“A pro isn’t someone who sacrifices himself for his job. That’s just a fool.”

between my crooked teeth
difficulty sticks in strings.
i wince against the rattle
of my [medicine] chest
but i hold the moment
by the fistful -
despite inexperience,
despite primitive implements,
i flash those teeth
and say “hello.”

JMT, 2009/2011

In my apartment, Vivaldi is playing at a volume loud enough to disturb the demon child and his deaf grandmother who forgets the rest of us can still hear her in the unit above me. I’ve just taken two Ambien and I must get this out before it kicks in and I reveal to you the seven secrets of Apollo, thus granting you eternal life and the sexual stamina of a god.

So let’s begin. This particular post has been in my queue for almost a year. Half-done. Almost done. Actually done, just too fatigued to post for fear of…something. Excuses perhaps. An explanation as to where I’m going. Where I’ve been. But in the end, maybe it doesn’t matter.

Troy manages to dissuade the paparazzi. I look like I'm saying a friendly hello. Obviously LA and I get along just fine.

One thing I’ve always had difficulty with is this moment, right now. It’s never this moment. It’s always what will be, what has been, what I’m missing, what I don’t have. This moment is never enough. The funny thing is, right now, this moment is all I have. I have no grand plan. I have no synopsis of what will become of me, or my work, or travel plans. And even if I did, what would that prove? It still wouldn’t put words on paper. It would be a lot of moments I’ve never lived in, though I’ve in fact lived them. You don’t have to tell me that doesn’t make sense.

I dream of dreams. I dream of dreaming. How backwards it is, to dream of a dream. To desire the act of dreaming, rather than achieving. I suppose the phrase “stop dreaming and start doing” is being kicked around in my head. (Quoth the raven, nevermore.)

For a long time I had an “idea” of what I was, of what Gossip [&] the Devil “should” be and how it should be “presented.” Like so many things kept past their prime I held on to that idea because I’d constructed it, executed it and I was seeing dividends in the process.

But isn’t there some risk in the process? Of course. But that risk doesn’t disappear when dividends appear. In fact, the risk rises. The edge becomes thinner. So thin it cuts your toes every time you pirouette. To keep your toes something must change. Equally absurd is it to continue to turn until you have nothing but stumps to show.

And so, there is change.

Vicodin, nicotine, timed prescriptions and what will be the death of me. I'm a professional pill taker.

There is a ride in the ruins of a city that begs to be remembered. The music is faint and its seats are cold. All of this can be rectified. Not glorified. Not memorialized.

But revitalized.

There is a certain amount of posturing that exists in our business (read: artists), a delicate balance of confidence and ego, of the je ne se quois any one of us posses. It’s a hard mix to homogenize, but it can be done. More often there is an uglier imbalance of too much talk and far less talent.

This is mine. My name, my place. I’ve felt unsafe in my own home, a learned behavior poisoning my children, these words. The very things I slaughter for – instead I’ve taken to slaughtering the necessary parts to create them.

I talk about the phoenix, the specatle of the fire bird, the awe of the rebirth – I’ve found it well past due to become it, embody it, to MOVE. I love what I’ve created. It was all I had, for better or worse, for glamour or grit.

It isn’t all I have now, but it’s damn sure still worth fighting for. I’ve found going about things in a healthy way is difficult. Who knew, right? But, as Reno from Final Fantasy VII so eloquently put it: A pro isn’t someone who sacrifices himself for his job. That’s just a fool. And that includes this job – THIS job. This little worker bee has to put her life into the sting she creates and find a way to watch the splendor in the resulting swell.

Expect something different for what Gossip [&] the Devil is and perhaps should have been a long time ago. A broadening of content. The only “call to arms” for the Modern Orphans is to EXIST- same mission – less exclusion – less “prerequisite” – less bullshit. I’m tired. And frankly I’ve met some people in the last few months who have completely shattered my notions of what it means to be brilliant, talented and well aware of that fact – yet still humble. (I’m looking at you, Troy Baker.) Is there a certain amount of swagger involved with any artist? Sure. What I’ve “discovered” is it isn’t the things we do well that necessarily keep us going – it’s the areas we tend to fall just short in that drive us to succeed. Success isn’t nearly as good a motivator as the idea that you are but one word away from being told you didn’t land the job.

Every ink pen lying still, every note left unheard is a loss, something to be mourned but mourned DESPITE them, TO SPITE them if you so choose.

First meeting, 6 years ago. I was far heavier and had a youthful glow. Mat has continued to drink the blood of virgins and looks the exact same today.

To the Modern Orphans, my friends, to my fans, to my lovers, to my fantasies – there is little that is needed from me more than simple honesty.

Honesty.

Some of you have been with me for years. Literally since the beginning. But it isn’t just to you I owe this to -I owe it to me too.

A potential muse has spent many nights with me, swapping prescriptions and speaking so far above my head I had to reach for the stars to catch their words. I’ve spent time outside blackening my lungs with them, scribbling on crumpled napkins, trying to understand their ethos. I feel the first bite of new life. I feel the venom and thank the wily bastard who produced it.

From now on at G[&]D you’ll find the “me” who isn’t necessarily always in Seattle, or Chicago, or with Amanda Palmer, or with Marilyn Manson, or with our lovely Monsieur Devine.  Characters are necessary, but a character is only that – temporary. Eventually you have to own up to the fact that, sooner or later, someone is going to catch you without makeup, and that’s far more telling than any spider-web spin of tongues and teeth could ever provide. Bat those doll-lashes, purse those doll-lips, find those doll-veins. At the end of the day you still close your eyes and try to make sense of the ink-blots stuck to the back of your lids.

Next up I’ll FINALLY provide promo to MD’s incorrigible poetry (sorry, Mat), a long-due post on mental illness (and some great books for reference), anime masturbation and yes, perhaps even some poetry. (Bated breath, I know.) In the meantime – keep dreaming.

This post is thanks mostly in part to my friends both new and old, who keep me honest:  Jai Marie (who asks the tough questions), Troy Baker (“Stop dreaming and start doing.”), Elias Mallin (“Julie, you talk enough bullshit. Now write it down.”), Peter Pixie (“POST IT.”) and, as is usually the case, to Mat Devine (co-creator of Hopeless Beach), who I had the pleasure of meeting six years ago today. Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart for inspiring me to work, write and NEED again. After all, there is someone in the world studying me – and I don’t have the heart to help this poor student fail any attempt at higher education:

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