Boring to Blue

My hair lately has been a tad bit boring. Meaning: it's back to its normal brown with some natural sun lightening in it and I am just over it. So I am going back to the blue. Although, it's time for A LOT OF BLUE. Last time I went through this process, it was more of black with some blue highlights.

But this time I'm using Wonder Woman as my inspiration. I'm currently in my blue period - whatever that means exactly for me. But it does mean that I am ready to be fearless and in-your-face with my new hair color and confident personality.  Let's hope this comes out as I planned for I have a date on Friday and don't want to have to wear a fedora to cover up a botched hair job.


What is it about hair color that is so defining about who we are? I told my bestie that I was thinking about going all teal, or something equally as bold, and he asked if we were scene kids from 2007.  No. I am not. But I did live through that horrible fashion statement all while selling merch or tour managing for ________________ (insert generic scene band name in the appropriate blank) and am certainly not ready to do it all again. Though, I do miss the open road and if a legit touring job came my way it would be difficult to say no. In fact, I probably wouldn't. What do we want our hair color to say about us? My blue/black combination was inspired by the colors on a raven's wing and currently suit me well. But what would a red do for my personality? Or a bright pink? It seems as if this splash of color upon our scalps seems to spice up our personalities and creativity.  Or maybe it's just me?

And if you're curious, I am listening to ATL by Butch Walker on repeat. It happens often in my life.

Muse or Human?

There seems to be not much of a defining difference in my relationships between girlfriend and muse. Or even just the different between muse and a human being. I’m absolutely guilty of using lovers and friends as fodder for my own short stories or stream of consciousness writings, but even then I recognize that they have feelings and that they may dislike being illuminated by certain shades of limelight.  But I have also been on the other side of the coin. I have dated musicians and artists and writers and they all look to me as some sort of inspiring being, a muse, an object that exists solely to help them create. 

I realize that the great artists had their muses, but they were only used as a muse…never was the artistic relationship merged with one that was a romantic or serious partnership.  It’s nice to hear a song written about or to wander into someone’s apartment and see an outline of you on an easel in the corner. It’s somewhat flattering to see your picture next to an artist’s work area and your curls finding their way onto the heads of the females in his work. But it’s also an wonderful feeling to dance with someone until the wee hours of the morning without trying to find a story in it, to hold someone’s hand without memorizing the lifelines for a sketch later that evening, or to look into someone’s eyes without interpreting their life story for your latest slow song.  So where is the line drawn between to inspire and to love? And who gets to create my story: you or me? I certainly don't need a ghost writer.

You can't go wrong with Dead Boys. You just can't.

Here’s something a wrote a bit ago after coming home from a show where most of the songs played were about me by my “boyfriend” on the stage:

Sometimes I feel more like a muse than a human being
Everyone looks into my eyes and finds the inspiration
the ideas that they could create
and they take them, not leaving much for me to use
the soul is dry and cracked with your moisture feeding me
A parasitic relationship that I am not sure when to call quits
You just keep gnawing at my inspirations
to write your songs, paint your paintings, write your words
What am I left with?
The words that you write about me, the melodies that came from my curls, and the paintings that came from the colors in my words
I am floundering and left with a scant amount of pure creation
Everything seems recycled
Everything seems like something you wanted
Not needed, nothing I gave to you willingly
But something you took without asking
I caught you
thinking and looking into my eyes
And wondering what piece of my being would inspire you today

xo

One Pink Rose

The following is a short story that is still in the editing stages. It is about a boy that I shall call The Artist for now.

One Pink Rose

“This is for you. This way the flower will never die.” he effortlessly said his probably well-rehearsed line as he handed me his latest art project: a pink rose for me. The details were flawless and the paper burned on the edges. He had listened when I told him I was in my pink phase. Whatever I meant by that. Sometimes lines are delivered because they sound good, like some dame in a 1960s movie who is as scattered as the record of men whose company she has kept. It’s similar to posing for a picture that is never going to be taken; instead you are writing dialogue for a movie that will never be filmed.

I was a bit speechless. When it comes to cheesy lines, I fall for them all. The delivery. The timed pauses. I suppose it’s all a result of too many old movies and my repetitive swooning over Humphrey Bogart’s seemingly candid brand of romance.  As soon as I could muster up the vocal power to say anything at all, I murmured, “Thanks.”  I snatched the rose from between his long fingers before he could do much more than smirk at me. I wondered what was going on behind his eyes and behind that gaunt face of his. I realize that under my aloof, cat-like nature, I have feelings…feelings for him. But did he?

He puts his bag in my room, pets my cat, and takes off his shoes.  He’s been here a couple times before…always invited never a surprise. I watch his willowy figure and sparsely tattooed arms amongst my things. Does he fit? Can his hands pull up my cheetah print throw and fold it so that the feline is still comfortable on her bed? Can he light the tea candles by my bed every night and listen to the quotes of Kierkegaard that I wish to read out loud to collect his thoughts? But more importantly, is he comfortable holding me every night: the right amount of pressure to where I don’t feel suffocated but I do feel safe?  Is he comfortable sleeping on a satin pillow case and next to a poster-size print of Mulholland Drive? Both scenarios could play out: he could become at home in my space and my scenery or we could be saying goodbyes sooner than I wish. I’m not sure I want either.

Samo rubs against his leg, not so subtly asking for his attention and I remark: “She seems to like you.”

“I have a way with cats.” he glibly offers.

“Sure you do.” There is more that I wish to say. But my brain stops me short. That and the fact that my best friend, more often than not, teases me about my catlike behaviors and demeanor. Do you want to be affectionate towards me? I’m not in the mood. Do you want to be left alone? Pay attention to me now. Are you reading that book? Pay attention to me instead. Are you staring at me? Stop looking at me.  Always on the opposite end of the spectrum of you and always making you wonder if I am purposefully being contrary. 

He sits down on the couch and taps the cushion next to him, asking me to occupy the space next to him.  I do, apprehensively. I curl into him and begin to breathe deeply as the opening sequence of the movie begins to sound.  It doesn’t much matter what movie he has chosen, I know that I am going to fall asleep within a matter of moments.  No matter how much I struggle with insomnia, the warmth of another being beside me makes me sleepily comfortable.  That feeling of safety is even more encompassing when it is radiating from a man that I hold high in regard.  I wake up periodically to nothing more than to check to see if he is still there and Samo is still within sight. 

My top tracks: Pretty Face and Bad Dream

Eventually the final credits roll and I am awoken by a lack of Hollywood dialogue.  I sit up. He watches me. I go into my bedroom: past the cheetah print throw and after lighting the tea candle on my bedside table, crawl under my comforter and lay my head down on a satin pillowcase.  He waits a few moment and, after a permissive smile from me, crawls under the comforter to rest his head on a satin pillowcase next to mine and to Kierkegaard’s.  Maybe we’ll only be saying “good morning” for longer than I thought.

First Things First

Current Album: Alone,Alone by Hungry Ghosts

Writing is my livelihood but I sometimes find that I do not get to write about the thoughts and events that are circling within my own mind.  So I wish to write for myself.  Every entry here will have what record I am listening to (or a playlist if my musical tastes happen to be a bit chaotic that day) and what I am currently pondering whether it be a romantic situation (let's face it...it usually is),  a quote from a book that I have happened to come across, a cd or show review...whatever I happen to desire.  It's not that I don't enjoy my freelance writing for interviewing musical celebrities and getting to ask them about their lifestyles and mindset is fantastic, but sometimes I need my own textual outlet.  It will be interesting to balance this amongst my college studies, my freelance assignments, and my life...but after all what other purpose would my insomnia better serve?!

Let's see what happens.