the condensation between air ducts disarmed me. i was sitting in geography class thinking about everything else. the value between a good day and a harmful one is slight, the mere action of waking up, how someone is greeted, not falling down the stairs, getting an answer right, obtaining monetary means, eating something healthy, simply breathing. all of this can make or break a day. we all know this. to realize this and own it everyday is the thing that needs to be materialized.
walking down three flights of stairs every morning without falling can be something to be proud of.
the floral imprint graced her skin and the cross, oh! the cross swung silently between her breasts. she did not want pity, nor a smile. she was walking or maybe she was driving she no longer rememered things like that because the destination was all the same. somewhere on a street she was to be at work soon so soon and to wear that blazer and to comment on elder's dress and to sympathize with wealth's laments.
i am returning to the "old me", one in which inspiration was a daily thing and there was always music playing.
it's just an injustice to wake up without your favorite song blaring.
"bored to death" is a new show on HBO that i can easily find myself obsessed with. the characters are awkward, self-indulgent, neaurotic, and heartbroken. it airs sunday nights at 9:30 if you are ever in the mood for that sort of thing.
i am begining to smile a lot more lately and i think it has something to do with the notion that i'm tired of complaining. everyone has it hard. big fucking deal. get over it. it takes a lot to change. but honestly, i'm trying to understand that things are going to come and things are going to go. as well as us. so while we are here, we might as well be smiling.
hmmm...last night i watched a documentary on gangs in oakland, ca. i don't think i could ever truly be in a gang, although when i was in 6th grade i formed a gang with my friends. i forget what we called ourselves but i remember we wore black hoodies and listened to bone thugs. it was great.
so, today my boss told me that i needed to figure out my priorities. and he is right. he said this after i told him that i would love to give another employee (in need of hours) one of my shifts. after our 5 minute conversation (and my profuse apologies after every few seconds), he left and i thought about what he said.
and it's true. it's about time that i acknowledge that music is all that i really want to do. but oh! god, when you make statments like that, failure can a heartbrake. but what if failure is not the only option? well, then...you may live your life in false starts, sad hesitance, and a lifelong thought of "what if". oh, and we all know this but i am tired of feeling inspired, only then to curl myself into a huge ball of self-doubt. there are plenty of reasons to live the "safe life"... i know a lot of people who are doing it pretty well and who are living very happily. i just have to come to terms with the fact that i am not one of them. never have been. doesnt have to be a bad thing at all, it just means that i have to be more assertive with the things that i do want to achieve, the plans (however lofty they may be) that i want to put into effect.
and you can ask youself "well, who am i?" but honestly who are you not?
i don't want to be a millionaire nor the next MTV superstar. i would love to just be able to travel and play music and affect someone. paying the bills is always a plus and maybe having some clothes without holes and a bed. but honestly, who am i kidding? i've never wanted a huge house, mutiple cars, etc etc. nothing against it but those aren't the items i dream about.
like jeff buckley once said "i'm not trying to be elvis". i honestly do not know who or what i am trying to be.
the only thing that i know is that music is the only thing that i feel truly comfortable in, the only thing that provides mutual and consistent happiness (of course, besides my friends and loved ones) it's something that i'm confident in.
so, my boss wanted my focus and so here it is. for all the 9 people who may read this to see...
i want to make music. i'm saying it. i'm writing it. so now it is real. and now it is concrete. and if failure comes, then so be it. my god, even if i stopped singing tomorrow the experiences already have shown me more than most. but i woulnd't mind 20 more years of experiences.
school is definatly another priority. i am almost done with college, i want to and will graduate. but i have to be honest with myself and know that i will put school off to tour. my goal is to finish by the time i turn 26 or 27, and although that may seem a bit older to graduate, i think that experience far outwieghs textbook anyday.
from there on, who knows what life will be like. my boss tried to say that i should consider what kind of job i will have when i am 30 if i keep on touring and whatnot, and honestly i have no idea. i know for a fact that i do not see myself in the hotel field for the rest of my life. i abhor it after just 6 months, how the hell could i stand it for 10 years?
if anything, i am a passionate person. that has to count for something.
there are some things that remind me of you. jagged words the soft shaved corners of the slopes of cursive t's. or certain sidewalks of new york city which i have never seen but dream of all too readily. you slept on my floor in the smallest room i've ever owned, in fear of others knowing. when we were almost children- yet full grown.
can i tell you that you are the closest thing to family that i have ever known? the person who has been around for longer than i can remember, almost as long as the boys or music? not talking to you for more than a few days makes me anxious. make that a few weeks and my whole body aches. and you could call me sensitive or needy, but with you my friend i am awfully a child.
so it seems that i have fallen back somewhere, say in the year 2003 where all i did was ruminate over her music and watch Magnolia dozens of times a week and read interviews of fiona apple. and that is ok with me because this is the first time in weeks i have felt inspired artistically.
the 4 months of lying on my carpet floor, singing to the cieling missing out on nothing studying her voice (along with billie holiday and ella fitzgareld) long beach sky never turns fully dark. (i will never forget that)
once again, she has inspired me to look up writers i have not read before.
jonathan ames tobias wolff charles baxter.
i am grateful because i have been in a rut for weeks now. i know it happens to everyone, writer's block, depression, anxiety, listlessness, etc etc etc but i have been in a complete and total black space for a while and the few days have been amazing. but today, i feel inspired to read and then write and then hopefully create and that mere feeling of being "stuck" on something, excited about something, is a relief.
lately, i have been daydreaming about New York. being that i have never been there, most of my thoughts are cinema-inspired, novel romantized, breath taking (maybe even myths?) images of that elusive and exhaustive city. nevertheless, i am so intrigued by that place and want nothing more than to spend a winter there. i want to be bundled in an old coat, with heavy scarves and headphones on- walking through neighborhoods-in awe of all the people, buildings, life. and i know exactly what song i would listen to first during my exploring there. i know that the city may not be a big city of dreams, but i have some vision of being there (atleast for only a while). it will be cold. it will be inspiring. it will be slightly miserable at times. it will be fucking amazing.
reading your blog has inspired me. knowing that you are also in a "quarter-life crisis" relieves me. i say this in the most loving way possible, but knowing that someone else out there is as confused as i am as to what they want or need to do in life, makes me sigh outloud. it seems as if many people our age are kind of lost and just reading your words comforts me and calms me for a good while after reading it. just know that i love and appreciate you. your being lost gives me some sort of direction.
third grade. the boys hated that i was fairly competent in basketball so they pushed me on the asphalt one recess. i remember blood on my knees, some hot anger rushing through my skin. i wanted to fight them, to pull thier teeth to grab their arms. i was violent back then. instead, i turned to my friend Anna who if i remember correctly, was so soft spoken, most times i could never hear her. she was pretty and loyal. i respected her loyalty, i needed it, even back then. she put her tiny arms around me and walked me to the bench and grabbed those harsh, stiff paper towels that elementary schools buy because they are cheap but this was back in the 90's before things got really bad. but anyways, that is me digressing... she took the paper towels and wiped the blood from my knee, cleaning it and pretending that she was a mother. or maybe she was, meant to be a mother so she was showing her instincts early.
but i remember her. she was my first experience with loyalty.
but because i refuse to cry again at this hotel, i will pretend that i am someone else. another person, possibly male this time who is not here, who is not held accountable for anything, and who smiles as he walks, confident of everthing.
because i have a friend in another country who left everything just because she could. because i have a friend somewhere in the ocean who committed himself to an organization because he knew that sacramento would give nothing but dead winters.
to the me that was merely 20 minutes ago, you are spoiled yet honest. spoiled in the fact that you have a job, honest in that you hate it.
it's me vs. me for 8 hours 4 times a week 32 hours a week with nothing else but my thoughts and your words and elevator music to pursue this frenzied chase. and i'm never ready for the repercussions of being in my head all fucking day.
something here tells me that there are no boundaries here. i'm standing here, wanting to pull my hair out. if you think boredom is a word that shouldn't exist, then you obviously have never worked at a hotel front desk. and i am not complaining outright, nor do i think that this is the worst place possible... but it's becoming the thing that keeps me up at night, the mere thought of putting that blue blazer on again and answering phones and lying to people, acting as if i care.
here is the truth. i don't care. i am 24 years old. and i have much bigger goals than to be someone's servant. oh but everyone must pay thier dues, i knowiknowiknowthisiknowthisiknowthis but i'm tired. i haven't slept in 3 days and i'm just exhausted.
couldn't the world be a bit more generous and just make everything go away for a few days? i'd give you anything.
saturday nights at the hotel are always a bit strange. the tension is palpable, everyone is eager to either sleep with someone, drink with someone, eat with someone, get away from someone, or reuinte with someone. some are spoiled, some are kind, some are memorable, and some i won't remember five minutes after checking them in.
i wonder what guests are secretly gay. or who is a prostitute. or who is making a baby at this very moment. or if anyone is getting murdered, falling in love, breaking up, or simply just watching tv.
this hotel is not just simply that. it's a four story mecca of emotions.
and forever. september. the walks to work in the rain or ash. on my ears, heavy headphones where everything was ultimatly blocked out. thank god. i could not hear you. when all i did was think of a stranger who was beautiful but beyond anything i could ever handle... neverending i was 18.
and october. lying in my room with the low lights on and music music music always staring at me. the carpet was a part of my skin, i held it close and worshiped the strands left imprinted on my cheek. i took some drugs back then and called her on the phone trying to describe the muscles of my chest or my collarbone, in other words secretly wishing that they would come over. i was 22.
november. the whole world had came crashing down. at a time when age meant nothing. and sunsets were my favorite thing, i owned them. i did. and i had proof, i tell you. _____ and i , we would drive on the freeway, telling lies screaming verbs into the air our arms scaling the sky.
and i would go to the bookstore, alot that fall. and search out for hungry readers so that we could pick apart each other.
give me your hips, please. give me them. give me your lips, please. you don't need them. because you are so perfect, i'm building your stem.