The Musings of a Fangirl.

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California was all mountains and greens and beautiful views from car windows. She stayed quiet through Los Angeles, wondering how she could be nostalgic for places she had never seen. People on sidewalks made her feel at home, living and breathing new life into her existence. They didn’t even notice her there, but each body was adding to her expierence as they went on with their lives, going home to family or dashing off to work or drinks with friends. Each one had an impact on her life whether they knew it or not. They were sewn into the fabric of her mind, an ever expanding weaving of faces and buildings. Even if it were a spilt second encounter they would forever live on in her stories of California.

And what was it that made her so nostalgic? All the houses she’d seen from the freeway and the light thrown from yellow street lamps that cast shadows on her past. Warm summer weekends spent riding her bike up and down her col de sac could have been any of these neighborhoods if she wished hard enough. It was sad and not quite right, but maybe she was better for it. Maybe if she lived in a house that looked like her childhood she could rewrite history and mend broken parts. She could switch out memories for news ones, pasting over old scars, clean but still bumpy, and no worse for wear.

California seemed like an okay enough replacememt. Motel rooms with the stagnant smell of cigarettes past were her home now. They slept together on questionable sheets and pillow cases that smelled like the hair of strangers. When he was snoring away at her side while she lay awake she would make up the stories of the room previous residents. Perhaps it could have served as a secret rendavu for a handsome buisness man and the woman his wife and children would never know about. Maybe an excitable midwest couple on their honeymoon in the big city. It worked well enough to keep her distracted and her mind let her sleep somewhat peacefully in his arms.

He worried about her sometimes, about how was really feeling through those quiet, moody phases. He wondered what she was thinking about when he interupted her train of thought with conversation and she would look over with less than truly seeing eyes. He knew she was somewhere else and he just wanted to be right there with her.

Fin.

I remember a dream I had once when I was a young girl in high school. It was strange and influenced by a song, Daniel, because I couldn’t sleep alone and the only company I could find was in the arms of late night radio. I was in a bar, old and familiar to me even though I had never really been there. The dark, clean wood floors and furniture left whispers in my subconscious of home. Not a physical house but a home, a safe haven.

 In the dream bar I was floating, watching the scarce crowd mingle, and consume their daily vices. Lonely men and women, like me, in the arms of their inanimate companions.  Daniel was playing in the background, quiet and floating with me as if it too were a being. The way that I was meandering through the air was as if I were Scrooge and I was only being shown this establishment, not really there and not able to make contact with the lone souls on the bar stools.

We glided up a small set of stairs into the topmost room, a small dank space that felt the safest out of all the rooms it housed. The room was empty, nothing hindering the words of the song from reaching the ceiling, pressing against the walls and bouncing back gently to my ears. It filled the room while I only stayed in one place. Slowly I began floating to the center and was softly set onto the smooth floor boards, there but not there. I felt as though I was supposed to be waiting for something or someone, I didn’t quite know what, but the feeling sat heavy in my stomach and danced on the tip of my tongue.

All at once I was weeping. Soft whimpers fell from my lips, melting away into the music. As I was crying I felt as though things unknown were resolving themselves, an inner turmoil that I was unaware of was calming down.

I soon began to cry harder in loud sobs and undignified snorts. I thought that I should be worried that I would catch the attention the bar patrons, but I knew that they couldn’t hear me in their sad little worlds. 

I felt a hand on my shoulder gently pulling me backwards. I wasn’t frightened because it felt like the hand of a close friend or lover. I was leaning with my back to its chest; its arms snaked around my waist in a loving manner. I could feel a steady heartbeat against my spine that was slowly calming me down, bringing me into a state of much welcomed numbness. I rested my head against their shoulder and closed my eyes relishing in this overwhelming feeling of God knows what. They stroked my hair sweetly and whispered words into my ear that I didn’t fully understand but I knew they were meant to comfort me. 

There she was, washed even paler in comparison to the stark black bedclothes she was curled up on, stripped of her painting clothes; a pair of worn, green cargo pants cut off mid-thigh and one of my ratty tee-shirts that had holes in the arm pits and shoulder. The dim light cast from the closet granted just enough visibility to make out the clean lines of pure, unpainted, snowy skin that had been protected by the tattered fabric, as well as the hills and valleys hidden from view with black satin and peek-a-boo lace on either side of her hips.

The smudges on her face read like war paint. Streaks of blue, red, and black smeared, arched across her cheek bones as if placed there purposefully, but really it was only by chance that they graced her skin. Only because she might have had an itch there and scratched absent mindedly. Orange smears on her chin placed with a probing finger that took up residence in the dimple there when she was deep in thought. Drips of purple spotted her feet and wound their way down and around her legs in long lines reminiscent of wisteria. Brush strokes were doodled on her thighs and knees when hands couldn’t stand to keep idle while she thought carefully about where to place them on the canvas. The finger tips and nail beds of the hands tuck under head were infinitely caked with color after color, staying a perpetual brown-y black.

Her hair was a wild mess beside and on top of her head, large chunks escaping from the claw clip that was a permanent fixture in her hair that struggled to tame her black locks, always hanging precariously at the nape of her neck but all the while keeping a miraculously strong hold on them.

There she is my rainbow speckled girl.  

I get this feeling sometimes, call it a funk or whatever you want, but I get very depressed and antsy, like I don’t have any control over my life at all, and I start to go sort of crazy in my head. Of course, I keep all of this inside, I don’t tell my friends and family how I really feel and what’s actually going on in my head. Then I start to feel like no one really cares about me, completely ignoring that fact that it’s my fault I go unnoticed, and that makes this whole fucky mood or funk spiral even deeper.

The only thing that I feel I have real and actual complete control over is my hair, and when I get this way I want to do something drastic and nuts to it, such as cut it all off or bleach it completely white, I watch the Marry the Night video over and over again, and proceed to have a total emotional break down.

I guess it means I really need change and I’m only grasping at straws trying to get it any way I can, and it works for a while, but then I start to get that way again. It’s a Band-aid that doesn’t stay on very well.

At this particular moment I’m listening to Momma Monster and attempting to bleach a strip of hair with peroxide and developer because I am broke and can’t get my hands on real bleach. Hopefully it works, and this Band-aid sticks long enough, because I have family dinner tonight and I don’t think I can take my sister-laws- bitchy, death glares and everyone asking me if I’m ok because I’m so quiet. 

Fuckity.