Look Homeward Angel, Thomas Wolfe
He liked the summers better. There came slow-bodied women from the hot rich South, dark-haired white-bodied girls from New Orleans, corn-haired blondes from Georgia, nigger-drawling desire from South Carolina. And there was malarial lassitude, tinged faintly with yellow, from Mississippi but with white biting teeth. A red-faced South Carolinian, with nicotined fingers, took him daily to baseball games; a lank yellow planter, malarial from Mississippi, climbed hills, and wandered through the fragrant mountain valleys with him; of nights he heard the rich laughter of the women, tender and cruel, upon the dark porches, heard the florid throat-tones of the men; saw the yielding stealthy harlotry of the South - the dark seclusion of their midnight bodies, their morning innocence. Desire, with bloody beak, tore at his heart like jealous virtue: he was moral for that which was denied him.
p. 125
Friday, January 7, 2011
Making Cat Eyes at the Bar Flies
My NYE was perfumed with musky scents and forgiving lighting at my local bar.
Mari, my bartender, decked to the nines in glittering sequins and ample cleavage. Red wine percolating inside my bloodstream to the swirls and riffs of rock legends blaring from a nostalgic jukebox. The lurid volume served as an auditory cloaking device, a muffler, against mental cacophony, or even worse, the eerie rasping of mind decay.
Guised in the name of a glamorous gambling resort, this is the sort of place people come to when the gambling is all done and they're seeking to cash out. The only thing that is still game are their liver cells and the chance transmission of bodily fluids. Perhaps, even the remnants of self-respect - always the prized pawn. It's the infirmary that cradles the epidemic called loneliness; people go here not seeking a cure for this affliction, but to share it. Quarantine a safe space for the lost and lonely souls.
Seedy bars are Death's playground. Shells and husks reside there. The sharp bitterness of alcohol is only contested by personal experiences.
Yet, there is vitality as well. Laughter. Comadarieship. Misfit/outcast/loner community. It might sound a bit warped of me to admit, but I thrive in the midst of the urban life grit that's apparent in these places. What a conducive environment for eclectic storytelling - the best there is, really. Stories told by others, stories told by me, and stories that occur in front of my eyes, right in that very place. Even the bitterness, regret, resignation shows that these shellfishes had once lived their life. Growing older leaves too much time for introspection; this will always bring heartache. I hope to live in the vice versa fashion.
I savor these tales on the back of my tongue. b
By far, the finest cocktail the place has to offer.
One patron found it almost incredulous to find a single, young, woman celebrating NYE in a bar by herself. He is a waiter for a swanky hotel and said he that would definitely notice if I walked into his services. He wanted to know my sorrows and my secrets, in which, I only responded with a smile.
My 50 year old lover (or ex-lover, rather), Chris, was there and his eyes lit up at my warily-approaching face. My bartender told us rumors wafted around the joint that Chris murdered me off. A rumor that was taken seriously. Chris was offended. I didn't help by laughing uproariously.
Such a reaction from me on a grisly hypothetical is just askance for a guttural death, n'est pas?
Gradually, under the influence of Johnny Walker, Chris admitted his nagging insecurities to me in a low murmur. He said he missed me but didn't dare call me because he felt that I was finished with him - that he served whatever ephemeral service he had to my emotional/physical whims. I didn't entirely disagree.
An artist fellow who frequents the bar offered a night cap at his place. He wanted to play us some of his concocted, guitar music while we hung out and smoked some hash (optional). We agreed to do so after the bar closed. However, Chris compensated a bit too much NYE cheer into his liver and was incapacitated to even walk steadily when that time rolled around.
As the three of us left the bar, Chris kept drunkenly insisting that I should go to the artist fellow's home on my own if I really desired to go. He opted out.
I distinctly tasted the tone of jealousy slurring out of his mouth.
So, the artist fellow and I started walking toward his place, while Chris walked across the street to head toward his. Just to be clear, I had no intention of sleeping with anyone that night. Contrary to dubious behavior as of late, I'm really not that kind of girl.
I felt eyes boring into me.
I turned and saw that Chris, successfully crossing the street in one piece, had stopped to lean on the building residing there, his eyes burning laser holes into me. I knew I had to go to him and make sure he arrived home safely. You know, personal responsibility and all.
On our walk down the long block, I asked him what did he possibly expect out of this relationship. Needless to say, being heavily intoxicated is not conducive to these sort of questions.
He wanted to talk inside his apartment. We went in. He told me he found me to be so beautiful and sexy. He wanted to be with me. However, it was apparent to him that I didn't want to be with him. I didn't disagree. I didn't want to BE with anyone.
My story is consistent to those who may cross paths with me.
It was the apologetic simpering of the "it's-not-you-it's-me" speech.
I've always known these sort of "relationship evaluations" as being banal and tedious; almost insulting, but the reality of conducting one made it practically unbearably so. I nearly stated that fact aloud.
In intermittent spurts, Chris would pause in the middle of his emotional baring and excuse himself to be sick in the toilet. Yeah, I feel you. Makes me kind of sick to bare myself too.
While he was occupying himself in the bathroom, I gazed around his apartment. Taking in the mess. They say a messy surrounding/appearance foretells a disorganized mind/life. Maybe so. My mind turned clinical at that moment. I gazed at photographs he had haphazardly strewn together on a tack board. I only got to three photos of a beaming, youthful Chris before my eyes snapped away deliberately. Easily. I remember consciously thinking that I shouldn't be drawn in...detaching myself cleanly without any peripheral pull toward my currently allotted consideration for him was best. I picked up a piece of unopened mail he had laying on top of some books and realized I had spelled his last name incorrectly. For inexplicable reasons, this was most irksome. I had to physically stop myself to repeatedly look at that envelope, pull out my phone, and correct his name in my contact listing.
This may be an overdramatization, but it felt like I was dehumanizing him - the way sociopaths do before they kill their victims. For selfish reasons, obviously.
I felt bad that he risked the "intangibles" only to get the short end of the stick, but I suppose that is the bliss of my chosen ignorance. My limited empathy felt obscene, above all else. I wondered if I would be absurdly fortunate enough to be spared unrequited experiences with someone of my sincere affection. I vaguely shuddered at the thought. I wasn't sure if that shudder was toward that possible suffering, or of an existence devoid of it. The choice is up to me.
He was regurgitating his self-loathing and insecurities into a porcelain bowl (and believe me, I'm familiar with that particular brand of stench) while I mechanically patted him on the back, brought him a cup of water, and told him that he will most likely not remember this conversation in the morning, hence, how inopportune it was. Perhaps even pointless. But he deserved to know, and I'm not a cold-hearted woman.
Or so, I like to do things that counteract that nagging insinuation.
Basic human decency was all that I could give him.
He stared at me mournfully as I left.
Unfortunately, my face must've betrayed the liberating relief to be gone.
I wanted to photograph this tiny wake of devastation I created. Not out of any despicable egotistical merit, but the beauty of it. It's like that peculiar moment when a killer gets a warm flush of admiration and respect for their victim, in some cases. I found his emotional vulnerability toward me valiant and courageous. Something I am not currently capable of. I find a strange sense of normalcy in that ability in others. A normalcy I observe clinically, autistically. These idealistic projections that we place on other individuals to validate emotional/physical/mental needs within us. It revolts and fascinates me.
The night was quite beautiful. There was a woman wiping a glass door at 4am, looking as if she was going to head out to a business conference. We stared at each other as if we've never seen another human female before. I bet she would know what I'm talking about. I wish I could've photographed her without seeming like a creepy person.
I sat on my porch at 4:30am. A minuscule beacon of warmth and red liquor. Wearing a red coat that everyone exclaimed as being the bearer of good luck. A wayward stranger approached and made inconsequential small talk. Puffs of warm breaths against the cold night. He asked for my phone number. I declined serenely.
The first dawn of 2011 was magnificent.
I felt powerful in its birth.
But, we all know what a disillusionment power and control can be. ;)
Inside my apartment, I stripped myself topless. I put on a burgundy fur-lined coat - just to see the fur against my winter skin. To purely turn myself on. I photographed myself in this state.
And then I made love to myself.
Accompanying soundtrack to this entry:
Screw resolutions.
I aim to misbehave.
Mari, my bartender, decked to the nines in glittering sequins and ample cleavage. Red wine percolating inside my bloodstream to the swirls and riffs of rock legends blaring from a nostalgic jukebox. The lurid volume served as an auditory cloaking device, a muffler, against mental cacophony, or even worse, the eerie rasping of mind decay.
Guised in the name of a glamorous gambling resort, this is the sort of place people come to when the gambling is all done and they're seeking to cash out. The only thing that is still game are their liver cells and the chance transmission of bodily fluids. Perhaps, even the remnants of self-respect - always the prized pawn. It's the infirmary that cradles the epidemic called loneliness; people go here not seeking a cure for this affliction, but to share it. Quarantine a safe space for the lost and lonely souls.
Seedy bars are Death's playground. Shells and husks reside there. The sharp bitterness of alcohol is only contested by personal experiences.
Yet, there is vitality as well. Laughter. Comadarieship. Misfit/outcast/loner community. It might sound a bit warped of me to admit, but I thrive in the midst of the urban life grit that's apparent in these places. What a conducive environment for eclectic storytelling - the best there is, really. Stories told by others, stories told by me, and stories that occur in front of my eyes, right in that very place. Even the bitterness, regret, resignation shows that these shellfishes had once lived their life. Growing older leaves too much time for introspection; this will always bring heartache. I hope to live in the vice versa fashion.
I savor these tales on the back of my tongue. b
By far, the finest cocktail the place has to offer.
One patron found it almost incredulous to find a single, young, woman celebrating NYE in a bar by herself. He is a waiter for a swanky hotel and said he that would definitely notice if I walked into his services. He wanted to know my sorrows and my secrets, in which, I only responded with a smile.
My 50 year old lover (or ex-lover, rather), Chris, was there and his eyes lit up at my warily-approaching face. My bartender told us rumors wafted around the joint that Chris murdered me off. A rumor that was taken seriously. Chris was offended. I didn't help by laughing uproariously.
Such a reaction from me on a grisly hypothetical is just askance for a guttural death, n'est pas?
Gradually, under the influence of Johnny Walker, Chris admitted his nagging insecurities to me in a low murmur. He said he missed me but didn't dare call me because he felt that I was finished with him - that he served whatever ephemeral service he had to my emotional/physical whims. I didn't entirely disagree.
An artist fellow who frequents the bar offered a night cap at his place. He wanted to play us some of his concocted, guitar music while we hung out and smoked some hash (optional). We agreed to do so after the bar closed. However, Chris compensated a bit too much NYE cheer into his liver and was incapacitated to even walk steadily when that time rolled around.
As the three of us left the bar, Chris kept drunkenly insisting that I should go to the artist fellow's home on my own if I really desired to go. He opted out.
I distinctly tasted the tone of jealousy slurring out of his mouth.
So, the artist fellow and I started walking toward his place, while Chris walked across the street to head toward his. Just to be clear, I had no intention of sleeping with anyone that night. Contrary to dubious behavior as of late, I'm really not that kind of girl.
I felt eyes boring into me.
I turned and saw that Chris, successfully crossing the street in one piece, had stopped to lean on the building residing there, his eyes burning laser holes into me. I knew I had to go to him and make sure he arrived home safely. You know, personal responsibility and all.
On our walk down the long block, I asked him what did he possibly expect out of this relationship. Needless to say, being heavily intoxicated is not conducive to these sort of questions.
He wanted to talk inside his apartment. We went in. He told me he found me to be so beautiful and sexy. He wanted to be with me. However, it was apparent to him that I didn't want to be with him. I didn't disagree. I didn't want to BE with anyone.
My story is consistent to those who may cross paths with me.
It was the apologetic simpering of the "it's-not-you-it's-me" speech.
I've always known these sort of "relationship evaluations" as being banal and tedious; almost insulting, but the reality of conducting one made it practically unbearably so. I nearly stated that fact aloud.
In intermittent spurts, Chris would pause in the middle of his emotional baring and excuse himself to be sick in the toilet. Yeah, I feel you. Makes me kind of sick to bare myself too.
While he was occupying himself in the bathroom, I gazed around his apartment. Taking in the mess. They say a messy surrounding/appearance foretells a disorganized mind/life. Maybe so. My mind turned clinical at that moment. I gazed at photographs he had haphazardly strewn together on a tack board. I only got to three photos of a beaming, youthful Chris before my eyes snapped away deliberately. Easily. I remember consciously thinking that I shouldn't be drawn in...detaching myself cleanly without any peripheral pull toward my currently allotted consideration for him was best. I picked up a piece of unopened mail he had laying on top of some books and realized I had spelled his last name incorrectly. For inexplicable reasons, this was most irksome. I had to physically stop myself to repeatedly look at that envelope, pull out my phone, and correct his name in my contact listing.
This may be an overdramatization, but it felt like I was dehumanizing him - the way sociopaths do before they kill their victims. For selfish reasons, obviously.
I felt bad that he risked the "intangibles" only to get the short end of the stick, but I suppose that is the bliss of my chosen ignorance. My limited empathy felt obscene, above all else. I wondered if I would be absurdly fortunate enough to be spared unrequited experiences with someone of my sincere affection. I vaguely shuddered at the thought. I wasn't sure if that shudder was toward that possible suffering, or of an existence devoid of it. The choice is up to me.
He was regurgitating his self-loathing and insecurities into a porcelain bowl (and believe me, I'm familiar with that particular brand of stench) while I mechanically patted him on the back, brought him a cup of water, and told him that he will most likely not remember this conversation in the morning, hence, how inopportune it was. Perhaps even pointless. But he deserved to know, and I'm not a cold-hearted woman.
Or so, I like to do things that counteract that nagging insinuation.
Basic human decency was all that I could give him.
He stared at me mournfully as I left.
Unfortunately, my face must've betrayed the liberating relief to be gone.
I wanted to photograph this tiny wake of devastation I created. Not out of any despicable egotistical merit, but the beauty of it. It's like that peculiar moment when a killer gets a warm flush of admiration and respect for their victim, in some cases. I found his emotional vulnerability toward me valiant and courageous. Something I am not currently capable of. I find a strange sense of normalcy in that ability in others. A normalcy I observe clinically, autistically. These idealistic projections that we place on other individuals to validate emotional/physical/mental needs within us. It revolts and fascinates me.
The night was quite beautiful. There was a woman wiping a glass door at 4am, looking as if she was going to head out to a business conference. We stared at each other as if we've never seen another human female before. I bet she would know what I'm talking about. I wish I could've photographed her without seeming like a creepy person.
I sat on my porch at 4:30am. A minuscule beacon of warmth and red liquor. Wearing a red coat that everyone exclaimed as being the bearer of good luck. A wayward stranger approached and made inconsequential small talk. Puffs of warm breaths against the cold night. He asked for my phone number. I declined serenely.
The first dawn of 2011 was magnificent.
I felt powerful in its birth.
But, we all know what a disillusionment power and control can be. ;)
Inside my apartment, I stripped myself topless. I put on a burgundy fur-lined coat - just to see the fur against my winter skin. To purely turn myself on. I photographed myself in this state.
And then I made love to myself.
Accompanying soundtrack to this entry:
Screw resolutions.
I aim to misbehave.
Monday, August 16, 2010
My Only Admission
My struggle and veiled secret of lifelong depression is threatening to consume me in the most subtle, and therefore, most fatalistic fashion.
Like an unseen disease, coursing through my blood with only the mild and seemingly innocuous telltale sign of a sniffle or a cough.
The horror of arriving at your deathbed without knowing how you got there. As if integral functions of your mind suddenly went missing....nothing but a gaping, bloody wound/hole remains.
These are the thoughts that plague me with increasing intensity, each and every day. I suspect the quiet desperation I've learned to live with all my life has become a deafening roar...an unspecified implosion. I'm constantly in a state of bewilderment now. Confusion. Befuddlement. Acute memory loss. I do not know how to answer nor define the simplest of questions anymore.
I don't seem to know myself anymore.
When inquiries are made about me, I draw a vast blank.
Mentally and emotionally.
Is this a dementia of the soul?
I'm tired.
All I know is that I'm very, very tired.
Like an unseen disease, coursing through my blood with only the mild and seemingly innocuous telltale sign of a sniffle or a cough.
The horror of arriving at your deathbed without knowing how you got there. As if integral functions of your mind suddenly went missing....nothing but a gaping, bloody wound/hole remains.
These are the thoughts that plague me with increasing intensity, each and every day. I suspect the quiet desperation I've learned to live with all my life has become a deafening roar...an unspecified implosion. I'm constantly in a state of bewilderment now. Confusion. Befuddlement. Acute memory loss. I do not know how to answer nor define the simplest of questions anymore.
I don't seem to know myself anymore.
When inquiries are made about me, I draw a vast blank.
Mentally and emotionally.
Is this a dementia of the soul?
I'm tired.
All I know is that I'm very, very tired.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Conversations?
Me: When I ask about feelings, I'm not just talking about what you do feel. It's okay to tell me what you don't feel, M. I won't be devastated by that admission.
Him [with wry, soft, curious, teasing smile]: No, you wouldn't, would you?
Me: No. If I did, then I have learned nothing from you.
Him [teasing, yet eyes are intent]: I think I might be slightly hurt by that.
Me [laughing through a tiny pang]: I said I wouldn't be devastated, not that I'm impervious. I'm human. So, so human. You seem to make me thoroughly aware of that the most.
I believe I took a fatal misstep with all the self-awareness and willingness only the most supine fool can muster. A milestone surrender.
So fucking be it.
I do it with joy and acceptance.
I do it with tenderness and vulnerability.
I do it openly and unselfishly.
I do it with fear and worry.
But most importantly, I do it freely.
Body and mind, heart and soul.
I've never experienced anything more beautiful.
Him [with wry, soft, curious, teasing smile]: No, you wouldn't, would you?
Me: No. If I did, then I have learned nothing from you.
Him [teasing, yet eyes are intent]: I think I might be slightly hurt by that.
Me [laughing through a tiny pang]: I said I wouldn't be devastated, not that I'm impervious. I'm human. So, so human. You seem to make me thoroughly aware of that the most.
I believe I took a fatal misstep with all the self-awareness and willingness only the most supine fool can muster. A milestone surrender.
So fucking be it.
I do it with joy and acceptance.
I do it with tenderness and vulnerability.
I do it openly and unselfishly.
I do it with fear and worry.
But most importantly, I do it freely.
Body and mind, heart and soul.
I've never experienced anything more beautiful.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Quiet Desperation
Sometimes, the urge to confess/confide everything to a passing stranger becomes so overwhelming, my eyes wince from a sudden, filmy sting. As if I suddenly got a whiff of an acrid and fatalistic fume in the air.
It is fortunate, then, that I should wake up each morning feeling relieved that I didn't.
It is fortunate, then, that I should wake up each morning feeling relieved that I didn't.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Exchanges Part II
3/23/09
H,
There's a George Stanley quote I tacked to the front cover of a script (another screenplay guy in your life, I'm afraid) which is "You have confused the true and the real."
In the context of the script, this has more to do with the central character's conception of events versus any conceived reality. Since I am not writing an essay, this quote has no business being stuck to the front of a script, but I'm meeting a couple of actors tonight and it's stuck to the front as a noisemaker, if nothing else. We can talk about how one of the characters may not be real, and mull over the idea -- if that this means anything at all. Usually when I see quotes stuck to a script, there's a problem with the central idea of the script, and that is quite likely the case here. I like the quote and thought you might, too.
My penmanship, a good friend once told me, resembles the line on an EKG, so I am grateful to you that your penmanship comes from a civilized, productive source, as opposed to a patient hooked up to a machine recording vital signs.
A school friend of mine said once regarding ejaculation, "A load is a load. How you time it is your problem...." Somebody with "ample, eager seed" should be wary of making boasts.
Yes, I read your journal entry with eager eyes, the ample seed may have been planted already, yes, I have felt that frustration, but so much of our daily interaction with others seems "surface," and what you write of the interior is very much hard evidence of your creative talent.
H,
There's a George Stanley quote I tacked to the front cover of a script (another screenplay guy in your life, I'm afraid) which is "You have confused the true and the real."
In the context of the script, this has more to do with the central character's conception of events versus any conceived reality. Since I am not writing an essay, this quote has no business being stuck to the front of a script, but I'm meeting a couple of actors tonight and it's stuck to the front as a noisemaker, if nothing else. We can talk about how one of the characters may not be real, and mull over the idea -- if that this means anything at all. Usually when I see quotes stuck to a script, there's a problem with the central idea of the script, and that is quite likely the case here. I like the quote and thought you might, too.
My penmanship, a good friend once told me, resembles the line on an EKG, so I am grateful to you that your penmanship comes from a civilized, productive source, as opposed to a patient hooked up to a machine recording vital signs.
A school friend of mine said once regarding ejaculation, "A load is a load. How you time it is your problem...." Somebody with "ample, eager seed" should be wary of making boasts.
Yes, I read your journal entry with eager eyes, the ample seed may have been planted already, yes, I have felt that frustration, but so much of our daily interaction with others seems "surface," and what you write of the interior is very much hard evidence of your creative talent.
Exchanges
3/13/09
Friday the 13th. Am I actually trying to write a journal entry, on paper, like an angsty teenager after about 12 years?
My spelling has considerably worsened since the 1990s. My penmanship betrays the notion that I am a civilized and productive human being.
In typical L.A. fashion, a guy is reading a script beside me.
Another guy left a candid voice mail last night, glorifying my sexual desirability and creating a happy trajectory with his ample and eager seed. He's in love with my now coined phrase, "weave the best verbal smut." He called me a mind fuck. He would like to fuck my hippocampus. My left and right lobe of my cerebral cortex. He means nothing to me, but I crave his desire like a life elixir to my ravenous, vampiric hunger. A vague liveliness. Perhaps the only way I can be desired.
I am tempted to show the screenwriter/editor(?) guy what I have just written.
Why am I always so heartbreakenly disappointed when strangers (men) fail to see my cowardly, but potent yearning to be touched? Moved? Fucked? Shattered? I want them to ravage and plunder me upon sight.
I wish I could read minds.
Fantasize about me, please.
Like I do you.
Friday the 13th. Am I actually trying to write a journal entry, on paper, like an angsty teenager after about 12 years?
My spelling has considerably worsened since the 1990s. My penmanship betrays the notion that I am a civilized and productive human being.
In typical L.A. fashion, a guy is reading a script beside me.
Another guy left a candid voice mail last night, glorifying my sexual desirability and creating a happy trajectory with his ample and eager seed. He's in love with my now coined phrase, "weave the best verbal smut." He called me a mind fuck. He would like to fuck my hippocampus. My left and right lobe of my cerebral cortex. He means nothing to me, but I crave his desire like a life elixir to my ravenous, vampiric hunger. A vague liveliness. Perhaps the only way I can be desired.
I am tempted to show the screenwriter/editor(?) guy what I have just written.
Why am I always so heartbreakenly disappointed when strangers (men) fail to see my cowardly, but potent yearning to be touched? Moved? Fucked? Shattered? I want them to ravage and plunder me upon sight.
I wish I could read minds.
Fantasize about me, please.
Like I do you.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
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