Intercept

Caught. In the act? Ha! Stealing or taking because you can? Yes. Or is it that you can't identify internally... Or still trying to figure out what you want... Who or what to do or simply what to say? Or perhaps you're a bit jealous and wanting to see someone not getting anywhere? I don't know about people and their jealously sometimes... Ha!

Anyhoo, I will steal from you without apology and honestly I'll tell you "I'm taking that" in regards to a story, a phrase or just something you did and I'll say it to your face. But I will tell you. I never hold back in writing or photography.

Another writer asked me which character was most 'me' yesterday... And I'll defer back that all of them are truly moi, but when I wrote the "book" Alton was closest to me as a model and she's at times nothing like me at all... 

Here's an excerpt from the book about stealing... 

Have you ever interfered or intercepted something from someone out of fear? Would you? Hmm... Says more about you than them dolls & kens.

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

caught stealing.

(9-15-2010)

and stealing is the last thing on earth that some would want to be known for even when they’re standing in between heaven and skid row. stealing. some might get a feeling of sick from such a word. not me as I can’t help taking what’s not mine and using it cause everything in this fine world takes a bite of something else and then gets by using it.

At the 711 looking for some beer with Clay and Alton shows up with Jane. Jane says she wants to go. I tell her there’s no way we’re going without grabbing something first. The clerk is watching us watch him instead of the door. There’s a man with a poodle outside the door. The clerk shifts his eyes when the dog yelps because some random guy with sunglasses scares him by screaming as he leaves the store.  It’s then I stick a six pack into Jane’s bag and Alton throws another under her Tom Ford exclusively one of kind coat. Clay keeps looking like he’s wasted and hands me a bag of sunflower seeds. I put them in my already full pocket and we leave while Clay stops to buy a pack of gum and takes a lighter from the display.

Sometimes I think, I don’t know why Clay does it. It’s not out of necessity. It’s not. He’s born and raised nearly straight off the country club with his day-to-day set of perfect clothes. Nothing like me or Jane with our luck that gets us by day-to-day with something.

Clay is the personification of a character that fell out of an Aberzombie and Fitch catalog one day and decided to try acid while base-jumping listening to Lou Reed off a four-story apartment building in East LA. More often than not he likes to take things that he doesn’t need. Need is palpable. And his is not as he slices open the contents of $4 DVD from Target then takes it home as a souvenir for the wall. The back wall of his living room in the 10.5 million dollar house that Ken-doll modeling didn't help buy, is covered with $4 dollar treasures from Target. He calls them his target practice and typically they’re not even movies he wants or likes. Somewhere in the sprawling mess he’s started a game room. Only the high dollar items and scene girls that like to star fuck are allowed in there. Alton once offered him a hand job if he would pretend she was Mick Jagger in the attempt to take a look. Lights out. 15 minutes. Neither got what they wanted in the end.

Alton is missing a chip up in her head. A screw loose or something like that. Therapist after therapist tells her that she’s got the noggin of a sociopath. But that doesn’t matter to her. In fact there is very little that Alton cares about except for stealing.

Alton looks like a model and talks like a sailor, carries around a plethora of sensor removing devices in her Gucci bag while smoking Marlboro reds in-between talking too much to anyone about how she’d like to fuck David Bowie. She once told an agent about this want and he told her that he could make it happen for a price. She says David’s not a whore and everyone she tells the story to that she’d never pay to make it happen. She makes her way in and out of the fine clothing establishments with anywhere between $3000-$5000 in clothing every day. Grand Theft Fashion. This is Alton’s full-time agenda apart from pick-pocketing men on the LA subway, especially the ones she picks up with the line, “Wanna ride me on the underground?” These men always answer a question with a question, “There’s an underground in LA?” but no one ever says ‘no’ to Alton. Not when she looks like that and talks as ridiculous as that.

Been caught stealing. Red-handed. Hand in the cookie jar. This time I’ve got a watch somewhere on my person and they’ll never find it. Cuffed and being carried through the open court of the mall. All the pretty little people doing pretty little shopping at the indoor venue for purchasing a whole lot of nothing and now they’re watching me, the awful criminal man being dragged through their day.

I think at the least the worst is over as the rent a cop mall security finishes frisking me for the watch I stole from the hand of the sales clerk. The truth is… he’ll never find it. Not where he’s looking anyway. It won’t be long before he gives up and throws me to the curb. They can’t hold you if you’ve done nothing wrong.

Watching Jane do it is like entertainment. She’s the girl next door with a ponytail and wholesome smile, walking in and out with her fast hands that react and don’t care where she’s at. In the store. In the park. In your house. In the middle of a crowd.  My girl’s like me she don’t need a reason.

Jane’s like a magician with her hands right out in the open. Handling business with me on the front side and reaching into the jacket of someone behind her faster than I can notice. It’s happening out where people don’t want to notice the obvious actions. As she’s walking up to a stranger’s bag rifling through it in the line at the store. Tells them she is looking for something if they catch her. They smile with patronization to the crazy girl and tell her that it’s not in there when she’s already taken their money and a royal red lipstick or appointment book and prescription of valium. She’ll bump into a man grab more than his waistline and while he’s busy enjoying the unnecessary action she’s taken his wallet, his keys and even his belt if he’s not careful. Hands are faster than the eyes.

Watching Jane in the 711 is like watching a master go to work. Not only is she packing the beer, but she’s managed to grab everything that no one is watching. Lighter fluid up her skirt, toothbrushes down her shirt, and if you’re lucky you’ll catch the lines of a cherry chapstick and a ball point pin in her hair. Then they sell these exclusive to 711 things on a shelf. No one wants anything exclusive that might make your insides your outsides. Jane takes them anyway and tosses one to the scared poodle on the way out.

I’m outside of the security booth at the mall when Jane phones me. I can’t remember picking up a phone today but its Jane so it must be mine. She tells me that she’s meeting Alton at 4, but right now she’s sitting with Sergio in a bookstore and waiting for his drug test watching people try to look important pretending they have better things to do. When I ask her where she’s going next she tells me that I’m supposed to meet in Clay outside of the electronics department at sears cause he has a surprise. Never telling me where she’ll be next.

Stealing watches right off someone’s wrist is like performing an act of magical community service. This is what I tell Clay when I meet him outside of Sears where he’s been waiting with a boombox secured neatly under his arm. I question him that’s the surprise and he tells me, no follow and watch. We reenter the store, return the boombox and leave with some large Craftsmen tools that are for opening things. I think this is a nifty trick and he tells me it’s not so handy before telling me about the Zoo.

We’re at the zoo watching the monkeys. No one is watching the monkeys at the zoo we just walked into thirty minutes ago after not paying and no intention of paying for where I swooped us three lemonade from a stand while a pimply faced girl made time with a boy wearing braces that looked like a child version of Clay. They didn’t even notice I was there. I walked up and walked away. One. Two. Three. After I finished the first lemonade Clay took the other two and tossed them into the monkey cage. Jane calls with Alton and wants to know what next, I tell her that I don’t know but we’re busy and after this I want some beer. Clay takes the phone and tells her 711. I tell him to fuck off. He tosses my phone. It shatters. He tells me that he’ll get me another but I tell him all I want is a beer. Clay starts cutting and hands me the other tool as he tells me that we’re going to when we’re done here. I tell him no one wants what’s inside of there to come out, and he tells me this is what he wants.

Outside of the 711 there’s a woman screaming about the monkey in backseat of Clay’s Porsche while the scared poodle isn’t yapping, the monkey is spitting on the windows of her car through the bars of its cage in the back of his car. Alton is busy with the man and his scared poodle who isn’t yapping, while Clay hands the screaming woman a wad of money, Jane smiles at me and takes the woman’s pocketbook. I tell her nothing and show her my new watch. She tells me she got me a shirt today and I tell her that’s just fine I needed another one before we…

Possible

Nothing is impossible, the word itself says 'I'm possible'!

-Audrey Hepburn

Possible. Everything is possible. I have had many destinies yet lived & dreams to put forth. Although I have many passions, photography, design, and writing are those that actually produce work. 

I wanted to put out a photo book so I did, in fact 2. I wanted to write ebook novels so I did, 8 or 9? I wanted to write a novel and did...

The novel has never been quite finished since I have been working on it. Lately with the new pieces written, I'm close to calling it completed.

From day one since I've been working on the book, the perspectives/TIA, everyone in my life has always supported and told me this was possible. Strangers included. 

I've only met an ounce of resistance,  from one man, and yep the shitty part of it, he's actually one of my hero's whose work I admire and support. He called my writing "trash" in a visually stimulating way... Maybe he didn't mean it? Funny thing... I hope he did. It means he has an opinion of his own. Why? I suppose we all need resistance from somewhere. I digressed.

For the most part this dream has been so possible and attainable from the beginning that I feel blessed. As most artists struggle for support. I am very lucky that when I discuss my dream with most people and share the book they are incredibly supportive. 

How are they supportive? Everyone I meet & share openly with usually have insisted on giving me help in some way. Which the extreme ranges from phone numbers of writing agents and business cards of book agents to setting up lunches with their publishing editor friends who they swear "will want to publish it after a read." 

I've got the destiny I want as a writer, yet I struggle to finish the novel. No clue why everyone in my life supports the book but maybe it's time to finish... And make it happen.

Here's a short excerpt... 

Alton is one of my favorite characters who has carried more of my own offensive quirks than the others. She's a borderline sociopath and appears in only the other posted excerpts... She has a portion of her own, but this, this is a small part of Alton and she is where the idea for Adrian began...

Do the people you meet support your dream?

Enjoy!

Kisses, m.

Things that go without saying

(10-09-2010)

Things that go without saying.

The mornings start out with a feeling of despair, a sense of remorse for last nights actions. Always the guilt remains. Perhaps over the party or the people, however it isn’t necessarily the case. Some of the parties happen to be fabulous and without a doubt the peak of it all. The fabulous people can’t help but fake it, that’s just what they do. I’m not like them, I’m just me. Not cheap enough to let them own me. Guilty for letting them try.

Even this morning when he wasn’t there. Who, is not important. Just that I’m here still. In his bed, wearing his shirt and reading his tiny notes that apologize by leaving breakfast. It’s in the kitchen. Don’t worry, stay as long as you like. I can’t help the weight that sits in my chest like an anchor pulling me down.

The panic attack hits at 6am during my shower. Heart races like it can’t catch up to the rest of my body as I continue to wash the night off of me. Wash that man right out of my hair along with the 12-hr party the smoke, the drinks, and Johnny C’s blood off of my elbow. Water can cleanse my body, but not my cold dark soul. And there’s nothing to be done about my Cavalli dress with a line of Johnny C’s blow smeared across the breasts and the countless cocktails that fabulous Reggie dropped across my lap while talking to the Countess Jessica Grant.

The darkest moments are after I’ve spent the night out with a man who doesn’t know me, doesn’t love me and doesn’t want to. A man who leaves breakfast before slinking out the door, back to his life, maybe his wife, maybe his girlfriend, back to his real.

Even more revealing is that these are the things, the very REAL things I keep to myself. The pieces of raw, vulnerable me the boys will never know or ask to know. The pieces that I choose to leave behind. The moment I cross the threshold into the party begins the transformation. Put on the best FAKE. Keep it clean. Lift your chin slightly to the right. Now act natural. Posing for the imaginary camera. The one that scrutinizes every little detail that’s wrong. One false move and you are considered bitter. Ungrateful. Tired. Get out of the way. Someone is waiting to take your place.

She can have it. Let her. Maybe I’m bitter. Or ungrateful. 

Knowing that when I return back to these quiet moments alone I can remove my smile, the insincere fraud, like it was a soiled dress. Then comes the dreading for the next time when perhaps I once again won’t have the strength to say no. My hand wipes away the steam coated mirror and leaves me staring at the stranger in the mirror. The haggard woman that drinks too much, talks too loud and moves about the party just because it’s what is expected. Coming face to face with the reflection that my life feels out of control and I want out. But I don’t know how.

My towel wrapped hair and I walk through his wardrobe. Vintage Louboutin heels in the three different colors. He didn’t always live alone. She left her Chanel boots from three seasons ago and faux leather wrap. These tiny remnants of a former ‘someone’ lay at rest among his suits and jackets, demolition denim and t-shirts, watches and shoes. He probably doesn’t know. This reveals more about him than he could ever say. She probably thought maybe I’ll come back someday. And he just didn’t notice.

At least I’ll have fresh clothes. That makes up for breakfast. Not impressive without the company. Why couldn’t he be out getting coffee?  I don’t like waking up alone. Yet I choose to. Notes are getting old now. Yet I accept them. At least he’s the same no one important leaving me notes and breakfast. Consistency is better than just anyone. It appeases the feelings of guilt. And the boots don’t hurt.

These boots, the clothes, the notes, the breakfast all come after the fabulous night. Mornings all alone filled with things that I’ll never say. Things that no one will ever ask to know. Things that they don’t care to know. They’ll never know the guilt, the contempt, or the disgust. What they’ll see is the ensemble, the smile and the best piece put forward.

This used to be the life… maybe I want a new one. This is something that I’ll never say.

Pretty Monet

Garden - Claude Monet (watercolor)

“Hey Pretty Girl!” She tells me this everytime I see her when I’m getting coffee. I always thank her immediately and smile. I did something differently yesterday and humbly said something that I don’t recall. It was different than every other time when she said it because she then asked me, “Why do you say that?”

I told her “Oh I get by” and shook my head with a wink without finishing the thought. Something I commonly do.

She insisted, “But you’re pretty.”

“I don’t think I’m pretty in the traditional sense, to society's standards but I get by with my looks” I insisted.

“Most pretty people, never think that they are,” she pressed back.

I thanked her again and explained that I was teased and bullied when I was a child and adolescent for my appearance, so most days that I’ve spent as an adult, I’m happiest just to get by. Of course when I pull out the stops I love the looks. Complements are always great but like most people I feel awkward receiving them.

“Well never forget how pretty you are,” she tells me and admires my sundress including making me model it for a moment.

Now you mustn’t think me callous or complaining when I press into this one. I’m hardly neurotically insecure or have low self-esteem. I love & spoil myself! I have more confidence & swagger than most of the men I know and sometimes the ego to go with it. Make no mistake I get looks and the attention most women crave. But in all honesty as far as appearances go, I’m a Monet. From a distance, I tend to be considered beautiful or pretty, not at all unattractive, but up close, it’s far from perfection to other people. In addition to crooked teeth and a few other quirks... My skin is flawed, rough, course, textured & scarred. The remnants of childhood acne that you can not take away. Over the counter gimmicks are a waste of time. Cosmetic surgery includes a possibility of permanent skin paralysis/disfigurement. Moisturizer & sunblock are best on any skin!  I wouldn't change this part me so this is something that I’ve learned to live with, love myself more because of it and laugh about it. Why? I'm healthy, happy and grateful to have my loved ones. Appearance is superficial but it goes without saying I love myself and I love the way I look. To me its perfect and I'm beautiful in a unique way that people & society will never get. You wouldn’t notice it, most people don’t. Yes, some people are put off by it. They & their opinions don't matter. I’m not alone in the blemished world, I’m just on the edge of the spectrum where it looks socially acceptable. For other women and teenagers this isn't as easy and they live with a great deal of shame & discomfort. Like others, I am blessed to get by fine with makeup & a bit of good lighting. Again most days I’m happiest to get by with a few looks & what's ups and not draw bad attention. Why? Because although time has allowed me to love myself taking complements is not easy but I'm grateful for them. Flattery will get you everywhere and it's always a highlight of any day! I love it!

But I digressed… this isn’t about moi.

Claude Monet said his greatest achievement was his garden. Others might say it's his paintings. If you’ve ever seen Monet’s garden you would wonder if that’s what he saw when painted it. To explain a little about Monet, you have to understand Impressionism. It’s an art style, descriptive of painting technique where the image is comprised of little tiny dots & textures. Overall it's astonishing that so many little things create such a masterpiece. Yet they do. Often, I've pondered, much like people do of Picasso: did Monet see the world as he painted it? Needless to say he painted masterpieces but it's not the point...

Back to the point being that there are still people that notice the little things in the bigger picture. The point where a kindness is a small gesture of seeing the whole person as the beautiful energy that they are instead the outer shell that will diminish. Back to the point being is that we are all comprised of many pieces. We are all built of small parts and intricate textures that create the ensemble of who and what we are. Other people identify us by them. Some see beauty where we see flaws. Others see flaws where there are none. Ultimately without one or all, altering these pieces we would not be the person that we are today. You can take apart a Monet or look at it up close but you are missing the best part of the painting... The bigger picture. 

The best part of a person is everything that they are. A person who has lived through hardship is a survivor. The experience of enduring leaves marks on the spirit and psyche that you can not erase. Even with brain surgery to remove the memory, you run the risk of losing something important. The scars may not be on the surface but they are still a part of our personality. You can choose to let life affect how you continue, struggle trying to be just what you think people want or you can discover the best parts of who & what you are already and embrace them. Love your family, friends and the people who support & encourage you. Be yourself and change your life, but don't change who you are... You are amazing to so many and not replaceable. 

Maybe you're a Monet? Well, some people are put off by Monet's work or better yet think it's the work of Manet. I think Monet's work is brilliant and beauty profound. Take a look at the garden... Do you think it looks like the painting? Or is the painting a big ol mess? I'll let you decide.

Anyhoo... here's a story about changing because you are dissatisfied with you. It's another excerpt from the novel TIA/The Perspectives. It's a different character Jemma, who is nothing like Inza, she's not old, but not young and still trying to figure out who she is without being too much of everyone else. But we all absorb part of each other indirectly, she's no different. We are all different and exactly the same. I think that is what made her one of my favorites to write.

Enjoy!

Kisses, m. 

Jemma

Mirrors

(posted 9-27-2010)

“Tell me you love me,” she says before gently grabbing my face and placing tiny little kisses on my lips. Delicate soft flits against mine. It’s 6:30 pm and I’m at a reading with the infamous Chloe St. Claire. Model turned actress turned model slash singer turned artist slash humanitarian actress. It’s the TV thing that wasn’t supposed to stay a thing for very long. My three and a half pages have become six pages and soon there will be none. We’re standing side by side with the writers, the actors, the directors, the producers and anyone else who isn’t necessary for participation at a reading. But this is different. Andrew fill-in-the-blank writer extraordinaire has called for a walkthrough reading.

She tells me “I hate how I have to be sad to play a happy character. It’s like lying and telling the truth at the same time. It’s not me.”  

Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. While I’m here reading the pages out loud I wonder what happened to the old celluloid fairytales where love would conquer all in the end. Not like this. A girl is kissing another girl on page 15 while this man watches and then they’re all talking about it over dinner on page 16. At this moment I’m glad it’s Chloe’s turn at reading and not mine, but I keep following along with it anyway. Chloe is in true form the embodiment of the character I’m reading for but she’s already playing this other part like she’s me. I can’t help thinking that she’s better than me. Even when I lean in and kiss her while Andrew whatever-his-name-is, the writer says it’s not working I wonder if it’s my fault.

“How can I be less myself and more like you?” This is what Chloe says over the table when I first met her six months ago.  No one could mistake Chloe for me or vice versa. She’s tall naturally blond sun-kissed and I am an average height brunette without much sun. But she sat in front of me with the very serious question and I just smiled without knowing what to say. It was the first time anyone had ever wanted to be me. Even I didn’t want to be me.

“Mirroring. This is what actors do when they meet someone normal.” Alton explains this to me over lunch one day in the Sunset eight months ago. I’ve just told her I’m moving to LA to be an actress. She’s telling me this warning while wearing my Prada mules and my Chanel jacket with the same color hair and style that I have. Who are you if you aren’t your best friend?  I think that this is what people do when they meet someone new. Steal all the parts they love and copy them until you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. It’s a bit like leaching if you ask me. But no one asks me. You take enough parts and what’s left over isn’t worth anything. If you suck the one you truly love dry in a matter of months then where will you find it next?

Mid lip-lock with Chloe trying to get the scene right for the third time, I’m thinking about how this moment mirrors me and her. She’s no longer blond. Still sun-kissed. My paleness is warmer now and we both have the same length and color of hair. Am I the copy or is she? Her hands move in and she presses hard. More yells this writer. She grabs my waist and holds even longer. I wonder what’s she’s thinking. This has nothing to do with the lines.

So at this moment while Chloe is groping my breasts and Andrew what’s-his-name is screaming for more intensity I realize that she’s really me and I’m pretending to be someone else now. And it doesn’t matter when I wipe her saliva away from my face and he yells, “That’s it! Can you do that with Inza tomorrow?” Because she’s done it. Become me. A better version. And I’ve become someone else. Me with my three pages left, a mere walk on cameo in this TV thing can’t compare to the other person I’ve fallen into. That’s the real version of me, instead of her. That’s mirroring 101.

 “Do you want to come over?” Chloe asks me in the bathroom while doing a line of blow off the counter. I take a tissue and wipe my lips clean before reapplying more color. I’m watching me watch her in the mirror. Every detail down to her eyebrow shape is a slightly accentuated version of mine. There’s nothing original about her. She’s taken my nervous twitch and smile. Pursing her lips that same way I do. Lifting her eyes with the same arch and curve. These little unnoticed pieces are now her. She is me. Standing next to me in the mirror she says she’s impressed with my ability to jump into character after pushing her breasts up in the vintage Gucci halter. I think she’s lying because I need to prepare to be someone else now. But I say ‘why not’ instead of excusing myself.

I think back to the last few days before I left the city and always come back to that moment I met Alton for lunch in the Sunset. She wasn’t saying or acting any differently than she normally would have. In fact I think it was the one time she was most herself. Alton and I were inseparable aside from living arrangements several months earlier. She wasn’t me and I wasn’t her, but we were more the same than different and it could have gone on like that forever. Being me was who she was. I can’t remember the last time I’ve talked with Alton since that day. I can only keep remembering how much she looked like me and talked like me in all the other memories. Stealing my words and my look with the guise of friendship. There’s no real connection without the mirror to remind that you aren’t really you.

It’s a quarter to seven when I wake up at Chloe’s. She already up in mid tree pose and not breathing or concentrating. She’s too busy staring at her picture on the back cover of Entertainment Weekly that’s lying spread out on the foot of the bed. I smile when she breaks position and asks about the freckles on her face being noticeable in the picture. I shake my head while telling her they’re unnoticeable and then try to tell her something about the black and white contrast in the photograph when she picks up the phone and starts dialing. It’s then I decide I need a shower because she’s too busy trying to be her being a better me to listen to me.

Somewhere between the infomercial versions of Price is Right and Let’s Make Deal she’s talking with her assistant about a script adaptation for Dostoevsky that her agent sent over. She keeps sending it back and tells her assistant to call her agent about this problem. I smile and the assistant hits speed dial over the speaker. The conversation isn’t great. Chloe drops three “I fucking don’t want to’s” before ending the call. She throws the oversized script at her assistant before falling into a tantrum. The rant begins and something about her face reveals that she does have freckles. The phone rings again and her agent is on speaker once again. Her assistant hands me a cup of coffee and I start to read the Harpers Bazaar that’s on the table.

It’s fifteen after nine when my phone rings and I decide to leave the scene of dysfunction. Tucking out front door with my heels in hand and phone cradled beneath my neck I whisper into the line.

“Hel-lo.” I serenade into the line while quickly stepping into my shoes.

“Jemma darling, how are things?”

“Wayne Baby! Great.” I forget my place and scream. “Look, the place you set me up with has been fabulous. Thank you again…”

“Look Honey, I need a favor. And I couldn’t just have anyone call you for this?”

“Anything Wayne, you’ve been a…”

“Alex is coming into town today. He’ll be at the airport in four hours. Can you get him?”

“Of course.  I have a fitting in an hour and a half, but I should be able to swing it.”

“Thank you doll. I’m glad you’re enjoying things. Sorry to run, but I have to...”

“Oh. Well of course.”

“Bye Jemma.”

“Kisses. Wayne.”

“Looking in the mirror is never enough.” This is the advice I get from a woman I might call mentor if she wasn’t chain smoking and eating a McDonald’s cheeseburger.  She’s telling me that the “mirror doesn’t tell the truth” while wearing something nameless you might find in a vintage shop in the Haight, although she insists it came from Versace circa 1982. And she keeps telling the wardrobe mistress she’s a 7 not an 11. I want to laugh every time I see her. But she’s right about one thing. The mirror is not your friend.

I’m thinking about the enemies not in the mirror when the wardrobe mistress is fighting with an assistant over another actress’s size. As the wardrobe mistress verbally assaults her entourage the young woman looks uptight and it’s hard to believe she was in that BIG movie last year or on the cover of Glamour this month. I’ve never seen a person look so scared of the truth as the wardrobe mistress pulls a curtain to shut out the enemies not in the mirror.

On my end of the room the pants feel far too tight already. But I’m at a fitting to make them tighter because the physical being of the character hasn’t truly been captured by my performance. As they are fitting me for the next smaller size of pants because this is what “the character” would wear, I realize that it’s how you see things.

Perspective is a way of life, maybe the only way? We all live inside this tiny little image of ourselves. It’s not how they see us at all. That doesn’t matter. It’s only how you see yourself that matters most in the world. “But how can you ever really know who you are if the mirror lies?” it’s what I’m thinking when I must have said it out loud.

“Take a picture.” This tiny little girl with the schedule for shooting whispers and hands me the latest script revision. It’s now three less pages most of which will land me on the cutting room floor. She smiles and leans in again. “Cameras don’t lie. And it’s not the mirror that lies… it’s your mind.”

On my last day in the city I took a bus and then a walk down by the Presidio and ended up by Crissy Fields. There’s this place in the city that I like to go to. It’s past the Marina before you get to Crissy Fields close to the Wave Organ. It’s a corner of earth where nothing looks like anything else. You look at three sides of water and see something different. Along the way there are no real residences unless you live on a sailboat or a yacht. I pass this part of the Marina where Wayne has a friend with a boat. A “somebody” who owned and lived on this boat. Passing. Remembering that it was close to where I went to this party once.

These parties always happened there but this one wasn’t great, filled with people that didn’t like each other like Reggie and Ashton and important people who mattered like Wayne. Adrian was there with me. Things were ok then before we left for there and... Most of the parties weren’t great then but you don’t know that until you’ve left them. That was when the tourists would show up. When things stopped being great the scene tourists always managed to appear. The teenage girls and boy with their Ugg boots, Converse and laced up jeans matched with some dying pieces of Heatherette matched with a laced up tank from Diesel under a vintage bomber jacket produced by Levi Strauss. Elitist brats wasting time and drugs on this party in the Marina for kicks wearing their faux scene clothes trying to imitate the scenesters who were already bored and leaving.

One time at these parties a body was found dead after the tourists arrived and left. The newspaper reports were of multiple rapes and assaults among the children before this body was found drawn and quartered hanging over the side of a boat in a net. A boat that someone who was somebody owned in the Marina. It was the rawest form of survival of the fittest. Baby scenes picking away the competition that looks exactly the same. The whole mess and scandal forced the owner of the boat to sell. There’s a rumor that you can hear the cries of the rape victims and see the pieces of dead flesh floating around in the waters of the Marina. Even in the chill of the breeze the view is spectacular. When I walk alone to the edge of the water I’m almost expecting to hear the screaming voices echoing through the organ.

Everything the same in nature is different without trying. Reflections in the mirror are nothing like the things in nature. Animals don’t have mirrors to see themselves. How can they know what they look like? By looking at each other. It’s in the similarities of each other that animals know what they are. There is no need for begging and borrowing.

“You have to go. I can’t.”

“But you’re….”

“Shh. I can’t be happy for you and let go.”

“Don’t do this. I don’t want to let go.”

“Then don’t. You know I love you.”

“No, I don’t... Tell me you love me.”

Thirty seconds of jaw dropping silence follows the scene. It’s like real-life imitating art, imitating real-life. Inza’s back on set for the shooting and the intensity between her and Chloe is unmistakable as they struggle to break away from the kiss. It’s hard to believe that there’s no love between them. I can see why Chloe misses her. Maybe that’s why I went home with her. There’s just that piece missing in her that wants to be seen. To be loved. The mirror lies. The camera doesn’t.

I’m on a boat to Staten Island with this friend of Andy’s who I’ve only met five hours ago. Being on boats reminds me of Jemma and being in the Marina where those kids killed those other kids playing scene. I need a hit just thinking about killing and Jemma and looking for something in everything. I’ve been everywhere and no where trying to find something in everything. Alex hasn’t been at Andy’s since 4am and doesn’t answer his phone. Someone at Andy’s says he went to LA already. We weren’t leaving until tomorrow night. And I’m still trying to remember what happened when I was losing something somewhere this morning while taking a hit outside of Tiffany’s and what you were doing when the car disappeared. I keep thinking I need some candy to handle this memory that isn’t complete… while I’m ringing up Alex again the view is amazing. I tell this gorgeous woman about the view before she says that I’ll catch up to Alex in a little bit and not to take the candy. After she touches my hair she reminds me that she’s already booked my flight to LA to follow him and we’re just killing time. I like killing time with her it lets me like her smile. We’re talking about things that matter, when she giggles about the whores and Van Gogh instead of blushing like other girls might I know there’s more to this one than meets the eye.