Famous blondes. My one real weakness. Their success, their glory, their peroxide. I’m endlessly fascinated by the spectacle one famous person can cause. Have you ever watched a paparazzi video of Britney Spears going to Starbucks? Hypnotizing. The sounds of the grown men screaming her name, toppling over each other, burning the atmosphere with their strobing flashes. I cant imagine anything more beautiful. How comforting it would be to wake up and know there were 50 black SUV’s parked outside your house waiting to devour you. A prison sentence for the social elite. Millions of people donating huge chunks of their life to learning all about your dirty little secrets. The real superstar is the one with no where to hide and no desire to stop. The one who is pushed to the limits of sanity and forced to endure an experience only they could understand. Living on the outskirts of humanity. Torture disguised as glory. Fame is the ultimate form self destruction. The only real way to live.
written in 2009
Sometimes I think I feel so much I couldn’t possibly find somebody to match it. I’ve never met someone I couldn’t understand or been placed in a situation I couldn’t make sense of. I think the reason I’m drawn to artificial stimulation is because its one of the only times I know that what I’m feeling everybody else is feeling too. I don’t want to say it makes me feel human because saying I sometimes feel human implies, at times, I also feel divine…and I don’t. I just feel connected. There is a cycle I’ve noticed in my life. A series of relationships that completely consume me, nearly empty me, and almost always leaving me wanting something I cannot have. So I move on. I move on to a new set of eyes, and new strand of humor, a new soundtrack to the endless pursuit of love. My idea of love …or the universes’ way of showing me I am not made for love. Not movie love. Not the kind of love that belongs to me and me alone. The kind of love that acts like sunlight to the flowers I’m so desperately drawn to. It will make you bud, blossom and grow and you will leave it hanging in the sky in all its glory. I wonder how it feels to be a flower that has all of the sun’s attention. Even if it’s just for a moment. What words would they use to describe it? It wouldn’t be hot, because I’ve never seen you sweat. It wouldn’t be scary, because I’ve never made you run. It wouldn’t be perfect because if it was perfect I wouldn’t be the sun. I would be a star, your star that fell down from the sky just for you to hold. How can something be so active in creating life and influencing growth but still so unbelievably far away that to thank it could only ever be with a smile or a glance in its direction? And even if one brave soul dared come close enough to thank the sun with a touch…a kiss…an embrace…they would be no more. They would burn. They would be ash. They would eventually become part of the earth and through default become part of a new cycle. A new fucking flower. How many flowers does it take to make a man a tree? How many trees does it take to make a man a building? How many buildings does it take to make a man a city? And how many cities does it take until you’ve convinced him he’s a god?
The glory of the sun isn’t glorious at all. It’s a never ending duty to maintain what’s beneath you….but…
In another world…
With a bigger sky…
I imagine there are two suns.
And that, I believe, is where the flowers die.
Club bathroom stalls. They know all my secrets. They sensed what I wanted and what I was missing. They heard the empty conversations and exaggerated confessions. Promising people things I would never be able to deliver on; fame, trust, friendship…love. Why didn’t I provide them with something I had in abundance: drink tickets. Nothing that happened after midnight mattered to the world. Unless of course you consider gossip a substantial contribution. Too bad we cant write it off at the end of the year. BANG BANG BANG. There was always some party girl on the other side of the door waiting for her turn to talk to god. And of course every once in a while the head of some commoner would pop up from the stall next to me like some eager freshman hoping to catch a glimpse of a cheerleader taking a shit. Thank god I was popular so that when things got really chaotic I could retreat to some back room to self destruct in peace. I was truly blessed. It really is remarkable what I discovered in bathroom stalls. Like a caged animal who is fed a carcass every day thinking they’ve provide their own meal. So clever. So proud. So foolish. Little did I know how reliant I was. Such a tragedy I didnt even know I could hunt.
If I lived on the moon I would never have to think about success again. I would only need to wake up and fall asleep and the earthlings would watch in wonder. I could watch the world twirl from the comfort of finally feeling accomplished. A simple existence. Little boys and girls and gender fluid children would learn about me and my private rock floating in space. How I lived in isolation and glory. The dictator of a baron landscape. A loner with a killer view. If I lived on the moon I would be lighter. Not because of the gravity situation but because the pressure of becoming and achieving soemthing would be lifted. And when I watched the Earth glow and bob in the endless night I would thank my lucky stars that I was able to depart such a dysfunctional system. I would send my love to all life forms stuck on the cement and enslaved to the money. Yes it would be a wonderful feeling to never have to want anything ever again. But then of course- form here- Mars does look pretty good.
I was different at night. I was loose. I liked the person I became when my vices took over. Fun. Wild. Unapologetic. A blind thrill seeker lost in a world of lights and stimulation. For a couple years in my 20’s I was the most famous person in a 5 block radius. I was Madonna. I was Courtney Love. I was Lady Gaga’s less talented, gay younger brother. Sometimes when I see Gaga on TV I feel like she stole my life. Every time I did a line I pictured her on SNL singing about her dreams coming true. But those were my dreams too. I wanted it just as bad. My desperation is no different. How did hers manifest into global stardom and mine into a decade of hangovers. If I was paid every time I watched the sunrise through the eyes of cocaine fueled club I would be a billionaire. I could take Gaga out for a big bloody steak every night until I convinced her she was a thief. I would get her so drunk on the most expensive champagne and push her out into the streets. She would stumble out in front all the paparazzi and fans she stole from me. And as her limo driver speed up to the restaurant to pick her up she would tumble down from her sky high heels and he would run her over. She would die and I would be avenged. Her limo – or my limo rather – would come rescue me from the kingdom I currently inhabit. I am the ruler of this land. This place somewhere between a bender and breakthrough.
“You should party. You should be sober. You should go dancing. You should stay home. You should be in the alley chain smoking. You should be at the after party. You are desperate for love but you’re not going to get it. You are desperate for validation but no body likes you. I’m broke. I’m lonely. I’m addicted. I have to be famous . My dreams are too big. If you’re not successful you might as well die. You’re only pretending everything is ok. You should be a statue. You should be perfect. You’re a disappointment. You have to impress everyone else. Everyone else in the world is more important than you. You can only relax if you’re getting attention. You’ve hit rock bottom. Wake up. Get Up. Fix this mess. ” – casual thoughts, casually insane