Where Did the Pencil Land?

“Hey there, mister.” After a few drinks at a bar on Hollywood Blvd, texting those you’ve almost kissed seems like a good idea. Especially when they’re geographically miles away and the emotional stimulus is of the safe variety.  I take my vodka and tonic out onto the smoking patio. Eavesdropping on slurred conversations and pick-up lines. Watching the tourists stumble and stare at my hometown streets.  My phone vibrates and I trade my cigarette for my phone in my right hand.

            “You in L.A.?” it reads.

“I am…” I respond, wondering where else I would be. I have been off tour and catching up on real life for a couple of weeks now.

            “Come to my hotel.” 

            Hold up. It’s one a.m.  This seems like a cheap thrill request: a stab at getting laid while he’s in town. Did he have to be in town? My text was initially sent with the thought that he was off the road and resting in his East Coast abode.  But on the other hand…why not have an adventure? My friends won’t be upset if I ditch them for the last few hours of Sunday or the first few of Monday – however you wish to see it.

            “Where is it?” I respond.

            “Hollywood and Highland.”

            Not far at all. A ten minute walk will do my head some good anyway: The cold air. The quiet streets that will only be interrupted by a stumbling drunk or a couple sloppily making out. I remember being in this same hotel on pit stops on tour before I lived in Los Angeles.  The cigarette butts would pile up outside the door. The trash can would overflow with empty bottles. Music would be written intermittently. Those stereotypical times when the lifestyle becomes more important than the music. But this time is different: this is not my space and this is not on my terms.  I knock on the door. There’s no answer. My phone rings and his name is on the caller ID. For a moment, I ponder turning around and leaving but my feet stay planted and I answer the frantically ringing phone.

            “Hello?”

            “You there? I’m not.”

            “I picked up on that. I knocked.”

The entire album is amazing.

            “I’m pulling up now. The guys are going to drop me off.”

            “Okay. Do you want me to meet you at the front or just…”

            “Stay put. I’ll see you shortly.”

            There’s a few awkward moments of me compulsively checking my phone for a distraction.  A nervous tick I have picked up when alone. Look out over the railing. Look at my phone screen. It didn’t vibrate. It didn’t make any sound. And yet I look at it. Look out. Look at my phone screen.

            “Hey you.”

            I turn around to his smiling face and his open arms. We hug. And I realize that I do not know this man aside from dancing at after parties and him carrying fruit around in his pockets. A kiwi? A lime? A conversation starter.  We walk into the hotel room and I sit on the bed: a queen size with a squeaky polyester comforter. The kind that makes you wonder how many times it has (or hasn’t) been washed and how many times it’s been sat upon by two strangers.  He quickly ventures into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.

We engage in some light conversation.  I can never tell if he’s drunk or using some sort of substance or if perhaps his brain just doesn’t fire at the pace that we have come to accept as normal. Eventually he walks closer to me and sits next to me. Our thighs side by side, almost touching, almost making that physical connection, but not quite. This night isn’t what I expected. And that’s a good thing for I don’t really have the emotional capacity for a one-night stand with an acquaintance.  It’s never really been a part of my make-up to take part in the shallow and anonymous. I prefer to over-think the details for days after, picture the ending before it’s even close to happening, and second-guess every interaction in the days that follow.

He wants to quit his band. Even though they are the headliners of a major US festival tour. Even though they are selling large numbers of their album. Even though they have a dedicated and large fan base. It’s not what makes him happy and he says that he’s never even liked the band. But it is what is familiar now. Familiar and expected. Letting down one person is easy. How would it feel to let down thousands? He shows me baby pictures and tells me about the last time he remembers being happy. At this point our conversation has gotten more personal and our bodies are leaning in towards each other.  This is when I start to shake. The adrenaline from being so close to another person becomes overwhelming and my body can’t control it. So I shiver. As most do, he assumes I am cold. We move from on top to under the comforter. I still shiver.

“I’m not cold. I’m actually sweating a little bit.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Whenever I’m close to another person. A guy. I shake. It’s nerves and adrenaline.”

“What helps it?”

“I suppose eventually it stops.”

“I’ll hold you ‘til you are comfortable enough to stop shaking.”

We nestle further into the covers and his scrawny but comforting arm is around my side.  I feel him reach over to the bedside table, but am too content to look up and see what he is trying to grab.  He shows it to me. A pencil. The one that was in the drawer by the prerequisite Bible. He throws the pencil across the room.

“There!”

“What?”

“Wherever that pencil landed is the happy medium.”

“The happy medium of what?”

“I love too many people and you love too few. Wherever that pencil landed is the happy medium. But we will never know where it landed. Still lost.”

With that I smile and drift off to sleep quietly and motionless.  The shivering has stopped. And I am comfortable. Not in love. But in a state of caring and of being cared for. It’s four a.m. and my phone is dead. I’m not worried about getting home. I’m not worried about any of it. I am simply content with his grasp, with the hotel room, with the vulnerability of the night.

The digital numbers flash six a.m. I sneak out from under his arm. Thinking I have successfully left without waking him. He stirs. And gets up to open the door for me and say goodbye.

“It’s nice to meet you, Lauren,” he says as he hugs me goodbye.

Six am and the city is asleep. The only people present on the boulevard are those cleaning the marbled stars. The city is mine.  And I belong to the city. And, for once, I feel a bit of accountability to another person without the sense of weight that usually accompanies it.

Another text message a couple weeks later. This time he initiates. “In my dream last night I was you and there was a mirror I was looking into that made everything black and white and pretty.”

            Since that night, I have tried to stray from my normal path and boundaries: to let people in and learn to trust them. I have learned to be open to adventures and to people.  But I have also learned that living in the city, it is much safer to keep people at arm’s length in order to protect yourself and not be broken. It’s not easy and it’s usually the lonelier path. But one has to do what one has to do to survive in a city of strangers.

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.