Childhood: the period of human life intermediate between the idiocy of infancy and the folly of youth - two removes from the sin of manhood and three from the remorse of age. ~Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary, 1911
-Memory
Noun
1 a person's power to remember things: I've a great memory for faces | my grandmother is losing her memory.
• The power of the mind to remember things: the brain regions responsible for memory.
• the mind regarded as a store of things remembered: he searched his memory frantically for an answer.
• the capacity of a substance to return to a previous state or condition after having been altered or deformed. See also shape memory.
2 something remembered from the past; a recollection: one of my earliest memories is of sitting on his knee | the mind can bury all memory of traumatic abuse.
-Regression
Noun
1 a return to a former or less developed state.
• A return to an earlier stage of life or a supposed previous life, esp. through hypnosis or mental illness, or as a means of escaping present anxieties: [as adj.] regression therapy.
• a lessening of the severity of a disease or its symptoms: he seemed able to produce a regression in this disease.
Primary socialization: occurs when a child learns the attitudes, values and actions appropriate to individuals as members of a particular culture. For example if a child saw his/her mother expressing a discriminatory opinion about a minority group, then that child may think this behavior is acceptable and could continue to have this opinion about minority groups.
Secondary socialization: to the process of learning what is appropriate behavior as a member of a smaller group within the larger society. It is usually associated with teenagers and adults, and involves smaller changes than those occurring in primary socialization. Entering a new profession, relocating to a new environment or society.
Developmental socialization: the process of learning behavior in a social institution or developing your social skills.
Anticipatory socialization: refers to the processes of socialization in which a person "rehearses" for future positions, occupations, and social relationships.
Resocialization: refers to the process of discarding former behavior patterns and accepting new ones as part of a transition in one's life. This occurs throughout the human life cycle. Resocialization can be an intense experience, with the individual experiencing a sharp break with their past and needing to learn and be exposed to radically different norms and values. An example might be the experience of a young man or woman leaving home to join the military, or a religious convert internalizing the beliefs and rituals of a new faith. An extreme example would be the process by which a transsexual learns to function socially in a dramatically altered gender role.
Organizational socialization: he process whereby an employee learning the knowledge and skills necessary to assume his or her organizational role. As newcomers become socialized, they learn about the organization and its history, values, jargon, culture, and procedures. They also learn about their work group, the specific people they work with on a daily basis, their own role in the organization, the skills needed to do their job, and both formal procedures and informal norms. Socialization functions as a control system in that newcomers learn to internalize and obey organizational values and practices.
Durkheim's work revolved around the study of social facts, a term he coined to describe phenomena that have an existence in and of themselves and are not bound to the actions of individuals. Durkheim argued that social facts have, sui generis, an independent existence greater and more objective than the actions of the individuals that compose society. Being exterior to the individual person, social facts may thus also exercise coercive power on the various people composing society, as it can sometimes be observed in the case of formal laws and regulations, but also in situations implying the presence of informal rules, such as religious rituals or family norms. Unlike the facts studied in natural sciences, a "social" fact thus refers to a specific category of phenomena:
A social fact is every way of acting, fixed or not, capable of exercising on the individual an external constraint; or again, every way of acting which is general throughout a given society, while at the same time existing in its own right independent of its individual manifestations.
Such social facts are endowed with a power of coercion, by reason of which they may control individual behaviors. According to Durkheim, these phenomena cannot be reduced to biological or psychological grounds. Hence even the most "individualistic" or "subjective" phenomena, such as suicide, would be regarded by Durkheim as objective social facts. Individuals composing society do not directly cause suicide: suicide, as a social fact, exists independently in society, whether an individual person wants it or not. Whether a person "leaves”, a society does not change anything to the fact that this society will still contain suicides. Sociology's task thus consists of discovering the qualities and characteristics of such social facts, which can be discovered through a quantitative or experimental approach (Durkheim extensively relied on statistics).
DEFENSE MECHANISMS
1- Pathological: Delusional projection, Denial, Distortion, Extreme projection, Splitting
2- Immature: Acting out, Fantasy, Idealization, Passive aggression, Projection, Projective identification, Somatization.
3- Neurotic: Displacement, Dissociation, Hypochndriasis, Isolation, Intellectualization, Rationalization, Reaction Formation, Repression, Undoing
4- Mature: Altruism, Anticipation, Humor, Identification, Introjection, Sublimation, Thought suppression.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Thursday, March 25, 2010
It is either this or I am talking to myself for the rest of my life.
Story Tips:
Be Forewarned:
The Moth is NOT a venue for readings, it is a venue for tellings. No notes, papers, or cheat sheets are allowed on stage. Contestants are judged on sticking to the five-minute time frame, sticking to the theme and having a story that sticks—one that has a conflict and a resolution.
Start in the action:
Have a great first line that sets up the stakes or grabs attention.
Not: "So I was thinking about climbing this mountain. But then I watched a little TV and made a snack and took a nap and my mom called and vented about her psoriasis then I did a little laundry (a whites load) (I lost another sock, darn it!) and then I thought about it again and decided I'd climb the mountain the next morning."
Yes: "The mountain loomed before me. I had my hunting knife, some trail mix nd snow boots. I had to make it to the little cabin and start a fire before sundown or freeze to death for sure."
A) Steer clear of meandering endings!
B) They kill a story!
C) Your last line should be clear in your head before you start.
Know your story well enough so you can have fun! Watching you panic to think of the next memorized line is harrowing for the audience. Make an outline, memorize your bullet points and play with the details. Enjoy yourself. Imagine you are a dinner party not a deposition.
No standup routines please.
The Moth LOVES funny people but requires that all funny people tell funny STORIES.
NO RANTS:
Take up this anger issue with your therapist, or skip therapy and shape your anger into a story with some sort of resolution. (Stories = therapy!)
No essays:
Your eloquent musings are beautiful and look pretty on the page but unless you can make them gripping and set up stakes, they won’t work on stage.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
EVERY WARP ZONE DROPS INTO THE PAST
Personal Rules, Caveats and Mores I Have Shattered Like Brittle Bones In an Ancient Mausoleum; November – December 2008
First dear reader let it be known that I accept little to no blame for some of these actions, as they have been set in motion by the machinations of fate. Fate and FM radio who began an unprecedented early coup this year at Halloween (perhaps in the employ of a not so Jolly Santa). Taking over the airwaves like a hive of Africanized honey bees, hell-bent on blocking any song from the airwaves that did not reek of holiday cheer. By November 1st there red and green striped abdomens swollen with the blood of classic rock DJ’s this blood hungry swarm had many stations playing Christmas music 24/7. By December 1st the whole town was half papered and ribboned like the awkward gift given by a child and in case you for some reason hadn’t left your house in month, more Yule tide cheer was being pumped through hidden speakers should anyone being driven to madness try to destroy them.
{DISCLAIMER: these are not the ranting's of a bitter Jewish girl who has been overwhelmed by Noel. I find many of the Carols and lights quite beautiful. Rather the recounting of how a girl with a presently sensitive constitution can be pushed to what feels like the precipice of her sanity when such immersion takes place. On I would imagine the early deluge of music and ‘cheer,’ is retailers reaction to the downward spiral in the economy and there deep seated fear that the true meaning of the holidays BUYING will be neglected. They may, however have put the cart before the horse, due to the fact that the jolliest of carolers have their tipping point. When the time comes round to throw the Yule log on the fire the sound of one more jingle bell may prompt an incendiary toss in another direction.}
In recent years I have developed a hypersensitivity to many things, I believe it to be a physical manifestation of the way I feel about present life situations and stressors. Except for certain ones; house remixes of house remixes of house songs (can actually cause hives), drunks who can’t have a yearly income over 20K who bitch about Obama’s tax raises (they aren’t going to affect you, just man up and call him a nigger like you want. Say it you only like niggers who sell you drugs which is how you squander your 20K) being a racist will make you an ass but at least you sound like a minor informed ass, people who play the same two Allmans Brothers songs on juke boxes in bars (Whipping Post and), girls who are so desperate for a boyfriend because their masters degrees or doctorates don’t validate them as humans beings that they will date any old chump with no regard for personality, attraction, intellect or how they are treated, girls (women?) who worship “Sex in the City,” but turn there noses up in judgment at those who engage in coitus outside of a relationship.
“Slut, harlot,” declared in their disapproving glances at each other while sipping their cosmos, a new exciting drink which renders them classier then the sex on the beaches and long island ice teas they imbibed formerly, (wouldn’t they be shocked if they knew the Cosmo had existed since the early 1900’s). Judgment declared by these former cheerleaders girls and upper east side princess’s shoved into BCBG dresses that are shoddy knock offs of the designer clothes on the show that has taught them class as they stuff their faces at wing night.
The gradual disintegration of my sense of order (which was despite what may have been apparent to the world, existed at the core of my chaos like the nucleus of a cell) required the penetration of my safety chaos. This layer surrounded my order and was understood and fixed in place by me. It is a swirling nebula that could be interpreted by no one but myself. I have no idea how it appears to others. Perhaps all who have had a glimpse, just a peek, at it have seen something entirely different: a desert, a bunny, a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and a garden. Like those films where with every death, those who have passed on walk into a bright light to emerge into their own personalized heaven (a particular Robin Williams and Annabella Sciorra vehicle comes to mind, alas the name escapes me). Yes, if a comparison were being made, I would say we are dealing with a chaotic candy coating over an atomic center of creative calm chewy heaven. I suppose that was not so much a comparison as an explanation, or an analogy, which is as cryptic as the theory of a nuclear candy truffle of calm and chaos swirling about storing my soul.
The dense pile from which I pull my happy items as well as thoughts (sad, happy, bizarre, nonsensical you name it) looks like rubbish to the naked eye. Well, looks like rubbish to pretty much anyone’s else’s eyes, under my discerning gaze however it is a sparkling pile of precious items both tangible and with out corporeal nature. I can identify every layer.
I may have digressed from my point, although I think my point may have not understood why things must be so linear. If so then digression in this case was proving my point. Let me ponder, if I cannot pick the point back up post-digression then I have effectively disproved myself, which would be very upsetting. The nuclear chaos truffle would burst open like the Death Star, and I am afraid I would not find my way back.
November, December, Christmas music and a coup of the radio channels, chaos candy coating, nucleic shell of calm… calm shell, ah yes.
The rampant chaos outside the candy chaos: Nature .V. Nurture .V. Government.
My increasingly disorganized mind having slowly grown at times to distinguish what year it is since being displaced back to child hood bedroom. This undignified uprooting coincided nicely with the apex of my 20’s and 30 approaching faster than any other year (something about it reminding me of the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse from ‘Raising Arizona’), I blame my hippie beatnik parents. While aging and becoming uptight now, I for some reason knew from an early age, “don’t trust anyone over 30,” because, this is the zinger,” they are narcs.”
My bedroom looks like a carnival had set up camp there, then after breaking down and moving on accidentally left behind the contents of one or two wagons. The old and the new are twisted about each other like ivy; some of the boxes are so precariously placed on top of each other they appear in semi-darkness to be the ruins of a city. The walls are covered with the same posters that were placed there over a decade ago, Einstein riding a bike, ‘Faster Pussy-Cat, Kill Kill,” an unfinished painting that I will finish one day. Same damn Formica furniture, including a giant desk, which is currently the bane of my personal nesting experience. Despite my intense spite for this white behemoth of a waste of space I am forbidden to remove it (ever) as I apparently begged for it when I was eleven years old. If I could I would go back in time and slap myself silly outside of ‘Bed Bath and Beyond,’ wherever this Formica albatross came from.
Oh, then the boxes, like cardboard coffins holding various pieces of my life dating from the late 1990’s to the recent present. Towering about the small room giving at times giving it the ambiance of the garbage room where Han, Princess Leia and Luke were very nearly crushed on an Imperial Cruiser, or was it on the Death Star? Heavy smaller boxes filled with books have staged a coup of the entire house like literary foot soldiers dressed in the brown camouflage of chaos despite their contents of precious words and information.
The confusion doesn’t end in my room; it has spilled out of my corner of the universe and into the rest of the house. My couch, an extremely generous gift from my mother via ‘Jennifer Convertibles,’ which I had asked for and upon receipt did not have the heart to inform her was back breaking painful to sit on for any extended amount of time. Has been temporarily placed in our dining room/living room and covered with a salmon colored blanket of sorts. Bosco (large poodle) has annexed it and for all intents and purposes he now owns it. I think salvage laws are applicable here.
PART II
Bosco the poodle, epileptic with touches of attachment disorder stemming from his early childhood. Previous to my noble family being alerted to his plight by the ‘Poodle Crisis Hotline,’ (yes it’s real) he was kept in a cage and drugged by his first owner. The douche bag had gotten a puppy but then been very turned off by the young pup’s need for attention and even more put off by the pup’s proclivity to bark, ever. Leaving the young still growing dog locked up and doped up on human tranquilizers solved his problems until his scrip’s ran out, long story short Bosco is now a Nack. His epilepsy aside the condition being common ailment in purebred male standard poodles, and his ‘attachment,’ disorder diagnosed by mother a certified LCSW, he has also recently been dubbed mildly autistic (also by my mother). I didn’t have health insurance for two years, Bosco has fantastic health insurance. I would never deprive him of this, as he is my furry boo, however sometimes I look at his medical care versus the level of my own over the recent past and contextually it is frustrating. Bosco takes Zonisamide for his epilepsy, Zonisamide is a drug used for mood stabilization in bi-polar humans as well as for seizure disorders. He takes this because Phenobarbital (which our last epileptic poodle Texas was on) has a high risk of cancer of liver. Even on the Zonisamide Bosco must have blood drawn every three months to check his liver function. This blood must be sent to a laboratory at the medical school in Auburn Alabama, as it is the only lab in the entire United States equipped to test for the specific levels that give a clear picture of the drugs effect on the liver and other organs. Bosco has also had an ear infection for almost two months now, the poor dog has been miserable. His regular veterinarian, a Cornell educated vet may I add, has had him on three different antibiotics, four different eardrops as well as had to sedate him twice for some serious plucking and cleaning. When these tactics failed, Bosco was referred to a large dog dermatologist, which is the canine equivalent of an ENT. After careful examination of his records and many ear swabs it was decided he had and yeast infection in his ears as the result of some allergy. Since there is no way to determine what his allergy is a special diet was implemented.
- Kibble made of rabbit and organic greens (no wheat); very similar to a meal I had in a fancy French restaurant on my 23rd birthday.
-No rawhide or any chews, sweet potatoes and white potatoes are the only acceptable snacks (god bless the Kong).
-Organic gluten free, sugar free, every thing free tiny, tiny, tiny biscuits, not at all satisfying.
PART III
The ‘Warp Zone Effect,’ this is my theory: Upon moving home as and adult,’ there will always be an element of regression that occurs. How intense this regression is depends on the various factors surrounding the situation surrounding the factors involved in the move, as well as how strong the loss of autonomy is felt and or imposed upon the ‘adult,’ child. For some, those who experience a larger loss of their autonomy whether real or imagined, there is a reaction directly proportionally to this perceived loss.
As a direct reaction to this the confused chicklet (as we shall refer to the adult child displaced back to the nest), ventures out on small and unnecessary in an effort to reassure themselves that they indeed still have control over their actions. Despite having to tell the mamma bird where they are going, who they are going with and an estimated time of return which if not accurate leads to a series of hysterical/scolding phone calls.
The chicklet ventures out to the old stomping grounds uneasily, despite the familiarity of these roads and the structures that sprout from them, the chicklet feels ill at ease. The asphalt curves the same way, the beaches smell the same, the buildings look the same, but something isn’t right. It doesn’t ring true; there is hollowness to this landscape. The familiar landscape is haunted with whispers and imprints of the past, buildings seem flat like an abandoned movie set. The places where best friendships were formed, first kisses were had, fights were fought, peace was made, 40’s were drank, joints were smoked, the places where the chicklet was made into who she is seem hollow and barren. Hidden coves, parking lots, deli steps, basements where social stereotypes were put on hold and an elks head became an icon, a bar where a high school ID and a little sass was the price of entry, the pier adjacent to the boat house of an old mansion where kegs hid in the reeds, the sidewalk outside a bookstore and across the street from a record store, the parking lot of the YMCA where hardcore shows were scheduled between senior activities; the places where first crushes were formed, first hearts broken and alliances formed that haven’t wavered in over a decade. All barren and silent except for the whispers of memory. The occasional person wandering past feeling more like and extra on a movie set than an actual human being.
The chicklet’s heart breaks a little every time she desperately looks for a glimmer of her home. She goes and sits down on pilings by the picnic table at the marina like she used to, only now she is alone. Staring at the water so hard it blurs in front of her like an Impressionist painting. A deep sadness grips her so hard she feels as if she can’t even breathe at times. The madness that has seeped into her life for the past year has driven a wedge in between her and the corporeal actual people whose ghosts she was mourning for. She only goes to the beach and the pilings at night after this.
She gets Wi-Fi at the weathered picnic table, she writes there. Summer passes swiftly and the air grows chilly faster then she remembers. Some sort of deeply buried programming kicks in and she heads to the ‘Shamrock,’ in the cold, like a moth drawn to bright lights. The bright lights hide a warp zone, whoosh, slipping through a crack in time or perhaps in her mind everything rewinds.
“Oh, look the little chick let smoking grass at the marina. Wait is she, why yes, look at the little chicklet making out in the front seat of a tiny sports car with a man from her past.”
Cheep, cheep, cheep.
“ Chicklet must not be so little anymore, setting off the hazards, windshield wipers, honking the horn, turning the headlights on and off all with her ass.”
Chicklet doesn’t recall he booty being such a hazard in the past, you can put the chicklet through the looking glass but her ass holds tight to the present. Chicklet is mildly disheartened at this. Shaking off her confusion at what seems to be the reversal of time and wondering why if she is going to be trapped in a familiar past all alone why couldn’t she be trapped with a better ass. Tip-toeing into her house like a teenager taking advantage of her lack of curfew she becomes very aware of how her jacket smells like smoke. Fumbling for the Febreeze in the laundry room she knock drying racks over, waking the dog, waking her mother who not really awake sleep scolds, “ what you doing, irresponsible, 29, sister.” Chicklet claims the next morning that she arrived much earlier and was awakened by the dog as well.
One perk of faux 1997: Current screwy poodle not a barker. I am sitting in the bedroom going through the strata of my belongings. Thus far I have found the following: I have been working my way with a pick ax through shoes and clothing for weeks. I have already found 45 golf balls, a cat skull, a 7 inch of 'We are the World,' a mummified human foot, a broken loom, a New York Herald dated 1795, one creepy china doll, a box of lead bullets (them round ones), what appears to be a broken wood hand, some large molars, crushed shells in some leathery thing, scrim shaw, a partial human pelvis, a weird silver ball that is hovering around the room, the shroud of Turin, the REAL hope diamond, Elvis (he is indeed dead) and I think I see Keith Richards but he just waved, so think he is just taking a nap.
“Chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet,” little chicklet, little nestling, suffering from a crisis of self, a crisis of time and it’s suddenly non-linear progression. Wandering about forlornly, the chicklet's thoughts wander slowly through her head questioning this amazingly accurate representation of her world, her home, and her memories. Is this some tear in the universe she has fallen through, is she consigned to oblivion, had she really become that defunct that an unprecedented theoretical opening in the thin membrane that quantum mechanical physicist have been trying to prove existed for decades had stretched gossamer thin for a nanosecond and let her fall. Was she in one of the many muliverse's that supposedly pressed up against each other like Greek pastry where the same worlds existed, the same time yet with minute variances? Vienna, in Vienna men is spending their entire lives trying to prove this, specifically that these mulitverses could never cross into each other. Chicklet did you just make the most important scientific discovery since mankind harness the atom? Or are you just distracting yourself from the two dimensional houses and doppelgangers.
Sometimes it helps the chicklet to think about the whole warp zone issue in third person (third bird?)
“Alas, cheep-cheep dear reader the chicklet feels that communication of the warp zone thermo to you trumps her personal comfort, so I the chicklet shall just continue on. You have heard my last cheeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
PART IV
This is the ‘warp zone theory,’ which has been alluded to in all the jibber-jabber of flat houses, extras, and gossamer threads between multiverses and such: The previously discussed lack of autonomy that a grown woman (chicklet,) naturally occurs upon moving back to the ‘nest,’ is of course a natural reaction. Certain grown offspring specifically those who have already been experiencing intense feelings of failure in other facets of their life react to this perceived lack of freedom far more intensely than others. When this happens there seems to be a severe regression when it comes to communication, which the adult child outwardly blames the parents and the environment on. Despite this deep down they are blaming themselves and pummeling there own ego to the point that they no longer feel they can admit wrongdoing or ask for assistance after the way they have behaved in order to cover up their insecurities. Reacting to this the chicklet/adult child/me ventures out to their old stomping grounds, unawares of the warp zone, or any possible tears in the universe. The purpose of this is to reassure them that they indeed are still have control over themselves and their actions (no matter how ill advised these actions may be), despite once again having to let the boss (Mother), where they are going, with whom and an estimated time of return. Which incidentally they did not have to do all the time in High School!
So in my little sisters car (she is in Law School) where smoking is not allowed (and I at age 29 lie about it), I light a Marlboro Medium. I drive through the two dimensional streets hoping that the lights in the windows will give them life, like the first time a jack-o-lantern glows and becomes vividly alive despite having had his guts scooped out brutally by a child who doesn’t know any better. The houses are still flat and dead, the streets still dead. Both still haunted, I am not sure who is haunting them. It could be me, my memories so vivid that my own emotions are spilling over and rising from the streets like a fog. Everything is blearier at certain points. Where first kisses were had, first hearts broken, best friends made, the foundations of which we are built brick by brick. From time to time a person or two are wandering these streets, wandering to me these extras. They are just living their lives, not in my memory.
PART V
Back to the pilings, no one wanders there; the tide comes and goes, the ducks with it. A tear comes down my cheek and I think about the wedge that is blocking me from some of the people I love right now. I thought I was protecting them from things. I go back to my pilings night after night until it gets too cold, the grass has frosty tips and the ducks are gone. My small hands are too stiff to type or write.
Leaving my cold safe place, I drive directly into WHOOSH bloody fucking warp zone. Mind crack, whatever it sounds like to you, I was always a big Mario brothers fan, where am I now. The ‘Shamrock,’ has very bright lights, I get Wi-Fi there as well. Shaking it off like a trooper, I sneak once again quietly into my house at 5AM? 6AM? 7Am? Once more playing a Puckish role declaring to my mother that, “if these visions have offended, think but this and all is mended, you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear, and all that you have seen is no more fleeting than a dream.”
Night falls once again and I grow restless and indignant. Pacing fruitlessly back and forth in her tiny room, her small memory box, and her mountains of memories. Blue Christmas lights and Liz Phair, pink hair and River Phoneix, I stomp through the decades like they are quicksand.
“I am going out! I don’t know where, I don’t know for how long! I am 29 goddammnit!!!!!!!! That wasn’t CURSING THEY CAN SAY IT ON COMMERCIAL BEFORE 8PM!”
“Fine, I am going to watch a movie with Brian (lies, all lies.)”
First dear reader let it be known that I accept little to no blame for some of these actions, as they have been set in motion by the machinations of fate. Fate and FM radio who began an unprecedented early coup this year at Halloween (perhaps in the employ of a not so Jolly Santa). Taking over the airwaves like a hive of Africanized honey bees, hell-bent on blocking any song from the airwaves that did not reek of holiday cheer. By November 1st there red and green striped abdomens swollen with the blood of classic rock DJ’s this blood hungry swarm had many stations playing Christmas music 24/7. By December 1st the whole town was half papered and ribboned like the awkward gift given by a child and in case you for some reason hadn’t left your house in month, more Yule tide cheer was being pumped through hidden speakers should anyone being driven to madness try to destroy them.
{DISCLAIMER: these are not the ranting's of a bitter Jewish girl who has been overwhelmed by Noel. I find many of the Carols and lights quite beautiful. Rather the recounting of how a girl with a presently sensitive constitution can be pushed to what feels like the precipice of her sanity when such immersion takes place. On I would imagine the early deluge of music and ‘cheer,’ is retailers reaction to the downward spiral in the economy and there deep seated fear that the true meaning of the holidays BUYING will be neglected. They may, however have put the cart before the horse, due to the fact that the jolliest of carolers have their tipping point. When the time comes round to throw the Yule log on the fire the sound of one more jingle bell may prompt an incendiary toss in another direction.}
In recent years I have developed a hypersensitivity to many things, I believe it to be a physical manifestation of the way I feel about present life situations and stressors. Except for certain ones; house remixes of house remixes of house songs (can actually cause hives), drunks who can’t have a yearly income over 20K who bitch about Obama’s tax raises (they aren’t going to affect you, just man up and call him a nigger like you want. Say it you only like niggers who sell you drugs which is how you squander your 20K) being a racist will make you an ass but at least you sound like a minor informed ass, people who play the same two Allmans Brothers songs on juke boxes in bars (Whipping Post and), girls who are so desperate for a boyfriend because their masters degrees or doctorates don’t validate them as humans beings that they will date any old chump with no regard for personality, attraction, intellect or how they are treated, girls (women?) who worship “Sex in the City,” but turn there noses up in judgment at those who engage in coitus outside of a relationship.
“Slut, harlot,” declared in their disapproving glances at each other while sipping their cosmos, a new exciting drink which renders them classier then the sex on the beaches and long island ice teas they imbibed formerly, (wouldn’t they be shocked if they knew the Cosmo had existed since the early 1900’s). Judgment declared by these former cheerleaders girls and upper east side princess’s shoved into BCBG dresses that are shoddy knock offs of the designer clothes on the show that has taught them class as they stuff their faces at wing night.
The gradual disintegration of my sense of order (which was despite what may have been apparent to the world, existed at the core of my chaos like the nucleus of a cell) required the penetration of my safety chaos. This layer surrounded my order and was understood and fixed in place by me. It is a swirling nebula that could be interpreted by no one but myself. I have no idea how it appears to others. Perhaps all who have had a glimpse, just a peek, at it have seen something entirely different: a desert, a bunny, a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and a garden. Like those films where with every death, those who have passed on walk into a bright light to emerge into their own personalized heaven (a particular Robin Williams and Annabella Sciorra vehicle comes to mind, alas the name escapes me). Yes, if a comparison were being made, I would say we are dealing with a chaotic candy coating over an atomic center of creative calm chewy heaven. I suppose that was not so much a comparison as an explanation, or an analogy, which is as cryptic as the theory of a nuclear candy truffle of calm and chaos swirling about storing my soul.
The dense pile from which I pull my happy items as well as thoughts (sad, happy, bizarre, nonsensical you name it) looks like rubbish to the naked eye. Well, looks like rubbish to pretty much anyone’s else’s eyes, under my discerning gaze however it is a sparkling pile of precious items both tangible and with out corporeal nature. I can identify every layer.
I may have digressed from my point, although I think my point may have not understood why things must be so linear. If so then digression in this case was proving my point. Let me ponder, if I cannot pick the point back up post-digression then I have effectively disproved myself, which would be very upsetting. The nuclear chaos truffle would burst open like the Death Star, and I am afraid I would not find my way back.
November, December, Christmas music and a coup of the radio channels, chaos candy coating, nucleic shell of calm… calm shell, ah yes.
The rampant chaos outside the candy chaos: Nature .V. Nurture .V. Government.
My increasingly disorganized mind having slowly grown at times to distinguish what year it is since being displaced back to child hood bedroom. This undignified uprooting coincided nicely with the apex of my 20’s and 30 approaching faster than any other year (something about it reminding me of the Lone Biker of the Apocalypse from ‘Raising Arizona’), I blame my hippie beatnik parents. While aging and becoming uptight now, I for some reason knew from an early age, “don’t trust anyone over 30,” because, this is the zinger,” they are narcs.”
My bedroom looks like a carnival had set up camp there, then after breaking down and moving on accidentally left behind the contents of one or two wagons. The old and the new are twisted about each other like ivy; some of the boxes are so precariously placed on top of each other they appear in semi-darkness to be the ruins of a city. The walls are covered with the same posters that were placed there over a decade ago, Einstein riding a bike, ‘Faster Pussy-Cat, Kill Kill,” an unfinished painting that I will finish one day. Same damn Formica furniture, including a giant desk, which is currently the bane of my personal nesting experience. Despite my intense spite for this white behemoth of a waste of space I am forbidden to remove it (ever) as I apparently begged for it when I was eleven years old. If I could I would go back in time and slap myself silly outside of ‘Bed Bath and Beyond,’ wherever this Formica albatross came from.
Oh, then the boxes, like cardboard coffins holding various pieces of my life dating from the late 1990’s to the recent present. Towering about the small room giving at times giving it the ambiance of the garbage room where Han, Princess Leia and Luke were very nearly crushed on an Imperial Cruiser, or was it on the Death Star? Heavy smaller boxes filled with books have staged a coup of the entire house like literary foot soldiers dressed in the brown camouflage of chaos despite their contents of precious words and information.
The confusion doesn’t end in my room; it has spilled out of my corner of the universe and into the rest of the house. My couch, an extremely generous gift from my mother via ‘Jennifer Convertibles,’ which I had asked for and upon receipt did not have the heart to inform her was back breaking painful to sit on for any extended amount of time. Has been temporarily placed in our dining room/living room and covered with a salmon colored blanket of sorts. Bosco (large poodle) has annexed it and for all intents and purposes he now owns it. I think salvage laws are applicable here.
PART II
Bosco the poodle, epileptic with touches of attachment disorder stemming from his early childhood. Previous to my noble family being alerted to his plight by the ‘Poodle Crisis Hotline,’ (yes it’s real) he was kept in a cage and drugged by his first owner. The douche bag had gotten a puppy but then been very turned off by the young pup’s need for attention and even more put off by the pup’s proclivity to bark, ever. Leaving the young still growing dog locked up and doped up on human tranquilizers solved his problems until his scrip’s ran out, long story short Bosco is now a Nack. His epilepsy aside the condition being common ailment in purebred male standard poodles, and his ‘attachment,’ disorder diagnosed by mother a certified LCSW, he has also recently been dubbed mildly autistic (also by my mother). I didn’t have health insurance for two years, Bosco has fantastic health insurance. I would never deprive him of this, as he is my furry boo, however sometimes I look at his medical care versus the level of my own over the recent past and contextually it is frustrating. Bosco takes Zonisamide for his epilepsy, Zonisamide is a drug used for mood stabilization in bi-polar humans as well as for seizure disorders. He takes this because Phenobarbital (which our last epileptic poodle Texas was on) has a high risk of cancer of liver. Even on the Zonisamide Bosco must have blood drawn every three months to check his liver function. This blood must be sent to a laboratory at the medical school in Auburn Alabama, as it is the only lab in the entire United States equipped to test for the specific levels that give a clear picture of the drugs effect on the liver and other organs. Bosco has also had an ear infection for almost two months now, the poor dog has been miserable. His regular veterinarian, a Cornell educated vet may I add, has had him on three different antibiotics, four different eardrops as well as had to sedate him twice for some serious plucking and cleaning. When these tactics failed, Bosco was referred to a large dog dermatologist, which is the canine equivalent of an ENT. After careful examination of his records and many ear swabs it was decided he had and yeast infection in his ears as the result of some allergy. Since there is no way to determine what his allergy is a special diet was implemented.
- Kibble made of rabbit and organic greens (no wheat); very similar to a meal I had in a fancy French restaurant on my 23rd birthday.
-No rawhide or any chews, sweet potatoes and white potatoes are the only acceptable snacks (god bless the Kong).
-Organic gluten free, sugar free, every thing free tiny, tiny, tiny biscuits, not at all satisfying.
PART III
The ‘Warp Zone Effect,’ this is my theory: Upon moving home as and adult,’ there will always be an element of regression that occurs. How intense this regression is depends on the various factors surrounding the situation surrounding the factors involved in the move, as well as how strong the loss of autonomy is felt and or imposed upon the ‘adult,’ child. For some, those who experience a larger loss of their autonomy whether real or imagined, there is a reaction directly proportionally to this perceived loss.
As a direct reaction to this the confused chicklet (as we shall refer to the adult child displaced back to the nest), ventures out on small and unnecessary in an effort to reassure themselves that they indeed still have control over their actions. Despite having to tell the mamma bird where they are going, who they are going with and an estimated time of return which if not accurate leads to a series of hysterical/scolding phone calls.
The chicklet ventures out to the old stomping grounds uneasily, despite the familiarity of these roads and the structures that sprout from them, the chicklet feels ill at ease. The asphalt curves the same way, the beaches smell the same, the buildings look the same, but something isn’t right. It doesn’t ring true; there is hollowness to this landscape. The familiar landscape is haunted with whispers and imprints of the past, buildings seem flat like an abandoned movie set. The places where best friendships were formed, first kisses were had, fights were fought, peace was made, 40’s were drank, joints were smoked, the places where the chicklet was made into who she is seem hollow and barren. Hidden coves, parking lots, deli steps, basements where social stereotypes were put on hold and an elks head became an icon, a bar where a high school ID and a little sass was the price of entry, the pier adjacent to the boat house of an old mansion where kegs hid in the reeds, the sidewalk outside a bookstore and across the street from a record store, the parking lot of the YMCA where hardcore shows were scheduled between senior activities; the places where first crushes were formed, first hearts broken and alliances formed that haven’t wavered in over a decade. All barren and silent except for the whispers of memory. The occasional person wandering past feeling more like and extra on a movie set than an actual human being.
The chicklet’s heart breaks a little every time she desperately looks for a glimmer of her home. She goes and sits down on pilings by the picnic table at the marina like she used to, only now she is alone. Staring at the water so hard it blurs in front of her like an Impressionist painting. A deep sadness grips her so hard she feels as if she can’t even breathe at times. The madness that has seeped into her life for the past year has driven a wedge in between her and the corporeal actual people whose ghosts she was mourning for. She only goes to the beach and the pilings at night after this.
She gets Wi-Fi at the weathered picnic table, she writes there. Summer passes swiftly and the air grows chilly faster then she remembers. Some sort of deeply buried programming kicks in and she heads to the ‘Shamrock,’ in the cold, like a moth drawn to bright lights. The bright lights hide a warp zone, whoosh, slipping through a crack in time or perhaps in her mind everything rewinds.
“Oh, look the little chick let smoking grass at the marina. Wait is she, why yes, look at the little chicklet making out in the front seat of a tiny sports car with a man from her past.”
Cheep, cheep, cheep.
“ Chicklet must not be so little anymore, setting off the hazards, windshield wipers, honking the horn, turning the headlights on and off all with her ass.”
Chicklet doesn’t recall he booty being such a hazard in the past, you can put the chicklet through the looking glass but her ass holds tight to the present. Chicklet is mildly disheartened at this. Shaking off her confusion at what seems to be the reversal of time and wondering why if she is going to be trapped in a familiar past all alone why couldn’t she be trapped with a better ass. Tip-toeing into her house like a teenager taking advantage of her lack of curfew she becomes very aware of how her jacket smells like smoke. Fumbling for the Febreeze in the laundry room she knock drying racks over, waking the dog, waking her mother who not really awake sleep scolds, “ what you doing, irresponsible, 29, sister.” Chicklet claims the next morning that she arrived much earlier and was awakened by the dog as well.
One perk of faux 1997: Current screwy poodle not a barker. I am sitting in the bedroom going through the strata of my belongings. Thus far I have found the following: I have been working my way with a pick ax through shoes and clothing for weeks. I have already found 45 golf balls, a cat skull, a 7 inch of 'We are the World,' a mummified human foot, a broken loom, a New York Herald dated 1795, one creepy china doll, a box of lead bullets (them round ones), what appears to be a broken wood hand, some large molars, crushed shells in some leathery thing, scrim shaw, a partial human pelvis, a weird silver ball that is hovering around the room, the shroud of Turin, the REAL hope diamond, Elvis (he is indeed dead) and I think I see Keith Richards but he just waved, so think he is just taking a nap.
“Chirp-chirp, tweet-tweet,” little chicklet, little nestling, suffering from a crisis of self, a crisis of time and it’s suddenly non-linear progression. Wandering about forlornly, the chicklet's thoughts wander slowly through her head questioning this amazingly accurate representation of her world, her home, and her memories. Is this some tear in the universe she has fallen through, is she consigned to oblivion, had she really become that defunct that an unprecedented theoretical opening in the thin membrane that quantum mechanical physicist have been trying to prove existed for decades had stretched gossamer thin for a nanosecond and let her fall. Was she in one of the many muliverse's that supposedly pressed up against each other like Greek pastry where the same worlds existed, the same time yet with minute variances? Vienna, in Vienna men is spending their entire lives trying to prove this, specifically that these mulitverses could never cross into each other. Chicklet did you just make the most important scientific discovery since mankind harness the atom? Or are you just distracting yourself from the two dimensional houses and doppelgangers.
Sometimes it helps the chicklet to think about the whole warp zone issue in third person (third bird?)
“Alas, cheep-cheep dear reader the chicklet feels that communication of the warp zone thermo to you trumps her personal comfort, so I the chicklet shall just continue on. You have heard my last cheeeeeeeeeeeeep!”
PART IV
This is the ‘warp zone theory,’ which has been alluded to in all the jibber-jabber of flat houses, extras, and gossamer threads between multiverses and such: The previously discussed lack of autonomy that a grown woman (chicklet,) naturally occurs upon moving back to the ‘nest,’ is of course a natural reaction. Certain grown offspring specifically those who have already been experiencing intense feelings of failure in other facets of their life react to this perceived lack of freedom far more intensely than others. When this happens there seems to be a severe regression when it comes to communication, which the adult child outwardly blames the parents and the environment on. Despite this deep down they are blaming themselves and pummeling there own ego to the point that they no longer feel they can admit wrongdoing or ask for assistance after the way they have behaved in order to cover up their insecurities. Reacting to this the chicklet/adult child/me ventures out to their old stomping grounds, unawares of the warp zone, or any possible tears in the universe. The purpose of this is to reassure them that they indeed are still have control over themselves and their actions (no matter how ill advised these actions may be), despite once again having to let the boss (Mother), where they are going, with whom and an estimated time of return. Which incidentally they did not have to do all the time in High School!
So in my little sisters car (she is in Law School) where smoking is not allowed (and I at age 29 lie about it), I light a Marlboro Medium. I drive through the two dimensional streets hoping that the lights in the windows will give them life, like the first time a jack-o-lantern glows and becomes vividly alive despite having had his guts scooped out brutally by a child who doesn’t know any better. The houses are still flat and dead, the streets still dead. Both still haunted, I am not sure who is haunting them. It could be me, my memories so vivid that my own emotions are spilling over and rising from the streets like a fog. Everything is blearier at certain points. Where first kisses were had, first hearts broken, best friends made, the foundations of which we are built brick by brick. From time to time a person or two are wandering these streets, wandering to me these extras. They are just living their lives, not in my memory.
PART V
Back to the pilings, no one wanders there; the tide comes and goes, the ducks with it. A tear comes down my cheek and I think about the wedge that is blocking me from some of the people I love right now. I thought I was protecting them from things. I go back to my pilings night after night until it gets too cold, the grass has frosty tips and the ducks are gone. My small hands are too stiff to type or write.
Leaving my cold safe place, I drive directly into WHOOSH bloody fucking warp zone. Mind crack, whatever it sounds like to you, I was always a big Mario brothers fan, where am I now. The ‘Shamrock,’ has very bright lights, I get Wi-Fi there as well. Shaking it off like a trooper, I sneak once again quietly into my house at 5AM? 6AM? 7Am? Once more playing a Puckish role declaring to my mother that, “if these visions have offended, think but this and all is mended, you have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear, and all that you have seen is no more fleeting than a dream.”
Night falls once again and I grow restless and indignant. Pacing fruitlessly back and forth in her tiny room, her small memory box, and her mountains of memories. Blue Christmas lights and Liz Phair, pink hair and River Phoneix, I stomp through the decades like they are quicksand.
“I am going out! I don’t know where, I don’t know for how long! I am 29 goddammnit!!!!!!!! That wasn’t CURSING THEY CAN SAY IT ON COMMERCIAL BEFORE 8PM!”
“Fine, I am going to watch a movie with Brian (lies, all lies.)”
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
At least I got laid...
I was inside for 15 minutes.
Somebody (le douchebag) took my tire and rim!
Left the mother fucking car up on a jack and just made
off with them.
Now this brings three things to my attention:
WHY JUST TAKE ONE? IF YOU ARE GONNA BE A THIEF DON'T
UNDER ACHIEVE.
Any jack-ass paying really high rent to live in "east"
Williamsburg can get off their hip high horse and eat
me because the shit is still Bush (what do tampons and Brooklyn have in common)wick is still the ghetto bitches. Nice to let the real estate agent sucka you.
Why take the cheap aluminum rim of a VW when there are all the fun spinners and shiny rims all up and down
the street.
Surely these must be worth more crack/cocaine/baby powder in street trade and make a lovely ashtray for mom.
Well at least they left three out of four lug bolts so I could put the spare on.
It went flat and the rim of it was destroyed of course, so i just got really drunk and got to ride around on a
motorcycle (B-O-O-T-A-Y).
Felt like i was in breakin 2, but white, not saving anything and really bad at break-dancing.
Well if any one sees a 12 yr old wearing a VW rim as a necklace, props to him for styling.
If you see an 'artist,' wearing the same accessory on the way to buy heroin for inspiration, after stopping an buying 300$ jeans with his dad's AMEX, tackle him for me we need to talk.
mother fucker
Somebody (le douchebag) took my tire and rim!
Left the mother fucking car up on a jack and just made
off with them.
Now this brings three things to my attention:
WHY JUST TAKE ONE? IF YOU ARE GONNA BE A THIEF DON'T
UNDER ACHIEVE.
Any jack-ass paying really high rent to live in "east"
Williamsburg can get off their hip high horse and eat
me because the shit is still Bush (what do tampons and Brooklyn have in common)wick is still the ghetto bitches. Nice to let the real estate agent sucka you.
Why take the cheap aluminum rim of a VW when there are all the fun spinners and shiny rims all up and down
the street.
Surely these must be worth more crack/cocaine/baby powder in street trade and make a lovely ashtray for mom.
Well at least they left three out of four lug bolts so I could put the spare on.
It went flat and the rim of it was destroyed of course, so i just got really drunk and got to ride around on a
motorcycle (B-O-O-T-A-Y).
Felt like i was in breakin 2, but white, not saving anything and really bad at break-dancing.
Well if any one sees a 12 yr old wearing a VW rim as a necklace, props to him for styling.
If you see an 'artist,' wearing the same accessory on the way to buy heroin for inspiration, after stopping an buying 300$ jeans with his dad's AMEX, tackle him for me we need to talk.
mother fucker
The Life and Times of A Fit Model or The Rise and Fall of Linda Price
Linda never thought she was perfect.
She never thought she was even close to perfect.
In fact she spent most of her life thinking she was just all right, average at best.
Her friends thought she was nuts to have any gripes about her apperance, particularly her figure. She was almost six feet tall with a perfect size “27 waist.
Which is why the whole thing seemed so much like crazy dream to Linda. A good friend worked as a buyer for a popular denim company and recommended her to do a couple of fit model jobs. Her friend, Angela had always given her the samples (who else with a waist that small had legs that long).
Linda said yes, of course, she loved fashion and it seemed like so much fun. Try on great clothes, possible freebies, not to mention the money. She would be making almost half her current weekly salary for 6 hours work.
When Linda arrived at the shoot the photographer was enchanted with her.
She moved naturally in front of the camera, with very little coaching. The insecurity and self doubt that plauged her was invisible to the camera, a rare thing.
“You are perfection,” he told her.
Perfection, she laughed to herself he’s nuts.
For hours though, he and everyone around her kept saying just that, as well as a barrage of other compliments and encouragements. Then they asked her back again, for a higher rate! They wanted to use some of her shots for buyers catalogue, not just for fit anymore.
She felt high as she left.
When she got home her back ached from sticking her ass out for butt shots and her feet hurt from wearing shoes that were too small. One small word echoed repeatedly in her head though “perfection”. The next day she woke up and went to her stressful job, the job she hated. The job that consumed her life where nothing ever went right and she broke out in rashes her doctor attributed to the stress. All day long that one word rang in her head “ perfection”.
The next Saturday she went back again, this time for a longer shoot with make-up and hair. They included her face in some full body shoots. This was all but unheard of for a fit model, so the photo assistant told her.
She should get and agent they said.
This could be a crossover career.
The designer came in and was, like all the others, beguiled. She wasn’t a “model” but there was something about the way the clothes fit her.
The make-up girl and the photographer asked her if she would like to go out that night. Linda was reluctant to go, but she accepted seeing the editorial models do the same. 'Crossover,' she thought, this is what models do.
Her back ached, one of the “real” models noticed and gave her some pills.
At the bar she had a couple of drinks and felt like she was floating. It must be the pills she thought. Nothing hurt at all anymore. Linda was hungry but she noticed none of the models ate. She asked them weren’t they hungry they hadn’t eaten all day. The one other fit model Carol took her to the bathroom. She handed her a bunch of brown pills. Diet pills.
“ We are fit models we have to stay perfect, we are anonymous bodies, stay friends with the designers and keep your waist tiny. You don't have a face, no recognition... well maybe you have a chance after today. If you do though then you need to be smaller then 'fit,' you need to be runway. They also keep you awake during the day. I have a friend who will write you a prescription he will also give you something for your back.”
“Thank you,” Linda said.
“Oh and Linda get and agent if you aren’t always around they will forget who you are.”
Linda stumbled back to the table, but they said I am perfection she thought petulantly. I need to be perfection.
The next day she called an agent.
The day after that she quit her job.
The money started rolling in. Linda was the most popular fit model out there.
After a week of taking the diet pills she was a size 24” and fit in even couture sample. This meant event the highest end designers could use her when their famous super-model muses were out of town on runway shows and high fashion shoots. She was going out every night. Carol became her partner in crime. Carol had been a fashion model but was now in her late thirties and although she still had the body her face spoke of the late nights and hard living.
Linda was exhausted.
Carol introduced her to cocaine. When Linda was high all her shyness disappeared all her exhaustion. She could smooze with the designers and book jobs. Her agent loved her because she did so little of the work herself.
Linda began to stay out drinking later and later.
It didn’t seem to matter every day they would yell.
“YOU ARE PERFECTION”
This life style hit fast and hard, like an asteroid slamming into the moon. Unlike the young teenage fashion models behaving this way, Linda had to book jobs twice weekly to support new life style. It soon began to take its toll. She was late for one job. Then another.
Her body began to bloat slightly, much like her ego from the excessive drinking. Soon she was a “29, no longer able to do couture.
In the high fashion world you are only as good as your last job. She soon found that she was not invited to the exclusive parties anymore. Linda took her drinking and drug use elsewhere, Carol was still her friend. Linda didn’t recognize Carol, as a wash up has been who was too wrecked to realized or care about taking someone else down with her.
Linda drank more and worked less.
She neglected her appearance; her fingernails once tidy were stained blue from deep pocket denim shots. She seemed distorted as her tight waistline expanded to a “32, a 36”. Soon her agent could hardly get her work. Even with the name she had made for her self in the business. Everyone knew she had become poison.
Her “friends” wouldn’t call her. Not even Angela who originally got her first job. No one wants to be associated with poison.
Her agent finally booked her a job.
Plus size separates for a catalogue. The kind mid-western housewives browse in dental offices. Linda didn’t answer her phone.
After twelve hours of trying her agent went over to her apartment. Large and luxurious, rented just one year ago. No answer.
The super unlocked the door for her.
Dead plants, bottles and a hungry cat.
Hanging in the middle was Linda. Her noose a pair of size “27 straight leg designer jeans.
She never thought she was even close to perfect.
In fact she spent most of her life thinking she was just all right, average at best.
Her friends thought she was nuts to have any gripes about her apperance, particularly her figure. She was almost six feet tall with a perfect size “27 waist.
Which is why the whole thing seemed so much like crazy dream to Linda. A good friend worked as a buyer for a popular denim company and recommended her to do a couple of fit model jobs. Her friend, Angela had always given her the samples (who else with a waist that small had legs that long).
Linda said yes, of course, she loved fashion and it seemed like so much fun. Try on great clothes, possible freebies, not to mention the money. She would be making almost half her current weekly salary for 6 hours work.
When Linda arrived at the shoot the photographer was enchanted with her.
She moved naturally in front of the camera, with very little coaching. The insecurity and self doubt that plauged her was invisible to the camera, a rare thing.
“You are perfection,” he told her.
Perfection, she laughed to herself he’s nuts.
For hours though, he and everyone around her kept saying just that, as well as a barrage of other compliments and encouragements. Then they asked her back again, for a higher rate! They wanted to use some of her shots for buyers catalogue, not just for fit anymore.
She felt high as she left.
When she got home her back ached from sticking her ass out for butt shots and her feet hurt from wearing shoes that were too small. One small word echoed repeatedly in her head though “perfection”. The next day she woke up and went to her stressful job, the job she hated. The job that consumed her life where nothing ever went right and she broke out in rashes her doctor attributed to the stress. All day long that one word rang in her head “ perfection”.
The next Saturday she went back again, this time for a longer shoot with make-up and hair. They included her face in some full body shoots. This was all but unheard of for a fit model, so the photo assistant told her.
She should get and agent they said.
This could be a crossover career.
The designer came in and was, like all the others, beguiled. She wasn’t a “model” but there was something about the way the clothes fit her.
The make-up girl and the photographer asked her if she would like to go out that night. Linda was reluctant to go, but she accepted seeing the editorial models do the same. 'Crossover,' she thought, this is what models do.
Her back ached, one of the “real” models noticed and gave her some pills.
At the bar she had a couple of drinks and felt like she was floating. It must be the pills she thought. Nothing hurt at all anymore. Linda was hungry but she noticed none of the models ate. She asked them weren’t they hungry they hadn’t eaten all day. The one other fit model Carol took her to the bathroom. She handed her a bunch of brown pills. Diet pills.
“ We are fit models we have to stay perfect, we are anonymous bodies, stay friends with the designers and keep your waist tiny. You don't have a face, no recognition... well maybe you have a chance after today. If you do though then you need to be smaller then 'fit,' you need to be runway. They also keep you awake during the day. I have a friend who will write you a prescription he will also give you something for your back.”
“Thank you,” Linda said.
“Oh and Linda get and agent if you aren’t always around they will forget who you are.”
Linda stumbled back to the table, but they said I am perfection she thought petulantly. I need to be perfection.
The next day she called an agent.
The day after that she quit her job.
The money started rolling in. Linda was the most popular fit model out there.
After a week of taking the diet pills she was a size 24” and fit in even couture sample. This meant event the highest end designers could use her when their famous super-model muses were out of town on runway shows and high fashion shoots. She was going out every night. Carol became her partner in crime. Carol had been a fashion model but was now in her late thirties and although she still had the body her face spoke of the late nights and hard living.
Linda was exhausted.
Carol introduced her to cocaine. When Linda was high all her shyness disappeared all her exhaustion. She could smooze with the designers and book jobs. Her agent loved her because she did so little of the work herself.
Linda began to stay out drinking later and later.
It didn’t seem to matter every day they would yell.
“YOU ARE PERFECTION”
This life style hit fast and hard, like an asteroid slamming into the moon. Unlike the young teenage fashion models behaving this way, Linda had to book jobs twice weekly to support new life style. It soon began to take its toll. She was late for one job. Then another.
Her body began to bloat slightly, much like her ego from the excessive drinking. Soon she was a “29, no longer able to do couture.
In the high fashion world you are only as good as your last job. She soon found that she was not invited to the exclusive parties anymore. Linda took her drinking and drug use elsewhere, Carol was still her friend. Linda didn’t recognize Carol, as a wash up has been who was too wrecked to realized or care about taking someone else down with her.
Linda drank more and worked less.
She neglected her appearance; her fingernails once tidy were stained blue from deep pocket denim shots. She seemed distorted as her tight waistline expanded to a “32, a 36”. Soon her agent could hardly get her work. Even with the name she had made for her self in the business. Everyone knew she had become poison.
Her “friends” wouldn’t call her. Not even Angela who originally got her first job. No one wants to be associated with poison.
Her agent finally booked her a job.
Plus size separates for a catalogue. The kind mid-western housewives browse in dental offices. Linda didn’t answer her phone.
After twelve hours of trying her agent went over to her apartment. Large and luxurious, rented just one year ago. No answer.
The super unlocked the door for her.
Dead plants, bottles and a hungry cat.
Hanging in the middle was Linda. Her noose a pair of size “27 straight leg designer jeans.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
