LOOK AT ME....I was really young once. I think I was 21, maybe almost 22 in these pictures. I know where I am, I'm in Los Angeles; actually on Santa Monica Beach just off the pier. It was in November 1983, and I was working three jobs but felt that I had to go home fast fast fast. I wasn't into cocaine and it just seemed to be popping up everywhere I went. I couldn't go to work at any one of my jobs and not find an addict as a boss, as a co-worker, as the payroll clerk - it was stupid. I came home after my car was loaded down in all sorts of secret places and I literally drove 16 kilos (MULE) from point A, where I worked, to point B, where I worked. My innocence bustled - I wasn't stopped, I wasn't arrested, I wasn't even questioned....and I didn't know either...but after I was told I left. RAN HOME.
What the heck? I wish to God that I would have had the nerve, the strength, the power and the confidence I have now...I really could have done something. I worked for three separate studios, I lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills, even if I was just babysitting it. I drove a really cool 1968 Karmann Ghia, had shoes out the whazoo because the guy in the mansion had a billion girls visiting and they threw out shoes and clothes on a daily basis. If ONLY I would have had EBAY in the '80s. Why...why...why!?
There was this apartment, it was in Brentwood. The apartment had 7 women and 1 guy living in it, everyone's schedules twisting and turning around each others. You could go in and see any one of them in the bed, it was a one bedroom place, and any one of them on the couch, under the table. I found a little one, she was maybe 4'11" sleeping in the closet - on the shelf, over the clothes. It sort of made me feel a little guilty about the 15 bedrooms and 4 living areas in the mansion....and me. The billions of girls coming and going rarely stayed; it cost them too much. Me? Never....I didn't do that. Damn, I didn't do anything!
I remember thinking "Wow, I don't drink liquor, I don't smoke pot, I don't blow coke, I don't blow anything, I don't have sex, I don't even stay out when I'm not suppose to....what a freakin' bore." So, I went to the beach to scream. I did too, I just screamed and I was standing in the water, looking up to God screaming and God said "HEY, don't scream at me...LIVE". Now, living wasn't drinking, smoking, toking, having sex, or staying out - but it was doing more, and it was doing it with fun....with others. I turned around...and there he was. The Photographer!
So, there I am. Standing in the water, wearing my clothes, and just laughing....because I wasn't screaming anymore, and I basically had no other plan. He asked me if he could capture me, shoot me - - sure, why not. I hadn't really been a model before, I thought my teeth were too messed up, and even though I was 5'7", I had a little belly - it wasn't flat and pretty like .... like models, but he wanted me to dance in the water for a few pictures. He was from Chicago. His name was Lincoln. I said yes.
24 years have passed and I'm still willing to dance. I don't scream at God anymore, and I couldn't call myself all that innocent anymore, but I like to think that the girl in the water is still in my head, she's still in my heart, she's still in my dreams, and she sure as hell is still in my soul. DANCE - and don't scream so much, live instead....breathe.
No comments:
Post a Comment