Jack Knife, Portland, 8/26/18
"I was stuck here in the ground / Like a passion fruit til someone found me / Appetizing / Like candy."
I came here to break up with myself.
I am drinking tequila mixed with ginger ale and passion fruit juice. Vice device is the name of the drink. Seemed somehow to fit my current mood.
The quote is from a song I wrote called a long time ago, called "Candy". I still enjoy playing it, even though I hate remembering the time period that it's from. I purposefully wrote the line that way, to reflect a passive stance: I couldn't help it that I was always approached by vultures and vampires. I was just a girl stuck in the world, rooted and blooming, waiting to be plucked like a juicy fruit.
That's one of the aspects of myself that I want a divorce from.
So why did I come here, to this dimly lit lounge, to do the deed? Well, there is a story here, and like many stories, it has three acts.
Part 1:
"Well, the shark has pretty teeth, dear / And he keeps them pearly white."
Every time I passed Jack Knife, which is in my neighborhood, I thought I should come here. It looked sexy and reminded me of a speakeasy somehow. It also always made me hear the song "Mack the Knife" in my head, because it almost rhymes.
The first time I came here was on a Tinder date. It was a first date with a man I'll call Rodney.
Rodney was about my age and even more gorgeous than his pictures on Tinder. He was tall, dark and handsome, and from some foreign country that I found exotic at the time. In other words, I thought he was just my type.
We were here at Jack Knife for two hours. The first hour flew by, and was rife with pleasantly innocuous getting-to-know-you type questions. When he was about to excuse himself to go to the restroom, he leaned in for a kiss first, one that I was happy to accept. I texted half of my social circle while he was away from our table, to let them know that I was having a remarkable first date. "I love him!" I gushed to my friend, her husband, my ex-brother-in-law, and my attorney. (I'm just kidding. About the last two.)
When Rodney returned to the table, he asked me if I have any children. "Yes, one," I told him. He informed me that he has four children.
"Wow, that's great! Big family!" I raved.
"Yeah, it would be," he complained, "if my ex didn't make me pay child support!" He went on to explain that he was working two jobs and never got to see his kids. "I told her, 'Hey, either I can spend time with them, or I can work all the time and pay child support!'"
"Oh, I see," I responded, and then dove back into my drink.
Somehow he rapidly switched gears and asked me if I wouldn't mind letting him kiss my toes some time. It's not really my thing, but it also doesn't bother me, so I said "sure."
Rodney then asked me how I felt about rim jobs. I decided then to call it a night. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don't consider that first date talk.
Part 2:
Next, I came to Jack Knife on a second date with Jim, a local writer. I'd seen him around, heard things about him. His reputation proceeded him - but in a good way. I knew that he was tall, lanky, grungy, and kept busy with multiple creative projects - and multiple relationships. In other words, it sounded like he was just my type.
Our first date had been promising, as I had learned more about his polyamorous nature, and listened to him assert that he didn't like to go all the way on the first date. I appreciated that we shared the same values. However, I was eager to throw myself at him on our second date!
We had good drinks, food and conversation, until Jim slipped and mentioned an incident in his past that involved some domestic violence. To be fair, he did explain that there was violence coming from both parties in the relationship, but he was the only one who got caught, and subsequently, he went through a batterer's intervention program. As much as I appreciated his honesty, I had to end it there. Historically I've had a thing for abusers, and I have to protect myself, and my child, at all costs.
Part 3:
"Now my life is sweet like cinnamon / Like a fucking dream I'm living in / Baby, love me 'cos I'm playing on the radio."
My pen ran out of ink. What kind of a writer doesn't bring extra pens to a writing session?
I walked up to the bar to borrow a pen. Fuck this place, I thought: Lana del Rey is playing on their radio.
I love Lana but her music is inextricably tied to several memories of the love of my life. We spent many nights talking, dancing and listening to Lana all night.
The love of my life is tall, with long hair, glasses, and an encyclopedic memory regarding music, art, history ... in other words, he's just my type. We have been off and on and on and off for a long time.
After my date with Jim, I had begun to suspect that Jack Knife was cursed for me. Every time I brought someone I liked here, we never went out again.
But when I started dating my ex again, I thought for sure that our love could withstand a visit to Jack Knife.
My ex is sober so he drank ginger ale and ate French fries while I sipped on whiskey. Unexpectedly, he told me that he'd met someone else and that they were really hitting it off. He said that he wanted to keep seeing me, too, but somehow I sensed that he was moving away from me. The next time I saw him, he broke up with me. I had already started crying in my whiskey about it that night at my unlucky haunt.
Denouement:
I also like to date women, but I have never brought a woman to Jack Knife before. Until now.
Now that I'm done with my Vice Device, I'm imbibing my regular poison, whiskey, again. So that brings us up to speed. Somehow I thought that maybe it was myself that I really needed to break up with.
But I started thinking about some things that I've read, and some things that my therapist has told me. Integration, not abandonment, seems to be the only way to heal the wounded parts of ourselves.
So there is this woman inside of me who is drawn to anyone who will pay her attention. She is especially fond of people whose affection you really have to work for. Also partial to punishment, she feels that these things equal love.
She is impulsive, emotional, trusting, vulnerable and sweet.
Some men and women want to tame her. The real me is wild and free, but this girl inside of me thinks that it's love if someone wants to control her. That is how she was shown love for most of her life.
I don't think that I can help her by breaking up with her.
I am stronger now than that girl who I sometimes catch glimpses of in the mirror. Maybe if I hold her and show her compassion, she will grow up, too. Why should I kick her to the curb? Isn't she the kind the person that I've always had an affinity for: the walking wounded? I think that instead of dumping her, I could love her.
In fact, I think that she is just my type.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
Monday, April 9, 2018
Splendor (Paris Part 3)
This is how I spent my last day in Paris: woke up late, ate leftovers for breakfast. Scurried over to the Palais Royal, where I had my photo shoot, right near the Louvre. After a fun and inspired shoot which took place mostly in the rain, I scampered into a nearby cafe to warm up with an Irish coffee, and have a late lunch. There were only outdoor tables available so I shivered over my salmon, eating quickly, but still enjoyed the opportunity for people watching. From there it was just a few hundred feet to the Louvre, and I had planned to go in, but the line was too long, so I wandered outside and snapped a few pics, before taking the metro train to the Eiffel Tower. I viewed that quickly in the rain as well, and then ducked into a souvenir shop to procure a couple of t-shirts that had been requested by friends back home. Then I headed back to the hotel to empty my backpack and fill it back up with my laptop.
There is a cafe around the corner from my hotel room that I had been eyeing, and so I made a plan to have dinner and drinks there while I work on the novel that I'm writing. In the cafe, I enjoyed my purchases and snapped a couple of more pictures for posterity. The writing didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped, but I got some done. I have been writing some difficult scenes for one of my leads, and, although I love her, she is the one who most resembles me, and so she must go through some hardships, in order for me to work through mine. It isn't easy to write about, but I know that it is what I must do, in order to heal.
Suddenly I remembered another French word: ennui. It means a restlessness that comes from despair. Do I need to force myself to face the darkness and write it all out, while I'm on vacation? I asked myself. Perhaps not. I unplugged and adjourned to my room, for chocolate, television, R&R. For my last night in Paris, I give myself these gifts: relaxation, indulgence, and confidence in myself that I will make more time to tame this beast later, back in the real world. For now, I will enjoy the remaining glass of the wine that I procured here, and raise a toast to all of the beauty that I've taken in. I remember now that I shouldn't feel ennui: I should feel only gratitude for all of the splendor that I have taken in over these last few days.
There is a cafe around the corner from my hotel room that I had been eyeing, and so I made a plan to have dinner and drinks there while I work on the novel that I'm writing. In the cafe, I enjoyed my purchases and snapped a couple of more pictures for posterity. The writing didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped, but I got some done. I have been writing some difficult scenes for one of my leads, and, although I love her, she is the one who most resembles me, and so she must go through some hardships, in order for me to work through mine. It isn't easy to write about, but I know that it is what I must do, in order to heal.
Suddenly I remembered another French word: ennui. It means a restlessness that comes from despair. Do I need to force myself to face the darkness and write it all out, while I'm on vacation? I asked myself. Perhaps not. I unplugged and adjourned to my room, for chocolate, television, R&R. For my last night in Paris, I give myself these gifts: relaxation, indulgence, and confidence in myself that I will make more time to tame this beast later, back in the real world. For now, I will enjoy the remaining glass of the wine that I procured here, and raise a toast to all of the beauty that I've taken in. I remember now that I shouldn't feel ennui: I should feel only gratitude for all of the splendor that I have taken in over these last few days.
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Glass Half Full (Paris Part 2)
I woke up this morning shortly after 9 AM and had the sense that it truly was about 9 AM. Mission to get on Paris time completed! What shall I do today? I wondered. The day was wide open, since I am not shooting until tomorrow.
To have a day completely free of plans is a sweet luxury for me.
I looked up directions to the Pere Lachaise cemetary, and made plans for some shopping at Forum de Halles, a mall in the first district. I threw my journal in my backpack and headed off to write and drink coffee at a little cafe in the neighborhood where I'm staying, before beginning my metro train journey. I decided against lugging my laptop around town.
My French is definitely improving: I was able to order a shot of espresso without using any English! I would still say that I don't know it, speak it or understand it; I merely employ it from time to time, like magic.
After visiting the cemetery, I sat at Le Pere Lachaise Bar, across the street, ruminating on what I had just experienced. It was a stately cemetery with ornate headstones and monuments. It took me nearly an hour to find Jim Morrison's grave, but it was worth the hike. Gathered around it with a dozen other people, I thought about how cool it would be to be a poet who had an affect on so many people.
After my long walk in the cemetery I decided that I had earned some fries and a drink. The bartender didn't speak much English, but, through many gestures and a few words, I showed him how to make a bloody Mary. The drink is marvelous, and life is good.
Snails and wine for one, but my glass is still half full, I thought to myself later, after shopping for hours, while I sat and had a snack at L'Escargot Montorgueil. I never feel sad about being single: I feel sad when there is love and then suddenly it's gone. But after a day of shopping, exploring, sightseeing, and indulging in delicious foods, I am not feeling sad. I have walked six to seven miles each day that I have been here so far. Imagine if I had had some boyfriend or girlfriend trailing along, complaining about their feet and holding me back! Snails are delicious whether shared, or devoured by one person, and there's a little wine and a laptop waiting for me back at the hotel, novel waiting to be written, and that is precisely why I came here, besides the photo shoot, and, oh yeah, the vacation.
To have a day completely free of plans is a sweet luxury for me.
I looked up directions to the Pere Lachaise cemetary, and made plans for some shopping at Forum de Halles, a mall in the first district. I threw my journal in my backpack and headed off to write and drink coffee at a little cafe in the neighborhood where I'm staying, before beginning my metro train journey. I decided against lugging my laptop around town.
My French is definitely improving: I was able to order a shot of espresso without using any English! I would still say that I don't know it, speak it or understand it; I merely employ it from time to time, like magic.
After visiting the cemetery, I sat at Le Pere Lachaise Bar, across the street, ruminating on what I had just experienced. It was a stately cemetery with ornate headstones and monuments. It took me nearly an hour to find Jim Morrison's grave, but it was worth the hike. Gathered around it with a dozen other people, I thought about how cool it would be to be a poet who had an affect on so many people.
After my long walk in the cemetery I decided that I had earned some fries and a drink. The bartender didn't speak much English, but, through many gestures and a few words, I showed him how to make a bloody Mary. The drink is marvelous, and life is good.
Snails and wine for one, but my glass is still half full, I thought to myself later, after shopping for hours, while I sat and had a snack at L'Escargot Montorgueil. I never feel sad about being single: I feel sad when there is love and then suddenly it's gone. But after a day of shopping, exploring, sightseeing, and indulging in delicious foods, I am not feeling sad. I have walked six to seven miles each day that I have been here so far. Imagine if I had had some boyfriend or girlfriend trailing along, complaining about their feet and holding me back! Snails are delicious whether shared, or devoured by one person, and there's a little wine and a laptop waiting for me back at the hotel, novel waiting to be written, and that is precisely why I came here, besides the photo shoot, and, oh yeah, the vacation.
Saturday, April 7, 2018
The World is for Lovers (Paris Part 1)
After just two months, I am single again. Single, and on my way to the most romantic city in the world: Paris. Not that I would know, but I have been told that people hate being there alone. I can remember going to restaurants when I was on a week-long tour in Vegas by myself, and every hostess asked me if I only needed a table for one, and then, after I confirmed their suspicion, they asked me, "Are you sure?"
"No," I wanted to say, "I am not sure. Let me go outside and see if some desperate man or woman wants to be my last-minute date. Maybe I can rustle someone up."
Will Paris be like that? As I write this, I am sitting in a diner at Dallas-Fortworth, where I have my layover, and no one has approached me for service even though it's pretty dead. Am I giving off too sad of a vibe? The world is built for lovers.
Break ups are hard, sometimes even when you are the one walking away.
I need to concentrate on my last-minute French lessons. I always learn some basic phrases to get by in other countries. Before I went to Bali last year, I had ten sentences down and I could ask if something was vegetarian and where the bathroom was. My French lessons have not gone as well. And my Indonesian was mostly wasted: everyone I met spoke English.
People tell me they speak English in Paris, too, but that most people think it is rude for an English speaker to just waltz up to a French person and start speaking English. I get that, and I agree. Sitting in an IHOP in Texas, I went over everything I could remember how to say in French.
Pardonne mois.
Parlez vous English?
Bon jour.
Je m'appelle Amy.
S'il vous plait.
Merci.
Au reviour.
It's a good thing I am not performing music for any French audiences. I always like to talk in between my songs, but evidently I wouldn't have much to say. I will be shooting street fashion with a local photographer, but we've already corresponded in English, so that assuages my fear of speaking with her in person.
There's a sadness in my gut, that will soon undoubtedly be replaced by culture shock and anxiety.
***
On my next flight, I watched a movie called Happy Death Day. The flight attendants had served dinner and I was drinking a glass of wine. I told myself that I would only have one and then try to get to sleep so that I could wake up in France the next morning and be on Paris time. Happy Death Day is a horror flick, and, although there was a romantic subplot, it isn't the type of movie that would normally make anyone cry, least of all me. I have cried at maybe three dramas in my life. I become indignant when the music swells and I get that feeling that the producer is trying to elicit tears from me. "I do what I want!" I say firmly, in my head, to the imaginary producer.
But I digress, Happy Death Day has a scene in which the protagonist eschews her stuck up persona and kisses her love interest in front of her sorority sisters. She smiles a goofy smile and throws herself into it. It took me back to that feeling of shrugging off all of my concerns about getting into a relationship, smiling at someone and telling myself to just dive in. Of course, that didn't work out well for me, seeing as how I am now single, and, at this point, crying on the plane, and waiting for the drink cart to come back around so that I can say "fuck it" and order another glass of wine. I turn to my left, helplessly searching out the aforementioned drink cart, when the stranger I'm sitting next to, a young French woman, looks at my tears and offers, "Would you like my pretzels?"
I thanked her but declined the pretzels, and received another glass of wine shortly after my seatmate's touching display of concern. I drank up the red wine and then dozed off. When I awoke, the flight attendants were back with breakfast and coffee, loudly saying "good morning" to announce their arrival and get all of the passengers into our upright positions in our seats. Drinking coffee, I gazed out the window and realized that I would soon be in Paris. I've never been before, despite having lived in England for two years, and having come back to Europe to travel around other parts a couple times since then. I breathed deep and let hope and wonder fill me. How lucky am I that I get to come to a beautiful city to heal my heart? I asked myself.
***
After two train rides and a long walk to my hotel, I had finally made it to the 17th district where I will be staying all weekend. There are cobblestone streets, and a park, many boutique shops, and a plethora of Italian restaurants for some reason. I dropped off my suitcase at Hotel Le Trente, as it was a bit too early for me to check into my room. I walked around looking something French to eat that might be dairy free and gluten free, but I knew that my options were limited with my dietary restrictions. I had trouble finding anything that looked authentic anyway due to the overabundance of Italian eateries in the neighborhood. My phone was dead at this point so I was unable to do any online research, and I didn't want to wander too far since I couldn't access my google maps app and didn't want to lose track of where the motel was.
I was tired from the jet lag, and so hungry. "Merde", I said to myself out loud, realizing that I do know how to say one more thing in French: shit.
I almost passed another Italian kitchen, and couldn't bare it. If I was going to break my diet, I may as well go whole hog, consume the paragon of cheesy, wheaty foods: pizza!
I drank a glass of chianti and ate my pizza while squished with strangers in a row of small tables. There was a plug behind my seat and I had purchased an adapter on my way to the hotel earlier so I was able to bust it out and get my phone some juice. I took in the sounds of everyone speaking French around me. So far, I had done a good job to say "Bon jour" instead of "hello" and then ask cashiers and hostesses if they spoke English before expressing my needs. I left the restaurant when it was time to check into the motel, saying "thank you" and "goodbye" in French to the wait staff.
After I finally got to take a shower, I put on clean clothes and went shopping and took a walk through the park. I bought a bottle of wine and some snacks and told myself that it would be OK to retire early and have a chill night before exploring other neighborhoods and doing some sightseeing tomorrow. My plan was to take the perishable snacks back to the hotel room, maybe have a bite of them, and then go get a little souvenir shopping done before bedtime. It was five pm, Paris time. I ate some chips, hummus and olives, watching French rap videos on TV in my room. The next thing I knew I was waking up from a five hour nap. Oh no! I will never get on Paris time this way!
I have a propensity to try to stay in a bad dream and wrong the rights, instead of waking up when I'm nearing consciousness. That is how my nap turned into a coma: I kept dreaming of the events leading up to my break up. Now I am soothing myself with snacks, wine and the Simpsons in French. Earlier in the week I had no appetite at all so I am happy to be in the next phase, of eating at all times of the day. Despite having goofed up my sleep schedule, I am feeling grateful that I was not accosted by a sense of culture shock today and that I was able to remember to use my basic French when speaking to strangers. I am so thankful to have this time to write in my hotel. Writing was the main thing I wanted to do in Paris. Perhaps tomorrow I will move my laptop to a cafe. For now I am hoping that the wine I am imbibing will help me fall back to sleep, so that I can attempt again to wake up on Paris time, tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.
"No," I wanted to say, "I am not sure. Let me go outside and see if some desperate man or woman wants to be my last-minute date. Maybe I can rustle someone up."
Will Paris be like that? As I write this, I am sitting in a diner at Dallas-Fortworth, where I have my layover, and no one has approached me for service even though it's pretty dead. Am I giving off too sad of a vibe? The world is built for lovers.
Break ups are hard, sometimes even when you are the one walking away.
I need to concentrate on my last-minute French lessons. I always learn some basic phrases to get by in other countries. Before I went to Bali last year, I had ten sentences down and I could ask if something was vegetarian and where the bathroom was. My French lessons have not gone as well. And my Indonesian was mostly wasted: everyone I met spoke English.
People tell me they speak English in Paris, too, but that most people think it is rude for an English speaker to just waltz up to a French person and start speaking English. I get that, and I agree. Sitting in an IHOP in Texas, I went over everything I could remember how to say in French.
Pardonne mois.
Parlez vous English?
Bon jour.
Je m'appelle Amy.
S'il vous plait.
Merci.
Au reviour.
It's a good thing I am not performing music for any French audiences. I always like to talk in between my songs, but evidently I wouldn't have much to say. I will be shooting street fashion with a local photographer, but we've already corresponded in English, so that assuages my fear of speaking with her in person.
There's a sadness in my gut, that will soon undoubtedly be replaced by culture shock and anxiety.
***
On my next flight, I watched a movie called Happy Death Day. The flight attendants had served dinner and I was drinking a glass of wine. I told myself that I would only have one and then try to get to sleep so that I could wake up in France the next morning and be on Paris time. Happy Death Day is a horror flick, and, although there was a romantic subplot, it isn't the type of movie that would normally make anyone cry, least of all me. I have cried at maybe three dramas in my life. I become indignant when the music swells and I get that feeling that the producer is trying to elicit tears from me. "I do what I want!" I say firmly, in my head, to the imaginary producer.
But I digress, Happy Death Day has a scene in which the protagonist eschews her stuck up persona and kisses her love interest in front of her sorority sisters. She smiles a goofy smile and throws herself into it. It took me back to that feeling of shrugging off all of my concerns about getting into a relationship, smiling at someone and telling myself to just dive in. Of course, that didn't work out well for me, seeing as how I am now single, and, at this point, crying on the plane, and waiting for the drink cart to come back around so that I can say "fuck it" and order another glass of wine. I turn to my left, helplessly searching out the aforementioned drink cart, when the stranger I'm sitting next to, a young French woman, looks at my tears and offers, "Would you like my pretzels?"
I thanked her but declined the pretzels, and received another glass of wine shortly after my seatmate's touching display of concern. I drank up the red wine and then dozed off. When I awoke, the flight attendants were back with breakfast and coffee, loudly saying "good morning" to announce their arrival and get all of the passengers into our upright positions in our seats. Drinking coffee, I gazed out the window and realized that I would soon be in Paris. I've never been before, despite having lived in England for two years, and having come back to Europe to travel around other parts a couple times since then. I breathed deep and let hope and wonder fill me. How lucky am I that I get to come to a beautiful city to heal my heart? I asked myself.
***
After two train rides and a long walk to my hotel, I had finally made it to the 17th district where I will be staying all weekend. There are cobblestone streets, and a park, many boutique shops, and a plethora of Italian restaurants for some reason. I dropped off my suitcase at Hotel Le Trente, as it was a bit too early for me to check into my room. I walked around looking something French to eat that might be dairy free and gluten free, but I knew that my options were limited with my dietary restrictions. I had trouble finding anything that looked authentic anyway due to the overabundance of Italian eateries in the neighborhood. My phone was dead at this point so I was unable to do any online research, and I didn't want to wander too far since I couldn't access my google maps app and didn't want to lose track of where the motel was.
I was tired from the jet lag, and so hungry. "Merde", I said to myself out loud, realizing that I do know how to say one more thing in French: shit.
I almost passed another Italian kitchen, and couldn't bare it. If I was going to break my diet, I may as well go whole hog, consume the paragon of cheesy, wheaty foods: pizza!
I drank a glass of chianti and ate my pizza while squished with strangers in a row of small tables. There was a plug behind my seat and I had purchased an adapter on my way to the hotel earlier so I was able to bust it out and get my phone some juice. I took in the sounds of everyone speaking French around me. So far, I had done a good job to say "Bon jour" instead of "hello" and then ask cashiers and hostesses if they spoke English before expressing my needs. I left the restaurant when it was time to check into the motel, saying "thank you" and "goodbye" in French to the wait staff.
After I finally got to take a shower, I put on clean clothes and went shopping and took a walk through the park. I bought a bottle of wine and some snacks and told myself that it would be OK to retire early and have a chill night before exploring other neighborhoods and doing some sightseeing tomorrow. My plan was to take the perishable snacks back to the hotel room, maybe have a bite of them, and then go get a little souvenir shopping done before bedtime. It was five pm, Paris time. I ate some chips, hummus and olives, watching French rap videos on TV in my room. The next thing I knew I was waking up from a five hour nap. Oh no! I will never get on Paris time this way!
I have a propensity to try to stay in a bad dream and wrong the rights, instead of waking up when I'm nearing consciousness. That is how my nap turned into a coma: I kept dreaming of the events leading up to my break up. Now I am soothing myself with snacks, wine and the Simpsons in French. Earlier in the week I had no appetite at all so I am happy to be in the next phase, of eating at all times of the day. Despite having goofed up my sleep schedule, I am feeling grateful that I was not accosted by a sense of culture shock today and that I was able to remember to use my basic French when speaking to strangers. I am so thankful to have this time to write in my hotel. Writing was the main thing I wanted to do in Paris. Perhaps tomorrow I will move my laptop to a cafe. For now I am hoping that the wine I am imbibing will help me fall back to sleep, so that I can attempt again to wake up on Paris time, tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.
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