somewhere somehow she’s sleeping and smoking a cigarette and someone is stealing so they can slowly start to stand and say so long to sad situations and welcome to wonderful wednesdays where we all will wander through wishes when a hello for him held holy significance and made us see circles in our silly story.
I’ve mentioned my contempt for bugs (with the exception of the lightning bug). Yet for some reason I am compelled to write about insects again. I shouldn’t be writing at all – I am terribly exhausted. But this memory has been haunting me, coercing me to purge it from my mind and into this text.
When I was younger, I had an affinity for love bugs. Growing up in New Orleans, they were as common as the cockroach, though far less foul. The average lifespan of a lovebug is one week to ten days. Once the females emerge, mating takes place almost immediately. The bugs spend the majority of their lives copulating. A male and a female will attach at their ends and stay that way at all times, even in flight. After mating, the male dies but the lovers remain connected. Everywhere she goes, the female carries the dead body of her companion until she is ready to lay her eggs. How faithful to her suitor the female appears, or is she just tolerating him? Is it devotion, or the inability to let go?
In the warm summer days of my adolescence, I would willingly allow lovebugs to crawl on my skin. I took pleasure in the tickling sensation they provided when creeping along the flesh of my arm.
Sometimes, I would rip them apart from each other. I did this with no intention of cruelty, but because I was able and curious. (Yes, much like the slugs.) My innocence could not comprehend the intimacy which I was defacing.
But this is not the only carnage that I imposed upon the defenseless lovebug. I clearly recall trapping a great deal of them in a glass jar. This was done out of affection; they were to be my beloved pets. Tragically, when I awoke the following day there was nothing more than a jar of corpses. I sat in the backyard and cried, ashamed of my lovebug holocaust and embarrassed about my stupidity concerning life.
I threw the jar in the garbage can outside and tried to dismiss the ugly slaughter, but I could never quite forget. It’s forever difficult to leave such piercing memories behind.
Before this weekend, I hadn’t seen Tom Daly in ages. “I’m boycotting your blog until I’m in it,” he told me.
“Fine, but you better say something really wise and significant so I can build a story around it,” I said.
“I already did,” he alleged. “Don’t shit where you eat.”
Certainly Tom didn’t invent this phrase, but no one can deny its brilliance. He continued. “I still can’t go to my favorite diner, my local pharmacy, and a restaurant in my neighborhood on certain nights.”
This is a lesson that I am incapable of learning. I suppose I can take comfort in that fact that human beings tend to learn from mistakes. That considered, past heartaches and/or confusing situations and/or awkward moments were not actually missteps on my part. The ability to acknowledge the enlightenment that some of these “shits” have afforded me comes in waves. There are also billows of resentment and hurt. It’s all fuel for creativity, and life is brimming with gas stations. This world offers full and self service options for anyone willing to take a risk and pay the price, which is never posted on the pump.
Later that night I was at the duck with Paisley and Tanya. It was crowded, and the majority of the clientele was typical for Bushwick. I looked around at the girls with their straight hair and bangs donning thrift store t-shirts and American Apparel headbands. “Am I just another one of these girls?” I asked. “I mean, I have bangs and-”
“Yeah but your eyes aren’t dead,” Paisley said. “They’re generic. You’re not.”
I choose to believe her. Paisley doesn’t say things that she doesn’t mean, and at the same time she doesn’t hold back when expressing her opinion. (That night she also predicted the newest trend: a nose ring attached to a nipple ring attached to a headband.)
Oh, and Tanya did determine that there is only one exception to the “don’t shit where you eat” rule: Two Girls, One Cup.
Years ago at the Wreck Room I encountered a street magician.
“Think of a friend’s name, any friend, and concentrate on that person,” he said.
I did as he instructed. However, I had two friends by this name, and both spelled it unconventionally. Images of them both occupied my mind. “Okay,” I told him as I awaited his next move.
He seemed confused. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Something’s… unclear. Do you have two friends by this name?” he asked.
I was shocked, but not yet impressed. “Yes,” I admitted.
“Concentrate on one of them,” he advised me.
And so I did. Immediately I pictured only one of the friend’s faces in my mind, and I held it there. “You’re thinking of your friend Bryan,” the magician said.
He was right. Now I was impressed. Not long after that I went on a date with him. Honestly, I wasn’t very attracted to him. It was the magic. I longed to know how he did it. He told me that I could do it too, and that I just had to start small and practice. I never went out with him again. Maybe I was partially frustrated that he wouldn’t tell me his secrets, and in some measure I didn’t really want to know how he did it. It would be like finding out that Santa Claus wasn’t real or that David Copperfield couldn’t fly. I am naive regarding strangers’ illusions and leery towards peoples’ intentions. The wall I am building unintentionally started before I can remember. It provides innocence for art and skepticism about motives. This may or may not hinder me in some way.
In any case, I decided to amputate some of the magic in my life, so I researched lightning bugs and the theremin. It turns out, neither are the products of enchantment. The bio-luminescence of lightning bugs is simply the effect of enzymes and oxygen. They use it to attract mates. The males fly around and flash in search of females. The females do not fly, but instead they sit and glow in response to the males. I wonder how many human lives would be made easy by this method of copulation. Any question of interest would be answered by a tiny shimmer fueled by the unavoidable company of oxygen.
Then there is the theremin. The instrument makes music without any contact from the player. It’s as though the performer is playing the air. His/her hands must accurately touch the nothingness between antennas in order to create song. This is made possible by electric signals and a person skilled in pitch and precision, not spells and sorcery. Still I want to play the theremin, and I want to tell everyone who is unaware of its inner workings that magic controls the device.
And like the magician told me, I will say that they can learn. It just takes practice. Maybe those who I tell will decide that sometimes, bewilderment is better; sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.
We were at the duck celebrating Braden’s one year anniversary of living in New York. It is so Brades to celebrate that. I know this about him, and I haven’t even known him the entire year. Additionally, I was thrilled to be the only non-Omahaian on the email chain discussing this celebratory event.
“You haven’t heard about Brades typing ‘tonight’ into Craigslist? Brades, explain to Ashleigh why you do this,” Mitchell said.
“If you type ‘tonight’ into Craigslist,” Brades began, “you can get tickets for all kinds of things, like Knicks games and stuff. Just type it in the general search on the main page and-”
Q interrupted. “Do NOT type it into personals. You’ll just get cocks. Big black cocks. Real big. Mid-thigh. I saw it. It was real.”
And then he walked in. We didn’t say hello. I’m sure we both saw each other. Of course I know why I didn’t say hello. Clearly there is no way for me to know why he didn’t acknowledge my presence. Does it matter? Depends on who you ask, I suppose. The non-greetings made me think of two people who are very close but never talk. Both will claim that the other never calls, but the phone lines go both ways, so who really isn’t calling who? I can go ahead and be upset that he didn’t say hello, but I didn’t address him either.
The real tragedy here is that I had glued myself back together, but the glue didn’t hold. I’m broken. Actually, it’s partly the glue and in some ways the reassembly. I’m pretty sure I dropped a few pieces of myself down the storm drain, and let’s be honest – who the fuck knows what to do when that happens? Call 3-1-1? Talk to the closest business owner? Ask a construction worker for help? I figure I’ll just let the rats have that bit of me. I’d rather be incomplete and creative than whole and dispassionate.
I spoke with Ian about it tonight. “I’d say this whole thing has made you a much better writer, and shown people how well you can write,” he said. “Most people I know around your age and mine can hardly manage a complete and logical sentence most of the time, written or spoken.”
This seems a fine opportunity to make clear that this blog is not a diary. At times I am altering my reality into what I hope is entertaining. It may seem more often dismal than blithe, but I am far from misery. (Those who know me best understand this to be true.) However lately, despondency has been dominating my life. I told Ian I was tired of feeling sad. “When these emotions come up, put them in writing, get them out of your head, and bury them on the page,” he said. “If people don’t like it, they don’t have to read it.”
Although I do hope you keep reading. I am confident that there is an audience for my bleak and ominous words. (My Grandma would be so proud. Morbidness runs in my family, I assure you.) Undoubtedly, there is always a public for macabre, sorrow, and all monstrosities of the human world. Hence why Mitchell and I finally got around to seeing Halloween 2 last night.
“I just don’t get why some people don’t like horror movies,” Mitchell was saying on the walk back to 14th Street. “Maybe the gore…”
“Obviously I agree. The horror movie genre is my absolute favorite,” I told him, as if he didn’t know that about me. “I guess I do understand how, like, when Michael Myers went into the strip club and bashed that stripper’s head into the mirror over and over again as she screamed until she finally died. Maybe that would disturb some people?”
“Maybe? I like that though, I think it’s entertaining,” he admitted.
I couldn’t agree more. “Me too,” I said, “me too.” Thank god I have Mitchell to go to movies with.
In conclusion, if anyone knows Rob Zombie, please let him know that I adore his films and would be honored to work for him, even if it entails mopping up fake blood on movie sets. And I promise my next blog will be about something other than my stupid life, like the theremin. I want to write about the theremin and lightning bugs, both of which I consider magical.
“And then I ran away,” I told Dora. It was the end of the story. She had asked about him, otherwise I wouldn’t have brought it up. “I should have been strong and tough. I should have stayed and acted like I didn’t care. It was embarrassing.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” Dora said. “It’d be more embarrassing if you acted like you didn’t care.”
…
I have been trying to write this blog for hours. The task has proved difficult because although I swore not to censor my writing, I also don’t want to make accusations or speak about a personal life other than my own.
So, I’m at a loss.
To be vague, I can say that the realization I had Sunday has completely stifled my appetite and caused me to feel very like a fool. (I hate feeling stupid.) My faith in humanity is declining rapidly. At the risk of sounding pathetic, I wish someone would save me from the complete and total cynicism threatening to paralyze my ability to enjoy daily endeavors.
Was I playing with fire? Maybe. Mitchell said I invited this to happen. That may be true, but I still think I have been deceived. I want to confront the source of this supposed deception, but it’s pointless. If this person meant to take advantage of me, he/she will continue to beguile me. And if there is truth to be told, I will have no way to differentiate it from lies other than my own judgment, which is currently impaired by what I have seen and heard.
Again, I am at a loss.
Somewhat related, while I was typing blog notes into my iPhone last night the Rev. said something about his life being ruled by melancholy and over-dramatic-ness. I imagine that some of my writing can appear this way: melancholy and over-dramatic. Is it intentional? Of course, sometimes. A good writer will alter the details if it helps to emphasize his/her point, or if it simply makes the piece more entertaining.
Additionally, I found it interesting that Dora mentioned my Grandma yesterday. (“I love that all she wanted to do was eat donuts, drink coffee, and smoke cigarettes. She was an amazing woman.”) Last night at Union Pool, the Rev. played a song about his grandmother called “Dorothy”. He told the crowd that her husband died when the Rev. was only two years old. My grandfather also died when I was two years old. All of this is just coincidence, but it remained in my thoughts.
Also, in between the Rev.’s sets, Mitchell and I were talking. Though my desire for food has dwindled, I have maintained adequate interest in staying alive. Therefore, I was forcing myself to eat some raw cashews from a plastic bag in my purse. I offered Mitchell some cashews. “It’s pretty much all I have eaten today,” I said.
I have mentioned that my friends are amazing. That this is an understatement was confirmed by Mitchell’s response: “Together, we can eat a million peanuts.”