Friday, August 30, 2002

Home

I don't know whether it was (a) finding out that Bobby Trendy had once sexually pursued my friend David (and in my presence!), (b) dancing with a Heineken bottle held over my head in the newly opened club area at The Abbey, or (c) driving half-drunk on the 101 again with DJ Sammy not believing in Heaven, but something tells me that I'm home, and I like it.

But then again, there's the other stuff. The stuff that set me fleeing with the tenacity of a 16 year old girl fending away her first pap smear. It's that street you lost your heart on and have yet to find it. It's that building you once leaned against, waiting. It's the smell of salt in the air, the sound of waves crashing, the side of the pier you had sex by. It's all that and the knowledge that he's in the city somewhere, around some street corner, some ten minutes away, but, most importantly, avoiding you.

I've been home for two nights, and though I love the warm air making its way across my face as I drive through the city at night with all the familiar places running past my window like the scenes of a favorite movie, I know that I'm making my home elsewhere now...

as hard and lonesome as that may be at times.



Monday, August 26, 2002

Eeeeeek!

So you'd think that an hour before my first class at Berkeley I'd be stressing out about my intellectual capabilites as a student. Instead, I'm stuck on shoes.

Ok. So the dilemma!

I have a pair of VERY cute white Diesel shoes, but they give me a very west hollywood gay trash, tho very fashionable, feel. On the other hand, I have a not so equally pair of black Diesel shoes which, tho not all that glamorous, give me a I'm-a-responsible-student look.

I'm torn! Cute vs. Brainy. Cute. Brainy....Cute....Brainy.

I'm going barefoot. This IS Berkeley after all...
Peace out!

Friday, August 23, 2002

days like this I don't know what to do with myself

He's out of rehab and living God knows where, his stepmother told me on the phone today.

She thought that I, even here in Berkeley, would know where to find him, would know where his is, but all I could do was admit to not having heard from him in months.

I thought you two were close, she said pausing dramatically between the "were" and "close" in her statement.

So did I, Mrs. Pierson, so did fucking I, is what I wanted to say to her but instead apologized for being in a hurry and hung up. I don't want to hear about it; I don't want to hear about the mess, the unfinished business, I left back in Los Angeles. I don't want to hear about what's happening in my absence. I don't want any of it...

In a few minutes I'll take the bus across the Bay Bridge and into the city, leaving everything, leaving him, where it belongs: in the past and 369 miles away.





You've Got to have Faith?

Two bus rides and four Latinos asking me if I hhhadd beeen to Faith before into the night, I knew that having faith in online critiques of gay clubs in the city was as safe as investing your trust and children to Roman Catholic priests, and as equally dangerous.

Today I was cold, miserable, and dying to get to club full of my people in mid-drifts dancing with arms above head in that I don't think you're ready for this jelly kinda way. And tonight I'm cold, miserable, and forty some dollars in the hole. You would think that any ol' place in the gay Mecca of the world would be decent, but this place was bad. . .obese black lesbians in tube tops bad.

And now I'm back at the apartment with Danee snoring from underneath my bunk. If this were a gay boy scouts retreat, I'd jack off in her eye and post a picture of it on the bulletin board, causing a riot among the barracks, but I feel physically and emotionally beat by this city, it's insane people sleeping on park benches and alleys, and the overall otherness of every damn street corner. I know that I wanted to escape the city, as the joke goes among Kirin and John, tainted with memories, but the emotional immaculateness of this city is so transparent you could see my gall bladder if you really tried, and quite honestly, I feel as empty as a nuclear testing ground in India.

If you listened carefully, I bet you'd hear my skin howling into the wind.

It's that empty.



Tuesday, August 20, 2002

It's a Long Way Down

I used to think that shopping alone for groceries for one's apartment was romantic in an Ally McBeal-ish kinda way. Somewhere inbetween fingering grains of rice and singling out the perfect grapes, I had expected to achieve a sort of calm, a sort of bliss from knowing that I was alone, shopping for an empty apartment, and being fine with that. But it's been some four hours since I spent thirty dollars at Andronico's the local market, four hours since I felt the tears make their slow way into my skull, and four hours since I ran through the produce section trying to keep them there.

There's nothing worse in the world, save for a few untreatable fatal diseases that I can list off the top of my head, then shopping alone for your apartment. What happened to that scene of the boyfriend halfway helping you unload the groceries in the fridge? What happened to his brows that would furl when you admitted to forgetting the kalamata olives? What happened to buying his shaving cream? To watching him use that very shaving cream? What happened to his razor that would sleep in the cabinet next to yours?

This is what I thought to myself as I trudged back home with a bag full of kidney beans and apples that will probably rot before I ever get to them. Fruit annoys me. From the moment I buy them, I hear them nagging at me, eat me, eat me, I spoil, and of course I never do because I like to see how long they will last. And by that time, it's useless because they've become inedible. And I'm left with a bowl of rotting fruit and flies hovering about in the kitchen.

So with a bag full of fruit I will never eat, I came into my apartment and had a vision of myself, some twenty years older, watering a dozen ferns, all named after characters from shows such as The Golden Girls, in an apartment much like my current one. By then I would have resorted to arguile sweaters and socks, the ultimate harbinger of widowhood, and would rely on such things as lunar eclipses to get me out of bed in the middle of the night.

Of course all this paranoia may be a result of the medicine I'm taking for my cold and the Siberian weather we've been experiencing lately. But sometimes the smell of moth balls has such a soothing and comforting effect on me it scares me into visions of gray hair and perpetual loneliness.
If it weren't for the homeless man who has decided to live beneath my makeshift balcony and who occasionally will tap on our windows, I'd go out for a smoke and distract myself by thinking about how many people are having sex in a five mile radius. But then again that would exclude me, thus further depressing me.

I think I'll have an apple instead.

Friday, August 16, 2002

Kirin and I spent the day shopping in San Fransisco, and on our way back, as our bus crossed the Bay Bridge we looked out of our respective windows and dreamed about the respective boyfriends we didn't have.

Wednesday, August 14, 2002

The Metamorphisis

I feel like Kirstie Alley in one of those damn Pier 1 Imports commercials.

Be it bamboo curtains, candles, or those super duper practical bag clip thingies one uses to keep a half eaten bag of Ruffles fresh, I can't get enough of shopping. I think I've transferred over my compulsion to drink for a new compulsion for shopping. If I can't have the martini I guess a Sari throw over will have to do.

Besides that, I've been having strange dreams lately...Strange dreams of him. On oone hand I feel so detached from him, geographically at least, that I find myself being ok. On the other hand I feel so detached from him, geographically again, that I feel hopeless, alone, and oh so far from the opportunity of running into him as I shop for Sunflowers down Shattuck Ave. I miss that hope, that possibility that on any given day I could, open mouthed, bump into him and talk about how unusually warm the nights have been.

Instead I shop, hoping that the satin lamps and $30 wind chimes propped outside my bedroom window would somehow drown out my loneliness, that they would somehow drown him out of my dreams...

Monday, August 12, 2002

The Power of Goodbye

I don't know whether it was letting the bartender cop a feel inside my pants for free drinks or harassing the Asian cliental at Red Dragon for dollars in order to buy more drinks that pushed me over the edge, but I've given up drinking...indefinitely.

Or until Sept. 24, my birthday.

So tonight, finally, is my last night in Covina. Kirin and I traveled 369 miles with mother for John's birthday which has left me both hungover and lacking any sense of self worth. And as my psychological well being was already in ruins and gasping for air like a Trout trembling on some cold stone with a laughing 11 year old pointing and laughing, I drove by his house again for what seems like the umpteenth time in my existence. But this time the idealized scenario of me driving by his house with Madonna whispering "I was your fortress you had to burn" was cut short because of a sudden need to go to the bathroom. So I had to carefully prop my cigarette out the window, duck as to avoid a glance from the parents, and forever say goodbye to my high school love gone horribly, horribly sour all while buckling my knees together to keep me from wetting my pants.

But rushed as I were, I did it--it's done--and tomorrow I leave for Berkeley with the three best things Southern California has to offer: John, Kirin, and bagfuls of In & Out.

Thursday, August 08, 2002

Ten Cigarettes Later

Out of my bathroom window nonetheless with both candle and wax tart burner lit because I happen to live in a nonsmoking apartment with all but one other roommate who smokes, yet we all agreed to never smoke in that house on account of the smell...but that's besides the point.

I'm sitting on my bunk bed, which incidentally is backed against the window, so picture me lying on the top bunk, my *new* lap top blinking away, and me squinting to see the Bay Bridge from somewhere inbetween the mist. (Actually I'm too far to see the bridge, but I'd like to think I can).

But that's besides the point too.

Main Points:

1. Hey Meesh!

2. I miss you Rice!

3. Where the hell did all my archives go?

4. I feel happy here.

Why I felt the need to disclose of this at such a late hour I don't know, but there you have it...

Bizerkly in Berkeley

I had thought that moving to Berkeley would rid myself of my mother, but two days into my move I come to figure that I was oh so wrong.

My mother has decided to spend the week (the WEEK!!) with me here, and this little bit of--unexpected--information has definitely rained on my boozing/having sex with Berkeleyites parade. These first days away from home have been uneventful, if you call arguments with my mother over dirty bathtubs, thrown socks on the floor, and drinking margaritas at 2 am uneventful.

I'd go into detail about my escapade to the city (here in Berkeley it's posh to refer to San Fran as just "the city"), but mother's asleep and it's the only time I can steal onto our makeshift balcony for a smoke.

Leaving for Lake Tahoe tomorrow. . .with mother of course.

I know she spent nine hours delivering me on that fateful September morning, but this is just too much to handle...

over and out.

Saturday, August 03, 2002

He Didn't Come

Nope. He didn't come to my going away shindig. There was pizza, flannel (on account of my mandatory dress code), and a dozen good-byes, but there was no him. I knew that when I sent him an invitation, the chance of it actually reaching him was slim, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't get my hopes up; that I didn't spend the night scheming up the proper reaction: whether it would be a cool, half-shocked half-appeased, "You came" or a jubilant and effervescent "You made it"!

But when the time came and passed, I clutched the nearby pitcher of beer and waited for the tears to come. But they never did. I guess in the end it didn't matter if he came or didn't, if he lived or died in a five car pile up on the 605 South. Everyone I cared about, save for a few in distant places, were in that damn un-air conditioned Round Table dining hall bearing the heat and slightly warm bear right along with me.

He didn't come, but the sun's still making its way through my window and onto my face, and I see no reason now to turn away from it.