I only smile when I lie.
Central Park, May 2005. View from above my swing.
The other day I walked nine blocks to Madison as the rain fell freely onto my face and set the cool wind off the dampness of my clothing. It can be a painful combination unless the air is hot and sultry, but there is something liberating about letting yourself get soaking wet. At home I unbuttoned my mandarin collared-blouse to reveal a black camisole plastered to my chest. I admired how my breasts appeared more ample in their desire to be free from heavy clothing and the weight of water, swolen to the touch by the moon's cycle. I've learned to be cautious of what I wear by experience. I can never be found clad in a short skirt whilst walking alone in the city. But I remember being a teenager and intentionally pushing the envelope because I suddenly had this new body to play with. I was suddenly...woman. Provocative. The weather continues to warm as women peel back the layers and libidos rise by both the rampant exposure and palpable heat. It's intensity makes breasts heave and skin sweat as the atmosphere is more seductive and enticing. Everyone is talking, thinking about, and oozing the need for sex. Winter may draw bodies together for the feel of warm blood underneath a lover's flesh, but it is summer that arouses animal instinct and perversion. Spring begins to lure my lust out of hibernation and I feel a rush of vitality through the surrounding rebirth. And even though I have the memories of our passion to feed me these terribly long conversations, the energy, and the brutal honesty is truly the best fuck.
An Australian man selling colorful leather handbags in the booth across from mine hesitated to tell me he found me to be one of the most attractive women he'd ever seen. He thought I might take offense to his statement, however I can sincerely appreciate an honest compliment. It's always flattering to hear someone tell you that you are beautiful. Even from the men who sometimes whisper it on the street. As long as their words or actions are not crude and disgusting. He confessed that he had never wanted to be so frank with another woman he'd found as attractive before because he felt he would only feed their ego, but that there was something about my aura... We shared a very refreshing conversation in comparison to some of the other men I seemed to encounter back at the Center again. Such as the one who decided he'd amuse me by flexing his muscles while shooting an 'uh huh, you like that, don't you.' sort of look my way and persisted to bother me throughout my entire lunch. I really hate to generalize but it seems that construction/blue collar type of working men never fail to live up to the common stereotype. His friend, however, followed me outside to ask me out on a date, respectfully. It was honest and actually kind of sweet.
The inconsistency of working tradeshows and other promotions is frustrating. Originally I was supposed to model clothing for a particular designer at another division of the show, but they were inconsiderate and neglectful, so I sold jewelry and accessories to a couple of snobbish and impatient buyers instead. I'm not familiar with the standard otherwise but these non-exclusive agencies treat models like throw-away dolls and plain insignificant shit. I am still awaiting my larger check as well as trying to weed out the vultures who prey upon the novice model's flesh. The ones who only seek to benefit for themselves and just want to strip you naked.
It was a glorious day in the city and I met with Jude at the Starbucks of Times Square to discuss assisting her at yet another tradeshow at the start of next week, promoting and selling her adult stationary line. Her portfolio was filled with very colorful and interesting images of astrological symbols painted onto cards indicating each individual sign's pleasure as well as creatures with pig-heads and pink adult-shaped bodies in S&M leather attire, chains, and whips. This time I am not working through an agency so to witness her artistic passion and effort as well as my direct involvement in the discussion and plan for display is refreshing. She wants to buy myself and the guy she's hired new outfits and I'd like to purchase some of her decorated paper when the show is through. 42nd street was sprinkled with a bunch of Elvis impersonators and I took many pictures of this formerly controversial place I hardly ever seem to walk through. I found myself in Central Park shortly after wandering around the sad carriage horses, admiring the sky, and swinging high enough for my long legs to ruffle the trees. I met with a young blonde mother at her husband's ball game to make an exchange for sending the wrong item after her ebay purchase. I decided it was fortunate she asked me to meet her at the park and began to take advantage of the beautiful afternoon and the hours to kill before my 6pm go-go dance class. Daydreaming under the sun for so long made me ache with childhood nostalgia. I wondered when the simple things that were once of such comfort lost their value and ability to bring me happiness. I must have swung for an hour until hunger began to consume me but I found nourishment at a local cafe, sitting by the vast window, staring out into the city. A clown caught my attention from across the street and I was intrigued. This was not your typical hideously frightening character for he lacked the red foam nose but donned a painted face, top hat, and pastel suit. I observed him make conversation with the woman wearing a double sign hanging over her chest and back like a minion from a deck of cards. A slave of the Queen of Hearts. He proceeded to walk down the street in a dignified manner nodding his head, and possibly saying hello, to everyone he'd meet. I envisioned a scene from an old film of life in New York City and it's people, considerate and polite, void of apathy. The way I would have liked to think it might have been.
I arrived at the dance studio rather early and made myself comfortable on a small couch in the corner listening to construction work before the man himself, the title of the place, asked me to dance to a bit of salsa. A cute asian girl with bright artifically-colored eyes ran up to greet me. She liked the way I looked and handed me her card to suggest that I model with her in the future. The photo exposed her very thin and boyish figure in what seemed to be strips of clothing strategically wrapped around her parts and she posed seductively wearing a hot pink wig and a plump fuchsia pout. She was like water and could move and twist her body in waves that suddenly forged curves in places in which initially they were not. I intended to amuse myself and learn a few new tricks but the class slowly turned into an audition to be in a Britney video and I could not follow. Naturally, rhythm seduces me, and I love to move to music in my own free manner but I was thrown by all the technicalities and mechanicalness of this intense choreography. I do desire to feel my body once again and to seperate these parts from one another in such a way I am more aware and have control over muscle and increased flexibility. I crave to indulge further into my own sensuality in ways that do not perhaps involve physical contact with another being. This class only drew my attention toward a flyer I was handed upon walking down 5th Ave one afternoon. There are several types of yoga, however I like the way the sound of Ashtanga rolls off the tongue. I may practice all three though I'd like to learn the art of one before the other.
On Mother's day my father confessed to me something that surprised me. My grand uncle Polo had always been a cheerful and bright character who filled every room with his energy and life. He is a small man in his late seventies and always very accommodating, kind, and generous; I could see why he was my father's favorite uncle. Recently he tried to commit sucide by letting the carbon monoxide spill into his car with the windows shut tight until he drifted into a deep sleep. It appears that, physically he is going to recover, but he is undergoing psychiatric evaluation. I was never aware of how much pain he had been in. There are not many who are very happy and content with their lives even when they have become old, & if anything, the reality of that just seems to become even more excruciatingly difficult to deal with. I worry about my grandmother and what might become of her as time continues to pass for not only her physical health, but mental health, is deteriorating. There is a tremendous amount of guilt which plagues me as I think of fleeing from New York. She tells me of how she will miss me beyond words and I am paralyzed by my breaking heart. She had never truly been well and like my mother, in this life she shall remain a tortured soul, never having recovered, never having experienced genuine long-lasting happiness. The awareness of this deeply saddens me to my core though also motivates me to not let myself end up like either one of them, my mother the shell, and my grandmother the little girl lost. I might never be fit for motherhood this time around, but if there is to be more incarnations I would rather for them both to return as my children.
I have always strived to know who I am and remain true to that self. I crave for a raw honesty to be planted inside of my ribs where it's vulnerable pulp and veins are protected and caged. It shall grow through the spaces from the inside out and wrap all around me like vines so that the lies that threaten to nest inside dissolve upon reaching the first layer of skin. However I am littered with deceit and my several selves lie to one another. I feed my brain a comfort food of denial, but still I am a very naturally conflicted person. There are a couple of roads that are quite appealing in their promise and destination so I taste the grounds of them all as I tread only halfway. I quickly adapt to whatever truths shatter former illusions as well as become the new illusions I elect. It is a survival technique and yet there are pieces of me which die every time. I cannot tell the full truth. Bloody Mary still haunts all the mirrors in the house and my fears can only be eradicated when I cut all demon allies and exorcise her. Beyond the lies I am so malleable I have the tendency to take the shape of something unrecognizable even to myself. If I had the luxury I would be a coveted gypsy woman travelling the world to tell other's fortunes and this is how I would make my living. Reading people by day, seeing different lands, and writing at night. This would actually perhaps make me more sane because I lend bits and parts of myself to so many different ideas that I could never feel anything more than incomplete. I have the urge to provide a service to others and make them, if even only, momentarily pleased, whilst at the same time I still need to literarily express and expel pain and pleasure as well as all my angels and demons to have them reveal things to me. I often feel the need to challange my beliefs and convictions, the girl whom others perceive, and the essence of me. It is the only way I can obtain the understanding and affirmation that I need, because in the end I always return to myself. Perhaps these tests only serve to prove to me that I do exist and that my awareness is not a dream. Maybe this is the only truth that I need.
A couple of months ago I wanted to kill myself and become someone else.
There was small room warmly lit in which I sat to be interviewed by a refined speaking English woman. Several young girls pranced back and forth eating, checking their email, and studying from school text books in the hallway. She spoke to me in her gentle yet strong tone of how I'd have to prepare myself, about choosing a name, & a new identity of sorts. I knew from the moment I walked behind the secret door that I wouldn't be able to go through with it but I kind of liked the idea of creating a new self, playing the part, and acting out this vice. The atmosphere reminded me of one of the group homes I'd spent many months in gaining new sisters and several mothers. I cannot deny that sometimes I have this desire to belong, or to recreate the concept of family. But I had also come to despise men last winter and held nothing against degrading them in the type of way in which they had done to me. It wasn't I who would be the one to strip this time. Or perhaps I just wanted a glimpse into a world I knew nothing of, because I am experimental, and it is the only way I can be sure of where I stand. The truth is that I submit to men. I am aggressive, but I submit to their rough scent, strong arms, and protection. I attempted to go against my nature. It is not a profession for the faint of heart nor for the individual who does not experience pleasure from being the dominant force. Between our discussion and my research thereafter I learned there is much more intimacy involved than I had initially thought. I may be a little naive to that which I only know of by rumour. Ultimately I possess no desire to break a man because I like him strong. When I try to access the more dominant being in myself I can't help but to think of women. A side of me has yet to be fully explored and I feel that urge growing stronger every day. To many I appear to be one of the most feminine woman on earth, in my clothing, voice, and manner, but if I were to suddenly become a man I could easily adapt. There is a masculine counterpart to my feminine self; one that does not exist by the contribution of a man, but solely lives somewhat dormant inside of me. This is where more confusion and my need for two or more selves comes in. I could probably love a woman by day and a man by night and the only difference would be in who was wearing the chains.
I still only love one man. But there is an element of freedom now and I feel more content. Eight days until I am on a plane to Los Angeles again. I shall pass around a hundred shots of vodka at work tonight. This is friday the 13th and it the most beautiful day.