you are lost
found
out
in
happy
sad
fat
thin
woman
man
caged
free
spent
saved
proud
ashamed
wasted
salvaged
hungry
fed
you are here.
you are home.
you are short
tall
modest
vain
plastic
real
pretty
plain
quiet
loud
dying
alive
forward
behind
hurt
healed
you are here.
you are home.
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Monday, June 8, 2015
A Memory That I Cannot Gather Anymore...
I saw a woman at a Furs show a couple of weeks ago and I've been thinking about her a lot. Of becoming her, actually. She was older, but probably not as old as she looked. A hard living mid-fifties I'd say. She was working at the venue, which is something I've always said I'd do when I retire-be the old lady usher. She wore black mom jeans and combat boots. She had purple hair with that old punk cut that's part mullet and part mohawk. She was falling asleep at her station. Standing up against the railing.
Something about her told me she wasn't always like this. She had a husband once, maybe still does. The tiny diamond ring with a wide gold wedding band gave it away. It was perfectly ordinary in the way that ordinary hard working women keep their rings on no matter what they're doing, letting their hands turn to leather around the metal. She grew into those rings, but the jeans and the hair only happened about a decade ago. She was a little more middle of the road, maybe even closed minded about some things once. But something in her changed at some point and she got interested in something she never knew before and she just stopped giving a shit.
Maybe her mother had a special talent for making people feel meaningless. Maybe she lost a little girl to a junkie and family politics and had to live with the guilt of that little girl thinking she wasn't loved or wanted. Maybe she had one too many dinners at chain restaurants with the kind of women who use the word "hubby". Maybe she drove a GM. Maybe she didn't sleep well at night and at some point just stopped sleeping at all. Maybe her days were full of bullshit artists thinking they were going places on the backs of people who just wanted to be anywhere but where they were. Maybe she had to say goodbye to someone in her head because it was just better for everyone whether they would ever know it or not. Maybe she just got tired of taking her shoes off at the airport. Maybe she just didn't have anything else to say. Maybe her health started failing and she was tired of achy bones and water retention and stomach ulcers. Maybe she knew that everyone else would always come before her because that's just the way she'd let it happen. Maybe she just wanted everyone to just shut. the fuck. up.
So one day she left her husband sitting on the sofa watching a Burt Reynolds movie and spent a day on her own. And she wandered into this club and had a beer while they were setting up for the show that night. And she asked about a job. And she was at the right place at the right time. And even though she was wearing a sweatshirt with a wolf on it and meant it, they gave her a chance.
And then there she was. For herself. And for me. And all the ladies who disappeared into their teens again when Heartbreak Beat happened.
Monday, May 25, 2015
The Weekly Walk With Me
3 Day Weekend, Completely Missed Sunday Edition
Lessons in honor of a 5th birthday:
When in doubt always go Jackson 5.
5. They will provide the prefect wedding song request, or be the go-to choice when you get stage fright at the jukebox. In either situation, no one has ever said no to the Jackson 5. No one.
4. They serve as a hair, make-up, and fashion reference for every decade from the 60s to the new millennium. Think about it--how many times would this have come in handy?
3. When you're working through a disappointment--on the sofa in pajamas at 2pm with chinese food and ice cream--any made for TV movie about the Jackson family is the perfect companion to your suffering.
2. This group has experienced every imaginable scenario. Look to them to guide you through what, and what not to do in any serious situation. There were 5 of them, surely one of them at some point made a reasonable decision.
1. They are definitive proof that anything is possible. All things horrible and joyful, all things earned and given, all things lost and stolen. Anything. It's possible.
Even taking life advice from the Jackson 5.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
#TBT
I watched the Cannibal Cop documentary recently (damn you, HBO!) and was reminded of something that happened to me almost 20 years ago that I hadn't thought of in ages. Long before social networking was a thing, and before catfishing had a name, there were chat rooms and instant messaging. This was the late 90s. I was a regular on some type of writer's forum. I would sit in my then boyfriend's apartment and write and "chat"--make friends, get connected, sit on the edge of a still new space between human contact and endless intangible stimulation.
I started getting messages from a guy who wanted my opinion-on lots of things actually, but mostly his stories. He would send them to me to share and critique. Though he never said or hinted at anything that could be construed as inappropriate directly to me, his tastes were obviously on the darker end of the spectrum. I read about women cooked on spits. I read about women being dismembered. I read about them bleeding out. And being eaten alive. Raw. I never flinched, maybe because I never fathomed people actually thought about or would act on these things. I wouldn't have thought anything like this even existed. I "knew" these were just stories and I was the kind of 20 year old girl who wore combat boots and brown lipstick, so I probably reveled in the artistry of it all. But something did tell me it would be best if I didn't mention it to anyone. It was just...off somehow.
The whole thing didn't last very long, a few weeks maybe. It ended when a friend brought it up to me one night. I was shocked and nauseous and a little embarrassed. I thought maybe the boyfriend had somehow found out and was telling all of our friends. That wasn't the case. It turns out this refined story teller was someone I knew-someone we all knew-and he'd confided in one of the gang about what he'd been up to. But I guess the reason why never came up, and I'm not sure if the friend who told me was aware of the extent of his creativity. The guy threw big parties, he bought all the liquor, had a garage band, worked a shitty job. He was ordinary-his most prized possession was an electric drum kit. I'd skinny dipped with him--he'd seen me naked. He'd COOKED for me-for all of us. He was married, he owned his house. He drove a Honda! I just couldn't wrap my head around it.
I never mentioned it to anyone else. I never confronted him. I was mortified, maybe a little afraid, but definitely freaked. the fuck. out. I stopped responding to anything he sent me and eventually lost interest in the world wide web altogether. I stopped showing up to the parties and places he would be, and he ceased to exist to me. The whole group did. I just kind of faded to black.
Until a few months later when I worked my way back into the circle long enough to start fucking his wife hard enough for her to leave him.
I wonder how many stories he wrote about that.
I started getting messages from a guy who wanted my opinion-on lots of things actually, but mostly his stories. He would send them to me to share and critique. Though he never said or hinted at anything that could be construed as inappropriate directly to me, his tastes were obviously on the darker end of the spectrum. I read about women cooked on spits. I read about women being dismembered. I read about them bleeding out. And being eaten alive. Raw. I never flinched, maybe because I never fathomed people actually thought about or would act on these things. I wouldn't have thought anything like this even existed. I "knew" these were just stories and I was the kind of 20 year old girl who wore combat boots and brown lipstick, so I probably reveled in the artistry of it all. But something did tell me it would be best if I didn't mention it to anyone. It was just...off somehow.
The whole thing didn't last very long, a few weeks maybe. It ended when a friend brought it up to me one night. I was shocked and nauseous and a little embarrassed. I thought maybe the boyfriend had somehow found out and was telling all of our friends. That wasn't the case. It turns out this refined story teller was someone I knew-someone we all knew-and he'd confided in one of the gang about what he'd been up to. But I guess the reason why never came up, and I'm not sure if the friend who told me was aware of the extent of his creativity. The guy threw big parties, he bought all the liquor, had a garage band, worked a shitty job. He was ordinary-his most prized possession was an electric drum kit. I'd skinny dipped with him--he'd seen me naked. He'd COOKED for me-for all of us. He was married, he owned his house. He drove a Honda! I just couldn't wrap my head around it.
I never mentioned it to anyone else. I never confronted him. I was mortified, maybe a little afraid, but definitely freaked. the fuck. out. I stopped responding to anything he sent me and eventually lost interest in the world wide web altogether. I stopped showing up to the parties and places he would be, and he ceased to exist to me. The whole group did. I just kind of faded to black.
Until a few months later when I worked my way back into the circle long enough to start fucking his wife hard enough for her to leave him.
I wonder how many stories he wrote about that.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
The Weekly Walk With Me
Tuesday Edition
To make up for lost time and avoid being indebted to anyone, here are 10 things (in no particular order) that happened in this white girl's world while you were waiting.
1. The release of Alabama Shakes, Sound and Color. It's like grease stains on hot tar.
2. I found this perfect gift for a friend and it makes me really happy. Now let's hope he doesn't break in shipping and kill us all with his 1920s mercury glass toxins.
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3. My wife met R2D2 on May the fourth. It was kind of the best thing ever since she had a conversation with him and everything. I hope this experience will quench her thirst for Star Wars nostalgia for a bit and I won't come home to anymore surprise Chewbaccas in the living room. I would share a picture but she only supports my creative genius in small doses and doesn't want anyone to know she's married to an asshole. She doesn't know I already tweeted it.
4. Montage of Heck-Yep, I watched. And it was a brilliant piece of film. However, I never thought of Kurt Cobain as the voice of my generation. I always thought he was a bit of a poser, though he did have his moments. It appears I may have been right. And I am more disaffected now at 38 than I ever was at 17.
5. I now have a fan base in Turkey. Thanks for reading, Turkey! One day let's chat about how much I love lokum!
6. I discovered I am fairly good at corn hole, which as a concept is an offense to my sense of good taste. But it happens.
7. This little treasure I scored from a Frenchman. The pink Island label. Vinyl nerds know.
8. I figured out how to make the perfect buffalo cauliflower (chicken wing substitute). I would share the recipe but no one reading this cares. My secret is honey. Isn't the secret always honey?
9. Speaking of honey--did you know there is educational porn on Netflix? You do now. It came up as a suggestion after I watched a documentary about sex workers. Sacred Love Making: hosted by a woman named Kitty pretending she's not from Kentucky or trying to be sexy wearing a collection of cheap sateen shirts with late nineties cut outs. She was teaching a white guy named Ishmael how to connect with his lover-a woman who by the looks of things tossed around the idea of becoming a lot lizard but decided showering at truck stops wasn't her thing. There was a lot of talk of soul and passion and love and trust. There's also an Asian. It. Was. Everything. You owe it to yourself: NSFW-ish
10. Ryan Adams. Live. I wasn't sure I could even do it. He's basically responsible for every song I've ever drunk alone to. I was a little disappointed I didn't get 'English Girls Approximately' or 'Come Pick Me Up'--I don't care which version. It's the single most heart breaking song of all my heartbreak songs. But I did get his 'Wonderwall' and 'I Love You but I Don't Know What to Say', which pretty much left my guts right there on the concrete. So basically, it was almost perfect.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
#TBT
I am a very vivid dreamer, and some years ago I decided to write down every detail of my dreams to use for a project idea I was tossing around. Well, like most things in my life I abandoned the plan about two years in and stopped. Now, all this time later I use the same notebook as my catch-all/address book.
Last night as I was writing out Mother's Day cards--What? I gotta a lotta Moms. Trust me when I say it took a village.-- I happened across this gem. Vague and random and amazing. You're welcome.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Don't Seem They Wanna Know You No More...
I have a lot of creative and beautiful friends. Some of them are successful and a pretty big deal, some of them just tinker with their outlets. Others have been there, done that and have moved on to other things. I love and respect and encourage them all. But what happens when a friend wants to share their latest and/or first real project with you and it's...um, embarrassing? And not in a good way?
And before I get started on this story let me say in advance that if ever in all of my years of writing and performing and just being out there in general that I have ever made any one I know feel this way even for 10 seconds, please bring it to my attention immediately. I mean. How. Mortifying. Just tell me now so I can put us all out of our misery. Actually you really don't have to, I know when I've bombed.
Anyway back to my judgement lacking friend. I've known him nearly my whole life. He's smart and hot and charming. There was a point in time when his mother was convinced we'd make her grandchildren when we were all grown up. But I only ever really saw him play with groups of friends, though there was always talk of gigs and bands and such. He's been living out of state for years now and through various social media outlets I see pictures and clubs and groupie comments. And then recently I got a text to check out his new band. And their new video. At first I thought it was a joke, like maybe he was spoofing assholes or something, but then I realized he was serious. Oops.
Imagine you were a 15 year old boy in 1993 and you were the type who hadn't been laid yet and really hadn't done any underage drinking or drugs. You probably used the word "soul" a lot in your writing. And that's how you named your band. Only it's worse.
Because he was like 18 in 1993 and had done all the drugs ever and been laid a lot.
Now imagine that 15 year old boy still idolized Layne Staley at 40 and wanted to make sure you knew it. And let's say all of his like minded friends convinced him to be a part of a video in the middle of the woods with a gross girl in a slip dress and chipped toenail polish moping around a guy with a man bun. And then for no reason at all the scene in the woods cuts to a coffin in a hearse. And this work of art cost slightly less to film than the "buy here, pay here" car dealer commercial that runs after midnight in your hometown.
I would say I have no words, but obviously I do. Because I'm a dick. So after I watched the video-three times, to make sure I had the link right-I sent a simple text back. It went like this: !! (and then the kissy face emoji).
Is there anything I can do here? Am I obligated to discuss this when he comes for a visit soon? Will he ask me to "jam" with him? Can I distract him with my equally embarrassing stacks of Moleskines?What to do?
To be continued...
And before I get started on this story let me say in advance that if ever in all of my years of writing and performing and just being out there in general that I have ever made any one I know feel this way even for 10 seconds, please bring it to my attention immediately. I mean. How. Mortifying. Just tell me now so I can put us all out of our misery. Actually you really don't have to, I know when I've bombed.
Anyway back to my judgement lacking friend. I've known him nearly my whole life. He's smart and hot and charming. There was a point in time when his mother was convinced we'd make her grandchildren when we were all grown up. But I only ever really saw him play with groups of friends, though there was always talk of gigs and bands and such. He's been living out of state for years now and through various social media outlets I see pictures and clubs and groupie comments. And then recently I got a text to check out his new band. And their new video. At first I thought it was a joke, like maybe he was spoofing assholes or something, but then I realized he was serious. Oops.
Imagine you were a 15 year old boy in 1993 and you were the type who hadn't been laid yet and really hadn't done any underage drinking or drugs. You probably used the word "soul" a lot in your writing. And that's how you named your band. Only it's worse.
Because he was like 18 in 1993 and had done all the drugs ever and been laid a lot.
Now imagine that 15 year old boy still idolized Layne Staley at 40 and wanted to make sure you knew it. And let's say all of his like minded friends convinced him to be a part of a video in the middle of the woods with a gross girl in a slip dress and chipped toenail polish moping around a guy with a man bun. And then for no reason at all the scene in the woods cuts to a coffin in a hearse. And this work of art cost slightly less to film than the "buy here, pay here" car dealer commercial that runs after midnight in your hometown.
I would say I have no words, but obviously I do. Because I'm a dick. So after I watched the video-three times, to make sure I had the link right-I sent a simple text back. It went like this: !! (and then the kissy face emoji).
Is there anything I can do here? Am I obligated to discuss this when he comes for a visit soon? Will he ask me to "jam" with him? Can I distract him with my equally embarrassing stacks of Moleskines?What to do?
To be continued...
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