The Fracture: March 2024, Part 2
The movie Jawbreaker, my earliest memory (not wholesome), and muse-conjuring playlists
Productivity with a slowing down of sorts. Dissecting what is no longer adding to the flavor of life.
The links
I’ve been on enough “Feeld trips” to last me a lifetime. Nope, done… we’ll see. I end up getting faraway fuck boys and couples who see me as a toy, but it has a monopoly on the open dating world. Fast Company gives a rundown of the popular and much disliked ethically nonmonogamous dating app.
Patty Boyd offered up her “Dear Layla” letters from Eric Clapton. Sweet, I suppose. (Read: the dangers of muse-conjuring. See “The random” below.)
When I was going to attend the Seattle Erotic Art Festival, I wanted to draw my fashion inspiration from the movie Jawbreaker. Well, I’m not going anymore (sad face), but the movie with adorable Rebecca Gayheart (swoon face) and femme fatale Rose McGowan (drool face) and their epic Y2K garb is still drawing attention 25 years later.
I’m a healthy eater who eats mostly plant proteins, but it looks like python-farming for consumption is cool now.
The music
So my therapist asked about my earliest memory, and I laughed. It was when I was three or four in my bed in our apartment in Middle Village, Queens, New York. My mom had The Doors playing on the stereo and maybe she was vacuuming. I was masturbating. Sure, there were other memories, like playing with my Jem doll with light-up earrings and occasionally cooing at the twins like a good big sister.
It feels bad to admit that, but she reassured me that it’s common for self-pleasure to be someone’s first memory. And it only feels bad because self-pleasure is strongly identified with shame, something it shouldn’t be associated with.
I’m pretty good at getting myself there, but I’ve had a complicated view of how my body reacts to arousal and how society/church views that… ability.
With that, I give you one of my favorite songs (came out in 1990?!) that mesmerized me when I was a kid: Divinyls “I Touch Myself.” Sorry, but it explains a lot.
I love myself, I want you to love me
When I feel down I want you above me
I search myself, I want you to find me
I forget myself, I want you to remind me
Sure, we remember “Barely Breathing,” but I listened to Duncan Sheik’s “She Runs Away” (1997) on repeat too, too much in middle school. I identified with it, and like the last song, it explains a lot.
And then you know there comes a time
You need her more than anything
You may believe yours are the wounds
That only she can heal
Then everything will turn around
And she becomes so serious
What she chose to offer you
Was all that you could have
The art
Curbside Clothing obviously sells clothing, but they work with artists to produce some inspiring shirts, such as those from Josh Audiss. My favorites:
The random
The desperate need for inspiration is relentless. My life is pretty damn good. I don't have everything I want, but I'm content. It feels pleasant, but this does not produce gut-wrenching writing. I use songs to bring me to dark places. It's normal for me to have a certain, carefully-chosen song on repeat for two hours as I go far away in my mind and tap, tap, tap on my keyboard. Very trance like. (I can do this to turn me on in a edging mental exercise, but that's a different story for a different day.) With my playlists, I’m trying not to go dark-sad, more like dark-badass, especially for my next chapter in solo sensuality (my post for this upcoming week).
Scheduled one-on-one time with my kids. Green tea smoothies. Sharing songs. Horrible haircuts.
Being too picky vs. firm standards. All I know is that I can’t fake enthusiasm. I can’t be swayed.
Not knowing I had time lapse on while recording at burlesque, but it turned out nice, right?
