D Y I N G in L A
I love LA. It is a source of constant visual stimulation for me. The physical variance from block to block as I voyage through it is ever present. It is a city that does not allow me rest in any sort of sameness. Sometimes that can be hard and a bit discombobulating. LA is not sweet and loving. And maybe this is why I don’t see it as home, as much as I see it as a place where I am growing. It is like a pile of body parts all trying to go in different directions. Conflict and resolution...and more conflict. It is the basic complicated relationship. The many levels of each other you have to deal with, physically and emotionally. All this amazingness that you feel in your core, and all of the upset that squashes it in an instant. Back and forth. But then there is that moment, usually when you are driving, when you realize that you love all of those bad parts, as much as they drive you crazy, because they are truths that hold no apology, and expect no apology from you. And that is when you know you love LA. My first few years of living in LA, I was trapped in a very heavy depression. The isolation of this city made it even easier for me to slip away. I had no community or steady work. I could go for days without human contact. I was thankful to be alienated from the world. Finally, I could sink as far as I could sink without interruption. I don’t know if the sunshine and palm trees made it better or worse. Probably, there is no better or worse in this state. During this time, I came up with the idea for this project. I would choose a topic and a location in LA, go there and write on the topic and then photograph my surroundings. A portrait of my time here. It would be called ‘Dying in LA’ because that’s what I felt like I was doing...and well, we are doing that anyway. That is where it came from, but then, of course, I only started to actually work on the project as I was already crawling out of the hole. So, I believe the tone is very different from what I always considered it would be, and is even different from beginning to end of the writing, which spans about a year and a half.
Augusta Quirk
ON HONESTY
7. 7. 2009 A 2 block expanse of sun-baked rubble, an empty lot on Glendale Boulevard at the 2 freeway
Somehow, in search of the perfect location where I might seamlessly concoct my treatise on ‘honesty’ I have ended up in a location, which to me, evokes quite the opposite. Oops. But maybe in order for me to confront what it is to be honest, I need to reveal to myself what I do in order to escape from my truth. Yes, but not so obvious to me 30 seconds ago. So here I sit on a milk crate in an overgrown empty lot where the 2 freeway empties into and spews forth from Glendale Boulevard, moving the masses into and out of downtown LA. It is one of the bleakest large thoroughfares, in this area, and that is saying a lot. The wide expanse of shade-barren flatness is like visual white noise in the heat of the day. The traffic is present and annoying, as always, but the heat is what hardens the brain. In the first ten minutes, the heat melds your body with your car. And you and your car are stuck in the brightness, wanting to move forward, but realizing even if you could your foot might be too heavy to lift onto the gas pedal. And there you are, with hundreds of others, flatlining. Sometimes there is no traffic, and it is just chaotic and fast. Either way the cars are humming. I am hiding in the weeds next to this madness.
Next to me is a nicely warped Bobby Bland record:
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.
Ain’t that Lovin’ You Yield Not to Temptation Stormy Monday Blues That’s the Way Love IS Call on Me I’m Too Far Gone Chains of Love Don’t Cry No More
I think more about honesty as I am emerging from a period where I have felt especially dishonest. Where my actions were not in sync with my feelings and thoughts. What a disjunct this was, as if I were losing my mind. During this time when I was trapped in a lie, everyday movements were sickening. Because the basics don’t take that much thought, they served as a perfect space for self-flagellation. How did I get here? (see “addiction”) There is no way to maintain a real sense of self in this instance. And then the relationship to the outside world disintegrates. Total meltdown.
I am searching for some sort of outline or structure that can define honesty. I do this so that I will not be shrouded in my own self-deceit once again. But my natural inclination is to hide in this field. Being honest is standing up to be seen by the world, with or without fear. Usually, no one is looking anyway, so it really shouldn’t be such a daunting task, but somehow it is. Somehow it is terrifying, and I lose touch with all rational thought processes when I am confronted with this spectre of this. And the fact is, that is all of the time, whether it is asking for a half pound of turkey, or asking a subject to pose in a certain way. There can be little divide between the two scenarios. Once the idea of self-assertion is broached, the fear is let loose in my psyche, and I might as well pack it in, no matter what the import of the situation.
Honesty is better described as a series of events instead of a single state. First, one must be truthful with oneself about feelings and desires, then really allow oneself to feel the way one feels anyway without recriminations, rationalizations, or retardations (or, at least, minimal ones). Then that truth, if it really is the truth, must be put forth into the world. Keeping it inside, hiding in the weeds, is being dishonest about oneself. The idea being that the boundary between emotional self and physical self and then the outside world could all be a bit more permeable, and not just a hard shell of tightly woven fears. A hard plastic shell that is now soft. Spacesuits...What used to be made of hard plastic/metal and is now made of neoprene. I am in search of a more flexible spacesuit, even though the old ones are very stylish. I am trying to soften and relax these boundaries. I am doing this in many different ways; chemically, physically, and spiritually. But in most situations, I look for the shadows where I might not be seen. That is easy, but can be painful.
So am I honest now that I admit my shortcomings and fears? I say no, of course. I am being truthful but I do not live honestly. Honesty is brutal and bare, but it is freeing. The truth of how I feel and why I feel a certain way is good, no doubt, but it can only put one on a path to honesty. To me truth is a tool, not necessarily an end in itself. I wanted to write this entry in this 2 block expanse of yellow rubble and dirt. It felt raw and empty. But I was afraid of being seen. It made me queasy and nervous to think of being kicked out of the lot, noticed. So here I sit, the traffic noise beginning to escalate, the helicopters criss-crossing above, in the late California sun. A couple of people see me from the not-very-frequently used sidewalk. One makes a funny comment. The other takes my photo with his iphone. I am discovered.
ON PATIENCE
12.16.09 Planned Parenthood vermont and santa monica
Imagine my surprise when I walked into the clinic this morning to find it totally remodeled! Well, the waiting room, at least. This is nice. Well, the idea is nice, and that is a lot. The clinic is on the second floor of a typical LA L-shaped strip mall. There is a Subway downstairs, and I think a subway across the street. Planned Parenthood is on the side of the mall that faces Vermont with now all tinted windows (and, hopefully, bullet-proof, as well). They have acquired a color palette... dunno the names...lime green and basic blue of crayons.
On the wall it says in a subdued orange:
Hope, nothing is predestined, the obstacles of your past can become gate ways that lead to new beginnings.
Respect, liberty taking the world in its concrete sense, consists in the ability to chose.
There is a bathroom in the corner, and a very large TV set against the lime green wall. The lights are recessed above an enormous blue flat that hangs horizontally from the ceiling at an angle. Thought went in here, and this is what came out. There are some strange bars protruding from the walls I don’t quite understand. The speckled tan and cream linoleum floor is unchanged. I suppose it fit into the design scheme automatically.
I know it doesn’t sound as if I am enthralled with the space, but compared to the dirty, depressing dinginess of before; with the little TV up in the corner and overhead fluorescents creating a flickering green on the faces of the young women awaiting who knows what kind of news(and uncomfortable positions), this is paradise. Because let’s face it, in this room a large percentage are dealing with something they really don’t want to deal with at all. And it is about family, health, and sex. The most crucial aspects of life to most. And now someone is coughing behind me. Oh, swine flu. I heard today LA county has just gotten a new shipment of the vaccine so I can wait for that too. I remember they said it was only available through private doctors, though.
Yes, waiting. That is why I am thinking of patience. I am assuming I need that in order to wait. But that is not really true at all. I can wait with no patience whatsoever. That is called freaking the fuck out. I have certainly done it, and I have seen it done many times. In general, I suppose it is easier to wait with patience for that which is pleasant; like for a mud bath instead of a speculum in your vagina. Like for a deep tissue massage versus an HIV test. But it’s not necessarily true. Some people are patient for nothing. Nothing is fast and immediate enough. Sometimes I am jealous of these people because a lot of times they get things faster and in larger quantities. Either because they are so annoying, or so charming.
A lot of it for me has to do with my ability to focus in the moment. If I can read, write, make phone calls, or some such task, then waiting is the same as not waiting, but with a reward at the end. I am just doing it in a lime green room instead of an outdoor cafe. But if I am too anxious to focus then this lime green room is a prison where I feel I can accomplish nothing. If I am depressed, this is actually nice. Here there is a TV and People magazine. I can numb my mind quite effectively here. When depressed, time I have to wait is like a free pass. It is time when I don’t have to feel guilty about not wanting to do anything. With justification I can stare into oblivion, and let my fantasies do the walking.
But besides the situational (hectic day, imminent deadline, no coffee) how does one maintain an appropriate modicum of patience? Mexicans are patient. Austrians are not. Ha! I will be crucified for that one. Obviously, there is a happy medium resting in some nationality. It seems that patience comes from a sense of peace and faith in the outcome. Or maybe just a doomed acceptance of whatever is is, and will be. Waiting for the bus is one thing, but the real clincher is having patience with ourselves and those around us. It is as if we have this expectation bar we need everyone to jump up to with gusto. Or an idea-feeling-need which isn’t understood by another.
But ‘why?,’ as my two year old niece asks...but she’s really not asking ‘why?’ but just saying ‘why.’ Will they ever get it? How is it possible they don’t understand me? These people are hopeless and stupid. Yes, she is right, of course. We rarely get it, and when we do, for the most part we are powerless to change our patterns. Quite a spectacle to view from a front row seat. An empty stage, but for a brick wall. I walk on stage, take a step backwards, then careen forward into the wall head first. This goes on for hours. Can I stop this somehow? I’m not quite sure complete cessation of the action is possible. Maybe. Or maybe I need to change the structure of the wall. Say instead of brick, it is made of whipped cream or jello. Today, I patiently await my appointment while watching Judge Judy.
ON FAITH
ON FAITH
11.11.10 Leo Carrillo State Beach
Found a tranquil spot nestled in some rocks just down the beach from a dead sea gull. A kid is throwing rocks relentlessly at the corpse. This kid is trouble. I am about to tell him to stop and his parents and their brood appear. His father tells him to stop because the gull is sleeping....hard. The kid runs towards me, then pretty much over me to start scaling the rock behind me. I see the look on the father’s face so I turn around to see the kid dangling in the middle of a too steep and shear rock with nowhere to go. Rocks and sand are falling on me. His father grabs him, and before the father can set him down he is running to his next adventure.
I was always fascinated with the idea of faith, and its many angles. I didn’t have any for most of my life...faith that is. I had plenty of angles. Which I suppose were helpful in the absence of belief.
When I was 8 I lived with my grandparents in South Carolina. Every Sunday there was Sunday school and church, and then a big lunch and an afternoon of playing. Not too bad, but more a social event than a time to consider what Jesus would do. There was a sense of doing a duty that would pay off later. Get dressed up, sing a bit, stand up and sit down a lot, and then later we eat ice cream and run around while the adults are passed out, or watching football. When I moved back to NYC to live with my mom, I wanted to continue to go to church. It represented a security and stability in my world that was otherwise turned completely upside down. My mom grew up in South Carolina attending church every Sunday, and had no desire to be involved. Every Sunday morning she would drop me off for church and Sunday school, and pick me up afterwards. Well, that didn’t last. But I believe that was the beginning of my quest.
I became obsessed with war and religion. The saying that ‘there are no atheists in the trenches’ was a guide in my search. So that was how far one had to go to really ‘feel the faith?’ It had to be an extreme life experience. I jumped into that with exuberance. In search of an experience that would click my soul into truly believing in...what? I didn’t know. I wasn’t looking for god, just craving a peace that everything was going to be okay. The world was chaotic and cruel, and my heart always ached. I saw, but couldn’t feel the beauty. I believed religion could fulfill this basic human need; the need to feel safe. Even though, I didn’t believe it could bring this solace to me, I was fascinated by and jealous of its power.
I chose intellect over experience at this point. That was how I instinctively searched for answers; instead of attending different types of services or meetings, or going on a pilgrimage, I majored in religious studies at Columbia.
Most of my friends growing up weren’t from religious households. Some of them had stable family situations, so their sense of well-being came from that, but many of us didn’t have that either. A generation without faith. Some found it later in work. Many searched for it in ‘alternative’ venues: The Secret, Landmark Forum, Native American Tradition, Buddhism, etc. I suppose ‘alternative’ is poorly used in that sentence. I just mean any path that veers from the judeo-christian world which surrounded me. My first real opening up on an experiential level, happened when I lived in Mexico for a year. After all of the reading and interpreting I had done around religion, I finally started to feel what people were getting from it on a visceral level. The people I met there were spectacular. They harnessed this inner peace that I had never seen in such abundance. They had the happy cult smiles, but it wasn’t scary. I just felt from them that there was no doubt about the interconnectivity of everything, and therefore, that everything was going to be okay. I was not ‘saved’ but it created a solid point of reference in my heart. Maybe this gave me hope, which is the precursor to faith.
The idea of faith in a god, I don’t quite understand. Faith in a thing. The faith I need is faith in a state, not a specific outcome; an okayness, a peace. I am so lucky to have had glimpses of this. To have moments where I have felt as if the universe was cradling me lovingly. The sense of well-being you feel in your toes.
The search that can never end. Many disappointments. Feeling as if I was broken in some way that excluded me from the possibility of feeling that peace. On a few occasions, I remember being around older people I found intriguing because of their craft and energy. I remember the looks in their eyes, and warm laughs, that were somehow an acknowledgement of my struggle. I think my heart is always on my sleeve, as they say. Pretty gross visual, really. There are many stepping stones...here comes that kid again. What is he going to do now? Whatever it is, it will be without fear. That’s the key, though; giving a child security and love in the first few years...because, obviously, all of this is based upon a trust in oneself. Then the peace one reflects outward just reflects back, and back and forth. It can possibly be a pleasant loop with moments of cloudiness.
ON LETTING GO
11. 13. 2010 oil derricks fairfax south of culver city
I am in oil derrick wonderland. There are white ones and black ones pumping up and down like that toy bird that drinks water. They are everywhere, and very funny. I am right next to a big one that has a very romantic creaking noise. The wind is light and gentle, and the sun is soft. The feeling of CA sun is like being lightly kissed all over. Sounds nice, huh? In the air there is a bouquet of oil. A flight lane to LAX is in front of me. The planes are low and slow, steady in their last few miles; the vessel soaking up the enormity and beauty of landing in LA. A stunning city to fly into in almost any weather condition.
A few weeks ago someone said to me ‘you’re really good at letting go.’ I laughed really hard at that one, I must say. I always feel like a dog with a bone when it comes to letting go. It’s just not going to happen even if the bone has disintegrated in my mouth. The process of letting go is excruciating because I cannot see the other side. The side where my heart is free. Whether it is trapped in love or haunted by a failed project, the ache seems permanent. And I spin; the situation is not the way that I want it to be, and I am not able to stop trying to make it better. Or just obsessing over a failure. How can I not? That was the last moment in time when that was a possibility. And now it has vanished, and I did not make it what it was supposed to be. Where is there peace in that? It’s a sickening feeling of dread. You know you are screwed. And every time you wake up you are free for a split second before your stomach turns and you are there again. Your memory slaps on the cuffs. It is a losing control of the mind. Stuck with blinders on in the muck and mire. And all you can do is bleat out the same thoughts over and over again. Re-edited and more dramatic maybe, but the same topic.
Letting go sounded like such a nice, fuzzy topic this morning.
Finally, some energy shift occurs; you get angry, you do something right, someone dies. Some sort of re-prioritization of feeling. A shake up.
Every time the oil derrick goes up, it blocks the sun and casts a shadow over me. From darkness to full sun, and back again. It feels quite all of a sudden when your heart is unburdened. And then all of the suffering seems absurd. And it is absurd. The difference being when you have let go you can laugh at the absurdity. It seems that it is getting easier to let go. But maybe that is because I am not holding onto anything in an extreme manner at the moment. But you never know what is around the corner. Some major heartache or disappointment? These oil derricks are hypnotic. And a bit erotic? Well, that is not the right word. Oil derrick porno. A little too steady, though.
For awhile I was doing this meditation on letting go. I would close my eyes and imagine swinging on a rope, and letting go into a stream. The feeling at the moment of letting go of the rope I would replay over and over again. The idea of assigning physical attributes to emotional states, and then dealing with them in that way makes a lot of sense to me. Physically forcing out emotions. It helps. When angry, proceed to batting cage. Just by writing about letting go is making me paranoid, and I am thinking of all of the possibilities of what could become ensnared in my brain; the holder of the perfect chasm of doubt.
ON THE PAST
11.17.10 LA river at Fletcher
While driving to write this entry, a blanket of sadness fell upon me. Maybe because the past is where I am stuck when I am depressed. Drowning in a pool of regrets, and what-ifs. Idle and putrid water where the only newness is maybe another level of pain that I might come up with as I am in bed seeing a new day start after staring into the darkness all night. I do remember good, but the good is usually in the form of people.
Maybe I became sad because I was just listening to “The Weight of Lies’ by the Avett Brothers, and well, it is sad; at least it sounds sad. It talks about moving from a place in order to escape yourself. And that you should run towards something, and not away from something. Wherever you are you bank on the newness of your surroundings to quel your mind from dealing with itself. It’s a ploy I might have put to use a few times in my life.
I am on the concrete banks of the LA river. There is a hipster-like guy with a bike and a camera on a tripod. I think he is filming himself running, then messing about with something in the river. The river is moving swiftly, creating a babbling brook soundtrack. The trees that are coming out of the river are filled with birds, but neither is competition for the rumble of the 5 freeway.
I walked here once before with Natasha and Alabama. They both got sunburns, and I did not. We couldn’t figure that one out, as I am the fairest of us all. We saw a huge fire on the 5 from the overpass.
LA is so visceral. Things are always falling down or catching on fire.
I am moving up the concrete side of the river, trying to keep the perfect balance of shade/sun that this fallen eucalyptus is affording me. Being comfortable, temperature-wise, in LA is an artform. It is not hot and sunny all of the time. I am not complaining about the weather, but it is so variable and wacky you have to keep a wardrobe in your car. The coolness falls with a kerplunk when the sun goes away.
My life is full of love and luck. I have a lot of gratitude for this. But my whole life has been spent trying to fix something inside of me that was broken at a very young age. Welcome me to the human condition.
Depression is the most self-indulgent state of all. But how do you move forward if you don’t care? So you are in a room, and you can think about anything as long as the basic tenet of the thought is about how much you suck. That’s all. And the past seems wasted or misused if you are depressed all of the time...because it is. The past is a missed opportunity, as is this very moment that you are regretting the past in the present.
A woodpecker just landed on a metal pipe. He looks very confused.
The past is present when forgiving is a problem; either yourself or someone else. It’s all the same. The same anger and bitterness that just kind of sits there. Looking at the world through shit-colored glasses.
Somehow my past is looking brighter these days. Slowly, I am waking from a stupor. Slowly, I am feeling the beauty around me.
ON THE PRESENT
11.21.10 construction site figueroa terrace 11. 13. 2010 oil derricks, fairfax south of culver city
It is a windy, blustery, fall-like day. I am in a construction site just down the street from my house. A few years ago it was an empty hill that stretched to the top of our neighborhood, forgotten hill. It was great to climb it at night and have an almost 360 degree view of LA. Especially on the fourth of july when the sky was filled with fireworks.
Then they excavated the hill and it was just a few mounds of dirt for a very long time. Now it seems the money and permits are flowing and construction is again underway. It is impossible to imagine this neighborhood with fewer parking places and more people. On friday they covered all of the mounds and walls of dirt with white plastic, in preparation for the rains. There was rain, but not the three straight days expected.
It is nice to think of the present as somewhere one wants to be. That is not today.
Today I want to crawl under a rock or one of these handy piles of dirt. I feel better being here now, though, and am not quite under a rock or pile of dirt yet. This is the moment I can change a situation, a look, a whatever. ‘The time is now.’
The present is good when there is focus; when the mind isn’t shooting off in a million different directions. In the past few days I have had so many movies going on in my head, that only a few conversations have been able to hold my attention. When I am like this I get a bit nervous, because I am floating without an anchor. I need to find at least one anchor right about...now. Sirens blaring, helicopters cruising back and forth, the 101 slow and rumbling, and palm trees bending dramatically in the wind.
My friend told me she didn’t feel 100% about somebody. This started a conversation about the impossibility of 100%. Even if someone is head over heels in love how is it possible to be 100% sure? It’s human nature to never be satisfied with ourselves. So if I can’t be 100% about myself, how can I be about someone else? Dimka and I talked about it a few days ago, and he was at 70% and I felt somewhere between 60-70%. That is pretty damn good, I think.
Of course, somehow I plummeted to 40ish percent in a very short time. But this is today, and then there is tomorrow. The missing percentage convinces us to doubt and question. Not always such a bad idea, especially if you only feel say 51% about someone.
I am reading “We� by Yevgeny Zamyatin, and I think his idea of explaining the world, in all ways, through mathematical equations is catching. But say you feel 90% enthralled with someone, and 10% is a question for whatever myriad of reasons. If the issue really is 10%, and not 90% masquerading as 10%, then the doubt is just a mind fuck. Then it is a fear of commitment.
And commitment isn’t forever is it? Isn’t it just saying you want to do the best that you can do? I am not light with commitments at all, but in order to move forward we have to make them. And on a day like today it is very hard to make any of any kind. Because I am holding a blackened 60%...hmmm, now I am thinking of tuna. And 60% is a lot of doubt and negativity to convert, push away, or numb. If only we could partition our hearts. I am sure I could function at 40% if I didn’t have the 60% nagging at me. This is me trying to stay in the present. I crave focus and intent, and the point, for me, is to stay in the present and not fall into the past or future.
ON SOLITUDE
11.29-11.30 under the sixth street bridge
11. 13. 2010 oil derricks, fairfax south of culver city
11.29.10 The two solitudes. One is generous and uplifting. It is chosen. In this I am a willing participant who desires to mold the form of my solitude. The other solitude feels like an exile.
11.30.10 Round two of solitude. One day later. I couldn’t do it yesterday. Paul said maybe I should be writing about anger now, instead. But solitude is so much nicer. Back under the bridge. Jackhammer jacking. I looked up solitude images...and what do you think I found? A cornucopia of silhouettes in front of serene bodies of water. You see? So very nice.
There is a strangely colored blimp that says “Conan� passing in the distance. I guess the color is pastel orange...saltwater taffy orange...orange mist. Somehow the birds under the bridge are sounding a lot like the weddell seals from through the ice. The Amtrak saunters by in front of me, tiny and quiet. Not a usual description of a train. It is just the front car so it looks like a bodiless worm.
My relationship with solitude has been a bit complicated. For a long time it was hard for me to see it as anything other than a punishment. I am an only child and so naturally spent a lot of time alone. I was very good at making up one person games and pretend people. But the apartment was confining. I was waiting for a situation that would free me. I didn’t really want the full responsibility of entertaining myself all of the time.
So once I was able to maneuver the city by myself to some extent, at least, I searched for what I felt was missing. And I found a family that is still my family, through all trials and tribulations, and without doubts. Because there were more people around, my time alone became more acceptable.
After high school, I had many different living situations. When I lived alone I fell into depression. But when I lived with people I, at least, felt part of this world.
Sometimes when I spend a lot of time alone, and then re-enter society I am engaged and present. But then sometimes when I try to come back I just flounder. People are talking, and that is fine, but I am not hearing a word. Well, maybe just enough to nod. Re-entry can be premature.
Really what I am trying to describe is that my solitude is precious, but only when it is filled on all sides with people. Not just any people, of course, but those who can exist on the border of solitude and company, and migrate back and forth without a visa. It’s taken me awhile to get used to this possibility. More shades of grey everyday. This applies for the healthy solitude of watching the sunset over the Pacific whilst ruminating on the complexities of faith, or the crippling solitude of say watching TV in bed for hours, and trying to just not think about anything. Somehow the latter is lessening...for now.
ON ANGER
12.1.10 strip mall across from the Renaissance Hotel on Highland
I just saw superman and superwoman walking down the street together. He was talking on his phone, and she was eating chips, but I could tell they were in love.
In the madness. It’s hard to find a place to be around Hollywood and Highland, because this area is anxiety. All you really want when you are in it is to get out of it by any means necessary. Rivers of cars, signs and billboards screaming at you. No bueno. Similar to Times Square, but not as bad actually. Once I was carried by a wall of people in Times Square, and I don’t see that happening here. Although, it does get dicey in front of the chinese theatre with all of the movie star impersonators. Highland hits the 101 just north of Hollywood Boulevard, and so there is a constant stream in both directions...6,7,8 lanes.
My first time experience on Hollywood and Highland sums it all up. It was a Friday night, and I was at the Burbank airport taking pictures of the planes taking off. Just killing time until I met Brad at Largo. Excited by the nearness of the thundering planes, and the prospect of hanging out with Brad and listening to exquisite music, I jumped into my car...it was too quick and violent of a jump. My pants split...split... split. Somehow I ended up at Hollywood and Highland that Friday night searching for pants, while wearing very split pants. Hordes of people everywhere, parking in the bowels of the earth, Jimmy Kimmel live just getting out. A few years later, I saw a BBC documentary about bringing Hunter S. Thompson on a road trip to Hollywood for a meeting. Near the end, he is crouched behind a car in a lot off of Hollywood Boulevard. He is completely tweaked out, ranting about the evils of this place. I get it. But maybe I don’t have to freak out like that.
Anger is hard. I think I am getting better at this one too? I am just beginning to realize that if someone is angry at you they don’t necessarily hate you. I only saw anger as an uncontrollable rage that tore apart all in its path. There was no full circle back to okayness, because anger was the foundation. It was an acid which dissolved my sense of well-being and self-worth. It programmed me. My reactions and actions were based on a desire to incite or placate it depending upon my age and mood. Not so pretty. That was all I knew. I realized that the anger that was closest to me was from a lifetime of disappointment and hurt. Sometimes it felt like it could be from many lifetimes. An anger that winds through the fibers of a being. Overwhelming and cataclysmic. Seeing this, I was afraid that might be how I was, as well. Maybe it was lodged insidiously in my flesh, and if I let it out it would become hateful and insurmountable. So I avoided it as much as possible. Basically, it meant that someone didn’t love me anymore, or was about to not love me anymore. So if something happened that upset or angered me, I would say nothing. Sit on it. Then it would fester. The anger would turn to hurt, and collapse into me and morph into depression. Obviously, self-worth is linked to this.
Part of my fear of voicing an upset is not feeling secure enough at mattering at all. And voicing an upset doesn’t necessarily lead to anger. It can, actually, lead to laughter. But I didn’t know that. And if it does lead to anger then it is not the end of the world. But I didn’t know that either.
I didn’t realize that sometimes its the best thing that can happen in a situation. Because, at least, it is out there, and not trapped inside, where I guess a lot of my anger is located. Just dropped a black pen on a brown shirt, ruined. Fuck. Kinda worse than Hollywood and Highland. Kind of makes me want to draw all over my pants, as well. I wish I got angry instead of hurt.
A healthy scenario is: something pisses me off, I get angry, I express the anger.... and then whatever. It doesn’t matter after that. With some people I can do this. I’m not sure why, it feels like a chemical reaction, not based on how well I know them, or how much I care. My fear is that if I am angry with someone, then they will walk away. Gone. I do what I fear doing, and what I feared happening is happening. Fantastic. And it feels like the end. And I want it to be, in a way, because what I have just heard is ‘you’re not worth my time and energy.’ Well, you already knew self-worth was an issue. It’s lessening, I am growing stronger. It’s much more fun when you can figure out and express what you need. The world starts to feel better.
I don’t get angry at others very often, so I don’t get to practice healthy anger management that much. Most of the time now, if I am angry, I don’t express it at the moment, but come back a week later and talk it through. This isn’t bad. This is better than not saying anything, but sooner is better than later. It is still hard to do. But I promised myself I would confront this, because it destroys relationships. It is dishonest and cowardly. And if I love someone how can I invite that venom into our space? It’s disrespectful. And once I spit it out, it opens up a discussion. And then we learn, and sometimes are very pleasantly surprised. I haven’t quite had a bad experience with that, but if it does happen I think I could have a successful angry episode. A win-win situation.
So the big one; anger at myself. I don’t know. Maybe I should be. I mean look at my life. Just kidding. I don’t know. A truck full of frosted xmas trees passes. I do know that the more love I am able to receive after disengaging some of the dysfunctional filters in my head and heart, the less angry I am at myself.
ON THE FUTURE
12.6.10 Evergreen Cemetery
Somehow I lost time today. Rushing to do this...anxious...sitting in a graveyard. Expectations can be deadly, but some care must be taken to envision the future. Without that, it is just a random rolling forward of time.
I have spent very little of my life thinking about the future. I spent most of my time trying to convince myself just to be and stay here. By whatever means necessary. It seems impossible that I want to be here now. Nothing changed that much...well, except for my desire to live. And where are the guarantees that I won’t fall clumsily from grace again?
I didn’t really fall before, though, I was just there from as far back as I can remember. Now I have been given the gift that I always wanted. So now I need to adjust some of my tactics. Instead of just trying to make it through the day, it’s time to create a vision of what I want my life to be.
A chinese lady and her son are here to change the flowers. The son is grown, but disabled. He fills the cans with water from the spigot. The lady burns incense as she separates and arranges the flowers. She chimes a bell...she then walks to each of the 4 gravestones she is tending, she has beads...she bows to each stone. She says ‘thank you for helping’ to the boy, and they are gone.
What do I want? Do I want children? How is that a possibility? Big question. What do I need? I made a piece of grass that looks like a seahorse having sex...kinda... with another piece of grass by bopping his bent head up and down. Obviously, I don’t need that much...that could be untrue. I see possibilities, I think I am stepping forward. Ah, black pen on brown pants. A tall, rail of a man in a dark three-piece suit and a hat is walking amongst the gravestones...circling/searching. Someone standing 20 feet away, talking on the phone. Alright. That is annoying.
When I fall again, will it be as hard and for as long? Not a great question, I know. The man on the phone is getting closer. The ideas of career and family have been mute points up until now, because I had no commitment to stay. And now I can make the shadow of the pen have sex with itself. Golden hour. Magic hour Responsibilities.
I miss the freedom of not wanting to be part of this life. I want to stay here as long as I can. The trick is to not let the anxiety make me feel otherwise. I believe I am more interested in doing that kind of thinking for awhile. The man is still on his phone. He just repositioned himself so I can hear him now. I stand up. He gets off and goes. Got it.
A flight path to LAX is to my left. A light blue plane in the light blue sky. It appears to be going up, but does that make sense? Maybe they are taking off from Ontario. The directionless insanity of the city follows me everywhere.
ON ADDICTION
12.25.10 Hollywood Center Motel
Getting here. Somehow relieved to be in this run-down motel in the middle of Hollywood. This isn’t the scary kind of motel, though. Not the kind with a guy standing at the entryway on his cellphone with his eyes darting this way and that suspiciously. Maybe it used to be, but now there are rules. No vistors after 9PM. No drug deals and no prostitution. From the feel of it they are pretty successful, but it is noon and not nine. There are twelve gongs from a nearby church.
I imagined writing about addiction in a seedier, scarier motel; someplace that would put me on edge. I am perfectly fine in this kinder, gentler motel. I used to actually say I would try anything once. Not anymore. I’ve made it this far with a great deal of luck, and don’t feel like tempting the fates so much. Plus, I don’t want to die.
My first night out in LA (when I was living 2 hours north in Summerland) my car was towed in West Hollywood. Not a big surprise. Almost an initiation into LA. Weho, as it is called, is notorious for its lack of parking and strange parking rules. There will be a pole with 4 different signs all giving, to the average mind, conflicting parking restrictions. After realizing my car is out of my reach for the night, I get in a cab, and ask the driver to take me to a motel close by. I barely knew LA. He drove me into the courtyard of one motel after another on sunset boulevard. I refused to even get out of the cab. The sketchiness factor was too much for even me. Finally, there was a Days Inn or some chain that was passable. Welcome to Hollywood.
Addiction. Okay. Basically, a need to fill a hole, a gap, a chasm left in your soul and psyche due to chemical imbalances and/or environmental scarring. How do you not, when you can? As I begin to write about it I feel that tingling uncomfortableness in my feet, and a desperation? And I am not physically or emotionally addicted at the moment. I am now on edge. A sinking boat with many holes. And I try to plug them with drugs, people, dreams, depression, etc. And whatever I plug it with pops out and creates a bigger more violently gushing hole. Fantastic.
Well, as far away as I have put myself from the spiritual implications of Christmas, I am, obviously, not meant to escape. I just received a sermon from the korean manager/owner of the motel. I was sitting outside my room writing, and he asked me what I was doing...um...and before I knew what was happening he was standing in an empty parking space in front of me with a garbage can full of leaves wearing a backwards baseball hat and sweats, leading me through his belief system. Which I believe is what I am doing to you, but I promise I am not wearing a backwards baseball hat and sweats. He talked to me of the difference between intelligence and intellectual. He spoke to me of the criminal mouth that eats meat. He spoke to me of the associative sin of someone who buys the meat for someone else. His pattern of sermonizing was clear. He would make a statement about an idea, and then ask me what I thought this idea meant. The first few times I fell for it. I would try to answer his questions, but I was always wrong so I started saying ‘I dont know.’ He was on his trip, excited, gesticulating. The old Mazda minivan next to him was me. The car my body, and the driver my conscience. The car is evil and will crash without an able driver. He is born again. Am I born again? I must find the beauty within me. I was born a saint, and must do good for humanity. The first step is vegetarianism. What do actions create? Fruit. How many pieces of fruit can I carry in my hands? Not many. That is why I need a basket. The basket is belief. The scriptures are a river. They need to flow and change. If they are stopped, then the water is stagnate and that is death. The reason he is talking to me? Because of my earlobes. My earlobe is separated from my cheek. This means in the past I have understood and do not need to read to understand. I just know.
Irony is dripping from the heinous bedspread (the kind you look at and only see bedbugs.....) and dingy yellowish flower curtains and creating a river that flows out the door into the empty swimming pool.
Where am I? Addiction. Okay again. Being addicted to heroin, in some way, is much more efficient than being addicted to TV or a person. First of all, there are moments of pleasure, at least in the beginning. Maybe so with a person, as well...no, actually not. Especially, if it is wrong from the beginning. It is similar to TV; a numbness. No high. Second of all, with heroin, the downward slope is much steeper. The affliction is harder to hide. Hitting rock bottom happens pretty quickly. Other addictions are easier to mask because their physical toll is not so obvious. I have spent most of my life switching from one addiction to another. Trying to replace one with another, while all along the addiction itself is just trying to replace something that is missing or broken inside with a diversion, a numbing. Filling the void. Addiction then dictates ones movements within the world. Because all is dependent on maintaining the habit. All realities are useful or not useful with regards to how they enable the feeding of the addiction. Will I be able to score heroin in Barcelona? Can I get out of work earlier so I can watch the rest of season 3 of 24 (crack). The motivation of one’s actions is then based upon some qualifier outside of oneself. Out of one’s control. But it is oneself who created that relationship out of fear and lack of trust of what is inside. So we externalize. Being strung out or spending 24 hours watching 24 didn’t force me into quite the introspective space I was forced into by being addicted to a person. Being addicted to a person was horrendous. I knew I should not be there. I did not want to be there. It was not fun. I felt dishonest and weak. I loathed myself for my inability to break free. But somehow I always went back, because I knew that discomfort, at least. It was stable. A stable unhappiness. A habit, routine. Certain aspects sucked, but certains aspects were, at least, numbing. I saw myself as a slave to that nagging void. Also, all of the unsaid feelings and truths between the two of us became monstrous and insurmountable. I was allowing fear to dictate and ruin my life. The relationship could have gone on forever, but I was released. Since then I have been clumsily, but honestly, trying to act outwardly, instead of falling inside of myself into a hole of fear and self-doubt. Or maybe not. Maybe I could just make my next addiction exercise.
This motel room is my shell. My protection from Christmas, from movement, from hurt. Breaking out of the shell is painful, but full of surprises. There are no surprises here. There is TV, sex, take out, sleep, and getting high. I really like motel rooms. A certain amount of control; one door in and out. If there is no shell, then those emotions are bare. The truth is, I suppose, everything hurts, but in the latter case, at least, there is the possibility of movement forward. Movement forward one step, followed by movement backwards one and a half steps. At least this is not stagnation. Because, as we know, stagnation is death. My addiction directs me to follow the bleak parade of repetitions that has led me thus far. But maybe there is enough here, inside of me now that can mold that into a life that walks with addiction, instead of constantly fighting against it.
ON CONSTIPATION
12.29.10 Hinano Bar washington boulevard
I cannot begin to explain how hard it was to get here today. I even got up in the middle of writing that sentence. The last day of mercury retrograde is kicking my ass. I can’t seem to do anything right. A lot of effort for not much payoff. Driving in circles, overspending, mis-spending. Not able to find an x-mas tree. I need peace. It’s got to be somewhere on earth.
Hinano bar on Washington Boulevard just a few steps from the beach. “Sweet Dreams” is playing on the radio. News of Styx playing at the House of Blues in Anaheim. Sawdust on the floor, and many large TVs with different sports happening or about to happen. I am in the back, and there is a TV a little in front and above me. The guys playing pool are looking at it in between shots. It kind of looks like they are looking at me with mouth open, dull TV stare, eyes glazed over. Only mildly uncomfortable, actually. An old man ambles in, says ‘hi’ to everyone at the bar, goes straight to the bathroom. Then he ambles back through the bar joking about something or other. As he is about out the door he says to the bartender: ‘there’s only one woman in here.’ I guess that is me. I can’t imagine that is such a strange state of affairs for this place.
I am here to write about constipation. It’s an unnatural, unhealthy state to be in, we know. When an idea, emotion, or action is trapped inside your mind, and it just cannot get out of the cerebral cortex. This suffocating feeling takes over the whole body. The longer you are trapped, the more damage the unborn does. Nerves frazzled, appetite gone, sleep becomes a dream. 93.1 FM is the station. Fleetwood Mac comes on...clapping at the bar. Perfect. Did she make you cry, Make you break down Shatter your illusions of love Is it over now-do you know how Pick up the pieces and go home.
It’s alarming, this constipation. It eats me up inside. The wall is so thick, and made with alien matter that is indestructible. I chisel away at it, and if I turn around for a second, when I spin back around my measly dent in the monster is filled back in with a different color, so my attempt is noted. I suppose it is all to do with fear, as most aspects of my psyche do. But it is, also, an inability to make a decision. It is ridiculous. I can see the merits or drawbacks of most possibilities. So I go nowhere. I produce nothing. Frozen in space while the world dances by me. A guy walks by me, and says’ doing your homework?’
I get so trapped in the details, and so focused on the best way to create that there is no creation. The same projects remain stuck in my thoughts for years; unrealized. This is incredibly non-organic. It stifles growth. The point is that it is better to just get work out there. It has to travel from the inside to the outside, and hopefully, seminate some thought inside somewhere else, that then travels from that inside to the outside, and so on...morphing. It’s natural. There is another woman in here now. She is very loud.
That was creative constipation. Emotional constipation is different, but the same. Really, I just want to write the word ‘constipation’ a lot. Onomatopoeia if ever there was one. Natasha told me she has a very hard time reading me. I know most people do. It’s odd that I can be crumbling inside, I mean tortured, but on the outside, I suppose, it isn’t so apparent. I feel like I am obvious. Maybe I should give more indication...ah, and there is the stifled emotion, not connecting the inner world with the outer. Attempting to maintain some safe distance. A distance that will save me from hurt? There is already an explosion of pain in my heart. It could get worse but at least it would move somewhere else. I need it to move out of me. I am not saying I want to move it onto someone else, but that is the problem. I am always worried about ‘someone else.’ Worry doesn’t help. Stagnation again. As I write my knee is tapping rapidly. I used to have this affliction all of the time. Ira calls it “going to Chicago” for some reason. Maybe you would be nervous to go to Chicago because the mob had a hit out on you...I don’t know. When I lived in Summerland, I thought about going to the top of Los Padres National Forest and screaming at the top of my lungs. I never could do it, though. Scream therapy makes sense to me.
A guy just asked me what I was writing about. I laughed, and said ‘nothing.’ ‘Constipation’ would have been funnier...and honest. Ouch. Part of my issue is my retarded realization speed. In many situations, I don’t know exactly how or why I am upset. Sometimes I can’t even think about there being a reason for the hurt or anger. The tendency in people with abandonment issues is to feel hurt or wounded in situations that would make most ‘normal’ people angry. I like labels. They make it easier for me when I look in the fridge, and when I am in the shower. I have no answers here. But now, at least, this constipation has passed.