I was up until 5:30 in the morning, writing.
This wouldn't be a bad thing, I'm all for sacrificing sleep on the altar of the Muse, no matter when she demands it. Except that the boyfriend decided to wake me up at 9 am to ask me if I wanted to turn off the television and maybe take my cramped fetal position to the bed as I'd yet again fallen asleep on the sofa.
But staying up until the wee-er hours of the morning can do good things. I read the first seven pages of Isabelle Allende's "House of Spirits", saw Albert Finney do a remarkable portrayal of a grown, sexy, entirely fuckable man who acts for breathless moments so like a child throwing a temper tantrum that his performance made you feel perverted and dirty for having just a moment before wanted to screw his brains out, and perfected my Cher imitation after six continual plays of "Jesse James".
And then I listened to some of the things I said. I have some of my best sentences in my talking with others. Sometimes I think I should record myself full stop, all-the-time. I'm a fucking genius in the shadow of a tall lanky boy with an accent. I'm like a machine gun fully loaded with witty ammo, my throat a gold-plated chamber, and no bullet ever had it so good. I think about some of the shit I've said to get a man into my knickers and wish that my brilliance had come foresight included. After thought of the non-post-coital kind isn't as fun really.
But somewhere between the end of the Nuggets vs The Lakers playoff game (see yesterday's post for my full confession) and waking up on the sofa I realized two things: 1) That I should try to write with a few different voices to see what the result is and 2) That I might have inexcusably wrote my own version of Orwell's Animal Farm except instead of animals I've got a bunch of Orwellian vegetables on my hands and I'm wondering if my story has gone to pot of the green THC enhanced sort.
The more I think of it, the more I want to bitch slap Hunter S. Thompson for making me believe drugs were good for writers. Needless to say I'm doing some of my own loathing right here in Paris France you lying motherfucker.
Motherfucker is one of my favorite words. I'm glad I used it today because really, it's the little things that keeps me going. Motherfucker makes me want to watch Tarrantino movies. It makes me want to cut my hair into a pageboy, slick it down with pommade, and frame my face with fingercurls. Then, I'll lay down in a squeaky bed with a spring like a knife in the back in a little six room hotel in Monmartre, turn to my lover and in my zick French accent say, "I vould like a amburger, mon chéri, mon puce." We'd rush down to the street, me in a wifebeater under a black Chanel dress without bra or panties to find a place to devour blueberry pancakes and drink cafè au laits brought in cups big enough to boil socks in. We'd sit close and whisper, and it'd be all the more harder for me to scream in the instant he's hit by the delivery boy on his moped and instantly killed.
But then the scene will cut to a man in an dark alley. He's monstruous with a voice as big as God. His shoulders are so wide you're almost certain the brick walls of the alley are flexing to accomodate the bulk of his muscles. He's the kind of man a moped would prove invincible. It'd crush itself against the wall of his chest like a Coke can and its little wheels would roll around as if they had instead belonged to a tricycle. Cigarettes never got wet in the rain for him, oh no! And a few scenes later he'd be my lover and we'd be on foot in the maze of the Marais streets, my breasts unbound and bouncing - the delicate mousseline soie of my little black Chanel dress tattered and ripped up exposing a sweaty and quivering expanse of thigh. A few doors short of his grimy apartment, we'd find ourselves unable to stop ourselves, the smooth stone of the building facade rubbing up and down my back as we fuck with sensuous tango inspired movements.
Later on over bad instant coffee in his hell hole of a home he would find a soft spot in that hard muscular body for me and confess his secrets, but my reluctance to confess my own will weave a less fragile fabric of a story than my dress. I'll look down at the lip of the mayonaise jar I'm drinking espresso from, unable to meet his eyes. In the next scene I'll be in an all night bar on the rue des Martyrs pushing a guy's skull through a jukebox for trash talking my favorite Rosemary Clooney song. As the jukebox short circuits from the damage, I'll reach towards his mouth and grab the still lit Gaulois from his lips and smoke it without using my hands as I pay the check and walk out into the sunset.
All the while you'll be wondering what's my secret. Then you'll see me, entering a grand entrance of a bourgeois building. I stop to dig through my mailbox and pull out a pair of faded Levi's with the buttonfly that I shimmy into. Next a bra that unsnaps in the front to be worn under a crinkled Cure t-shirt from their tour for the album Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. I'll brush my hair with thirty strong even strokes from root to tip until it's as slick as wet grass. You'll be with me every step of the five flight climb of stairs where I will open a heavy wooden door, reach down to caress a large excited to see me black dog, and stand up to kiss a handsome and rather thin man in a suit and tie lovingly and wish him a nice day.
Don't judge me yet
motherfuckers! How do you know if in this particular piece of Tarrantino, that maybe perhaps during the process of getting through words to film that he didn't strike up an acquaintance with a volume of short stories by O'Henry and this isn't the twisted sort of ending you were expecting? See, motherfuckers! How do you know if the man I'm kissing after having had at least two men in me in one day isn't my brother?
Well, this has been fun. But Hunter S. Thompson, I still owe you a bitch slap.
