zenexistence

I saw Black Swan last night.
I have this ... thing.
Call it a ritual, call it an OCD issue, call it a chosen factor for personal development, call it late for dinner, whatever.
I have this thing.
I like to go to movies alone.
This also extends to shows/concerts. Clubs. Bookstores. Coffee houses. Bars. Pubs. Diners. Dinners.
But enough about my dogmatic obsession which borders [please help defend my borders] on social elitism, lets talk about my thing.
I like to go to movies alone.
And prior to stepping foot in the movie haus I stop at the corner store and get candy. Raisinets. Normally but not always. And I get a soda. Coke Zero. Normally but not always.
And I get beer. Always.
Because half the fun of bringing in beer is trying to pop it open at a strategically-choice louder part of the movie, be it explosions, coughs, gunfire, erotic moans, musical swells, tidal noises, etc.

And I have an unfailingly and unflinchingly redundant choice of attire when it comes to movies.
I always [and normally] make sure I'm wearing comfortable jeans. You know the type; well-washed, softened by wear and age, possibly and probably a hole somewhere that would force your Mom to tell you not to wear them in public yet wear them in public you would?
Yes, those jeans.
And I wear girls jeans.
I'm not going to lie, learned the trick a decade ago and never looked back.
I'm a skinny bitch.
[Note to skinny guys: girls jeans are cheaper than guys "skinny jeans". Little known fact I learned from my American Eagle regional manager bartending compadre.]
Granted I also have this huge pair of jeans that are so baggy as to border on the absurd but I only wear those to rock climb or paint in. I have yet to figure out why this jeans (that we shall call Dweezle) are used for these pair of adventures and no others. But they are.
Moving on.

My boots.
I have these combat boots that are wicked old. Ground down. Beaten, battered, bespattered with God-knows-what. I think I've done everything in them; shows/concerts. Clubs. Bookstores. Coffee houses. Bars. Pubs. Diners. Dinners. Fought in. Fucked in. Painted in. Painted on. Rode in. Rode on. Rode hard and put away wet. These boots are an extension of my very soul, a map that details and duly notes where my heart and mind have traveled during the last decade and a half.
Understandably so, they are comfortable afoot.

See? Boots.

And I always have a hoodie.
Al-ways.
I wear my heart on my sleeve [of my hoodie].

See? Hoodie.

And my glasses, because when it comes to watching movies contacts can suck it. I stare too wide-eyed and childlike at the screen and they begin to dry out (my eyes, not the screen) burning my irises. Or retinas. Or corneas. Or whatever part of my eye it is that burns when I stare too intently at things.

See? Glasses.

So in this uniform of sorts I make my way into the movie theatre. I never tire of movie theatres. I STILL get that little thrum up my spine when the beginning trailers start. Actually, I get it more when the lights start to dim and it continues on to the trailers.
And I munch on my Raisin-ets.
And look for the opportune time time to pop my beer.
And I smirk ever-so-knowingly in that aloof manner that one does when they have their own treasures and others do not. This is because my pockets are filled with all the pertinent movie treats that I'll need.
I forgot to add sour gummy worms.
Those too.
And then I kind of wish I had my cat with me because Bones always lays on me when I watch a movie.
He gets ornery when he can't participate.

See? Ornery.

So I hunkered down, derishus derights in one hand, derishus beverage in the other and waited for the movie to begin.
And began it did.
I have this abject, utter and complete fascination with persons that dig deep within themselves and bleed for their art. To go beyond any set possible personal boundaries and borders [please help defend my borders] in pursuit of ones ability to participate and immerse themselves fully in a passion that you truly can't explain to another person for fear of sounding a bit mad is so.fucking.good.
And dancers do this.
Ballerinas do this.
They cripple their bodies in pursuit of an art that will spit them out at the "old" age of 25.
Do you know what happens to a ballerina that doesn't continue to stretch daily even after they've quit dancing?
Arthritis.
Self-inflicted arthritis.
It affects the joint due to all the repetitive action that produces unbelievable stress on said joints.
Understand I'm not into ballet, not much at all. But the idea of giving yourself totally in pursuit of your chosen art is beautiful in a way I cannot fully express in words. Tragic? Yes. But beautiful nonetheless.
And I think this movie captured it stunningly, painfully, exquisitely.
I loved every second of it.
Loved.
I'm going to see it again tomorrow.
I may go Saturday too.
I may sleep in the theatre and see it Sunday.
I might just take an IV and live off of that for sustenance.
Wait, did someone just mention needles?

See? Needles.

Okay, fine, fine, fine, I'll get off my soapy box and provide you with the important things that you TRULY come to my blog for:



The new Dali Museum just opened up 15 minutes from me. Largest collection of his works in the entire world.
Yes, you can come couch surf.
Yes, I'll go with you.
No, I will not touch you in the naughty places.
Much.












Okay, I need cawfee.

<3
Scotty