DON'T THEY KNOW I'M A FUCKING ROCK STAR?!
On a mix I made this summer (Which really should be titled THE MOST DEPRESSING MIX EVAH) I wanted to include Marrianne Faithful's "As Tears Go By." itunes presented me with an interesting choice: the original, which was recorded when she was twentysomething, or one that was recorded in, like, the last 15 years. I choose the latter. I prefer her voice now--cracked, edgy, mannered, ful of life and stories that the lyrics only hint at. In fact, I find her much more beautiful now. Jennifer Saunders knew what she was doing when she cast Faithful as God in an episode of AbFab. But I find most women more interesting, more beautiful, as they age. When I was younger, my movie idols were all women my mother's age or 10 years younger than her/10 years older than me; Michelle Pfieffer, Jody Foster, Kim Basinger, Sherilyn Fenn. In college I added Emma Thompson and Gillian Anderson. In the last few years it's been Helen Mirren, Helena Bohnam Carter, Gong Li, Cate Blanchette, Tilda Swenton, and Julianne Moore. I'm still in love with Emma Thompson and Gillian Anderson. These women are aging so, well, beautifully (NOT gracefully. I hate that term. As if aging were something to be ashamed of, to be handled, to be dealt with). They haven't given up their sexuality or their individuality. They haven't surrendered to the needle or the knife. They don't apologize for no longer being young. And I think they're so much more interesting, more desirable, for it. The only younger actress I really have any interest in is Gemma Arterton. Most of the rest seem so...cookie cutter. They have the same long hair and the same neutral make up and the same size 00 body and wear the same safe designer dresses their overpayed stylists tell them to wear.
I can't imagine actually paying someone to tell me what to wear or how to do my hair.
I've always liked older men. Most of the older men I was into in high school I still dig. Oddly, I've begun being really interested in young men. I think it's because right now, there's this new interest in the Byronic Hero--all these tall, thin, pale, brooding, dark boys. When I was younger the template was different; jockier. Tom Cruise. Keanu Reaves, Brad Pitt. I enjoy watching them, but they ain't ever been my thing. I've never been a jock kinda gal.
Society is so focused on perfection. Always has been, but I think all the new tech, the constant stream of images and advertising and information, cause it to feel overwhelming. God forbid someone has a pimple. Or stretch marks, or a wrinkle, or an ugly dress, or silver hair. Or a belly. Or frizzy hair. Show no genuine emotion--you might get labled uncool. It's not cool to care, to break the cool facade. God forbid we get a scuff on our tennis shoes, or a scratch on our cars. Our products, our images are owning us.
Accept me for the wonderful individual snowflake I am--but you be beautiful and available, without fault or dishonorable deed.
Is there anything more glorious than the climax of "Under Pressure", the David Bowie/Queen duet?
Recieved much love on my birthday, which I think, ironically, led to more anxiety. I mean, I recieved a lot of attention, which I adore, cause we all know I'm a huge attention whore, but then I started to panic. I think I've finally figured it out. I'm afraid of losing the love, once I have it. I'm afraid I'll say something or do something, or that the love was cheaply given and easily taken back. I was recently bitching to a fairly newly made, rather close friend of mine, about things that don't particularly cast me in the best light. When I apologized she said it didn't matter; even if she disagrees with me she still adores me. And no, she's definitely not the type to say so lightly. And yet. And yet...
It's so interesting, how all the things we do to hold on to people are the very things most likely to drive them away.
I've been reading blogs lately from literary agents, and they've all had the same advice to beginning authors: start blogging. Write about things you care about but don't make it too personal. Push the product. Sell the image. And I'm thinking, what the hell? Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of this particular medium, and of writing in general? I mean, I can't imagine divulging anything here that's more personal than my fiction. My fiction is simply coded. In fact, it's so incredibly personal I'm terribly embarrassed when people who know me well--who posses the Rosetta Stone to decipher my code--read it. Much more so than this blog. And besides, who wants an endless stream of word counts and release dates and articles on how to format your manuscript? I quickly stop following an author when I realize that's all an author has to share.
Push the product. Sell the image.
Coffee high. Sugar crash. Love high. Life crash. Same difference.
I can't imagine actually paying someone to tell me what to wear or how to do my hair.
I've always liked older men. Most of the older men I was into in high school I still dig. Oddly, I've begun being really interested in young men. I think it's because right now, there's this new interest in the Byronic Hero--all these tall, thin, pale, brooding, dark boys. When I was younger the template was different; jockier. Tom Cruise. Keanu Reaves, Brad Pitt. I enjoy watching them, but they ain't ever been my thing. I've never been a jock kinda gal.
Society is so focused on perfection. Always has been, but I think all the new tech, the constant stream of images and advertising and information, cause it to feel overwhelming. God forbid someone has a pimple. Or stretch marks, or a wrinkle, or an ugly dress, or silver hair. Or a belly. Or frizzy hair. Show no genuine emotion--you might get labled uncool. It's not cool to care, to break the cool facade. God forbid we get a scuff on our tennis shoes, or a scratch on our cars. Our products, our images are owning us.
Accept me for the wonderful individual snowflake I am--but you be beautiful and available, without fault or dishonorable deed.
Is there anything more glorious than the climax of "Under Pressure", the David Bowie/Queen duet?
Recieved much love on my birthday, which I think, ironically, led to more anxiety. I mean, I recieved a lot of attention, which I adore, cause we all know I'm a huge attention whore, but then I started to panic. I think I've finally figured it out. I'm afraid of losing the love, once I have it. I'm afraid I'll say something or do something, or that the love was cheaply given and easily taken back. I was recently bitching to a fairly newly made, rather close friend of mine, about things that don't particularly cast me in the best light. When I apologized she said it didn't matter; even if she disagrees with me she still adores me. And no, she's definitely not the type to say so lightly. And yet. And yet...
It's so interesting, how all the things we do to hold on to people are the very things most likely to drive them away.
I've been reading blogs lately from literary agents, and they've all had the same advice to beginning authors: start blogging. Write about things you care about but don't make it too personal. Push the product. Sell the image. And I'm thinking, what the hell? Doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of this particular medium, and of writing in general? I mean, I can't imagine divulging anything here that's more personal than my fiction. My fiction is simply coded. In fact, it's so incredibly personal I'm terribly embarrassed when people who know me well--who posses the Rosetta Stone to decipher my code--read it. Much more so than this blog. And besides, who wants an endless stream of word counts and release dates and articles on how to format your manuscript? I quickly stop following an author when I realize that's all an author has to share.
Push the product. Sell the image.
Coffee high. Sugar crash. Love high. Life crash. Same difference.