Archives for posts with tag: dirty movies

Yesterday, we were girdled secretaries with glossy toes.  Gia was back and she bounced, and we squealed to see her.  We all wanted to take off our perfect costumes because the heat on the top floor of the castle is thick and sleepy and damp in mid-July.  Our hair bubbled up frothy on our heads, full of pins and bows.  Tonight there will be cupcakes and milk onstage.  Monday was jockstraps and leather somewhere off Castro Street.  We too are image makers and the impulse is deep and old and persistent.  Is this about money?  And yet it’s also an act of love.  But not the way they always taught: “love-making,” a phrase that never made sense to me.  This is not how love is made.  It’s concrete and viscera, the wet and hard and dirt and rope.  This work smells like braking trains and oranges and that’s a different kind of love.

“You’re doing a public service,” someone tells me, but it isn’t true.  As the power dynamics change, it only becomes more mine.

Ask me what I want on any given day and I can not tell you.  “Sleep,” I’ll say, or “popcorn.”  Nothing changes that, no matter what ceremonies, no matter what books and planes.  I want: 500 words a day, all pink everything, whiskey, beauty, complex problems to unravel.  I want wet and glitter and love.  But none of that illuminates a path.

It’s a new project now, being an ageless age and evil in photographs and the painful sorting of poems in Oakland with Joseph.  How can I be a maker?  500 words a day, minimum.

“I won’t put my makeup on for less than 400 dollars,” I once heard a woman say.

For 3000 dollars, my teeth get straighter.  A luxury.  There are so many ways to make sense of the world through math.  But which one is the right one?

The dog as usual sleeps about it and his eyelids move rapidly, his face squashed against my leg.  There are so many of us trying to make.   In the morning before makeup I think about journalists, consume so much of the work of journalists both clumsy and skilled and I think of what’s been written about me and by me and which of the words can teach me something.  What can I do? That is not rhetorical.

Outside of our house there are ginko trees, olive trees, eucalyptus.  All of the trees are green and silver like money.

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I guess it really is Fall. I guess it’s Autumn. I guess this happens every year. But this elephant always forgets.

I am a sucker for Dumbo’s eyes. and Pinocchio’s.  I guess the thing they have in common, besides/because of the whites of their eyes, is that people want to exploit them as performers. In the circus, Dumbo has to dress up like a clown baby and stand in the window of a burning building. Top floor. While a bunch of fire department circus clowns “rescue” him. A clown dressed in elephant mommy drag histrionically screams “my baby! my baby! save my child!”  while Dumbo’s real mom is shackled to the inside of a car on the circus train. The car is labeled: MAD ELEPHANT. At the end of the act, Dumbo jumps out of the window (correction: he’s pushed and made to look like he jumps) to land on one of those fire department canvas landing pads. But the canvas is a facade. He falls right through it into a pool of whipped cream.

This sounds fun to me.  But you can tell it’s not fun for Dumbo.  He’s humiliated and scared.  The clowns/ringmaster were sort of banking on that feeling. They knew that’s what was thrilling about the number for the audience. the humiliation and the fear.

I feel very Phantom of the Opera fantasy mask about it. Like part of me is the ringmaster and the other part is Dumbo.  I can get into humiliation. I usually learn a lot about what my fucking problem is.

Tonight I’m going down to Occupy Wall Street for the first time.  So are a big group of Marines.

Let me tell you how it is to be twenty-nine (minus seven).

It’s like having the stomach flu for five days straight and eating nothing but crackers and diet sprite, still hating David Foster Wallace, making phone calls from the gathered wrinkled sheet nest, not bothering to re-charge electronics, a productive day is re-polishing nails.

I am still an expert procrastinator, which is always what you read on the internet because this is where people go to procrastinate.

I owe stories all over the place, and can not bring myself to finish chapters by writers named in triplicate.

Also, twenty-nine means still forgetting to pay my rent on time.

Means still seeing my face in newly published photographs and trying to remember exactly where that was taken and exactly who was being blown.

Now that I’m twenty-nine, I’m still no good at asking for help with things like obtaining diet sprite for my ill belly, and I still want very badly to see the butterfly exhibit.

I’m thrilled to screaming by concrete slides ridden down on torn hunks of corrugated box.

I still, even now, want my mother to notice.

I want cake with buttercream and shoes with buckles.

I want your face in my hands.

I want three-flavor ice cream.

I want to learn how to do this.

If you ask me whether taking the Q to the J train on a Thursday in mid-afternoon in March shows you just exactly what New York wants from you I’ll tell you yes.

And if you ask me whether a monthly blood test leaves small bruises I will answer yes to that also.

I will tell you that the condition of having badly to piss in an airport or a nightclub or a highway diner or a school administrative building and not pissing from fear of harassment fills me with worry.

I will tell you that synthetic hormones still make my hate list even while I appreciate their uses.

I will tell you that I am comforted by both Josephine Bear and Hello Kitty and will continue, despite your belief that they harbor disease.

I will tell you : never again will I attempt to forge a relationship in a bar.

Things I have already given up include: black lipstick, the fear of eating, every color but blonde, the love of poverty, powdered milk, the fear of dancing in front of you.

Even if I do it badly.

Even if, at twenty-nine the only dance of which I’m confident is lap.

Things I will give up include: not calling, ill-fitting shoes, not bothering to look.

I will give up trying to keep the polish off my cuticles.

I will give up not telling my mother about my life when what I really want is to TALK to her.

I will give up being disappointed when she is quiet on the other end of the line with the television or her cooking sounds or the sound of nothing in the background.

I’ll send the pictures when I say I’m going to send the pictures.

What I won’t give up is: diet soda, reading in bad light, high heels, trying.

What I’ve learned is: how to be slow, lemon relish, the color of your eyes, I’m sorry, costuming, how to make a pirate sandwich.

What I want now, this year: an end to nausea, lettuce that isn’t cellophaned, your hands on me, things made waterproof – both mascara and  boots, a bright path home.

Roles I have played in the last two weeks include:

“artsy bombshell” San Francisco swinger seductress

naughty psych-ward nurse

sexy housewife

hypnosis victim

Valentines Day dinner involves pecans and pre-dinner sheet destruction.  Pink food dye.  Tiny, ball-shaped pasta with charred peppers and smashed olives.  Turnips turned orangy with pimenton.  Cut paper and new underpants and broom-swept ceiling fan and all-Springsteen karaoke.  Photo exchange.  Cave-grown albino asparagus.  Timmy and Maria dirty-dueting into the champagne-bottle microphones.

This winter, I have missed every snowstorm.  I’ve ridden down 101 in February with the windows down, bare legs and no sweater to Moss Beach Distillery where puppies steal twenty-dollar sandwiches off deck tables and my friend X “The Mayor” T deals with the rude comments of our staring, pointing, drunken fellow restaurant-goers by looking them right in the eyes and stating quite eloquently: “you’re just going to have to get used to the fact that people look all kinds of different ways.”

My man, only a little less calmly, says: “Listen Eddie Bauer, don’t mess with my girl just cause you’re stuck in khaki.”

California is astoundingly beautiful and solipsistic.  Sunny and cool and utterly unaware of the weather conditions of others.  On Saturday morning mid-winter, there are one million dollars worth of palm trees and fifty people in the park eating bagel sandwiches, sucking up the skyline.  Surrounded by grass and babies and gay fathers in thin t-shirts, it is impossible to conceptualize snow. Back in Brooklyn on Wednesday night, I’ll have to remind myself to pull on tights and sweaters before I leave the house.  I’ll have completely forgotten the numbness of an uncovered face on the train platform, tired and hungry and made impatient by an after-class pint.

And here is what you’ve all been waiting for

Friday afternoon, I sit in front of the monitor, swallow a dildo, spit into my hand and rub wet palms on my tits and hair for the 3-dollars-a-minute internet audience.  Friday night I want your boozy fist in me.  I want to suck the sake from your tongue.  To be only yours.

On Saturday afternoon in Sebastapol – buying slippers and bouncing a rubber ball through the aisle of Rite Aid, photographing maria’s shoes in the parking lot as you lean against the jeep, drawing with the etch-a-sketch – I can feel the small ache of where you’ve been.  I’m embarrassed that I can’t know the right things to say.

While we are weeding the asparagus beds at Leah’s farm, you remind me that it is AVN weekend – that it is Sunday, the last day of the convention, and all of the signing and florescent booths and photos and madness has gone on while we were walking through the soft-dirt holly grove, drinking California wine next to Leah’s fireplace, picking red chard in the dark with a pocket knife and flashlight, chopping the mint and olives, watching the hawks and setting the gopher traps and climbing muddy through the fern-bed amphitheater.  It’s Sunday afternoon and grey-cold and you are wheel-barrowing dug-up fenceposts to the barn and cut-down holly branches to the compost pile.  You’re wearing ripped jeans, flannel shirt and trucker hat and you keep calling me Daisy and I keep calling you Farm Boy.  I’m sifting through the dirt and lettuce-roots, letting an earthworm crawl between my cloth-gloved fingers.  I think that this is the first time in years that I have missed the convention; it is certainly the first time I’ve forgotten about it.  For a few minutes I wonder if this means something.

This morning, while you are at work, I make coffee that is stronger than you like.  I read your books and get weepy with sentiment, leaning back on your leather couch in the same position as the night you first kissed me –  when we both knew we shouldn’t have, and had to wait a year for the right time to kiss again.  While you are at work, I peel both of the hard-cooked eggs you left and eat them with the salsa verde from your cupboard.  I think of the way your hand felt last night, the way we were so tired, all of a sudden and I want to tell you this thing that’s in my throat, I want to and want to and it’s too much and I can’t.