Confessions Softer Than China White
So, interesting things in my life always happens when my messenger notification goes off late at night or early in the morning.
You know I'm the type of person people open up to? That I can count a few friends dead, as well as some family, and that their friends come to me and that is how I form this circle of mourners around me--all with their own stories and their own pain.
N.comes from some money but told me she had done some escorting.I told her that I saw a few men from an SD website. She was feeling guilty, like her life was a sham.
She told me I needed to know this in case anything happened, that she didn't want to be remembered badly, that she'd had a bad reputation, had lived selfishly. Her tone was worrying.
Years ago, she'd become involved with an imposing Ukranian man who told her she'd go on cruises and get thousands of dollars. That she wasn't to ask questions, that if anyone asked she was the man's niece and he had business with a software company. The man asked for her passport and she gave it to him, having no idea what was being done with all the passports. She knew nothing, but was starting to feel threatened, and was threatened with death if she talked.
Soon, a detective knocked on her door and she did tell him what she knew. As it turns out she was part of an international sex trafficking ring run by Ukranian and Russian mobsters, and she was being used to lure girls into the whole thing. There was a ladder and she was at the top. Purchased for sailing regattas and all night parties and cruises to Mexico, lots of nice hotels, bar bills covered, designer clothes, trips. There was a "Dateline" special about it, she said. And she feels incredibly guilty about the suffering the other girls went through. She said she is worthless. And she is scared of living. She hates New York. It is lonely. She's losing her apartment in two weeks and staying with her former stepmother in California for a while. She wants to study psychology in school. She wants to sell her designer things and start a nonprofit to help people. I told her I'm all in with whatever she needs, however I can help.
She admires my intellect. I told her how awkward I am and at times how socially inept, but to her, that means I have everything.
I kept her talking, and we've been talking the last few nights and she has my number. She said "I'm dumb as a box of rocks, you wouldn't believe it." I told her I didn't know any bilingual rocks, and that made her laugh. We've been exchanging jokes and memories of Paul. She also gave me permission to use her story in things I write. I am flattered. And clearly, a part of what I'm here to do, is share stories, to write.
I dreamt about her last night. A very soft dream. I woke up and she was in bed next to me, a big four poster with mosquito netting, she was fully dressed in a blue gown, with a low cut. I breathed the scent of her hair in. Like flowers. She told me I smelled good. I laid my head on her chest and said "You are a real princess." She rolled over on top of me, with her face and hair haloing mine. She said we were going gambling. It was a dream I tried to get back to.
It's true--it's really all fairy tales. The exiled princess in the far away country of New York City, with little happiness and all the riches in the world. The trips to avoid people from her past, the adventures. She said I had a heart of gold. I said she had the heart of a lion. I truly believe this. I feel honored that people trust me with their stories.
She is sometimes erratic and depressed. She says she's in therapy but has a locked box of meds she's been storing for years. I tried to keep her talking. I told her that I often feel surrounded by darkness. I told her that we meet who we are supposed to meet. Because I think we do.
My lovely Maya is back in Beijing curating another show of gorgeous Chinese art. She wrote an essay and then translated it into Mandarin, and then for some reason got caught up editing it all on her own. She sent me a bit of the new novel she's writing, a thriller, like "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo." It's pretty good, and she's got the formula down. She is very much like a butterfly. She will never be pinned down. I love her in ways I don't have words for.
I feel I have been given custody of these lovely women, fragile like bombs, beautiful like lights over the ocean. My friends. My coven. My sister wives.
I sometimes feel so plain, like my looks are waning, like I am in a rut. But if people trust me with their creative endeavors, with their darkest secrets, I guess that is magic in itself.
If I did have a heart of gold I'd melt it and give each girl a piece.
Because...
there was a time when I wanted to chase down that soft, euphoric feeling
just for one night...and if it killed me, it killed me.
I'll never stop wanting to know what that feeling is that kills so many people, but I have reasons to stick around--because the world is beautiful and there are too many things I don't know. And people tell me their stories. They call me an angel.
I have my reasons, and lots of rain, besides. I love rain.
You know I'm the type of person people open up to? That I can count a few friends dead, as well as some family, and that their friends come to me and that is how I form this circle of mourners around me--all with their own stories and their own pain.
N.comes from some money but told me she had done some escorting.I told her that I saw a few men from an SD website. She was feeling guilty, like her life was a sham.
She told me I needed to know this in case anything happened, that she didn't want to be remembered badly, that she'd had a bad reputation, had lived selfishly. Her tone was worrying.
Years ago, she'd become involved with an imposing Ukranian man who told her she'd go on cruises and get thousands of dollars. That she wasn't to ask questions, that if anyone asked she was the man's niece and he had business with a software company. The man asked for her passport and she gave it to him, having no idea what was being done with all the passports. She knew nothing, but was starting to feel threatened, and was threatened with death if she talked.
Soon, a detective knocked on her door and she did tell him what she knew. As it turns out she was part of an international sex trafficking ring run by Ukranian and Russian mobsters, and she was being used to lure girls into the whole thing. There was a ladder and she was at the top. Purchased for sailing regattas and all night parties and cruises to Mexico, lots of nice hotels, bar bills covered, designer clothes, trips. There was a "Dateline" special about it, she said. And she feels incredibly guilty about the suffering the other girls went through. She said she is worthless. And she is scared of living. She hates New York. It is lonely. She's losing her apartment in two weeks and staying with her former stepmother in California for a while. She wants to study psychology in school. She wants to sell her designer things and start a nonprofit to help people. I told her I'm all in with whatever she needs, however I can help.
She admires my intellect. I told her how awkward I am and at times how socially inept, but to her, that means I have everything.
I kept her talking, and we've been talking the last few nights and she has my number. She said "I'm dumb as a box of rocks, you wouldn't believe it." I told her I didn't know any bilingual rocks, and that made her laugh. We've been exchanging jokes and memories of Paul. She also gave me permission to use her story in things I write. I am flattered. And clearly, a part of what I'm here to do, is share stories, to write.
I dreamt about her last night. A very soft dream. I woke up and she was in bed next to me, a big four poster with mosquito netting, she was fully dressed in a blue gown, with a low cut. I breathed the scent of her hair in. Like flowers. She told me I smelled good. I laid my head on her chest and said "You are a real princess." She rolled over on top of me, with her face and hair haloing mine. She said we were going gambling. It was a dream I tried to get back to.
It's true--it's really all fairy tales. The exiled princess in the far away country of New York City, with little happiness and all the riches in the world. The trips to avoid people from her past, the adventures. She said I had a heart of gold. I said she had the heart of a lion. I truly believe this. I feel honored that people trust me with their stories.
She is sometimes erratic and depressed. She says she's in therapy but has a locked box of meds she's been storing for years. I tried to keep her talking. I told her that I often feel surrounded by darkness. I told her that we meet who we are supposed to meet. Because I think we do.
My lovely Maya is back in Beijing curating another show of gorgeous Chinese art. She wrote an essay and then translated it into Mandarin, and then for some reason got caught up editing it all on her own. She sent me a bit of the new novel she's writing, a thriller, like "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo." It's pretty good, and she's got the formula down. She is very much like a butterfly. She will never be pinned down. I love her in ways I don't have words for.
I feel I have been given custody of these lovely women, fragile like bombs, beautiful like lights over the ocean. My friends. My coven. My sister wives.
I sometimes feel so plain, like my looks are waning, like I am in a rut. But if people trust me with their creative endeavors, with their darkest secrets, I guess that is magic in itself.
If I did have a heart of gold I'd melt it and give each girl a piece.
Because...
there was a time when I wanted to chase down that soft, euphoric feeling
just for one night...and if it killed me, it killed me.
I'll never stop wanting to know what that feeling is that kills so many people, but I have reasons to stick around--because the world is beautiful and there are too many things I don't know. And people tell me their stories. They call me an angel.
I have my reasons, and lots of rain, besides. I love rain.