The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 5

I'm watching Californication right now and thinking about my own "status" as a fictional character. I know I'd have a wider readership if I posted as myself. But tear the covers off? I'm just not ready.

I'm also reading Writing the Memoir by Judith Barrington. Why do I think my stories are worth telling? Well, they're shocking - at least to me. I find myself telling them to people one at a time. One person at a time, that is. Which stories I tell depend on the person and the amount of time I have, and where and why I'm telling them (the stories) in the first place.

I met some chick the other night who was brought to my fiancé's by her boyfriend Noah. Noah was supposed to record a song - my fiancé is an audio engineer and has a recording/mixing studio in his room. Noah brought his guitar, his girlfriend Megan, and a bunch of beer. I don't drink, and I was trying to work, myself, but because he brought her, I ended up having to entertain her while the two of them smoked weed outside.

Megan offered me a beer and I found myself telling her why I don't drink, or smoke, for that matter. Sometimes I just say, "No, I'm not drinking tonight" - but for some reason, this time, I took it upon myself to describe my entire downward spiral, post-separation/intra-bedlam. Those two phases are mutually inclusive, but, I don't know if I would cite either as the cause of the other. That's...more complicated, and to be saved for another post.

Which brings me back to Californication: this guy who has one successful novel can afford a house in L.A., and, women throw themselves at him, every episode, including women who don't even recognize him as the writer of said novel. Hank Moody "exudes" sexuality. I wish I could relate to the former of those descriptors, but alas, it's the latter that's apropos. Even now, as secure in my relationship as I am, hardly a day goes by that I don't get that second-take out there - that, you know, "I'm just turning back to look for an extra second here to see if you're at all interested, because you kinda look like you could be," and I, carefully, have to not smile too blatantly, for too long. Mine is, "Shit, I see you looking at me, again, so I better look away now before you get the wrong idea...even though I like it."

Unfortunately, though, no amount of blatant "exuding" on my part has been able, tonight, to get my fiancé to detach himself from his hours-long stretching routine to come "do" me. He's OC with plenty of other D's; he spent two days cleaning his room, putting every little thing in their perfect little places, and now it's been a full day of stretching. Stretching. I wish I was stretching in writing this.

I hope getting married isn't so close to suicide as being a "permanent solution" to a "temporary problem." The solution is the part that sounds good, of course, which is why people kill themselves, or, get married. I guess it isn't funny, but those were seeming to be the two alternatives back in January when I set out to try and nab this one last guy, or, maybe just be shit out of luck and, maybe just not "do this" any more.

Well, Californication's over. I'm turning in. He's still stretching, and I'm pretty damn annoyed, but there's a bit of karmic comedy in it all. I guess I want feel wanted all the time in every way that I want. I'm a little selfish that way. What I should be is grateful. This is better than the alternatives. Either one - being dead or being alone. He does love me more than anyone I've ever been with, besides my son - and that's a pretty nice feeling.

The Poetry Slam Emcee

[Disclaimer: This didn't occur during my current relationship; sometimes I jump around in the timeline to write about someone in my inventory. See the inventory on the left side of my blog for details.]

I was wearing a full suit of black, shiny leather, all the way down to the boots. It made sense to me at the time. Jazz, Poetry, Leather. They just seemed to go together.

I sang Johnny Mercer/Harold Arlen's "Blues in the Night" with the university Jazz Band, and I was damn sexy. I didn't really think of it that way at the time. I really didn't. I'm one of the most innocent people I know - or maybe I'm just the most naïve. At least, I used to be innocent, before all "this" happened. You know, the Fall. It's what this whole blog is about. How a sweet, innocent, straight-A student like me ends up in all leather singing a sexy blues tune with a jazz band. I wasn't really attractive growing up, so I still get surprised when I get asked out. Even after a performance like the one I put on that night.

He was black. I hadn't dated a black guy yet. Is it racist to feel like I've accomplished something? He was talented, charismatic, the host of the show - just the kind of guy I'm attracted to, and just the kind of guy who knows what to say to a girl. And I'm just the kind of girl to fall for a guy who knows just what to say to the kind of girl who's gonna fall for what he's gonna say.

He came up to me with a single white carnation in his hand. "Here. Great job tonight. I think I might have to ask you for your number. But first...what's yo' name?" It took him a second to get into the groove.

I laugh nervously any time this happens, and guys love it. They think they're so funny and attractive. Go me. "Adora...what's yours?" Tee hee.

I'm smiling and looking him right in the eyes. He bit his lip. Real smoov, dude. "Emmanuel."

My heart's racing, I can't lie. This is the nature of things. I'm not really that interested in anything except the feeling. I want more of it.

"Say, Adora, why don't you let me buy you something to eat? Then maybe I can ask you for your number."

"Sounds good to me." I was starving.

We went out to his car. It was in bad shape. He took me to IHOP. Meanwhile, I'm letting him lead the conversation, and I'm just responding. It's really not hard work at all.

He flirts with the waitress who seats us at a booth. He's making her laugh nervously, just like he did me. Wow, what a player.

IHOP had a special bacon menu at the time, and we both ordered from it, plus we both added extra bacon to our meals. We started getting into some meaningful conversation after we bonded over our bacon. I told him about my recovery from alcoholism, and he told me about his mom with mental disabilities. It was getting interesting now. I could see us becoming friends.

He thought he was going to shock me with what he said next. "I don't tell any body this...but for some reason I just feel like can tell you. So here goes, ready?" He took a sip of coffee and raised his eyebrows. I'm thinking AIDS.

"I'm a sex addict." Close enough. Shit, if he only knew.

"Hey, that's cool," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "No wonder we get along so well." It's true - addicts of whatever kind find each other kindred.

"But I want to change," he said. "Like you. Two years sober, that's so inspirational."

Should I tell him? Sure, why not. "Actually, Emmanuel, I'm a recovering sex addict, too."

"Really?! You?!"

(Told you, I'm so 'innocent', people just have no idea. But it's about powerlessness, not purposefulness.)

"Yeah, but I'm trying to change that, too. No sex til marriage. That's my new thing."

"Whoa, I wanna calm down, but....I don't think I could do that."

We kept talking for a little longer about it; he told me how many women he dates (and usually "does") a week. Between one and three (and now I didn't feel like such a slut). He told me how he goes to salsa dancing every weekend and picks up women without fail, every time. Even at the beach - he had sex with a random chick last week just hitting on her in the water. Did I believe it? Yeah. He wasn't bragging. He was remorseful, because most of them end up wanting relationships, and he just wants to do it once and move on to the next one.

We moved on to talk about the poetry slam/jazz concert, and I volunteered to start a facebook page for him. It sounded like a great plan - he wanted to expand to other colleges and universities in the area. I work in performing arts publicity, so I wanted to help. We exchanged numbers, he paid the bill, and he took me back to my car at the university.

"Adora, thank you," he said. "I really like you. You're one of the most amazing women I've ever met."

"Thanks," nervous laughter. "I'll send you an admin invite once I get the page set up." I grabbed my box of bacon pancake leftovers and got out. No kiss. Just a hug. Refreshing. "Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too!"

The next day was Saturday; I got the facebook page set up, and called him. It started off okay, but then he started talking about how he's never wanted anyone so badly in his life, and he wanted to see me again. I told him no - let's just be friends. I don't know where my power came from all of a sudden - probably from his talk of how many chicks he bangs every week and how much he hurts them. I didn't want to be one. I had been one too many times with other guys.

But he wouldn't let up. Being turned down must have really turned him on. I tried to talk to him a few more times over the next couple of weeks to discuss what school he wanted to put on the next poetry slam at, and when, but the conversation would always revert back to him talking about what women he wanted to do (but didn't want to do - the struggle of an addict), and of course, how he wanted me most of all.

So I handed the page over to him, blocked him on facebook, and deleted his number.

I know he wanted to change - we all do - but it's just not possible on willpower alone. And I couldn't help him in that regard worth a damn. Quite the opposite. That's like telling your bartender you want to quit drinking...after this one.

The Berklee School of Music Singer/Songwriter, part 4

We're engaged.

I'm just gonna give that some space.

I broke up with #30  - on February 14 of all days - because this sex and love addict from one of my meetings was obsessed with me and I totally bought into it (plus, I didn't like #30 that much, remember?). Nothing more came of it than a kiss (THANK GOD) and him leaving the state to go join the Navy (he was all ready leaving for that; it had nothing to do with me).

But anyway, so, #30 fell absolutely head-over-heels with me, by the way. He was heartbroken when I broke up with him after meeting with #31, and I was surprised. I didn't know he liked me that much.

I still broke up with him (#30...I'm calling him "Jason") one more time. He smokes weed, and I felt really tempted to smoke one day. He supports my drug and alcohol recovery, and so he does it out in the backyard of his parents' house and cleans himself up so he doesn't smell...but just me knowing that he was doing it was making me want to smoke so badly! So I broke up with him again in March, because I can't take that risk.

But he said I was breaking his heart, again, and we talked about how his smoking weed was affecting me, and we figured out some alternatives to ending the relationship. I am glad; I gotta admit, I'm so tired of being "out there" - you know, single, or serial relationshipping/dating, whatever - that I was willing to go ahead and keep trying with him. So he smokes a little weed? It's not the worst thing in the world. Plus, now we actually talk about things - finally!! He cries a little more than I do, but that's okay. He's sensitive (well, bipolar, you know - but that's okay, too).

Oh...

So, I decided to go ahead and propose.

Crazy? I know it would appear that way. And I never thought I'd want to get married again, least of all to a guy with so many mental disorders that he has to take eight different medications and see a therapist and a psychiatrist. But he is also so kind, loving, intelligent (high IQ's often come with an array of disorders, I hear), talented, fun, comes from a good (not-broken) Christian family who adores me. He was all ready talking about marrying me someday. It sounded almost too good to be true - until I bought him a ring, got down on one knee, and asked him to marry me, for real, then - and he said, "Yes," of course.

So that's it! I'm done, right? It's a victory story, the way I see it.

The Mastery of Love by don Miguel Ruiz helped to teach me what Love is. It's a great book, and I highly recommend it. I also spend a lot of time reading the Bible and working the 12 steps, and I still go to meetings (not the sex and love ones any more [sorry, but fuck those]).

I'm so happy today. I want to write a book!! It's time!! My classes are over for the summer, and so is my job, for now. I do have to find another job; Jason and I want to be married in a year's time and have a place to move into with each other. A two bedroom, so my son has his own room when he's with us (he and my son are developing quite the relationship, too! It's great!).

But....man...a book...can you imagine? I can...but until I get on it, that's all it'll be - imaginary! So, what should I write about? Should it be an autobiography? Should it be fiction, based on my experiences? If the latter, should it be first person perspective, or third? Should I write a series of short stories, with different protagonists, or the same protagonist? What's more interesting, my childhood, or my adulthood...or both? Or should I write creatively about something or someone that has absolutely nothing to do with myself? Now's the time to call upon my varied English education (and professors), whip out some old books, and pick up reading again, avidly.

All I know is, I have to write. I just have to. These past few months of focusing on school and securing my fiance have taken up all my time (yeah, you can laugh there), and now I'm exploding with creative desire. My photography class provided a great outlet for creativity, but I just had to give the loaner camera back to my school's Arts Department. I'm still singing, and Jason's going to help me record a CD (he's a sound engineer/singer/songwriter and has his own mixing studio and equipment). But it's writing that's always been my first and foremost passion, ever since I was four and learned how to read and write rhymes a lá Seuss and Mother Goose.

But, it does feel like I've turned the pressure valve a little to the left here, and I can *sigh*, smile, and get a good night's sleep. Oh, but I just want to say one more thing:

YAY!!!