Solitude, solitude July 9, 2010

I feel like I am wading through a thick grey fog wall, trying to find my way back home, wherever that may be. Through fog and mist I stumble, trying to stay on the sidewalk and not tumble over the rails into oncoming traffic, or trip over tree root cracks in my way. I hold onto the brick walls of other people’s buildings for support, the same ones he and I used to kiss in front of, on a night not unlike this one. And then suddenly, I remember where I am and where I’m going–back to Seattle.

More and more, I feel like I’m really drowning, real drowning, not fake movie drowning. I’m not screaming or flailing my arms; instead, I’m sinking below the water line, and all I can concentrate on is breathing. I don’t call for help, I’m not sending out an S.O.S., I’m just trying to save myself from a cold, dark spiral. I’m trying to tread water, but the sea envelopes me, and it’s almost soothing to just give up and go to sleep.

Sometimes I feel brainwashed, but I’m not sure who did the brainwashing–him, or me, or a bigger picture. Sometimes I am an automaton, smiling and standing up straight because it’s what you do. I want, I need, I want, I need–these things become replaced by I can’ts. Sometimes, though, I am myself, and I do strange things like dance alone or watch bad t.v. or act like a Santa Cruz hippie, and I am unconcerned with what you think.

I am trying harder. At all things. To go home. To stay alive. To be myself, and not hide my tattoos. To be myself and smoke my Parliament Lights and drink my Newcastles. To be myself and kiss him hard against the wall. To be myself and not justify my actions and decisions. Mostly I’m just trying to breathe.

One day, I will tie up my belongings in my kerchief and stick out my thumb, and float through the fog and waves until I reach my golden castle, where I can just be, all by myself.

Something About A Paperclip May 4, 2010

Oh, this hunger won’t shut up
It’s manifested itself into a physical transformation to the effect that I can slip my pants on and off without the need for buttons and zippers.
This could be good news for you.
Everytime I go to eat, my appetite winces, my eyes rebel, and my stomach is left in knots. Even alcohol doesn’t stand a chance.
I can no longer distinguish hunger pains with a lump in my throat, and the only thing remotely edible are anti-anxiety pills. Which of course makes me anxious.
The only thing I hunger for is a lean body, filled with dark thoughts, consumed with the edge, the edge of decency, the edge of appropriateness, a body sated by my transgressions and unconcerned with repercussions.
And my long-lost, much desired dessert is the surprised look on your face when I transform from a skinny girl into a singing zombie, gnawing at your flesh with a depressing urgency, like a prisoner released into a smorgasbord.
But I wasted away, maybe you did, too, and the images in my head don’t match up to the girl in the mirror. On the inside I feel like a patchwork figure, and on the outside I look like a platinum angel, and some days I don’t have the energy to open my eyes. You were toxic to my system, but the replacements have been even more detrimental, so I’m left with a diet of longing and confusion.
Of course nothing I wear fits me anymore, not even the memory of you.

Like A Black Widow, I’ll Be Crawling May 4, 2010

Perhaps I am still crawling along your spine, your synapses picking up on me after you’ve fallen asleep.
Perhaps you think of me in waking hours, though I have no idea of whether you think of me fondly or think of possible ways that I might die.
Perhaps you remember the lovely moments, when we held hands and gazed adoringly into one another’s eyes, our irises sparkling with the prospect of eternal love. Every night spent tangled in each other’s arms, a possibility of an everlasting life together.
What we should have considered it was what it ultimately was: a temporary beauty, set to wither away before we even had an idea of what was happening.
The simple truth? We were in love, and then we weren’t.
Ah, but that’s not quite it, is it, my dear?
As though I could fall out of love with you so soon. I may have initiated the sorrow, but it was only a gesture. Ultimately regretted.
One day, we were in love, we were in it for life.
Then the next, my life stopped. I cannot speak for you.
All I know is that ever since, my breathing has been forced, my wakefulness not guaranteed, and my smile faked.

Filthy May 4, 2010

Filthy, dingy, disgusting and morbid.
That’s me. A hand where it shouldn’t, smothering your out.
A finger where it is seldom welcome, sliding in, bringing back out what is never welcome.
I shake my head back and forth, platinum hair flying, naked body lording it over you.
For once, I am stronger than you.
Awful, wrong, forbidden, horrifying and cute.
That’s us. Tongues intertwined, limbs flung all over the place.
I found out about the most intimate crevices of humanity, and what it takes to make a grown man cry.
I put my hands back in my pockets, and tucked away another memory of a time when I wasn’t me, and you were barely you. And it felt right, nice, safe. All the positives in a negative. All the negatives in a positive. All of our positives and negatives blurred into one and the same for me. I never blushed.
Instead, I spread myself thick, not hiding a thing, opening myself to you, blinking only honesty, breathing only invitation. My rigid torso told you volumes, my pale skin told you definitions, my blinding teeth bit into sweet flesh, and the only letters needed were “o” and “k”.
For a time, dark and twisted, we were just one single motion, two translucent, tattooed souls making the same sound. For a time, we spoke in sign, or we said nothing at all, and it was fine, too.
Then, like a shotgun blast, everything was turned around and destroyed. All the ugliness we made into an aria, all the dirt we made into Degas paintings, all the vulgarity made into Shakespearean sonnets, vanished before my eyes, like the sordidness morphed into beauty never existed, never mattered. Like the best of intentions slipped away, and I was left alone, trying to remember how to smile again.
And I still haven’t figured it out. A smile is not a smile unless you’re there to make a face filled with pain transform into a face filled with ecstasy. A soul doesn’t exist unless you’re there to fold it into your arms. I am not me unless you’re here to see my eyes light up when you walk into the room. Desire doesn’t exist in the world unless you exist in mine. The dream-world is nothing without the physical world, and I can’t live vicariously anymore.
Until you come back, I am as good as dead.

My sex could be on fire… December 14, 2009

Lay where you’re layin’, don’t make a sound…

that’s like asking the steam on the shower mirror not to drip down in lines as the cold air trickles in and goosebumps begin.

that’s like expecting me to sleep in pajamas, to act coy, to be somebody’s sweetheart. that’s like asking me what i like to drink and thinking i’ll say vodka tonics. that girl faded away. this girl drinks her whiskey straight up, down the hatch. in a word: swallowed.

and the music plays, and the valium is ingested, and i throw my head back, playing my laptop piano, singing at the top of my lungs, because there’s no other way, vibrant and true, hoping beyond rationality that you’ll remember me, hoping beyond hope that i’ll forget you.

So, in an effort to get off tonight, i looked for some inspiration, just like a guy looks at porn to get off. i realized that i deleted all the pictures of my lover, and even the picture of my boytoy, and that nothing is going to turn me on, except music and the touch of my own body, and the thoughts, memories of where i’ve been and where i might go. thinking about who i used to be, a tiny little girl, not fully developed, and how it took broken hearts and thousands of miles and many years, but i became a fully actualized woman comfortable in her own skin and brave beyond belief, not to mention flexible in more ways than one. In short, i wouldn’t want to waste my time with someone who didn’t know what he was getting himself into, and was ready for a challenge, for one hell of a ride.

Where is this coming from, right? From a long time without sex, without the possibility of sex, without even so much as a crush. The last person I thought was “hot” was the same person that I bled myself dry for. I’m not lonely, but I’m bored, and I miss the days of making out with some random dude in front of a skater shop, and I miss the random days of hooking up in the back of some dude’s truck, or bending over the bathroom sink while drunken party-goers are waiting for their turns in my best friend’s bathroom. I miss the mystery and desire and thinking that everyday has the chance to be something unexpected.

Instead, all I ever hear anymore is “you didn’t miss much,” while I stayed home reading alone. I figured I wouldn’t miss much, but sometimes I like to be wrong.

I need some mystery, some drama, some excitement, some possibility, some face to picture in my dark nights. A crush.

Until then…I will admire my pale skin stretched over my 5’8″, 160 lb frame alone, tattoos, piercings and red lipstick kept to myself, and take solice in knowing that I’m not settling, and that my sex will be on fire, eventually. I will still down my whiskey and stand naked in the shower just a moment longer than necessary and not wash off the mascara, just because I can.

I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before December 1, 2009

It’s true. I’m sad, but it’s nothing you’ve never seen before.

I hide in my cave, and I am reluctant to come out. Instead I lose myself in other worlds, dream-worlds and book-worlds and movie-worlds and song-worlds.

When I dream, I dream of you, and all is as it should be,  until something twists and turns, and I wake up thinking, why?

When I read, I think about the adventures the characters go on, and how you and I could’ve gone on an adventure, and how I could still go on a solo adventure, but those are never as much fun as when you have someone to hold your hand and fight your demons for you, so I keep on reading and ignoring reality.

When I watch movies, I see how beautiful everyone is, and I think briefly about how I used to be beautiful until the self-destruction took over, and now I’m just bruised and beaten, slumped over in the makeup chair, unwilling to sit up straight.

When I listen to songs, I fall in love with whatever could be, like a swooning voice or haunting melody, and I twirl around in my thoughts and in my heart, and my eyes flutter with possibility…but then I sigh and remember that my voice means nothing and you never heard me anyhow.

When I write, however, I fall asleep in the spaces between the paragraphs, and come to life in the spaces between the words. My mouth opens up and I am filled by letters and symbols, and I am placated by my typewritten symphonies. My fingers play the keyboards like a grand piano, and sometimes I am Beethoven and sometimes I am a child in a music shop. One way or another, something comes out of my blood, and this is it.

I’m lost in a cave of my own making, sure. I’m alone and crying out for help, and sometimes you hear me and sometimes you go on with your life, and who could blame you? Sometimes I pack it all in and leave, and sometimes I just roll over and go back to sleep. Sometimes you should wake me, but sometimes

you should just let me sleep.

Yes, I am sad. But it is nothing you have never seen before.

How the be the better person, part 29 November 11, 2009

He died. I died. We all died.
Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

And down we fell. Past the rabbit’s hole, into a black hole, into utter blackness, into outer space, into a space which I have never recognized because

I was never truly there before.

Like the plague. Like a handshake that gives you the shakes, the mono, the cholera, the everyday normal death.
It went like this:

Hi.
Hi.
I lust you.
I lust you.
No one will ever add up to you.
[Silence]
No one will ever add up to you.
[Years]
Oh, well, hello.
Hello to you too.
[Years]
I love you.
I love you too.
But I really love you.
Well, I really love you too.
[Together]
I love you.
[Silence]
(Acceptance)
[Silence]
I love you.
(Caution)
I love you too.
I love you.
I love you.
[Love]
Where’d you go?
(Silence)
Bipolarland.
Well, I still love you.
(Silence)
I love you?
[Silence]
I…
I love you.
(Um, me, me, me)
I love you, but…
[I can't do this anymore]
I can’t do this anymore.
(Silence)
Hello?
[Silence]
Wait, maybe I can.
[Go fuck yourself]
(But I love you)
[Silence]
(But I gave up so much for you)
[Go fuck yourself]
{Cry, cry, cry}
[Silence]
(Acceptance)

Yeah, so, a gory allegory: I moved on. Eat a shit sandwich and die.

I’m paraphrasing. But that was the gist of it. What I don’t understand is how you say you love someone, and then, suddenly, you don’t.
And I’m finding this to be more and more common.
How DO you love someone, and then suddenly treat them like shit you step around on the street? Like, the past five years never meant anything, like you were just biding your time until you could pull out your knife and stab them in the heart repeatedly.

That’s fun. What a fun hobby. “Hey, I love you. Oh, whoops, no I don’t. Here, I’d like you to die. A rather painful death. And I’m gonna go ahead and instigate it by telling you, showing you, imbedding in you my hopes, my dreams and my love, and then HEY, I’m just going to go ahead and murder you dead. Have fun!”

And they ask why I don’t want to date anyone again.

 

I have a space song. It’s glorious and weepy and all things invading one’s soul. My space song is the one that I sing when I am all alone and I wonder where I am going and what will happen to me. My space song keeps me warm at night and keeps me safe from the devil. My space song is what I count on to keep me alive and keep me safe from harm.

But the sad thing about my space song? It’s me. It’s all I’ve got. In the middle of the night, just me. In the middle of the day, it’s just me. When I’m feeling sad and lonely and desperate and full of regret, all I have is me, and sometimes, it borders on not being enough. I’m hanging on by a thread, but at least I’ve got my at leasts.

At least I’m not self-medicating. That much. At least I haven’t gotten over it by getting truly under something else. At least I tried. And at least I’m still trying to be a good friend. At least I’ve got the self-respect to take care of myself, and keep myself from harm, especially if that harm is from my own hand.

[Like last winter, when you saw the scars that I inflicted on your behalf. And you said you'd never allow that to happen again, and you insisted that I scar you like I scarred me.]

I stopped self-mutilating. Not that I don’t feel like it sometimes, seeing blood on the outside instead of knowing that my heart is bleeding internally, even if it’s not really, it just feels like it. At least I’m not railing drugs, or even drinking until I’m too drunk to even write. Instead, I take the pain and put it into words. And they may hurt, but at least I’m purging, and not in a “I just threw up everything I had for dinner tonight” sort of way. No, my sandwiches are staying deep inside of me, giving me the energy to get up another day and face myself and the life that I want. Without pain and with grace.

He told me so many things, so many beautiful things, and now that he’s gone and become Darth Vadar, I’m not sure what to believe, except myself. Because when I told him beautiful things, I was not lying. And when I did beautiful things, I did them because I wanted to. And when I do beautiful things now, it’s because I’m learning, slowly, slowly, but surely, how to love again, the person that needs to be loved the most:
Myself.

So to you, dear Molly, I give you more wonderful gifts for this birthday: grace and dignity.
And the following prayer:

Our Father in Heaven, hallow be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory forever. Amen.

Here’s the thing. I don’t hate myself anymore. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I think that I’m worth them all, and a lot more. I’m worth the wait. I’m worth the wait.

I was faking it all along November 6, 2009

i think i’m going to start telling people what i really think of them

[breathe, uh...uh...]

you wanna hear the truth? the truth is

[breathe, uh...huh...uh...sigh...]

i will never be your girl

[breathe...uh...uh...lust...sigh...sigh...]

the truth is: you’re a really great friend. one of the best. but you kind of smell. you are one of the best friends. but you are really bad at keeping in touch. you are the best friend. but you’re kind of bitchy.

[sigh...sigh...]

the truth is: i kinda wanna be a whore, but i guess i already was, and now i should probably be something classier. like a call girl.

[breathe...in...out...breathe...i can't...breathe...uh...]

or maybe i will be again. you’re only 29 once. and then you’re old…and then…

[uhhhh...breathe...sigh...uh...uh...in...out...]

truth: you are not very bright. truth: you were mildly good-looking, and a fairly good fuck. truth: i’d totally hit that shit again.

[breathe...in...out...in...out...breathe...sweat...uh...uhhh...sweat...reach for one more...you'll do...breathe...uh...breath...]

in a very low voice, i will breathe into your ear, my mouth covered with you and sweat and saliva and sordidness and surprise. your dick was better than i expected. and all the eyeliner was sorta hot.

[guitar solo]

do the leaves still fall all amber and red in texas? or is that just some new england myth?

[sigh...uh...sigh...uh...]

i have a headache. i have seen some russian army. i have a headache, apparently, and will never be your girl, according to her. my mystery stays locked inside of me, or at least inside of a skateboard shop on pacific avenue in santa cruz. or the gap. take your pick. you can take me home, but i will never be your girl.

[BREATHE...SIGH...UHH...BREATHE...SIGH...UHHH...IN...OUT...]

like we’re standing on a pier or something. like we’re costumed or something. or like we’re other people, and i’m not me and you’re not you. and for one night, we’re just people breathing into each other’s ears, desperate and lustful and luscious. and i don’t care.

[sigh. sigh. sigh.]

i think i just found the crux of my problem. when i met “him” i was not myself. i was “jennifer” or someone like that, someone different. i lied from the very beginning, pretending to be someone else, pretending to be a beautiful whore, when really, i was just a pretty slut.

[breathe. kiss. sigh. uh.]

and he pretended to be an engineer, with a college degree and all. he pretended to be hardcore. he pretended to be strong. but all he was was some random mister with a mohawk and piercings. i pierced my own nose without medication, and i’ll do it again. i will tattoo myself and not feel pain.
all he really was was a whisper of what he wanted to be; but all he was was a fraud.
truth: show me your college degree. show me that you finished something you started. show me your marine medals. show me real pain, not some shaved head.
i’ll show you the scars i placed deliberately on my body with a razor blade, if you show me some sort of evidence that you are capable of absorbing pain.

[breathe. in. out. in. out.]

i never saw any evidence of being able to absorb true pain. you were just faking it. just like all the times i

[uh...breathe...sigh...uh...in...out...lust...breathe...in...out...oh...that's right...]

meanwhile

i have a favor owed. and in the meantime, i have me, and my

[uh...that's right...breathe...in...out...uh...sigh...breathe...brad...
...pitt...]

Everything. All of the time. October 28, 2009

Fuck.

 

It’s extremely fucking painful.

 

So painful, I need to listen to Tool at top fucking volume. And probably the only thing that will help right now is “Aenima.” Relax, turn around, and take my hand.

 

I know you’ve changed. I’ve changed. I’m changing. And it hurts. More than I ever thougth was possible.

The last time that I changed, that I tried to feel, that I tried to be alive, I took razors to myself to feel something. A change. Alive. Life or something like that. I probably should’ve picked up a guitar and made really awful noises. But I didn’t. I just sliced and cut and sliced some more.

And then. Yes. And then. When I thought that I could win you back from myself, I stayed up all night, singing into my voicebox, trying to make you music, when that’s the last possible thing I could do. The very last thing I could do.

“Lie. Feel. Something.”

Well, I don’t have to lie. I feel something. I feel everything. I feel like dying, crying and vomiting. Throwing things. Like myself. Across the bridge. I feel so much, you’d be surprised. I feel so much, everyday. I feel so much, I’m to the point where I can barely feel anything anymore. And I’d really like to feel nothing. In fact, I think I’m going to feel nothing right now. Here we go.

 

[Listen. For what it's worth, I'd like to honestly feel nothing. But I feel everything. Right in the depths of my chest, everything hurts. And I don't know what to do. I really don't. Everything hurts. Everything. It all hurts.]

 

At least you tried, he said. Well, sorry, Maynard. I haven’t tried anything, really. I just let everything work its way through my blood stream, and kill me all the more. I actually said tonight, I just want to go home and listen to Tool. As loud as fucking possible. As he was kissing my cheek. I just wanted to go home.

Bitch. That’s me. A real fucking bitch. I have someone holding my hand, kissing my cheeks, and all I care about is something that never reminded me of you until it did. I suck. I really do. I’m a terrible person.

I REFUSE to look up Tool lyrics. There’s something sacred about them. At least, with Aenima. So for this, I say: “Standing above the crowd. He had a voice that was strong and loud. And it swallowed me so soft as I’m so eager to identify. With someone above the crowd. Someone that seemed to feel the same. Someone prepared to lead the way. Someone who would die for me. Will you? Will you now? Would you die for me? Don’t you fucking lie! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you step out of line! Don’t you fucking lie! You claimed all this time that you would die for me. Why then are you so surprised by your own eulogy? He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say. He had a lot to say. He had a lot of nothing to say! Come down. Get off your fucking cross. We need the fucking space, to nail the next fool martyr. You must step out of line! You must be crucified! Of course you cannot lie. Goodbye!!!”

I realize there’s a lot wrong with that passage. But I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I don’t care that there is so much blasphemy in that, and I also consider myself a “Christian.” I care about little much at this point. Little, little much. So very little much.

Everything is so loud. Except for the moments when I walked from 18th and Union back to Bellevue and Mercer. Those were quiet. Like the times I walked to 15th and Denny. Or like all the times I walked to the waterfront, sometimes packing. Lunch.

I am not lonely. I am not bored. I do not miss having a relationship. I can think of plenty of things to keep myself busy. But what I do miss is him. And no one else. No offense, but writing PDC tonight made me realize, I don’t miss him. Not a bit. What I do miss is him. And no one else. Because everyone else is a copy of a copy of a copy of him.

So I guess, what does that make me? A copy of him? Or more likely, a copy of me, of a copy of me, of a copy of me?

 

I went to Upland Elementary School for kindergarten, 1st and part of 2nd grade. Once, we had a race, like this whole big to-do. I ran the race. I came in last. I always come in last when I’m running for something, when I’m racing for something, when I’m competing for something. I’ve learned better. I don’t run. But I stalk. I find my prey, and stalk it.

 

Oh, but do I ever get what I want?
“Someday you will find the one that DIDN’T get away,” he said.

Well, I fucking waited. And then waited some more. And then waited a little more after that.

And I’m still fucking waiting.

 

 

“Without the skin here. Beneath the storm. Under these tears now. The walls came down.”
I don’t know what it means, and I don’t care. All I really know is that it’s not enough. Nothing is. And all of my grand ideas are not enough. All I know for sure is that nothing works, and everything hurts. Everything hurts. Every fucking little thing. They all hurt.

And you know what the worst part is? Yucaipa will never mend these wounds. They will only remind me of what I’m missing. Of all things, I thought I could count on Yucaipa. But that’s the last thing I can count on.
Even my childhood has let me down.
I can’t do anything but laugh at this point.
Because otherwise…

The first of many parts October 21, 2009

These words don’t mean anything.

Don’t listen any further.

Don’t feel any obligation to pay attention to me, because I’m just rambling.

And I don’t believe in this voice enough to sing, to shout, to scream, even though that’s all I want to do.

Stand at a microphone under hot lights, blinding lights, and claw at my clothes and be someone other than me, be somewhere other than here, because 2007 is not 1981.

And 1981 is not February, 1980, it’s just some arbitrary year that I suspect was cool because it conjures up images of X and Dodger Stadium and something more than February 1980 when I was just an embryo reminiscent of hope, just a life to replace a death that will never mean anything more than history to me.

See, I was this sort of sunrise, some sort of second chance, I suppose, but probably, at the time, I was just a way out. I’m an adult now; I can make these sorts of assumptions.

I almost drowned twice, early on. The first time I was being lulled to the sea, waves rolling over me, the ocean ultimately stealing my something or other.

But me, I was retrieved.

When I was a little older, I was aware enough to know that I wanted a life in front of a microphone. Oh, I got it, plunked in front of that tall pole in my cousin’s recording studio, but I froze, because I wasn’t ready for you to hear my voice, and if you catch me singing now, it’s like a minotaur, and you had better know that chance dances away before you realize what you just witnessed.

So darling, you’re stuck with my words glued to the page, scrawled, scratched, bleeding messy puddles of ink traveling down the gutters of relevance and innocence and violence, because somehow I am a culmination of all of that, even if I am told otherwise, even if the truth is denied. There are certain harsh facts, and while they usually are hidden deep inside my hazel eyes, they are still California truths.

Someone in my family was executed in the days before I was conceived and perceive what you will from that knowledge. I do not claim to be a replacement for an uncle I’ll never know, a brother that will never show, a son never forgotten but whose name was recalled like he just stepped out for a bit, and it affects me even if no one ever talks about it.

Maybe things would’ve been different, maybe I’d be confident, maybe I’d be able to sing some good into the hearts of those who hoped, maybe there’d still be X and Dodger Stadium and 10 Freeways not littered with Mustang glass and such, and maybe none of this really adds up, maybe it’s just speculation, trying to cover up desperation like you try to cover up horror with an adult hand over child eyes, never enough, because the kid always sees through the cracks.

And so will I ever be whole or just a sum of parts making no sense or a history no one speaks, a timeline filled with holes?

And here we are, crop circle, nothing making sense except for me trying to explain how I’ve been affected by affections and acceptions and exceptions to standard rules of family and truths.

And here’s the truth. I’m aware and wary and weary of all that is not told, all that is not sang, and all that is sang repeatedly, as though our only history lay in the confines of a guitar pick on Christmas instead of smoking cigarettes in a Los Angeles parking lot.

And so there I was born.