How many have watched the tide come in on New Year's Eve?

Dear Ether,

I don’t know if people were more afraid of me last night or if I was more afraid of them.  But, gladly, we all ended up keeping our equal distance.  

It was 4am.  I was bundled up in a coat, my long hair wild having been unraveled from a bun. I was wearing trousers with bright gold shoe booties.  My make-up was smeared around the eyes which were very wet from constant crying.  

I sat overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Santa Monica, about a 20-minute car ride for me, watching the dark water.  The pier stayed lit up for partygoers.  The lights of the Ferris wheel reflected off of the tide. 

It was 2010.  The new decade.  

Was it last night?  Or, this morning? 

Everyone was asleep by then. Earlier, it had been a very pedestrian evening.  I usually come home for Christmas and New Year’s, so I’m used to being in California this time of year.  My family doesn’t do much.  We go for a very nice meal, come home, sit by a fire, and then watch the ball drop on T.V. from Times Square.    

But this time it was different.  This time, I felt trapped.  I felt a big pillow smothering me over my face the whole evening.  2010=my 3^rd decade on this planet, and what the hell was going on with my life?  I don’t want to get into it—many of you know the fine print.  But, I certainly didn’t feel like clinking glasses and signing “Auld Lang Syne.”  Every year when the clock strikes 12, I close my eyes and I swear THIS year will be different.  That things will change.  But they never do.  The only thing that happens is that I get into a bigger bind and I age.  And the people around me age.  That ball is actually like the hands of time reminding me that yet another year has passed………and none of my dreams have come true. 

When I went to hug everyone as the fireworks went off in the background on television, I saw the look of fear and sadness in their eyes.  Maybe it was my skewed and negative imagination.  Big Apple Beauty’s age suddenly betrayed her, as did her loneliness.  Bachelor One of 365 gave me a stiff squeeze and I saw in his eyes a vacancy of a man who has yet to have found love.  My mother held me too tightly.  A sickly woman, she grasped me like it was her last celebration, and I saw desperation in her glare.  My father, the man I’ll always love but will never please, hugged me but stared at me with discontent and confusion.  And then there was English gent.  His once almond shaped and welcoming green eyes looked downcast and defeated.  Yes, he was my New Year’s Eve Kiss—but I felt like our lips simply grazed skin. 

We all parted, Big Apple Beauty asking for an anti-anxiety pill to help her sleep because she couldn’t stop crying.  English gent passing out in his office.  My folks meandering into their own room and Bachelor One of 365, my dear brother, off to yet another party, in hopes of finding that soul mate.  

I sat on my bed, hugged my dog and cried into his fur, threw up in the bathroom and suddenly felt claustrophobic.  I needed freedom.  I kept seeing the Thames lit up and the London Eye spewing fireworks from the news that evening—I wanted to see the water.  I drove in absolute silence to Santa Monica.  I kept hearing my mother’s voice warning me as a kid saying that only drunks drive on the road on New Years Eve.  I didn’t care.  I was in a trance.  As mentioned above, I was still in my clothes from dinner.  I looked wild.  The wind was fierce and I couldn’t light a cigarette.  I gnawed at my fingernails.  I purposely didn’t take a mobile.  I didn’t want to be reached……and I figured if they noticed the car missing, they’d known I’d gone out.  I wanted to be in a bubble.  

I looked back on my year.  Mr. X and how fucked up that had been.  My mess with English gent and all those years now on the line.  My 20’s almost over—and what did I have to show for any of it?  My relationships with people and how sour they’d gone.  Bolting from one place to another and never being happy.  London.  How I slept half my life away.  I looked at all the people holding hands or friends elated to be together on this night.  And here I was on a park bench in stupid gold boots and purse that could have paid a month’s rent somewhere.  

I sat for about an hour.  I couldn’t bring myself to watch the sunrise.  Too romantic.  Wasn’t there for that reason.  And, sorry Ethers, I came to no conclusions.  I stood up, my hair whipping me in the face, smoothed out my coat, took a deep breath, and walked back to my car where I mechanically drove back home.  

The house was still.  My dog greeted me with a stretch, but also with a pleading to sleep.  I walked up the steps, entered my hovel of a room, dumped all of my clothes in a heap on the floor and realized that the bench I had just occupied and vacated meant nothing.  It was as if I was never there.  And, I suppose I feel that often about my impact on the past 29 years of my life.  That I’ve sat on many benches and it wouldn’t have mattered either way if I’d been there or not.  And the people I love who are in pain and agony, who feel lost and scared…….they too have sat on many benches and stared at the sea and it could have been just as well had they never arrived.  

I got into my duvet coffin, the 2010 version I suppose, curled into the fetal position, dog warm at my feet, and wake today……..like any other day……….

I have no resolutions.  I have no dreams or expectations.  I’m just a girl who sits watching the ocean endlessly ebb and flow and life reflect off of it. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Where have I been? In dreams of sweet smelling lavender.......or so I one day imagine.

Dear Ether,

No. Please. Don’t be frightened.  I mean, not that you were or anything.  (Clearing throat) It was just in case there might be one or two of you who MIGHT have wondered where I’d been, that’s all.  

I’ve missed blogging.  Before I became a “blogger” I never knew how good it felt to be able to write and speak my mind and heart.  Sometimes say wild things. Write in stream of conscious.  Tell stories that no one knew but myself.  And since Friday (my last post), I have missed this form of expression dearly.  

My days have consisted of 14 hour sessions of research and writing about a subject that is so bizarre, so controversial—yet to the outside world appears foolish and cut and dry.  I have been writing about UGG boots and their phenomenon.  From my research, I have found so much history, so many lawsuits, so many opinions from so many rich and powerful people (in a multi-BILLION dollar trade) that this has turned into a full-fledged investigative reporting piece.  My piece is going to really make a huge impact when it is published.  I’m really quite scared.  You have to remember, I write about mascara and Sienna Miller, not counterfeiting and fraud.  A lot of people I’ve worked with have been so kind to me.  So generous.  There are so many players in this boot game.  I want so very much to represent everyone fairly.  But, for the first time I have not been able to write magazine cheeriness. I have had to write like a newspaper reporter.  I want to disconnect my phone and computer on Sunday.  Am I proud of this piece?  I don’t have a fucking clue.  I am numb.  I, when I agreed to write this, never expected it to be a 3,000 word expose.  If I fuck this up, I could be out of a job and blacklisted from a lot of tick-lists for a long time.  And that’s NOT what I need.

Why couldn’t I have been good at math?  Then I could have been an accountant or a broker?  Or better at standardized tests and deductive reasoning?  Maybe I would have been a swell lawyer?  Science—a doctor?  But, alas, I have none of these talents.  And a career switch for me is impossible.  I don’t even LOVE writing.  I love ideas and coming up with themes for photo shoots and working with a team and researching ideas.  But when it comes to the craft of sewing a piece of work together, nope, don’t love it.  It upsets my stomach, I never feel terribly confident and Ethers, it ain’t gonna make me rich!

I find life confusing.  I find my brain muddled and cloudy and it is often difficult for me to think and categorize my life.  I live in a world with half-drunk mugs of coffee, warm soda cans and a desk filthy with old business cars and eyebrow tweezers.  My coaster is a “Last of the Mohicans” CD soundtrack I must have bought 10 years ago (fuck knows).

I dream of lying in a field of lavender in Grasse.  The oils are released in the baking of the sun’s heat.  They calm me like a drug.  The sky is a perfect hue of crisp blue and I am wearing a full skirt made of white cotton.  I can’t visualize the top.  My hair is loose.  My dog sits beside me just a few feet away under a tree.  I no longer have a hump on my back from my days sitting at my computer desk.  No black circles under my eyes are seen on my now tan skin.  My cuticles have healed because I am no longer nervous.  I owe not a single E-mail, phone call or time-limit to anyone.  I am a stranger.  They truly address me as One of 365.  There is no English gent, no family.  I am ageless.   I am a polyglot.  I have endless credit in the bank.  I never gain weight.  I never feel pain.  I drift in and out of consciousness.  It’s like being given a second chance….maybe a re-birth.  

How sad to always escape into a hopeless dream.  Why can’t one be content?  That’s for another night.  This evening, my tired body has to rest and maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in Grasse for a short, sweet minute, smelling lavender.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

A Bad Dream? Or What Was To Come?

Dear Ether,

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

His breath is calm and steady.  He is asleep.  I lay there too.  My back is turned and I am fully awake.  The room is dark except for the street light coming through the slits in the blinds.  The orange glow cracking through dances every time the wind blows making a projected light show on the bare wall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I leave for the States in 1 week.  I don’t know if I’ll get into a Master’s program and receive a student visa.  If I don’t, I never see him again.  I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like I love English gent.  

He shuffles slightly.  The bed shakes.  

Tick. Tick. Tick.

God this is unpleasant.  This time I brought my own pillow (if you recall Ethers, his idea of a pillow was a flattened, gray “creature”) but the mattress is old and I can feel the springs.  And his bedding is so shabby I’m freezing.  

It’s the kind of “in love” that I’m in that it’s almost like an obsession.  If I lose him I’ll wonder what would have been?  I’m already in agony when he’s away for the weekend to see his parents.  This is unhealthy.  He’s only 20.  He won’t risk anything for me.  Oh London. My London. I’ll miss you.  I’m going back to where I’m from–ironically, IT’S so foreign now.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The blind wildly whips itself against the pane making the room too bright.  The bed is making me nauseous.  I’m SO uncomfortable.  I can’t stop thinking.  I’m incredibly tired and I can’t sleep.  I just won’t get on the plane.  Yeah.  That’s it.  That’s the solution.  The blind goes wild again.  The silhouettes from the street reflect on the wall in fast flashes.  It makes me jumpy.

They say try counting backwards.  That makes you tired and occupies your mind.  99, 98, 97….

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I jump out of bed and take the ticking beast, wrap a towel from the floor around it and place it outside the room.  CAN YOU GET A NEW FUCKING ALARM CLOCK, CHRIST!

He sits up in bed and stares at me.  I’m downing a bottle of water and he lights a cigarette.  

Finally, the room is silent.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Because this post really has no theme, I just thought I'd include a total non sequitur image (and hey, I could go for a long shot and say there are people sleeping in this pic and my post DOES talk about sleeping...). Hey, at least this person was A: Toasty. B: Anonymous (great to market to any celeb) C. And totally on trend (those colors are SO HOT right now!

Dear Ether,

I just wanted to say a quick hello before I went back to sleep.  I didn’t feel very good today, went to a meeting despite feeling like rubbish, and then got back into bed.  English gent is wearing a face mask and declares Swine Flu! But I think  I’m just run down (I’m kidding about the Swine Flu but not about the mask….  )  I’ve taken some Nyquil/Night Nurse and hope to be in a green capsule daze soon (actually, I really don’t need that amateur stuff for slumber.  I’ve got Dr. W’s goods.  But, hopefully this will unblock my nose and ease up my throat).  

My meeting was very exciting and was about my future with my newest freelancing gig (which is the one I love the most).  My Editor is a DOLL and immediately assigned me two more pieces (really quirky and fun, I’l tell you about them later) and told me that she should have good amounts of work for me since the department I was writing for was growing.  I asked her to please consider me for a permanent position if one were ever to arise and she gave me her word she would.  She said she’d also keep her eyes peeled for positions internally posted.  I NEVER put my eggs in one basket and I don’t trust anyone EVER, but I hope this Editor is an honest one who comes through, because I’m in love with this gig.  

My first feature came out today, and when I saw my byline along with a 1,200 word article, I really choked up.  I felt like a writer again–a real journalist, not just a star fucker.  It came out in the Sunday edition so it must have been read by  loads of weekenders–and remember–it isn’t always about the dosh for me.  It’s about that lady unwinding on her Sunday after her long work week and picking up the fun part of the paper and reading my piece and smiling.  My next feature, another 1,200 word beauty, is making headlines within the next fortnight.  This is the one I’m crazy about. It’s the spec piece that got me the gig to begin with. They normally don’t take this type of feature as it’s an opinion piece (by me) and it really meant a lot  that it got printed in this publication, particularly because of its prestige.  You see, I tried to sell it to lower grade glossies and no one was biting.  To see it come alive in this newspaper is a real honor.  

Going to see “An Education” with shoe gal and another one of her fab friends (Thursday) who owns a very famous restaurant here in Los Angeles.  The friend is sassy and I like her a lot.  But she’s married to a guy with a BAD TOUPEE–what’s with me and running into people with bad hair-pieces?  She’s a bit of a cougar and a lot of fun!  Maybe a new friend in the making?

English gent and I have spent a few peaceful evenings together.  And though we do have our shorts spats, we try and hold our tongues and get along.  Hey, at least we’re in the same room together right?  Regardless, he’s my best mate and still owns a bit of real-estate in my heart so we have to see what happens.  From my stats it seems like you Ethers really liked that piece about our courtship!  I guess I’ll have to tell you a bit more about our walks down memory lane.  And what a wild, crazy path it was and still is!  

I hope you’re all well.  I’m devastated that Internet Explorer is still banning people from my site (is this so—can you let me know for sure?) and that folks can’t read when they want to escape from doing work AT work and their damned computers only allow them to search via IE.  My host can’t figure it out, Wordpress says it can’t fix it as they can’t see a problem (both say THEY can view it fine on IE on their servers) so, I am extremely confused!  Regardless, I’ve gotten some lovely E-mails from the blog.  Do continue to write.  Those who HAVE can attest to the fact that I DO indeed reply…..and like my hideously lengthy posts (remember this was supposed to be like 2 lines–I’m at 732 words) I write back a generous amount!  Anything you wanna get off your chest, any questions about a post—write me.  

Okay, back to bed (I think when I die, and if I don’t get cremated, I’ll get a coffin that looks like a bed….it makes sense….it’s where I was happiest and spent most of my days!).  I have an adorable pooch snuggled up at the foot of my bed, of course on my cashmere throw (what a prince) and some good books I’m in the middle of.  Oh, and of course a few cookies by my side table

I know many of you have already gone to bed–or will be seeing this in the morning–so I will just say–as I usually do–

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Word Count: 860

This gorgeous antique print from the 19th century is of the Spathiphyllum, otherwise known as The Peace Lily. A common house plant, it's quite resilient and tough to kill and constantly reminds me of one of the many fond memories of English gent before he became MY English gent. I make sure always to have this cheap and cheerful plant in ANY residence I occupy.

Dear Ether, 

I ran into him at the vegetable section at Sainsbury’s in New Cross Gate.  I was 21 years old and he was 19.  He was carrying one of those dainty ferns that have delicate, petal like leaves that sadly die unless you have a masterful green thumb.  He didn’t have a basket and was carrying too much in his arms.  His face was slight obstructed by the plant.  “You might want to try a Spathiphyllum instead.  They’re almost impossible to kill and they let you know when they’re desperate for a drink—their leaves totally droop and look depressed.”  He looked past the greenery to see who the voice was coming from and grinned when he saw me.  “Hiya.  I don’t know what the hell a Spathiphyllum is but if you know a plant with a fucking name like that, I better take your word for it and put this one back.”  He was so damned good-looking and that accent then was still so novel.  So classy!  I felt like I was chatting with someone Bertie Wooster might know. 

I was doing my midnight shopping as usual because I was a night owl and the store was dead.  I still found UK supermarkets a marvel.  They were so different than the large American ones and I loved strolling down the aisles and buying things I’d never heard of before to taste (though Mr. Brains Frozen Faggots never did make the tick-list).  English gent was wearing a very hip beanie covering his hair so I didn’t see his normally trendy blonde hair cut.  All I could see were his beautifully sculpted features and his dark eyebrows and lashes with his rare peridot green eyes.  I noticed he had a bottle of Jack Daniels as part of his shopping along with writing paper, some pens and oddly a prayer candle.  “What are you up to tonight?” I asked him nonchalantly.  I had been hanging out with him along with a few of my flatmates recently.  He went to boarding school with one of the guys I was living with and was particularly friendly with him and came over to our halls a lot.  The three of us often stayed up talking, drinking, smoking weed and listening to chill music.  I only bothered with this banter because of him.  I felt when we argued over a political point or some other runaway discussion there was some sort of sexual tension.  But then he would just act as mates when we would run into each other.  

“Tonight.  Fuck me.  I have a paper to write.  The whiskey always inspires me,” he chuckled. “And is the prayer candle lit to give you a hope from god to help you finish the thing?” I asked.  He laughed.  “No, I love to write poetry by candlelight and these last forever.” He writes poetry too….oh man……! “Well, I’m not up to anything, so if you finish your paper and you wanna pop on over when you’re done it’d be cool to hang out.”  He nodded his head negatively. “This one is gonna be an all nighter.  But thanks anyway.  I better get that plant—the—Spatha—that whatever you recommended and get going.  Cheers!”  I was gutted.  I just didn’t get it.  I guess he knew I liked him and wasn’t interested.  I meandered around Sainsbury’s a bit more, no longer keen on the novelty of the place and saw him, well, the tall leaves of his plant, in the check-out line, and watched him go.  Sauntering home with, I think that night, Marmite flavored crisps (a nasty surprise) I was bored stiff and cozied up with a book and passed out.  But at 2:30am my mobile rang.  It was English gent.  I was excited, but had to sound calm and cool.  “Hey, what’s up?  How’s your work going?”  He sounded relaxed and relieved.  “I’m done, actually and have a full bottle of whiskey and not a friend in the world tonight.  Mind if I come over?”  MIND?  Of course not!  But, as we Americans say, this was NOT going to be a “booty call.” 

I feverishly threw on something cute, but not trying “too hard cute,” stashed away my candy wrappers and waited with my heart in my chest.  He didn’t knock–he just texted saying he was about to come in the flat.  I jolted up from my bed, opened the door and there he stood.  Diesel jeans (perfect cut), vintage top with a fantastic toggle coat, chic boots (rugged and manly, yet still on trend) the bottle of booze and that damned dashing grin.  Two kisses on each cheek he was in the door, 3 hours later we were drunk, and an hour later I was ready to pass out.  “Can I sleep here tonight?  I can’t be asked to head back to my flat.” Okay.  Remember. NO BOOTY CALL.  SINGLE BED.  SO…WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?  “Sure, do you mind sleeping on the floor, I have a spare duvet and a pillow—it’ll be padded and comfy.”  He looked taken aback, but not too shocked.  I think he thought I was going to invite him to sleep with me.  

By the time I came back from the bathroom where I changed and brushed my teeth, he was passed out.  He was like one of my English novelties I had brought back from the supermarket.  Except I hadn’t tried him—yet.  No, this one I was going to savor, because I didn’t know if it had a day old expiry date.  I stared at him.  His lashes spread out like fans almost touching his cheeks, a slight squint as if he was thinking in a dream, his lips slightly parted blowing air out making a feather from the duvet flicker.  I knew he couldn’t hear me.  He was way too drunk and way too deep in sleep.  So I whispered, “I think I love you.  And I have a feeling we’re going to be together.  You’ll see.  When I want something and I try hard enough, I get it.”  Oh if only the two of us knew how right I was to be that night.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365