A Gold Noise

Run Amok

Jan
23

Sitting alone, a windowpane apart from the storm, I see layers of emerald, sage, and aquamarine. The plants I’ve nursed and the ones that stood long before I’ve arrived, they’re sucking up nourishment like grateful babes dancing through the rain. And I’m so numb I wish to join them. I could go running naked into the empty lot behind our house. I would lace up tall, brown boots, jump the gate, and go sloshing through the lush, neon grass. I’d roll around and sink my bare behind into a pile of mud. I’d tilt my head and invite the wet on my face.

And somebody would call me crazy. It’d be lewd. I live in a dangerous part of town so it could invite unwanted attention.

So somehow, after all this, I’m trapped inside. And I’m crawling out of my skin.

Meanwhile, I’m a true daredevil for story. I simply long for the permission. Maybe if I were better, I’d give myself the go. But if somebody pounded on my door demanding I run amok, I’d be so very grateful. Directors have forced me into the January ocean at dawn, demanded I gorge myself on sticky chicken wings, fling myself off of mechanical bulls, and stand a half-dozen hours wrapped in sweaty cellophane.  I absolutely love to be afraid and uncomfortable, coaxing myself to grow. At the time, these experiences were dreaded but now, God, I wish somebody would… help… me… feel ALIVE.

  • This has been your peek into the bi-weekly inner turmoil that boils to the surface for barely no reason when you’re, ya know, “an artist” 😉

Last Lover

Jan
06

  • excerpt: private journal – explicit content – beware

September 11

You used to come over and I fancied my place a bit of solace for us both. Your mouth tasted like amber and your spit was nothing else but pure water, intermingled with mine. I liked the smell of your sweat, which is sweet tobacco and a bit of fire. Your skin’s a coffee hue, my favorite kind.

The last I saw you, I remember that your pre-everything tasted like sour, sweet green apples and I sucked it out of you like nectar, like I was nourishing myself. I’d never wanted to taste somebody so much and I suspected you’d be leaving soon. That’s when I realized, to my great dismay, that I’d somehow, stupidly fallen in love with you.

I was always afraid we’d be over. At the end, this fact made me act strangely. Though, you know me well. I’m sure it didn’t matter.

Once, I teetered around your apartment in tall, canary heels that made me feel invasive but strong. I trailed my fingers along your books and magazines and felt proud you’d been published in them all. I was a confidant and lover but I fret, fret, fret I could maintain only one and not the other. Or perhaps, I’d soon be neither.

The last time and, who knows, maybe it truly is the last time, I straddled your thin frame and thought I knew you so well. I plucked you from a bar when you noticed me noticing you. We hovered in a circle around one another and I liked how easily you walked through my door.

I’m embarrassed that my apartment door is bright orange (an abbhorrable color) and that my body is inked by ugly tattoos. You’ve got such good taste… and so do I. But with me, the choices I’ve made, you might not know it. I grabbed onto your pretty, sepia self and slid you inside. I kept thinking, “This has gotta be perfect. It’s the last time.”

Later, I sent some poetry in the lame way in which we all communicate: via text. You were 3,000 miles away but you hated it. You said it felt like “nothing”. This word stung but I didn’t dare cry ’til I hung up and could become weak on my own. I do this thing where I pretend to be strong, like I don’t need anybody. Because even when I’ve chosen somebody, we’ve parted ways.

I wanna be resilient and I am. I wanna be strong and I’m becoming so. But for these past two weeks, I wanted to sink into your hard bed and curl beside you while we slept, all vampiric like. Arms crossed, eyes shut tighter than they ought to be, and a look of stress across your face. This is how you sleep, like seven to nine hours aren’t providing any rest.

I miss you, I’m embarrassed to say.

September 26

Last night, your blood rushed below and I pondered taking you in. I’d already promised myself I wouldn’t. I didn’t even know you’d want me too until you gently poked a finger into my right armpit: a little sign of affection.

I began to worry if we didn’t make love, you’d give all that good energy to somebody else. But I told you what I’d need. I can’t do it without monogamy and you couldn’t promise. I didn’t even ask you to.

My dear friend Anthony says you and I are two planets orbiting the sun and we’re both about to miss one another. We’ve collided once and it worked but now, it’s time to circle on.

God, I dreaded losing my friend. He’d become my new favorite one.

In our very end, my doubt distilled this joy into a bowl of foggy H2O. Like, where you’d dip a water color brush but I’ve been painting and painting and now the inside’s a dirty mess.

I sought evidence of a new girl. I glanced at a receipt on your counter that read, “Bianca” – Heart fluttered – Who?

It’s the name of the pizza we just ordered, dummy.

Or, you had the rosary I got you on a table. It was gone now because you hate me. But no. I pressed the bathroom light and there it dangled, its very own hook on the wall.

But then, there it was: a smear of cakey makeup across your pillow. I don’t wear makeup. Neither do you. That’s what I’d been looking for.

I practiced a hell of a lot of fearing for the future while we rolled in bed. Not in bed but the very moment I left. I never equated this to any fault of your own. In fact, you’ve been nothing but kind and reassuring.  It’s got nothing to do with a man specifically and especially not with you. My fears alone could fill a stone well, my heart palpitating and drowning at the bottom. This agony is all mine, mine, mine and I’ve had it for a long time with interchangeable men. I only feel safe when they’re fully mine.

My worst fear of all is to be known for this weakness. Because I am strong, I am. I mistake vulnerability and pain for frailty when it’s simply the result of my choices.  It’s okay. I’m now realizing the value that sex warrants and deserves. Only in my next romantic endeavor will I be able to put this to practice.

Except for last night. Last night, I practiced. He placed my hand on himself but I choose to honor my fragility in lieu of fighting it. I no longer wanted to invite unhappiness out to play. I was in control though, humiliatingly enough, in love.

Damn, please somebody dissipate my feelings for him into a cloud of calming smoke.

Meanwhile, I’m going to burn away the fear. FUCK FEAR. It’s made a mess of me too many times.

Exposed

Jan
05

I began A Gold Noise 13 years ago on myspace.com. At the time, I hadn’t considered writing a viable profession. This site was simply a catharsis for the myriad of annoying thoughts residing in my mind. Writing became an excellent, addictive purge to scatter myself in type and continue on with life.

However, wonderfully so, blogging evolved into something greater. I discovered that my candor on sexuality, religion, dating, being a woman, blah, blah, blah became a catalyst for others to share their stories in return.

Negative thoughts stored in the privacy of our minds have the ability to fester and leave us each feeling terribly alone. The great irony is that there is nothing new under the sun: we’re all sharing the human experience together. No matter how dissimilar we appear, our journeys prove far more universal than not.

I hope that my willingness to expose myself will encourage you to do the same.

None of us are alone. Life can be shit. But I’ll be here, publicly wading through it on our behalf. Keep your secrets if you like but I’ll be telling mine. xx