Harking back to my original mission, I'm going to take a stab at another O Magazine memoir assignment. I'm jumping out of order on this because, let's face it, I'd rather choose a topic on which I feel I have an inkling of something to say right now rather than try to force thoughts on something else. Why make this any harder than it seems to be for me? So. Okay...
What I Had to Have...
Huh. Y'know, this is a funny one to me because, well, there are so many things in my life that I HAD to have.
Let's go with the obvious first...
CLOTHES
I'll admit that up until just a few years ago pretty much every article of clothing, shiny new shoe or bag that I fancied in the moment became something I had to have. I've been this way my entire life. Even in my single digit youth, I remember perusing the Sears catalog and marking all the pages of clothes I wanted. Always with a certain image or persona in my head that I desperately wanted to achieve. This habit has grown with me over the years. Now it's the entirety of the J Crew catalog that I pine for. I must've been born a clotheshorse. Honestly, I think it's a trait that is more inherent than it is learned. We all know there are those girls out there who hate to shop or just don't really think about it as often or as passionately as the rest of us. My best friend Amy is one of them. She's never been the type to plan her monthly budget around a pair of shoes. Sometimes I wish I could be like her. It'd make life so much more simple. Instead, buying new things is like a lifelong addiction and I'm a recovering addict just barely in check. Turning 18 was a joyous day for me. Why? It wasn't because I was of voting age (I registered) or because I could get a tattoo without parental consent (and I did) or because I was finally a legal "adult." No, the most exciting thing about turning 18 was being able to apply for credit cards. To me, at the time, it was like "Woohoo! Free money!" The very day of my eighteenth birthday I was in Express signing myself up for a future of debt management. Everything I had to have came to a grand total of nearly $15K by the time I was 23. This whole "adult" thing is a two way street and I've since been suffering the consequences of my uneducated, wanton credit card adventures. Now I'm much better at reigning myself in. EBay was a great help with that, surprisingly. On EBay I can ooh and ah and put everything I think I have to have on my Watch List. Then I get a certain number of days to decide if I really want that thing I had to have in the moment. I've found that most of the time I'll let an auction pass without bidding... and without remorse. By the same token, the things that really capture my attention then merit the effort of bidding to win them. Of course, when my competitive streak is ignited over a pair of J Crew boots, watch out!
The other category of my life in which this want it, need it, have to have it mentality has proven perilous for me is -- c'mon, take a wild guess...
BOYS
Or men. For some reason, even though I'm at an age where I should be calling them men, I still think of the opposite sex collectively as "boys." Well, most men are still boys anyway. Either way. As I mentioned previously, there is a part of me that likes the chase. Being able to prove to myself that I can win a guy, in some cases, has overruled having any real feelings for that person. But it's the targets that prove increasingly challenging that are the real bread and butter for my have to have it soul. The less they have to have me, the more I have to have them. Like a desperate, self-destructive, dysfunctional junkie I've fallen hard for the ones that were the worst for me and brought out the worst in me. And those situations have landed me in far deeper debt. Now, at 28 years old, I'm having to relearn the power of the poon because my own hunt and gather nature allowed me to fall prey to the deceptive power of the peen.
In general, I think I approach my entire life with this have to have it strategy. It's a double edged sword. Thinking you deserve to have anything your heart desires versus the lengths you'll put yourself through to get it. You think you're in control because you're the one doing the chasing, but really it's the pursuit that's controlling you. At what point does an object of desire trump your own self-worth? The answer should be:
NEVER.
But that's not always true, is it? Not in this greedy, image obsessed, consumerist world we live in (that we created) where we gauge our self-worth based on the shoes we wear, the bag we carry, the car we drive or the relationship status on our Facebook page. And I am most certainly a product of my environment (hello, expensive SUV gas guzzler that I naively thought I could afford!)...
However, with age I'm developing more awareness. I'm realizing that time flies fast. People come and go. Things change from minute to minute, day to day, year to year. Including my moods and desires. Fulfilling a compulsive want in the moment provides only a short term fix before I'm on to the next. What I had to have last year is irrelevant now. What I had to have last week is replaced with a wish bubble of what I have to have this week. Etc, etc, etc...
I've realized that coveting is more like a fun, motivational game not to be taken too seriously. If I can't get what I want right when I want it, that's probably because something better is in the pipeline... If I can't catch and conquer, it's probably not meant to be...
Yeah, I know. It's all easier said in theory. It is a lifelong addiction -- this pursuit that we call happiness. A moment is a gripping thing and instant gratification sure is tempting. But these days I TRY to remind myself that the relief will be fleeting. Because what I want is always changing...
Which is why I have a wardrobe full of treasures I wanted, needed and bought in the moment, but don't wear 75% of most of the time. And, why I've had those few moments of regret, wondering why oh why did I think I had to have him?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
HER
This is a story I started writing when I was 19 and living in Paris... I re-read it the other day and had a rare moment of liking something I wrote ages ago. I'm considering continuing the story as a weekly installment on this blog... Just thought I'd check with my fans first.
So please enjoy the read and tell me... Do you want to know what happens next?
******
"HER"
Wakeful dreaming. That’s what I like to call it. That time of night when you roll onto your side, eyes blinking and drifting shut, unseeing. Becoming aware of the city sleeping around you – or just rising. Its breath lifting the sheer curtains on your window, whispering over your furrowed brow. And you try to hold onto it. Onto that perfect dream…
I am always in that place, between sleep and awake. Always chasing the fading memory of a dream. And so it is, then, that I always know when it is time to rise. Sometimes I am thankful. Thankful that I always rise in the dark. When it's easier to let them go.
But the first night I dreamt of her, I held fast. Desperately willing my eyes to stay shut, squeezing them tight. She wasn’t a girl I knew. I had never seen her before. In the dream, though, she knew me. And every night thereafter, she followed me. From city to city, home to home. The way she spoke to me, like an old friend, a lost lover – it scared me. I had grown so desolate over time, as those like me do. Never letting anyone in, past the walls I had built. Somehow she got in. So familiar, so intimate. As if we'd known each other, had shared the world together. It thrilled me. Even when she would admonish my choices...
“She was too young.” “He was too dirty.” “Too wealthy.” “Too innocent.” She disapproved of them all. But really, she disapproved of me.
I never knew where she came from, invading my sleep. But I always looked forward to her company. She was beautiful, I knew it, even if I couldn’t distinctly make out her features. She was soft and light and sweet. I could feel her beauty. And that was how I recognized her… when I finally did see her. Awake and alert in the real world…
***
Echoing voices woke me. Lilting vowels and syllables carried on the brisk November wind, lifting from the street and up past the wrought-iron balconies of my ten story apartment building. And mingling with the musical conversation: A cab’s blaring horn... A barking dog... High-heels clicking on pavement... Joyous laughter and drunken shouts...
Another night in the city of lights...
It was only ten o’ clock and the streets just beginning to come alive. Time to get up. It was Saturday, after all, and there was fun to be had. I decided to head to Oberkampf, where I knew that pretty young things were easy to pick and rarely missed.
Always cautious, I never entered or exited through the front door of my building. I liked to come and go as I pleased, without the hazard of a doorman who could track my movement. I decided on my subterranean route, to match the dank and dour mood which had settled upon my shoulders like a heavy wool sweater. Down the spiraling staircase I went and into the cramped basement where, behind the bank of water heaters, there was an opening in the wall. A tunnel. Only big enough for a ten year old child to crawl through… or someone whose joints could bend and stretch inexplicably.
I emerged unnoticed from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and replaced the sewer grate carefully. The few pedestrians around not giving a second glance, hurrying past in their newly bought winter coats. I took the Metro from Champs-Elysees.
I had grown to like the Paris subway immediately, though it stopped running at only 1 am – midday for me. The swaying motion of the train always rocked me into a pleasantly mindless reverie, allowing me for just a moment to feel like one of them.
That night, however, I was anxious. Overcome with the feeling that something was about to happen. I fidgeted in my seat, fingering the collar of my black silk Versace shirt, smoothing my Armani slacks. I was dressed to kill. Hah.
God, I’m old, I thought.
The year was 2005. I'd been in France for three years already. In Paris for 2 years, 5 months, 9 days. I liked it better than most places I’d been. Perhaps because it was the first city I'd settled in for longer than six months. As was my habit on the Metro, I let my mind tick through the growing list of places that had failed to quell my restless spirit:
Nice, Monaco, Provence, Cannes. Malta, Majorca, Milan, San Sebastien. Berlin, Amsterdam, Prague – though Prague was more appealing every day. Hong Kong, Tokyo, Nepal, Bali, Fiji. London, Dublin, Glasgow. Cairo, Morocco, Dubai. Cuba and Mexico. The United States... Los Angeles, Seattle, Houston, Dallas, North Dakota, Missouri, Arkansas – frightening – Washington D.C., South Carolina, New York and my favorite, Miami, with all its gorgeous, blazing, blinding flesh. And of course, New Orleans... I'd return someday.
At St. Augustin the train moaned to a stop and I was knocked out of my thoughts as everything shifted. People stepped off, avoiding those who stepped on. The metro was like a ballroom and the commuters all engaged in a long practiced waltz. It was something I found at once amusing and somehow comforting. This dance would continue forever, as I would.
When those who had climbed on took their positions, there was that moment of perfect stillness. The wait for the lurch of the train that would carry them off into a night of experience. It was in that moment, that suspended time, that I first saw her...
She came flying down the stairs, graceful as a ballerina and possessing such beauty as I had only seen in Renaissance paintings. The loud horn sounded, warning that the train was about to depart, its doors slamming shut within seconds.
In a tenth of a second I was at the doors, resisting against the mechanical force. Holding them just long enough for her willowy figure to slip in past me.
“Merci,” she murmured.
American. I knew it immediately. Her perfect French accent was betrayed only by her pure and innocent gratefulness to a stranger. Her eyes barely met mine, but in that instant I was struck.
I sat directly across from her and studied her discreetly. She was definitely American... California... Los Angeles. It was obvious by her carefully careless look. Tall leather boots over perfectly faded jeans. Black cashmere coat, concealing a hint of some filmy, creamy material at her wrist. And haphazardly wrapped around her neck and shoulders was a shawl. The color blazed against her fair skin: pulsating, vibrant, deep, bright red.
Yes, I was taken with her… even before the realization hit me.
For a fleeting moment, I thought… As I said, she had fair skin. Pale as porcelain, flushing faintly over delicate cheekbones. Her lips were a soft, ripe pink. And to be bold enough to wear such a color, as if it were her trademark, a signature... But, no. It wasn't possible. She couldn’t be a vampire. The plain truth was right there in her eyes.
Her eyes which, every moment or so, would flick over mine, not quite meeting them. She was aware of me watching her. I sensed that she was used to this kind of attention, but not entirely fond of it. However, I could not relent...
I searched those eyes. The same burnished gold as her hair, differing only in the center of the iris where they faded into a clear, olive green. Her eyes were not those of one whose innocence had been sucked clean from her soul, against all will. They were not eyes that looked ahead into a bleak eternity. They were not eyes that had watched the life leave the face of another human being, quickly and gasping.
She was all of nineteen years old, twenty at most. She was fascinating. And so familiar...
That's when I knew.
***
“Why are you following me?”
She spit the words out, trying to enforce her strength as she spun around, wildly searching the dark street. Trying to see the predator she could feel lurking in the blackness. For an instant, she looked like a fierce Athenian warrior standing there in the moonlight. Her arms hung light at her sides, her fists clenched. Ready to attack. But I could feel her fear.
“I know you’re there.”
I let her wait a moment longer, as long as her adrenaline kept her rooted to the spot. As soon as it released her and she finally turned to go, I stepped out of the shadows...
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
***
So please enjoy the read and tell me... Do you want to know what happens next?
******
"HER"
Wakeful dreaming. That’s what I like to call it. That time of night when you roll onto your side, eyes blinking and drifting shut, unseeing. Becoming aware of the city sleeping around you – or just rising. Its breath lifting the sheer curtains on your window, whispering over your furrowed brow. And you try to hold onto it. Onto that perfect dream…
I am always in that place, between sleep and awake. Always chasing the fading memory of a dream. And so it is, then, that I always know when it is time to rise. Sometimes I am thankful. Thankful that I always rise in the dark. When it's easier to let them go.
But the first night I dreamt of her, I held fast. Desperately willing my eyes to stay shut, squeezing them tight. She wasn’t a girl I knew. I had never seen her before. In the dream, though, she knew me. And every night thereafter, she followed me. From city to city, home to home. The way she spoke to me, like an old friend, a lost lover – it scared me. I had grown so desolate over time, as those like me do. Never letting anyone in, past the walls I had built. Somehow she got in. So familiar, so intimate. As if we'd known each other, had shared the world together. It thrilled me. Even when she would admonish my choices...
“She was too young.” “He was too dirty.” “Too wealthy.” “Too innocent.” She disapproved of them all. But really, she disapproved of me.
I never knew where she came from, invading my sleep. But I always looked forward to her company. She was beautiful, I knew it, even if I couldn’t distinctly make out her features. She was soft and light and sweet. I could feel her beauty. And that was how I recognized her… when I finally did see her. Awake and alert in the real world…
***
Echoing voices woke me. Lilting vowels and syllables carried on the brisk November wind, lifting from the street and up past the wrought-iron balconies of my ten story apartment building. And mingling with the musical conversation: A cab’s blaring horn... A barking dog... High-heels clicking on pavement... Joyous laughter and drunken shouts...
Another night in the city of lights...
It was only ten o’ clock and the streets just beginning to come alive. Time to get up. It was Saturday, after all, and there was fun to be had. I decided to head to Oberkampf, where I knew that pretty young things were easy to pick and rarely missed.
Always cautious, I never entered or exited through the front door of my building. I liked to come and go as I pleased, without the hazard of a doorman who could track my movement. I decided on my subterranean route, to match the dank and dour mood which had settled upon my shoulders like a heavy wool sweater. Down the spiraling staircase I went and into the cramped basement where, behind the bank of water heaters, there was an opening in the wall. A tunnel. Only big enough for a ten year old child to crawl through… or someone whose joints could bend and stretch inexplicably.
I emerged unnoticed from beneath the Arc de Triomphe and replaced the sewer grate carefully. The few pedestrians around not giving a second glance, hurrying past in their newly bought winter coats. I took the Metro from Champs-Elysees.
I had grown to like the Paris subway immediately, though it stopped running at only 1 am – midday for me. The swaying motion of the train always rocked me into a pleasantly mindless reverie, allowing me for just a moment to feel like one of them.
That night, however, I was anxious. Overcome with the feeling that something was about to happen. I fidgeted in my seat, fingering the collar of my black silk Versace shirt, smoothing my Armani slacks. I was dressed to kill. Hah.
God, I’m old, I thought.
The year was 2005. I'd been in France for three years already. In Paris for 2 years, 5 months, 9 days. I liked it better than most places I’d been. Perhaps because it was the first city I'd settled in for longer than six months. As was my habit on the Metro, I let my mind tick through the growing list of places that had failed to quell my restless spirit:
Nice, Monaco, Provence, Cannes. Malta, Majorca, Milan, San Sebastien. Berlin, Amsterdam, Prague – though Prague was more appealing every day. Hong Kong, Tokyo, Nepal, Bali, Fiji. London, Dublin, Glasgow. Cairo, Morocco, Dubai. Cuba and Mexico. The United States... Los Angeles, Seattle, Houston, Dallas, North Dakota, Missouri, Arkansas – frightening – Washington D.C., South Carolina, New York and my favorite, Miami, with all its gorgeous, blazing, blinding flesh. And of course, New Orleans... I'd return someday.
At St. Augustin the train moaned to a stop and I was knocked out of my thoughts as everything shifted. People stepped off, avoiding those who stepped on. The metro was like a ballroom and the commuters all engaged in a long practiced waltz. It was something I found at once amusing and somehow comforting. This dance would continue forever, as I would.
When those who had climbed on took their positions, there was that moment of perfect stillness. The wait for the lurch of the train that would carry them off into a night of experience. It was in that moment, that suspended time, that I first saw her...
She came flying down the stairs, graceful as a ballerina and possessing such beauty as I had only seen in Renaissance paintings. The loud horn sounded, warning that the train was about to depart, its doors slamming shut within seconds.
In a tenth of a second I was at the doors, resisting against the mechanical force. Holding them just long enough for her willowy figure to slip in past me.
“Merci,” she murmured.
American. I knew it immediately. Her perfect French accent was betrayed only by her pure and innocent gratefulness to a stranger. Her eyes barely met mine, but in that instant I was struck.
I sat directly across from her and studied her discreetly. She was definitely American... California... Los Angeles. It was obvious by her carefully careless look. Tall leather boots over perfectly faded jeans. Black cashmere coat, concealing a hint of some filmy, creamy material at her wrist. And haphazardly wrapped around her neck and shoulders was a shawl. The color blazed against her fair skin: pulsating, vibrant, deep, bright red.
Yes, I was taken with her… even before the realization hit me.
For a fleeting moment, I thought… As I said, she had fair skin. Pale as porcelain, flushing faintly over delicate cheekbones. Her lips were a soft, ripe pink. And to be bold enough to wear such a color, as if it were her trademark, a signature... But, no. It wasn't possible. She couldn’t be a vampire. The plain truth was right there in her eyes.
Her eyes which, every moment or so, would flick over mine, not quite meeting them. She was aware of me watching her. I sensed that she was used to this kind of attention, but not entirely fond of it. However, I could not relent...
I searched those eyes. The same burnished gold as her hair, differing only in the center of the iris where they faded into a clear, olive green. Her eyes were not those of one whose innocence had been sucked clean from her soul, against all will. They were not eyes that looked ahead into a bleak eternity. They were not eyes that had watched the life leave the face of another human being, quickly and gasping.
She was all of nineteen years old, twenty at most. She was fascinating. And so familiar...
That's when I knew.
***
“Why are you following me?”
She spit the words out, trying to enforce her strength as she spun around, wildly searching the dark street. Trying to see the predator she could feel lurking in the blackness. For an instant, she looked like a fierce Athenian warrior standing there in the moonlight. Her arms hung light at her sides, her fists clenched. Ready to attack. But I could feel her fear.
“I know you’re there.”
I let her wait a moment longer, as long as her adrenaline kept her rooted to the spot. As soon as it released her and she finally turned to go, I stepped out of the shadows...
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
***
Yeah, I know...
Halloween is so over... but I had started writing the previous entry on the day of and couldn't not finish it. See? Progress! I'm sticking to my commitments. Now... I'll try a 60 page pilot script commitment...
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