A few days ago, a sweet, slightly sinister tall man received this drawing tucked away behind his cigarettes.
A little crazy? I’d say so. Most people would as well. Not surprisingly, the people who would be appreciative of it are often recluse Hanson fan fiction enthusiasts and people who don’t quite live on the same plane of reality that the rest of the world does.
I once was in love with a man who was content with being my Salty Dog rather than my Leather and Lace Lover. One evening, after the lights went up, he sat in one of my chairs and eyed the series of paintings that were obviously about him (one had his face, dead center). I searched his expression for something calm and collected.
“It’s not that crazy,” I walked to his side and admired with him the spectacle of markers, wood, canvas, and paint.
“Well,” he laughed, slightly nervous, and gestured towards the art, “I mean, it kind of is. I mean, it’s my face.”
“Come on,” I said in disbelief. “You can’t tell me that you’ve never felt something that words could not express; you can’t tell me that if you could draw or paint or compose or sing to get your thoughts across to others, that you wouldn’t do it.”
His face evened out and after a moment he nodded. “Yea,” he conceded, “I guess that I would. It’s better than drinking and ignoring my problems.”
The owner of the bird drawing (with the creepy quote from a creepy song from a creepy chick) did not respond to this craziness. I never expect anyone to. Most of the time, the men in my life never see these pieces of my heart on paper.
I have discussed this phenomenon with my best friend Molly Reynolds, screenwriter and creator of The Gingerbread Pimp. We agreed that creative outlets may have kept us in line in our youth. We also have friends who have written plays, opuses, and novels about love interests and/or exes.
Speaking for myself, I have always been a very intense person, moreso as a teen. My love was more fevered, my confusion more disorienting, and my anger more boiling. What kept me from being a complete hot mess of a girl who had tons of sex and then punched all her lovers in the mouth? The ability to draw and paint about my fears, my desires, and my concerns.
Music has always been the actual siren, drawing me in; it amplifies the things that I think and feel (which obviously need no help swelling up in my body). John Frusciante‘s music often spirals me into a world of thought and emotion. His inclusion with the Chili Peppers was like a gateway drug to and endless addiction that cannot completely be satisfied.
As for the song as it relates to the recipient? It doesn’t, really. But something about that longing, that lucid remembering of feelings that I haven’t felt in many, many years, draws me in and batters me; I recall a time in my life where I was happiest, a time in my life where I felt that I knew the truth about love and the world surrounding me; I recall a time in my life, before the miscarriages, alcoholics, and walking barefoot through North Hollywood, where I was free.
In a way that suggests it was all an illusion.
No actual human sirens.