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Red Lipstick & Green Ink [userpic]

Fighting the Feeling that the Whimsy is just Being Sucked out of this Place...

July 30th, 2005 (02:42 am)

Hairs creeping up on the back of my neck as I start to lay some electric ink down.

I want to tell a story about one of my greatest Mentors, Adria Nocera...
And a moment when I was at the end of my rope, embroiled in petty arguments
and bent by nothing.

But it happened 15 years ago.
How could it possibly apply?

What would be the point, of re-telling such an old story?
I should be ALIVE now, in the moment.

Not pining for the "Glory Days".

(yes, you hit me anonymously and it landed, but how was the fist guided?)

What the hell....it went something like this:

I'd run away--from my Ex-Husband, from my Family, from my God.
1990.
I met a boy on the dance floor of CLUB METRO.
Johnny.
Two weeks later, I moved in with him.

He and his mother lived together.
He didn't live with his mother...
He and his mother Lived together.

Adria had moved back to the L.A. basin when Johnny was very young.
Her husband, Johnny's Father--had died.
She was coming home to be near her Mom and Pop...

Johnny recognised the Santa Monica freeway from the plane--
from his favourite show, C.H.i.P.s
Adria was a mess of emotions, and just tried to quiet the child.
That's not the Santa Monica freeway, John...

The guy sitting next to them, was a man from L.A.
who leaned over and said:
Actually, it is.

Adria smiled, and inside she laughed at herself, and looked at her little boy.
He'd been right. He'd been paying attention.
She hugged him and they both looked out the window
as they were landing...
at the place
that was going to be their new home.

She hadn't been paying attention.
She had been wrapped up in her pain
and her past,
and her fear for their future.

SHE told me this story.
She told me many stories...

while I lived in that little house in Calimesa,
with a lemon tree in the back yard.

I went to Adria's graduation.
She'd returned to college at the age of 50.
She'd been a ballet teacher...before.

Now she is a Social Worker.

Adria handed me books, constantly.
I never felt that she was trying to FIX me.
She made her gestures feel like sharing.

I read biographies of women who had touched her,
Gelsie Kirkland, Gilda Radner...

Countless novels, and volumes of ancient cook books.

She never handed me a self-help book.
She gave me Her stories.

I was coming from a nasty session of couch surfing,
and wild confusion, as the thing I THOUGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO DO
had failed.

I moped about the house...
Trying to find something.

Bickering began.
The tiniest thing become a contention.
Johnny and I fought, Adria and I fought...
Johnny and Adria fought.

Adria did the most amazing thing.

She didn't scream at me to get a job.
(I know! @_@)
She stood by me (could have sat me down,
most would...that's how things like this are done, yes?)
She literally stood beside me, standing, and told me
that all of this dissonance was coming from
my frustration...from my frustration at having
no purpose.

She gave me a position in the family.
She gave me chores.
I was now in charge of laundry.

And then she enrolled me in Community College.

Wildly enough...I found a job very soon after.

And a little after that....Johnny and I broke up.
I knew why I had been in that house for 9 months.
He did as well.

We didn't argue about it, but we did cry.
He offered to sleep on the couch
until I moved into my own place.

Adria had asked me to finally contact my Family.
It had been a year since I had spoken with my Mother
or Father. I was hiding.

My Family helped me...move into a place of my own.



Adria taught me thousands of things.

How to make pasta from scratch,
how to appreciate good wine,
how to refinish an old chest of drawers...

The one I am remembering now,
Seems wildly relevant.

Little things start to get to you...overwhelm you--when you have nothing to do.
No purpose.

I've been in that place for a while now.
Bumping about.


Unable to sleep because an anonymous voice thinks I'm shit???



I called skidpoppe, the night the voice attacked...
He said something that I blew off at the time, as
he was using his joking voice.

I was wailing about WHO it could be...
why they would bother to DO this...

And he said: You know, in the Twilight Zone,
it would be YOU!



me.


When I close this post, I will re-open my anonymous option.


My history is my wealth.
I will always return to it.
This place is where I wring out the things in my mind
to understand where I am.

Who I am.

What I have always used my journal for.
Even when it was paper.


But I need the nasty little voices.

I should not silence them.


And it's probably time
to do some laundry.

Comments

Posted by: ! (explodex)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 07:54 am (UTC)

"He and his mother Lived together."
That's how it is for everyone I know, past 20, still living at home.
Why is it shameful?

Posted by: Red Lipstick & Green Ink (ginger931)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 08:14 am (UTC)
It isn't.

But the language of my culture has made it so.

I feel I have to translate, sometimes...

We are supposed to leave our families
and gather cedit card dept, move into a place we cannot
afford and are not ready for, and stuggle mindlessly.
America isn't a Family friendly place,
no matter what our TV daddies say.

This is a place of division and commerce.

Posted by: Red Lipstick & Green Ink (ginger931)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 08:49 am (UTC)
And, wow.

THIS is what I want to be a part of LJ for.

A long post, full of rambling.
But you picked out the part that said something
to you.

And you made me think about my words.

Why did I have to explain or excuse the fact that he lived with his mother?

The connotations being, that any 20 year old male still living at home
in Southern California--must be a loser.

Not a well adjusted person, a whole person, and part of a close and loving family
that pretty much saved my life.

I'm from here, but hope I am not OF here...


I know better.
*sigh*

Posted by: Coffee Shop Whore (skidspoppe)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 05:06 pm (UTC)
Re: It isn't.

Check out this New York Times piece

And I missed the emphasis. It took me a minute to realize they were only co-habitating and not sharing more than that. But then, I also just woke up.

Posted by: Calamity Vain (esmetutu)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 08:39 am (UTC)
loud and clear!

i like your stories, your glory.
but i like your *evolution* even more.

Posted by: ((Anonymous))
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 09:43 am (UTC)

Hows this for whimsy?

a Pic of me when I was about 5


http://www.myspace.com/mattkski

Posted by: emily (tugena13)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 10:08 am (UTC)
wonder twins

Little things start to get to you...overwhelm you--when you have nothing to do.
No purpose.

I've been in that place for a while now.
Bumping about.


i am holy fucking hearing you on that one, sister.

Posted by: Patrick Joseph (pjoseph)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 03:49 pm (UTC)

I keep reading that the Whiskey has been sucked out of this place. Yes, I just woke up.

Posted by: Pumping Iron Hearts (woundedmarigold)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 07:11 pm (UTC)
emo

All I know is to regress, regress, regress, and to never stop regressing.

Posted by: wow filter (jeffholland)
Posted at: July 30th, 2005 07:19 pm (UTC)

"God is a shout in the street." -James Joyce

There was a time when I gave full voice to the sounds in my head. The ringing in my ears started to talk to me, but it only told me terrible things. Torture and motivation are not the same thing. But if you're feeling like you're going nowhere, the nasty voices could be a decent warning signal.

Posted by: Disophy (disophy1)
Posted at: July 31st, 2005 12:55 pm (UTC)
A shout in the street

-History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?
-The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
-That is God.
Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!
-What? Mr Deasy asked.
-A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Ulysses, James Joyce

Not quite the same "is", I do believe.

Posted by: just john (justjohn)
Posted at: July 31st, 2005 05:28 pm (UTC)

Aiyeeee! A whimsy-sucker! Run for your liiiiiives!

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