From her ‘whore’ period
You know the thing Hollywood always gets wrong? There’s nothing glamorous about being “dark” or “gritty”. Those “dark” and “gritty” people, well in real life they are the people you can’t stand. The sister that always asks you for money, or the brother who happens to be bat shit crazy; those people are “dark” and “gritty” and in my rather extensive experience with dregs of society very rarely are they glamorous.
But that’s the part that Hollywood gets right. There’s a market for these characters. The brilliant but misanthropic doctor, the alcoholic misunderstood detective; the characters tap into some primal nerve, some dark desire we all have to throw off the conventions of society and live a bit outside the norm. The desire we all have to live selfishly, of and by our own desires, but ultimately most people never do.
The safest way for us to live out these desires without alienating our friends and family, or becoming destitute and turning to a life of crime is to watch it on the big screen or once a week in syndication. We all sit back with secret smiles while the main character chains smokes his way to solving another mystery, but we don’t have to wake up with the cough.
I wonder if someday, a hundred years from now, someone will be walking through a museum exhibit on a tour led by some silver haired grandma with gold-rimmed glasses. She’ll stop and point something out and say: “this is an example of her earlier work, from her ‘whore’ period.” Everyone will look and squint and then the grandma will get inpatient and say: “but if you follow me down the hallway you’ll see a golden example of her other work from..” Her voice will trail off as she leads them further away from the laptop open to my anceint tumblr page.
I worry sometimes that this could become the only interesting thing about me. This will be the only abnormal thing I ever do. There won’t be any great novels, books of poetry, or poorly adapted screenplays. That the only card I’ll have to play in the ‘Didn’t I Lead an Interesting Life’ game will be the years I spent as a whore.
Things I’ve Accomplished While Waiting For My Manager To Book Me Something
- Made my bed
- Cleaned my room
- Painted my nails
- Stressed about my unpaid bills
- Did all dishes
- Organized shower and threw out all empty shampoo bottles
- Alienated almost-boyfriend
- Called my mother to talk about soap operas
- Pre-emptively did hair and make up
- Stared at phone willing it to ring (this approach has not yet been successful)
I know I deserve this. I flake out last minute on an appointment, and I deserve to be punished by sitting here all night wanting to work but not being booked. Lesson learned, I have successfully been disciplined. Bad hooker! I just realized how much money I need to come up with in a rather short amount of time… it’s really depressing. I’m sure almost-boyfriend thinks I’m a huge money loving freak, but the reality is I’m just trying to get my damn head above water. But seriously manager, lesson learned. I will now go back to being a good girl, and not a huge flake. Please let me work?
The only thing worse than the waiting is the hunger. I’m hungry, but I don’t eat before appointments as a rule. So until I know whether I’m in the clear or not, I can’t eat. I’m going to go rewash the dishes now…
I’ve started keeping better track of my appointments. I guess as an agency girl, and also the fact that I don’t see any new clients has made me a bit lazy when it comes to chronicling my encounters. I have a few regulars and for the most part I keep their life stories straight, but I sort of end up being really vague about my own life because I sort of forget the details of what nonsense story I tell them. I figured a moleskin and a pen will end this bad habit. Plus it will be fun to keep track of important names in their lives, and what I’ve worn to their previous appointments. I’ve just been super lazy lately, but I’m pulling it together. This is my business, this is my job. I want to be the best at what I do all the time, and for the most part I am but I know I’m capable of doing better. So time to get serious…about whoring. In other news I’m on a fast. It might turn me into a preying mantis that eats her clients after having sex with them, but so far it just makes me pee a lot. This is over sharing…
To be beautiful and delicate…
I told you that I wanted like to be beautiful and delicate, like an antique tea cup. You said “it already is.” Sometimes I ache for my life to be art, I crave a life that falls out of the pages of an Anthropologie catalogue. I want to be delicate and infinately breakable. To wear cream colored dresses that never seem to get stained. I want to be a girl who wakes up in the morning happy with no real reason to feel that way. But I won’t ever be that girl.
I will always wake up late, and generally grumpy. It will take me at least an hour to convince myself that it’s even worth getting out of bed, and another hour to ingest enough coffee to even make me consider showering. I will always be a girl for whom time seems to move either entirely too quickly or crawl by unbearably slowly. I will always be difficult to be around. I can be kind to strangers but with anyone I’ve known for more than day I will be infinately complicated, and entirely decietful.
But for a few hours a few times a week, I can fake the dream. I can pull myself together enough to appear to be whatever I’m being paid to be. I can be sweet, or I can be naughty. I never have to be myself, just whoever I decide to be on the way there. I listen to playlists that are named after the women I can become.
Some nights I just sit up and stare at my suitcases. I could pack up and leave. I could climb in a taxi and never look back. I could just disappear into the night. Hop on a train, jump on a plane to where ever. And in the dust no two people would describe me the same way. No one knows it all. No one has opened all the boxes and had a look inside. Sometimes I worry that I’m not even real, I’m just some romanticized version of a person and that’s all I’ll ever let myself be. I’m so in love with literature that I’ve made myself into a living breathing character; that I am the art.
You’ve been gone for two years now but sometimes I wonder what you would say, if you could love me enough to take it all in without flinching. I remember the way your voice sounded; husky and deep like you’d always smoked just one too many cigarettes. I remember how you would catch my face in your hand and tilt my chin up so I had to meet your eyes. It always made me feel like some dame in 40’s private detective movie.
I remember the night I told you that I felt like sugar coated barbed wire. I felt like I had this sweet coating, and if you never went past that I could be your best friend, but underneath that sweetness when you really tried to get to know me I would rip you to shreds before you ever saw anything real. You laughed and said you had the scars to prove it and stuck your hand up towards the ceiling so it caught the moonlight through the curtains.
The scar ran from the night I smashed the wine bottle on the kitchen floor and your crawled across the glass to get to me because you said that hurt less than losing me. I cried until the sunrise, and you just sat there rocking me with your hand wrapped in a baby blue dish towel with peacocks on it.
I lied when I told you I burned that towel. I washed it but the blood stains never came out, and it’s folded up at the bottom of the desk drawer that’s filled with pictures because every once in a while I like to take it out and remember that for one moment in my life someone loved me that much. And then I fold it back up and put it in the back of that drawer and wonder where you are and what you think when you look at that scar.
“ She said she knew we were safe with you, and always would be, because once, when she asked you to, you’d given up the thing you most wanted.”
Archer received this strange communication in silence. His eyes remained unseeingly fixed on the thronged sunlit square below the window. At length he said in a low voice: “She never asked me. ”
The Age of Innocence
I think you do too
I whispered in your ear, “sometimes I want to burn the whole thing down to ashes, to cinders, to dust.”
You squeezed my hand and whispered, “I want nothing left of the empty rituals.”
You couldn’t hold me tight enough that night under the stars. We were camping out of the back of your car, in the middle of nowhere, on the side of a road that made a nine mile loop.
I wanted to be a part of you, to be so close to you that nothing in the world would ever seperate us. I wanted to push myself so inside of you that our thoughts would be that same, but both of our skulls proved to thick for that.
It was the perfect night because there was literally no one around for miles, and for a few blissful hours we were the only people in the world.
You loved to hear me talk about the crazy ways I saw the world, and I loved when you got excited about a song that came on. You’d tell me the entire history of the band, or the movement the band was apart of before the song was even over.
We were young and infinite and the world was just the shadows cast against the cave wall but we weren’t afraid to look for the light.
You told me you loved me in the middle of the night, curled up together on a friend’s couch. You were wrapped around me, our legs interlaced, and I was just waking up still drowsy and a little drunk. You kissed me like you hadn’t seen me in days and said, “I think I love you.”
I laughed and said, “I think you do too.”
“ You mean- I’m so evidently helpless and defenseless? What a poor thing you must all think me! But women here seem not- seem never to feel the need: any more than the blessed in heaven.”
He lowered his voice to ask: “What sort of need?”
“Ah, don’t ask me! I don’t speak your language,” she retorted petulantly. ”
The Age of Innocence