ugh.

oh that’s right i dropped off my combats at the sketchy con artist shoe repair guy. painted my nails on the phone with my dad. he gave me the numbers of a bunch of doctors, of which a couple are either blood or might-as-well-be-blood-related to me. i should know this. i feel like i should be doing a lot more with my life right now apart from taking care of, or trying to take care of, My Sick Ass. my shit is genuinely fucked up, and it’s been difficult getting care. i am trying to gain some weight back, although it is taking some time and also, let’s be real, grossing me out. i went to a doctor last week who told me he thought i was constantly sick due to exposure from my job. sure, maybe. but i’ve been there for two years…why would i be sick now? shouldn’t i be used to the germs there? i felt bad. my mother covered my co-pay for the day (they wouldn’t take my insurance), she basically paid a hundred bucks for me to have a 20 minute conversation with a physician’s assistant, which turned up nothing. no suggestions for lab panels, no referrals, nothing. in the meantime, my body isn’t fighting anything off. the day after i got home from new york i was sick. stomach flu, in bed for 4 days. it was impossible to even stay awake for more than an hour. i got sent home from work again on a saturday night. probably showing up with a gallon of Pedialyte and looking like death was what did it. i was afraid to even touch plates. i don’t know what it is, but it feels like something systemic. everything i do feels like a stab in the dark without guidance. my brother tells me to eat animal protein. what is it? iron? b-12? candida? i have no fucking idea. i’m depressed from all this, underground from my friends, and having nothing else to talk about but being sick. it makes for boring company. alcohol and socializing feel terrible right now. i was passing out in a bar last wednesday at 9pm, halfway through a beer. i’m not the fun i was last summer, that’s for sure.

Victory @mia___amore

Victory @mia___amore

it’s alive

it’s alive

no vocals, very fucked up keys and guitars by me, Sean Jordon (Good Knives, Monarchs) on bass.

this is very not done, so if you’re fragile, cover your ears.

whatever was salvageable from my Leica memory card in the last week. whiskey porn.

caffeine refuge. best patio known to man, but too cold for use.

Outpost Cafe, Brooklyn. 

my girl Lotus Amaris in heavy retail contemplation at H&M in TImes Square. her birthday week. i don’t know why but the last one is probably my favorite photo i’ve ever taken of a girl.

my girl Lotus Amaris in heavy retail contemplation at H&M in TImes Square. her birthday week. i don’t know why but the last one is probably my favorite photo i’ve ever taken of a girl.

Ojai.

we took a day trip to Ojai, ended up wine drunk by 6pm and in an abandoned auditorium. we had been looking for it for a while, as it was a recommended spot to have a picnic. but being so drunk we couldn’t find a giant fucking auditorium, had our picnic about 10 feet away and on the other side of it. whoops.

Ojai.

we took a day trip to Ojai, ended up wine drunk by 6pm and in an abandoned auditorium. we had been looking for it for a while, as it was a recommended spot to have a picnic. but being so drunk we couldn’t find a giant fucking auditorium, had our picnic about 10 feet away and on the other side of it. whoops.


Agnes Franey and Myrna Loy, c.1928 by Alexander Stewart 

Agnes Franey and Myrna Loy, c.1928 by Alexander Stewart 

(Source: maudelynn.tumblr.com )

did he jump or was he pushed

I am at a casting studio in Hollywood, looking out over a bleak sea of chambray and denim and brown faux leather. madewell, American apparel, j crew, Target. there are three girls beside me with brown spiral locks and denim button-downs. I must have missed the wardrobe memo. or maybe the obvious meaning of “hip casual” is FULL BODY DENIM. everyone looks brown—not ethnically brown, but aesthetically—neutral. beige, blah, boring. like the dingy carpet in my parents’ first house. are they trying to look like this, for the purpose of the audition? or is this just them, at their most individual? i feel like i’m in some sort of conspicuous drag amongst these folks. i’m not trying to make it seem as if i’m this super-individual who just can’t help but feel different in every context. it sounds as if that’s what i’m saying, but it’s not what i’m feeling. in this casting studio, i feel a sucking sense that i’m disappearing. everything and everyone looks the same color as the sun-bombed landscape of the entirety of Southern California in mid-afternoon. the color that forces me indoors for a few hours in poetic despair because I just can’t endure the sight of it.

I don’t normally get depressed at auditions. with specific regard to artistic endurance tests, I’m firm that depression is a luxury I cannot afford. or it’s one that i refuse to afford myself out of disdain for indignity. it’s narcissistic and boring and besides, my best friend’s husband is in Afghanistan, with casualties in his unit already. artists are just whiny. we are. i go to meet Patrick for coffee. we have a conversation with a true-crime writer who gives me his business card. it says “FLAWLESS.” he tells us about a pitch for his next book and then adds that he knows his agent will not like it.

we go back to Patrick’s house and he plays me a handful of new Empty Palace mixes. every song is an accomplishment, and i do mean that. many of them have been through several incarnations already and they are sounding really good. i listen to a song for a minute and it all comes back to me—the early writing sessions, the unedited Korg programs, the hot summers in Highland Park. sounds as familiar to me as any of the treasured shit i grew up listening to, and still do. Patrick and Karl are listening to the arrangements critically, evaluating the four dimensions of the bass frequency and making timed notes. it seems like i am not listening but i am. i’m excited for and jealous of anyone who gets to hear the Empty Palace stuff for the first time. i’m listening and i’m thinking, god these are some gifted motherfuckers. plenty of us are friends with people whose art sucks (hi have we met?) and we all kind of put up with it with an ambivalent but congenial appreciation of how they are “putting themselves out there.” i’m in the consistent position of being blown away by the work of the people i know. i am like jesus, you fucks are talented. and every single one of them will bitterly and invariably exclaim something to the effect of 

"there is no such thing as talent. it is all hard work."

everyone wants their hard work acknowledged and i get that. i’ve lost myself. just the hard work of staying alive and going to your job and making time for your music, your girl, or whatever have you, so you can live to fuck another day, is a lot most of the time. but i’ve lost myself. i still feel like an outsider to all of this. like peter pan against the glass looking in from the rain on a family party. an actor that doesn’t vibe like an actor, a would-be musician that butchers every note, basically a bent-up writer in my room. the advice i get from friends and lovers a decade over:

you should be writing, you should be writing.

you get that i don’t write because i like it, right, but because i physically have to? like eating and breathing and every other duty i carry out routinely against the eventual death of my body. it’s pretty much a necessity but it isn’t a passion at all. there we go, i’ve lost myself. i’m home again and the day feels long. i’m still on New York time. 

i walk into the kitchen and almost immediately shatter one of our few remaining wine goblets in an attempt to clean the kitchen. now i just hope i can keep the cat out of there long enough to clean up the glass.