Having nothing to do with Jesus, the Pope or any rabbi, nor Haile Selassie or Buddha, or Oprah; my help comes from a voice of a man long gone.
When I am in need of some spiritual healing, or just some good old fashioned wallowing, as is the case so often, I turn to a voice that sends those shivers down my spine, the ones that love songs always speak of. The voice belongs to a man named Jeff Buckley, the album: Grace, my knee jerk reaction to sadness or melancholy; I automatically rummage through my endless array of loose compact discs, my eyes trained to spot the white text on black; my therapy.
It’s not so much the fact that the lyrics drifting around me and eventually blanketing me heal me, per se, it’s the lyrics coinciding with the whiskey warmness of the voice and the sound of the melody, the sound of the guitar strings. The combination feeds the hungriest souls.
Listening, I feel neither comfort nor it’s opposite. There’s anxiety, something tight which leaves me vulnerable, almost exposed.
The music is there in that moment, only for you. The way music always is.
March 20, 2009
Ms Adams’ engagement
Gabriella Adams has absolutely no interest in the past – I do. She says she sees no point in rehashing moments that don’t exist anymore; she wishes she had Alzheimer’s or some such brain disease to let her live today and not let yesterday interfere. She knows I don’t agree so I don’t tell her again.
A weeping woman beholds Ms Adams’ beauty from afar and flashes of white surround us constantly, moving with us as we make our way to the iridescent night coloured limousine. I can’t quite fathom this woman, on her knees with awe, she doesn’t seem unfortunate looking to me nor does she seem particularly desperate for attention of any kind. Yet there she is on a heated sidewalk, seemingly in mourning for a superstar. It is not so much of a rare sight yet it still disturbs me, I don’t give it any extra thought though after my initial observation, we’re late.
Despite Gabriella’s insistence that she didn’t keep up with where the beautiful people ate, she always managed to pick the spot where they did and, subsequently, where the vultures with large lenses hung out for that specific reason. I knew this too but like so many things I didn’t say anything so as not to agitate her further. She always seemed to be somewhat agitated. Almost as if she was always on the defensive, ready to fight if provoked by anyone. It seemed to me that this kind of state of being made her guilt visible, her flakiness. A visibility she was unaware of I assume.
There were many things about Ms Adams that seemed artificial; her absolute love of a stiff drink for one. I happen to be quite an observant creature and over the years I have noticed that upon receiving her Brandy, or Whiskey, she would wait quite a while before her first sip, now, I can’t be unmistakably sure, but I suspect she waited for the ice to dilute the alcohol somewhat. This is a small testament to her flakiness, granted, but I’ve always believed it’s the small things that are the big things.
We’re in the limousine now and she is quiet, almost lethargic I notice. Maybe she ate too much. She seems lost in the light that streams in from the window and as I watch the strands of hair that swim around her unnaturally beautiful face I wonder what thoughts fill her mind, she leads such an unexamined life, I wonder if she took the time to really get to know herself, what would she discover? Would she feel less alone if she knew the rest of the world felt alone too?
Gabriella primped and preened herself before interviews and press junkets, before red carpet events and quick trips to the grocery store, a sight which, even in all my years with her, still amazed me. She loved the media and their pens. She loved that they held such fascination and interest in her. She loved that they always seemed to want to talk with her, and they seemed to her to really listen. I think that is why she loved them. They listened to the thoughts and stories that those around her were bored of, or, even worse, that those around her were never interested in to begin with.
Media whores, such attention seekers.
Her fiancé was a true man of routine; he got home between 19:30-19:35 every evening, almost always his phone was pressed to his ear as he entered the front door. He’d pour himself a Bourbon and head to the master bedroom whereupon he would undress whilst taking slow sips of his drink. He would then walk into the shower; he never turned the water on all the way as he preferred a light trickle as opposed to hard rain. He would then traipse around in his fluffy black robe for the remainder of the night. He also liked to light up a joint sometime between his shower and dinner. Ms Adams never liked to get stoned. She told me once why. Everything felt like a show, she said. Like a movie, everyone had their generic roles – and played them well. It always terrified her. And she said it always took her far too long for the smoke to lift, and instead of giggling and enjoying the highness she’d feel depressed, kind of neurotic, looking into what her life must be; an endless parade of parties, facials and diluted drinks. It all seemed so obvious to her when she was stoned but when she arose from the mist she’d try to forget and eventually she would.
It also never occurred to Ms Adams that people die. Whenever there was a death in her circle she’d retreat for weeks, sometimes months, weeping why, why, why? How did this happen? Impossible, she’d shout.
After a few days she’d calm down but I much preferred hysterical to blank eyes. She’d lay in the darkness at noon, she’d lay there on the soft carpet, sleuthing, writhing around like somebody trying to fall asleep in a heat wave, always sighing.
After the initial shock wore off, after the weeks of indifference to anything, she’d begin the process of forgetting.
I remember the sugary, milk-like emulsion in bottles of medicinal syrup, she said vaguely once, in her zombie-like state. It’s whiteness, the sweetness. She said she used to sneak sips of it whenever there was a bottle in the fridge.
It’s these little trinkets of memory which seem to take ownership over her mind during these times. She felt hardly nostalgic, au contraire, she felt silent anger.
She told me she’s always eaten like she’s read; too much and too fast. This is true. She orders too much food for one relatively small woman and wolfs it down much like someone who is being chased down by the hounds of hell. As a result of this she’ll probably end up not so relatively a small woman. It’s like she’s waiting for something or someone to take her plate from her; she’s as irrational as it gets sometimes, that is why these moments of lucidity whence she recaptures childhood whims, disturb me so. She never looks back, she takes heed from Lot’s wife, she believes that looking back is detrimental to one’s sane life. She believes this because she knows that no one gets over anything bad, one never forgets, at least she knows she never has. One merely learns acceptance.
In the limousine I am thinking of all these things as I stare at her. I remember details and minutes which always seem more like hours with her. She holds such gravity, an immense weight. My eyes roam from the diamond rock on her ring finger to the nervous picking of her fingernails. She looks at me and smiles. She trusts me I think, more than anyone else. I presume it’s partly because I’m a woman and she’s always trusted women, and partly because I seem harmless and uncompetitive. The opposite of ruthless, the opposite of ambitious. I don’t communicate myself well; I’ll be the first to admit. Probably no one really knows me. Least of all myself. But she seems to think she does and that’s good enough for her I suppose. I suppose that’s even good enough for me. I don’t need to be anyone specifically; I can be anyone, whatever the day calls for.
We arrive at the dilapidated building in the centre of an industrial waste ground. The photographer has gained plenty of notoriety in that he always shoots his “models” in the ugliest of surroundings so as to make them appear even more immaculate than they already are, and if the dirty background doesn’t do the job effectively, a couple minutes air brushing in his studio will most certainly do the trick.
Gabriella’s sombre countenance adds wonderfully to the mood of the shoot, so Miguel says and leads us to wear my favourite people are: the make-up girls. I adore listening to them banter and gossip, there really is no need to form a thought of your own whilst in their presence.
The shoot runs longer than anticipated, which leaves Ms Adams tense; it always does. She has a fear of time, Chronophobia I believe they call it. I’m not certain as to why; it could be a number of things. It could be the fact that her mortality has been shown to her many times in the form of friends who have passed away and this accelerates her need to be constantly busy, never wasting a moment, this is the theory I least believe. There are too many holes in it, the contents of which I won’t get into at this time. Another theory is that she is wound too tight. This is more of an observation than a theory but it could certainly be the root of her time issues. Or it could be a frustration with people for not being on time, or not finishing on time. She is always consistently courteous, albeit, highly strung when it comes to her time and the time of others and she detests it when she is not extended the same courtesy.
I could theorise the ways of Ms Adams all day without taking a breath but I would never be any closer to understanding her. She is every woman, as Shaka Khan sang many a moon ago.
The sun was beginning to make its decent into the sea when the shoot was finally wrapped. Ms Adams was at the end of her rope, she needed sustenance and she needed it fast. I remembered seeing a Pizza Hut on the way and I proposed we stop by and get a take away. Gabriella was like a little child when it came to pizza, although I imagine that every female star concerned with body image behaved like a child when they could see pizza in their near future, she became immediately responsive, excited and chatty. I enjoyed seeing her this way, almost selflessly, I say almost because it made me feel as if I was 14 again, on my way to a girl’s only slumber party. We’d eat pizza and sweets and play with each other’s hair, paint each other’s toe nails and speak of boys and watch romantic films. I snapped out of my reverie when I heard my name. My stomach dropped as it frequently did on utterance of my name.
Do you have a cigarette, Ms Adams asks.
I keep emergency cigarettes for her in the side pouch of my bag. I don’t smoke.
I hand one to her and proceed to light it with a match. She takes a deep puff and calls to the driver. She requests that we turn around and head back home, she would like to get dressed to the nines and go out for dinner instead. I sigh.
I am an assortment of moods, I can devastate with my surly countenance and charm with my smile. I have an unattainable compulsion to know everything every minute and occasion to take myself apart; to put myself back together again can take an era and what takes place in the time between the two I cannot say. Will this be a problem, asked the young lady of the young man. They sat face to face in the large lounge of a ritzy restaurant and while he appreciated her candor he felt wearisome and rather perturbed. You may call me severe if you like, she said, or perhaps you think I am abstruse? She asked, in such a way that he instinctively knew not to answer.
Upon meeting her he noticed her green eyes and her polished nails; he observed and remarked on the ring she wore; an iridescent diamond, the shade of an ageing bruise. His blood felt boiled as he began to tell her of himself. He wondered why he felt so unarmed around her.
She had the face of someone he was sure he’d seen before, perhaps in a dream.
I’m a sales manager, he said, almost ashamedly, he felt sure her occupation was far more glamorous.
The conversation carried on in a similar vein all evening until the bill made its way to the table.
Shall I walk you home, he asked tentatively. She merely shook her head and.
A weeping woman beholds Ms Adams’ beauty from afar and flashes of white surround us constantly, moving with us as we make our way to the iridescent night coloured limousine. I can’t quite fathom this woman, on her knees with awe, she doesn’t seem unfortunate looking to me nor does she seem particularly desperate for attention of any kind. Yet there she is on a heated sidewalk, seemingly in mourning for a superstar. It is not so much of a rare sight yet it still disturbs me, I don’t give it any extra thought though after my initial observation, we’re late.
Despite Gabriella’s insistence that she didn’t keep up with where the beautiful people ate, she always managed to pick the spot where they did and, subsequently, where the vultures with large lenses hung out for that specific reason. I knew this too but like so many things I didn’t say anything so as not to agitate her further. She always seemed to be somewhat agitated. Almost as if she was always on the defensive, ready to fight if provoked by anyone. It seemed to me that this kind of state of being made her guilt visible, her flakiness. A visibility she was unaware of I assume.
There were many things about Ms Adams that seemed artificial; her absolute love of a stiff drink for one. I happen to be quite an observant creature and over the years I have noticed that upon receiving her Brandy, or Whiskey, she would wait quite a while before her first sip, now, I can’t be unmistakably sure, but I suspect she waited for the ice to dilute the alcohol somewhat. This is a small testament to her flakiness, granted, but I’ve always believed it’s the small things that are the big things.
We’re in the limousine now and she is quiet, almost lethargic I notice. Maybe she ate too much. She seems lost in the light that streams in from the window and as I watch the strands of hair that swim around her unnaturally beautiful face I wonder what thoughts fill her mind, she leads such an unexamined life, I wonder if she took the time to really get to know herself, what would she discover? Would she feel less alone if she knew the rest of the world felt alone too?
Gabriella primped and preened herself before interviews and press junkets, before red carpet events and quick trips to the grocery store, a sight which, even in all my years with her, still amazed me. She loved the media and their pens. She loved that they held such fascination and interest in her. She loved that they always seemed to want to talk with her, and they seemed to her to really listen. I think that is why she loved them. They listened to the thoughts and stories that those around her were bored of, or, even worse, that those around her were never interested in to begin with.
Media whores, such attention seekers.
Her fiancé was a true man of routine; he got home between 19:30-19:35 every evening, almost always his phone was pressed to his ear as he entered the front door. He’d pour himself a Bourbon and head to the master bedroom whereupon he would undress whilst taking slow sips of his drink. He would then walk into the shower; he never turned the water on all the way as he preferred a light trickle as opposed to hard rain. He would then traipse around in his fluffy black robe for the remainder of the night. He also liked to light up a joint sometime between his shower and dinner. Ms Adams never liked to get stoned. She told me once why. Everything felt like a show, she said. Like a movie, everyone had their generic roles – and played them well. It always terrified her. And she said it always took her far too long for the smoke to lift, and instead of giggling and enjoying the highness she’d feel depressed, kind of neurotic, looking into what her life must be; an endless parade of parties, facials and diluted drinks. It all seemed so obvious to her when she was stoned but when she arose from the mist she’d try to forget and eventually she would.
It also never occurred to Ms Adams that people die. Whenever there was a death in her circle she’d retreat for weeks, sometimes months, weeping why, why, why? How did this happen? Impossible, she’d shout.
After a few days she’d calm down but I much preferred hysterical to blank eyes. She’d lay in the darkness at noon, she’d lay there on the soft carpet, sleuthing, writhing around like somebody trying to fall asleep in a heat wave, always sighing.
After the initial shock wore off, after the weeks of indifference to anything, she’d begin the process of forgetting.
I remember the sugary, milk-like emulsion in bottles of medicinal syrup, she said vaguely once, in her zombie-like state. It’s whiteness, the sweetness. She said she used to sneak sips of it whenever there was a bottle in the fridge.
It’s these little trinkets of memory which seem to take ownership over her mind during these times. She felt hardly nostalgic, au contraire, she felt silent anger.
She told me she’s always eaten like she’s read; too much and too fast. This is true. She orders too much food for one relatively small woman and wolfs it down much like someone who is being chased down by the hounds of hell. As a result of this she’ll probably end up not so relatively a small woman. It’s like she’s waiting for something or someone to take her plate from her; she’s as irrational as it gets sometimes, that is why these moments of lucidity whence she recaptures childhood whims, disturb me so. She never looks back, she takes heed from Lot’s wife, she believes that looking back is detrimental to one’s sane life. She believes this because she knows that no one gets over anything bad, one never forgets, at least she knows she never has. One merely learns acceptance.
In the limousine I am thinking of all these things as I stare at her. I remember details and minutes which always seem more like hours with her. She holds such gravity, an immense weight. My eyes roam from the diamond rock on her ring finger to the nervous picking of her fingernails. She looks at me and smiles. She trusts me I think, more than anyone else. I presume it’s partly because I’m a woman and she’s always trusted women, and partly because I seem harmless and uncompetitive. The opposite of ruthless, the opposite of ambitious. I don’t communicate myself well; I’ll be the first to admit. Probably no one really knows me. Least of all myself. But she seems to think she does and that’s good enough for her I suppose. I suppose that’s even good enough for me. I don’t need to be anyone specifically; I can be anyone, whatever the day calls for.
We arrive at the dilapidated building in the centre of an industrial waste ground. The photographer has gained plenty of notoriety in that he always shoots his “models” in the ugliest of surroundings so as to make them appear even more immaculate than they already are, and if the dirty background doesn’t do the job effectively, a couple minutes air brushing in his studio will most certainly do the trick.
Gabriella’s sombre countenance adds wonderfully to the mood of the shoot, so Miguel says and leads us to wear my favourite people are: the make-up girls. I adore listening to them banter and gossip, there really is no need to form a thought of your own whilst in their presence.
The shoot runs longer than anticipated, which leaves Ms Adams tense; it always does. She has a fear of time, Chronophobia I believe they call it. I’m not certain as to why; it could be a number of things. It could be the fact that her mortality has been shown to her many times in the form of friends who have passed away and this accelerates her need to be constantly busy, never wasting a moment, this is the theory I least believe. There are too many holes in it, the contents of which I won’t get into at this time. Another theory is that she is wound too tight. This is more of an observation than a theory but it could certainly be the root of her time issues. Or it could be a frustration with people for not being on time, or not finishing on time. She is always consistently courteous, albeit, highly strung when it comes to her time and the time of others and she detests it when she is not extended the same courtesy.
I could theorise the ways of Ms Adams all day without taking a breath but I would never be any closer to understanding her. She is every woman, as Shaka Khan sang many a moon ago.
The sun was beginning to make its decent into the sea when the shoot was finally wrapped. Ms Adams was at the end of her rope, she needed sustenance and she needed it fast. I remembered seeing a Pizza Hut on the way and I proposed we stop by and get a take away. Gabriella was like a little child when it came to pizza, although I imagine that every female star concerned with body image behaved like a child when they could see pizza in their near future, she became immediately responsive, excited and chatty. I enjoyed seeing her this way, almost selflessly, I say almost because it made me feel as if I was 14 again, on my way to a girl’s only slumber party. We’d eat pizza and sweets and play with each other’s hair, paint each other’s toe nails and speak of boys and watch romantic films. I snapped out of my reverie when I heard my name. My stomach dropped as it frequently did on utterance of my name.
Do you have a cigarette, Ms Adams asks.
I keep emergency cigarettes for her in the side pouch of my bag. I don’t smoke.
I hand one to her and proceed to light it with a match. She takes a deep puff and calls to the driver. She requests that we turn around and head back home, she would like to get dressed to the nines and go out for dinner instead. I sigh.
I am an assortment of moods, I can devastate with my surly countenance and charm with my smile. I have an unattainable compulsion to know everything every minute and occasion to take myself apart; to put myself back together again can take an era and what takes place in the time between the two I cannot say. Will this be a problem, asked the young lady of the young man. They sat face to face in the large lounge of a ritzy restaurant and while he appreciated her candor he felt wearisome and rather perturbed. You may call me severe if you like, she said, or perhaps you think I am abstruse? She asked, in such a way that he instinctively knew not to answer.
Upon meeting her he noticed her green eyes and her polished nails; he observed and remarked on the ring she wore; an iridescent diamond, the shade of an ageing bruise. His blood felt boiled as he began to tell her of himself. He wondered why he felt so unarmed around her.
She had the face of someone he was sure he’d seen before, perhaps in a dream.
I’m a sales manager, he said, almost ashamedly, he felt sure her occupation was far more glamorous.
The conversation carried on in a similar vein all evening until the bill made its way to the table.
Shall I walk you home, he asked tentatively. She merely shook her head and.
March 19, 2009
An unidentified Moment
An unidentified purple liquid in a Bonaqua water bottle; litchi flavoured, I wonder briefly what it is and then I notice the man with curly, peppered hair; the bottle stands next to his desk and I realise I don’t want to know anymore. A room full of generic mediocrity depresses me for a moment and in a moment I’m lifted up onto a pedestal of my own creation; of course I’m better. Of course.
I’m so hot.
I can’t shake the feeling of blindness in this room, some kind of evasion; cynicism and knowledge going hand in hand as I twirl my hair around my fingers countless times, I can’t say what comfort that brings me; now, it feels better than just sitting here.
An overweight blonde two rows up speaks, not unlike a child; an insecure girl too eager to please, too fragile to live. I cringe, I don’t know why. I can’t help but wonder when last she felt attractive... When last a man looked twice. I’m hot; distracted.
But not distracted enough to ignore the young coloured man outside cleaning chairs, or the geriatric smoking a Vogue Slim on a bench in the sun, and I draw many conclusions as to why they’re there doing these things in this moment, and then I wonder the same of myself.
What am I doing here?
The day is warm, hot and getting hotter, as I imagine the Serengeti to be mid February and the second I notice the smoke I hear the alarm. Surprisingly I don’t start, dazed, I get up and follow the bodies trying to leave through the door as one person. Lethargy trumps panic and I glide beside no one, I can barely see them in the yonder, in the smoke.
Eventually I reach the rest outside, and I rest. My eyes burn and I rub them as I hear the ironically chilling sound of sirens.
I must look shocked, scared, because the overweight woman puts her arms around me, apparently this fire is more serious than I’d thought.
I’m so hot.
I can’t shake the feeling of blindness in this room, some kind of evasion; cynicism and knowledge going hand in hand as I twirl my hair around my fingers countless times, I can’t say what comfort that brings me; now, it feels better than just sitting here.
An overweight blonde two rows up speaks, not unlike a child; an insecure girl too eager to please, too fragile to live. I cringe, I don’t know why. I can’t help but wonder when last she felt attractive... When last a man looked twice. I’m hot; distracted.
But not distracted enough to ignore the young coloured man outside cleaning chairs, or the geriatric smoking a Vogue Slim on a bench in the sun, and I draw many conclusions as to why they’re there doing these things in this moment, and then I wonder the same of myself.
What am I doing here?
The day is warm, hot and getting hotter, as I imagine the Serengeti to be mid February and the second I notice the smoke I hear the alarm. Surprisingly I don’t start, dazed, I get up and follow the bodies trying to leave through the door as one person. Lethargy trumps panic and I glide beside no one, I can barely see them in the yonder, in the smoke.
Eventually I reach the rest outside, and I rest. My eyes burn and I rub them as I hear the ironically chilling sound of sirens.
I must look shocked, scared, because the overweight woman puts her arms around me, apparently this fire is more serious than I’d thought.
A Valentine’s Day in the 80’s!
Eyes still stuck together with sleep, hungry eyes blasts absurdly loud for a Saturday morning, I’m sure it must still be before 9am. I see him throwing balloons from the door, prancing almost fairy-like in and out, in and out, throwing purple, pink, yellow balloons all the while Eric Carmen sings his famous 1988 hit. Next comes the glitter, and the streamers in a spray can, I remember the smell vaguely, I remember the feeling more; wet at first, then dry, stuck. More than that I remember his face as he jumps back into bed with me. After I’m done laughing I enquire of the time, 7:30 he says.
My baby has prepared for me a day so rare, reminiscent of an era I adore; the 80’s! He’s compiled a large box full of 1980’s paraphernalia; from sweets and drinks that were popular, to the inspired fashions and cinema. Amongst many things, an electric blue midriff baring shirt with tassels for arm sleeves with the caption “All I want is a sunny day” in white cursive. Brilliant.
For excellent, albeit cheesy, viewing pleasure, he has gotten his extraordinary hands on Some Kind of Wonderful, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, which sees Sean Penn as you are unlikely to see him now, a stereotypical surfer dude, Valley Girl with doe eyed Nicolas Cage, Mystic Pizza, one of Julia Roberts’ firsts, Who’s that Girl, Madonna’s that girl, Footloose and Xanadu, a musical with Olivia Newton John.
80’s horror movie posters cover almost every inch of the room... and the 80’s hits keep coming, much to my amazed delight. His plan is simple, we are to eat sweet things and watch 80’s cheese all day and for dinner he is making, from scratch, pizza from my favourite overseas pizzeria, Pizza Hut, he found their secret recipe. I wonder if he knows he hatched the most unbelievable day, my perfect day.
Sometime between breakfast and Valley Girl, the door bell rings and he hands me the keys, it’s for me he says. Hesitantly I take the keys and open the door where I am greeted with the most beautiful white orchid I have ever seen. I can’t believe he is mine.
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