Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Dizzying, Dazzling, and Tragically Beautiful

The poem in my previous post corresponds to the song 'Ride'. The Vevo video is ten minutes long so I didn't want to post it, but the opening includes the poem. In case you are unfamiliar, new to my life and unhealthy obsessions, or too cool to care about strangers lives, I can fill you in! She became known after her Video Games video went viral on the ole 'tube.  Obviously she's the singer and songwriter, but she does something else. Something unique. She makes these beautiful videos.... Beautiful, haunting, enchanting, ethereal, melancholy..there's a beauty in the sadness. I think sadness might be the wrong word, too. Forgive me for sucking at words sometimes, English isn't my first language.) It needs to be a more dramatic word...
When I watch films and I know what fate eventually befell the great actors in the scenes...well, it's almost....I can't describe the feeling and hopefully I'm not alone and someone can help me out to expand my lexicon. It's like the feeling I get when I'm laughing and crying at the same time. The feeling I get when I accept the absurdity of life. The feeling I get when I watch the sunrise by myself. There is so much beauty around us, so many touching moments in the natural world that we may catch glimpses of, every sunrise will look different and so will every sunset. The clouds, the trees, you, will never be in quite the same position, the light won't refract in quite the same ways, the color combinations wont be quite the same... Beautiful but fleeting. Shining then gone. lost its magic in biology. The mystery, the wonderment, the curiosity...was largely extinguished and although I absolutely love learning and retain information, I don't think it was worth losing my joi de vivre.

It's like looking at lightning in the rain...There's a beauty in the chaos.
 I learned that I appreciate beauty, and I don't mean that in the shallow, put-on-makeup, posed portrait type of way. I like behind the scenes. There is a reason I love candid photos. I don't feel as if a posed-picture event is even real. We can always put on make up and dresses and fake smile until our cheeks hurt and get some pretty pictures. A beautiful picture captures the ephemeral.   My favorite movies, my favorite songs, my favorite pictures, my favorite novels, and my favorite people all make me cry. I cry when I am happy enough to marvel at the beautiful tragedy that the moment will have to end eventually and that I absolutely need to memorize it. It's like I know I will need those memories to sustain me someday. Without those memories I would be dead by now. I am able to transport myself to another time and place and smell and feel and hear and see whatever...I can do this when I'm awake so there's a reason I resist going to sleep so fiercely. My dreams. They're too real, too good, too happy, and my mind makes up new scenes that never happened and they feel so real, so when I wake up I actually do have a few seconds before that feeling in my stomach returns and I want to roll over and die. This is why the sharpest objects allowed near my bed claws? Archer takes the task of not letting me roll over and stab myself to death with his paws very seriously. Too seriously. I end up yelling obscenities at him, typically ending with "STOP TRYING TO MAKE OUT WITH ME YOU FREAK"....I'm...normal....

Having to remember so many changes, so many losses, and deal with all of it all over again whenever I get out of bed....that's why I loathe going to sleep. I was like this after Austin, too. I was...very alone. It was the darkest time in my 16 year-old life. There was a day in December that I stopped being a vegetarian...until...well for a long time, maybe...up to this day, I experienced the worst night of my existence. The most damaging, the far-reaching impact of that night still send aftershocks through my system completely unexpectedly and with such a force...although now I know that I was destined for at least 2 worse nights...maybe more. The night my mother died is one. Worse still was the night I realized I would not be shopping for pink or blue any time soon, which was also the moment I knew that I really did lose my husband. My darling. My babe. My honey. My dear. My love. My babe-o. My safe place. My home. I knew then that it was my fault. I blame(d) myself for soybean. I...needed my home more than ever to cope.  I knocked on all the doors I knew and there was simply no answer. 
So I mourned the only reason I had to make a new home for myself...and all the reasons I had to want to be a good person. I fully expected that once people met soybean, they would love her as much as I already did and they would understand why things like distance seemed so silly to me, and why environment and work-from-home job opportunities were so high on my list. I thought how Soybean's first years and my early 20s would be fleeting. There, then gone forever. I didn't want to blink and miss them. I didn't want to spend time arguing with people or even speaking to anyone. I knew that I needed to be present. I bonded. I felt. I changed. I was excited...and terrified! I didn't want to miss a single second of the fleeting condition. The last day, before the pain started, I cancelled on seeing my best friend. I told her I was playing music for soybean. 
I said "nothing is more important than this". 
 I don't think anything can feel worse, any worse, and I certainly do not wish to live through whatever IS worse than that. Before you waste your time typing, just keep reading. Yeah, yeah, sure, sure, time, this is totally like that time your dog died, uh huh, blah blah blah. Got it.

I was 16 the night that I lost myself...and ...I'm not sure if I ever found myself.
I was still 16 the Summer that I became enchanted by the innocent, devilish, spectacular, dizzying and dazzling: James Dean.

I ate burgers again for the first time in years the winter that I was 16. I went to school drunk a lot my junior year of high school,I may have skipped like a class or two, looked fucking awesome as I embraced the black nail polish instead of hiding it in embarrassment, I stopped caring what people thought because I like it. Rock bottom looking back was apparently not turning in an essay for Karen. I dyed my hair pink. Magenta. I wish I could still have it that color but I happily sold my soul to my acting agent at 18.
I would be lying if I said that even back then, a small, dark and twisty, integral part of me wasn't...kind of relieved to be losing my innocence, sort of really glad to finally be playing with fire, excited to have some 'burn scars'.
Her videos give me that tragically beautiful feeling sometimes, like anything is possible and like nothing matters... and it's almost as if I'm getting a real peek back in time, behind the scenes of Old Hollywood...
Maybe I am..

Edit on September 5, 2013 @ 3:56 PM.

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