Since I was very small my favorite way to write has been with my head laying on the table, my ear smooshed against it so that I can hear the sound of my pencil making words. I still only write with pencil. But I am not afforded the precious, grandmother-scrubbed table top I used to have for my homework.
I don't feel safe losing myself to any one activity, anymore.
My habit of writing in a vacuum hasn't changed much, though. Now it is just me and the clicking keys. Usually I type everything out in a fury. Don't bother to fact check. Don't look up the words I'm unsure of until I'm completely done.
Rhythm comes first. After that is meaning. After that comes rhythm, again.
I am always at least a little shocked when I look up to find what my classmates are up to.
What I am learning more and more every time: You can't do this thing, the writing or the living of life, all half-assed. You're only fucking yourself out of something truly transcendental when you play it safe.
Revealing the pieces of us that are the most terrified and shell-shocked is one of the kindest things we could ever do for the whole wide world.
Staying with the Frisco love theme, I woke up this morning and put on my niners t-shirt, this flashy vintage number from eighty something I think. And then I went to Tommy's Joynt, which is like. Lots of basic comfort food for almost no money. And kitsch galore.
I've been craving comfort food lately. I think it's because I'm honing the art of reducing the Things I miss to just things. Items I could write on a list and check off as I get them one by one. I'm not leaving any room for uncertainty. I'll have it all, one way or another.
Note: Because I go from who I really am to That Girl in about 30 seconds it's pretty crucial for me to keep it at a level. I did that this weekend like a pro, as a result I'm getting way more quality time with my new dress form. Ha.
Freedom isn't free, though. You know that as much as I do. I could read these archives going back for weeks and find like, I don't know, 10 flashes of Truth. Everything else would be just as well in a diary.
But I'm keeping lines of communication open. Because I'm never sure what's going to happen next. I'm at my best, creatively speaking, when my heart or my self is completely smashed.
I wrote a letter last night with the paragraph:
when i marry rich. if i marry rich. it will be at least one third for the purpose of acquiring the freedom to get fucked up publicly, and then write about it.
Until then. You have me, but tamed.
Along with my Niners shirt today I wore these perfectly matched sneakers. A gift from my ex-boyfriend like 3 years ago? They still look really tight though, because I tend to keep them under wraps. They are my perfectly preserved Christmas morning, with that boy.
Oh boy.
I have a whole museum of my heartbreaks stacked up in sneaker boxes against my bedroom wall.
My whole perfect outfit I have planned for tomorrow depends on these pants I just finished sewing, then washing and am now drying. And you know how that went the last time.
So my whole night will be an exercise in faith. And yeah I could just plan a backup outfit but it wouldn't be nearly as enchanted, you know?
I believe in those slacks. I really do.
Do slacks matter? Does anything matter? I don't know for sure, but I do know that I feel a million times better now that I have time to sew. My world is right again, and I'm excited for the next fun thing to happen.
I think that I'd like to spend a month somewhere friendly and way tropical, and crochet a new bikini every other day in the sunshine while I work on my tan. And drink drinks out of real hollowed out pineapples. And paint my toes and fingers the color of orchids.
I don't have even one single ounce of creative energy to spare. Not lately. And can you imagine that? From this little powerhouse?
But it's true, all I seem to ever do lately is work. And that's why this Saturday night finds me all curled up in bed typing with one eye open and getting ready to go to sleep instead of making this fabulous pair of lady adventurer pants I have in my head. These ones I'm dying to make into real life.
But real life has to wait.
And it is not brain surgery, my day job. I talk about it so often and with so much importance you would think that it is, but it isn't. It's really this perfect balance between mattering in the extreme and not mattering at all.
Does the world need to buy more shit? Do they need to be inspired to purchase another rugby jersey?
No.
But does it matter, knowing how to break a huge thing down into its tiniest executable parts and then being able to get those things done, one by one until you've accomplished the whole big thing?
Yes. Very much so.
I think that's all life ever really is. So my day job is like training for real life.
Real life: a series of steps making us all more and more golden until we don't need steps anymore cause we are floating up, up, up.
I can say for a fact that I've gotten where I am (for better and worse, mind you) by just consistently saying
I'm gonna do this thing
Now I'm gonna do this thing
Now I'm gonna do this thing
And not really allowing much room for any other thoughts to creep in. About whether or not what I'm gonna do is wise, or likely, or even possible.
I just do it. And then it's done.
If it was done for the worse: I can cross it off of my list of mistakes to make in the future.
If it was done for the better: I can add it to my list of things I'm glad I've done.
Both are a step in the right direction.
win-win.
I love win-win. Especially when it keeps me major busy and means that maybe one day, yes, I'll be soaking in a golden bathtub at the Burj Al Arab.
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Busta Rhymes is a damn fool:
That shit knocks, though.
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Hihi. I miss you! I'll be back to normal in less than a week, scout's honor.
I went dancing last night, and tonight I had dinner at Conduit. It is on Valencia, and has a fireplace. We drank many bottles of wine. I learned the art of shortening everything you say as much as possible so as to communicate a lot more.
At work: one project has almost finished, and I'm starting something brand new that is pretty fuckin daunting. I see many more late nights in my future. I see many more ways to make many more dollars, too.
I want it all. Not just cute, or smart. Or cuteness. Or smartness. Or fantastic, or bold, or wise, or beautiful, or charming, or sexy. Or even just being any of those.
I want. And I want to be:
All of those. And balling, as well.
Is that too much to ask?
I don't think I could focus my power on anything else but the whole sweet deal. I want enough of all of everything I have ever thought about wanting some of.
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I guess there is also: peaceful, calm, patient and centered.
But I'll have plenty of time to work on those once I'm rich, right? Right.
You can come to lots of calm conclusions while floating on your back in crystal blue blue ocean. With a spliff in your mouth.
I know I have it all mixed up but I usually do, and it somehow works out anyway.
This kid I work with that I respect immensely told me one time not to lower my standards, but to adjust my expectations. Over the last year or so I think I've learned the art of that. It takes a lot of balancing not to lose faith.
But then there are a few ways to go about getting what you want.
You can be all.
I want a bike I want a bike I want a bike I want a bike
Infinity. You can be like that all day, every day and it is surprisingly effective at getting you a bike.
You can also be all.
I want a bike. A fast bike. With turquoise candy paint. White patent leather seat. Purple streamers coming off the handlebars.
Infinity. You can keep refining what you're asking for and getting a clearer picture of it every time.
Both ways though. They are just meditation.
I worked all weekend, both days. I set up camp in the kitchen with my laptop, watching cable and making my silly ass documents and answering a few questions once in a while. On Sunday I literally wore my pajamas with a pair of boots. It really wasn't a bad way to spend the weekend.
Just tiresome. I could nap for three days straight, I think.
Last night at dinner for Rachel's birthday: I was opening my heart to dearest Robin, and this sweet girl I'd just met was pouring wine for everyone. I tried to deal with both at once and turned to the new girl mid-thought. She was pouring me a glass of wine and we both spoke at the same time:
"Do you want some more wine?"/"I really want a boyfriend."
And we laughed and she refilled me and I made amendments. Several of them. Enough maybe, for people to want to roll their eyes at me.
But I'm pretty sure that's just how I am, dude. When I was a kid I didn't make Christmas lists. I was very serious. I went through the Sears catalog and wrote down item numbers, names and prices for every single thing I wanted.
And because I was a kid. And because it was Sears. And because who can resist an 8 year old project manager. I got just about everything I asked for, you know?
I learned early that being specific has its advantages. The one time I asked for "a horse or a pony or something like that", it did not go over nearly as well.
Specific has its drawbacks, too. But I choose to focus on the good stuff.
Good day. My site launched yesterday. I'm so proud like a mama with a new baby.
It's hot in Frisco today. There was an earthquake last night.
I dreamed I had 2 sisters and we all slept in a bed by the ocean. I was mostly concerned with whether or not I'd ever get my down comforter clean again, once we headed back inside. Meanwhile there was a bear stalking us, and this dude ever trying to whisk me away to safety but I kept thinking maybe the bear wasn't so bad after all.
There were horses, too. I needed sugar cubes for them but all I had was loose sugar.
The greatest gift anyone could make me would be some program where I could input shit like this and over the course of time, map out my soul. It would be like a video game when the whole thing was completed, telling my future based on some complex system of probabilities assembled by sifting through every little detail and making a Big Picture.
Surely there is someone working on this already. Surely he or she is my soulmate.
I'm working tonight, and the party goes til 6 AM. Today is spent preparing a bullet-proof outfit that I'm willing to be chipper and charming in for 9 hours straight. Plus smoking little rizla joints and getting my act together. Heh.
The good news is that I've spent my whole existence preparing for this kind of life, so I'm in good shape.
I think it's the sort of thing that needs to be shared. It's those little stories that make us immortal.
Standing in front of a club talking to the incredibly cute and incredibly broke and sexy boys I'd been working with all night. They were questioning my policies about who I date, what my priorities and dreams are. One of them asked me, after a night in a twenty-five thousand dollar suite, what I would have that was of any value.
"A golden, shining memory." Smile.
Isn't that all we ever have? Of anything?
When you lose someone or something, and you feel that loss dearly, you can choose to tend those places inside of you that still hold them. If that's your style, it can be a beautiful project. A garden in their honor with no boundaries, as you're sending little tendrils of it out into the world with your word and picture stories.
Sometimes they will come alive again with a flash of your eyes, you'll do something that so directly comes from that place that it will seem to possess you. That is a huge gift.
I'm working on my garden for my grandparents. Thank you for reminding me how important that is. I have to put it right up there with all of my other golden, shining memories.
I'm praying for NOLALouisianaall of us right now, I hope all of you are as well.
Last night I dreamed that I got into a fight with this girl over a David Banner t-shirt. Seriously. I don't even really like David Banner, so that's funny. I mean. I don't hate him. But I don't think about him enough to dream about him.
So what do you think that means? I just googled pictures of him and I think it might mean he's the love of my life, now that I think about it.
I'm supposed to be getting ready for the DJ Quik show, which is tonight at DNA Lounge. Except for 2 things:
1. This boy I work with hired me to make him this crazy fur/vinyl contraption for Burning Man, and I have a hard time turning down work. It needs to be done on Monday so I have to make the pattern tonight.
2. I'm saving my little concert budget for Ice Cube, who's playing next week.
And really there is a third thing, which is that I have to fucking work all weekend long if I don't want to work 12 hour days every day until the end of the month. Which means no going out and really no fun at all this weekend. I have to be the consummate grownup.
Consider it done. That's my new mantra.
I'm pretty sure I want to be a paleontologist. If I start going to school now in the evenings while I'm working full time. Well. I should be digging up dinosaur bones in ohhhhhh. 2015?
That's not disheartening at all.
Time machine. Maybe I'll put my energy into building a time machine, instead.
Happy Friday.
This video gives me a tingle for a bunch of different reasons. It is not a time machine, but it is close.
Last night my dreams were an extension of real life. I went on a date after work and it ended pretty early, but he stayed with me for most of the night anyways, and that's not so bad. See also: how that is way easier than REALLY spending the night with someone and getting hella sprung on them.
Ha. I could dream my whole life actually, everything would be easier.
I dreamed work stuff too, and woke up ready for adventure.
Today was the company picnic. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge on tour buses. Me and Cera played Nintendo and then played Mad Libs when the batteries ran out.
It started out grey then got spectacularly blue and clear. And clearer still. We splashed in the water a little. I want to live in a house on the Bay in Tiburon. I want the horizon right there, always.
I want to live in that house on stilts next to the ocean, or one up on the hillside with wraparound windows.
I want a lot.
Which means I have a lot to do. So I guess I'll get cracking on that. Later.
I love how rap has a way of taking concepts like that and Cliff's Noting them, making them into soundbites. It's nothing without finding a more succinct and visceral way to express lofty ideas. We don't have another art like that, do we?
I love also, how it's perfectly Summery today in SF, even in my neck of the woods. I'm making a dress that looks like a tomato. I will be bright and wholesome in a sea of sameness.
Per Liz's instructions, I only want to have pure thoughts about our future president. But it's so hard! Steph has turned me on to the fact that he is indeed quite dreamy. Lookit him. I could cry.
That whole cover kind of gives me a tingle. Black Cool, indeed. I wonder if Amurkah counts that as one of its largest export economies?
I want to greet you all in a kimono with my hair undid. I want a quiet spot in the hot sunshine. I want a yacht painted turquoise blue from end to end with a mural of my face on the side of it.
I *want* a mural connecting the two big windows in my living room.
Better yet, I *want* three hundred and sixty degrees.
I *want* access.
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I spent the last two weekends trying to make a dress. I can totally see this dress in my head. And I can make it out perfectly while I'm cutting out the fabric for it. Which I've done like three times now.
But when I sew it. Oh my. Everything goes wrong. The material is slippery and stretchy, and gets all askew in the machine. So all of my perfect measuring and cutting. Twice now. Has ended up with me balling up the whole fucking thing and throwing it across the room with a disgusted look on my face.
Then I twist one and I'm all. "Sorry for yelling."
And I try again.
I try again. Remember that about me.
Third time is the charm.
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In the interest of prioritizing I decided one morning a couple of weeks ago that my main wish is for work that I love for loads of cash. Because I'd never ever stop working, you know? I *need* to make something all of the time.
Then I took it one step further and decided that I already HAVE work that I love for loads of cash. And that seemed to do the trick.
Stupid key card wearing a hole in my pocket. You will not wear a hole in my soul.
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I would thrill you with dating stories, but there are not many and they are all top secret, anyways.
Happy Monday. I took a pause but I think I'm back again.
My cab driver last night was from Sudan. He told me about the Burj Al Arab hotel, which is rated 8 fucking stars and has a massive aquarium restaurant that you travel to in a fake submarine like you're going underwater. I looked it up just now and it's in Dubai and I can't go there and fuck on the beach but how much would I love to go there and take 2-hour baths? Very much.
My Goodness. Could I possibly ever experience everything that I want?
The cabbie asked me if I was good at saving money. I laughed. He said that was okay though, that I should just live it up. He assured me, everything's going to be alright.
I worked last night, and it was pretty awesome. All of these sexy people showed up, and I was dressed like Dorothy Dandridge. I got randomly cheek kissed more than I have a right to and by the end of the night, seriously, I just wanted a culmination to all of the teasing.
Counting money gets me all worked up.
The fever broke eventually, and I passed out fully clothed in my little black riding hood, fishnets and ruby slippers. This morning I woke up with the biggest hangover in recent memory. I drank water until my hands ached from holding the cold glass and passed back out. I had an epic post-fever dream.
My apartment was my apartment now except there was an extra room in it. These dudes were painting it without my permission but when I checked it out I loved what they had done. I started entertaining solely in that room, which featured a massive stuffed gorilla (the plushy kind, not the dead animal kind) that hung out on this awesome chaise lounge big enough for 3 people and fantastic lighting settings. A bunch of colors linked to a dial on the wall that played on the new artwork my uninvited friends had created plus shadows from the sunlight dancing outside.
During my hostessing I had to run a bunch of errands. There happened to be this really awesome store nearby that sold all kinds of prepared food plus toys PLUS clothes PLUS fantastic pastries. I went there many times with my male escort, and I have no idea who he was except that he insisted on answering my door for me and almost turned away this one dude who'd come by just to share champagne with us.
I corrected my bodyguard and let homeboy in.
The end.
And this afternoon I have post-party loathing from drinking too much, I need to solve that with Mexican food and a trip to the fabric store, stat.
Happy Saturday. Believe your eyes AND your dreams.
I just remembered these. I was going through pictures from LA. They were the model's, I dropped to my knees in front of her feet when I saw them. She was in the stylist's chair having her hair done. She's probably used to that happening, people falling at her feet.
Drool. Each individual little sparkle. Some dude did that by hand and like, tripled the value of those sneakers.
Oh to be so resourceful, like a star in the sky.
And I want a hundred pairs of these, in a hundred different colors, too.
