who had located blood on his battered right side, laughed as a plan of escape was being mapped out by his brother in bruises.
But this is a serious matter, you know. And so i turned to him and said quite frankly, "Oh no, you have to have a plan in the event of a zombie attack"
He did not agree with the seriousness of the situation, or so I gathered from the odd stare which accompanied his acknowledgment of my focused tone.
But bloodless over there, his eyes more red than a Rossetti girl's hair, jumped in excitement that another recognized this very probable threat.
Fear not my siblings in Zombie awareness, there are others all over. We must determine meeting places for when the time comes.
Sadly, the place to be at the Zombie Apocalypse (in absence of a well stocked, well quarantined military base) is going to be Walmart. Preferably in a small town. And before they open. Certainly not one of those 24 hour monstrosities . But one without any active personnel.
I mean, they've got weapons, ammo, food, televisions, camcorders, first aid, bathrooms. No showers, that is true enough, but it is strongly locked down, once the glass doors and windows are secured. And surely, even if surrounded by zombies, in a pinch, there will probably be at least one or two cars in the parking lot or nearby. All in all not a bad set-up
And you know what car would be wise to find? Thats right, none other than the environmentally thrashing Hummer.
These thoughts keep me up at night.
That, and the sound of jaws popping.
These streets blur by me in vague familiarity. Unsettling, but not entirely uncomfortable. I wonder to myself how nothing here has changed, nothing really. The houses, though being newer built on higher ground, remain essentially the same. More people, more stores. But not unchanged. That sinking feeling still there.
Odd reunions of lost people. Its not been all difficult to recognize. But that shift to the system- when you know who your eyes are seeing is someone you haven't seen in years, and might not see again for years more- It takes time for that to catch up in my brain.
There are citrus trees everywhere. Grapefruits hang over fences, lemons and oranges lining driveways.
Punks and drunks roam the streets. I'm in there too, somewhere, eager to take a walk one of these coming nights. To prowl the early mornings as I'm fond to do.
These streets were made for night walking. These are the streets that taught me.
Not these specifically, but those streets aren't far away. Perhaps one night I will drive to them and park my brother's car under those enlightening orbs of artificial luminescence. I will pass under them again, choosing my pace as I fade from darkness to light every 30 steps, letting my mind wander with my legs and eyes.
It all looks better at night.
I dream of running into my old cat. I dream.
But now I'm called back to the Valley world for breakfast at 1 p.m.
Odd reunions of lost people. Its not been all difficult to recognize. But that shift to the system- when you know who your eyes are seeing is someone you haven't seen in years, and might not see again for years more- It takes time for that to catch up in my brain.
There are citrus trees everywhere. Grapefruits hang over fences, lemons and oranges lining driveways.
Punks and drunks roam the streets. I'm in there too, somewhere, eager to take a walk one of these coming nights. To prowl the early mornings as I'm fond to do.
These streets were made for night walking. These are the streets that taught me.
Not these specifically, but those streets aren't far away. Perhaps one night I will drive to them and park my brother's car under those enlightening orbs of artificial luminescence. I will pass under them again, choosing my pace as I fade from darkness to light every 30 steps, letting my mind wander with my legs and eyes.
It all looks better at night.
I dream of running into my old cat. I dream.
But now I'm called back to the Valley world for breakfast at 1 p.m.
You know that weird feeling you get when you see your grade school priest on shows like the Tyra Banks Show?
No? Hmmmm....
As his website "KenDeasy.com" tells us, "Fr. Ken is no stranger to business...or Hollywood". The first time I saw him on television was when he was testifying on behalf of the Menendez brothers.
And for the record, I don't actually watch the Tyra banks show. My mother recorded it after my sister, staying home sick from school, came across it. The topic was the seven deadly sins. Ive no doubt he's much experience on the topic. In fact, im sure he's managed to create a few new ones himself.
Every time I hear about him, usually something television related, Im reminded of a story my childhood friend told me.
During an intermission at some theatrical production in LA, my friend ran into the man of Hollywood...i mean God. He was with two young women. They chatted for a while, catching up as Fr. Ken had recently been transferred to another dioceses. Parting ways at the end of the break, my friend was amused to see one of the young women turn to Deasy and say, confused, "Father?"
Oh yes. That story roughly sums him up, I think. Oh, that and the Tyra Banks appearence. If you watch it, you can see him quite obviously leering down Tyra's shirt.
I guess God gives immunity for things like that.
On another note, I leave to spend some time with my Hollywood tomorrow. Im thinking of smearing a thick layer of Vaseline on myself to keep the ego from permeating my senses. I imagine thats how it assimilates, by attatching itself to an unsuspecting and undefended host.
The family doesn't need more than one Hollywood.
No? Hmmmm....
As his website "KenDeasy.com" tells us, "Fr. Ken is no stranger to business...or Hollywood". The first time I saw him on television was when he was testifying on behalf of the Menendez brothers.
And for the record, I don't actually watch the Tyra banks show. My mother recorded it after my sister, staying home sick from school, came across it. The topic was the seven deadly sins. Ive no doubt he's much experience on the topic. In fact, im sure he's managed to create a few new ones himself.
Every time I hear about him, usually something television related, Im reminded of a story my childhood friend told me.
During an intermission at some theatrical production in LA, my friend ran into the man of Hollywood...i mean God. He was with two young women. They chatted for a while, catching up as Fr. Ken had recently been transferred to another dioceses. Parting ways at the end of the break, my friend was amused to see one of the young women turn to Deasy and say, confused, "Father?"
Oh yes. That story roughly sums him up, I think. Oh, that and the Tyra Banks appearence. If you watch it, you can see him quite obviously leering down Tyra's shirt.
I guess God gives immunity for things like that.
On another note, I leave to spend some time with my Hollywood tomorrow. Im thinking of smearing a thick layer of Vaseline on myself to keep the ego from permeating my senses. I imagine thats how it assimilates, by attatching itself to an unsuspecting and undefended host.
The family doesn't need more than one Hollywood.
Darkness
Last night I swam myself into exhaustion. Agitated to the brink of insanity, I refused to put in my contacts and devoured the darkness around me in a blur of total blindness. It was a heated pool, much to my dismay, as I ached to feel the ice cold water all around my skin. But it did not deter me. At that point, nothing could.
Ive not been swimming in years.
As a child, Id often take advantage of the night. It was so quiet then. With a house full of rotating siblings, silence was my golden apple. Id sneak out to stroll the streets, or take a dip in our frigid pool. My poor brother caught me one night skinny dipping when Id thought the whole house was asleep. My splashing had awoken him. After that, however, my nighttime swims were undisturbed. Unlike my brother.
I swam so fast and so hard my ears began to hurt. I wouldn't stop until my body refused to go any further. In time, it did. Much sooner than i would of liked. and so I floated on my back until I could force my body to go again.
Other people had appeared while i was under water, and I think they were talking to me. But I could hear nothing but a throbbing in my head and the fierce splashing of my arms and legs hitting the unnaturally warm water.
I could only assume that while I swam sightless, they would move out of my way were I to head for them in my erratic path.
When my arms and legs finally refused to go on any further, I got out. But frustration is not dispelled so easily, and it soon lured me back in for one more lap.
Once home, I could not move. My whole body was as lead, unfamiliar now to the trials such water thrashing will do to under exercised muscles. My arms alone were untouched. heavy still, but without stress or pain.
I thank my pull-ups for that.
The beating in my ears did not stop until my mother poured vinegar in them. I asked nervously if it was red wine vinegar, as i didn't feel my ears needed a dressing.
Exhausted, I fell asleep at far too early an hour, and awoke this morning wanting more. I wait for my nighttime to return to me, so that i can return to it.
Ive not been swimming in years.
As a child, Id often take advantage of the night. It was so quiet then. With a house full of rotating siblings, silence was my golden apple. Id sneak out to stroll the streets, or take a dip in our frigid pool. My poor brother caught me one night skinny dipping when Id thought the whole house was asleep. My splashing had awoken him. After that, however, my nighttime swims were undisturbed. Unlike my brother.
I swam so fast and so hard my ears began to hurt. I wouldn't stop until my body refused to go any further. In time, it did. Much sooner than i would of liked. and so I floated on my back until I could force my body to go again.
Other people had appeared while i was under water, and I think they were talking to me. But I could hear nothing but a throbbing in my head and the fierce splashing of my arms and legs hitting the unnaturally warm water.
I could only assume that while I swam sightless, they would move out of my way were I to head for them in my erratic path.
When my arms and legs finally refused to go on any further, I got out. But frustration is not dispelled so easily, and it soon lured me back in for one more lap.
Once home, I could not move. My whole body was as lead, unfamiliar now to the trials such water thrashing will do to under exercised muscles. My arms alone were untouched. heavy still, but without stress or pain.
I thank my pull-ups for that.
The beating in my ears did not stop until my mother poured vinegar in them. I asked nervously if it was red wine vinegar, as i didn't feel my ears needed a dressing.
Exhausted, I fell asleep at far too early an hour, and awoke this morning wanting more. I wait for my nighttime to return to me, so that i can return to it.
I'm not meant for the world of modeling. For more than one reason, my darling baby brother tells me. One of which is that I don't take direction well.
There was a photo shoot at the house yesterday. My brother Pat needed models for his knitting. I obliged, begrudgingly, because... well, he's my brother.
Baby brother, "Hollywood", was in charge of the photographs seeing as he's got the modeling and shooting experience. He demanded that I wear make-up.
"Like lipstick and mascara and all that?" I asked. He sighed heavily. "Yes. You have to wear make-up for photographs" he said. I Barely remembered how to curl my eyelashes. It's not that I don't wear make-up, Ive just never been told to.
Putting me in full sun right at the peak of afternoon, he told me to look up. Right into that fiery ball.
"But its burning my retinas, man" I told him. But this fell on deaf ears.
"No, keep your head up! UP! And open your eyes, fuck! Stand here. No, HERE! ok, your at a party, your having fun. No, fun! Where are you looking? And stop laughing! Put down your margarita! Stop drinking!"
No laughing, no drinking? What the hell kind of party is this? I can't work under these conditions.
Of course, He's my little brother, so I couldn't in good conscience listen to anything he told me. And in addition to that, he's an awfully mean photographer. So I got myself a refill on my margarita and continued to laugh with the other amateur models that make up my family. There was much heavy sighing coming from little brother. We were all very unprofessional, you see. Oh, except for him, of course.
He divulged to me that while working with models, its very important to tell them how beautiful they are every few shots. But he did not do this with me and my sister. "Perhaps that is why you are getting such a poor performance from us", I told him.
Fortunately, Pat was much more accommodating and was happy to keep the margaritas and jokes flowing.
The brothers left last night. But Hollywood's ego can still be felt. Its oozing from the walls of mom's Sun Lakes home.
Oh, but I do love him so. And perhaps one day he'll chill out and return to reality. But I have my doubts, for as long as he lives in LA, anyhow.
There was a photo shoot at the house yesterday. My brother Pat needed models for his knitting. I obliged, begrudgingly, because... well, he's my brother.
Baby brother, "Hollywood", was in charge of the photographs seeing as he's got the modeling and shooting experience. He demanded that I wear make-up.
"Like lipstick and mascara and all that?" I asked. He sighed heavily. "Yes. You have to wear make-up for photographs" he said. I Barely remembered how to curl my eyelashes. It's not that I don't wear make-up, Ive just never been told to.
Putting me in full sun right at the peak of afternoon, he told me to look up. Right into that fiery ball.
"But its burning my retinas, man" I told him. But this fell on deaf ears.
"No, keep your head up! UP! And open your eyes, fuck! Stand here. No, HERE! ok, your at a party, your having fun. No, fun! Where are you looking? And stop laughing! Put down your margarita! Stop drinking!"
No laughing, no drinking? What the hell kind of party is this? I can't work under these conditions.
Of course, He's my little brother, so I couldn't in good conscience listen to anything he told me. And in addition to that, he's an awfully mean photographer. So I got myself a refill on my margarita and continued to laugh with the other amateur models that make up my family. There was much heavy sighing coming from little brother. We were all very unprofessional, you see. Oh, except for him, of course.
He divulged to me that while working with models, its very important to tell them how beautiful they are every few shots. But he did not do this with me and my sister. "Perhaps that is why you are getting such a poor performance from us", I told him.
Fortunately, Pat was much more accommodating and was happy to keep the margaritas and jokes flowing.
The brothers left last night. But Hollywood's ego can still be felt. Its oozing from the walls of mom's Sun Lakes home.
Oh, but I do love him so. And perhaps one day he'll chill out and return to reality. But I have my doubts, for as long as he lives in LA, anyhow.
I had a 3 hour layover at JFK. Just enough time to grab a cigarette and meet my nephew for the first time.
Walking off the plane, I was immersed in a sea of people, all blissfully unaware of the existence of anyone else. "Ahhhh," I thought "New York".
Being able to maneuver your way through city crowds, NYC crowds specifically, is as much an art as a talent. Many people make the mistake of caring about the rude individuals who cut you off in a seemingly desperate rush to their final destination. The mistake of caring, of course, lies in seeing them as individuals.
You'll never make it to where your going that way.
New Yorkers, though it might not seem it, do in fact work together in a buzzing mass of organized chaos. The weaving in and out is a combined effort. You'd better be able to accept getting bumped into, cut off, and cursed at quietly at least a half dozen times per 5 block radius. And you need to be able to do it yourself.
In any case, it's certainly nothing to take personally.
Eight hours of flying, and I made it back to the very state Id fled from so many years ago.
After years of complaining about the humidity of the east coast, I realized my body had lost its favor to dry heat. I can feel myself dehydrating. I imagine Ill be needing to drink much more water while here. And I doubt ill be able to continue getting it solely from coffee and beer.
I'm trapped now in a retirement community while visiting my mother. People tooling around in golf carts, eying suspiciously the hooligans under 60 that prowl the streets past the ungodly hour of 8pm, when all decent folk here are sleeping. But its a fine place to decompress. And I've many fabulous mother-made-meals to look forward to before heading out into the real world, if the Valley can so be called. I don't know if I'd use that word, but I'm sure someone out there would.
And anyway, its at least partly more real than Sun Lakes.
Walking off the plane, I was immersed in a sea of people, all blissfully unaware of the existence of anyone else. "Ahhhh," I thought "New York".
Being able to maneuver your way through city crowds, NYC crowds specifically, is as much an art as a talent. Many people make the mistake of caring about the rude individuals who cut you off in a seemingly desperate rush to their final destination. The mistake of caring, of course, lies in seeing them as individuals.
You'll never make it to where your going that way.
New Yorkers, though it might not seem it, do in fact work together in a buzzing mass of organized chaos. The weaving in and out is a combined effort. You'd better be able to accept getting bumped into, cut off, and cursed at quietly at least a half dozen times per 5 block radius. And you need to be able to do it yourself.
In any case, it's certainly nothing to take personally.
Eight hours of flying, and I made it back to the very state Id fled from so many years ago.
After years of complaining about the humidity of the east coast, I realized my body had lost its favor to dry heat. I can feel myself dehydrating. I imagine Ill be needing to drink much more water while here. And I doubt ill be able to continue getting it solely from coffee and beer.
I'm trapped now in a retirement community while visiting my mother. People tooling around in golf carts, eying suspiciously the hooligans under 60 that prowl the streets past the ungodly hour of 8pm, when all decent folk here are sleeping. But its a fine place to decompress. And I've many fabulous mother-made-meals to look forward to before heading out into the real world, if the Valley can so be called. I don't know if I'd use that word, but I'm sure someone out there would.
And anyway, its at least partly more real than Sun Lakes.
So long, and thanks for all the shoes.
Today I cashed in my Grandma's savings bonds. Thank you Grandma. I think she'd be proud that the money is not going towards drugs or erotic paraphenalia. I think. But then I didn't know Grandma very well.
I also had to close out an unused account, which had in it a negative amount. They let it slide. What bank really needs ten dollars?
Ive got bank accounts containing insignificant amounts all over the east and west coasts.
The teller was eerily sedated. Every word from his mouth carried itself in droll tones.
"Where are you moving to? Do you have family out there? Friends? Are you going to school?" I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition, but then no one ever does.
"I don't know what Im doing out there. I go looking for adventure", I told him. I don't think his vacant expression changed at all during the entire transaction. And as I headed out the door, he wished me luck and fun on my adventure.
"Yes," I thoght, "Im not opposed to fun or luck".
My niece came into my room with red eyes. Those tears run thick against safe walls. "I go to grow" I tell her. "One day, you'll do it too"
With my bags packed and my Yankees hat on, I head now for the airport with meager funds and open eyes.
Bring it on West coast, bring it on.
I also had to close out an unused account, which had in it a negative amount. They let it slide. What bank really needs ten dollars?
Ive got bank accounts containing insignificant amounts all over the east and west coasts.
The teller was eerily sedated. Every word from his mouth carried itself in droll tones.
"Where are you moving to? Do you have family out there? Friends? Are you going to school?" I didn't expect the Spanish Inquisition, but then no one ever does.
"I don't know what Im doing out there. I go looking for adventure", I told him. I don't think his vacant expression changed at all during the entire transaction. And as I headed out the door, he wished me luck and fun on my adventure.
"Yes," I thoght, "Im not opposed to fun or luck".
My niece came into my room with red eyes. Those tears run thick against safe walls. "I go to grow" I tell her. "One day, you'll do it too"
With my bags packed and my Yankees hat on, I head now for the airport with meager funds and open eyes.
Bring it on West coast, bring it on.
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