Tuesday, January 4, 2011


Often when I write (which I have done in some pseudo professional form for over a decade now) I picture myself at a desk, in the summer with a glass of red wine and a cigarette burning away in an ashtray waving my hands like a maniac at the direction of a computer screen.  This is (in general) not usually the way my writing actually takes place. For starters I haven't ever really committed to being a smoker, sure there was that experimental phase in 2003 but a month and a half of smoking menthol slims doesn't really constitute a bad habit ya know? For example, tonight I'm lounging in bed (which sadly is where I do most things lately, I've been afflicted with some upper respiratory-bronchial plague of doom for over a week now and I have some other health issues that this viral blah blah blah is complicating nicely) with my 80 lb brindle mastiff lazing at my feet sipping on my *gasp* second glass of cheap Cabernet Sauvingion  wearing a Questionable Content T-shirt  and a pair of thigh high argyle socks.

So classy right?

But I guess that's the magical thing about the internet, you don't always have to be "on". I can sit here and type away and pretend like someone is out there on the receiving end "listening" to my rambles without putting on the cultural war-paint; mascara and lip gloss. You can exist, and be nothing more than what someone else imagines you to be.

Words are powerful that way. You can do a lot of creating with words, and of course they can be entirely misread.

I live some days more than a dual life. Some days I can't even count how many personae I put on and take off. I have myself the mother, who's sitting here in her socks and t-shit and nothing else, haven't even looked at my make up since before work on Friday, couldn't tell you right now where my shoes are or if that low cut blouse I plan to wear to the bar tomorrow is even clean. Then there's the waitress who's going to show up tomorrow and put on a blue dress and far too much eye make up, and a pair of 6inch see through light up stilettos (only one of which works) and prance around being some combination of flirty and caustic and hopefully not come home too drunk to stand. There is/was me as the student or office worker,with my dress pants and blouses that go out of their way to hide any assets one might have, the dress shoes and the forced washing out of my filthy trucker vocabulary. Somewhere in my closet is the hippie, the lesbian (yes I do own several plaid shirts thanks for asking), the daughter, the girlfriend, and I may even still have traces of the wife hanging around a box near the back.

I haven't been in a good frame of mind lately, sometimes I wonder if I put on a different disguise, another set of personality traits, go be someone else, or even just "settle down" and stick to one or maybe two of those titles/costumes for myself if I'd be happier.

The truth is, I don't think that's the case.

The title of this blog, is based on that fantastic saying "Everywhere you go, there you are". And it's very true, no matter what you dress up as for the day, at the end of it, you come home to yourself. Trying to outrun that is pointless.

I've said before that working in this industry attracts a wide variety of people, and I've also said I wouldn't recommend it.

I know a woman who's worked in just about every capacity in this industry, in various places, and she explained it very well one day by saying something to the effect of a stripper is not the person you are, it's a two dimensional construct designed to separate men from their money.

Most of the time I find this to be a brilliant way to look at what I do for a living, and other times, I think about it and the cynic in me takes over and I wonder if there really is anything more to me than that two dimensional creation.

1 comment:

  1. Funny I can't find anything else on this World Wide Web of crap. So I's stuck deconstructing Ani. Really I think your a good person and I'm never going to ask why. So deeper into the bunny hole I go. Curiouser and Curiouser...