“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”—Sylvia Plath (via atomos)
I would have to say that my earliest memory is getting my head stuck between two beams in a stair case railing at my parents’ first home. They had to bring in a saw and cut me out of the railing. My mom then had the railing completely uninstalled and replaced with a solid wall. I couldn’t have been more than 3.
Saturday Night at The Riviera by Hunter S. Thompson
It was lime, the stuff you mix in with concrete.
It was down there beside the furnace. I don’t know why, I just picked up this bag of lime, put it on my shoulder, the fifty-pound bag. Through the narrow hall out of the basement, up the winding stairs to the sidewalk on Perry Street.
I was with McGarr, and we both had dates. We walked down toward the Riviera and I noticed that the bag was leaking. It wasn’t real bad but it was getting faster.
It was Saturday night, and the Riviera on Saturday night was then and still is jammed. It’s a focal point for weekenders from the Bronx and New Jersey, Colombia law students, whatever. It’s a triangular-shaped place with a door, like a hundred feet wide in the back and four feet wide at the front door. That’s all it is. They have a swinging door. We were walking on the other side of the street. There’s a cigar store that’s still there….
Anyway, these girls worked for Time magazine. They were friends. We were going over to hear Bob Dylan or something like that. There wasn’t anything strange about the situation except that meanwhile this thing is leaking. McGarr says, “What’s that in that fucking bag? What are you carrying that bag for?” And I didn’t know. I had no reason.
“Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.”—Meg Chittenden (via writingadvice)
“Hey check out the ass on that guy he’s got a really hot ass I’d like to see his ass naked with his hot naked ass Hey check out her hot ass that chick’s got a hot ass she’s a red hot ass chick I want to touch it Hey check out the ass on that old man that’s one hot old man ass
look at his ass his ass his old man ass Hey check out that dog’s ass wow that dog’s ass is hot that dog’s got a hot dog ass I want to squeeze that dog’s hot dog ass like a ball but a hot ball a hot ass ball Hey check out the ass on that bird how’s a bird get a hot ass like that that’s one hot ass bird ass I want to put that bird’s hot ass in my mouth and swish it around and around and around Hey check out the ass on that bike damn that bike’s ass it h-o-t you ever see a bike with an ass that hot I want to put my hot ass on that bike’s hot ass and make a double hot ass bike ass Hey check out that building it’s got a really really really hot ass and the doorman and the ladies in the information booth and the guy in the elevator got themselves a butt load of hot ass I want to wrap my arms around the whole hot ass building and squeeze myself right through its hot ass and out the other side I want to get me a hot ass piece of all 86 floors of hot hot hot hot ass!”—Jennifer Knox - Hot Ass Poem
Some months ago, I met and started dating a married man (we’ll call him Confused Poly Guy - CPG) who claimed to be in a non-monogamous marriage. Awesome. This is exactly the kind of person I’m seeking - someone who already has a full time, 24/7 relationship whom I can use as a romantic accent to my life. I do not seek a marriage. I do not seek a focus. I’m not in need of completion.
The first few dates were fantastic. We have a lot in common, we see the world in similar fashions, we have similar sexual tastes, etc. All of the good things you look for when you embark on a path with someone else in the romantic realm.
Then, I’d say, shit hit the fan. The wife (we’ll call her Confused Poly Chick) was having a hard time with CPG’s new connection. She was taking that shit out on him all kinds of sideways - inciting arguments, jealousy and general non-happy things. The stress of her emotions (or lack of honesty with herself) caused him to come to my house one Friday night and tell me he couldn’t see me any longer. Fine. Whatever. The amount of time we’d spent together was inconsequential - no matter how excited I was. This wasn’t/isn’t/never will be life or death. I was disappointed because I saw potential with CPG. Potential isn’t something that manifests easily in me. I’m very rarely impressed and generally quite snobby about the people I chose to spend time with. My time is a fucking gift.
The next morning, I’m groggy and getting ready for brunch when my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and normally, I would ignore such things - but, I didn’t.
Hi, this is CPC.
Well, this is weird. What can I do for you?
I think there’s been a mistake. I’d like to meet you and discuss.
Um. Okay…Sure. Although I’m not sure why.
Yeah. I know. But if you can stand being strung along/mind fucked a bit more, I think this whole thing can work.
Okay. My curiosity has the best of me right now. Let’s do this.
Normally, at this point, I would have gotten the fuck out. These people clearly have not defined their own relationship, much less would they be able to reconcile adding another connection. Beyond that, CPG’s guilt over CPC’s emotions caused him to act in a way that was fundamentally against his needs/wants. Danger, Will Robinson! Danger! I knew this very concretely in my mind, and yet, that fucking spark of potential made me ignore my gut reaction. Stupid. Very stupid.
CPC and I meet for coffee while CPG is home with their spawn. We walk and talk and walk and talk and walk and fucking talk. We spent a good portion of the afternoon together discussing who we both were, who CPG was and how this whole thing could work. I go to their space. Meet their spawn. Have dinner with them. Things seem to be okay.
CPG and I have one more date - and it is amazing - as the others have been. We are most definitely compatible. This thing, now, has momentum and energy. I let myself succumb to my excitment. I let myself care, become connected, whatever phrasing works best for you. [It is worth noting here, the majority of my encounters with other humans are devoid of emotions. I am a compartmentalization queen. My emotional investment is rare, and something I keep pretty close to the chest. Oh fucking well.]
I assume that all’s well. CPG and I exchange a few messages over the space between our planned meetings. Then, I get hit with the following fickle, cruel, exacerbating note. It is my curse to involve myself with people who think they know what they want only to have me be the catalyst for them actually figuring out what they want.
I’d like to write this out in an email, just so things are clear and laid out. If you’d like to call me, I am available for a phone conversation, as well.
CPC and I had a pretty big fight on Sunday night (after I wrote the email to you), and ended up doing a lot of talking yesterday and today. I think that it fundamentally comes down to this: CPC currently does not want to be non-monogamous. She has been trying hard to make things work, because our relationship started out as poly, and because she wants me to be happy, but fundamentally she does not want to have an open relationship at present. There are a lot of reasons she might be feeling this way: her chronic disease is currently flaring badly, we just had a baby, she is currently relying on me for financial support, I have a new job … the hormones alone that are flooding through our bodies as a result of the baby might have a lot to do with it.
But basically I don’t have her enthusiastic consent to step romantically outside of our relationship, and that’s bad. And I’m feeling all the stress of the various stuff in our life, too, and am having a hard time dealing with her jealousy and anger in an enlightened way, which doesn’t help anything.
This sucks. Because I am very much attracted to you. You are awesome. The talks and sex and s&m session that we have had together have been awesome. I am sure that your friends are awesome, too. But, in light of the above, I need to stop seeing you romantically. (As far as friendship goes, I suspect that it might just be frustratingly full of sexually charged conversation that never goes anywhere — plus, you probably think (justifiably) that I’m an asshole right now.)
I’m available for a phone call if you’d like to talk. And I still have Sunday evening free if you want to go to a museum and walk and talk. But the thing we had, as fucking awesome as it was, is at an end. I am very sorry. And if I don’t hear from you, I hope that your life is full of adventures, and interesting creative projects and awesome sex.
CPG is now just CG. Okay, CG, you’re off the hook. You’ve succumbed to CPC’s bidding. Not only that, closing your relationship may alleviate the symptoms you’ve been experiencing, but not the root problems. There’s obviously some deeply rooted sense of insecurity within your bond. Something that I hope, for your sake, you can resolve. I wish you well also, but it needs to be said, you will regret letting this particular piece of human awesome go out into the void.
I went out to buy bananas and papayas. I ended up with a cart full of crap. The grocery store has turned into a literal meat market. There is no more joy in walking through the isles ignorant of the bigger worldly issues. Merely worrying about the price comparison of those canned olives. What would Allen think?
The cashiers have a watchful eye; they remember the night you and Walt were here – and they never saw a dime. I think they know who I am. I can see the bag boys get nervous. They don’t want to be anyone’s Angel. Come on Allen. Come on Walt. Bring back the hospitality and the innocence of American products. Give us a new leg to stand on. We need you.
What kind of America did you know? What kind of pride? If you only knew, Allen, if you could only see what’s happened here. I can’t bear to bring you into this light. I can see you looking around wild-eyed, waiting for someone to stand up. Waiting for someone to question this authority. Waiting for someone to finish what you started. And in vain, you’d stand in the center of this grocery store. People pushing carts around you like ants.
A few months ago, I began exchanging strange and harmless messages on OKCupid with this guy. We went back and forth about music, life and the like - nothing spectacular and I didn’t expect anything to come of it.
We bonded over our mutual love of a certain rock god. He inquired whether or not I would be attending the upcoming show slated for LA on the artist’s birthday. Of course, I already had my ticket and responded, appropriately:
You can find me in the pit.
The show was completely epic. Andrew WK brings a force of life and light to the stage that is unprecedented. The pit was not full of angry elbows seeking a face to smash, but rather, comrades in the party. If you fell or were crushed 10 arms immediately met you on the ground to pick you up. If you wanted to get up into the crowd surfing towards the stage, three to four dudes would give you a boost. WK’s music is not for those looking to drown themselves in rage. We are the crowd fixated on hedonism and revelry and living life’s moments to the absolute fullest.
Okay, okay…I’m sure that some of the assholes in the Echoplex that night were not as incontrovertible as I. But, the overall vibe of the show could not be denied.
WK played a great set filled with the classics. I was in the heat of the pit for the first 5 songs. I should know better by now, but, I wore these trashed black ballet flats as footwear that evening. They were gobbled by the pit 3 chords into I Get Wet.
So now, I’m shoeless at the Echoplex. I swam my way out of the pit towards solid ground, went to the bar for a beer and to contemplate my next step. (Walking the Echoplex barefoot is not fun and very sticky). I thought I’d wait until WK left the stage and the crowd dissapated, but to no avail. I couldn’t find my shoes anywhere. I did a few laps around the venue and finally gave up. Defeated and bare foot in Echo Park.
I hobbled my way back to my car while avoiding dirty needles, broken 40s and condoms along the way.
The next morning, my phone buzzes and this incredible message exchange occurs:
Cut to a few weeks later, the weirdness of the situation has worn down. I’m not nearly as impressed that a couple of hipsters from LA end up at the same WK show and one finds the others’ shoes. This is not a fucking fairy tale - it’s far too weird.
Nonetheless, the schumann has now started to sext me on a semi regular basis. I like cock shots as much as the next girl, but maybe he should stick with the shoe findings?
Updates to come if the coffee date proposed ever actually happens.
I have no time to organize my thoughts any longer. I feel days happening more and more quickly …time is ever speeding forward. Onward Ho!
The idea of having the time to sit down and write something appropriate for mass consumption. Something that isn’t made for LiveJournal and full of self-doubt, self-pity, anger, rage, sadness, etc. Something that is actual organized thought - Not just an outpouring of emotions.
Something with properly defined and constructed sentences.
Mrs. Padgett (the adorable, petite woman who taught my junior high AP English class) would be disgusted by my sentence structure. To think, this woman that nurtured and caressed my delicate, nubile mind to the point of becoming a sentence diagramming, grammar perfecting ninja…she should see me now. I over use ellipses (because my thoughts more than often trail), my vocabulary has degenerated atrociously, I over use contractions and conjunctions. My sentences end with prepositions from time to time. And generally, I’ve just gotten fucking lazy with style.
All of this from someone who claimed at one point, she wanted to write and write and write and write.