Originally handwritten in my journal 07/28 (MacBook Pro officially died a few weeks ago).
Morning fog seeps through Beverly Hills, sedating trust-fundees while proletariats like me grind & shine. I sit alone outside Chaumont Vegan to savor an Americano, rosewater croissant, and these fleeting moments of stillness. It’s not so bad, everything. I’m as unbothered by the nearby couple rambling in French as I am by my solo status and my lack of scribe technology.
Modern artists write novels on their phones all the time. I’m out of excuses and self-hanging nooses. So here I am, putting pen to paper like my name is Don Draper.
Better late than never. Better never late.
I remain fascinated by how terrified people are to be themselves; to think their own thoughts, to make their own decisions, to stand out in the world should their perspective differ. I wonder where this fear emanates. What consequences are they so desperate to avoid? We’re all going to be dead eventually, so nothing we do in this lifetime is so significantly damaging that we can’t recover.
Perhaps society dreads being shunned for being different. I’m already an outcast (or at least feel that way), and it beats the hell out of being surrounded by sheep.
And it’s funny, because I spend my days around many of these types. Not all, but more than ideal. I teach group classes as a Pilates instructor to pay rent, to bide time until I can transition only to private clients and eventually make money writing. It’s not so bad, especially when I’m lucky enough to have classes full of individuals who don’t make me feel like punching myself in the face (you know, awesome people who actually want to move and be moved).
More on that later.
Bukowski was an alcoholic mailman to make ends meet while he wrote. Everything could be worse.
On that note, I currently live in North Hollywood with an alcoholic who happens to be my former ex-boyfriend as well as dear friend of 10+ years. I’ve known him longer as a friend than as a lover. Even in our 20’s, alcohol was the element that shattered our romantic relationship to breakup status.
And trust me, I’m the last one to judge (currently sipping vodka), so this statement is not declared lightly. But when any substance causes constant dysfunction—drinking at 8AM just to pass out the remainder of the day, or leave the oven on, or burst into my room while I’m sleeping at night—perhaps it’s time to revisit and revise.
I’ve already directly addressed my concerns early on, and beaten this dead horse into glue. He’s not an angry drunk, just an incompetent one. I don’t feel unsafe–we both know how the other person reacts when angry, which is the ultimate sign of truly knowing someone else.
Just unsettled.
Watching him drink the days away, morning through evening, motivates me to keep trying, keep working, keep writing.
I’ve got to save up & escape.
A Muse Amused 