Rum

Whoa. What a night. Went to a party (Dead Kennedys, go away).

It found me in the corner of the room, on a soft velvet couch. I was sitting there and waiting to see how the evening would unwind. New crowd.

Being an unintentional rebel, I was wearing a square looking t-shirt with big letters “HOLLYWOOD” on the front. What else do you wear when you come to an underground “cool kids” warehouse party? A costume like everybody else? That was my yuppie costume.

And then absolute and total loneliness attacked me with precision of a heavy weight nuclear mosquito. My secret loves, my suppressed fears, everything that makes a human human, but I can’t afford paying attention to because whining takes away from winning.

And I started writing incoherent words in my pocket book, and crying, and hiding tears behind the hair, and then it was time to go. I could not stand people anymore. I really did not give a flying fuck about anything at that moment besides the fact that I was alive and my life was tragic.

I could probably have a life just like everybody else, but probably it’s a lie and I couldn’t. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything except occasional pretense of being other people (musicians mostly), but pretense does not count. I am still deadly in love with my life even though I screw up plenty.

Pause.

I walked out of there as the party was just starting, and on my way I anointed a random kid with a hug. He asked for it and was very surprised he got it. He asked me if I was a model. He was drunk. I did not care about the corniness. I was dying.

I continued dying in the car, I was making up imaginary friends to love me. I cried my eyes out and it felt good.

There is some sick charm in being a “strong person”. All that (very real) pain, no big deal. I shook it off simply because it’s the right thing to do, because I am trained to do so.

I am still thinking evil thoughts of the bartender who created my drink. One glass of rum is not supposed to send one off on a trip to heavenly hell. But I am thankful.

Aliens and Predators

Okay, I admit to it. I am a predator and an imperialist.

Here is why. I live in the Bronx. My part of the Bronx is Puerto Rican. Which means, a party all night long, and everything Spanish. I don’t speak a word of Spanish. I love and respect all precious forms of life, but I feel like a transplant (even though the neighborhood vibe reminds me of my Soviet childhood). So I like to infiltrate.

An hour ago, I stopped on a red light and entered a loudness contest with the car in the next lane. He was blasting hip hop in Spanish, and I was blasting Red Hot Chili Peppers. I discovered their music for myself no earlier than today and I was pleasantly surprised. I really liked it. It took reading half a bio of Anthnony Kiedis, and I plan on finishing the book that he wrote. Yes, I live in a box when I want to – and don’t really care if it sounds stupid. May be I am a rock star, after all?

How they do it on Alpha Centauri

Writing loaded lyrics for somebody I’ve never seen and probably never will meet in my life gives me this strangely incestuous feeling – I am verbalizing somebody’s agony over his unrequited love, and I am putting my highly intimate imagery into words, his words. I am becoming this unknown person who I would not recognize if I ran into him in the street.

It’s a form of sex, very subtle, very much not from this planet. And it is very real. Weird, weird.

new york night

Very strange. I’ve been generally single for the last two years or so – the longest I’ve been single before that was a couple of hours. But I am not depressed at all. And it’s not because I like my freedom. Now, I like my freedom. But it’s nice to have somebody who is adequate and bright and beautiful. But – another but – anything less is scary.

You know how I spend my fourth of July.

Music gender envy – grrrrr

If I weren’t me, I would want to be a male guitar player, a fast one – like Satriani or Steve Vai. It kills me. I love it so much but not just to listen, I want to be it. This energy is driving me insane – one thing I can not be is a male musician – it’s different from being a female musician – and I can not be it!!!

Is there such thing as music gender envy? Am I the only one under the sun?

Hello, New York!

Several years of yapping, two days of driving and one Ohio speeding ticket later, I am in New York to stay. What did I just say? A New Yorker. Me, a New Yorker.

WOW

I have not fully realized what it means yet, but from now on, when asked “Where do you live?”, I will say “New York”, and smile.

But Goddammit, I am still lonely. What do I do with it? I seem to take it with me everywhere I go. So boring, this loneliness thing.

Predictably, I find my way to the chosen hummus place in the Village, again, and here I am, sipping flavored tea and typing away. And thinking “what’s next”.

Next is cleaning and unpacking. But I don’t want to think about it just yet.