Tonight I went bowling. I haven't done that in ages, and of all the places, it had to be Lucky Strike, right in the dead center of the Hollywood murk. ( I call it the murk because it is a travesty of the once romantic American dream; sourly soiled, foiled, folded and unfolded: beautiful, stark, and bemuddled.)
It is 2:33AM and someone in my building is going through a Bjork phase. I've heard her soulful crooning resonating through these thin walls all week long. This summer, someone was really into The Doors. It made for a great summer soundtrack (mixed in with the drunken songs of the homeless hippies roaming these Venice alleys).
I'm going to burn some Nag Champa and go to sleep. I'm not a pot smoker, it just smells like unprofessional lazy freedom to me. The desire to smell it comes and goes. The distant Doors? Probably. Americana? Hippiably.
I'll most likely wake up choking on the soapy smoke.
( I love italics, they hit the seriously sardonic note just right, with a miniature smirk.)
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The Wind
All night the the lonely tiger has been rubbing his fur against my window. At moments he pauses, quietly, to stare in with his large fountain eye. He presses his sharp claw against the floorboards, gently scraping my ankles like wildfire brush. His lips pull up against the pink stucco revealing the midnight grin to the shadows. Then, he pounces toward the sky, whipping his tail violently, leaving the air stunned.
We breathe...until his muscular legs slowly pass again, each paw print strategically placed, each movement painstakingly planned.
The night is restless; he is searching for an open door. We are turning inward.
We breathe...until his muscular legs slowly pass again, each paw print strategically placed, each movement painstakingly planned.
The night is restless; he is searching for an open door. We are turning inward.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Aloe Plant
I moved into this apartment almost a year ago. It was just the beginning of summer and the rains had just stopped. Kelli suggested the paint and we brushed in the corners in the dying light of the day. The next day Erin and I bought more paint, the coolers, the beer, and snacks and locked ourselves in for a day. The entire studio was an adobe brown, we covered it all in an eggshell white. After, in the heat, we ran to the beach which was less than a block away, and cool ourselves in the pacific blue. She wore multi-colored thrift store sunglasses, I, the big Jackie-O. We found sand in our sandwiches, between teeth. We bought our first summer dresses. She twirled in a baby yellow, and I in a tight blue gingham. Later that evening I would kiss the handsome boy that didn't wear socks with his shoes. He bit my lip so hard, it bled.
At first I thought there might be too much white: asylum white. But, after filing the rest of the place with soft pines, bamboo shades, and the warmth of reason, it was perfectly fitting. Only one painting was necessary on the walls, the one just above my bed. I had painted it and used it for the flier of a show earlier that year. It was one pig, in sumi ink, with a huge soft yellow bubble over his head. In the bubble were two pigs with distorted faces flying with tiny wings through stylized clouds. I gave the real, full explanation to a room of guests moments after I broke my hand, tears streaming down my face, the blood quickly filling under the ice in the sink:
"Soulmates! It is my soulmate painting! The pig is dreaming about flying through the clouds with his soulmate!" I was screaming, laughing, crying, drunk and delirious!
"Their faces are distorted because...it is only a dream! Just a daydream! That is ME! It is all a daydream..."
Everyone laughed. I offered them wine. I didn't know most of them, they had all appeared in my apartment like a flood. They had cooed in my ear, patted my back, gave me water, laughed at my jokes. My hand was swelling, the muscles were tightening.
Later, when I was all alone in my apartment, the pain swelled to the point of disintegration. I finally called my parents. My father told me to go to the hospital. I was surprised, we never went to the doctor, we always took care of it on our own: Home Remedies, used crutches in the attic, my mother wincing as my father cleaned the gash and, after 4 hours of surgery, wrapped her up. She healed beautifully; his scar faded; my sickness went away. He told me that he realized we can't take care of everything and if he had gone to the hospital in the past, he might not be suffering now.
I stopped crying, replaced fear with relief-finally, permission to do what people normally do, and got in my car, drove myself to the hospital with one eye open, one hand on the wheel, through the fog.
I was missing a window box. I found my first plant by my door. It was a huge green pot with a fat aloe plant. There was a note from the girl above. It nested between the bars and the window pane just right. We sliced at it with sharp knifes to heal our wounds. Later, after my broken hand, my mother built a ledge and we added more plants. The prize plant was the gardenia she bought me. It was a glossy green and the prospect of spring, of pungent white flowers, made it the gem of my small garden. A month later, during the fires, it shriveled down to a crisp brown death. So did the basil, the wildflowers, and the peppermint.
I wanted birds, I wanted hummingbirds and little chirping birds, but, birds wouldn't come to a flowerless window.
I had to get away for a month. Anywhere: the hot tropics, the cold American center, the bustling island. It had been rainy and cold and I was sharing my place with a girl that was missing moments of time. I hopped from one disappointment to the next, dreading the thought of returning home, bundling up, changing skins, rearranging my guts.
When I finally returned, the place was calm, quiet, and so very white: asylum white. The sheets were fresh, fluffed, crisp white. The floors were clean, the mirrors were clean. A reprieve. A retreat. I slept for days, longer and later each day. I kept the shades down, I turned up the heat. I moved around like a mouse, stopping every now and then to reflect on sentiment. A burst, one cry.
Last night I rolled up the bamboo so the sun would shine in in the morning. It was the latest I had slept. I looked at my small garden, the one I had neglected for months. The aloe plant had bloomed while I was away-a tiny stalk with bright orange tubular flowers, straight from the heart. I saw a small hummingbird stop, in the frame of my window, to taste the insides of the blooms.
My eyes opened wide, my heart began to split open: a little bloom.
At first I thought there might be too much white: asylum white. But, after filing the rest of the place with soft pines, bamboo shades, and the warmth of reason, it was perfectly fitting. Only one painting was necessary on the walls, the one just above my bed. I had painted it and used it for the flier of a show earlier that year. It was one pig, in sumi ink, with a huge soft yellow bubble over his head. In the bubble were two pigs with distorted faces flying with tiny wings through stylized clouds. I gave the real, full explanation to a room of guests moments after I broke my hand, tears streaming down my face, the blood quickly filling under the ice in the sink:
"Soulmates! It is my soulmate painting! The pig is dreaming about flying through the clouds with his soulmate!" I was screaming, laughing, crying, drunk and delirious!
"Their faces are distorted because...it is only a dream! Just a daydream! That is ME! It is all a daydream..."
Everyone laughed. I offered them wine. I didn't know most of them, they had all appeared in my apartment like a flood. They had cooed in my ear, patted my back, gave me water, laughed at my jokes. My hand was swelling, the muscles were tightening.
Later, when I was all alone in my apartment, the pain swelled to the point of disintegration. I finally called my parents. My father told me to go to the hospital. I was surprised, we never went to the doctor, we always took care of it on our own: Home Remedies, used crutches in the attic, my mother wincing as my father cleaned the gash and, after 4 hours of surgery, wrapped her up. She healed beautifully; his scar faded; my sickness went away. He told me that he realized we can't take care of everything and if he had gone to the hospital in the past, he might not be suffering now.
I stopped crying, replaced fear with relief-finally, permission to do what people normally do, and got in my car, drove myself to the hospital with one eye open, one hand on the wheel, through the fog.
I was missing a window box. I found my first plant by my door. It was a huge green pot with a fat aloe plant. There was a note from the girl above. It nested between the bars and the window pane just right. We sliced at it with sharp knifes to heal our wounds. Later, after my broken hand, my mother built a ledge and we added more plants. The prize plant was the gardenia she bought me. It was a glossy green and the prospect of spring, of pungent white flowers, made it the gem of my small garden. A month later, during the fires, it shriveled down to a crisp brown death. So did the basil, the wildflowers, and the peppermint.
I wanted birds, I wanted hummingbirds and little chirping birds, but, birds wouldn't come to a flowerless window.
I had to get away for a month. Anywhere: the hot tropics, the cold American center, the bustling island. It had been rainy and cold and I was sharing my place with a girl that was missing moments of time. I hopped from one disappointment to the next, dreading the thought of returning home, bundling up, changing skins, rearranging my guts.
When I finally returned, the place was calm, quiet, and so very white: asylum white. The sheets were fresh, fluffed, crisp white. The floors were clean, the mirrors were clean. A reprieve. A retreat. I slept for days, longer and later each day. I kept the shades down, I turned up the heat. I moved around like a mouse, stopping every now and then to reflect on sentiment. A burst, one cry.
Last night I rolled up the bamboo so the sun would shine in in the morning. It was the latest I had slept. I looked at my small garden, the one I had neglected for months. The aloe plant had bloomed while I was away-a tiny stalk with bright orange tubular flowers, straight from the heart. I saw a small hummingbird stop, in the frame of my window, to taste the insides of the blooms.
My eyes opened wide, my heart began to split open: a little bloom.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The Movie
Last night I went to see a movie alone.
"This is my first time going to the movies by myself!" I told the boy at the box office. "Is it a good movie?"
"It's a little depressing."
"Oh, thats great, going to see a movie alone and getting depressed!"
"If it makes you feel any better: I hope you have a good day."
It was night. He must have been working all day long. His slender fingers shook a little, with nervousness, when he passed me the ticket underneath the glass pane. I had to tilt my head to the right to see his face.
Earlier that evening I went to a lecture about the mind from the world's "top expert" on the brain. He spoke softly, billowy, with a rich accent, hints of cocoa and pepper. He was small man with heavy glasses, tiny gestures. Easy to crush-very easy to stomp. I knew everything he spoke about, I knew what he was saying. I understood his demeanor, and, while the neuro-scientists picked at him with scientific terms, he recoiled, asked his heart, went back to the day he fell in love, and answered them kindly.
The movie was a black and white animation, all french. I tuned my ears to the language, picking out the words I knew. My legs were up in the air, reflecting the screen. My dress was wide open, but I didn't care. No one could see. The couples in front of me cried heavily and laughed heartily. They knew the inside joke. They were familiar. We all walked out like a funeral procession.
Quickly,
though the puddles,
through the piss in the parking garage,
through the light rain and heavy wind,
I found my way to my car and drove home in silent regard.I was the girl in the movie, the lost one, the lonely one. Movie scripts were made from my words, from my life. It was all so easy.
"You are so dumb!" I hit her chest.
"You say you are looking for love, for someone to love, for truth, but you don't even pay attention to it when it is standing right in front of you!"
Tears streamed down. The little gay men held me and carried me away. Earlier, my stomach tingled, my lips pressed together, my heart fluttered.
I had to park down by the electrical station. The rain poured down in sheets, but, lightly, misting my face. It smelled like sea, like sardines and burning wood. I could hear the waves churning, the small droplets pricking the skin of the roofs, the palms of the trees. I stood in the middle of the street for a moment, letting the rain brush my face, the streetlight and I were the only ones awake then.
I didn't cry, even though I thought I was going to.
I changed.
"This is my first time going to the movies by myself!" I told the boy at the box office. "Is it a good movie?"
"It's a little depressing."
"Oh, thats great, going to see a movie alone and getting depressed!"
"If it makes you feel any better: I hope you have a good day."
It was night. He must have been working all day long. His slender fingers shook a little, with nervousness, when he passed me the ticket underneath the glass pane. I had to tilt my head to the right to see his face.
Earlier that evening I went to a lecture about the mind from the world's "top expert" on the brain. He spoke softly, billowy, with a rich accent, hints of cocoa and pepper. He was small man with heavy glasses, tiny gestures. Easy to crush-very easy to stomp. I knew everything he spoke about, I knew what he was saying. I understood his demeanor, and, while the neuro-scientists picked at him with scientific terms, he recoiled, asked his heart, went back to the day he fell in love, and answered them kindly.
The movie was a black and white animation, all french. I tuned my ears to the language, picking out the words I knew. My legs were up in the air, reflecting the screen. My dress was wide open, but I didn't care. No one could see. The couples in front of me cried heavily and laughed heartily. They knew the inside joke. They were familiar. We all walked out like a funeral procession.
Quickly,
though the puddles,
through the piss in the parking garage,
through the light rain and heavy wind,
I found my way to my car and drove home in silent regard.I was the girl in the movie, the lost one, the lonely one. Movie scripts were made from my words, from my life. It was all so easy.
"You are so dumb!" I hit her chest.
"You say you are looking for love, for someone to love, for truth, but you don't even pay attention to it when it is standing right in front of you!"
Tears streamed down. The little gay men held me and carried me away. Earlier, my stomach tingled, my lips pressed together, my heart fluttered.
I had to park down by the electrical station. The rain poured down in sheets, but, lightly, misting my face. It smelled like sea, like sardines and burning wood. I could hear the waves churning, the small droplets pricking the skin of the roofs, the palms of the trees. I stood in the middle of the street for a moment, letting the rain brush my face, the streetlight and I were the only ones awake then.
I didn't cry, even though I thought I was going to.
I changed.
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