Mile High Reflections

I’m sitting on the plane on my way to my first ever screening of a film I’ve been in. We were accepted to a festival in LA, and I’m half way through my flight.

My seat mate is a gentleman who works as a camera operator for the networks, mostly filming sports events, and, as someone who travels often, is well known to the plane staff and was kind and able enough to have the flight attendant bring me a few rounds of bourbon.

Martin Scorsese’s Hugo was just playing on the overhead screen as part of the in flight entertainment program on American Airlines. Although a slow moving film, it is one that tells the story of every filmmaker, actor or other sort of artist and was a rather apropos film to see at this moment.

It is a story of dreams, of something from nothing, of the true joy of acting and film. Aside from simply accurately portraying real life in a grittier way as movies are wont to do, it describes-no, it paints, the picture of a far more intricate process. See, film, when it was discovered was a novelty. More, it was magic. It was nothing more than a more complex and expressive card trick. Card tricks don’t talk, they simply entertain. Movies however, they can tell stories.

Ah, the wonder! A dragon chases a group of warriors! A rocket shoots the moon, who’s surface is likened into a mans face!

When the movie ended I glanced over at the laptop of someone a few rows in front of me, who with the in flight wifi was watching a modern TV show. The contrast is stark.

Although I’m generally far more into movies and TV that portray modern life, or at least life in some sort if realistic way, Hugo seems to have brought out a new side of the art to the forefront. It made prominent the idea of imagination, of classic cinema, of the romance which drew most of us into the business in the first place.

Listening to some old rap, Biggie etc., although not in the spirit of a movie set in France, and it’s reflecting upon my mood of appreciation for classic cinema and art. Notice Marylyn Monroe. Marlin Brando. The Greats. They didn’t simply act. They weren’t in their own heads. They were alive, they were vibrant, buzzing with a charismatic invisible force at every glistening moment they spent on stage or screen, dancing, acting, singing and entertaining an audience of mesmerized people.

It also reminded me of something I think about mostly every waking moment, which I suppose may sound a bit trite.

I will succeed.

I always know that, believe that, feel that, and know it has to be. You see, I don’t have a plan B.

Well, technically I do. I’m a capable individual and can take care of myself. But I don’t want a plan B. Because there can’t be one. As our wonderful character Papa George, the brilliant filmmaker told us, “the world is a machine and we’re all just a piece. We need to be here and have a purpose.”

I think we each know where ours is, and I most certainly feel mine.

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Hello, Would You Like to Fuck?

I came to an interesting realization tonight. It makes me part narcissist, part misogynist, part delusional perhaps, yet mostly self aware and truthful.

I’d just seen a movie with a girl I’ve been fucking for a few weeks. Post movie we’d fucked, once, for about 40 minutes. I decided I didn’t want to stay over, so excused myself saying I wanted my own bed that night. She wished me luck battling the subway system, and I kissed her good night as I headed out.

Walking onto the eerily empty 3am subway platform I noticed a girl, solid 7.5, sitting on the bench. She smiled. I sat down at the opposite end, and minding my own business wrote down a quick thought in my moleskin I had with me from an earlier class.

“What’r you writing?”

I looked up to see her talking to me, and we proceeded to make small conversation as we rode the train.

“I get off next stop, I’d love to hang out sometime, we should keep on touch”, I said.

“Sure,” she responded, “what’s your number? Last name?” After exchanging information I bid her good night as I got off the train, and it hit me.

I’m good.

Now, not the kinda good that walks into a bar and every girl wants to jump me. But the kinda good that I know as soon as I begin talking to a girl, that if she agrees to exchange information, I pretty much know that we will have sex if I want to. Barring a last minute flake on her part, or an unusual girl who clarifies on the second date that she wants something serious or is a devout Mormon, I’m pretty much vag deep without pulling down my pants.

I’m aware this sounds sick, and I’m not on the prowl like I was a few short months ago. It’s just that it’s a powerful realization to come to, that I can pretty much make sure sex happens when I want it. If I want to get laid, I can, and easily.

Dear Cunt, I’m Going To Clear Your Plate

Dear Guest,

Classes. Something basic, yet complicated in its definition is what we deal with on a day to day, moment to moment basis in many an aspect of our existence.

One goes to a bar. He spies a beautiful woman, yet shies away from approaching her either for fear of rejectment or acknowledgement of his own inadequacies.

Or what he thinks are his own inadequacies.

In reality, what’s happening is he perceives himself to be a part of a specific group of people; a people that is unable to mix, mingle or be a part of any aspect of the subject of his adoration, interest or focus.

The fear of rejection is but a by product of the inner workings of his mind. Because he believes himself to be but a cog in the current events of his community, his surroundings and that of the general society, as opposed to an active, contributing part of a vibrant, successful and kind circle of supporters, he therefore lacks the self confidence to simply say hello to a beautiful woman.

Nail an audition.

Introduce himself to the CEO and prove himself to be worthy of that 150k a year salary.

You see, the moment one looks at life like an opportunity to prove, rather than explore and be stimulated by his surroundings, as Harold Guskin speaks of so eloquently about the actor’s audition process, he’s indeed simply a cog, a piece in the puzzle, as opposed to an advisor to the king.

The difference between the two, while very much a reality, began not as an issue of capability, but of inner self worth. The cog decided he must simply turn, move the wheel that moves the other wheel, while the advisor realized he was smarter than the king, and can better make the cog work.

Being in one class or another may be defined by the world at large. Working class – blue collar and white collar, millionaire, billionaire, immigrant. Personally I very much am aware of the difference between various peoples in society. Mexicans clean the tables in the pizza shop, models from Ukraine sell you jewelry and promote Vodka brands,  blacks steal that same jewelry, blonde bimbos find millionaire husbands and host charity events, get plastic surgery and send their bratty children to prep schools, and Jews control most of the above.

But I’m also aware that what I just mentioned is but a stereotype, a mere perception of the races, a division of the classes partly judged by the vocal minority of its disruptive, beautiful, or dumb individuals, and partially judged BY those individuals.

We’re all people. I may be serving you, I may have made your martini (you wanted it dry, shaken not stirred) but I sure as hell don’t feel like the image that comes to mind regarding servers, bartenders, housemaids or however else society deems it appropriate I view myself.

You may regard me with a certain air of superiority, intelligence or raw disdain.

Just know that I don’t care.

And if I did, I’d pity you.

Sincerely,
Your server

Go Climb Back Into Your Mousehole

“Love is cuddly, and so fuckable.” – livingnowalways

I’ve got this friend on Facebook. She’s 24, always manages to have money from family, etc. She’s not at all a slut, as I know she’s only been with maybe one or two guys. But her statuses consist of things like “Dude, if I turn my back on you, I’m NOT INTERESTED.”, or “partying it up at XYZ Club with my bad biotchhhhhhesssss [insert dumb slutty names here.] We the baddest bitch in town!” Followed by “Where is the man who will sweep me off my feet? <3”

Dear _____,

You’re 24. (25?) You used to never sleep around, because you had a crazy psycho ax murderer for a boyfriend. You broke up with him and you’re still alive. My congratulations. Now you’re the hottest shit in town. I understand, that although this is a big city, there must be a need inside that psycho head of yours to feel self important. Go ahead, put on make-up, look slutty for us. Or stay home and stop abusing your already worn and torn body. And make me a sandwich.

When you go to a club, you’re in OUR TERRITORY. We’re the hunters, and you’re the poor fucking hunted doe. Want a head start?

Sure babe, that’s what we call betas. Betas are your head start. Their weak, pathetic attempts at currying favor with you makes you feel powerful, sexy, even invincible perhaps? Alpha males won’t look at you. Because although perhaps you’re hot, the bitchiness you walk around with makes you  look like a deer caught in the headlights.

So go climb back down your mousehole. Maybe you can gaze out at thew world from the tiny, mildewy mousehole that is your life.

With much love and a sincere desire to fuck the living shit out of you,

-livingnowalways

“The need for security stems from being insecure. Or perhaps insecurity is the lack of security. Which one goes first and what risks will you take? Obvious, but brilliant.” – livingnowalways (pats self on back)

My Inner Beta

I usually avoid becoming Facebook friends with any girl I have a romantic interest in, at least for the first few weeks. And by romantic, I mean anything ranging from a bar-slut you want to pump and dump/be steady fuck buddies with or a cute girl you met and asked out for drinks, and have a feeling she isn’t the fuck buddy type, if there even is such a thing as not being a fuck buddy type.

Well I took my own lesson with blue-haired girl, and haven’t friended her, and won’t at least not until I get the bang, hopefully this weekend. I didn’t take my lesson with another girl I met at a get together a friend was having at a bar. I friended her before getting her number. First mistake. The reason I did that was because I wasn’t sure if she was with a close friend of my buddy or not…until my buddy said, “Hey, she’s single, go for her.” So I did. I walked over to her and said let’s grab a drink tomorrow night. Good.

“Be bold. Make your move. Ask her out. Just kidding, fuck her without asking her out. Or forever regret it.” – Cookie Monster (just kidding he never said that)

But now, I’m sitting here, a day before our meetup, and am thinking twice before posting anything on Facebook, because if i keep posting stuff, she’ll think I sit at home all day on my computer. Which of course isn’t remotely true. Honestly. Now on one hand, I’d hate to have my verbal stream of diarrhea that is my Facebook feed cut off, as I feel it’s a good method of expressing myself, and I have legit things to post about. On the other hand “Dude, WTF, posting on Facebook more than once a week? So 2007.” Possibly, but irrelevant, as I’m discussing the reason why, in my current state, I don’t friend the bitch right away.

On another note, I’m taking this girl to a spot I usually reserve for girls I want to fuck, more than date. It’s a hip neighborhood type bar/lounge. But with a divey vibe to it. Pool table + couches + exotic beer list = fun but very cozy spot. I am however second guessing myself as to my choice of locale for tomorrow night. Perhaps I should have chosen something more upscale? But no, why am i treating this girl differently than any other girl I went out with for a drink. I dunno, but something about her screams date material only. Perhaps it’s my inner beta coming to the surface, perhaps it’s just me, not wanting to conform to social dictates of the PUA community saying not to put any pussy on the pedestal.

(Oh, by the way, anyone ever get the feeling between the time you met her originally and set a date, to the time before the date, that she’s not interested/date won’t be good, etc.? Maybe she’s just a really shitty texter…

Which is why I also like to avoid texting…)

Besides, I’m not a PUA anyway. I’m just a regular dude, who loves constantly approaching girls (as I haven’t been in a long term relationship recently) and having a good time.

“Good night moon.

Good night work and your annoying boss that always emails.

It’s time for you to come and play.

Turn your phone off, sidle up to me.

I’ll grope you, feel you, strip you naked and fuck you.

Good night world.”

-livingnowalways

Time will tell won’t it.

The place DOES have a pool table...

This represents the 8 ball.

Except I’m stupid so I posted a 7. Kind of the way you see a girl, think she’s a 9. Look again and she’s a 7. Least she could do is strip dance on the pool table.

Dear Girls I Don’t Yet Know, I Love You.

“When life throws you lemons, grab life by the tits and fuck the shit out of it.” -livingnowalways

It’s been an all nighter. My brain feels heavy from all the weed, my body from lack of sleep. I spent all night chilling with my friends working on our latest project. I step outside. The air’s moist, warm from the sun which has been up for an hour. It’s not even 6am. The sun is so bright! Why is it in my eyes. I wish it wouldn’t shine in my eyes. My feet crunch over the gravel, it smells like morning.

A girl, maybe 20, jogs by plugged into her iPod. She wears black spandex pants and a grey tank top, ponytail tucked through the back of her baseball cap.

She looks fine, damn.

I begin walking toward the train station; I’d love to get home so I can go to bed already. My heads pounding, contacts are really sticking to my eyeballs now. I must remove them. I pass the local business men, some rushing off to the train in oversized baggy suits, some still exercising. I pass deliverymen delivering fresh papers to local homes. Those homes. So neat, little white picket fences, dogs running loose in yards. I smell fresh coffee being brewed, can almost hear bacon sizzling on stoves.

I wish no part in their life style, my own pursuits prevent that, yet this glorious morning makes me realize that’s no excuse for me to stay awake nights and sleep half of everyday. I’m accomplishing. I really am. But I must get back on track. I will be a whole new different type of person. I’ll get up early, eat properly, exercise outdoors. By the time 10AM hits I’ll be energized, dressed and showered, ready to further my career, read smart books and blog.

There’s a balance somewhere.

“And this is where shit gets twisted.” -livingnowalways

A part of me is depraved. And proudly so. I love to meet new girls, drunk,  high and forget life for a moment or two. Or live it. Yet, there’s also something to leaving your phone at home, trading in lust, for genuine love. Temporary, perhaps. Genuine nonetheless. I understand as much as the next guy, the thrill of the Hunt, the thrill of the chase for a new girl to fuck silly. But that doesn’t have to be without love. Is one to say that i can’t love many girls at once? Perhaps I can love humanity! So, here’s my letter to the cute girls of the world:

Dear _______,

You’re really sweet. We fucked the other night behind the bar where we met. You were so hot, so horny, and so helpless, you practically melted my cock with your sweetness. But instead, you took it like a champ, moaning with pleasure all the way through. We should get to know each other, perhaps go for coffee. Perhaps we share a common favorite book, or artist, and can go catch a book  signning, or jam session. Please don’t ask me if I’m using you just for sex. I don’t even know what that means. You’re cute, have great tits and ass, and you enjoy getting fucked as much as I enjoy fucking you.

So, let’s go to a lake, go boating, go on a hike, dust off those spandex. Let’s be healthy together. We’ll eat well, sleep well, and fuck well. Living, really LIVING, doesn’t always have to be under the influence. lets go out to the mountain side, leave our cellphones behind, and just be with eachother. I’ll lean against a rock overlooking a cliff and you’ll lean up against me, so that I can hear you breathe, and I can feel your ass up against my cock. We’ll feel together, in a loving way, yet so depraved, as you’d be so vulnerable to virtual stranger, and I to you. I’ll be happy to share an experience with you, and I hardly know anything about you; I don’t need to. Your breathing gets a bit shallower and quicker and my hand slides down over those spandex. Moist, like the air of the morning. I softly kiss you, and slide my cock over your thighs, and while hugging you closer I enter your wetness, and it feels good, I feel like I’ve known you forever, like I want to hold you forever. You and that cute little ass of yours.

I may do this again tomorrow, with your best friend, who also has brown eyes and perky breasts, and for the no reason thinks you’re a bitch. I’m not using you, and you’re not using me. We’re loving eachother, in the moment.

And yes, perhaps after our hike and fuck, if we have energy when we get home, I’ll turn down the lights, turn on the music, and we’ll have a mini Amsterdam mega-club right here in my own NYC living room, with all its illicit connotations. But for a moment, just a moment, together, we can clear our vision, and in the fresh mountainous air we can love, and be loved. I like looking at you. The way your beautiful breasts are outlined by your black tanktop, the way I can trace the outline of your slim body. Do you know at this moment I love you. I do not lust for you. I look at you, and am overcome by intense caring and love. I’d do anything for you, and you mean everything to me. 

And I barely know you. 

With every fiber of my body, the strain of my cock against my boxers, and the tears in my eyes as I’m overcome with emotion, love and passion, you’re truly mine,

livingnowalways

“There are no lines between love and lust. Only passion exits.” -livingnowalways

“Imagine no possessions. I wonder if you can.” -John Lennon

She Had Blue Hair

“I think the fact that most men look at love with disgust, is because they look at love only in terms of relationship. Love is transient, many times fleeting, and almost always depraved.”  -livingnowalways

I’m in a very brooding, hopeful mood. I feel as if tonight is the calm before the storm, and I feel like things..scary, perhaps larger than life, loom in my imminent future. Perhaps they’ll be career related.

It’s exciting, yet terrifying, because every moment in history, in my Present, needs to be valued. Britney Spears didn’t get to where she was by drinking every night.

Ironic, but true.

Penned on a brisk November evening. Published tonight. (That isn’t correct, I wrote this all tonight. I just think that blurb makes me seem like a literary genius.)

I’m on the precipice of wild success, I can feel it stronger than I ever did. I almost feel a need for structure, perhaps to precede the coming week, to stabilize the madness. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll go swimming, then head to the premiere of “Fat Sick and Nearly Dead.” Healthy eating people, healthy eating.

WHY AM I SO VOLATILE?

I was at a bar last night. I met a girl with short blue hair. Within a moment, we were dancing together, her body pressed against mine. It was somehow more electrifying than such a thing ought to be. The music continued and we got more intimate. My lips pressed against hers, moving as one on the dance floor, oblivious, yet aware of our surroundings. Some places are so public, it’s essentially private, as no one notices you. Decadent? Sleazy? For sure. But certainly not cheap and meaningless.  We moved outside for a smoke. Pressed her up against the wall, my hand slid down from her neck, under her dress. Two people. Strangers. LIVING. In public of course. Or private. Like I could give a fuck.

Blue hair.

Not something I’m normally into, but this one was super cute, and not goth. Small black dress and heels. It was a great night, needless to say. When something about a girl excites me, something about her is different, is unique, is strange, especially something like short blue hair, it brings out the best and the worst in me. Some say it’s love, yet I don’t fall in love with a girl in one evening. It’s not straight up lust either.  It’s a combination of a sense of adventure and knowing that in a weird way, I’m writing my own history. I want to be able to look back when I’m 60 and say, “I really lived. Really really lived.” Being involved, or in a relationship with a crazy, miniature blue haired girl, is something that would make it all worth it.

I’m laughing, but deadly serious, and aware I may be in serious need of psychological help, but proud of it.

I could cry, I get so excited about moments like these. I’m ALIVE, how many people can say that??

I’m not drunk and I didn’t smoke up. I am high off I have no idea what I’m high off, maybe it’s life, maybe it’s the buzz from the beer I didn’t have tonight, maybe it is all of the above.

If I had her here now, I think I’d have meaningful, intense sex with someone who is as of yet still a relative stranger, so I can express my feelings.

Maybe I’ll call her now.

Peace.

“Real love if something so real, so concrete, that when it happens, it takes over and recreates your vision. I believe love can be fleeting or permanent, but real love is driven by both people. Driven in a way that neither of them can stop.” -livingnowalways