Is Obsession Love?

So, today is John Taylor's 51st birthday. I'll hasten to point out here that I did not have this penciled in red on my calendar, but got a reminder on Facebook from the Duran Duran fan page. But it did give me a moment's pause to remember him fondly, and I realized that I have similar feelings for some of my old lovers. That warm-if-distant affection that never quite goes away.

I was obsessed with John Taylor from at least 1983 to 1988. I was an epic Duranie of the highest order. I LOVED them. I had John Taylor's haircut, even. Yes, I had a spectacular, aquanet-crunchy mullet, but that is a subject for another time. It made me happy. I loved the music, the style, the guyliner, all of it. And in my secret heart, I still do love it, although perhaps not with the capital "L" of my teen years.

I know I am capable of  my obsessions from time to time. They called me OCD girl in Anatomy class for the way I studied. Obsession can be useful when applied to academic pursuits, but love probably isn't in the same class of things that can benefit from that much attention.

I'm wondering to myself if I applied that same sort of devotion to my boyfriends in the past? I wonder what it is like to have a relationship with me. I'm all intensity and ferocity and passion. I want to break open my lovers and get to the gooey middle and taste the true depth of them. That might be scary, I guess, but I don't judge their flaws like they worry I would. I want them to give me a reason to be their biggest fan. I ask a lot of people. I want to know people on the deepest level possible. I want to try their favorite breakfast cereal and see if I like it too. I want to listen to their favorite records and see what effect the people who influenced them will have on me. If there were a Tiger Beat magazine that had my real friends on the cover I would totally buy it. I go deep or go home, because surface associations are next to useless to me.

I love John Taylor. I don't really know him at all, but whatever feelings I nursed for him as a young woman full of hormones burn in me still. He's getting older and so am I, but I still would probably pee my pants with excitement if I met him in person. But as we age together, I know that he has shaped me as much as anyone else I have loved. I gave oatmeal another chance because he loves it. So I guess obsession sometimes is good for me.

Dream: Seth Green and the Burning City

I have been super tired lately. Last night I went to bed super early to try to get some decent shuteye. Apparently, my subconscious had other ideas. I went on a wild ride in my head.

First up, the setting was in Reno where I live now, only the State budget was so bad that all the firefighters and police had lost their jobs. Things looked broken down and burned out everywhere.It  looked bleak.

But I had a date, I guess. I was at a bar with actor Seth Green. Now mind you, I do not have a crush on Seth Green. I don't really think about him that way. But in my dream, we were drinking and carrying on. We went into a private room and things got steamy. I was digging it and really getting into him. Bizarre.

Then he told me that he wasn't really feeling the same way. I was crushed. Like, beyond unhappy. I was desolate. I pitched a fit. I made a spectacle of myself. I cried and begged him to take it back. He was looking at me with a mix of pity and disgust. I felt horrible.

I was driving home and crying in the car. There were buildings burning all around me and there were flaming cars on the side of the road. I felt like I had lost the only person who would ever love me. It felt really real.

When the alarm went off, I had to shake that dream off. I felt like crap for part of the morning. All because of some make-believe crap. Sheesh.

Shhh! I am reading.

I am off school for the summer, so I am getting a chance to enjoy some novels and non-fiction books that have lingered on my shelf. Often while I was studying over the last few months I would glance longingly at them and wished I could curl up with a good book. Not that “Understanding Pathophysiology” isn’t a good book, but it isn’t exactly a gripping read or a light diversion.

I am also working for the summer, so my books are going with me to work to be read during my breaks. Strangely enough, some of my coworkers look at a person reading a book and think it is no big deal if they want to interrupt to gossip.

Can’t you see I am reading, here?

I have been a lot quieter than usual. I crave the silence of just sitting and reading a book. I am not too interested in the TV, and talking to anyone who is not a close friend is just not appealing to me. I don’t want to have to explain myself right now. I just want the fit of hand in glove that comes with my old, treasured friendships. They know I am going through hell, and they let me choose to not talk about it if I want. But I also know that if I suddenly fall apart and start crying they will be on me in a moment with comforting hands and murmured words that have the magical effect of keeping me from flying right out of my skin.

Least of which do I want to put down my book to talk about who is dating who in Hollywood, or weigh in on who should get poor doomed Michael Jackson’s children. Maybe it is the way my life is rolling out these days, but I just don’t have any patience for trivial prattle like that. Not without a full complement of cocktails, anyway.

I know that the majority of the people I work with don’t need to hear about the very serious business that my life has become, although a few of them do want to hear about it for schadenfreude purposes. And it isn’t their job to give a flying fig about me, but it is so much nicer when somebody does. I just don’t expect my coworkers to invest like that.

I just want to read a book. Shhh…

Dream-Syncopation

I got a little bit of extra sleep last night, so the dream machine was up and running.

I dreamed that I was learning to play the guitar and the piano, and I was getting a lesson about syncopation from Roger Taylor (the drummer from Duran Duran). The lesson was taking place backstage in the midst of a concert or music fest of some kind. We were behind the curtain and the lights were kinda low, but there I was, first strumming on the guitar and then setting it down and playing some chords on the piano. I lost a lot of the details of the dream after I woke up, but it was sorta fun to be getting a celebrity lesson.

I have always wanted to play a musical instrument, but my efforts in that regard have always been spotty and underfunded. I may take up some music lessons over the summer or after I graduate.

Celebrity Crush: Justin Theroux

I love Justin Theroux. He is my boyfriend. He has that whole dark hair/fair skin/post-punk attitude that just makes me weak in the knees. He's just hot. I have seen interviews with him and he comes across as literate and interesting, which I can't resist.

I have written at least two fictional characters that if a film were made of the story, I would cast him if I had the choice.

I'm watching "Mulholland Drive" today, and he is just awesome in that. He was also great on "Six Feet Under". Yum.

Girlcrush-Mary Louise Parker

I mostly just want to have her tousled bed-head hair here. In my dizzy daydreams I could never be that thin. Gotta love her on "Weeds", though.

Plus, she is a mom and looks this hot. Go girlie!

New Girlcrush-Eva Green

I watched "Casino Royale" again today while Little A was napping. Damn, Eva Green is so beautiful in that movie. I want to learn how to wear red lipstick like that and not get it everywhere (I realize that this is a movie trick).

I love the look of pale skin, dark hair, and striking eyes on both men and women. So sexy. Rawr. I love her tousled bed-hair in this photo. *swoon*

I just wanna be her, maybe. Stunning.

David Bowie and The Bolivian Nose Candy

As I sit contemplatively chewing on a chocolate-covered espresso bean, I'm thinking about drugs and how creative people use them. David Bowie and many MANY others were pretty well known for snorting mountains of cocaine and still churning out some of the most amazing art. I was reading a book review of Angela Bowie's book where she complains end on end about his dysfunction as a person, a husband and father. But the reviewer basically said, and I agree, that if high Bowie gives us "Hunky Dory" and sober Bowie gives us "Tin Machine", who are we to judge? How can I really condemn him for his greatness while altered? I don't have to live with him, of course.

Twisted Fangirl love for the Thin White Duke aside, what does it say about me as an artist? I never did go in for that experimental drug phase that some of my friends, and countless Rock Gods, have indulged in. Going on a drug binge would be unseemly at my age, and I can only imagine how gross I would feel. Add the fact that Little A deserves sane and sober parenting and you can readily see that even getting drunk is pretty much out of the question. Am I missing out on some vital, visceral thing as a writer because I am prioitizing my family? Do you HAVE to be crazy to be creative? Its it mandatory? Or does it just make it easier to focus on one thing if you can take drugs to blot out that you aren't meeting all of your responsibilities?

I won't even go into all the artists who have gotten sober and their creative mojo dried up as they dried out. I'm talking to you Aerosmith/Van Halen/Duran Duran. Just as many musicians tank out or die trying to stay high all the time. Talking to you Curt Cobain, Keith Moon, Elvis, John Bonham and Jim Morrison.

But look at the writers who have shaken history with their words, and are just as famous for spiralling (sometimes literally) into the gutter. Jeeebus. Edgar Allen Poe, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson, Kafka, Oscar Wilde, Dorothy Parker and the list goes on and on.

But drinking and drugging to that level makes you into a horrible person to be around. And I am trying to picture any one of those people doing a "corporate" reading at your local Barnes & Noble. The horrors! Who will think of the children? But my god, what is the alternative? Wholesome "Christian Rock"? *shudders* I'd rather explain the dangers of heroin to my kids than try and tackle that shit.

Now that Bowie is older and still makes art, he is seen as one of the survivors, a venerated elder statesman of decadant disco-style excess. The cocaine use seems almost quaint compared to the shit people are taking nowadays. Don't even get me started on the "sell your soul to the Devil" thing that is Meth. I'm seeing what that does to families up close, and it isn't pretty. The state doesn't even know what to do with it all.

But one gets the impression that Bowie was destined to be great as much as he was destined to get high and cheat on his wife with anything that moved, name his kid "Zowie", and ultimately end up becoming an arbiter of taste (albeit tongue firmly in cheek) in "Zoolander" and "Extras".

I'll always sort of love him, albeit from afar. VERY afar apparently if I want my vision of his genius to remain spotless like that suit in the "Modern Love" video.

"I hope you still love me"

I had a dream last night that really helped me out on a couple of levels.

I was dreaming that I was at my grandparents' old house, and lots of my cousins were there and we were having a sort of family party. Daniel Radcliffe walked up the driveway and I met him at the breezeway door. He embraced me and whispered in my ear "I hope you still love me, because I can't wait to get you alone."

I kissed him tenderly and led him by the hand into the heart of the party. I had a really warm, affectionate feeling for him.

When I woke up this morning, I knew exactly how to fix a bit of writing where I had painted myself into a corner. I had finished a chapter about a page earlier, and had tried to artificially stretch it out with some content that just wasn't working. It felt good to cut it off where the cut belonged. It wasn't the same exactly as doing new writing, but I hadn't had any insight into that manuscript in a while. I think I have a good idea on how to proceed next, so unblocking that felt really good.

Hero Worship gets you Nowhere

Some people have more talent in their Underwood-worn little pinkies than I have in my whole fevered form. If you don't know, the above photo is of Harlan Ellison, and he's my favorite author. He's twisted, he's cranky, and he's brilliant. He doesn't play it safe; he thinks that writers who do are hacks.

This sits in sharp contrast to the smooth marketing speak that I was exposed to at the last writers' conference I went to. I don't know if the presenters meant to portray the writing profession as a slick, form over substance exercise in polite public masturbation, but now that I think of it, I think Harlan Ellison would disapprove.

I don't know what he would think, of course. I would be way to terrified to ask him. He's actually friendly with my cousin, but I would possibly literally pee my pants if I met him. I certainly wouldn't want to talk about my writing, but I would love to hear him talk about his.

All I know is that the climate in the "publishing business" makes me pretty ill. I got, for a dizzy, vertiginous moment, a perspective on just how many people write, or aspire to write fiction, and just how few of them will publish. The reasons for why they don't publish vary as often as the capricious moods of a public that would rather watch "American Idol" than read a book most of the time.

I totally fear being a hack. I don't want to play it safe. I'm trying to get fired up to work on my newest idea, and I'm bitterly ashamed how easily I get sidetracked. Being a new parent has robbed me of my sleep, as well as whatever free time I used to write that last deformed manuscript that feels beyond the reach of reform as it is. I'm exhausted, and to be honest I am feeling a little sorry for myself.

I think I need to go back and re-read some of my favorite Harlan Ellison and re-focus on the kinds of stories that make me want to write in the first place. Those civilized hotel convention lunches with their well-intentioned keynote speakers are not going to cut it, I'm afraid. I need to reach out and find the dangerous, bleeding edge of what I am willing to say and then lean on it hard. It needs to hurt more to not write; I need to be able to soothe myself with climbing word counts more than the opiate feed coming out of the "glass teat". I need to stop whimpering and really suffer if I stop creating things, even if they are malformed and not marketable. I need make cranky work for me.

I really hope I can meet Harlan Ellison one of these days. But more than that, I'd like to have the frame of mind that would make me at least an entertaining dinner guest for him. No, fuck that. I'd like to actually be able to enjoy meeting him and not be thinking that I sound insipid. I'd actually like to have a good time and not give a crap what he thinks of me. I'd like to feel that way about a lot of people.

You can see my underpants for $10K

I must be delirious with stress or cough medicine, because I had the funniest dream last night. Like, funny ha ha and funny weird.

Some really strange things happened, and the dream was a non-linear set of vignettes that wouldn't have been out of place in a B-movie cult classic like "Amazon Women on the Moon".

Some scenarios:

1. Mick Jagger wants to see my panties: I was in an airport terminal and geriatric Lothario Mick Jagger walked up to me and gave me a single ten-thousand dollar bill, ostensibly to pay for the honor of peering at my lacy underthings. We retired to the handicapped stall in the ladies' room (he had no trouble going in there) and I blushingly lifted my skirt and avoided his prurient gaze. He thanked me politely and left.

2. I met a talking rabbit named "Hazel": I must have been thinking about "Watership Down". This was a live-action rabbit, and I watched him caper about going in and out of a number of burrows. I can't remember what we talked about, but he did allow me to cradle him in my arms and stroke him for a short time before darting away again.

3. I was making out with my ex: I dream about Iceberg every so often. (I have to say right here that the dream was about him, lest my other exes get confused that I might be dreaming about them-I don't need any awkward e-mails) I know it is a dream because in my dreams he is usually nice to me. It always annoys me when I wake up, because it has nothing to do with reality. Iceberg knowing how to be kind to me is about as likely as meeting a talking rabbit or having Mick Jagger pay to see my underwear.

Celebrity Crush: Richard Hammond

I gotta admit, this one is a little bizarre, but I am starting to have more than one "type". I have the first blush of a new celebrity crush: Richard Hammond from the BBC show "Top Gear".

He's just a little bit of a thing, embarrassingly nicknamed "Hamster". He's wee. I wanna squeeze him. I have impure thoughts about him, even though I would crush him with my bodacious curves.

What's his deal? What inspired my fan-lust?

He's smart and funny. Oh my. Top Gear is hilarious, anyway. But he really makes me laugh. I love a guy that can make me laugh.

Quirky good looks. He isn't classically good looking, but he has big, expressive eyes and a great smile. His co-hosts on Top Gear joke about him using teeth whiteners all the time.

British. It is well known that I love the Brits. I must be harboring a secret desire to marry a cousin. (eeeewwwww, just kidding!)

Pixie-man physique. I never did go for the big, brawny types. For some reason lately, I have been very attracted to delicate, petite men. So odd. I used to love toweringly tall guys. Now it is all about tiny men with big brains.

He drives fast cars for a living. Rawr. Even though he famously almost died in a jet powered car accident, he's got that expert driver thing going for him. He also describes his driving experience with evident pleasure. That is immensely appealing to me.

He can take a joke. Jeremy and James on Top Gear have a great deal of sport with him. It's fun.

He's almost my age. For you freaks who accuse me of only liking the young boys, Hammond is a year younger than me, and looks naturally aging. Cute smile lines and all.

*swoon*