Letting It

Thursday night was the East Village Boys party and I was up too late. I think I was maybe just cranky on Friday, or something, but I had the distinct feeling that shit was getting a little bit too real. What is a nicer or more articulate way of putting it? I could feel something slipping out of alignment. I a psychic chiropractor. A psychopractor. I bet those actually exist. I could feel the crazy coming out, in other words.

Friday night, begging off lest I dig into those I so dearly love, I stayed in. I folded copies of the new limited edition mini-zine, Lingua, that are going to be available at the NY Art Book Fair this weekend. I watched Glitter, which was actually a lot better than I thought it was going to be. Part of the experience of watching the film is the knowledge that the film failed (for a number of reasons, mostly because it came out right around 9/11/01) and that the film's failure precipitated the heartbreaking and public "nervous breakdown" of Mariah Carey. It was an actually really nice movie, and made me really root for Mariah (as if I need a reason) and it totally cheered me up.

Saturday I woke up really early, cleaned my kitchen, went to the gym, did some grocery shopping, came home and recorded some backing vocals for a new performance, went with Tommy to the Strand (where I got a first edition of Erica Jong's Fanny), and to the Greenmarket where I got houseplants and exotic vegetables. I borrowed Tommy's microphone, went home and did some gardening, cooked my weird veggies, and recorded backing tracks for "Intimidation". In the evening I met up with Tommy and PLD for pie, then we retired to Tommy's house to drink rum and diet coke and listen to the wind comin in through his window. We went to a party at Bobo and Jiddy's new house, and saw PAPS play a particularly amazing set in the basement. I high-tailed it to the city to go to a party at my office, which was typically off the fucking hook. All in all, a really amazing day. Throughout the day I kept thinking "This feels really good, I'm amazed at how great I feel. I'm getting to do all of my favorite things, everything is lining up so beautifully for me in this moment."

Then I went back to Brooklyn to meet up with Tommy at Metro. I want to describe my thought process but I am not sure that it's really compelling enough to even blog about. What I had been scared of, losing my mind, more or less came to pass. I was drunk and I was upset, I guess. MY cell phone broke. It had been breaking for some time now, but at a very inopportune moment, gesticulating wildly to Tommy while simultaneously complaining and trying to get this boy I really like to come over, I went to read his text message and my phone just snapped in half. This seems like the right time to end one's tirade, call a cab and draw the evening to a close. I see that now. At the time, it seemed more along the lines of inconrovertibale proof that the Universe Was Indeed Fucking With Me, and I Must Have Done Something to Deserve That. My panties were in a knot. I remember being in the exact same situation when I was in college, explaining my emotional distress to a newly-assigned school therapist, one who definitely did not want to be meeting with me (so of course I took this to mean that I would just have to convince her to love me by showing her how pure and real my feelings were-- happy to say that it worked, by the way, but that's not the point). I was describing the uniquely painful situation in which I then (and now) find myself and how awful it makes me feel and she put down her pen and notebook and said "You know, you don't have to feel bad about this. This has nothing to do with you and you shouldn't let this make you feel bad."

Okay. Alright.

Tommy managed to steer me out of the bar where we smoked and I complained and got rowdy, then we walked home in the rain. I woke up after four hours of sleep with a blistering hangover and no cell phone. Stumbled through midtown to find a replacement and got the Shittiest Phone Ever to replace it, only to find that not one of my contacts had been saved. Not one. This is a little depressing. But now I really feel like this, more than anything anyone else does or doesn't do, is the Universe Sending Me A Message. And the message is this: let it go, Billy. Do you really need to save the phone numbers of people who you never really want to speak to? Does saving the phone numbers of friends who have died really make you any closer to them? Why risk accidentally sending a drunken text message to one of the many international celebrities that had been filling your address book for the last few years? Let it go.

So I'm going to recommitt myself to letting it go, "it" being everything and everyone with whom I am done. You know if you are one of these people. On that note I am listening over and over again to "Letting Go", the first single from the underrated debut album (The Audition) by America's next brightest star Janelle Monae.

Here's a video of her performing the song live. I am such a fan:

I am consciously deciding to not feel bad. To not let it get to me. And I mean, it's working. It would work better if mitigating circumstances were different but we all have to be thankful for everything all the time. On Sunday I had a really strong urge to dye my hair black and luckily Dan sort of talked me down from that. In times of emotional distress, I am not the healthiest responder. When confronted with emotional pain I sort of go all PJ Harvey (wailing dark nasty hair blues howl cannibalism). I'm trying to find a better way to be and I think Janelle's is pretty right on.

SO for now: I'm okay. I think. Maybe not. Ask me later.

1 comment:

Stay-At-Home-Dan said...

pj is a good reference point, because even within that wailing there is room for elegance and redemption. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IWrfLhX964I