My words began to haunt me.......

Dear Ether,

To become haunted by oneself through ones own words is disturbing.  I would see the same pattern in my writing that happened in my real life.  I started out with promises of friendship, stories, fashion, beauty—and yes, life as it truly was (the good, the bad and the ugly).

But as time progressed, all I began to do was write about the bad and the ugly.  See Ethers, this is what always happens to me outside the sphere.  I lure people in, friendly with a sense of humor, witty banter about vacuous pop-culture.   I even look the part wearing trendy clothes and a big lip-glossed smile.  But as you get to know me, the facade cracks and all I am is gloss.  A shellac that you brush over worn out wood or cracking paint to make it appear glistening.  But, underneath this varnish, what you have is damage that needs repairing.  And even through my anonymity, my veil, I still couldn’t stop from being who I was.  I could have hit the delete button or not published certain stories—but I did.  In doing so, One of 365 just became another ugly appendage of the human being sitting in front of the screen.  I was afraid of people leaving me.  Becoming bored of me.  I felt self-conscious, like I was moaning about the same woes for months and no matter what advice I was given, couldn’t change.  Being deserted again horrified me.  I couldn’t bear being a failure in yet another forum of my life.  So, I pulled a Houdini of sorts and disappeared.  I didn’t check my e-mail for One of 365, leave comments on posts of fellow bloggers who I love, Twitter became a ghost-town for me.

So, why today?  Is it because it’s the 1st of February?  A new start and a fresh month?  No. A dear friend of mine dedicated a post to me.  I didn’t deserve her kindness, as I didn’t answer a single e-mail from her for 3 weeks.  But my bosom buddy Wildernesschic (who if I could have a smidgen of her passion and kindness…) kept at me.  I couldn’t believe someone was willing to see past being ignored.  And then, with a deep breath, I checked my inbox and comments area.  I was surprised to see that others had asked after me too. I was so grateful.

I don’t think I’ll ever be writing about cotton candy and keg parties.  That’s just not me.  And you know what else isn’t me anymore?  ”One”—at the header of my page.  The story will always be there for all to read—it is my first entry.  But, I’m going to re-write that page as an “about me” instead.  The only thing that still stands true in that piece is my hope in One of 365 to discover something in the journey of blogging.  So far I have already.  And one of the realizations is that a huge part of my writing here in the ether no longer has anything to do with that girl and her night with Mr. X.  As said, it will always remain in One of 365’s archives, but it is no longer who I am.   And, I’ve thought about the title One of 365.  Yes, I will do my hardest to post daily.  But one day out of 365 doesn’t necessarily mean consecutive days.  Fair compromise?

To all you who cared about me and didn’t just “gloss over” this varnished set of numbers….as always….

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 "comedic" approach to how I feel. The modern "deer in headlights."

Dear Ether,

Have you ever been afraid to face anything so you do the absolute worst thing possible—-nothing at all?  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I’ve been researching my assignment for about 10 days and have felt disorganized, confused, unmotivated and anxious ever since I began working on it.  I’m not like this. I’m normally very organized, pushy and get things done with precision.  With this job I’ve felt like a deer in headlights.  Stuck just staring at oncoming traffic waiting to be hit by a car.  All I ever talk about is how desperate I am for a career, a future.  I’ve spent the past few months killing myself trying to make contacts, and now that I have something that I should be psyched about, I’m panicking.  Why?  What’s wrong with me?  Why can’t I ever be content?

So, this piece has to be about 2,000 words (it’ll probably be cut down…but that’s what I’m going to present).  My god, many of my past blog entries have been 1,500 words!  Should be a snap, right? I need to write this in a day and a half.  And yet, I feel like I need a lifetime.  And the joke is, this feature is about FASHION. Not Iraq or the plague. A fucking trend in the shoe world.  And yet, I’ve had to take anti-anxiety medication, had to stay in bed with a lavender candle lit and ponder the article in my famous duvet prison uniform.  

Am I this delicate?  How the hell am I going to survive in this world?  I mean, I really seem to be falling apart.  English gent, my family, my psyche.  What’s next? I thought as we got older we got wiser.  I feel just as stupid as I did a decade ago, except I need Botox and a good personal trainer.  God.  Even my blog has turned into a soap box for me to stand on and moan.  What’s happened to me? 

People are probably disgusted by me.  Insulted that I’m even complaining.  There are real problems out there.  But (and I know this seems so self-indulgent), for me, this IS my world and it is overwhelming.  No, I’m not starving or homeless—but can’t we argue that things are relative?  That in our own small circles things are painful?  What may seem stupid to you, may be like a huge phobia for me.  I miss the girl I was who posted 2 weeks ago.  I want her back.

So, tomorrow is D-day.  The start of my article.  God, my heart just started beating out of my chest when I looked at the screen and saw that I wrote that.  Me and this computer, boy.  This ol’ Mac has seen me through every state possible.  If this sucker could talk, I’d have to remove its larynx.   

Off to, fuck knows, think about the inevitable.  What a fool I am.  I’ve wasted so much of my life worrying about stupid things and yet I keep perpetuating this lost time and can’t stop myself.  Like a fucking Greek tragedy—yet not even that epic.  

Hey, if you’re sick of my rants and complaints and miss the old One of 365–check out my sidebar and catch up with some old posts you haven’t read.  That’s my best advice for now.  Again, sorry gang.  Read my “mission statement” for this blog.  I never said it was always going to be pretty.

PS: Happy 1st night of Hanukkah.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Blecchhh. Tell me about it, Banksy.

Dear Ether,

4 days of rain the forecast.  Yep.  Dark days ahead.  As you know, I suffer from terrible seasonal affective disorder and the dark, wet skies aren’t going to make things pleasant.  These are the days that I wonder what the point of being in “sunny California” is?  Yeah, yeah.  I know I can’t have good weather all year round, but when it rains here, I find this place to have very few endearing qualities.  

When it starts to hit heavy, I tend to put on Bach, light a candle and stay under the covers.  But, I have a serious deadline for a huge feature due on Monday.  The feature is on a subject that’s–well–let’s just say it isn’t rocket science.  Yet, it requires a ton of accurate research and pressure and when you can’t stand the subject you’re writing about, it becomes utter agony. This, coupled with the weather is gonna be a toughie to pull off.

I’ll try not to be a miserable git.  I can’t promise the happiest of posts, but hopefully you guys will act as a nice break from the monotony of writing about a certain brand of shoes that are anything but glamorous.   In fact, I’d like to give this article the “boot.”  

To all my fellow Jewish friends, Hanukkah starts tomorrow!  Awwww, how lovely.  So, for those of you who get there before I do (living in a different time zone) spin a dreidel for me and eat a tasty latke!  

Not much to this entry.  Just wanted to check in and let you know I still had a pulse.  I’m exhausted from doing research and speaking to “experts” about vacuous things.  I’m hoping my next assignment will be a nice reward–a piece with some depth to make up for this moronic topic.  Hey, you win some, you lose some.  For example, my book feature comes out this Sunday.  Can’t wait!  I wrote over 2,500 words and reviewed 14 books (hey, I got attached and couldn’t choose!). My Editor told me 3 books would be cut (sniffle).  I wait with SERIOUS angst to see which ones got sliced (again, major attachment issues).  After the bad boy is published I’ll tell you what books I recommended (really fab and unique stuff that is tick list worthy for gifts!).  

A more boisterous post tomorrow I hope.

YAWWWWN! STREEEETCH!  (I think I just felt my Quasimodo lump snap!) 

Time to hit the hay a bit early.  Guten Nacht gang.  I begin early tomorrow (and you KNOW how much I love to rise and shine).

PS: Sorry I haven’t Tweeted in a while.  Will be back on form once this fucking piece is done!  I’m also trying my best with comments.  Do be patient…please

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

No--this is not me. But it is exactly how I feel. Totally swallowed by BOOKS!!!!!

Dear Ether,

I sit here, brain hurting, surrounded by books and press releases and scared to death.  I have a feature due.  It’s a holiday gift guide for fashion and style books.  Not only did most of the PR’s send a lot of the books too late, but summarizing them in a witty, short, concise manner is really eating away at me. And books are my thing!  I have to do 14 titles and I have only written 4.  I am mentally taxed from this and really worried that I have writer’s block.  I can’t NOT do it.  That’s just not an option.  Yes, it WILL get written.  But the quality has to be 110% and I’m just out of sorts.  

So–that’s why I’ve been out of touch.  I’m so sorry.  I should have written earlier.  But I’ve been inundated with this.  Yesterday, the idea of looking at my blog was horrifying.  I couldn’t even think to write another summary let alone a blog post.  

I REALLY want to start commenting on zillions of other blogs and making new sphere connections.  I want to write lengthy replies to the generous comments that I love so much that you leave me.  But all of a sudden I have this nasty assignment that is, for the first time, not working with me.  So, for you bloggers who I regularly visit…..I’m not being an asshole.  I just am offline.  And for you lovely folks leaving comments…….again……….not being an asshole……..just offline.  By the weekend I won’t feel like Atlas anymore.  God Damn….what you gotta do to make a buck these days.  

Okay.  Back to writing up a $550 Chanel book (yep!) and a lovely set of Penguin Classics that have been revamped in the grooviest hardcovers (Dorian Gray never looked so dandy).

I rue the day I ever became an English major.  Fuck.  I rue the day I didn’t win the lottery.  

Thanks for hanging in guys.

xoxoxoxo

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365