I left for Los Angeles at about 8pm last Saturday. The drive was long and relatively uneventful, but it gave me about 5 hours of music and relaxation. I arrived at Travis' new studio apartment in Highland park on 52nd Ave at about 2am. He wasn't home, so I went inside, changed my clothes, ate some soup and put Freddy Got Fingered on. He got home at about 2:30am with Ryan. Travis was a little drunk and we all stayed up watching Freddy Got Fingered and drinking beers until about 4am, then went to sleep.
The next morning, I woke up early and full of energy. I got dressed and walked to the little store on the corner and bought a couple groceries for making an awesome vegan breakfast for only $10. We had pancakes and country-fried potatoes. Then we got the day started right and opened up some beers. We didn't have much of a plan for the day, so we hung out at the apartment for a while, then finally went into town to the mall in Hollywood, which was pretty uneventful. I think we went home and drank and watched movies the rest of the night.
The next day, Ryan and I woke up late in the afternoon, around 2pm (thanks to Travis' awesome light-blocking shades.) Travis had left for early work in the morning and Ryan and I decided it would be fun to pick up our friend Andy and go to the beach. We picked up Andy in Hollywood and, realizing we were trying to drive through impossible traffic, changed our destination to a little park in the hills, that leads to the Hollywood sign. We walked around the park taking pictures, talking and drinking whiskey. We couldn't make it too far up the hill because of the heat, but we saw some very pretty views of hills and trees (which is rare in Los Angeles!) and a secret water-ravine turned skate spot with a huge dragon painted inside it. After that, we headed back to Travis' place to meet him there and drank more whiskey and watched three movies in a row! (The Orphanage, Liar Liar and some movie with Anne Hathaway as a chola in it.)Yeah, we like movies.
(Unfinished. More added later.)
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Twat.
When he sleeps, his hair looks like a tide pool, splashing and curling around his face.
His eye brows are sparse and I can see every pore of his skin, where the light peachy tones blend into reds around his nose and into grays at his jawline where his stubble is growing back in.
His eyes are always partly open when he sleeps, looking downward, moving slowly.
And the red inside his eyes makes the blue irises appear to sparkle.
His breathing reminds me of how a baby bear would breathe- heavy, but quick, sometimes punctuated with a vibration of nose cartilidge.
And he always wakes up looking very surprised.
His eye brows are sparse and I can see every pore of his skin, where the light peachy tones blend into reds around his nose and into grays at his jawline where his stubble is growing back in.
His eyes are always partly open when he sleeps, looking downward, moving slowly.
And the red inside his eyes makes the blue irises appear to sparkle.
His breathing reminds me of how a baby bear would breathe- heavy, but quick, sometimes punctuated with a vibration of nose cartilidge.
And he always wakes up looking very surprised.
Where I got my tooth.
There is a rotting carcass lying about ten feet off from a long and quiet highway in the grassy fields of Idaho. Between the sage brush, the trembling fence and the pavement her body sleeps. Her body is nearly gone, the bits of fur and muscle matter that remain are mud-slicked and holey from insects. Her eyes have turned into a thick, buttery white goo receding into what is left of her cavernous eye sockets. If she still had a tongue, it would be hanging out between her broken molars. Her ribcage is open to the sky, but there is no heart inside. Only spiderwebs and dust fill that space. They blow between the bones. Her teeth lie near her broken body. I took one of them. I wanted to remember her. I wanted to remember that life is constantly feeding and destroying, collapsing only to nourish itself again. This constant cycle. Life feeds on other life. I need this reminder. To know that a flower grows out of a carcass. To know that a coyote feeds off her, as the motorist that killed her passes along unfazed. To know I am not going to heaven and that is a good thing. To know that life is so much more than Heaven or Hell, yes or no, follow rules, break rules, lines, codes, machinery and taxes. To know the fields she walked through were open to the sky, blown through with pine tree wind and bird calls, the moss in the grass was damp and the sun was high. To know she lived in a world without a few of not landing a good career and bringing home the bacon, or proving herself to her peers.
Tangent (Early 2006)
I am sitting on a bench in a cold, gray subway station. In a few minutes I will catch the L train to Bedford Avenue, where I will walk into work. Once there, I will walk to the back, roll some silverware, drink some wine, clean a table or two and try to kill time for five hours. Then I will go home. On the way home I will think of things to write. New York is filled with people who all pretend the other people aren't there. Any given day, the average New Yorker will encounter over 100 people and will have conversations, or eye contact, with less than 2 of them. At least that has been my experience withing the last 3 weeks. Millions of people surrounded by millions of other people pretending not to notice each other. Too much stimulation. Thats why tourists get overwhelmed. And New Yorkers get frustrated with the overwhelmed tourists. Thats why I can't go into Upper Manhattan unless I feel like being smothered with dirty jackets, shit-scented screaming babies and old women. I try to be optimistic. I've been pretty good about it so far. Only one real panic attack. I wonder how long I can handle it.
She wasn't too fond of
grapevines
weak spines
white lines
land mines
traffic fines
plastic pines
einsteins
dressing to nines
smoked swines
weak spines
white lines
land mines
traffic fines
plastic pines
einsteins
dressing to nines
smoked swines
Seriously, do not bury my body.
Don't bury me in a landscaped graveyard lined with pine trees and an asphalt drive.
Don't reference God or discuss the beauty of pine cones of flowers.
Don't say this is not the end.
Don't say the ashes are not the real me.
Don't thank Jesus for HIS LOVE.
Don't cry as you put me into the hole.
Don't bury me at all.
Let me rot under a tree in some rusty mountains.
Or burn me up and blow me away.
Death comes to us all.
And that is what makes life worth living in the first place.
Knowing it will end.
Not planning ahead.
No trust fund for a second life.
Don't reference God or discuss the beauty of pine cones of flowers.
Don't say this is not the end.
Don't say the ashes are not the real me.
Don't thank Jesus for HIS LOVE.
Don't cry as you put me into the hole.
Don't bury me at all.
Let me rot under a tree in some rusty mountains.
Or burn me up and blow me away.
Death comes to us all.
And that is what makes life worth living in the first place.
Knowing it will end.
Not planning ahead.
No trust fund for a second life.
Films I want to make
I am going to make a series of short films each portraying a different emotion. There will be no dialogue, only imagery and maybe a little music.
Anger- Destroying a car with a baseball bat in slow motion ("Got a Feeling" - Mamas and the Papas)
Sadness- Lying on top of a playground Big Toy at night, puking down the slide.
Happiness- Running through a field at dusk.
Jealousy- Trapped inside a tiny metallic box.
Anger- Destroying a car with a baseball bat in slow motion ("Got a Feeling" - Mamas and the Papas)
Sadness- Lying on top of a playground Big Toy at night, puking down the slide.
Happiness- Running through a field at dusk.
Jealousy- Trapped inside a tiny metallic box.
The sound of those girls talking is driving me insane.
"She has like every kind of jeans. I like those, like, stretchy pants. . . yeah, they're stretchy. She said she was going to James' house, but she totally didn't! I know! You told them he beat you? On his birthday! Haha."
-girl at the airport
-girl at the airport
Monday, September 8, 2008
Building a Wall Around Loneliness
I think she loved me. Only looking back on it now can I see it.
She was a lonely girl. Average height, big lips and crooked teeth. Her hair changed with the weather. She introduced me to the Violent Femmes and chocolate cigarettes. She had a fatal attraction to skinny boys, playboys, pretty, sassy, mean boys. She loved them all, but they only loved her between bedsheets. I met her when I was eighteen. She was friends with my friends and I saw her at parties. Back then she was chubbier, and was dependent on her pretty boyfriend. When he dumped her she fell apart and became sick, started puking and immediately lost all her weight. It was after that time I decided to become friends with her. I didn't like her at first. I found her shallow and normal, and I didn't like the way she acted around my boyfriend. When I started dating him, he was living in the garage below her apartment. He had just broken up with his previous girlfriend and was between homes. they were friends. She often called him. Her skin was so white, it was almost clear, except when she tried to tan when it would take on the color of pumpkin pie. when we became friends her hair was dyed black and short, about chin length. We would talk about our celebrity crushes- Shannyn Sossamon and Angelina Jolie. She was the first person I ever got drunk with. I drank vodka like it was water until I realized my ignorance too late and spen the rest of the night regretting it, puking onto my own shit, keeled over on the bathroom floor of the million-dollar house she was house sitting. Later, when we were alone, we drank Sparks in her car and walked around downtown. She was 21 before me and I loved it. We were friends in the shallow way that girls are friends. All hair and makeup and drama. Bonding over self-destruction and pop-punk. That was all it was. It couldn't have been more. I couldn't accept that our friendship was anything more than surface deep when two years later I discovered that her and my boyfriend had messed around a year prior. Thats just how things go sometimes. And its not always so bad, but it was for me. Back then it was. I think I could handle it now, but... I just thought he was everything. And the flirting and the secrets were brushed off with drunken forgiveness. She had wanted to tell me about it, and he never wanted me to know. Finally she called my best friend and told him. He told her if she didn't tell me, he would. Then, a month later she called me out of the blue.She wanted, no... she needed to talk to me. Right now. She wanted to meet me in person, which meant I would have to drive 30 minutes to meet her in Tacoma at midnight. He grabbed the phone from me and left the room. Eventually he came back and told me the story. then I called her back and demanded every detail, feeling I was owed the truth. She gave me everything i needed and I broke down. Hard at first, then repetitive and slow for the next four months. My mind, my obsessiveness began to drive me insane. I tried to escape from myself, scratching and clawing at my skin in the shower. The feeling is unbearable, wanting to escape from yourself. Not necessarily by dying, maybe by becoming numb or empty. The lack of feeling saves you from yourself. Stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Feeble attempts at suicide with too few pills, not enough alcohol, and loud music in a cold basement apartment.
She was a lonely girl. Average height, big lips and crooked teeth. Her hair changed with the weather. She introduced me to the Violent Femmes and chocolate cigarettes. She had a fatal attraction to skinny boys, playboys, pretty, sassy, mean boys. She loved them all, but they only loved her between bedsheets. I met her when I was eighteen. She was friends with my friends and I saw her at parties. Back then she was chubbier, and was dependent on her pretty boyfriend. When he dumped her she fell apart and became sick, started puking and immediately lost all her weight. It was after that time I decided to become friends with her. I didn't like her at first. I found her shallow and normal, and I didn't like the way she acted around my boyfriend. When I started dating him, he was living in the garage below her apartment. He had just broken up with his previous girlfriend and was between homes. they were friends. She often called him. Her skin was so white, it was almost clear, except when she tried to tan when it would take on the color of pumpkin pie. when we became friends her hair was dyed black and short, about chin length. We would talk about our celebrity crushes- Shannyn Sossamon and Angelina Jolie. She was the first person I ever got drunk with. I drank vodka like it was water until I realized my ignorance too late and spen the rest of the night regretting it, puking onto my own shit, keeled over on the bathroom floor of the million-dollar house she was house sitting. Later, when we were alone, we drank Sparks in her car and walked around downtown. She was 21 before me and I loved it. We were friends in the shallow way that girls are friends. All hair and makeup and drama. Bonding over self-destruction and pop-punk. That was all it was. It couldn't have been more. I couldn't accept that our friendship was anything more than surface deep when two years later I discovered that her and my boyfriend had messed around a year prior. Thats just how things go sometimes. And its not always so bad, but it was for me. Back then it was. I think I could handle it now, but... I just thought he was everything. And the flirting and the secrets were brushed off with drunken forgiveness. She had wanted to tell me about it, and he never wanted me to know. Finally she called my best friend and told him. He told her if she didn't tell me, he would. Then, a month later she called me out of the blue.She wanted, no... she needed to talk to me. Right now. She wanted to meet me in person, which meant I would have to drive 30 minutes to meet her in Tacoma at midnight. He grabbed the phone from me and left the room. Eventually he came back and told me the story. then I called her back and demanded every detail, feeling I was owed the truth. She gave me everything i needed and I broke down. Hard at first, then repetitive and slow for the next four months. My mind, my obsessiveness began to drive me insane. I tried to escape from myself, scratching and clawing at my skin in the shower. The feeling is unbearable, wanting to escape from yourself. Not necessarily by dying, maybe by becoming numb or empty. The lack of feeling saves you from yourself. Stopped eating. Stopped sleeping. Feeble attempts at suicide with too few pills, not enough alcohol, and loud music in a cold basement apartment.
Sun Valley Sun
Today the weather is much happier. Not like yesterday, all dark gray sky and rain. Reminded me too much of Washington. Of every memory I had worked so hard to forget. It came crashing back with the rain, hitting me in the face. I panicked. I guess if these feelings of fear and pain and emptiness can come back so easily, they were never wholly gone in the first place.
But today is pretty. The sun is bright and the sky is blue and the wind is blowing my hair into my eyes. I can look at the rolling mountains and the pines and the cliffs and the sage and forget it all so easily. Idaho in summer helps me forget.
But today is pretty. The sun is bright and the sky is blue and the wind is blowing my hair into my eyes. I can look at the rolling mountains and the pines and the cliffs and the sage and forget it all so easily. Idaho in summer helps me forget.
Friday July 16th 2007
No 4 a.m. street cleaners, no undecipherable shouts in the night. All I hear outside is the steady swirl and hush of a small river that creeps and twists along the perimeter of a well kept lawn. Last night at dusk, when the sky was bluish-gray, like looking into God's eye, Anton and I climbed a steep hill across from the house. The dry twigs scratched our legs and the dead sage brush made for unsteady hand holds. About half way up we reached an old road, now grown over with weeds. Looking up we glanced a fawn who had been carefully observing our slow progress. She snorted and hopped behind the crest. We continued down our road and looking up again, saw a head and a pair of ears outlined by the dusk light. Far behind, at the peak of the hill was a much smaller and more timid pair of ears. The deer watched us descend.
Too much to write, always. One year ago was "the breakup", the "suicide attempt", the "recovery". The time I drove my car the to the train yard at 4 a.m. I sat parked, watching a train cross my path 100 yards ahead and I pressed the pedal to the floor. I was building speed, faster, faster. Finally realizing what I was doing, I slammed on my brakes and skidded to a stop 20 feet from the moving train. Form there I could read the words printed in large letters on the cylindrical cargo: PROPANE.
Almost a year ago to the day, or week. I moved into my parent's house in Olympia. I stopped eating. I slept for days, and I cried when I was awake. I was sick and in pain. Soon I was sitting in a brightly lit room with a blonde psychiatrist with very clear blue eyes. My dad told me I would get fixed up. He said he just wanted to see me smile again. The doctor told me to write things down. I started taking Paxil. 20mg at first. Too much. They gave me too much with good reason. It was the only way to keep me out of trouble - out of shadows. I didn't mind the feeling of living in a dream, but the fact that it made me so happy scared me, so I cut down to 10mg. At that point I moved in with Beth in her little one bedroom apartment near the Catholic school I attended when I was 6. We were sitting by the lake, the boat launch public access where the hippies and the poor families play. We lie on towels across gravel with bees and dog shit all around us. It was a great time and we loved it. I was doing great.
I began hanging out with Jawn and Stephen every day, which became partying every day. Lots and lots of beer. Fun and fun. I never drank beer before. Now it had replaced meals. Anton came down from Tacoma and would hang out with us. We got him to break "edge" and drink with us and everything was great. Soon it was into the Black House with all of us: Stephen, Jawn, Jawn's sister Katie, Me, Anton, Michael, Cherish, Zack, Megan. Cherish left. Cats stayed. Anton and I painted my room yellow with a teal ceiling, pink clouds, an octopus lady, a dead rabbit and a hot dog by Walker. I started working at Izzy's Pizzeria with Beth and Maggie and I started my last quarter at community college. I dyed my hair black, we got a short, black lab-mix named Cezar and I stopped taking Paxil. I felt like shit. I stayed busy with school and work, and things were good, but then an accumulation of events led to some bad stuff between me and Stephen and I left that night and moved into my parent's house again. Cezar was gone. We hoped his new family would be as good to him as we had wanted to be.I kept working at Izzy's and finished school. I had my wisdom teeth pulled and took lots of Vicodin, which was a great feeling. Anton and I adopted two kittens that were free. They hissed at us when we picked them up. The boy was orange and we named him Kavi Xiu. The girl was black and white and we named her Mika Mae. I quit working at Izzy's in December, and I hope that place burns to the ground. Worst conglomeration of everything I hate about America. Fat, disgusting, God-fearing republicans eating their clogged arteries to their capacity, yelling at their kids and leaving a pocket-change tip.
That summer was a lifetime. I spent all my time running. To rooftops and front yards and playgrounds, fucked up on too much booze and painkillers. It was a crazy mess, but it was necessary, in the way that it is necessary to sedate a dog with a broken spine.
In January Anton and I visited New York City. I wanted to keep going to school to study film and we wanted to see what it would be like to live in the city. We moved to Brooklyn in February. The projects. Bedford-Stuyvesent. Dangerous enough that our taxi driver complained about taking us home at night. We were only there for about two weeks when we found a better apartment at the Morgan stop on the L train for $1400 a month. Anton started a job at a deli in Park Slope where he made fruit smoothies for $8 an hour. I worked as a host/waitress/busser/whatevertheyneeded at a pizza place called Fornino's on Bedford Avenue where I received an undisclosed envelope of cash every week. I started an internship at VICE magazine, when I met Dan, John James, Lauren, Dana and Chris Roberts. I moved over to VICE films (VBS) and Dan got me a job at IAG in Manhattan where I watched TV for 4-6 hours a day a wrote survey questions to help track the effectiveness of product placement. That job was stupidly easy, but I was afraid of getting stuck there for too long. Anton and I made friends with people living in our Dominican Republic neighborhood. We met kids from Seattle, Georgia, Michigan. Oliver gave us lots of free alcohol and weed at the Royal Oak and always promised us a good time, though it usually consisted of watching him play video games or practice guitar. Harlan invited us to parties with free alcohol and funny kids who chase geese with bells for a living. Carter painted erratic and amazing pictures of random people and objects on huge canvases, and talked and acted with the same chaotic nature of his paintings. Dan and Katie were our couple friends, they were always sweet, generous, lovey-dovey and fun (now married.) Hayden moved into the apartment with Anton and me, and our house became a vegantropolis.
New York is a strange place to walk around alone at night. On Saturday nights, when you get off work at around 1am, you walk down Park Avenue through the crowds of the drunk well-to-do in their high heels and button-ups that cost more than my paycheck. You imagine people jumping from the 40 story buildings beside you, landing flat on your head and you hunch over as you walk. You think about the things you love about the city: the amazing food, the culture, the nightlife, the diversity. Then you smell vomit and garbage and sweat and shit. It hits you in the face like a soggy brick and it makes you miss home. We explored the city and we ran out of cash. Anton's parents helped us get by- bought us furniture, paid most of the rent, and eventually ended up paying for us to move out. We left the city and now we sleep with the trees. Only last week I could see the Empire State Building from my bedroom window. Now I have a much better view.
Too much to write, always. One year ago was "the breakup", the "suicide attempt", the "recovery". The time I drove my car the to the train yard at 4 a.m. I sat parked, watching a train cross my path 100 yards ahead and I pressed the pedal to the floor. I was building speed, faster, faster. Finally realizing what I was doing, I slammed on my brakes and skidded to a stop 20 feet from the moving train. Form there I could read the words printed in large letters on the cylindrical cargo: PROPANE.
Almost a year ago to the day, or week. I moved into my parent's house in Olympia. I stopped eating. I slept for days, and I cried when I was awake. I was sick and in pain. Soon I was sitting in a brightly lit room with a blonde psychiatrist with very clear blue eyes. My dad told me I would get fixed up. He said he just wanted to see me smile again. The doctor told me to write things down. I started taking Paxil. 20mg at first. Too much. They gave me too much with good reason. It was the only way to keep me out of trouble - out of shadows. I didn't mind the feeling of living in a dream, but the fact that it made me so happy scared me, so I cut down to 10mg. At that point I moved in with Beth in her little one bedroom apartment near the Catholic school I attended when I was 6. We were sitting by the lake, the boat launch public access where the hippies and the poor families play. We lie on towels across gravel with bees and dog shit all around us. It was a great time and we loved it. I was doing great.
I began hanging out with Jawn and Stephen every day, which became partying every day. Lots and lots of beer. Fun and fun. I never drank beer before. Now it had replaced meals. Anton came down from Tacoma and would hang out with us. We got him to break "edge" and drink with us and everything was great. Soon it was into the Black House with all of us: Stephen, Jawn, Jawn's sister Katie, Me, Anton, Michael, Cherish, Zack, Megan. Cherish left. Cats stayed. Anton and I painted my room yellow with a teal ceiling, pink clouds, an octopus lady, a dead rabbit and a hot dog by Walker. I started working at Izzy's Pizzeria with Beth and Maggie and I started my last quarter at community college. I dyed my hair black, we got a short, black lab-mix named Cezar and I stopped taking Paxil. I felt like shit. I stayed busy with school and work, and things were good, but then an accumulation of events led to some bad stuff between me and Stephen and I left that night and moved into my parent's house again. Cezar was gone. We hoped his new family would be as good to him as we had wanted to be.I kept working at Izzy's and finished school. I had my wisdom teeth pulled and took lots of Vicodin, which was a great feeling. Anton and I adopted two kittens that were free. They hissed at us when we picked them up. The boy was orange and we named him Kavi Xiu. The girl was black and white and we named her Mika Mae. I quit working at Izzy's in December, and I hope that place burns to the ground. Worst conglomeration of everything I hate about America. Fat, disgusting, God-fearing republicans eating their clogged arteries to their capacity, yelling at their kids and leaving a pocket-change tip.
That summer was a lifetime. I spent all my time running. To rooftops and front yards and playgrounds, fucked up on too much booze and painkillers. It was a crazy mess, but it was necessary, in the way that it is necessary to sedate a dog with a broken spine.
In January Anton and I visited New York City. I wanted to keep going to school to study film and we wanted to see what it would be like to live in the city. We moved to Brooklyn in February. The projects. Bedford-Stuyvesent. Dangerous enough that our taxi driver complained about taking us home at night. We were only there for about two weeks when we found a better apartment at the Morgan stop on the L train for $1400 a month. Anton started a job at a deli in Park Slope where he made fruit smoothies for $8 an hour. I worked as a host/waitress/busser/whatevertheyneeded at a pizza place called Fornino's on Bedford Avenue where I received an undisclosed envelope of cash every week. I started an internship at VICE magazine, when I met Dan, John James, Lauren, Dana and Chris Roberts. I moved over to VICE films (VBS) and Dan got me a job at IAG in Manhattan where I watched TV for 4-6 hours a day a wrote survey questions to help track the effectiveness of product placement. That job was stupidly easy, but I was afraid of getting stuck there for too long. Anton and I made friends with people living in our Dominican Republic neighborhood. We met kids from Seattle, Georgia, Michigan. Oliver gave us lots of free alcohol and weed at the Royal Oak and always promised us a good time, though it usually consisted of watching him play video games or practice guitar. Harlan invited us to parties with free alcohol and funny kids who chase geese with bells for a living. Carter painted erratic and amazing pictures of random people and objects on huge canvases, and talked and acted with the same chaotic nature of his paintings. Dan and Katie were our couple friends, they were always sweet, generous, lovey-dovey and fun (now married.) Hayden moved into the apartment with Anton and me, and our house became a vegantropolis.
New York is a strange place to walk around alone at night. On Saturday nights, when you get off work at around 1am, you walk down Park Avenue through the crowds of the drunk well-to-do in their high heels and button-ups that cost more than my paycheck. You imagine people jumping from the 40 story buildings beside you, landing flat on your head and you hunch over as you walk. You think about the things you love about the city: the amazing food, the culture, the nightlife, the diversity. Then you smell vomit and garbage and sweat and shit. It hits you in the face like a soggy brick and it makes you miss home. We explored the city and we ran out of cash. Anton's parents helped us get by- bought us furniture, paid most of the rent, and eventually ended up paying for us to move out. We left the city and now we sleep with the trees. Only last week I could see the Empire State Building from my bedroom window. Now I have a much better view.
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