The Girl Who Sold The World

Annie got her iPod back.


Damn thing's been broken for weeks; today, it pulled a Lazarus and Judas Priest screeched from on high, "Let there be ROCK!"

Praise Rob.

After killing myself for - what? - blarghedy days with that ludicrous essay I'm sure y'all heard mention of in at least one of my recent status updates, I took today off and closed the book on it. Or, closed the essay on the ess-- Whatever. Today's time-off is necessary and, for any newbies, before you go one word further, let it be written: I write crazy. This is not an intentional strike at garnering attention or making an exclamatory (question?) mark amidst a literary world dotted infinite with finite periods.

Or is it?

No, it's not. I'd give just about anything to "write normal" - a straight-shootin' scriptwriter, naturalistic novelist, eloquent essayist, just-the-facts journalist - Christ, even poets write whack of significantly less weird-weight than I do! What sucks most of all for a gonzo breed such as myself is there ain't exactly too many journals clamoring to publish creative nonfiction, much less holy-hell-fucked-up gonzo creative nonfiction.

Man, you fiction writers/poets have got it made... To quote the eminently quotable Billy Squier: "Everybody wants you!"

What you're currently reading is not, in any way, indicative of my holy-hell-fucked-up gonzo creative nonfiction. Well, maybe a tiny bit, it is. Better examples were posted a lil' ways back, if you want an idea - this: The Spirit of Romance: What the Thunder Said and that: Cup Full of Butterflies. (Be brave, and mighty forces will come to your aid.) What you're reading right now is me, sitting outside on a lawn chair at 20 after 3 in the pm; Priest earlier allowed for The Cult, who give way to L.A. Guns. Music fires me up - I write at the pace of the songs. The lyrics have little if anything to do with what I have to say. Just rhythm, shred, sound - riles me up.

Bitch is back. Right on track.

Okay, so the lyrics occasionally creep a sentiment in.

But this brings me to the other topic - one I'm compelled to address because it is so often brought to my attention and - big guess what? - has been yet again.

Why o' why do I refuse relationships? Why does Annie so want to remain singular?

Why? Here's why.

(Keep singing along with L.A. Guns, people, even though I'm gonna try to temper my tongue - tame the shrew.)

I'm a nice person, or try to be. Gained a fine education from a few universities, so I gots some smarts, but uber-intelligent? No. Funny? Can be. All of that attractive/sexy garbage is beholden to you, Dear Perceiver, so thankfully, I don't even have to touch on that.

Creative? Indeed. Writer? Why, yes! So...artist? Why...yes, I suppose I am! Which is sad news for you, Pink Floyd, because we're a fucked-up, narcissistic, insane gang so I'm gonna save you the trouble and tell you now:

"You better run like hell..."

Before I do.

Here's how that works (and I've written a whole goddamn holy-hell-fucked-up gonzo creative nonfiction essay about this already, so to delve into this too deeply would be to negate that entire effort - this is only a brief alibi, if you will): the best lovers are artists; they are also the worst partners. Some succeed long-term, but there are anomalies in every study. F. Scott and Zelda: there's your example of a "successful" marriage in the literary world - or Sylvia and Ted, if you wanna go one sicker, depending on your perception of "sick" and relationships. (Some idealize one or both as tragic romance, to which I say, "Got Thorazine?") Because in all seriousness, when you do the math, factors A) Crazy + B) Don't Fence Me In = Are You Fuckin' Kiddin' Me With This Shit?

Then, there are some who embody both factors A and B.

Hi! Hiii-iiii! Hel-loooooo...

Am I anti-love, anti-passion, heartless, sexless? Hell no and you shut your whore mouth when you talk like that about me. Perhaps there's no more passionate person yearning than singular I. (Oh, how that reeks of narcissism! I love it!) Love, passion, sex, the whirling, dizzying thrill-ride, spilling butterflies about your stomach, thrilling tingles up your spine, chilling you with the prospect of finality oh, Jesus, is this the last ride on the roller-coaster? But...I want to go again! No, I don't want to ride the damn train around the park! That's slow and boring! Nobody goes on that stupid, slow, boring, pointless, round-and-round pretend ride unless they're old and slow and boring! You - outta' my Disney World!

"I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself."

And you're gonna tell me Anais Nin didn't live the greatest - the be-all pinnacle - of passionate lives? Whatta' world!

Score one for the neurotics, thank you!

"The only abnormality is the inability to love."

Again, she who married twice but loved beyond those bonds countless times - she speaks the truth. I love desperately; I desperately want to be loved. One would have to be neurotic, I think, to feel contrary. What makes me neurotic is that despite my desperation for love, I avoid it. Why? Beyond being adjusted to myself (finally), there's also this teeny-tiny incidental:

"The logic of the heart is absurd."

Julie de Lespinasse plied two trades: Enlightenment-era salonniere and, the occupation unknown to all until after her death, passionate love-letter writer for twelve years. (Approximately 140 years before Anais was even born, much less sexing it up around the world. Go, Julie!)

But not. 'Cause Julie's case is a rare and tragic one. Torn between two men - one, a reverently described Spaniard I'm thinking should be up for canonization; the other, a French general ascribed attributes that conjure in the mind a hybrid creature: the PigAss - both of whom Julie loved with a furious intensity few can comprehend. She felt unfathomable, wretched guilt for commencing a secret affair with PigAss whilst Saint Spaniard, to whom she originally swore her heart, left his homeland (where doctors ordered him as he'd been diagnosed with consumption and Spain was apparently the healthier place to live) came back to Paris to see her and promptly found himself consumed. (So theories on Paris not being such a healthy city prove just and true.) Julie, bereft by Saint Spaniard's death yet simultaneously (and inexplicably) enraptured by PigAss finds herself consumed with outrageous anguish and desire. But PigAss is, well, a PigAss and marries some PigBitch, but continues writing Julie belles-lettres, literally setting the woman afire with suffering tremendous - physically and mentally. One of the greatest lines in the history of passion spewed volcanic from this debacle of desire:

“You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.”

Indeed, Julie. As my stepfather ignites the riding lawnmower which needs oil and it backfires and now, I can't think - just passion unhinging my soul to a point of hate...

For the tractor - not my stepdad and again with the backfiring is this really necessary? Now the dogs bark; all four, in chorus.

I'm wont to gnaw on my iPod.

The end of Julie's story is quick and awful: the passion killed her. She lost her marbles, her body followed suit, the whole of her fell into disrepair and at age 40 - forty - Julie died of a broken heart. Yes, my dear people, it can happen. Her last words?

"Am I still alive?"

Aaaaaaand no - not anymore, no, you're not that was it, hope you didn't have anything else to say because you are now officially not alive. Because LOVE KILLED YOU, JULIE.

Am I really that cynical about love? No. Am I really that cautious and wary these days?

Aaaaaaand yes - yes I am, you betcherass, goddamn straight, you best not question my sincerity on that 'cause I ain't shittin' you not one shit. Because LOVE CAN KILL YOU, PEOPLE.

Walk slowly, carry a big gun? What the hell's the saying? Google - hang on. "Speak softly and carry a big stick." Whatever. I like mine better. In fact, shake it up a bit to, "Run like hell and wield a machete." There. Perfect!

Sleaze-metal eased its way through the greasy mechanics of the playlist shuffle and now, I'm in a state of Nirvana. Actually, it's Nirvana Unplugged, which is one of the most terrific and overlooked unintentional wordplays in history. Truth be told, this isn't even Nirvana - unplugged or otherwise - it's Bowie. But Cobain & Co. covered him so...Nirvana Unplugged Plugging Bowie?

I dunno. See? My mind, where it takes me, how I write: this isn't even a taste of the weird. Even I don't get me. When reading my own writing, it comes through, it's comprehensible, there are even moments where I sit back and think, "Wow. Did I write that? I might actually know what I'm doing 'cause that shit's good!"

Then, I pop in the eyeballs of another - this isn't as hard as you might think for, remember, writers create characters in their heads on a constant, clockwork basis - and with those fresh eyes I read my text and think, "What in fuck is this chick talking about?"

Love. Relationships. That's some holy-hell-fucked-up gonzo shit right there, if you ask me. What's so wrong with living as I want to, without obligating myself to the will of another? Selfish? Fine - I'm selfish. After spending the entirety of my youth - adolescence up through age 32 - seeking, connecting, aligning, becoming, indulging, losing, hurting, confessing, working to a pointless end over and over again, if you want to call me out as selfish now, at age 33, for remaining unshackled and living free, I bear the title proudly. Let me live my life on my terms for once, answering to no one but me and the muse; if desire calls, I'll answer—but by no means must I obligate myself to a lifetime with the ring.

"I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I cannot transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls."

Reality does impress me; however, I cannot transform vows into lyrics, rings into music, or even simple walls of cohabitation into intoxication. I've tried these shackles on time and again and found them not only ill-fitting, but...transformative into the marvelous? A shackle is a shackle; a bond a bond. Real alchemy couldn't make of a steel cage the world's stage.

But...who knows? Not me!

I'll never lose that control...

You're face...

With the girl who owns her world.

Really, when you think about it, this song belongs to Nirvana.

1 comment:

  1. I think you'll have to call this a working break, although this essay will hopefully be seen someday soon. Some great points there about artists as lovers. They'll cut off their ear to prove their love, but live a sensible life, provide stability, not likely. By their nature, they need to stir things up, even if those things happen to be the perfect love affair. Sometimes there's trancendence there, but life is finite, it catches up. Artists love love as an idea, but once it becomes a practicality, there's no mileage to be wrung out of it. When your art is your first love, who can compete? Not that this is at all conscious. Or as you summed up beautifully:
    A) Crazy + B) Don't Fence Me In = Are You Fuckin' Kiddin' Me With This Shit?