Ty Jones is my personal Oprah.
She sits in the back of the Jewish Board Family and Children's Mental Health Services office, in a room full of play dough and colorful toys. She comes out in her lovely curls, all brown and blond, to find me in the waiting room. Her voice is like the crooning of rabbits over verdant pastures. I could fall asleep, smiling to her voice mail greeting.
"You're 45 minutes late," she tells me, calmly, with the milk of kindness flowing from her big curly hair.
Even her reprimand has the fuzzy quality of a cloud.
But the Jewish Board is no fancy shrink's office. There's no white noise machine flowing ever-so-intrusively over soft couches and European travel magazines. There's no recall-your-childhood chair, reeking of indulgence and aromatheraphy, into which you may absorb yourself. There's only the heavy-accented lady in the front who is fed up with her job, ready to grunt and collect your medical card, and if you're not ready for her, she'll let you know her mind: that she is waiting, has been, is still.
"Articulate your words. What did you say? When was your appointment? Speak up. I can't hear you."
All at once like a fusillade.
I wonder if she's like that to everyone, or only to me. I figure she may be a bit confused, and a little taken aback, by my blatant non-semitism.
Unlike the receptionist, Ty never pulls the gun at me. She asks me gently how I'm doing, shows me to my chair by the colorful playdough and crayons, asks me if I've been writing a lot lately, if I've made any new works of music, if my moods are okay. Yes, dear. My moods, dear.
And when I tell her I am doubtful of this pop star thing, because I feel like I'm living in a land of lollipops and squid-drops, because I'm writing bullshit all day, and not getting my short stories finished - the ones I intended, because I can't get the chords to match the lyrics, because I'm frustrated - she tells me:
"You have to let yourself be comfortable with your unique creative process. You have to give yourself permission to be you."
Thank you, Madame Oprah!
So today, while I try to look at myself objectively in all my wasted efforts - my wasted time, my creative procrastination, my boustrophedonic self-indulgence, my utter irresponsibility. Where my mind's jolting frenzy, the madness of words, and all my fuzzy intentions, which are turned suddenly sour with guilt and reality - Here, in the eye of this hurricane, I try to breathe a whiff of Ty's cloudy curls, cultivate calm, and call this my creative process.
I am who I am, and this is what I need to create. Create what?
Freedom. Authenticity. Permission to sin and be ugly, and to turn that honesty into beauty.
Oh, let's call this whole silly game off. Let's take all these labels, and toss them in the dump, like a bunch of alphabet blocks and lego people. I am free. I am free. I am free. Close my eyes and flap my arms like a second grader on Field Day. I am free. Free for what?
---
I imagine a naked website, and me, self-respecting, telling people my thoughts.
"In this industry of misogyny, rap lyrics, and ass and tits - it's up to us ladies to claim our bodies for ourselves.
My nakedness is my potency. You can't take away what I give to you in generosity. My body is my art. My body is my own. And I am fully conscious of my womanhood, my power right now."
That is what I'd tell them on the David Letterman show.
I would sing songs like:
"I'm an immigrant, baby. I'm an immigrant, oh yeah."
And
"Ladies pick up your thick thighs, goddess bellies...love what you love, and let yourself be."
And
"Angelina sits on her doorstep, not so much an angel anymore."
I would sing songs on tracks I created myself, dancing dances I choreographed myself. Songs that would rock the sex. Cuz I'm not afraid of sex. I'm all sex, baby. Sex and deep thoughts. Oh yes. And I would pop and lock and pirouette on TV.
A grotesquely loud entrance. Just an entrance. Just the doorway to my voice.
Yes, fantasies. So close to reality. I can almost touch it. Right? No. Pure fantasy.
I have the connections. I have the talent. I have one year to kick this shit off. I believe in me.
Thank you, Ty, for calling this a creative process, and not a stark madness, like Virgina Woolf or Britney. This is me, and I know no one else like me.
And if this bullshit is what it takes to get to gold, then I'm ready to hit the outhouse, and dig away. Please excuse my incontinence.
-----
I don't want to be one of those artists that exploits his or her own life. That's disgusting. Not truly creative, right? I want to transcend myself, eventually. But so far, my life has been my masterpiece. I've tried to live each moment to the rawest principle, the most urgent joy. And that is more art than the expression of it.
We are in a quick cult of porn memoirs and you tube videos. Who has time for fiction? Say your statement and get on with it, lady!
I need to hit the scene in a splash of Asian sapphires. Listen to my scandal.
But I must not forget: the talent and dedication to truth that must lie beneath the hype and plastic, waiting for the right time to emerge. The human dignity.
I will not be plastic. I will never be plastic.
Comments (2)
ur xanga provides a refreshing view of a your life, which seems like another world =)
My god, you're such a gifted writer.