scene

i want it to be like the movies.  you know the scene.  they see each other across the room.  eyes lock.  silence prevails.  hands touch in crossing.  a glance backwards.  a slight smile.  heart racing.  a rendezvous in the dark hallway.  a lean on the wall.  a grab at the waist.  a deep kiss exchanged.  separation.  opposite directions.  walking away.  a slight glance back.  a longing, but temporary satisfaction.  the night ends. 

brainstorm

blink. blink. blink. blink.  the cursor pulses as though it’s my heart beating and I just stare at it, longing…waiting…for the words to form.  too many things to say.  too many thoughts inhabit my swollen brain. 

My mind races…

time. space. linear progressions. paths. sadness. polarity.  violins. cellos.  hands on the keys of a piano.  me lying on a piano. the ocean.  waves crashing against my chest.  being swallowed.  consuming.  bending. stretching. smoking. non-existence.  a dog dreams. my heart. the abyss.  cold hands.  dreams. love.  music is so fucking good.  i hate work.  einstein.  time.  flex.  bend.  words.  words.  words.  fuck.  new york.  summercon.  summer.  water.  i’m a mess.  stop smoking.  i feel like shite.  beats.  hands.  soft.  so soft.  smile. i love that smile.  time.  words.  london? sweden? spain? ireland?  there’s gotta be a place.  where do I fit.  why am i not fitting?  words.  book.  write. write. write dammit!  eyes.  rain.  stop. black blank chalkboard.  let’s start over.

tick. tock. time to go.

A

A
The Artist
Philip Glass – Einstein on the Beach – Knee 1

I was 23.  I had been seeing The Philosopher for a while, but the relationship, I felt was emotionless on his part.  The Artist was unexpected as upon meeting and recognizing him from some random parties, placed him well.  I did not pay attention at the time to peoples’ majors.  I just didn’t care about such things.  The Artist was just another boy I had seen at another party who I found to be “interesting”.   This night was no different than any other Friday night in the Fan and this night would only consist of drinking with friends at one of the party houses.  Tonight I would do the usual.  I would meet up with my female entourage and we would venture to a gathering to be held in party house 411. 

It was a surprise going to pick up Laurie on Meadow to find that she was indeed living with two boys and one of which was a delightful treat.  One very random boy from some very random parties who I randomly suspected I would meet one day.  Turns out it was tonight.  The Artist is average height.  He comes equipped with sketch book and pen, a distinct laugh and a bowl.  He dresses like most boys of the time, cords and tee with a cardigan ala Mr. Cobain.  His hair is dark and loose and a soul patch adorns his chin.  The cuteness factor is up high and my flirtatious nature takes hold.  Lucky for me his nature was just as teasing.  How fortunate he was joining us to the party.

We fell in love over a game of telephone.  What was supposed to be “The monkey is in the kitchen, “ turned out to be “Would you like to go out sometime.”  The Artist was interesting and quirky.  He was expressive and fun.  The night of the party I went home with him and did not leave for a few days.  It was the kind of love which puts you on an altar.  It was also the kind of love which was dangerous for losing oneself….and lose myself I did.

For the next few months The Artist and I shacked up, drugged up, and partied up.  We were passionate, we were that cute couple everyone awwwed at, and we were on our way down an Escher staircase. 

Our first date was a fashion party of sorts.  How ironic it was in the apartment of my last residence….red porch light and all.  We were asked to come in some sort of costume.  The Artist decided on a bright orange basketball jersey with a tie atop a black short sleeved button down and plain pants.  It was quite comical and while he decided on more eclectic I opted for my basic color scheme of black and white.   It was a fashion party!

Little did I realize that the red lit warmth of the apartment amidst a sea of balloons would be the location of my first dose of Ecstasy.  “You can just take half, it will be ok,” he comforted me.  All I kept thinking was, “Can I die from this?”  He had this smile about him.  It was a smile that was sincere, yet could make you jump off a skyscraper.  His brown eyes gazed at me like I was the only other person in the room.  In an instant that pill was in my mouth and my first date with The Artist left me to a world of euphoria and ultimately dependence. 
Our relationship was pretty serious.  We had met each other’s families.  I had practically moved in with him.  We were the couple that stayed in the bedroom for days only to utilize the bathroom and eat occasionally.  We listened to Philip Glass, Sonic Youth, and the Boredoms constantly.  He was entranced with all that was noise and his artwork reflected that kind of chaos in which the din inhabited.  I went from the moroseness of being a Goth girl to transforming into a Club kid.  My first raves were with The Artist.  He introduced me into a world of drugs, make-believe, and dance.  Oh, how he loved to dance.  The movements were part of his medium for expressing his art.  Everything he did was part of the art.  He lost himself in his work.  He sketched constantly, painted, videoed, photographed….he was neurotic about his art. 

Although my introduction to the world of recreational drugs was with The Artist, I found it only to be a short phase in my life.  Getting high became tedious to me.  He began to distance himself from me.  Our outings became less and his drug use became more predominate in the relationship.  He would have conversations I didn’t get and philosophize about numbers and patterns.   He snapped at me more frequently and I found our time together was coming to a close.  I found myself panicking.  I had not realized I had completely become dependent on him emotionally.  I would not realize this until much later. 

He did it in the car.  It was raining one afternoon.  I had remembered the day we had gone out to a movie and returned home in the rain.  We danced and played in it like we were children, but this was a different rain.  He was cold and apathetic towards the end.  It was obvious he had enough and just wanted to end it.  In the next few weeks I would see him.  He would sleep with me to console me, but there was no hope in our getting back together.  I cried a lot, for he was THE ONE.  I would see him at random parties with random women, including very good friends of mine.  He still had that cute seductive smile.  He would soon find a new girlfriend.  He would soon move away and it would ease my pain for a while, but we would not speak for some time after this.  I would tell myself I wasn’t good enough and that’s why he left.  I would tell myself I wasn’t ambitious enough with my school or that I wasn’t pretty enough.  I had all kinds of excuses and was really a pathetic mess for a while.

Years later, he would come back to here and I would see him crossing the street after a show.  He looked up and waved with that smile.  I knew we wouldn’t be far from each other again, but I had moved on and was in a new phase of my life.  I will never forget the day he gazed at my chipped red finger nails and said, “mmm….chipped red finger nail polish, I remember that.”  With a wicked smile he would say it and for just one moment I thought, “Ha, I’m still with him.” 

Eight months, give or take a few weeks of back and forth, we went.  In that time, I managed to be as clingy as an octopus to The Artist.  He was my Chagall, he was my passionate Picasso, my fiery Diego Rivera.  I still have all the pieces he gave me and I look at them fondly.  Two years ago I attended his wedding.  I no longer see the cute boy with the persuasive smile whose sole ambition in life was to create these complex worlds through pen, paint, and image, but instead I see a round cherub.  One who drinks heavily and does commercial art.  I see someone in a world of sorrow still looking for something he lost.

Patterns

In my entire dating experience, I’ve noticed that we all as humans have a tendency to gravitate to certain qualities in people we deem attractive.  It’s as though it’s a blueprint for our romantic entanglements and for better or worse it is inevitable we choose the people we do to inhabit our bubbles.

Dark Hair.  Light Eyes.  Tall.  Thin.  Rocker.  Artist.  Intelligent beyond normalcy.  Witty.  Dresses well.  Ambitious.  White.

These have been my magnet qualities.  How much is choice and how much is predestined?  I have a friend who continuously dates men with self-confidence issues and another who only dates men who are terminally void of social skills.  I have a guy friend who only dates Asian women and another who only dates girls who have bangs.  They are not conscious of these things, it just sort of happens.  An ex told me every woman he’s ever dated has her 2nd toe slightly longer than her big toe.  I can understand choosing people based upon interests but when it comes down to physical attributes atop a very specific criteria, you have to wonder.

So, I became intrigued with the patterns of choosing lovers.  I’ve decided to add the alphabet to this blog and which each letter will be a genre of man I’ve been involved with.  I think it will be an interesting study in human behavior as well as a self-study of my own patterns.  The Alphabet of Men will be born.