Up To Date: Heavens To Betsy

Three times I sat and wrote. This is what I have ended up with. A lot is missing. But that too was the point. The challenge was to produce a fragment. My constraint was time, mental focus and of course, my ability to feel. 

"Chelsea, why do you think people only tell us half of what they know?"

It's everything, they think.

"But why show us only half of what they feel?"

They feel they should be a mystery.

"Why, Chelsea, why be that?"

They think others will feel they mean more. 

"But they don't, do they?"

Gabe, why do you think I know?

projecting concern, displacement feared.

I am isolated, but not lonely. I am inside myself, but on the outside I am visibly touching you. I feel isolation in the instant of our touch. In each other’s eyes, we are not moving, but I come to mind elsewhere. At home, he lies on his back. A big body in a twin bed. His hands cradle his head. Against the pillow, his arms look like wings. They might be arrows. It’s just a vision and isn’t determined by what he thinks. He’s thinking I haven’t called. He cannot not remind himself of this as night fades to light. “She hasn’t called. She said she would. She didn’t call.” We are always far from where we expect ourselves to be. He’s looking for clarity, but hasn’t made a difference. I don’t feel bad. He isn’t even moving. He’s just lying there, waiting, rewinding, pausing, but never advancing. With others, I have the potential to be all around; even if at the moment, I am touched by you. I want to be committed, but I am always fleeing. They say shadows take to skin, I am afraid of becoming attached. On Friday, Gabe told me he had been alone all day. It was nighttime now. I asked him how it felt. “Not like anything. I was depressed. I am always depressed after snorting drugs. In the morning, I couldn’t move. I sat on my bed and didn’t have a thought. It was the first time I couldn’t think at all.” I asked him how it felt. 

“Not like anything. I may be addicted.” 

Already? 

“These things are immediate.” 

What things? 

“Chelsea, I’m desperate.”

*

They depended upon me. “We, the characters, came from her language.” My story depends upon them. Sure, I could make them up. But once they were dreamt, they were alive—always, somewhere—now. My life was at risk too. If they were to go, disappear, vanish, be forgotten I couldn’t prevent part of my being from dying also.

Was I, the authorial God hovering over the text, speaking through or for the characters? Did I need them to go further, before they needed me? Were they puppets? Could I make them dance? Storytelling is a projection. Few make this connection, because they are too seduced into listening or watching the mouth move and forget to listen entirely. I don’t know where anyone actually is, but I imagine they are not where they appear or how they seem. Here’s a secret: nothing in mind hasn’t been discovered in sense. I am not creative. I use what I have because what I have is all I can think to use. There are no stories that haven't been already thought in some form or another. Which is why I lick the backside of you, like a stamp, and see if I can deliver you to some place you never expected you’d be taken.

Within the instant, there is no linearity. Figures are non-narrative. As soon as the eye blinks, images become anew. The mind collapses these fragments, attempting to restore a scene and develop a memory. But as fragments, a figure is the closest it will ever be to truth. There are many in one and it’s the same situation for all; we are a bit broken up. They have no time. They are lovers. The instant is all they desire to keep. “Now, now, now” can be heard when the wrist is brought to the ear. Tongues pursuing you, you, you, me, my, us. We are engaged in the instant, denying and yet motivated by the reality: this moment is unmatchable. I told you, dare me to be committed to the moment. And look how I behave!—thinking I heard you say, “I dare you to tell me the truth.”

It is certainly difficult to judge, and almost impossible to escape so I can show you what I have in mind. Clarity doesn’t already cling to me as I make meaning. It only follows, which isn’t soon enough. Does that mean I can't be listened to? Tell me if my writing looks like scribbles—a child’s art project drawn with a black Crayola. As a kid I was very serious. I saw in contrast. People don’t change; they only become more of who they are. Have I told you that? I never look back at what I wrote. It was written, that is enough for me. At the time I am confident it is manic musings, genius if provided the chance to be read into. Do I and/or you care? About what? 

“I’m desperate.” 

Who? 

“All of us.”

*

I saw you (and by you I mean him, but you will feel more connected if you think this is all about you) for the first time outside the city. Greenpoint, I think it was. Six randoms sat in the backyard around a picnic table. Others grilled meat, drenched their hot dogs in relish, gargled with “mystery juice”. I was on the outside looking in. Talking but never connecting. Engaged, but that was only how I looked. Inside I was waiting for you. Waiting for someone to know me, to save me from myself. It was an eclectic mix of partygoers. I came to meet a friend’s boyfriend. Well, that’s what she thought. I had my own reason. I came to document moments I would otherwise not see. I had a strange sense we were always being framed and attached to us was a reflection people took us as. My lens cap was always off. Photography is a mirror facing time. People are projections. Eyes don’t speak, but they are the reason we have expectations. The other mediums of art are translations. Translations of time and the people breathing its air. It sounds profound, but it’s only things we are focused on. Things—it sounds superficial, when heard on its own.

Everyone was shit faced. And underneath the sound of their fists banging the wooden tabletop, wrists flinging sake bombs backwards down throats and bongs bubbling filthy water, I could hear myself more deeply. Who was this interior narrator? I always wanted to know. Something. Anything. Even just her name. She was talking to me always and I didn’t even have to answer back. It was a relationship where I didn’t have to be so involved. I liked her because of this.

On the opposite end of the bench, I could hear you talk about your writing. You sounded like you may match my intensity. My eyes couldn’t just pass over you. I stared, wanting you, wanting to know you. See if what you wrote was worth talking about while everyone was shit faced, laughing and looking to score. I took 23 pictures of people highfiving. What were you thinking? I never asked. Maybe you watched me when the camera was over my eye, and thought I’d be the perfect woman to lie down on the page. Maybe you chose me because your other character, the leading lady, turned out to be uninspiring halfway into the novel, and now you needed a quick replacement, a rush of sensations. Something to charge your writing. Make your fingers dance. We were the same, yet different. Like you, I am flooded by language. But as I watched you, listened as you tried to announce your future, I only had hope. Hoped if you would let me know you, you could change my life.

You had nothing to do with my writing.

*

A pleasure to meet you, Gabe. “The pleasure is all mine.” Ten days after, you called wanting coffee.

“Chelsea, it feels like it has taken forever to reach you.” But my voice is always just a phone call away. “What are you doing?”
When?
“Right now.”
Writing.
“A story?”
Fragments toward the whole.
“Come have coffee with me. I’ll give you a plot.”

But it is the climax I need.

What do you look like? I’ve forgotten and remember only what matters. I walk by the window, unaware you are watching through the glass. I am rushing to meet you. The coffee shop is almost empty, but it will fill and we will still find ourselves isolated, becoming closer to each other. From the corner, you look up at me framed inside the doorway. This will be the only instant you act during our entire engagement. 2 months and 17 days. For us it will have felt longer and the quantity of time will hold no meaning. Remember, you saw me in the third dimension, when I was on the outside. You knew we were almost together. But with your head down, for a moment you appeared like you had not been waiting or looking for me. I forgive you. We are all self-conscious.

*

Have you been here long?
“Yes, no.”
You have?
“No, no, not more than an instant.”
Oh god, I’m sorry. Recently, I’ve been behind on life. This was a fragment.
“Are you unfulfilled?”
Sorry, I practically ran here. Remind me, what are we talking about?
“Your writing. Your life.”
Oh, yes yes yes, of course. But they are both separate.
“Are they?”
They should be. But my answer is the same. If fulfilled means finished. Then yes, I am unfulfilled with my writing and my life.

Help me remember. How did you look? Blonde hair. More dark than light. But wouldn’t that be brown? I’ve never been attracted to blondes. So okay, you have brown hair. Green eyes matching my own. Did this help us see the same? Tall, yes you are tall. Taller than I was use to, but I can get use to it. I did get use to it. Now it's a preference. Your body just hung there, loose. And I remember seeing your chest. A sliver of it. Enough to make me wonder. Were you encouraging me to follow you home? I didn’t ask. I did so anyways—on my own accord.

I drank coffee. You had tea.

I thought you came for coffee.
“I came for you.”
Oh, okay.

You looked like you hadn’t expected me. Expected me to be like this. Candid. You are right. I didn’t expect myself to be this way either. But you did something to me. I changed around you. Immediately. Or rather, I was more myself, which was a change and an accomplishment from the usual circumstance. You helped me stay inside myself. Together we communicated that and from there.

I thought you would have charm.
“Chelsea, you have no qualms saying anything that is on your mind.”
Should I be careful?
“Not around me.”
Well, I just figured since you’re a man, you would use your charm. You know, to get me to like you, to keep me interested. But so far you are only a voice. Completely unaware of your body.
“What if that’s the charm?”
What if, Gabe. What if. 

Remind me of the outside. How you appeared. Your shirt, your skin tone, even the type of tea you drank. I can’t remember the truth or everything that is real. Tell me anything, so the story can be more colorful. See, I never thought visions. I thought words. My desire was to collapse time between myself and another. It was more exacting. More intensified. I wanted intimacy. I wanted it all around. I am a writer. I am a human being. I need to feel. Everything else is a projection, and that washed away, disappeared each time I closed my eyes. What is left is fragments, scars of stories stored in my mind, a memory bank of hot flashes. Anything outward had to come inside to last. I took in feelings. I translated the larger reality, and kept a more specific truth. Fragments, you may decide. But who were you to assume something was missing from my story? What I mention is what matters most to me. And really it is all I have. As I write this, I am letting myself give it away.

*

To get closer to another and have our skin touch, we could not let our flesh fool us. This required a risk of some sort on the other’s behalf. I couldn’t ask anyone to take this chance. It [simply] had to happen, against our will and yet as a result of our will, too. And when it did, I always reflected thoughtfully on who that person was to and for me. I thought of how we were together. In the coffee shop, we seemed like we had known each other always. But we knew nothing. We only felt we could, that we were learning, getting somewhere faster than usual.

You became more than memorable—now, to me, you are unforgettable. I wish I could let myself engage in judgment on the page. Then I could make a record of your appearance, your mannerisms, the exterior scene. I wish I could quote you accurately. But whenever someone captivates me, I don't have those things because instead, a feeling is effectuated. They existed in the moment and in the mind as an interior translation. A feeling, a sensation. They provided me with more sense, than accessory detail. How could I possibly show a feeling? How could you, from a feeling, read me and imagine a face—a face I am not even thinking of, for it isn’t how I remember you. It is your touch I return to every time. Remind me, what did you look like?

You are absolutely attractive, that much I know. But it isn’t a result of the visual. I saw the sense or rather felt your sense before I became visually aware. And at the point my sight became active, the two perceptions were already inextricably mingled. So is that what it is? You are unforgettable because I retained the feeling of you, which was immediately intriguing and made me forget to be impressed by your face.

I desperately want to see you as you touch me. But the lights are always off and you are half of what you could be. I am making out with a shadow.

*

“The thing about life is it’s all based on perception. You and I can sit here discussing thoughts until there are no more beans to brew, but we aren’t going to change the ways of the world.”
I don’t know what to do about it. I guess it’s why I’m stuck. Stuck in the middle of a world of words.
“All you can do is tell someone how you feel. Otherwise, you’ll remain the way they see you. Scary, huh?”
What if I feel I think too much?
"Chelsea, what if I told you I could talk to you forever?"

And I followed you home. Wanting to know you, discover us, in another place in time.

*

Once we reached your room, I felt I never left. My body was always there. Waiting while you spoke. Touching you in silence. In Manhattan, one of every two apartments has a tenant that lives alone. There are also bedrooms without windows. You can only see beyond what you imagine could be there. We never minded. It kept us out of time. And was a good reason to never leave. When I left, I never felt you were without me. For three weeks we kissed upside down. Mouth over mouth, passing breath from one body to another. It’s an unbelievable rush. And even more extraordinary was what we hadn’t fathomed: we could survive if were attached and breathing in the same air.

But still, there were things I didn’t know. Gaps I got lost in. Like what happened before me? Who was lying on your bed then? Why wouldn’t you tell me? I swore I wouldn’t mind, but you kept trying to teach me to care. I did care, but not about that.

Tell me who you were.
“But I’m not that way.”
You’re missing the point. You are this way because of then.
“Chelsea, I’ve told you everything. I guess it isn’t what you want to know.”

I just didn’t want summaries. And everything began to feel that way, like you were walking around the core when all I asked was for you to enter it. Was the truth that avoidable? I’d watch you write, and I’d come up with clever ideas. A few lines. How often you used the restroom. If you ate the moment you woke. Whether you napped on your side. Asked you how it felt sleeping on your stomach.

Are you able to breathe?
“Of course or I wouldn’t do it.”

I wrote that down too. Notes and notes. I was building character. One day, you said it made you nervous, that you were becoming too self-conscious. But I am harmless. I didn’t understand the conflict of interests.

I just want to do everything I can to make sure my memory is accurate.
“What memory? You always imply that one day you are going to be up and gone.”
Gabe, strange things happen all the time.
“Not to me.”

You became more involved with your novel. Never letting me read it because it wasn’t good enough yet. Remember that night, you read a passage from Chapter 13 aloud? I wrote it down. It was gorgeous and daring. So fleshed out, like poetry. Anyone could have mistaken it for reality.

Her mind was always a fixed condition
She controlled how often she smiled
How often you laughed.
She had the power to not let anyone just be.

Somehow I felt better because of her
My gestures and mind were separate no longer
They moved in a single wake.

Quantity was restricted,
But I sensed there was reason for everything
And held back because
Quality became something else
Ecstasy, maybe.

When we let ourselves go
We saw each other at our best.
It was then I felt
My body was outside control.

She’d let her hair fall over mirrors,
A curtain across her face
So I couldn’t see her double
She said I may fall in love.

Breathing everything in
Up she’d come, head high with something
Close to a smile.

Unguarded in her underwear,
I loved her most.
Calling—
“My gossamer girl”
I needed her closer.

You never call me your gossamer girl.
“That’s because you’re my nut muffin.”
Then, who is your gossamer girl?
“She isn’t mine. She’s a character. She’s the story’s.”

It was fiction right? Or maybe that one line, “My gossamer girl” was a fragment that bared no truth and the rest was really about me. Everything felt like a mystery. I felt I couldn’t access you, that your opacity was obscured. I went missing in the darkness. Silence suffocated me. Our relationship depended upon what we offered up. We were what we revealed, just as you had said at the coffee shop. And each time you left me curious, I felt you were depriving me of meaning, that you were holding me back from what mattered.

*

From then on when we kissed I couldn’t feel your lips. Your tongue was half awake. I couldn’t remember why I was there. What made me stay? Had we exposed our feelings too soon? And now we didn’t have any? Did we share all our thoughts and now we didn’t speak because we were insecure we’d sound repetitious? Seven times during one week, you entered me and I could tell we both knew you were feeling my inside, how warm I am there, while I was only experiencing your outer shell, your unbearable weight. Was it true, that the unsaid cheats one out of pleasure?

“Chelsea, will you miss me when you’re gone?”
I’m not leaving.
“That’s what they all say. You're already going.”
Whose they?
“All of us.”

*

The day before I left, you asked if I missed you. I said I am always nostalgic. And you asked me to come to bed.

I slept with you for the last time. The night kept me awake. It was too black. Powerful. Profound. I thought of what had happened. How we fell in and fell out. How love is a story I would never be able to tell. It rushes past you. It’s impossible to get it all down. I tried, but maybe I had written down too many thoughts. Maybe I had tried to remember the details and forgot to isolate the feelings. You breathed easily through your dreams. You thought of something better. In boredom, I drew an arrow from your navel down and wrote, “He helps me think.”

In the morning, I woke practically thrown from your bed.

“What’s this about?”
I couldn’t sleep. I was restless. I didn’t mean it.
“Of course you did or you wouldn’t have wrote it.”
Gabe, it’ll come right off. I promise.
“It’s permanent, Chelsea. This is all so goddamn permanent.”

And you threw the sharpie against the wall. I left, never really looking back. When I was on my way, I was going, going, gone. Two days went by. Ten days went by. I drank tea at the coffee shop. Wrote some lines. Fragments, which made it possible to forget the whole truth—to select my story—to reorganize the last 2 months and 17 days of my life and turn it into a memory that was bearable if I was ever tempted to remind myself.

On the 23rd day, you called.

“I told you you would leave.”
No, you told me to leave.
“I have to see you.”
When?
“Right now.”
I can’t, I’m writing.
“You always are, but you still haven’t started your story.”
It’s coming along.
“Barely. Chelsea, please see me. I’ll give you your story.”

*

This time you were waiting for me when I walked in. You were wearing all white with red high-tops. Two mugs of coffee were set on the table. I have no idea why you were behaving this way.

What’s going on?
“Can’t I get a hello first?”
Hi. What’s up?
“How are you? What have you been doing?”
Writing, sleeping around, writing. You know me, the usual. Why what’s up?
“You’ve slept with someone else?”
I’m allowed to aren’t I?
“How does it feel?”
Erotic. Distanced. Unattainable. Poorly evoked.
“Sounds terrible.”
Yeah, it’s not half bad. Now really, what’s this all about?
“I’ve just been alone all day. I was alone yesterday, too. And the day before that and the..well..ever since you left, I’ve just kind of being hanging out. Trying to finish my novel. I was so close to being done. But now all I can think about is how lonely I am.”
What does it feel like?
“Impossible to describe. Like nothing I have ever known.”
Maybe you should be seeing someone.
“I want you back.”
No, I mean, someone professional. Therapy. You even look different.
“Nah, it’s all artificial. Real egocentric. You know Chelsea, I’ve been doing a lot of drugs since you left. I never had before, but it helps. Not all the time. But it really makes a difference in the instant.”
That’s not good, Gabe. That’s not good at all.
“It is until the morning. But it doesn’t help that I have been all alone.”
What happened this morning?
“I couldn’t move. I sat on my bed and didn’t have a thought. It was the first time I couldn’t think at all.”
How did it feel?
“Not like anything. I may be addicted.”
Already?
“These things are immediate.”
What things?
“Chelsea, I’m desperate.”

(edit - Overslept. At times Manhattan barely makes a sound. You look out: there are buildings, an unmovable sky and time is still. You think, "But New York City is always supposed to be moving, making noise, never sleeping." But nothing is supposed to be anything. You determine what a place is - you can make it whatever you want. For me, Manhattan was not what I expected, which could possibly mean it was better. It was a relationship for sure. It had its upsides and downsides. But I needed it. And tried not to anticipate becoming distanced from it; for it was then, I knew, I would want it most. The Science Section is my favourite section of The New York Times. And low and beyond, today an article by NATALIE ANGIER on Touch being "The Indispensable Sense". My dream is to be reviewed for isolating such sensations - to write a novel where touch guided vision, determined relations and defined reality. I want meditation - lines that aren't perfected, edit after edit. I want "stories" to be an interior display. Since, it is those truths that distance us from our self and the other. And I want to start there first, so the intimate is not so unbearable and seeing out does not carry so much weight. Also, an article about Scorpios, which hands down is influencing my next work. I never have been one to follow astrology but read some of it, and you'll see, there are many stories just waiting to be written.)

i need more more more

DON RIMINI - OHOW? from Alex Nebout on Vimeo.
things are getting hot. music is always fresh in my head.

tragic magic - tear up london

A month without Manhattan. It will be missed.

I'm feeling that final song. Got these from a great advertising/digital blog: thelooploop.blogspot.com. I got on my six flight today within the last 3 weeks. I'm okay with finally staying somewhere awhile. Although, the adjustment to one city and the next is so immediate by now, I can barely feel my coming and going.

close your eyes, i have something i want to tell you.

“The thing about life is it’s all based on perception. You and I can sit here discussing thoughts until there are no more beans to brew, but we aren’t going to change the ways of the world.”
I don’t know what to do about it. I guess it’s why I’m stuck. Stuck in the middle of a world of words.
“All you can do is tell someone how you feel. Otherwise, you’ll remain the way they see you. Scary, huh?”
What if I feel I think too much?
"Chelsea, what if I told you I could talk to you forever?"

And I followed you home. Wanting to know you, discover us, in another place in time.

her obsession is passion, he said.

Chelsea:

Way more accessible, until the confusion with names, with Jade, and the falling out of the story with the extended dialogue. No resolution there. But so many gorgeous sentences, interesting captures.

The last chance I have to teach you something.

May if I say passion. I have heard you mention, seems an obsession of yours.

There is a connection between passion and seduction.

Seduction of the reader is what I have been trying to teach you. With no reader, everything you write falls on... unread pages.

You can write a stunning sentence (I mean you, Chelsea, can write a stunning sentence, I have read them), and you can evoke, and you have a singular sound, but, so far, you write with too much disregard for your reader. Not so much with Darkness story, but with the last story. 

I'd like to posit that the passion you are letting rule your (writing) life right now is the passion of the young, the passion for self. But, thank god, with this piece, until the dialogue, not so much.

Of course it is not anyone's fault they are young. They just are. And so they proceed with the sensibilities of the young.

If you read any of my notes you would know that I understand you because I was once you, caring little for my reader. And you would have read that my transgression was much worse than yours - I didn't just ask a workshop of 11 peers and a teacher to read a ten page something that was opaque, impenetrable, inaccessible. I read a 10,000 word story without an ending to a very large room full of people - I took bits and pieces of their lives from them without offering anything in return. Or, even worse, I asked them to commit to something, to open their hearts to something, and then I yanked it away.

Yes, I know that place you are working from.

So, of course, you should keep writing. You will keep writing. You have a singular voice, as I think I mentioned in my first notes to you. And one day, one day, if you stay with it, I think you will start to care about your reader more than you care about yourself. And it will be glory. 

Let's hope. Best.

-

prior letter linked

-

This was nothing I had expected from him. I read it and still don't know if what I am seeing is what it is. But I will keep it for as long as I can. If anyone follows what I write, you may have read a post including two letters (one addressed to me and another addressed to the class about me). He said I was senseless, self-indulgent and that I didn't know how to write. After that day I have felt defeated, more than I have with writing before. Maybe it wasn't defeat, because I only tried to come back harder. But I suppose I just felt the exhaustion I have been dealing with. And I felt very small, like I have been dedicated to reading and writing this past year and have ultimately, wasted time and avoided what meant something. This isn't to say that is the case. It was just what I felt. I didn't know whether I should be looking at myself differently. What I ultimately turned in and which is what the above is a response to, came about in the instant or rather two different sittings. I was tired, anxious, sober. But I also tried to have fun. I wrote as a man. And I tried to be judgmental. Somehow - and it blows my mind - the dialogue was still considered dense, lyrical, accurate, vapid, Joycelike - even though I used words like "pussy" "prick" and "Winehouse". Was letting myself have a bit of delirious fun what worked in my favour? Was inventing story rather than translating my story what was appreciated? I don't know. It did shock me when my professor had responded so harshly to me. Shocked because I felt like he was always looking at me a certain way from across the table - looking at me like he understood. I began reading his notes, for the first time, last weekend. I thought they were gorgeous and daring. I wanted to quote him. I wanted this to be who I heard speak in class. I felt we shared something similar, and it made me nostalgic about a correspondence we never had and an inspiration that I never received from him. It is a Graduate class I am taking and he had been a student at my dream school. I wanted to look up to him. But I felt like he hated what I did, what I thought, my sensibility. I would do anything to have him meet me half way, help me break through where I am getting held up. I wish I had been able to finish the piece that was work-shopped, but there will be time. And I hope I will always find pleasure in the text. His letter does something to me - each one of them has - but I am not sure what. I hope in some life I will be remembered for my words. I hope I can continue on, become healthy, gain freedom from my body, so my hands can help others and my words can sound like they are coming from another's mouth. I feel for others - the other has always been my deepest concern, fascination, mystificatio and deceivance - but I know I am still so far from understanding their patterns. All the same, I am trying more everyday and I am learning, that it is true, not everyone has the same wants as I do at my core. We don't even all have morales. I assumed as much as I feared others assumed qualities about me. But it was the other who motivated me to overcome my disorders. I knew if I could forget my fears, I could hear other people and listen to them. I wanted to be less of a hypocrite. I wanted others to trust my sincerity. In this life, I hope I can do what one day he thinks I can: be here entirely for you.

I've got a ticket to ride.

I'm behind on life. I can't remember the last time I was able to focus. But I have a mean adrenaline rush, which is to say, I haven't really slept in...hm?...The Student Health Center gave me a card for the "Insomnia Workshop". It is on my desk and has been there for a month or more.  2009 will be a good feeling. 

ppp art tea.

last night party picture 

last night party picture

This weekend I was around the infamous photographer from lastnightsparty who always captures/orchestrates the wildest shots. It was interesting to observe him in the context that I could. He seemed kinda floaty, almost gentle in away, not in your face. But it was funny watching him take pictures of two girls and then suddenly pop kiss one to almost tease the surprise/tension out of her and then from there, do it again, and gesture for the two girls to begin doing it. Also, was being photographed as he took the girl to my left and whispered into her ear that she wasn't doing things right. It's just silly for anyone to assume "reality" isn't just a product of a other design.

to find and find again.

I'm in Miami for Art Basel. It feels good to see how far the city has come in six years. Watched synchronized swimmers, art lazored on a side building, met a man with the most perfect teeth, pretended to talk art, talked about everything else instead, his having been a "Harvard nerd" appealed to me, he made it seem like it had conditioned him, I translated his labeling as innocence which - alas - is so difficult to find and/or keep, to my surprise Animal Collective was performing, went, felt like I was in an enormous tent in the black pitch of the night, bought a $15 Black Russian, watched video art explode in ecstasy across my eyes, talked drugs, living in the instant, my friend thought it was the worse music she had ever heard, I didn't think it was "depressing" I thought it was a climax, two men stopped me on the way out, talked astrology, tried to persuade me that Cancers and Geminis were made for each other, he kept folding his two hands together like flesh rubbing up against each other, I told him he didn't have to convince me, that I had experienced a Gemini and I would have the moments for life, saw more people, was put on video, whispered into my ear "Chelsea, I love your thoughts" I wondered whether he meant it to the extent it seemed, saw the Manhattan man now with a mustache, he messaged me and I saw he had wished me Thanksgiving which was neither here nor there, but I mentioned now was nice nonetheless, drove to the beach, saw another him outside the club, loved seeing him each time, knew I'd always think thoughtfully of him and remember how much my perception of him had been the opposite of who I experience him as, exemplifying why the exterior is no disclaimer, was led upstairs, I sat in the emerald chair in the office, was analyzed in a very provocative way, "Don't talk about what she looks like, her thoughts run deep," thought he was gorgeous, comforting but also the brother, I loved his height and his mannerisms, the confidence of his ease, his eye contact, the curiosity, the questions, the courage to know and ask, how when he spoke he didn't rush his words, said we had to find my friend, she was found, came upstairs, chewed me out, brought me downstairs, personally offended me and then the club which was also a stab to my friend's project, shouted this was who I was, who I had always been, it was always about me, pointed her down, backed into a corner, said she couldn't speak to me like this, couldn't say these things about my character now if she hadn't seen me since then, so many people watched, this had me feeling worse, petty, not who we are, the guys asked me if she was my girlfriend, that that was how it seemed, no she was projecting, wished she didn't feel alone, had silly string squirted at me and his brother, laughed saying these are the fun things which is why you've got to learn to let it go, finally got her on the dance floor and we were jumping in our heels till 4am, I wanted to see past it all, we had a thick history together and at the core I had brought her with me and bought her tickets for Saturday night's DJ because I wanted us to experience the moments that had always made us feel alive, said goodbye, he grabbed my neck, shouted how happy he was that I was staying till Monday, sounded like a kid, I thought I will always like you now, he messed up my hair, and I shouted this is what your club does to me, has me dancing hours and sweating every last drop, ate a brownie at a new corner joint with a guy I use to spend the "other" sort of time with, a girl he had showed up at my house with magically was sitting with her back turned to us, didn't recognize her, they both laughed like I was lying and concealing hidden remorse or envy, it wasn't that I just still couldn't get over how hard she seemed, I got to sit in the middle and listen to their back and forth, random lines back and forth like they had been in Kindergarten together, passing spoon fulls of brownie back and forth, thought how a year ago I'd be too bitter to be eating this but at this point in my life it was the third brownie I had eaten in 24 hours, which brought me back to the moment before I left the house and my father's friend sat with me on the couch and said he hadn't seen me happier, remembered me and my exboyfriend, how he saw what seemed like so much love, but thought I should be free, single, on my own, Yes yes I was happy I was, only stressed about work, he said I didn't know what stress is, I told him that was exactly what was stressing me out, back to the deli and the brownie and I am hearing his analysis of their entire engagement, and it sounds more egotistical then sentimental, tells me he has an affinity for her despite her being trash, it made me think of the guy I had seen before leaving Manhattan, who said he had an affinity for me, it was the first time I had heard the word used, I couldn't resist comparing the relations of these "affinities" and recognize their disparity, they said drastically different things about us, I sat there and thought three things: We all are contradictions, I'm confident with my instinct, and I'm so glad I'm over us.

I lost the ounce of creativity I once had. And now I'm too far behind, to go looking for it.

Surviving Darkness

I need the sun to survive. I was told it’s just one of those circumstances a few unfortunate people end up with. “So you can’t live in Seattle or San Francisco, so what?” But it was worse than that. I was living with a disease. The weather felt like the first stage of death. My condition drove me away from everywhere. Turning me into more of nomad, than a first-class jetsetter. There was nowhere I belonged. I never asked to stay. Boston was bleak. I told my parents I needed to move and they said it was my mentality that needed changing. “Keep running, son, you’re only getting further from yourself.” I became a man overnight and insisted my job transfer me. They did. I was sent to Paris. They said nothing was permanent, but encouraged me to call it home. When I arrived, I felt I wasn’t there. Acknowledging this emptiness made me feel less, which eventually made me feel worse. I couldn’t bare it so I left—as I knew I would—not permanently, just a vacation to see the sea and get some sun. My hope being a good feeling wouldn’t wash off. I was destined for light.

*

She stood bathed in sunrise when I first saw her, a woman of no words. Behind her waves tried to reach the ship, but withdrew with the wind. I, too, wanted to reach out, wished I could touch her. I had no reason, only an urge. But my desire was immediately obscured. The monotony of my voice echoed fear of what she might say. My intuition lost its sense and all that could be heard was birds beating their wings in the background, treading air while watching me. I blame such nature from keeping me from what I was meant to have and to hold from what would have been that day forward. My fate was to hold her in spotlight.

*

At dinner three couples danced to Bobby Vinton. Two by two, “blue on blue” had them leaving heel marks slain across the dining hall’s squared dance floor. Lines of laughter took the attention away from the wrinkles weathered around their jaws and foreheads. At their age their faces were like tree stumps, but then again I looked more enervated than all these geriatrics. Rich histories made me jealous. I pictured the family portraits hung in the hallway, a family of four playing cards pass midnight and the collection of Christmas cards covering the piano table. I had no such memory. Did each life cater to a purpose? Curiosity affected me. The game of “what could have been” never ended. I played it and sometimes it amused me during fits of boredom. I thought of all the things I needed. I already had a serious imagination. What I didn’t know outweighed all I experienced. The meagerness of my existence was confirmed by my fragmentary life. If a biographer exaggerated me, I might be a product of a page. This depressed the shit out me, so I kept quiet. I once read there was an element of mystery in the unsaid. I can’t remember who wrote that, but I thought it sounded like something wise, something a father might say if he wanted to teach his child a thing or two. My father didn’t teach me anything. He just showed me how not to be. Watching the couples, I felt a simple pleasure being there, as if I could steal the experience and consider it my own. Smiling, while other shipmates applauded the dancers, I wondered if the woman danced, whether she would attend to the spotlight. As the couples took their seats, I kept my smile, curious if the woman would have a partner. I wanted to indulge.

*

All six nights, groups traveling together were mixed with different couples and single sailors, like myself. While aboard the ship, one was to have their horizon expand, or rather, that was the Windstar’s mantra. So I sat tall—conscious not to have my shoulders hang downward—and taking advantage of my frame and 6’2 height, saw that my posture did not convey a shortage of self-esteem or my gestures an over articulation of right from wrong behavior. It had taken four years of compulsive correcting, but recently I had become confident that my exterior laid no claim of my interior discomfort. When my twin sister died after turning twenty-three, I experienced a change unlike any other. It was impossible to be prepared for it. And yet, my adjustment was expected. I couldn’t make sense of it. When I was thinking that I wasn’t thinking about now versus then, I was. I wanted to remember how it felt the instant before I opened my eyes and found out I was now an only child. I missed what died in the darkness. 

*

Five sat at each table, but so far I was amongst only two. Both men: tall, dark and handsome—the type is well known. Their attire was more trendy than practical, less waterproof than proof of their paycheck. Not the outdoor type per se, but those that went where money could take them. It was a sort of animal instinct—men were hunters, women the gathers—seeking out luxury as if it were bait for their yuppie mouths. With combed back hair, they spoke with their noses in the air, laughed like a finger was up their asses and swallowed down all that was offered. To lend an adjective to the behavior, they were drunk, lubricated, uncontrollable. Or maybe they were just on vacation. I made no judgments, not outwardly, just watched with assumed admiration in a mockery of approval and joined in as if encouraged by celebration. Hand-me-down Rolexes counted down their pulses, and with Blackberries safeguarded under their napkins, it was obvious they were never disconnected from here and there, living and working. We weren’t men of the same mind. Our mothers had bred us differently. Small talk between each swig of Scotch made it effortless to have their dirty briefs aired out and on display. They were younger than I by four years, give or take, Hollywood go-getters, smoking spliffs the entire drive down the Hills, pitching screenplays, blowing lines and here to get away from their “lalaladiiiies”. But as I listened in, laughing along with their humor—those things you do to be one of the boys—I couldn’t help but see myself during that age of invincibility: when you think your shit doesn’t stink, that nothing will kill you and you live by one motto, “ignorance is bliss”. As I swallowed down the Scotch, I couldn’t avoid closing my eyes to listen with my other ear: who would wake first Hollywood or them, was it possible to stay forever dreaming? And there she was dressed in gold. 

*

She hadn’t arrived alone. Why were they late? They had missed the couples dancing. The appetizers were being served. Shrimp tails hanging over rims, salads tossed, tartar like Jell-O in a bowl. Did they always make an entrance? Had they come together? Maybe met half way? Facing them was our attention, but they were too distracted with themselves to care. Could I blame the state called love? I was silent. They became rowdier. I was just someone, anyone sitting single in the room, alone with cocktail sauce on my chin, appearing unimpressive, as he held her hand, her lips lined, her mouth full. She was beautiful, but I didn’t know how. I wasn’t sure why. She didn’t even see me there, again, taken by her. It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel bad either. Everything always felt the same. And then she looked up. She looked over. Through me. Her hair stranded around her neck, her face framed by gold, her skin flooded by light. She was facing me with eyes that didn’t seem to look. How close does one come to their shadow? “We’d both like a glass of champagne.” Behind me, the waiter held a plate over my head—one drop and it would have been OPAAAAA. I hadn’t seen him standing there, but as soon as I did her eyes were gone. “Sorry we're late, but I can see we are the most sober sailors because of it.” The table laughed, the servers winked, shedding light upon their—as the man at the head of the table put it—“tardiness”. “Hey boys, that’s how rumors start.” His eyes barely attached to anyone’s face, before he was back whispering a silent significance in the pearl of her ear. He, too, was taken by her. Who was this star? Why were we watching? I saw I wasn’t the only one. Why did we care about what they did? The men laughed, as he kissed her forehead. And I stared, as she kept her eyes closed, not moving, never acknowledging me. My shadow freely taking to the skin I am under.

*

*

“I want to make a toast.” “Shock us and don’t." “Come on now Paul, let’s hear if he’s as good as he use to be.” She laughed; her glossed nails covering her face as if somehow his behavior was a reflection of her. This time her eyes closed as if to postpone the consistent embarrassment. They seemed to be together, or at least hiding the fact, but we were halfway into the main course and I still wouldn’t bet my money on it. No one said. They were discussing films, lunching at The Ivy, Kitsuné, hydrogen cars—it was a pissing contest—but she hadn’t taken her eyes away from him. Was this how to impress a chick nowadays? I couldn’t help but watch her, watching him—this curly haired crowd pleaser—who I’d gamble was Italian because he couldn’t refrain from talking with his hands. Fingers pierced the air like exclamation marks and gestures were delivered as if it was his way of italicizing his importance. This group lived in a dream world—I didn’t have to look too far into them to figure it out—but I also didn’t doubt for a second they were devoted to entertainment. The entire ship loved them and tonight, I was a bit in the spotlight too. Attention seemed addictive, and God knows beneath this front I am a dependent pussy. He rose and I almost choked on my turf. The Napoleon complex was no myth—this guy would be making up for what he lacked his entire life. Maybe knowing we all have our own setbacks is better though. “To lying, cheating and drinking…lie only to protect…” “Not again,” was basically shouted in unison. “Jade we’ve heard it a thousand times, change it up.” “No one looked ready.” Our glasses rose. “Just because it is our fourth night and we all have been drinking ourselves to higher moods, does not mean I have forgotten…” The table cheered. “To everyone escaping to the sea, where it always feels like summer and is always twice as beautiful, thank you for putting all your burdens on the backburner and letting go with me.” He closed his eyes and mouth and appeared to be catching up with his thoughts and deciding his final words. She looked at him as if he were someone she barely knew, someone she was trying to remember. It was like he felt her judging, and he turned toward her—a motion that seemed planned all along—“to Claire for being more beautiful than I remembered and for putting up with all us lemonheads, and last in this speech, but never the last thing I’ll have to say, here’s to living a little better than maybe we should.” On that note everyone laughed—Claire especially—placing our glasses together like a centerpiece of champagne. And then she said something—not just anything—but her voice held time. “Cheers to Jade's 25th, may aging bring growth as well. Also, to Johnny for acting amused and giving me hope that there is someone beside us lushes, I’m glad I could be here.” Those words were for me.

*

The dining room was clearing out. Those with higher tolerances and stomachs for dessert stayed. Pistachio ice cream, fudge squares, wedding cookies and Irish Coffees. My didn't hold back. We had nowhere to go either. There was a small casino across from the gift shop, but I’d consider myself fortunate if I never ended up collecting chips in the corner with some woman in a suit dishing cards. It looked lonelier there then it did in the karaoke lounge, and both activities seemed equally self-indulgent. I never could find any logic in the claim it was just “fun and games”. If you didn’t take your voice seriously, then why would you go on stage and choose a heart-wrenching song? Why would you intend to move an audience if your voice is "pitiful"? If you weren’t a money loving sonofabitch you wouldn’t keep risking all you had won and then complain about luck and spouting off what you considered fair game. It always seemed like everyone was giving themselves away. 

“Jade, enlighten me. What was the genius behind choosing a cruise with a bunch of oldies that pop vitamins instead of crush pills? No one’s around for us to rival.” 

“Exactly smartass, more liquor stocked for us.”

“You’re such a Jew.”

“Claire tell him he sounds like a girl and to quit making his napkin soggy with tears.” 

“James, don’t worry you don’t sound like a girl. You sound like yourself.” 

“You know, you don’t say much, but when you do, dannnng woman, you leave your mark. It’s a shame you aren’t around more. No, man I’m serious. I miss your face.”

“Alright, stop with the sob feast. You can touch hearts later. I’m drunk and don’t need to hear this sentimentality.”

“Paul, you really are the prick of the group. I don’t want to hear any more bitching coming from your mouth about going home alone. It’s all action with you, never about the feelings. Women like feelings first man. Pull that off and then you can act all you like.”

“How many times do I have to remind you James? I’m cool on my own. I’ve got it made as it is. I don’t need the relationship. Just every once and awhile I want some pancakes in the morning. Someone to get behind the stove and flip it up. Break me from my habits. That raisin bran is beginning to taste like shit.”

“WAKE UP CALL. It is shit. Am I right or am I right Johnny.”

“It’s supposed to cleanse the colon.”

“Is that what you do, Johnny, to rid your body of waste?” 

“Claire don’t be gross.”

“Gross or not, she’s got a gift for having it sound sexy.”

“I’m not being anything Jade or James. No one’s asked him anything tonight. I’m curious, so I’m asking. Johnny, what do you like for breakfast?”

“Ppphhh. Oh God, well I don’t know. Let’s see. Depending upon what’s in the fridge. Maybe I’ll scramble some eggs, on the weekends make a batch of French toast that’ll last me till Tuesday. But there’s always Captain Crunch or leftover fried rice.”

“You eat Captain Crunch, Johnnyboy?”

“Well, sure. Everyone’s entitled to a sweet tooth. I wish it were the same in Paris, but there I’ve got to settle for a loaf of bread to hold me over till lunch. But yeah, Captain Crunch was my sister’s favourite.”

“Paris?”

“Hey Johnny, how old did you say you were?”

“28. 29 in three months.”

“You’re a Scorpio.”

“Oh, Claire, really! You still believe that adolescent crap? It was cute in the beginning, but now it’s just childish. Sorry Johnny, some psychotic on Venice Beach persuaded her into psychoanalyzing people by signs and stars. I’m riding a wave one day, and I look out at the shoreline to see if she is spotting my form, and low and behold, some tool is burying her head beneath the sand with symbolism. I’ve told you Claire, it’s a bunch of bullshit, absolute brainwash you’re having performed on you. These magicians just blow smoke up nice people’s asses, so they become as crazy as them. Why do I have to be the only one breaking the news to her? It’s one big cult.”

“He talks about me as if I’m not even in the room. You want to discuss signs. I should have paid attention to that when I first met him. People don’t change, Johnny, mark my word. He and whoever else can say what they want, but astrology has meaning, just as all three of you claim the films you talk about have meaning. See, this is why I am thankful I left LA when I did. All those studio sets, Blockbuster hits and Hollywood “oolala” makes you forget your left from your right.”

“Beware boys, the claws are out tonight.”

“No, I just forgot how when the three of you are together you never have the time to listen to anyone else. It always has to be your way, what you want to hear and how you want to hear it. And it’s embarrassing. No wonder Johnny has been staring at us all night. Who can blame him? I no longer know what to think either.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Slow down for one damn second. Claire, did you pull a Winehouse beneath my nose? You’re talking a mile a minute and I can’t even remember how this whole thing started.”

“Jade, I believe it was your doing.”

“Paul, you’re a prick and you’re acting sloppy as shit. This is a cruise—for my birthday—not Regatta weekend. Pull it together. This is my week.”

“Then where is Dominique? Don’t ride my ass Jade, if you’re going to sit in front of us acting the way you do and then tell us to keep it secret with your tail between your legs. Damn man, you’re 25, we’ve got to grow up already.”

“What secret?”

“Nothing is a secret Claire.”

“Then tell her.”

“Tell me Jade.”

“I have nothing to tell.”

“Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t unless someone said it for you.”

“James get Paul to stop drinking. He’s an asshole alcoholic and no one likes that type.”

“You having a girlfriend isn’t anything to tell? Who should I share that with first? Dominique or Claire?”

“Who is Dominique?”

“It’s Jade’s girlfriend. Some LA script girl. She wants him. He needs her. It is what it is Claire. It may not mean anything, but I’d rather be a home wrecker than listen to your ex chew on you and have him eat me out during our last two dinners.”

“She doesn’t mean anything. You know that man.”

“No, Jade, Dominique doesn’t mean anything to you right now."

Claire disappeared into the night, where darkness owns us all.

Some things to excite the mind.

This is hands down the BEST SCREENPLAY of the year: "Now in order to remember I am looking for those you can never forget"..."When the morning light appears, you see the destruction you've caused without even knowing where you are."

*

I am absolutely overwhelmed. There's only one negative: I wish I could sit back and absorb all the material and especially my last week or so in Manhattan before I get on a plane for the fifth time in two weeks. (I want to see "theanyspacewhatever" exhibit at the Guggenheim it runs until Jan 7 and is their "most experimental exception yet"). Friday I'm boarding again for Basel... my first time, too. I have my third interview today. Yesterday was Town&Country (which I admit, I patted myself on the back & jumped in the air for getting). The week before that I interviewed with an event planning/celebrity and product branding company (not the best experience, I realized how difficult it is to pretend to be passionate about a subject I have been theorizing against for the last year and a half...the interview only motivated me to go hiding in Strand and buy three more books, all the while hoping one day someone may find me shelved...from there I overheard two marvelous conversations in the vicinity of NYU:

#1 one female to another female - "I know...I can't believe our situation...well we'll just have to marry a man with a trust fund." 

I turned around, glaring, shocked but yet, not shocked at all. They sounded serious...but let's say hypothetically they were not serious...how could they still say this ALOUD??? And whilst waiting for their lattes? With my redeye in hand, I walked on to class, only to hear in the hallway...

#2 a male speaking to a group - "Yeah, my roommate is gay. I make fun of him everyday." 

I ALMOST CHOKED... and yet I am the one dismissed at interviews for saying we should consider morales in the media, since the media influences the masses. These two conversations only reminded me of my own prior to entering the interview:

ME: I've grown cynical as a result of my sincerity.

TWIN: Sincerity is the new sarcasm.

In three and half hours I need to have more things squared away with applications. Be able to give a professor recommendation requests, have my internship application ready for Marie Claire and be there by 4pm. With that said, Marie Claire has become my new favourite magazine. I read it for the first time last night and was shocked by my want to read it straight through. Finally a magazine that concentrates on empowering women not by way of the exterior life (make up, face lifts, sex tips, celebrity idealism, or even profiles on fashion designers) but on the outside life (aka things one is "othered" to) and how it can be brought within to cause an interior change. It also, no lie, did make me want to shop for the first time ever. There are many articles and the like I want to pass on, but for starters:

Generation of users who use "Smart Pills"

There is so many things I can say about this. I do believe, though I am continually being proven wrong, that we do share the same hope: to be good, to be sober, to be innocent and not dependent. With that said, we are seduced into pills because we let them exist in a category separate to "drugs" (cocaine...). However, is there a difference? Are we being naive? Are we denying ourselves? Are we becoming dependent because we our a generation that wants to do it all, but struggle to ever do so or be satisfied with what we have done? I met someone Saturday night, and he told me that after becoming a consistent "user" of Adderall, it prevents you from being creative. About four months prior, another male told me that it would make me angry, that it tightens your jaw and would make me an asshole. Although I always find it timely and telling that these articles appear, I can't help but also think that the writer and distributer are encouraging the behavior or at the very least raising an eyebrow to the very subject they are supposed to be resisting/opposing. For example, I had never heard of Provigil and now I don't think I'll forget it either. There was no shattering reason given why one should not take these pills, except for the journalist's own experience (that of a stomach ache) and if one can risk that then isn't it just as easy to "give it a go" as well? I'm not sure there is a solution. I hate the quote "ignorance is bliss" but perhaps it is best applied here.

Voluntary Madness by Norah Vincent REVIEW

A step beyond Cyndy Sherman? Not only posing for a still frame, but entering the outside life and acting the role within the moving culture. This may very well be where journalism eventually goes...the only accurate way to get insider scoop per se is to become what one seeks to expose. Though it may be hard to believe, I have always thought deep down that was why I finally lost the weight that I did...to be as intimate as I could possibly be with the mentality one who starves takes on.  

Psychology of Women Quarterly

On Thanksgiving I really "talked it out" with my aunt. I don't see her often, but this time I felt like I could - if need be - defend myself. It went beyond that though and I gained extraordinary insight into psychology and possible career choices. She recommended this journal and the first link I chose took me to an article that was of an immediate interest. I have always been open about my disorder...a disorder that I know was less of an eating disorder (that lasted for less than a year) but an image disorder (which may effect me my whole life). I would love to work with adolescents on this topic. 

...More of more...later.

channeling discoveries

http://cliteraturejournal.com/home.html

This trip to Miami has really made me pause and take a look up. Each night, phenomenal conversations. I just can't be more thankful/amazed by the words I have been consuming during dialogues. It may seem impossible but during this trip not only have I had the softest kiss at a club but also some of the most striking conversations there. All in all, you just have to let yourself be available to listen, free to disclose and above all have insatiable curiosity. Of course, I have never had so many deadlines I need to make... and have two interviews once I return to Manhattan tomorrow...but over all, I love life more than I ever have. And I am becoming more and more sober to the "reality" of the masses. I still have hope though...again, possibly the quote of my life from Beckett: "I can't go on, I will go on!"

If a caption were necessary to my Miami Thanksgiving break it would be:

A surprise, a delay of life, a violent anticipation, and a slow return to what one calls the 'self'. I look up, blinking - where am I? That oceanic feeling, I am changed: "when you fall into syncope, you never know in what shape you might return...One never knows."

- Catherine Clément -

pinback - boo

Pinback - Boo from Jean-Philippe Pelletti on Vimeo.

this has been my favouirte band since the beginning year of highschool. i'll never forget sunrise ten mile bike rides listening and completely relying on pinback to move me further on. no doubt they effected a changed in me. for always and ever i will have a soft spot for every single song of theirs. enjoy