"I've never gotten used to it, I've just learned to turn it off."—Dylan
My friend J has become a pseudo older brother figure to me, recently. He’s always saying I’ve got to go easier on myself, not fret so much, not invest so much in other people. He’s right. Certainly my friends who aren’t so sensitive to the actions and emotions of others seem happier, well adjusted, and basically calm. How did they get this way? And why aren’t I like them?
Sometimes it helps to know I’m not the only one. My best friend D and I are basically the same person—I think we must’ve come from the same pod. D is the only other person I know whose emotional structure resembles mine. Just the other night, we were talking on the phone about how people seem to tread so carefully in friendships—only meeting once or twice a month for coffee, divulging as little as possible about their personal struggles. Maybe all the emotional stuff is just too dirty for some people to get into—or maybe they’re simply too self-involved to endear themselves to someone else on such an intimate level. D and I’s friendship began in the eighth grade and we’re still going strong. I think we’ve remained close because neither of us is afraid to be vulnerable in front of the other. We’re not afraid to say, “things are really bad and I feel like they may never get better.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not Conor Oberst, thrashing my emotions around like a zombie in search of blood. I have Oberstian moments, but most of the time I’m more of Joni Mitchell—who once said she was a “bundle of exposed nerves, totally transparently vulnerable.” She said there was a moment in her life when she would just cry if someone showed her any affection: love, friendship, anything. She just broke down. And that’s when she wrote Blue, which is one of the most beautiful albums ever recorded. This brings me to my next question, which is, to be a successful artist doesn’t one have to be a bit exposed, a bit manic . . . a bit insane? I think so.
I thought I was in love once. Maybe I was. I was so desperate to get that level of intimacy into my life, with someone I could trust and be vulnerable with. I suppose it’s all about the struggle for “real” experiences—my real self is someone who’s incredibly sensitive and emotional. I wanted a friend and a lover, people who could accept that. I suppose I’m lucky to have found one of the two. Still, I don’t understand when and how everyone got so drained, so isolated, and so uncomfortable. Are we afraid we might actually let someone get under our skin? I have, and I survived (just barely).
Would it be so terrible?
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Oscars 2007: Live
so far.
1. maggie's dress is my favorite so far, i love her love love love
2. OMG did Ryan and Rachel break up WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE???? he brought his mom and his sister, holy shit if they broke up i'm going to be soooooo pissed
3. helen mirren is the most fierce, amazing woman that ever lived
4. clive owen, baby, you don't need to lose weight, stop.
5. NAOMI WATTS IS SO PREGS
1. maggie's dress is my favorite so far, i love her love love love
2. OMG did Ryan and Rachel break up WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE???? he brought his mom and his sister, holy shit if they broke up i'm going to be soooooo pissed
3. helen mirren is the most fierce, amazing woman that ever lived
4. clive owen, baby, you don't need to lose weight, stop.
5. NAOMI WATTS IS SO PREGS
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Andy Syndrome
“My idea of a good picture is one that’s in focus and of a famous person.”
–Andy Warhol
I want to be the next Andy Warhol.
I’m not kidding; I’m dying to dip my fingers into every proverbial inkpot of the artistic world: photography, painting, acting, singing, dancing, you name it. I want to be at the head of it all, behind big sunglasses. I want to be surrounded by beautiful people--not beautiful in the average sense of the word, but beautiful by my definition.
Definition (from Jessica’s “this is how Jessica thinks” dictionary).
Beautiful, adj. An adjective used to describe people who possess an inside-out glow from the happiness they get from doing what they love—a smoldering beauty, really, usually concentrated in the eyes, mouth, or hands. Exacerbated by a smoking habit, carrying a dog-eared, underlined book or wearing a scarf.
Examples: Cate Blanchett, Ryan Gosling, Elizabeth Peyton, John Lennon, David Lynch, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Hillary Clinton, Lee Miller, Ian McEwan
Over the past few weeks, I’ve come to the distinct realization that I am obsessed with beauty.
Exhibit A: In Williamsburg I walk down the street gawking at the rare species that is “Brooklyn indie white hotness,” manifested in both male and female form—some of the most stylish people you will EVER see, prancing around in their converse and ankle boots as if today were the last day on earth before the government imposes a strict dress code on all of us—-the last day of freedom! Everyone, wear jumpers! Cut your hair using only a bowl and scissors. Pierce your nose! This it it!
Exhibit B: I’m addicted to Vogue. I once had a subscription but cancelled it due to the fact that I couldn’t stand the Norwich notes (old school monied society is a layer on the cake of superficiality that I never really tapped into), but just Tuesday I realized—I’ve been going through Vogue withdraw. The checklist! The models! The Ads! The glossiness of their paper, laced with coke, seeping into my flesh and destroying all of my feminist beliefs! A $1000 plastic bangle from Chanel.
Exhibit C: myspace. There are some gorgeous people on myspace! The best thing about it is that if you find one, you have access to all of their friends, who are usually just as hot, if not hotter. I’ve recently been stalking this couple that appear to be friends of friends—she’s changed her status to “swinger” while he’s “still in a relationship.” What’s going on?! I’m dying to know. Their pictures together are like something out of a Sophia Coppola movie. They’re like two swans….I want to meet them, make friends with them, and spend all my time taking gorgeous photographs of them, writing songs about them, and throwing parties in their honor.
I work literally less than a block from the building that houses the famous loft that was once Andy Warhol’s “factory.” I walk past it on my way to Starbucks, thinking, why can’t I pull this off? I want a salon. I want people to come to my apartment and drink tea (or booze) and talk to me about their passions. I want to tell aspiring Hemingways that they “need work,” or that their writing is “too simple.” Maybe I could convince my roommate to be my Alice B. Tolklas. I want to see a beautiful girl in Williamsburg at some party and make her my muse, follow her around with a video camera and see what happens. I want her to have long skinny legs and wear liquid black eyeliner. I want to date a painter who insists on painting my portrait day and night, so by the end of a month our apartment is filled with canvases.
Most of all, I want fresh flowers for my room every day and a writing desk. I want a cup of coffee in the morning and I want to live in London. I want to walk past Westminster Abbey on my way to work. I want rain. And roses. And god dammit, I want that purple Burberry coat I saw in London in 2003 that cost 2000 pounds.
So I figure, all I have to do is turn my apartment into some sort of commune, provide music (somehow I’ve got to get Dylan to make an appearance), drugs, Campbell soup, and lots of cameras. Calling all artists—come live the beautiful life, avec moi. We’ll do it Andy style.
Just don’t expect me to dye my hair grey.
–Andy Warhol
I want to be the next Andy Warhol.
I’m not kidding; I’m dying to dip my fingers into every proverbial inkpot of the artistic world: photography, painting, acting, singing, dancing, you name it. I want to be at the head of it all, behind big sunglasses. I want to be surrounded by beautiful people--not beautiful in the average sense of the word, but beautiful by my definition.
Definition (from Jessica’s “this is how Jessica thinks” dictionary).
Beautiful, adj. An adjective used to describe people who possess an inside-out glow from the happiness they get from doing what they love—a smoldering beauty, really, usually concentrated in the eyes, mouth, or hands. Exacerbated by a smoking habit, carrying a dog-eared, underlined book or wearing a scarf.
Examples: Cate Blanchett, Ryan Gosling, Elizabeth Peyton, John Lennon, David Lynch, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Hillary Clinton, Lee Miller, Ian McEwan
Over the past few weeks, I’ve come to the distinct realization that I am obsessed with beauty.
Exhibit A: In Williamsburg I walk down the street gawking at the rare species that is “Brooklyn indie white hotness,” manifested in both male and female form—some of the most stylish people you will EVER see, prancing around in their converse and ankle boots as if today were the last day on earth before the government imposes a strict dress code on all of us—-the last day of freedom! Everyone, wear jumpers! Cut your hair using only a bowl and scissors. Pierce your nose! This it it!
Exhibit B: I’m addicted to Vogue. I once had a subscription but cancelled it due to the fact that I couldn’t stand the Norwich notes (old school monied society is a layer on the cake of superficiality that I never really tapped into), but just Tuesday I realized—I’ve been going through Vogue withdraw. The checklist! The models! The Ads! The glossiness of their paper, laced with coke, seeping into my flesh and destroying all of my feminist beliefs! A $1000 plastic bangle from Chanel.
Exhibit C: myspace. There are some gorgeous people on myspace! The best thing about it is that if you find one, you have access to all of their friends, who are usually just as hot, if not hotter. I’ve recently been stalking this couple that appear to be friends of friends—she’s changed her status to “swinger” while he’s “still in a relationship.” What’s going on?! I’m dying to know. Their pictures together are like something out of a Sophia Coppola movie. They’re like two swans….I want to meet them, make friends with them, and spend all my time taking gorgeous photographs of them, writing songs about them, and throwing parties in their honor.
I work literally less than a block from the building that houses the famous loft that was once Andy Warhol’s “factory.” I walk past it on my way to Starbucks, thinking, why can’t I pull this off? I want a salon. I want people to come to my apartment and drink tea (or booze) and talk to me about their passions. I want to tell aspiring Hemingways that they “need work,” or that their writing is “too simple.” Maybe I could convince my roommate to be my Alice B. Tolklas. I want to see a beautiful girl in Williamsburg at some party and make her my muse, follow her around with a video camera and see what happens. I want her to have long skinny legs and wear liquid black eyeliner. I want to date a painter who insists on painting my portrait day and night, so by the end of a month our apartment is filled with canvases.
Most of all, I want fresh flowers for my room every day and a writing desk. I want a cup of coffee in the morning and I want to live in London. I want to walk past Westminster Abbey on my way to work. I want rain. And roses. And god dammit, I want that purple Burberry coat I saw in London in 2003 that cost 2000 pounds.
So I figure, all I have to do is turn my apartment into some sort of commune, provide music (somehow I’ve got to get Dylan to make an appearance), drugs, Campbell soup, and lots of cameras. Calling all artists—come live the beautiful life, avec moi. We’ll do it Andy style.
Just don’t expect me to dye my hair grey.
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