Sunday, February 28, 2010

and invited all his international art pals to make art in the desert

The night here seems solid, as if it was made out of matte metal. The only sounds coming through are the wind whipping the corners and daddy's soft snoring from the other room.

Once again I left the country. Just because. But only for a few hours this time. We crossed into Mexico via Presidio. And we did indeed have some tacos. They gave me a bellyache. But there was no touching and no I love yous.

Instead there was a sullen man, trying to paste smiles onto his ragged face. Trying, but not succeeding, not to whine about his (lack of) love-life.

Do you fucking hear me complain? Do you know how long it's been? Soon I'll start doing the online dating thing.

We are in Marfa, Texa, staying at the Thunderbird

We did this art tour in the desert, like pilgrims. Famed, and deceased artist Donald Judd moved here in the 70's and invited all his international art pals to make art in the desert.
This whole place is pretty surreal, you should go sometime. Here you are in the middle of absolutely nowhere, you have been driving through a dirty desert for hours without even seeing a gas station, and suddenly you stop and walk into a coffee shop and you think you are in Paris or New York, because it's filled with good-looking people, dressed all in black, and rocking funky glasses that frame their intellectual eyes like an exclamation mark. Here they sit, sipping soy lattes while leafing through the latest edition of some obscure art journal.

p.s my photos.

Friday, February 26, 2010

and we'll laugh and eat burritos and i'll lean my head on his shoulder

i can't sleep. and we haven't gone anywhere yet either. the surprise has not yet materialized itself. and i am not entirely unhappy about it.
but i don't feel happy. and i think that is my natural state.

there's drama among my friends. i didn't get this other internship i applied for.
daddy and I misunderstand each other. we accuse, talk in circles, shovel shit around. this afternoon we'll go. we'll drive into the desert in his jeep, and we'll find that unbreakable bond, constructed out of blood and time. and we'll laugh and eat burritos and i'll lean my head on his shoulder. and he will tell me he loves me more than anything. and all the stars will come out and sprinkle the black desert sky with fool's gold and a lonesome coyote will howl in the distance.

and all the pieces will fall in place and i will no longer fear the black holes gaping at the outskirts of the milky way.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I think maybe that's when I turned into a homo

Oh jet lag, the constant companion of a glamorous globetrotter like yours truly.

Maddy is in safe-keeping in Leeds, the armpit of the world, or at least the U.K. Her mother is a drama queen who spends most of her waking hours consuming services like manicures, facials and body scrubs. Nothing works though, the woman is chin-less and hideous. I hope poor Maddy won't age like her; gracelessly and undeniably. Her mother is probably filled with shadenfreude; rejoicing in her daughter's extra rolls of fat. She actually seems a bit like Avy's mother. Her father is a casanova with more mistresses than Tiger.

My own father is expected back at the Casa later this afternoon. He wants to take me on a trip so we can get to know each other. I guess it's about time as I have embarked on my 22nd year on planet earth. He wants to keep his plan a surprise.

I hate surprises, especially the planned ones. 

Like the birthday (was it my 11th?) when he invited a snake charmer to our house so I could overcome my fear of serpents? I think maybe that's when I turned into a homo.

So I have 102 followers now. Wow! I am pathetically in need of love, affirmation, followers and comments. I worship you all!

XXX, your lovable fuck-up Kim

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Toilet Paper Bandage

I had finally just started drifting away, then the cat attacked my foot. I am starting to fear cats, I swear. I look them in their dengue fever eyes and can't help but see their possessed quality.

Last night was a disaster. I, of course, was only trying to help. I said to Maddy that she needed to wash the crusted chocolate and vomit chunks from the corner of her mouth, brush her red hair, put on a sparkly dress and come out with me.

She was rambling on about razors and pills and a never-ending hazy coma, but I still thought that a few pints could cure her.

I love London cabs though, they are so spacious and the cab drivers are totally polite and courteous. Not like the rude NYC drivers that argue with you about the best route to Brooklyn.

We went to a bar in Soho. One that Madonna used to frequent when she was married to that Guy guy. Or so I was told. I didn't even think bitch drank. Anyway. After a beer and a shot I could have a normal conversation with my friend. She actually laughed once, or at least she chuckled. But after three beers and three shots she was crying about the ex-asshole again. She wasn't just gently and discreetly sobbing either, she was bawling. People were trying not to stare, but the show was so magnificent that they couldn't help themselves.

I said; you need to get a grip on yourself. Get some perspective. She smashed an empty beer glass on the table and got a shard and scarped herself on the wrist. It wasn't a deep cut, but enough to draw blood. And that blood made a lady next to us choke on her peanuts. While some meatheads at the bar were laughing.

Out on the street, with a toilet paper bandage, she said she wanted to go down to the Thames and swim until she drowned or died from exposure.

I somehow got her home and eventually she passed out. And I am supposed to fly home tomorrow. I may need to call her parents.

P.S check this out;

Saturday, February 20, 2010

if she could only be a little thinner, a little prettier, a little nicer and better in bed

Everyone in this world is obsessed with romance, and I am no better.

Sometimes these thoughts of someone that could save me consumes me. And my friend, Maddy, who kindly has been putting me up, is also caught up in the same sideshow circus. She is currently using food to dull the ache in her heart that pounds for an undeserving asshole. You've heard it before.

You've done it before. 

She's been stocking up on chocolate bars, and candy hearts and sour patch kids and Salt and Vinegar chips. And she sits in her bed, in her cold and damp flat, eating and crying. And reading Vouge and Marie Claire. There are chocolate smears all over her pillows and greasy chip crumbles embedded in her nightgown. And the magazines tell her that if she could only be a little thinner, a little prettier, a little nicer and better in bed. If her skin could only be a bit softer and her complexion a bit clearer. If she could only be a tad sexier and have less cellulite, then the world could be hers. She could hover above it, whip in hand and force it serve her.

She vomited in the sink. Black mascara spiders climbed down her cheeks. Nobody ever loved me like him.

But he told you he didn't love you.
Well, it felt like he did. It felt so good. Better than a sugar coma.

Dad called from Sedona where he is staying with a healer. Probably some crystal-wielding psycho with wheatgrass juice in her fridge.

Before I head out to the pub I want to thank Vinda of Super stylish and fun Fashion Atelier for interviewing me and creating a portrait of how I would love to look. Vinda, I am cute, but not that cute.

And to all of you whose fab blogs I have been neglecting this past week, bear with me. I will catch up and I still adore you.


Thursday, February 18, 2010

London (or You can call me Lucifer)

the way you hit me is better than love

... and i am head over heals

and I saw Courtney Love and Hole and all is forgiven. It really is.

right now a big black cat is about to piss all over my Top Shop shopping.

More soon.


Sunday, February 14, 2010

(Or why you are?)

 I hate what I've become, he said.

(you've always been that). 

I didn't like to see him cry. Not because I didn't want him to be sad, but because he looked ridiculous doing it.

I am thinking about going to an Ashram. In India. I need to connect. Or, I need to find myself. I've never known who I am.

(Or why you are?)

Women always leave me, he said in between bites of cold chicken noodle soup.

(Daddy, you are not supposed to chew soup, don't you know?)

And you don't like me that much, do you?

Well, you are my father. I think I must love you.

At that he started crying again.
He hasn't left the couch since his suicide attempt. I've been going to Trader Joe's to pick up cans of soup and bars of soup. Because he likes to take baths. I don't really understand.

I always say the wrong things. There are thick green snot slugs peeking out of his nostrils.

I've decided to go to London tomorrow. I haven't told him yet. I'll cook dinner and then I'll inform him of my plans.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

I didn't get a chance to pull out before I had vomit on my hand and arm.

I know it's not even noon, but I am having a beer.

At about 6 am this morning I was puked on my own father. It was sort of my fault, but I was only trying to be of use.

I had been chatting on FB with some guy in Turkey, pretending I could be his everything and the mother of his children too. I fell asleep and dreamt that I was a housewife, and that I was baking a pound cake for the housewife next door, the one with the dreamy eyes.

I woke up to the sound of glass shattering on the tiled floor followed by a dull thud. I ran downstairs and there was dad. My father. I hadn't even known he was at the house. I thought he was in Topanga Canyon. He was on the floor among broken plates and cutlery. A few days worth of dishes I had left behind.
He'd swallowed pills, he told me. He wanted to die, he said, because there was no love left in this world.
Will you forgive me? he asked and looked at me with eyes like soapy water. A drama queen on his death bed.
I told him to go fuck himself and that I wouldn't forgive him. And then I shoved my fist into his mouth and tried to get my fingers as far back as possible.

I didn't get a chance to pull out before I had vomit on my hand and arm.

My father comes from a long line of pill-poppers, in fact we are citizens of a Nation of Pill-poppers.

He rests now.

His puke was rockstar vomit; there were pieces of corn and soggy pills swimming around in honey-colored bile. And one lonely gummi bear.

I want to thank the lovely and talented Erica Clay of alabastercow for giving me the Kick-Ass Blog Award. She's also a vegan. Check out her Blog Herbivorous for some cooking advice.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Triology completed

She could barely make out its sagging contours, but it was a shed. His hand, that previously had been moist, had begun to feel like ice. The hold was beginning to chafe her skin.

We have arrived, he said but wasn't smiling.

She wondered about her cousin, if she was waiting for her. Maybe eating a corn dog or some stale popcorn. They had planned to go to a movie.

What are we doing here? She said and tried to find that flirtatious smile in her files. But it merely hiked the corners of her mouth up. No sparkles reached her eyes. Something wasn't right, she could feel it.

A moon sliver had appeared in the sky. It glared down upon them coldly and she could see that there was dirt under the boy's finger nails.

Don't play dumb, he said.

And that made her feel dumb. And suddenly every bone in her body knew what was going to happen.

She didn't resist when he pushed her down onto an old mattress inside the musty-smelling shed. Even though she was silent, he placed his palm over her lips. Perhaps he wanted to be ready to catch the screams he expected. His palm was sweaty again.

He lifted her dress, the flimsy cotton one that had made her feel so pretty just a couple of hours ago. He pulled down her panties and spread her thighs. She tried to think about technicolor cotton candy and Ferris Wheel rides. So she wouldn't feel him trashing inside her. His face was contorted. It looked like he was in pain. She didn't understand why he was hurting both of them.

But she tried to think about all the little things that made her happy; well-tended flower beds, juicy Sunday roasts, petting a cat.

The trashing wouldn't stop.

That's how my mother lost her virginity. I wonder how much it shaped the person she became?

images borrowed from one of my favorite blogs:

Monday, February 8, 2010

At first he seemed sweet, but then he turned out to be a psycho

So before I continue with the story, the story that really isn't mine, I must talk about the party Saturday night.

Avy does know how to throw a party. Her humble abode was filled with pretty girls, good-looking boys, champagne and pixie dust. I brought Signe. As a way to celebrate her birthday and get her out of the house. She needed cheering up, and she needed cake. You should see how skinny she is. I would have liked to stuff her full of Twinkies and french fries, but I made her a vegan cake, so she would eat some.
Anyway, she used to date this guy Benjamin. At first he seemed sweet, but then he turned out to be a psycho. Sounds familiar?
He crashed the party. I don't know how he knew about it, but just after midnight he walked in.
I don't know how many gin and tonics I had had, but I was having a swell time. Miri was also there, and that girl is trouble. She's a lot of fun to hang out with, but something about her worries me.

Anyway, I started chatting up Benjamin. It was easy, I just asked questions and got him talking about his favorite subject; himself. Every now and then his eyes searched the room. I fed him champagne and compliments. I don't understand what Signe ever saw in him. His breath smelled like raw sewage, an extension of his soul, perhaps? But I still wanted to test out my pretty power. I begun to lean in closer. I found short-cuts to skin contact. Until I had my knee in his crotch. He put his paw in my hair. And pulled my head towards his lips. Toxic fumes engulfed me. Last minute I dodged his kiss, and gave him a peck on the cheek. He pulled me down onto a couch.

Did you really think I wanted to do you, man-whore? I said.

Signe was right there. She jumped up on the couch and started yelling that she was looking down on him. I wished she had kicked him in the teeth. But instead she trashed around and broke a vase. Like most things in life it was an accident. The vase was crystal. There was blood. I was dizzy. Benjamin cursing me out with his dragon breath.

And then this other girl, Aurora, collapsed and an ambulance had to come get her. I think she probably spent too much time in the bathroom.

I developed a pre-mature headache and was overcome by existential angst. The kind I get when I think about the fact that we're all going to die. 

Sunday, February 7, 2010

She felt a magnetic pull. And a throbbing

Instead he kissed her. There was no fireworks. But bombs going off. Big explosions in the distant and a faint, but unmistakable smell of dynamite. Imagined body parts getting torn into fragments.

She couldn't help but hold onto him. That close it was easy to forget cousins and uncles and the dull homework involving numbers that refused to do what they were supposed to do.

He said; let's go somewhere.

She felt a magnetic pull. And a throbbing.

He led her into the woods. It was getting dark fast. The sound of the people laughing and screaming on the rides was starting to fade out.

They walked until almost all the light was gone. His hand was like a mold on hers. But she did start wondering where they were going.

Almost, he said and turned around, but the shadows were so dark she couldn't see his face.


I brought my friend Signe to a party at Avy's house. It was fun until it wasn't.

Friday, February 5, 2010

He wasted no time on sweet nothings

This is not my story. But it could have been.

It was at an amusement park. She was enjoying a ride. I think it was those tea cups that you sit inside and that spin you around and around until all your insides are jumbled up like stew.

It had been a nice day, but dark clouds were approaching, but she hadn't noticed yet. She'd had too many sodas and too much cotton candy, and she felt much better than she had for a long time. She'd almost forgotten that business about the uncle and the kiss on the cheek.

And she felt pretty in her flimsy cotton dress, and her hair smelled of apples.

Spun, she caught the eyes of a boy who stood watching and licking a giant lollipop that dyed his tongue blue. There was a colony of freckles across his pale face. After she caught his eyes, he wouldn't let her go.

She left the cousin and wandered off with the boy. Small clouds of steel-wool begun to drift in. They walked into a park where boom-box r'n'b floated through the air that was already thick with BBQ smoke and frightened baby birds.

They sat down on a rock. He wasted no time on sweet nothings.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Dear fellow Cyberspace dwellers,

 I hope your night is velvet-y and starlit, or, if you inhabit another part of this planet, that your day is filled with sun and maybe little cotton-candy clouds that sail by softly.

I am feeling strangely at ease. Although I have no reason to.

Tonight I am taking a break from blogging to pass a couple of awards along. It is the award-season after all.

First, sweet Sophia over at A poet's Circus awarded me with The Happy Award. I am now supposed to list ten things that make me happy; Music (right now: Fever Ray, Joanna Newsom & The XX), Mullholland Drive (both the movie and the street), LES QUEUES DE SARDINES, El Caminos, driving long distances, popcorn, friends, infatuation (but it makes me miserable too), coffee, cotton-candy.

I pass this Happy Award to:

1. Danica at A sight to be Seen: Her blog is the cutest sweetest thing ever.
2. Jefferson at I got the letter: because he's paying tribute to something we've almost forgotten about.
3. Courtney at Souljane because I love her pix and her style.

Second, amazing Eva who writes the darkly gorgeous Screaming Whispers awarded me with the Honest Scrap and in accordance with this honor I will tell you ten things about myself (and I hope I won't bore you to tears).

I am rarely of use. I like girls (but you knew that already). I've never had an eating disorder, but I do fear flying. I laugh at the basest things. I often go to bars by myself (Mainly The Red Lion, come find me there!). I am anal about flossing. I change hair color frequently. I am scared of the dark. I dream about bygone eras. 

I pass the Honest Scrap thing along to:
1. Signe at Just Another Fucking Blog because girlfriend is raw.
2. Anise at Sometimes I am made of Light because it's beautiful and powerful
3. Miri at California Noir because this girl's got it.


Painting by Gerhard Richter

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Soda Feet and Soda Legs

I found myself – this doesn't happen that often – blank. I had nothing to say, nothing to add. All my thoughts seemed too slippery or unfinished or thought too many times by too many.

I scratched a bug bite instead. And listened to Fever Ray. I browsed blogs. Fashion is seductive even for a slob like me. Still, I can't help but feel disenchanted by the frequency of blogs devoted to consumer goods; things that can be bought and sold. Or stolen.

Shouldn't we concern ourselves with bigger themes like love and death, creation and destruction. Veganism. (As I write this I have chili cheese fries swimming around in a puddle of Dr. Pepper inside my belly). And I can't stop thinking about a pair of French tights that I've seen in some blog or other.
But then I felt inspired by miri to write a druggy post.

The first time I tried acid was with my friend Tilo. He had gotten it from his older brother, the famous DJ. It was during the holidays and we were up in Oregon at his grandma's house. It looked like the fucking Bates Motel and I was terrified of the attic even before we swallowed the blotters. First came the giggles, the uncontrollable ones that had us tangled up and weeping on the floor that later turned into a candy bar. His grandma was luckily not that coherent, but she did wonder what was so funny. I think I told her that Tilo farted. She did not approve of toilet humor so she continued watching HSN.

Along with the giggles came the tingly feeling of little lightning bolts shooting up our spines. Soda feet and soda legs. Tilo's eyes lost all the brown and became black holes. Mine did the same. At first I remember feeling that every thought that came to me was so brilliant, but I could never finish thinking that diamond thought before the next brilliant thought came shoving the first thought out of the way.  It was a bit frustrating, but after awhile I started feeling at ease, connected to Tilo and to the universe that rolled out like a star-strewn blanket.  Everything made sense. I remember saying to Tilo:

This is dangerous, I am going to want to do this everyday now. 

But after awhile the shadows started to lean in and grow octopus-arms. Maybe because it got dark and the grandma went to sleep. There was a fork on the table. I asked Tilo to remove it, because its shape scared the hell out of me. His voice dropped an octave and for awhile I couldn't hear what he was saying because all the words smeared together. But then I heard him loud and clear:

Kim, I've lost a chunk of my brain. We need to go to to the hospital.

Despite me hearing Satan beckoning us from the attic I knew that was a terrible idea. I remember hearing that alcohol could take the edge of, and I found a dusty bottle of brandy in the cabinet and we started drinking.

It wasn't long before we were wasted instead of high. That was familiar territory.

photo by Nan Goldin

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Another voodoo doll apparently needs to be made

I am determined to actually go to bed tonight. I am sick of the demons and the distant sirens I always hear during the witching hour. Sometimes a howl cuts through the night like a dull knife and my mind takes me places I don't want to be.
I have no control over it. Dad tells me to start meditate. But considering he's the biggest douchebag in Los Angeles I don't really want to take up anything he claims does wonders for one's mind and spirit.

I went to Bardot on Vine tonight for about two seconds. I went with Mark, this gay boy who knows a lot of "important" people. It was not my scene. The place was filled with rail-thin blondes staggering around on ridiculously high heels clutching their blackberries and their one-month's-salary-in-Watts-purses. It was such a relief to walk out into the cool night and to drive down Sunset, back to my hood where actual chicanas and cholos still live.

Monica sent me an email the other day. I am definitely over her now. Once again the world has been gifted with a seriously psychotic shrink.

Dear Kim,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing a lot better since I last saw you. My husband and I have truly worked things out, and we've rekindled the flame. The other night we had fantastic sex on the balcony. I am sure all the neighbors could hear us. That really brought us closer. My motherly instincts have also returned. I now love being a mother, making lunch and such. I see my future, our future (my family's) as bright. We have discussed moving to Pasadena. I think change would do us good. My therapist have prescribed me another medication. She took me off the zoloft, and now I take both an anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety drug. That in combination with regular work-out sessions (pilates and spinning) has really elevated my mood.

Kim, I think you are a sweet girl. I am really sorry about the mess we made. It was my fault of course, although you acted very flirtatious. I wasn't myself at all when you came into my life, that's the only defense I have. As you know, I am not gay, never have been, never will be. The thought of the female sex organ in that way actually repulses me. 

Anyway, I hope you find love and that you have a wonderful Valentine's Day.

Best wishes,

Another voodoo doll apparently needs to be made.

photo by the one and only Dave Lachapelle

Monday, February 1, 2010

He makes her lunch and give her pedicures.

these recurring themes have once again rendered me sleepless; lust, greed and cruelty.

I did pull the wings off a dragonfly once. And then I saved a bunch of tadpoles from drowning. I have so many evil thoughts that I don't want to own up to.

I want Veronica to fail. At least, I want her to fall down and get scabs on that super-humanely pretty milky white skin of hers. But I know that band-aids on her knees would only make her cuter. Have you ever known a girl that's just perfect?
Veronica is flawless. She's why-can't-I-be-her? She has the one relationship in the world I am actually envious of. Her boyfriend gives her rides and flowers. He's funny and gorgeous. He makes her lunch and gives her pedicures. When we were younger, and I would go over to her house a lot, I would often spend hours and hours hanging out with her parents. They are – despite being both rich and famous – super-cool. They give their daughter love, not things. They gave me love when I needed it. Veronica has natural strawberry blond hair in which a chunk of rainbow forever is trapped.
And just last week she got the internship that I had applied for and wanted badly. I almost constructed a voodoo doll of Veronica to stick needles into.

When she found out that I had applied for that too, she called me and apologized and then she came over with heart-shaped vegan cookies that she had baked.

And I just found myself imagining Veronica in a terrible car accident that had her legs twisted around her waist, her face a bloody pulp.

I don't know who makes me more sick; her or me.

Update: Neighbor denied ever seeing my iphone. His beast is too scary to deal with. Monica wrote me a strange email that I think I will post here. I may go meet Justin soon. I am not sure why I should. I figure: Say yes to life.

Images by badass Tracey Emin