Keeping Hope Alive

On MSNBC this morning, there was a photographer reporting from the trenches of Ike.  She was doing a phone report as they played a reel of her pictures.  Of COURSE they were all terribly sad shots of desperate scenarios.  Heart breaking to behold, especially in the peace of my downtown L.A. apartment.  

Among the pictures was a family carrying their most important belongings, being ushered to a safer place to stay while relief efforts were being deployed (well... what relief is being offered.  It hurts to even imagine the agony of what relief they're NOT getting at this point).  Incredibly, among the belongings being carried (so, so few) was a huge, framed picture of Tupac.  The boy carrying it was holding it in front of him, using two hands, resting it against his hips.  This awkward and seemingly ridiculous item was one of the few things he grabbed for his immediate survival.  

I felt very moved by that.  The fact that a simple picture of an artist... someone who makes music this person is surely empowered by, was this boy's necissity.  THAT'S HOW MUCH Tupac- a rapper- means to this person.  THAT'S HOW MUCH art is capable of changing a person on the rawest level.  Enough to influence their will to survive.

Now- on a side note, I am a Tupac WORSHIPER.  I think he's one of the most brilliant rappers who ever lived.  Some of the choices he makes in his lyrics and melodies are almost mystifying.  It's not Tupac I'm focusing on, here.  It's how much art can change you.  Change you to the point at which just a PICTURE of the artist you love, inspires you to survive.  Literally survive.

Slightly Mystified

I quickly had to drop this post- I turned on my TV this morning to find Scooby Doo, on Cartoon Network.  The Gang was in the midst of a crazy caper... scrambling after ghosts of some sort or running around after sandwiches.  So imagine my surprise when I realized the song they were montaging (not a word) over was I Don't Wanna Walk Around With You, by none other than The Ramones.

WHO was in charge of procuring the music for that episode!?  And HOW does Scooby Doo, at THIS POINT, have that kind of budget?

Love it.

Gratitude

I was deeply- yes, deeply touched to find that a sweet, new friend, had read my blog with fever.  I literally type this blog and imagine it never being seen.  Mostly I type for posterity, or to get the poison out.  It works most of the time.

Reading back over some of the rawest posts I've made, I feel tremendous gratitude.  The darkest of days are SO CLOSE behind and yet I feel unimaginably different, today.  Therapy never stops helping.  It literally never stops helping.  Scarily, I didn't even... couldn't even bring myself to type during the darkest, pitch-blackest times.  My fingers passing over keys, felt like lifting little lead pipes.  Exhausting to imagine doing and quite impossible to do.  Thank you God for the change in me.  Thank you God for relief.

I didn't deal with the passing of my mother.  I pushed it all under a mountain of starvation (literally) and chose to burn my agony in the furnace of being forever hungry.  Again, literally, forever hungry.  I stopped putting food in my mouth and made fire.  A fire into which I pushed all things unbearable.  Immolated they became, in the name of psyche-survival.  It was fine.  I needed to deal in that manner.  I'll post, some day, about my thinness. 

I guess this is a post of thanks.  Thanks to God for being a guide for me.  Thanks to my therapist for following her heart (career wise) and then saving mine.  Thanks to sweet friends who care to pass by and ingest these words.  And thanks to the Universe for guiding me through the power of instinct.  Everything feels so much right-er these days.  

I am so lucky... so lucky.

Lily.

The beautiful, preliminary drawing, with Sharpies. It felt tickly and sweet, as he drew on me. First time he'd begun this way. We always have a drawing and then a transfer, but when you're passing over another tattoo, sometimes artists use this method.

The outline, which is always the most painful. Scientifically, I'm not entirely sure why. As the tattoo progresses, it's kind of like... evolution of the pain acceptance? Like your body gets used to the sensation and the pain is less prominent. You can see my other lily in the new lily. See how it's being swallowed. It's ever so faint. I told James "It's like my new lily is having a dream about another, softer lily."

The time-lapse pictures make it all look so easy. The most brilliant thing I think he did, was where the smoke is swirling around the stem, he left the whisper of the prior tattoo's green. Like the smoke is swirling around and obscuring the vibrant stem and that affect is reached by leaving the faintness of the previous green. Can you understand what I mean? He really is, in my opinion, a BRILLIANT ARTIST.

Lily in b/w, braids.

Exchange

you know what, xxx? it's fucking black over here. this might be an impossibly ridiculous space on which to effuse, but i just don't fucking care anymore. i'm drowning.

it's astonishing to me that something can seem so thick and overwhelming, you can't conceive of a worse moment and then... you go to bed, wake up and it's actually worse.

it'll all change. everything does. but i'm suffocating right now.

sometimes i just think of my friends who are doing really well and i just kind of pray about them. i don't know how to make the darkness go away, but that helps sometimes. you're one of those friends. i mean- musically. i don't really know you or what you feel, but i think really pure, good things about your shows and your success.

i can't believe, seriously, i'm about to press 'send,' but i'm about to press send.

REPLY

i feel you...

everything has been crazy for me lately, but at the same time i've felt extremely lonely and depressed...

i'm still dealing with a lot of feelings from my xxx...

i'm glad i'm busy, it takes me away from dwelling on everything

FOLLOW

i usually get scared when i type cryptic shit like that, to people. but i can tell it sucks enough right now, because i seriously didn't care when i sent it. i just thought- fuck it. if he thinks i'm a freak, fuck it.

i see that you're pulled in different places, regarding xxx. i've told you- i see your updates and they read like someone who is feeling extremes.

i don't know if being busy or being exactly the opposite, helps it stop. i know one day, things will just feel different. i also know that one of the most maddening sensations i've ever come across, is having a festering, open sore that you can't treat. that you just have to watch, from a distant part of your body, grow infected, weep, heal slightly, split back open, scab... that you just have to watch change. watch and FEEL change. sometimes it's like worms or tar. sometimes it's like sulfuric acid. sometimes i feel like an animal caught in trap jaws or like the avenues of my brain tissue are infected. with bugs or devils.

there's this Cage song with a movie clip sample that says "people say his brain was infected by devils." sometimes i just sing that part over and over in my head.

this is gross.

i never write about the explosions.  i don't write about the wishes for ricochet.  

they're like demons- the thoughts.  they cling to my chest and press down on my skull cap, like animated gargoyles.  clean, hopeful inspirations seldom escape their barrier.  they surround my potential like a mote.  a bubble of light is created in me and the closest it seems to come to creation is a single breath as it's being crushed into a gnashing jaw or finely pointed talon.  i feel suffocated by their existence.  they suck my life force like incessant vampires.  my neck belongs only to them.

i dream of gun blast.  i fantasize... it's sometimes my only escape... the scenario of looking down the barrel of a gun.  being held up or snuck upon.  threatened with bullets.  my insubordination bringing my demise.  my face fearless into the eye of the cannon.  and the blast that delivers me.  that finally kills the (literal) suckers.  i feel so hopelessly, utterly hopelessly crippled.  like i'm comprised of soap foam.  of smoke.  easy to be sucked and masticated.  sleepy, pressed, hideous and deplorable.

leave bugs.  please, please leave.

and then she looked down over the city.  the rooftop was high and gave ample space.  space through which to fall and feel completely confident that the gap between the top and the bottom, would insure demise.  the people and cars seemed strangely sized.  the forced perspective feeling like just that- forced...  

and she thought of all the wonder that would occur in people's minds... she was pretty!  she was bright!  talented enough and even had money!  why why why?  why would she give it all away?  it would never, not ever, make sense.  not make sense to anyone but her...  

how she never really found a way to figure it all out.  that in the depths of the sickest depression... dreaming of the light... she actually felt safer than she did, with all the things she dreamed of.  how dreaming of the Brightness seemed now, so much more spectacular than Brightness itself.

how she always felt bitten.  sought after with malice and hated.  for no reason but the reasons her body produced, she felt like particles.  vapor.  easily waived about and manipulated.  effortless to destroy and without form.  how she fought every day to feel as though she wasn't dissolving...

broken.  i feel broken almost all of the time.

An Effusion About Bunny

I write what resembles a review, as much for myself, as I do as a Thank You. As an effort to both show gratitude and elegantly purge my chest of pressure.

Songs: Ohia serves as a soundtrack to this effort. A lubricant, I hope. (eXXXpletive deleted)

Connecting with you over sound (and sex?), piqued my interest in your other efforts- clearly, much more pronounced than music. I rented The Brown Bunny, for a variety of reasons. Of COURSE I wanted to see your cock, plus the controversy over the film did its job of enticement. What I didn't intend on, was what I received.

I've told you I'm a poor sleeper. I fight sleep as though it a foe. One day I'll discover why. Until then, I notice now and again how I fill my home and life with soporific items... colors... notions. Cuddly blankets and beds or things that could serve as beds, are strewn about my house. I live alone and have three beds and two chairs you could fall asleep in. Even my "coffee table" is a cushiony thing that only pretends to be a table-like surface. I hunger for soft colors, sounds and sensations. I suppose, subconsciously, to celebrate the rest my psyche wishes it could get more of.

I'm restless in body and hardly sit still. I can scarcely watch the length of a TV show, let alone a film. I put The Brown Bunny in front of my eyes, and things changed.

There is a grace in that film that transcends my mostly disappointed response to nearly every film I see. Of course there are exceptions, but disappointment prevails.

The pace. The pace of this film, SINGS, SINGS to me. I was madly touched by what you chose to require of the viewer. How we're expected to FIND the meaning and beauty in unfurling highways, sipped coffees, awaited door answerings, unfocused facial close-ups... how we're presented with choices and respected enough to be called upon. Nourished by finding our own opinions.

The sounds... oh Vincent, Vincent, Vincent... the audio. The soundtrack that's (seemingly) more about the recordings of car doors closing, arms being pushed inside shirtsleeves, mouths coming together, dialogue being whispered, motorcycles buzzing, food being chewed, than about crescendos and sweeping wind instruments. And that the songs you DID choose for it, have alloted time and space, like they've their own scene. Like they MATTER and are not to be regarded as background. Even how low (volume-wise) some of the lines are mixed... it's as if the movie has a secret it's almost completely keeping.

The pace, the sound and the soothing color palate, served as a lullaby for my guts. Stilled my often agitated spirit and I SAT. I STAYED. I watched your gentle hands caress a woman's face, hold a coke bottle and touch a kitten's paw (so soothed by the tenderness with which you touched the cat and got licked by the puppies, I rewound and watched it twice) and felt SAFE. Felt carried. By the time your cock made its debut, I wasn't even anxious. I'd forgotten the controversy and was simply swept into the body of work.

I feel calmed by The Brown Bunny's existence. Grateful for its effect on me. Thank you Vincent, for this surprise.

~Italia

List

(lovely, lovely, lovely, lovellllyyyy)

I'm not trying to fucking be cute.  It's just that... when it hurts, I want to get it on the outside of me.  This is the grocery list I made up a couple of days ago.  It's scary to put this shit on public forum, but I'm attempting to be brave about it...

cream
sunflower seed butter
a gun to shoot myself with
broken glass on which to lay
a balloon to pop
explosions

It is, actually, funny to read it now.  Perhaps the next time I desire to make such a list, I should, remembering how funny it will be, later.

Until the End of Time

I'm fucking moving home.  

I went away from Los Angeles because my heart told me to.  To my utter dismay, my heart pointed me in the direction of Las Vegas.  I drove, kind of blindly, just listening... listening... and it was perfect.  

Vegas was perfect.  Every encounter I've had, has been righter than right.  The wind has blown a calm at my heart and elegantly... gently... dusted out crevasses.  Blown free bits of debris that were clogging the spaces that needed flow.  

The desert is quiet.  The desert is still.  I has been home to my needs and I feel Divinely blessed for the opportunity.  And for the strength and fortitude to get in my car and drive it here, to a place I thought I'd never see the inside of, again.

And then I visited... Los Angeles...  And it felt alive.  And it felt like crashing waves of hope and crackling, buzzing energy.  New blooms and the spark of possibility.  Ready... set... GO!  I didn't fucking expect it...  So I pack, get behind my wheel and point in a new direction now.  Southbound baby... southbound...

Horny!

Yahoo news:

This undated photo provided by the Center of Natural Sciences in Prato, Italy, Wednesday, June 11, 2008, shows a deer with a single horn in the center of its head. The one-year-old Roe Deer - nicknamed 'Unicorn'' - was born in captivity in the research center's park in the Tuscan town of Prato, near Florence, Gilberto Tozzi, director of the Center of Natural Sciences, said. He is believed to have been born with a genetic flaw; his twin has two horns.

Rock, Paper, Scissors- Extreme Death Match

One of Eric's best friends, is in the Peace Corps.  I stole this picture off his Facebook account.  I imagine it's a pic of one of their tender little kitchen setups.  He's most often in Kyrgyzstan (I'm not even sure how to say this word) and has been traveling for years, at this point.  

He's the cutest boy and so, totally curious.  He's really an oddball, so there's nothing I can do or say that's too peculiar for him.  Like when Eric's sister got married, we kind of just hung out on a chaise lounge together and said things like "what would you do if you had three days to live?"  "Who have you kissed in your life who you think of most?"  Anyhow... when Eric kind of didn't seem very interested in me, it was nice to have this cool person, to talk about bizarre things with.  Especially at the wedding of my dude's younger sister.  Weddings always bring out the strange and rebellious, in me.

One of my newest, favoritest Family Guy quotes- 
Peter: Yeah, uh, my daughter is looking for a car that goes with her personality.
Stewie: Yes, are the new bulimic, cutting mobiles in yet?

(This pic is not for this recipe.  It's just a cute pic of a wrap.)

Zesty Turkey Wrap

Ingredients
2/3 cup finely chopped cooked turkey
1/8 cup sliced green onion
1/8 cup finely chopped sun-dried tomato
1/4 cup prepared ranch salad dressing
salt and pepper
lettuce leaves
2 flour tortillas (7-inch diameter)

Directions

• Mix together the turkey, onions, tomatoes, dressing, and salt and pepper to taste.
  
• Place lettuce leaves toward one edge of each tortilla.
  
• Divide turkey salad evenly among tortillas.
  
• Spread turkey salad over lettuce.
  
• Motha fukin' roll that shit up and enjoy!  Hottt damn!  (This instruction was modified by yours truly.  I still think the directions apply.)

Visas in my name

I've never been hungry to travel.  I've always been busy traversing the pitfalls of my mind, in order to fix all the broken.  For a bit now, I feel like I'm quite fixed.  I have so much ROOM these days.  For a few days now... for months... maybe even a couple of years.  I'm not hungry for Europe.  Too exotic.  But I've been craving lately, the crackling, baking, soothing, smoothing nature of desert monuments and wonders.  The Grand Canyon... and just yesterday I thought of Mount Rushmore.  Perhaps Hula and I will take a trip.  These destinations, though cliche in American Culture, are pretty marvelous, no?

Amazing trivia:

True or False?

There will be more great faces, added to the monument.

False! 

Though there have been rumors. One such rumor was that they were going to add Elvis Presley's face to the monument.  That answer also is "No".

I fly like paper, get high like planes...

My mom's favorite flower was a tulip.  When she first died, I didn't want to so much as look at one.  I like them now.  Maybe one day I'll love them.

It never stops being confusing- the death.  Her death.  You never think about death in this manner (or at least I didn't) until it happens in your life.  It's as surreal as surreal as surreal gets.  Most of the time, I hate it.  Some of the time... when I feel like her spirit is alive and protecting me, it feels like the biggest blessing imaginable.  I feel like she's my angel.  Love and white and pure.

The most confusing factor is where is she?  WHERE IS SHE?  I still can't entirely process that no matter what phone I use, or what number I might call or where I could drive in a car or fly in a plane or the volume with which I could scream, she will never ever, ever hear me.  There's nowhere she is.  She just isn't.  That, to me, is the most confusing part.  That she isn't.  She was, and now she's not.  She was a body that I could touch and hug and argue with and say sweet things to and a soul which felt and emanated happy and angry and now she's not walking around and now that soul... it's...?

Sometimes in my head, I yell.  I yell, yell, yell.  It's weakening to imagine her ears never being reached.  Sometimes I just want to touch her arms and be hugged by her.  She always smelled pretty.  She always felt squishy and good.  Mom... I miss you.  I like that I feel good when I think of you.

Encouragement

I have tattoos.  A bunch, by most standards.  I love them.  I love them deeply and dearly.  Each and every needle-stroke (okay, the one I got at 18 is corny, but those after, are the ones to which I'm referring) is part of an artistic plan that my tattoo artist and I, devised.  I adore how they look, how they make me look and how I feel with them covering me.

But I still feel insecure sometimes.  I feel insecure that people will think I'm harsh, unapproachable, aggressive.  I post pictures of Kat Von D, because she inspires me.

Kat (and if you watch L.A. Ink, you'll know what I mean) is so tender.  She's ravishing, she wears red lipstick almost every day, she dresses incredibly sexily, she's unbelievably talented and she's positively covered in tattoos.  When I feel like people might be afraid of me and I feel like I'm shrinking away from the things I love, in order to be smaller and more approachable, I think of Kat.  I think of Pixie.  I think of Hannah and Kim.  These women who are far more tattooed than I am, and who seemingly embrace their fire.  I aspire to be so ferociously present.  So ferociously me.

Pile-O-Fun

I got a job in floor sales, at the brand new Calvin Klein store, at The Forum Shops, in Caesars Palace.  I don't know why, but I'm fucking stoked.  It doesn't make a pile of sense.  It's not prestigious or all that glam.  It's just fucking F-U-N.  

I like having somewhere to go... to put on makeup for... something to be a part of.  A cog in a unit.  A part of a gang.  It excites me.  It give me a reason.  Not a reason for anything dramatic like... a reason to exist.  Just a reason.  Something to put on eyeliner for.  Somewhere to be productive.  To connect with people and run around in cute shoes.  

The store isn't open yet, so every day is slicing boxes, steaming clothes, hanging up dresses... knitting together a beginning.  Being part of something at inception.  

I'm pleased.  

No matter how it reads in general, in me, it reads like flowing water.

I'm Officially Hot for Keith Olbermann

According to Wiki:

Keith Olbermann (born January 27, 1959) is an American news anchor, commentator, and radio sportscaster. He currently hosts Countdown with Keith Olbermann on MSNBC, an hour-long nightly newscast of five selected stories with commentary by Olbermann and guests. Starting with the 2007 NFL season, Olbermann also serves as co-host of NBC's Football Night in America with Bob Costas.

I awaken and put on MSNBC.  Let it run all day long.  I'm not in the mood for it EVERY day, but most, I crave it.  Overall, it's a great osmosis-style way, to learn about what's going on with the planet.  I seldom, if ever, read news.  The only news I'm hungry for, is celebrity gossip.  And I devour it with the appetite of a lumber jack.

MSNBC is fantastic because it reports on everything happening with (mostly democratic) politics, but is heavily peppered with general ongoings (global disasters, crime, etc.).  Keith Olbermann has his own show about the day's most notable events, but delivers it with hilarity and ribbing, uncharacteristic to the channel.  He even did a large portion of one broadcast, as Mr. Burns.  An incredible impersonation, at that.

I think I want to make out with his smart, sexy-older-man face.

A bouquet we made in mom's honor.  Everyone from the Labbate family brought a flower from their garden, and added it to the flowers I got.

Mother's Day was pronounced. Oh my. More so than any other Mother's Day of my life, nach. I had my beautiful new family over and we had omelets and fruit. Cookies and chocolate. It was sweet to have their love in my home. First hosting I've done, of this nature, since I've lived here. I was so grateful to have the interaction. Everyone seemed to have a good time and love was transferred.


After they went home, the silly "holiday" pressed on my chest.  I kept trying to recognize that it's just a made up date, but it didn't work so well.  You know... I'm 100% sure this is how it's supposed to be and feel.  I know this time in my life is precisely the time I'm supposed to be without my mother.  I'm 100% sure she was ready to go and this all happened in conjunction by the divine beauty of The Universe's plan.  I don't want anything to be different.  I just wanted to say- yesterday was heavier than usual and I'm glad it came and went.

This is my new family.  They are unbelievably loving and full of light and hope.  I'm so blessed to have them in my world.  So blessed that I work for them all... that I work in their lives as well as they work in mine.  Thank you God and Universe, for filling me with all of the right and extracting all of the wrong.  I hope, every day, I've living up to my potential.

Love,

Italia

I Want You To Hit Me Blah Blah Blah Blah

My day started, today, at 3am.  I don't know... I went to sleep at a reasonable hour (midnight or so) but was restless after just a bit.  Usually I wait it out... toss in bed and sleep befalls me soon.  Today was different for some reason.  I'm compelled to stand... to move... to take action- physically.  It can be exhausting, but fighting it only furthers frustration.

Fight Club plays on HBO right now.  I go to HBO on Demand and watch it over and over and over.  I must have seen it six full times and three-four partial times, since it has been available.  When Ed Norton has desperate insomnia... it's so fucking realistic.  I know Chuck Palahniuk must have, at some point, been completely sleepless.  David Fincher, too.  Everyone involved, perhaps.  The depiction of the insomniac is bang on.  As bang as on gets.  Never fully asleep nor awake.

Still, it's okay.  I like the hours of twilight.  Things seem more possible and dream-like when the sun has not yet risen, but it's late enough for the majority of people to be sleeping.  It feels like you're in a untapped realm.  One in which few are conscious and somehow answers to secrets, lay.  Shhh... quietly listen... fortunes come...

THE BEST ROSS FIND, EVER

$4.99.  There were like, three.  I bought one.  WHO is going to buy the other two?  Man... I think we should all be friends.

Gun Fun!