Come Home

If you want to make me fall in love with you, show me good music. If you want me to love you, sing with me. If you want me to be yours, make music with me.

                I once had a conversation with someone about the idea of organic music. The laughter of children. The wind blowing leaves. The way you feel when you smell a fire. The crackling of leaves. The skipping of a rock. I once made her cry in the car. I was singing along to the song Wading In Deeper by Katzenjammer. That was a prime example of organic music. I wanted her to hear the song; I sang out with everything that song made me feel.                    

      

                 I don’t feel like I’m living to my fullest potential when I’m not singing. Tonight at work some guy drove by in his big “I’m compensating for something” truck. He was playing that song “Baby, lock the door and turn the lights down low...” I don’t feel like using the internet to look up the song. I sang the rest that verse in the parking lot. Noah, my coworker was out there smoking a cigarette with me, I wasn’t singing to him. He was just there. I felt better just singing. Its like I breathe in all the time, but the only time I ever truly, completely, exhale is when I sing.

                I have moments, moments when a normal person would want to cry, or smile, or laugh. I want to sing, I want to dance. I want to spin, round and round, until I’m dizzy and breathless. Just to feel something because no words I could ever come up with would describe the way I’m feeling. No ordinary gesture could express my happiness, or my sorrow.

                 I’m having an emo night. I’m sitting alone in my room listening to Ryan Adams. There are people in my living room laughing and enjoying each other’s company. I am satisfied just listening. I don’t want them to share it with me, I want them to keep it for themselves and let me sulk in my room. I missed all of the fireworks tonight. Its probably for the best, I would’ve thought too much about past years. Independence Days gone by, holding hands and swimming and singing with families that weren’t mine. Sitting on blankets, playing with cousins who aren’t involved with my family anymore. Talking to cousins who have grown up just like me.  Sitting on the ground in Okmulgee, before my parents got divorced, seeing the copper colored sparks and saying “pennies”, I believed money was falling from the sky. Holidays lose their magic when you get older. The booms of firecrackers make you nervous instead of filling you with awe and wonder. Its so bittersweet. The colors are still just as wondrous, but the fire trucks that continuously pass by make you weary. That was someone’s house, or someone’s yard, or someone’s thumb, or someone’s eyebrows.

                All I wanted to do was to sit on a tailgate or a porch or in a yard. Let the deep low booms fill in as the bass line of the evening. The sips of beer act as the descant. Chirps of crickets and the drone of conversations I’m not involved in carry on as an endless melody.

Come Home by Ryan Adams

I am the saddest whore puppy.

I like to identify myself as a lot of things.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a girl. I do my make up, and hair and spend too much time deciding on if I want to wear matching undergarments. Cute underwear make you feel confident all day. Not a girl and don’t believe me? Tell me you don’t have one pair of boxer briefs that make you feel superior, even if that’s your only pair without holes, that’s still your “cute pair of panties.”

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a hard ass. I can tell mean jokes, and brag about out drinking a 26 year old, Catholic, Irishman. I can ask my roommate to punch me in the face, and drive off with diesel trucks that belong to people I don’t know very well. I can get really weird voicemails that completely make me lose my train of thought. Like so weird that even rereading what I have written will not put me back on track. The voicemail: I got a call from a guy that I met at Pride; I was giving my number out pretty freely there. I bought a really weird button from him. Don’t know what I did with the button, he sells buttons, that’s his thing. So I ignore the call because he is a little creepy. The voicemail goes: “Hey this is Ian; I make buttons and sell them at bars. I was just hanging out at my house alone, making buttons and I decided I would call everyone in my phone that I’ve never called before and see if they wanted to hang out while I’m making buttons.”  It really ran on like that, like no pauses or comas or anything, it was remarkable.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a writer, with the drinking and the smoking and the writing.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as seamstress, but that’s only when I’m alone and I want to try to follow this DIY tutorial I found on Pinterest.

Most recently I have been flirting with the idea of indentifying myself as a musician. I have gone with the whole music major thing; I have been an avid lover of music. I have been pretentious as all get out, but I’ve never been a musician. I’ve never stepped back, to look within myself, and pull out something like music. The boys from the audition liked my voice, they liked my passion for music, they liked my stories (maybe, I don’t think I ever shut up. I was nervous.) But they want me to write, I want to write, but I’m not a writer of music. I’m a singer, a vessel for other’s words and melodies. It took a teacher I had a small crush on telling me I should get my work published to even look at myself as a decent writer. My sister is the writer, I’m not.  But now I write, and I enjoy it.  Sometimes people say nice things about it. It makes me feel good and I like it.

But musician? 

That’s just such a heavy word. I mean, say it “myu-zi-shin” its heavy, it makes your mouth move, lips and tongue and teeth. I have a few moments that made me feel lots of emotions, emotions that make me think I could write a good, honest, moving song. But its so personal, and intimate, and hard. I’m procrastinating. This post is full of procrastination. With every word I could be avidly trying to write something. Instead, I’m blogging, like a fucking hipster, talking about identity, like a fucking hipster. Shoot me.

I had this plan. It involved blank notebook paper, a half empty bottle of rum, The Devil’s Advocate, and a very beautifully painful memory. I went back-roading instead. There ain’t nothing like an open container to start the procrastination train. I want to be all Damien Rice circa “O” and make everyone want to cry with my songs because that’s the kind of music I like. Its real, its honest, it reflects on feelings to which everyone can relate. And if you’ve never had your heart broken, come see me. I have a baseball bat, a big porcelain pot, and a few hills I can roll you down.

The Beginning of the Catch Up

Just to get you caught up. I was without my laptop for about 3 months. The power cord died, and I just dealt with the lack of technology. Now, my typing has gone to shit, and I have 3 blogless months I need to catch you guys up on.

First off, I quit my first relatively big kid job. I worked at a hotel, I enjoyed it even. I like meeting new people. I don’t like working for inconsistent bitches, who talk bad about the owners of said hotel. And I don’t like people that go out of their way to make you feel inadequate. They really get under my skin, I know I am a mediocre person, I don’t celebrate it, I just acknowledge it.  So I found myself a new job, took all of my uniforms up to the hotel at like 9 at night, and said I was finished, I had found another calling, and some other really eloquent bullshit. Then I got drunk with Sarah, got over Friday night’s hangover, and drank with Cameron and some of our mutual friends on Saturday(St. Patrick’s Day). Some of my Ada friends made a cameo appearance, and that was nice, but I was drunk and they didn’t know anyone else. So I understand the lame. That Monday I started a new job. I work at a gas station, still get to meet a lot of interesting people, but it’s the meth interesting, not foreign country interesting.

So big story, first day, my boss (who is 23 and AWESOME!) decided it would be fun to hook me up with someone who works with her husband. That should have been a big no. A, he is a friend of hers so if I fuck up, I really fuck up. B, she is married and happy, and I am easily influenced. So we text, he isn’t an idiot. We talk, he doesn’t sound like a girl. We meet, he makes me feel all giggly and uncomfortable, I for some reason found this to be a good sign of the things to come. I spent the first 5 times we hung out trashed. He had a lot of really good qualities, but I started a relationship wearing marriage colored glasses and that is not what I want, not right now. Security? Maybe. Marriage? No.

Now, I could reminisce and tell you all the cute stories I can remember, or tell you about his pretty car, but I would rather tell you about the night we broke up. To set the stage, we have been together for all of a month, I was getting restless and we fought a fair amount. I met him at his parents’ house, where he still lived at the age of 22, and we talked everything out. It was all gumdrops and rain, and the he said he loved me. I kissed him out of lack of response. It was gross and terrifying and mildly wonderful. So that was a Wednesday, I think. Thursday is irrelevant, and Friday was date night. So he picks me up and I cry; I want so badly to rip his face off. I can appreciate a good beard just as much as the next girl, if not more, not the case with novelty facial hair, however. He had cut his beard into a Lemmy beard.

This is Lemmy Kilmister of Motorhead, for whom the beard is named.

This guy can pull off the beard, he can also rock that really gross growth on his face because he doesn’t give a fuck and he is famous. The guy I was seeing could not. He had a gap in between his two front teeth, which I found quite endearing at first; he also had a butt chin. It was just too much. Too much of a shock, too much ridiculous. We went out to dinner, which was good, then a movie. I was mildly irritated after dinner, although I can’t remember why now; we meet Cam and his old roommate Jayson at the theatre in Bixby. We are going to see The Avengers. I am filled with nerdy excitement; the guy I was seeing is not. We go outside to chat with Cam and Jayson, and also to smoke. Cam and Jayson go off on some crazy awesome comic related tangent. A lot of it is over my head, but I still have witty commentary. The guy I was seeing did not. We go inside to save some seats. NOW HERE IS THE BIG PART OF THE BREAK UP.  We walk into the theatre; I trip because I’m really awesome at walking. Someone is super witty and does the whole Nelson laugh from The Simpson’s, I laugh because that’s fucking hilarious and we walk upstairs to find a seat. Half way up the staircase he asks me if I know the guy who laughed at me.

 “No, why?”

“Just curious, I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just go find us a seat, baby. I’m going to kick this guy’s ass.”

“What?! No you aren’t. Come sit down.”

So that was irritating, fighting really bothers me. We watch the movie, I totally nerd out and he only laughs at the dumb obvious humor. We drive home, and fight, and I break up with him in the drive way of my house. I forgot that his door didn’t open from the inside,  that was awkward. I got a fair amount of shit from a few people for breaking up with him, because they really liked him, but it’s my life, my vagina, and my heart, they can go suck a bag of dicks.

I still live with Cameron. I still get drunk and make an ass of myself. I also got drunk on whiskey one night at the house with just me and Cam and I totally asked him to punch me in the face. I had never experienced a punch in the face, it was interesting. Whiskey makes me make bad decisions. I love whiskey though. I had a tiny emotional breakdown at one point. I’m at a pretty stable point right now. I know where I stand, and people know what to expect from me. I went to Pride by myself. I have an audition for a band tomorrow and I know more line dances than I should, considering I learn them all when I’m drunk. I’m content and at a good place to grow and expand. I have cut off a few loose ends, but I’m weaving in new strands every day. I’m thinking about going to cosmetology school. I have a sun burn on my shin. And I have a tree tattoo on my wrist.

February Adventures

I’ve been distant, and for that I apologize.

We’ve missed all of February, and I even had an extra day. Shame on me.  I have taken a lot of steps on my own this month. I went to a bar by myself. I mean I had a book, and a pack of cigarettes, but I was alone. It was one of the most empowering things I have ever done. That’s a little ridiculous, but really. I was reading The Catcher in the Rye (a book a really need to return to the library) at work, I really REALLY wanted a gin and tonic, so I went. I got off work, Cameron wasn’t home to talk me out of it, changed, and took my happy ass to Fat Daddy’s. I sat in a corner booth and didn’t talk to anyone until after my second beer. It was wonderful.

Valentine’s Day was equally amusing. I almost convinced a very good friend to drive from Conway, AR to have a few drinks with me, just to leave at like 6 in the morning. She responsibly declined. Ended up drinking with a friend I didn’t know very well, and learned something very important about myself. Not everything is a challenge. Example: if someone says they have never really been drunk, never blacked out, never thrown up, ITS NOT A CHALLENGE. I mean, I won, but it wasn’t a challenge. Sorry again, Zack.

This was also the beginning of birthday week, it should be noted that the two previous stories happened right after each other. Two nights in the same bar. That Friday, I helped an old friend celebrate his birthday, learned a thing or two about the power of greasy cheeseburgers, and realized that I will always be awesome at directions. Even whilst intoxicated I can direct you out of downtown. Saturday I made some new friends and discovered Drunken Opera Leah. One of my most favorite alter egos.

Sunday I made a last minute decision to go to Kansas City with my wonderful sister in law. We talked the entire trip up there, and I really felt good about the whole thing. It was very refreshing. I was privileged enough to get to say at her parents‘house. It was a very warm and inviting environment, and her father has a workshop of wonders. It was awesome.  Monday (my actual birthday) I spent most of the afternoon with an amazing girl. A girl I hadn’t seen in 8 years, she bought me a balloon and took me to downtown for coffee. One of my most favorite moments involved Flarp. Yes, Flarp the fart putty. We stumble in the back door of this coffee house. She makes a fart noise, we giggle, she runs to the bathroom. I go in after her, and she stands outside making awful fart noises. The barista was starting to get a little nauseous. I guess he really thought someone was shitting their pants back there. There was no shit, only joy. After coffee she walked me all around downtown Kansas City, a part I never really got to explore when I lived there. I had the most wonderful time. I mean, it’s very rare to just pick up with someone like that. 8 years, that’s more than enough time to lose everything you had in common with a childhood friend.

I went to dinner with the sister in law and some mutual friends of her and my brother. It was ho hum to say the least. They didn’t laugh at my jokes, and I was kind of uncomfortable. I enjoyed Elaine’s company, but she kind of agreed that it was lame. After that I met up with Jenni (the childhood friend) and we went out for drinks. This is where it should be noted, I had just had a shot on an empty stomach and a Long Island Iced Tea with dinner. This was not part of my original birthday plan. We went to a gay bar in downtown called Missy B’s. We played pool, well she played and I cheated. Then we went out to smoke, I finished two mini pitchers of beer before I remember the difference in alcohol content. This would have been a fantastic time for me to stop drinking; at that point I was drunk. I should have stopped. AGAIN: I should have not continued to drink. They had shots at the beginning of the drag show, I had one, and I had Jenni’s as well. We made friends and they bought me a shot and refilled my beer. Then I got drug up on stage, embarrassed myself. AND HAD ANOTHER SHOT. I managed to get extremely intoxicated and to make a huge ass out of myself. I did not handle myself in the most ladylike manner, and very possibly shat on a beautiful friendship. She has not expressed any hard feelings towards me, but I like feelings, and I am stuck on the guilt train. I enjoyed myself, don’t get me wrong, it was one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. Minus my mother calling me and asking how I managed to gain so much weight. But alas, I just know that I did not shine the most attractive light on myself.

Since then, I have gotten a nasty cold, brought to me by the week of alcohol and no sleep, I’m sure. I now know what Leah looks like with a drinking problem, it’s not cheap. It’s not pretty. It’s not even that fun. I’ve explored parts of my life that I had never considered before, and met a few interesting people along the way. I’ve had all of this week to reflect on it, my work schedule has been a bit wonky. I’ve cleaned my house and my room, and hopefully my liver.

Tonight I painted a self portrait. It’s a canvas mostly covered with black construction paper, pages from a cheesy romance novel, and sheet music from two of my most favorite arias, Non so piu cosa son from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro and Assisa  A’ pie d’un salice from Rossini’s Otello. My profile is in the corner with a purple/brown streak for my eyes and a red streak for my mouth. I’m no good at painting with any kind of definition, but also the things that I see and say are very rarely defined.

I know I always feel better after I write, even if it’s not about anything too emotional or deep. It just gives me an opportunity to organize my head, and I’m an open book anyway. So why not let people read it?

                                            Bad iPad Photo of said painting

Non so piu cosa son

Assisa a pie d'un salice

Both of the links above are performed by the amazing Cecilia Bartoli

ALSO, I got a new tattoo this month.

Sonus est qui vivi in illa. Its from a quote from House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski.

"Spreta latet silvis pudibundaque frondibus ora protegit et solis ex illo vivit in antris; sed tamen haeret amor crescitique dolore repulsae; extenuant vigiles corpus miserabile curae adducitque cutem macies et in aera succus supersunt; vox manet , ossa ferunt lapidids traxisse figurame. Inde latet silvis nulloque in monte videtur, omnibus auditur: sonus est, qui vivit in illa."

“So she was turned away
To hide her face, her lips, her guilt among the trees,
Even their leaves, to haunt caves of the forest,
To feed her love on melancholy sorrow
Which, sleepless, turned her body to a shade,
First pale and wrinkled, then a sheet of air,
Then bones, which some say turned to thin-worn rocks;
And last her voice remained. Vanished in forest,
Far from her usual walks on hills and valleys,
She’s heard by all who call; her voice has life."

The literal translation is "The sound is of the one who still lives in her"

My Fairy Tale

Disney movies make me hate my life. I know they are supposed to be all happy and good, but they upset me. Being a girl and being raised on princess movies you get pretty disappointed when you look at your life and see you are absolutely prince-less, and you aren’t really a princess either. They build up really high expectations, for everyone really. I mean, no thief is going to end up with a princess, or even a Kardashian. The guy who is in and out of jail for the bad things he does is going to end up marrying a meth head; there is no princess for him. A woman who was raised to do everything right is not going to suddenly fall for a felon. But apparently that’s not too farfetched for Disney movies.

                Give me a movie where they upstanding gentleman falls for the rule breaking female? The little girl in UP is kind of weird and free spirited, and that’s probably why she died first. Ariel totally sold her voice to a witch, which I guess is bad, and she got a prince. But she also had to leave her entire family and way of life to be with her prince charming. So there are 2 movies that I can think of off the top of my head. And those are kind of weak examples of crazy girls. If I were to watch a movie where the gorgeous, kind prince falls for the street rat girl, I would probably not be three sobs away from a panic attack right now.

                It’s upsetting to look back on your life and be completely disappointed with everything. It’s really, really disappointing. I’m not going to write a list of all my disappointments because that would make me sad; I only like to think about one at a time. I can maybe handle two, but that would be a lot of tears. And I know that no one wants to hear about how fucking sad my life is, it’s not really even that bad. I just have a bunch of disappointing stories. I have good ones too, but I am sad and I want to vent without everyone thinking I’m a sad piece of shit.

                But back to the fairy tale bull shit. Give me a story where the girl who falls from glory, makes bad choices, is foul mouthed, and is maybe a little fat, meets a guy and who is not a total ass clown, maybe even a gentleman and he pursues her. He sees her as a free spirit, an adventure. Someone to explore life with and someone who has the potential to be a great wife and mother. Someone with mistakes a plenty and a little bit of a trashy streak, but someone with a kind heart and good intentions. I know one is expected to be a lady to snag a gentleman, but I want to be an exception. I want to be this crazy thing I am right now, and not be disrespected by my love interests and/or their friends. I want to be able to joke around with the guys and still have my voice heard. Maybe I am just hanging out with a bad crowd.

I want to have a fairy tale; I want to have that fluttery feeling in my stomach again one day. Maybe I need to feel more of this enveloping darkness to appreciate any kind of light. Maybe I need to feel cold and lonely to understand warmth. Maybe I just need to run away and start over. Maybe I just needed a good cry. Maybe I am just insane, I did just weep while watching Tangled. 

Painted Dreams

Just because I might have an unfortunate reader who isn't friends with me on Facebook.
I had a dream.
It was strange and colorful.
I felt inclined to paint it.

Spooky Jookie

                I have been working on this whole idea of “new beginnings” for a while now. Reinventing myself, or discovering myself for the first time. I am learning more about my voice, about my body, about my mind, about my character. Learning new things about yourself is both fascinating and terrifying, as are most things in life. But opening my mouth to sing and hearing and feeling things come out that have never existed before? I don’t even know how to describe that. It’s like knowing someone with a stove but never knowing they could cook.

                There are other things that have bothered me a bit. Apparently I get mean when I’m drunk. I mean, I am a naturally brash person, but I, in no way mean to come across as abrasive. I’m working on that. On a side note, I make decisions that shock me from time to time. Tonight, I went to downtown Tulsa, to a guy’s house. A guy who I have never met, who I know almost nothing about, and who I met on Craigslist. It was in response to an ad he posted looking for people interested in a musical collaboration. I guess it’s not too outrageous for me to have been concerned, that might even be normal. I did the smart thing, gave Cam all the information I had on the guy: name, phone number, directions to his house, and I made sure he had my tag number. Also, I borrowed his pocket knife. It’s the knife that bothers me. I like to think I am a peaceful person, but I also know that neither rape nor murder, sound like very much fun. But still, I am the kind of person that if I caught you stealing from me, I would look at you with disappointed eyes and probably give you whatever it was you wanted. Not saying that I would just give it up to a potential rapist, but I don’t think I would be able to stab anyone. Eh, who knows, maybe I am just over thinking it because the people I met are some of the most genuinely nice people I have ever been around. Like really these people were wonderful, I hope I made enough of an impression on them that potential music happens. I miss performing, and we all know I could use a good solid creative outlet. I get dumb when I’m bored.

                All in all I think this year is headed in a positive direction, I have a possible promotion heading my way, I am getting serious about singing again. And I can do things independently, a little. I’m still a codependent bitch, but I feel like I can go be by myself. And I would actually enjoy it. Like tonight in Downtown. That was all me, and I had a really good time. I have a lot of positive influences in my life right now; this is both a good thing and a bad thing. I need to guard both my heart any my character. I am very easily manipulated and influenced. So it’s good that they are positive influences, but I know that ultimately, it’s me that gets into bed with me every night, and me that wakes up with me every morning. If I am comfortable meeting strangers in unfamiliar places, good for me, as long as I have the cognizance to think of my safety checklist, we are good.

                So as for my most present bit of future, music. Art. Honesty. Beauty. Self discovery. This is what I want out of life. I want to perform, I want to sew and paint and dance. I want to discover new ways to make myself feel beautiful, both inside and out. I want to know the inmost secrets of myself. It bothers me that I’m 21 and I’m still learning new things about myself, but then again. I would love to still be finding things out when I’m 50.

Spooky Jookie - Man Man