Tag Archives: Beyonce

A Woman Under the Influence

“I’ve always wanted to be an adjective.” — Lady Gaga

In all my blunt Russian honesty, I cannot claim that I seek inspiration from the most popular cultural events.  I don’t have E! looping in the background (I don’t even own a fuckin’ TV, the nerd that I am!); and never have I laid my eyes on the crafty work by Perez Hilton and the likes.

This year, however, since my pursuit of a self-publishing career as a blogger, I did have to get with the times a lil’ bit.  But even when I tweet (and I do so with discipline, on the hour — the nerd that I am!), I don’t stick around that social medium for the latest gossip.  A handful of fellow bloggers feed me their daily bits directly into my email; and when I do read, I’d rather get my fill via the New York Times’ op-ed pages or a quick bathtub read of Entertainment Weekly (I call it Entertainment —  Quickly!).  Because at least by then, the recent pop-cultural events and persons have been digested by someone else’s intellect and their validity has been established; at which point, I can decide whether or not to invest my own braincells in pursuit of self-education on that topic.  Some may call it snobbism.  I call it:  selective know-how.

Actually, scratch that.  “In all my blunt Russian honesty”, I should call it Being Ancient.

Just the other day, a honey — a total cutie, a lovely, a boo — offered to fix me up with one of his friends.  I chuckled, of course; but when he interviewed me on my preferred age group, I reluctantly spat out a demographic I’ve established for myself back in my 20s:

“A four-year difference, both ways.”

The cutie’s wheels began spinning:  “That makes it… 28 to 36?…”  (He gave me an elevator gaze, head to toe.)  “Nah!  28 is too young for you!” he concluded.  “I mean:  I — AM 28!  NO WAY!”

Casually, I had to lean myself against the exposed brick wall behind me in order to not double over from his brutal evaluation.  Truth be told though:  The cutie was right.  I AM starting to feel if not ancient — or well-lived in — then decidedly moving toward the middle-aged chapter of my life.  Perhaps, it is time to stop playing with boys in sandboxes — and get myself “a real man”, whatever the Dickens that means.

But when the cutie began interviewing me on the topic of my occupation (on behalf of my future husband — a.k.a. “the real man”), I found myself struggling with a temptation to give him a mellower version of myself.

“Oh yeah?  You’re a blogger?  What do you blog about?” the cutie was on a mission.

“Um…  Relationships…  ALL kinds of relationships.”

“Sex?”

“Um…”  (I had to grasp for my courage for a sec.)  “Sure.  Sometimes.”

The matchmaking never really took place, my comrades.  (Hmm.  Shocker.)  But the slightly brutal chat with the cutie made me wonder about my chances of getting paired-up during this era of pursuing my professional aspirations.  I mean, I myself don’t know many “real men” who could introduce a sex-blogger to their mother.  So, I’m thinking:  Until the money starts rolling-in and I single-handedly yank myself up to a higher financial demographic, I’m just gonna have to remain un-paired-up.  Un-matched.  Un-figured-out.  But thank you for your consideration.

But “in all my blunt Russian honesty” (phew:  quoting myself gives me a hard-on!), I must accept the fact that while chasing a dream, I am in a dire need of manufacturing a whole other persona.  And I’m not just talking about a stage name here, my comrades; or a pen-name, in my writerly case.  I’m talking about pimping myself out as someone a lot more fierce than the private person adored by her friends and lovers.

Because in this day and age of self-producing and self-promoting opportunities, one must LIVE a dream — BE a reincarnation of that very dream — not just CHASE it.  Chasing it, I’m afraid, just no longer cuts it.  And here, from my very conservative, old-fashioned research of the current pop-culture, I must bring up a very recent phenomenon common among female artists, specifically.

This is an era quickly overwhelmed by the emergence of perpetually self-reinventing women who are bold and fearless — via their fictional personas: 

–  Let’s start with my personal muse Rihanna, whose hair-color change inspires the women of the entire nation.  (Just yesterday, I’ve encountered half a dozen hairstyles of that RiRi-Red shade.)  But every time I bring her up in my female circles, it is guaranteed that someone will object to her obnoxious devotion to the topic of sex (an objection I rarely hear applied to the lyrics of Kanye West or 50 Cent.)  Hmm.

–  Then, there is the dual split of an artist formerly known as Beyonce.  In ’08, this fully-established, already commercially successful singer emerged as yet another persona when she released an album titled I Am… Sasha Fierce.  To most, that album was know for the anthem of All the Single Ladies.  I, however, was immediately fascinated by the dot-dot-dot portion of its title.  In that ellipsis, I hear a woman not only looking for her new identity, but the courage she must summon in order to deliver her message — via that identity.

–  Finally, there is the magnificently insane, ultra vain (or is she vain-less?), brilliant, ever-so-changing force of nature — and art! — Lady Gaga.  There is really nothing tamed about this one, is there?  There is no room for any ellipses.  In the case of Lady Gaga, there is no private persona.  She IS…  She is more than “IS”, actually:  Lady Gaga — is “IS”-ness herself.

So, is that what it takes?

In all my blunt Russian honesty, I don’t want a career of an anonymous artist:  I’m too vain for that.  Neither do I desire being tamed into a more easily digestible artist with a pseudonym who can than be described as the “Next-So-and-So”. I want to be… FIERCE.  SUCCESSFUL — and fierce.  And in order to accomplish that, I’m starting to learn that not only must I develop a thicker skin — I must get myself a whole new one.  As for the old skin, it’s just gonna have to be shed and left behind (for now), with all of its attached desires to be completely understood, embraced, liked and loved by a “real man” — and all kinds of others.

“What’s point?” you may wonder, my cuties.

Take it away, Gaga:

“The true luxury of my success is that I can do it all on my own terms now, even though the roller-coaster ride is still going.  [But now I own the roller coaster.]  I own the whole theme park, actually.”

“To the Left, to the Left!”

The other midnight, while on Hollyweird’s no longer secret throughway of Fountain Ave,  I found my lil’ sporty car revving up its engine while impatiently crawling behind a clunker.  For those of you who haven’t had the privilege of sitting in traffic on this one-lane residential street running in between the freak-show of Sunset Boulevard and the parking lot of Santa Monica Boulevard, it is still one of the more reliable routes to take if you don’t ever wanna be the douche who walks-in late for a meeting — or an audition, or a dinner reservation — and says:

“Gosh!  The traffic!”

Oh really?  Traffic in LA-LA, eh?  Shocker.  Must the gay people’s parade out there, or something, huh?

Normally, when wasting my life in traffic, I’d resort to one of two choice:  either I swear colorfully enough to make the other drivers’ outer ears wilt, or I think of Eckhart Tolle and pretend to meditate.  But at midnight?

“WHY in the bloody, fuckin’ Dickens am I going at 3-fuckin’-miles an hour — with NO other cars in sight?!” I thought, and began to spew out hefty nicknames I’d call the driver of the clunker if ever that moron and I had a face-to-face encounter.

I was sitting behind him at a red light, waiting to make the left turn that would finally liberate me from his retarded choice of speed, when the passenger door flung open and a gorgeous creature leapt out onto the street.  She was petite, in some shiny, skin-tight Cat Woman outfit, with a bouncy bob of glossy black hair.  In twelve-inch heels, she jetted for the sidewalk, leapt up onto the curb and started walking.  By the temper of her strut, and the swing of her elbows, and the hesitant stall of the clunker once the light switched to green (the poor fucker forgot where he was going!), I quickly realized that I was witnessing a relationship dispute.

Now, a long, long time ago — this cat’s several lifetimes ago, to be precise — my love affairs used to have that sort of a dramatic feel to them as well.  Now, don’t get me wrong, my comrades:  Especially in the beginning, my lovers were always beautiful and love-worthy — of various nations and tongues, professions and talents, physical attributes and endowments, age groups and income; with unpredictable hairlines and bodily hair.  Oh, they were lovely!  Really!  But that’s, of course, until an affair would start going to shit (and let’s not kid ourselves:  we all know when a relationship does a one-eighty toward the unavoidable break-up); at which point, no matter how much I’ve tried to brace myself for grace and some degree of gratitude during the transition, it would always get dirty.

Not really a flaky or fearful partner (and because as an ex-Soviet, I accept suffering as part of the deal), I would still try to stick around “to fix it”.  But once there are cancer cells in the body of a relationship, most likely it is time to wrap-up all the loose ends and with a heavy realization of its unavoidable demise, just ask:

“Doctor?  How long do I have left?”

The mess that followed my departures (and I would always be the one to leave:  https://fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com/about/) would take years to clean-up; often accompanied by astronomical phone bills due to all the sorting-out and the fishing-for-forgiveness conversations.  Or should I call them “fights”?  Hmm…  Yep:  They were fights!  Often unclean and unfair, loaded with lists of mutual grievances and tears; and a certain degree of my hyperventilation, because once again, I wasn’t sure where I had gone wrong…

Now, wait up!  Wait up a second here, V!

Actually, with enough honest examinations of my inner and outer selves, I have to confess:  I always knew when shit wasn’t right. Yep, I’ve seen the red flags and the signs of messy things to follows. Yet still, I would impatiently rev-up my inner engine and drive right over them — and into the arms of a man wrongly suited for me from day one.  And once in them — in those moderately or plentifully haired arms — I would continue to speed toward the Committed Relationship chapter of the affair.  More red flags would pop-up; yet I’d be in the zone, jacking-up my speedometer, Danika Patrick style.  And I would continue to stubbornly ignore my intuition — until the routine of the relationship would finally set in; at which point, I’d have NO choice but to slow down, eventually pull over, and collect all the self-violation tickets.

Okay, you get the metaphor, my comrades.

So, when the Cat Woman leapt out of that obviously ill-suited for her magnificence vehicle the other night, I had to remember my own stunts of jumping out of derailed relationships and my lovers’ moving chariots.  So, what did I do?  I U-turned, my lovelies!  (Illegally, of course!)  Because I too had suffered enough and could empathize with the Cat Woman’s Walk of Freedom.  And although I couldn’t help her with cleaning-up her poor choices and patterns, it was my civic — womanly — duty to ensure her safety that night.

Again, I sped, with my very ovaries pushing on the pedal.  But by the time I caught-up to our gorgeous kitten’s trajectory, she had already gotten back into the clunker.

“Well,” I thought.  “She hadn’t had enough yet!”

So, I said a prayer for our Cat Woman’s safety, hoping that she would always land on her feet; wished for clarity in her next life — and sped off home.

Pardon You?!

Dear Ex-Whatevers:

I’ve had you on my ego’s mind lately.  Blame it on the current era of my life in which I’ve finally stepped up to my self-copyrighted standards and reached for what I’ve deserved all along; but my ego’s little trip these days is to be witnessed by those that have tripped me up before.

“See!  I’m still walking!” it wants to throw over the shoulder at those I’ve left behind.

While I was never the one to lack dreams, these days I’ve finally harnessed the courage to get me to them.  Although the manifestations of success are still audible primarily to me — there are no manuscripts published yet, no dream jobs to speak of, no gypsy journeys committed around the world to reunite with my heritage — but oh how close I am to becoming what I was always supposed to be!  (The bitchy irony here, of course, is that my lacks, my insufficiencies were self-manufactured all throughout.  I am the reason I’ve slowed down before.  I am the one to trip myself up.)

“See:  Still standing!” my ego wishes to telegraph to the past players who had no comprehension, patience, or — let’s just be honest here! — acceptance for the girl I was always becoming.

But why?!

“Why the hell are you dwelling on the fuckers?” the stronger, wiser girls of mine bitch-slap my slower Self who, truth be told, can be a real sucker.

They are correct:  The memories of the past losses — and the last asses — tend to slow down my step.  But there is “a method to my madness,” I realize:  FORGIVENESS.  Fucking forgiveness!  The bitch is high-maintenance, isn’t it?!  One can earn herself bloody blisters and very high bills from her shrink when chasing it.  Forgiveness demands work, and it is the type of work that comes with no owner’s manual.  It is only between you and you; and despite your girlfriend’s or mother’s endless advice, only you can do the heavy lifting of brutal honesty and self-knowledge.

But what even I didn’t comprehend, despite the three decades of fucking around and being fucked with — is that forgiveness is a bloody chameleon.  Not only does forgiveness vary depending on its owner and that owner’s past; not only does it take an encyclopedia of diverse methods to access — but it changes along with you. If, immediately after the loss, it feels right to be angry while maintaining a distance between you and the wrongdoer — then, at that moment, that is all forgiveness is meant to be.  After months of copying, it may change to a feeling of lightness (and maybe an occasional nausea at the sound of your ex’s name) — then, that is forgiveness at that moment.  For some, eliminating all contact with an ex is the way to go; and that little imaginary death is their way.  I always aspired to be the fuckin’ Mother Teresa with my ex-fuckers — tending to our friendships for the sake of the lessons, and the stories, and the blah-blah-blah.  No matter how idiotic it appeared to my girls, that — was my forgiveness.

Oh sure, I wish I were the type of a girl to let Beyonce simplify my emotional baggage via her lyrics of arrogant feminism or angry regret:

“And keep talking that mess, that’s fine!

But could you walk and talk at the same time?!”

Uhm-hmm:  to the left, to the left!

But you see, though, my comrades:  I like digging through the mess for answers — sometimes doubled over because the pain has taken the wind out of me — and get my hands nice ‘n’ dirty.  I’m more of a Nina Simone gal:  well lived-in, well-used, wrathful, self-sufficient and little bit insane; writing her lyrics with a nose-bleed and a foaming mouth:

“I hold no grudge

And I forgive you your mistakes.

But forgive me if I take it all to heart

And make sure it doesn’t start again.”

But alas!  Here is a little “aha” moment for V, as of very recently:  Despite the ego’s desire to be witnessed by those whose mistakes have gotten me here — I want no part of them. For a change, I’ve lost all desire to carry the baggage.  Can’t I just check it in somewhere?!  Yes, I can:  on my bloody pages!  Commemorating my exes on the blank canvases of my own is my way of honoring them; and I may even feel a pinch of gratitude for those tales of defeat — but that, my dear ex-whatevers, my fuckin’ ghosts, is as far as we go.  I’ll let the ego telegraph my successes when the unconscious is activated at nighttime, behind my closed eyelids; but those smoke signals shall be the only ones sent your undeserving way.

So, take it away, Nina:

“I’m the kind of people

You can hurt once in a while.

But crawling — just ain’t my style:”