For most of my life I have made people around me sigh and shake their heads before dispensing their personal list of Too's in my direction. Everyone seems to have this list of unsolicited advice for me. I'm too open, too sexy, too aggressive, too trusting, too impulsive, too free, too outspoken, too opinionated, too fat, too skinny, too trashy, too uptight, too forthcoming, too honest... too much. And I never know what they are talking about. Usually because I don't remember much.
My memory of the last 15 years is a jumbled mess. San Francisco is a whirl of rooftop photo shoots, other people's boyfriends, punk shows, Joey's couch, before-they-were stars gays, knives in boots, pretty girls I was afraid to talk to and booze and crazy haircuts and roaming the Mission pre-dawn waiting to run into people I knew I would find. I never called anyone back then. I remember that I never made plans.
Austin came next. Desert and cockroaches and being all alone, cowboy style. Driving across the country in my little ford ranger and stopping at every truck stop I could find. Te city itself is a whirl of clubs, music, Miss Marla, Boys before they were Boys, fights, drunks, bats, punks, bikes, drag clubs, chickens, Kinky Friedman and Willie Nelson, TV studios, cigarettes, pickup trucks, cameras and pretty bois. Well, I guess there was that bartender. And the tatted up marine I loved. And the fashion model. Oh yeah...and Dallas Inequity. Okay, so Austin I sort of remember. But I took pictures constantly. That helps.
In New York I put down the camera so the rock star and I could go on tour. I was skinny and modeling for lots of things and it was always 3am every time I looked at a clock and I was always in heels and always had a cocktail. There was lots of kissing and not much else. I was sick a lot. Everyone was beautiful in an ugly way. Everyone was nice and it threw me. That and it was dirty. And friggin freezing. I remember finally figuring out that the entire city wanted something at all times and it was too much. The hunger and desperation of people trying to Be Somebody.. it was too damn cold for that. That's what I remember about New York.
When I tell stories about my life people tell me to write a book. I wish I could. Every time I sit down to sort it all out it just jumbles up in my head. Becomes a blur of colors and a circle of head shakes. I start to get the Too's. Is it too much? Does this make me sound slutty? Or stupid? It's too focused on feelings or events. it's too hard to explain. I sound crazy right? moving to a new city for a girl I didn't know? What about naming names? Is that too much? I usually give up pretty quick. It's a mess when you realize that other people's opinions of you have become so ingrained that they don't need to lecture you anymore...you lecture yourself. These days though...with the owners of most of those voices dead and gone... little cracks have started to appear. Little places to shove away all of those lists ringing in my ears. Cracks are great for things to fall through...and I am systematically giving all those too's a nice little shove.
J says I should care less what people think. Someday, I tell her..when we're rich...I promise I will cease to care entirely. Until then...everyone is a threat. Every Internet photo...of me...taken by me...every blog post (it took me from July til now to get up the guts to start posting again after a work conversation about having no expectation of Internet privacy)... every review of a project and every post to my Facebook looms over me..a life lived openly in a list of Too's just waiting for someone to judge it. And that's the thing isn't it? Everyone does it. Everyone has secrets and adventures and debaucherous nights. The rule I keep breaking is that I don't seem to have the sense to be ashamed of it. Or to hide it. Well...most of it.
i have secrets like anyone.
The funny part is, I set it up that way. Deliberately. I still remember sitting my mom down when I was 18 and trying to explain to her that part of the purpose of that first tattoo was to keep me from ever becoming one of those sad women in the suburbs who keep their glory days in the past while hiding every amazing thing they every did from the neighbors and their kids. I wanted to wear my crazy life. I wanted to own it. To be proud of my adventures. And for the most part...I am.
It was for the same reason I never censored the pictures people took of me or my name on the racy ones I took of them. I made art...much of it provocative... for most of my life. It's what I'm here for.
Then, when my dad died. I stopped. I worked for Republicans and hated my job. It made sense to be miserable. It made sense to have a boss that hated me or yelled at me. The world was over. My dad was gone. I wore gray suits. I had a government job and a health plan and was home every night by 8pm. I did that for 2 years. In Sacramento. In the suburbs. Every morning I woke up, covered up the tattoos, put my hair in a ponytail and went to work. I jogged. I wrote. I worked. And I dreamed about New York. I dreamed about the day I would go somewhere that I wasn't a freak and get to Be Somebody.
Fast forward past the blur of art loft, club kid, touring, spit, glitter, peaches, boozy breakfasts and and stunner style, cold feet, dirty floors, and stuff I left behind. There are 8 million just like me all over New york. Every one of them amazing. Every one of them waiting for someone else to tell them so. I hated New York by the time we left. the slime of it. The grating rub of taxi horns and sirens and constant Look At Me's overwhelmed every sense. The city is something to be survived. And I did. But barely.
I left New York and all the things I had been dreaming about to come back to Sacramento. This time, it was my mom who was sick. When she died...it started again. I got a corporate job that I like but where I'm not exactly free. It's not creative and I'm not in charge and I worry constantly about pleasing the people above me. I wake up every morning and cover up all the tattoos in shades of gray sweaters and blue jeans. I pull my hair into a ponytail. I go to work. I come home by 9pm to feed the cats and kiss my wife who I love more than anything. I fantasize about buying our house outright. Owning it and filling it with kids and watching them grow up.
And I dream about LA. And the beach. And money. A jobs where I can show up in a ripped t-shirt and giant earrings ad tell someone about the great photo of J and I on last night's party.com instead of praying no one sees it. Some part of me still feels a pull to that culture. LA, I think, Is New York lite. All the drama with more sun and sand and bars that close at 2am so everyone can feel like a rock star when they shut it down. I dream about making things for a living. Making movies or TV. Pushing scripts I like, production whatever...just MAKING stuff that I care about. I guess there are probably millions of me there too.
SO I stay in Sacramento. I stay in my little house in the suburbs and worry about the bills. I look for a way to change the cycle. I keep the gray sweaters handy and try not to annoy anyone. I don't go to parties or protests and I don't take pictures. Somewhere in there though is this tiny little spark. The little part of me that dyed my hair Jessica Rabbit red this year. The part that sent a totally inappropriate text to a high school crush 12 years later...just for fun. The part that wants to marry J again, this time in cowboy boots with a tranny accordion player and some really amazing Leslie van Stelton and Maro Hagopian photo shoot in the barn afterwards.
That part of me still likes my job. Still loves my house in the suburbs and desperately wants to keep it. Still thinks my idea of fun is just fine thank you. Still has opinions and takes amazing photos...when I bother pulling out my camera. Still wants to write that book someday. Still has no idea what the next step is.
After two years of illness, and sadness and saying goodbye here I am, feeling myself inside the shell I made...kicking my way out with no direction. And it's funny...because the people I met in the last two years...look at me like I've lost my mind. They only ever met gray sweater girl. They call me mousy. They think I'm soft. They tell me I'm too trusting. Too scared. Too sweet. Too innocent. Too vulnerable. Too people pleasing. Too concerned with what people thing. too quiet.
How bizarre. I think, what is happening, is that 15 year old me and 30 year old me have finally just come to an understanding. 30 year old me gets up and goes to work on time, does her job well, speaks respectfully to people she doesn't like, can do amazing things with a line item budget and a team of cranky creative creatures and owns a house in the suburbs and likes it. 15 year old me gets to pick the hair, the parties, the pictures, the dates and the clothes. We are sorting it out amongst ourselves. And it is a work in progress. 15 year old me wants a creative gig. 30 year old me wants lots of money. They both want to be the boss someday. 15 year old me always wanted a gay best friend and life of fabulous queers. 30 year old me has more than enough of that and wants a straight date just for kicks. They both want to make art and take pictures and have kids someday. One of us thinks someday is soon. Both of us love being invited to fabulous parties. neither of us really like rules. 30 year old me has finally learned to follow them though. Most of the time. We both want more than there is time enough in this life to get. And we both want to try anyways. We both still like to get naked in public...although 30 year old me keeps her clothes on and instead lets the world just read her diary. 30 year old me still has a totally innapropriate sense of humor. About everything.
And sometimes, it is all just too damn much. But it's beautiful. And I am grateful for every second. And for the first time in a long time it feels like me again.
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