diary of a hollywood mixtress

sweet acetylsalicylic sixteen

I have an interestingly macabre history. it is evident as far back in this lifetime as my neonate boycott in the birth canal. (I almost kicked the bucket five minutes before I was even born, but I'll save that tale to tell another time...). I incarnated into a tainted bloodline and am gifted with it's richly morbid inheritance. my first memorable post-partum dalliance with death was a feeble one. more like the silly left footed moves at a middle school winter formal. I was sixteen when I invited the doom fairy to my kiddie kill pow wow with a hand full of over-the-counter pain relievers. my pill popping invocation didn't produce any robed, winged, or bony scythe bearing angels of the underworld. my attempt at a fatal finale was a fizzle. instead of the grim reaper I got a bad case of tinnitus, a stomach pump and a pharmaceutical grade charcoal dinner. I got a week's sick leave from school, but spent it confined to a cramped room with a remote control cot on suicide watch in the intensive care unit with other more legitimate invalids. I would have been grounded anyway, so playing head games with the resident child psychologists and social workers was way better than my moms cruel and unusual house arrest (she believed it was a mark of good parenting to ensure disciplinary action hurt).

from the age of about fifteen I had been constantly either running away, kicked out or shuffled around amongst friends and family. at this time I was living with my godmother and had to return to staying with my mom and stepdad. my godmother, who I've always called "auntie hope",  is a saintly woman who wanted to impose a ten o clock curfew and her seventh day adventist antics on me, then a strong willed atheist. I toiled in witchcraft, I skateboarded, I break-danced, I hung out with high school graduates and went to wild all night parties. having already tasted the sweet waters of freedom, I had a problem accepting the illogical strong arm of authority. I was gregarious, but still savvy and responsible. I worked after school and effortlessly maintained an above 3.0 average. I didn't drink or do drugs. I felt I deserved to be rewarded for such noble behavior and that rules should be modified accordingly. instead, my good deeds went unnoticed and any slip of submission to mothers supremacy was punishable to the greatest extent of her law. I was often chastised with all her might for little things like clipping my toenails while sitting on the sofa, slacking on household duties or having a different opinion, reminded that I was just the "peanut gallery" and mother always knew best. this generic method of old world child rearing, excessive chores, and negative reinforcement wasn't compatible with an active progressively minded youngster like myself.

I had gone out without permission the night before the "incident". auntie hope wanted me to stay in, watching televised christian programming, reading bible verse, and listening to her senescent mother (for whom she was a selfless caretaker) croaking on about her spent youth and health problems. I opted to go out with my best friend and partner in crime, erika, a jovial and outspoken lesbian whom I've known since eighth grade. rewind: the first things erika said to me when we were introduced two years prior were "can you regurgitate?" and "are you bi-sexual?". the answer to both of erika's questions was "yes", but I lied,  responding with an incredulous "no!". at fourteen I had slightly purple-ish hair, tinted with a popular semi-permanent die of the time "exuberance". despite my mildly punky hair color, I was rather shy. erika wasn't out about her sexuality yet either, but I had my suspicions. she and I have been friends ever since. fast forward: this particular night we were out doing no good, escorted by a few wayward varsity baseball players from school. for hours we terrorized neighboring cities in a white van throwing eggs and water balloons at random pedestrians on the street, slashing the tires of known racists, slathering crisco on car windows and handles, and vandalizing property in privileged neighborhoods. this isn't what I usually did on week nights, but my harbored frustration from the friction at home had to get funneled somewhere. when I wasn't out physically engrossed in dancing or sports, shit was liable to get destroyed. I apologize now to all undeserving victims of my teen angst. my stepdad was really the one who needed a yoke in the face, but he would have kicked my ass for doing so. so it goes.   

when I returned to auntie hopes sometime around two am, she wasn't having it. she is originally from kingston jamaica and speaks a more proper english influenced dialect, but when upset she gets all patois on people. she angrily informed me that I was in big trouble and I wun be livin thur no moah, "yur movin bahck wit chur mum an john!" so the next day after school my parents picked me up, berating me and going on about my misdeeds. they didn't even know I'd actually been out doing something worthy of such condemnation, they just tended to assume the worst anyway. I was to be grounded for the next month with no phone privileges. I've been through numerous terms like these for much lesser offenses. my moms theory was if I was being punished I should suffer greatly, spending all my time reflecting on my wrongdoings in grave penance. I was given an endless list of unpleasant domestic tasks and a daily pep-talk on what a pain in the ass I was. my mom and step dad were both advocates of corporeal correctional action. my mom would quote the bible to justify her gruffly administered lessons, "spare the rod spoil the child" and always "honor thy mother!", or she'd humorously reference "tough love" after I got a good whacking. sometimes I could overhear her laughing about it from the bathroom, where I'd lock myself up, stifling the sobs and admiring the fresh pink welts on my body. oh what a comedian she was. me, the butt of her joke, decked with her punch lines brutish recital, it's hand print emblazoned on my bum. har har har har harrrr! with my dignity being violated like this, what other recourse did I have than to keep running away and to occasionally egg the innocent? well this time I made a more dramatic and desperate effort to resolve my problems.

after swallowing the meds I waited, all the while closely analyzing my stats. I was a little anxious, but excited, eager to see what would happen, fantasizing about my possible demise. I figured I'd be saved in the nick of time and everything would turn out just fine, but I decided that if I really did die, I'd turn into a ghost and fuck with everybody. I could watch them in their most intimate moments of mourning and hear their appeals to my spirit, wishing they'd been nicer to me while I was still around. I'd sporadically startle them out of their daily stupor for kicks. haunting didn't sound like such a bad gig, it actually sounded like a lot of fun. it would be the ultimate revenge. I cracked up at a variety of phantasmal scenarios, devilishly tickled by images of them white faced and helpless, their usually self assured and cocky features twisted in utter terror. 

my stepdad drove me back to auntie hopes to gather my belongings. within an hour a ringing in my ears set in and intensified, a mild throbbing in the head ensued, my skin got clammy, but my consciousness wasn't slipping. I took a few party fliers down from the walls and stalled on putting anything into boxes. I began acting ostensibly odd, dropping hints, complaining of a headache, saying I didn't feel so well, praying someone would notice something was up. I mean, you don't just come out and say "I OD'd on advil!", it would ruin the surprise, and how embarrassing! after half an hour of these charades and everyone still oblivious to my self prescribed escape plan. I got freaked and fessed up to auntie hope. she called an ambulance, which came in a grand entrance of lights and sirens, to which I was unable to match in the display of theatrics by walking myself into it's open end and laying myself down. I had to keep answering questions: "what happened", "how much", "where", "why", as we zipped off to the emergency room. "it was just aspirin. about twenty or so, and like four ibuprofen. it was in the medicine cabinet in the main bathroom at home. I was just mad at my mom and I wanted to sleep it off."

I remember a slender lubricated pipe being navigated down my throat, then I was given a bottle of black sludge, instructed to drink it and be prepared to puke. this process all the pointless protocol of poison control. they said it was really too late to do much to depurate my system of the drugs. it had already been digested and absorbed. I was scantily cloaked in an unflattering and oversized thin gown, a deviously cottonous garment with voyeuristic intentions to expose every puffy adhesive button secured onto various parts of my body. there were tubes with needled finger tips slowly streamlining fluids into my veins; potassium, I needed lots of potassium. and something else, maybe sodium. I forget. other wires reported my vitals to a stiff shouldered robot standing astutely at my bedside. my hearts rhythms were displayed in phosphorescent digits on this machines hard white chest. I had magazines on hand and a television in my quarters, but the trickster in me sought more engaging forms of entertainment. I figured out how to make my motor-head babysitter tick. when its counter dropped to somewhere around 56 (I think), it was prompted into compulsive fits of beeps and would continue shrieking until it got a nurse to nettle us. I impishly and curiously experimented with different techniques; slowing my breathing, tensing my torso, deflating my lungs, holding my breath, always focusing very intently on gizmo's gauge. at first, several of the staff members would rush in immediately, concerned, hurried, reflexively responding with memorized methodological movements. I maintained a corpse posture, putting on that I was asleep, pretending to be confused or irked by the pastel scrub clad invasion, other times simulating interest in the  t.v.. after a couple days of shift changes the concern for my well being withered, and the practitioners would let the plastic apparatus incessantly tootle, ignoring it's effete announcements sometimes for up to twenty or thirty minutes. so I pushed further, challenging the neon symbols to limbo, testing their limits. how low I could get those numbers to go? wondering if I could self impose cardiac arrest. quietly daring Charon to come and show me his hospital hustle. 

for days I marveled at my unnaturally onyx poo and my delusions were serenaded by the continuous schreeching chorus from my inner ear. hearing of my sudden illness, a few friends came during visiting hours. I didn't admit to intentionally overdosing, I played evasive word games. the excuses offered by the doctors were "accidental" and "allergic". my mom came in, unsympathetic, mostly put off from being inconvenienced and having to deal with my shenanigans. she put her face close to mine, staring me straight in the eye. I remember looking up her nose and being disgusted with the asymmetry of her nostrils. one side had an extra fleshy mound of cartilage and its cavity leaned the right. "why?" she implored shaking her head scornfully with that crooked snout, "why?". I outwardly displayed no emotion, feigning ennui, but was inwardly infuriated and shocked. was she really that dumb?! I briefly concluded that was a rhetorical question, the answer all too obvious: "because you're a crazy abusive cunt who doesn't deserve to be my mother!". duh! instead I replied with a sheepish "I dunno". then she reamed me for the extortionate medical bills that weren't covered by the health insurance. she consulted with several doctors insisting she'd done nothing to provoke this episode and begged them to commit me to a group home or foster care. she called me incorrigible. couldn't they see that I was a just a bad seed and chemically imbalanced? she couldn't deal with a degenerate like me, the state must get me off her hands. she had a frail immune system, a young baby and a husband to care of. I was a contaminant to their new familys white picket fence vision, an unsightly stain that needed to be professionally removed. unfortunately for her, they all found me pretty sane, although depressed, they reported that I was intelligent and self aware.

I'd picked up on how it went down quick. I thought I might get in trouble for saying the wrong thing, so I very cautiously phrased my responses, never confessing to flat out trying to kill myself, I rationally articulated that I'd just wanted an immediate solution, I'd hoped it would bring an end to the fight with my mom and the discomfort at home, I just wanted to go to sleep. which was 90% true. I had really hoped the immoderate dose would make me pass out, then I'd be rescued by friendly paramedics, carted to a pristine wellness center where they would pamper and serve me ice cream. I thought it would be like a mini-vacation. I'd be fussed over and attended to compassionately, showered with flowers and gifts. my mom would be so shaken, the dormant love for me would erupt from the bottom of her callous heart, she would beg for my forgiveness for all the cruel things she's ever done, tell me how much I meant to her and how grief stricken she would be if she lost me. I'd be acquitted of my harsh convictions, released from my sentencing of restriction, all other troubles would be magically vanquished, and I'd get to go to the big rave that weekend. of course it was a cry for help and attention. only 10%  of me really wanted to die.

new moon in scorpio and them crooked vultures

my astral body is bleeding from the abdomen. my etheric ears overwhelmed with the caterwaul of an army of spirits anxious to incarnate through my vessel. my tubes are tied by the illconcieved clamp and pinch of father time. my womb is not barren, but encumbered with the burn of an artists yearning. my soul cries in a rubicund flood from my sacral chakra. a crimson flow in my auric field, the trail of tears left by an aborted life force. my head teeming with projects unmanifested. tadpoles of genius. larval neuro-hodgepodge. leftovers harvested from the realms of otherworldly vision. my mind swollen, mental maggot fest, pregnant and bustling with idea zygotes eager for material substantiation. they tango with electrical currents firing wildly off the walls in my cranial carapace. I curse my criminal hands! servile accomplices, aiding and abetting the insatiable felon who burglarizes my psychic goldmine. the unkempt animal aspect, addicted and lascivious, it's fat gorilla ass brazenly encroaching on the throne of my conscious attention. oh sweet luminary brain fairies incubate in my gray matter, tackle that molester of sanity, tickle my dendrites and come in orgasmic waves of epiphany! I invoke them, and those industrious do-gooders of light, they come. they gestate in my otherwise mortal mentation, and they expect that in effect I'll bear fruit from the inspiration. I must ignite their spark and extend their elevation, I must create something... but I backslide on my end of the bargain. I hoard stockpiles of unexpressed potential. the guilt of each lapse in integrity weighs heavy. everything I write is a seed spewn forth that now has a chance to inhabit, grow, and spearhead it's idiomatic lineage in the forever burgeoning crop of consciousness. giving life to the otherwise lost thoughts I'd drown in. each time I ignore the paroxysm of insight is a slight. each act of inauthenticity a stab at the embodiment of wholeness; an insult to the wisdom of my spirit. my vitality pours from these energetic lacerations. a slow death by a thousand scratches.

I'm calling back my soul from every mission embarked upon illegitimately; from every action coerced by anothers demands. I'm giving a bullhorn to each honest impulse abandoned to appease a man. I'm reclaiming every moment of truth I've cashed in and the power sacrificed to console anothers insecurity. forgiving the lies my skin has shared with other bodies; the forced affection in fear of abandonment; each day spent in treason against my true will; every word unspoken to avoid opposition. I'm unfolding the repressed blueprint and design of my higher self. I'm gathering the dispersed fragments of my essence from every senseless egoistic exploit. clearing the haze of denial from my sight. freeing my feather light mind from the tethers of self denigration. reclaiming each piece of my heart ever compromised. apologizing to every instinct stifled to conform to the majority. I'm evoking my rights to immortality.

I usually spend the new moon evenings at an all-girls gathering  where we smudge each other with sage, make prayer sticks, talk about the power the divine feminine and menstruation, and squat over a clay pot blowing smoke up our twats. these "new-edge" urban goddesses come outfitted in long flowing skirts and adorned in handmade jewelry. we indulge in home brewed kombucha and graze on a vegetarian pot-luck buffet. no boys and no alcohol allowed, but for the after hours sometimes the ladies toke it up a bit before calling it quits. this most recent new moon I opted to go to a concert at the roxy in hollywood with a friend instead. I wore furry rainbow leggings, neon yellow ruffle shorts, a glitter micro-mesh top depicting a screen printed head-shot of joseph stalin with  "party animal" spelled out in rhinestones, and of course: metallic uni-lense reflector glasses. I also took my pet rock, an apophyllite cluster gifted to me by jimmy b (the "mad wizard" of downtowns visionary artist movement). I clasped the crystal securely in my fist and massaged it's most salient stone feature as I danced and drank whiskey. the music was acoustic magic, but a good rock show just isn't enough to stimulate the sensory deficit angelinos and melomaniacs. almost every event in hollywood is a covert cocaine fest. people were tooting all over the place. I don't know who it was exactly, but I do know "coke- fart" when I smell it, that unmistakable scent of warm anal eruct, the foul ass breath of diarhettic gut rot. 

after the semi-exclusive "after party" in an upstairs room with a dj and bar, my friend and I sojourned back through laurel canyon to noho where we jointly revealed our scorpio new moon intentions then disrobed of our falsely assembled selves. I dared my raw eye to look squarely in the face of such gentle candor, reveling in newness and vulnerability. we melted ice sculptures impeding our heart space, then built a t.h.c. infused blanket igloo and played like pubescent seamonkeys in an erotic petting zoo.

trick or... true?

pt. 1

     I have a nefarious pursuant in the spirit realm. well over a decade ago, young and troubled, I subconsciously agreed to this harmful contract for the return of companionship and protection, but this partnership is now parasitic and vexatious. I'm a prisoner to this entities rapacious drive to survive and devour. he is large, canine and black. his body thick, muscular, with short bristly pelage. he snarls ferociously, revealing deadly dentition glazed and dripping with slimy acidic saliva, warding off all those who dare to come near me. he laps up my life force with his coarse tongue. I'm surrounded by his pulpy disgorge. days spent lamenting in lackluster, fatigued from resisting total consumption by him. the sludge of his viscous droppings envelops me. it's like sinking in quick sand. melting into in the malodorous musk of his monstrosity, muculent, mildew and smut. my belongings marked by his presence, smeared with fried grease and hell batter.

     my mortlity feels inescapable. avoiding the rot of humanness is a tiresome and insurmountable daily endeavor. I'm trapped in maiden-form. entombed by the litter of "woman"; a hedge of fallen hairs, image altering utensils, endless accessories, toenail clippings, make-up residue, broken accoutrement, dead skin, beauties sediment, dingy undergarments, crumbs, and strange creamy substances. the ever present stench of stale sour urine and rancid boiled fish. I'm an excrement machine in a little black dress; a tender tortured soul peering out through the peepholes of bulimic bloodshot eyes,  feebly attempting to conceal sempiternal sadness with the forced upward curvature of vomit lined lips. the damp and phlegmatic decay becomes me faster than I can digest my most recent dose of antioxidants. my chattering carcass is chicken feed for the tenebrous chill appetite of death. these words, my hearts epigraph, hissing steam rising from the of pile of decomposition that is me in physical manifest, passing through this dimension briefly, with just enough time to leave behind a message in blog form...

     downtown la is saturated with the dark energy of depravity and addiction. over the years there have been many successful efforts to revive this region, with a smattering of gentrification, gallery row and a burgeoning art scene. the romantic appeal of destitution draws many aesthetes to this specific los angeles precinct, who bring their vision and talent, illuminating the locality like the sun at dawn. hundreds of suits, art connoisseurs and creatives storm the streets during business hours, but the regions infamous skid row is ever prevalent, and at dusk the shadows take over.

     on friday and saturday nights I work in the little back bar of a downtown punk-rock dive. this back-bar is a make-shift bar in a hot small room inside of another small hot room way deep in the dead end of the establishments large space. it has concrete flooring, a sink, and a craftily devised door being the sawed off back half of an old van with a converted counter top. its a shanty set-up. I only sell beer and have a limited selection of the essential liquors. I have plastic bottleneck canisters for juices and a large tupperware basin for ice. the bar has a kitschy low-brow appeal, but working back there is an insult to my skills in this "profession"...

(to be continued)

1. mornings are an estranged occurrence of crisp air, sparrow song and the wafting scent of fresh roasted coffee. the first light is ebullient, honest and pure. cockcrow's ambrosial chirp: full of hope, fruitfulness, and ambition. I am rarely up in time to meet the dawn, but am often still up to bid the sunup farewell as I wish for sweet dreams. infrequent freak instances allow for my intrusion upon daybreak (i.e. traffic court, rude awakening, or insomnia) and I always feel like I'm crashing someone's party. I'm a fish out of water amongst the early birds. my presence cacophanous in aurora's symphony. my aura emanating the stench of a nightstalker's crepuscular regurgitate. my poise loud with the pounding thud-bang of clubland, the hangovers anthem.

2. starting after the bar doors close to the unprivileged many (those who aren't permitted to stay and drink after-hours), two am this sunday, the clock's fat finger falls back with intent to feign extra sunlight. big brother's favor to diurnal subscribers. a minor speed bump in circadian rhythms, but human bodied worker bees get an extra hour to chime in on capitalism's mellifluous production, and the night owls score a false fifteen degrees of equatorial coordinate system fun-time. daylight savings is a sip of infinity on credit. father time: oh great linear minded indian giver, divider of eternity! sir chronos: master mincer of moment! 

what are YOU gonna do with this sixty-minute tease of time lapse... before THEY take it back?

from me to nana to dad to me to the internet

remember that game "telephone"?

I called my grandmother today to say "hi", "how are you?", "I know you're on the cusp of death and I haven't seen you in nine years and we only talk like thrice a decade, but I'm reaching out to let you know  'I'm thinking about you because you matter and I love you'...".
it's funny how much things get lost and transformed in translation.

but pappa has ma back.
this apple fell a little far from the tree (well, more like the tree took a leaf of absence when the apple was sprouting), but we GET each other in an uncanny way. he's called me "the strange fruit of his loom", but he's a little cuckoo himself. some of my favorite quality talks with pops are when he's called me after he's ingurgitated a case of bud light, we get into religious debates and exchange dirty jokes, then he closes out the conversation with something like "this is the trunk talking to the branch". in all our dystopic splendor, I love the guy. 

he cc'd me both nana's message and his response. nana's missive is quite dramatic, which I'll repost here for entertainments sake:   

----- Original Message -----
From: "bigmamma"
To: "danny"
Sent: Thursday, August 27, 2009 7:39 PM
Subject: season 

season called me today. she lives in that planet called delusional. she has become a hindu, she is goddess toshiba she is a healer body and soul of the human race. according to her God, Jesus, and the holy spirit are a farce, she works as a bartender , she writes poetry, the bible was written by disneyand she lives in a demension highter than the average person. All this amoung many other weird talking she did. She tries to sound so inteligent and important she talks alot of jiberish that even she doesnt know what she saying. the girl is nuttier than a fruit cake and I told her she needed to to go into an intervention program and a ocult cleaning. she just laughed. write more later. mom
----------------------------

alls I gotta say is:
"talk sense to a fool and he calls you foolish"
(...and then she emails your dad, totally misquoting and slandering you)
-euripides

side note:
I don't eat many traditional holiday baked goods, but a more accurate metaphor inspired by fruitcake and intended to hint at insanity would be "fruittier than a fruitcake" as opposed to "nuttier than a fruitcake" (hence the name "fruitcake" not "nutcake"), no? what hypocrite coined that idiom anyway? it anthropomorphises a pastry ingredient! being called a "nut" isn't really even an insulting illustrative similitude, especially erupting from the rictus of a nucivorous creature. as known in botany, the nut is high in protein and nutrient rich, and in egyptian mythology "Nut" is the goddess of the sky. 

some dogmas die hard I guess.
but I believe it's never too late to teach an old dogma new tricks...