Will i ever use film again?
You dance and dance and dance because you remember that you are alive. It wasn’t so long ago that you danced to forget but whatever it was you wanted to forget is underneath your feet right now. You are young, and sometimes you feel like you have nothing. But the music is loud and everything that matters is already yours, and anything else is attainable if you should ever seek it. It’s crowded and you are sweating and you close your eyes and you realize that you’ve never heard this song before, and you’re thinking “who are these people?”, but you act like you’re Alanis in the “Thank You” video where she’s hugging everybody. You’re even hugging the boy you had a crush on last week (but you’re immune to his stuff, oh yeah). You feel like you’ve just come out of heated yoga or like you’ve just received communion. That’s not vodka in your flask tonight. The photo-bloggers are tired and they keep coming back to you so that you can make them look good. Even blurry, you give good face. Even over-exposed. Even when their lenses are misty from the condensation. You are Crystal Castles’ Alice if she was Michael Jackson in ‘Billie Jean’. The girlfriends aren’t even jealous of their boyfriends staring at you because they don’t even notice. They’re staring too. Like the “I want what she’s having” lady in ‘When Harry Met Sally’. They’re dreaming about their single selves and wondering if they’re still being 100%. That DJ! He is choosing songs as if he’s flirting with you, and at this rate he may just end up proposing marriage by the end of the night. You’re dancing like there is no tomorrow as it becomes… tomorrow. The owner walks up to you while you’re drinking from your flask and catching your breath, and he asks you if you want to promote a night at his club but you just laugh and take the drink ticket and his card. Tonight you really heard those Arcade Fire lyrics in a completely new way and that’s the melody you’re still humming as you get your jacket from coat-check and as you get into the cab totally in love with no one or anything but yourself.
(written in the bathroom after puking from dehydration at the Semi-Precious Weapons video shoot)
Love In Brazil
It’s raining and you’re home early because you know the night is over. But the phone keeps ringing. They want you to come back out. You’re still half dressed and the alcohol is still running through your veins, but you know that the night is done. You’re sure of it. It’ll only be cocaine and someone’s weird iPod mix if you go now. Yeah, it’ll only be empty introductions and people hanging out in their precious little cliques. Out of boredom you’ll hook up with someone pretty that you’ve never met before. Someone witty that you started a conversation with in the kitchen. You always do. You guys will be in the roomate-that’s-gone-for-the-weekend’s room and you guys will be kissing and you’ll notice that her makeup, her foundation, will have mostly come off and you’ll see the bumps of her acne in the light and she’ll start to look her age. But by then she’ll have already taken off her top and she’ll be trying to be a “woman” and trying to “take control”. She’ll be doing things that she learned from her long-term relationship ex-boyfriend who had it all wrong. You’ll tune out. You’ll be thinking “Is that the sun coming up?” and feel the sudden crash from all that redbull sugar. The cab driver will have just started his shift when you get in, and you’ll be rationalizing quietly in the backseat that all this is really “living” and that the whole world probably wishes it was in your shoes. And when you get home your bed will feel so good. It will literally hug you into your passageway to sleep, and you’ll still have all your clothes on. Yes, but thank God it’s still raining and you’re home early, because the night is over. Your phone keeps ringing. They want you to come back out. You are half dressed and the alcohol is still running through your veins. Then you hear the “tocking” sound of Facebook chat. It’s that cool girl Isabella (with the “Made In Brazil” tattoo) that Josh introduced you to last week. She can’t sleep and she tells you how she’s watching Vice’s Guide to Liberia. She says it’s obviously a rip-off of the movie “Swimming To Cambodia” by Jonathan Demme. She’s overwhelming you so you agree to meet her tomorrow at American Apparel in Chelsea and go to that Greek place across the street for drinks. Now you’re just lying there and your eyes are heavy and the alcohol has worn off so you put on “Midnight Souls Still Remain” and fall asleep before the song is even halfway.
(written at 6 a.m., listening to Ice T’s song ‘6 in the morning’ at Ibis Paulista)
That’s when she sat next to me. She started talking about things I couldn’t even hang my hat on. How the wine in the VIP lounge wasn’t dry enough. How the business she conducted in the cab on the way to the airport would change my future. How she had made friends with the guys at security checkpoint. She was talking and I was hanging on every word. And my phone was vibrating and vibrating and I ignored it and ignored it. She twirled her hair and she showed me things in her bag. Everything had a story. She gave me an apple just before her flight’s final call. I stood up to hug her good-bye and she thought I was standing up to kiss her good-bye, so she went for it. Now we were both embarrassed. Then she left and I was standing there like the guys in those movies that just stand there at the end, and I wanted to chase her, because I wanted to know more about the book she had been reading and why she was going to London. But I just stood there like these guys in the movies that just stand there, and listened to the mix of flight announcements, 80s elevator music and people panicking around me and I just wondered if I’d ever see her again. My phone started vibrating and it woke me up out of my stupor. It was a text from you and it said something about how you were listening to early Kings of Leon and how you finally realized what the song meant, and how it reminded you of “the last time”, and how food didn’t taste as good tonight. That’s the text message I was reading when the stewardess asked me to turn my phone off for the 4th time. When I opened my bag to get the Dazed magazine (with Bjork on the cover) and my Cool Ranch Doritos, I saw the apple that the “London girl” had given me. I gave it to a little boy who was fighting with his sister and he calmed down. The lights went off, and the plane went into night-flight mode, with only a few overhead lights on. By the time the plane was halfway there, I had already started forgetting about what I’ve come to describe to my friends as a “lack of poetry”. A lack of poetry that could have come between me and this excitement I felt when I got off the plane. The girl picking me up already had crazy ideas. A lack of poetry that could have made me miss the realization that I could thrive just about anywhere if I was inspired by love. All I felt was unmanufactured passion from the people I was hanging out with. I know poetry when I see it. It forces it’s way into the forefront of our consciousness, making us short of breath with it’s beauty. When I get back, maybe you’ll show me yours. But for now, Good Morning Brazil.
(written jet-lag over a delicious freshly squeezed mango frappe)