diamonds

I went to bed at three and woke up just before six, chest tight, eyes wide, muscles tensed, heart pounding. my room looks cumbersomely huge and empty, and the traffic on fell street is just beginning to take on its frenetic pace that usually stands between me and slumber in the dawn hours these days. after the bar closed I departed from my friends and went to the corner store, picking up a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of champagne, but when I went home I set them on the bedside table unopened and draped myself across my freshly fabric softened duvet, turning away from them apathetically. I read an article in the new vanity fair that depicted marilyn's last days and mysterious remaining personal effects, including filing cabinets of love letters and the 15 bottles of prescription pills that they found with her. I suppose that my fascination with her was a seed planted by my parents, and as a child I would fantasize more about growing up to be like ms. monroe than other little girls were dreaming of picket fences and a prince charming. I don't own a single diamond and I'm already too long in the tooth to make it to hollywood, so it turns out all we have in common is blonde hair, epic boobs and insomnia.

I know that things will get better, (they have to), but being at peace with being alone is incredibly hard for me right now. I hate that this blanket of discontent has landed so squarely. I'm at a loss for ideas. my words are even backed up, writing feels strained and unnatural to me, as alien as voluntarily eating vegetables or wearing sneakers. I've got a hunger to get myself out of this hole but not enough energy to do it. I'm tired, I'm tired, I'm tired. and I can't sleep.

this photo of marilyn has been my favorite since I first saw it.



it was part of the reason that I became enamored with the vaguely out of reach fantasy of living in a big city. there's something so organically grand and simple about gazing off of rooftops surrounded by tall buildings at a city whom you love despite its trespasses who loves you back in spite of yours. that look that she has is like a freeze frame of falling in love, but resignedly so. I saw the same expression on jorge's face years ago on a different rooftop, 26 floors above sutter street, with his soft cuban tresses being tossed by the wind from the bay. it had unnerved and elated me to witness such childlike wonder overtake an old soul, to see a full grown man humbled and reverent to a skyline. I miss him terribly, and in times of such duress, I constantly wish that there was some way that I could pick up a phone and hear his voice on the other end, calming in such an unbelievable capacity, regardless of what was being said. the loss is heavy and palpable, and I'm frustrated with its seemingly vengeful flare up. it leads me to wonder, will it ever get better? two and a half years later and I'm still feeling like there's a gaping hole in my life, and nothing can fill it. is this the same gaping hole that killed him?

even if fate had dealt a different hand, we'd either have had a catastrophic supernova of a heart shattering break up, or have eloped to morocco. in any case, he'd have been my best friend for the rest of my life. so, I've had this band-aid on an exit wound. every time I feel this way I numb myself, either with substances or just by a calculated method of distraction. maybe it is time to sit with it. and then, this way, maybe it will be easier to get back up and keep going.

I love you, jorge. I still can't believe you're not here.