If we all had nine lives, I'd have seven left. I made it here, through years of judgment and heartbreak from a single source. Years of not knowing myself at all because I was too focused on someone else. That alone is worth a lifetime, so I suppose maybe I only have six.
Once upon a time I wondered if sudden, unexplained feelings of happiness or sadness came not from within my own mind, but from the leftover mood of a person that had previously occupied the space that I was standing in. I wondered if, on the day I was born, I took my first breath at just the right moment and breathed in the soul of a person who died that morning, only one floor above or below. Your best day will always be someone else's worst and vice versa. Energy will always be transferable. The entire purpose of life, in my opinion, is to realize we exist in this form for such a tiny fraction of time, and spend that time treating our own energy, our own soul, as well as we possibly can so that it can move onto the next body in a healthier, happier state than ever before. The existential equivalent of washing the tupperware that the leftovers were in before returning it to its owner.
(Do you know the warm progress under the stars? Do you know we exist?)
When Rhi and I went to Chateau Marmont I took advantage of the close proximity to Book Soup and bought myself the Jim Morrison biography because I was still in my "nothing-but-The-Doors-sounds-ok" phase.
The strangest thing that I took away from the book was the way that one of his only fears manifested itself. He was terrified of needles, which made heroin probably one of the only drugs he didn't do (although I suppose he could have snorted it). The story surrounding his death has a few different variants, but some say heroin had something to do with it, also mentioning that it was the first time he really used it. He lived in such a way that he was perpetually walking a line of some sort; he'd hang from buildings, drink himself into a stupor every day, do all sorts of uppers and hallucinogens, run out into traffic, fuck with authority, crash his car into things while drunk...but he wouldn't touch heroin and needles. One go with it and BAM - gone forever. One brush with his fear and his fear swallowed him up.
IF that's how he died.
I've always felt nervous in vehicles - when I was little I was terrified that my dad was driving too fast, terrified that my Grandma wasn't paying close enough attention to the road, and so on. In one of my notebooks from 5th or 6th grade, I went on a long drive to Binghamton with my dad for his job and my notes from that day include a trail-off from one thought so that I could write, "74 MPH?! WHY WONT HE SLOW DOWN?" We were on the highway, keeping up with everyone else. Living in LA for so long has washed away the fear of being in a car going 70-90mph, but the bigger picture remains.
(Have you been born yet, and are you alive?)
I don't drive. Years ago I used to feel so embarrassed about it that I'd hide it, or worse - lie about it, but still wouldn't make any real attempt to fix it. I've approached it before, driven a bunch, and felt fine doing so, but in the end I never want a license because my entire life I've had the feeling that if I ever drive, I'll die. I can't explain it or justify it; I just have the feeling that if I were to ever become someone who drove everywhere to get around, I'd die in the car. Morbid intuition or something? Who knows. I thought it was interesting that even if Jim Morrison didn't fear needles and heroin for the same reason that I fear driving, the universe may have still dealt him a very coincidental hand that makes me relate.
There's a song that my dad plays when I'm visiting home sometimes: This One's From The Heart by Tom Waits & Crystal Gayle. Crystal Gayle's voice is too Jessica Rabbit-y for me; I wish Tom Waits would have just done all the vocals instead, but the last 40 seconds of that song...those 40 seconds are the sound of everything that is good in the world. Sometimes I listen to just that part and melt into my chair.
I see the foreign girls colonizing college benches babe I see their Russian burly boyfriends shining comprehensibly I see my own lonely reflection within the very girl I love I see a zigzag embroidered above my family
I made a playlist for all this LA rain that we haven't had yet. IF you're interested.