A DIFFERENT DIMENSION IN HOLLYWOOD
I think this is the one and only Kurt and I am feeling high off of the fumes. He leads me to two different places on foot for two different reasons that end up making perfect sense.
Guitar Center. Amoeba Music. I am dressed in an outfit that I deem perfect for the outing. Old jeans a black shirt and my Seattle shoes. Really faded shoes that are a female version of what the Converse all-stars are. But with a special meaning. You will hear more about them later…
I am waltzing down Hollywood Boulevard and feel every bit the weary widow dressed in black, with aviator sunglasses, my blonde hair fluttering in the breeze.
That’s me. The “weary widow”. As Courtney became every bit the “merry widow”. This begs to answer an age-old question. If one was meant to cross paths in life, and spend a lifetime together, but one was taken from the other before destiny took its course… does the one left bare the right to call themselves a widow still? I believe so. I feel it. Every day hurts even worse. There is no moving on for me.
Although he tries to grant me the opportunity to furnish me with the smell of his skin, the touch of his hair against my arm and the feel of his eyelashes against mine… there is no moving on. I need him for one moment, in person.
The novelty of this lifestyle was still fresh on that casual stroll from my apartment near Franklin Village down to Hollywood and Vine. I felt like such a rebel, walking with him by my side. Crossing a freeway overpass I watch all the mechanical animals inch along in their metal coffins, jammed in wall to wall traffic.
My thoughts. Not his. He begs for me to flip them off. Two birds from both hands. I casually place my cigarette in my mouth, leaving my hands free of charge.
And up they go. Straight to the cars below. Fuck you, bastards. Have fun at your piss poor job while I serenely waltz (stoned) mid-day to the store to pick up some dead rock star wares. Maybe I’ll even stop for a drink with my iconic husband along the way. Why?
Because I can. Shit suckers.
I continue along the way and wander into Guitar Center. My usual routine consists of gazing at a section of vintage Fenders for no particularly reason other than their beauty. But this time my feet urged me to the back of the room, near the sheet music.
I usually glance through with an inkling of purchasing a certain band, usually classic rock, to fumble with on my old Ibanez…
But this time, my eyes scanning the shelf, they fall on an old Nirvana CD, all by its lonesome. I turn to my invisible husband and he’s already salivating with excitement.
Get it get it. You’ve never bought one of my CD’s.
Something tells me this was no happenstance. As if he knew that single cd would be there waiting for me. I only have one hundred dollars to last me for a long time, so I argue with him for several moments and he gives me the run-around that I can imagine a frivolous Kurt back in the day doing…
What’s ten dollars at this point. You’re absolutely right.
But my laptop’s a piece of shit. The cd player is crapped out…
Fuck it. Buying it without the means to listen to it hold even greater value some how. So I purchase it.
I eye the asshole behind the register and loathe the fact that he has no idea what this disk means to me or the value of the ten dollars it cost.
And I send Courtney Love straight to hell again.
Next stop. Amoeba music. By this time I’m told by the spirits that be that I am some kind of Love Child who has now crossed over to the 13th dimension. I believe it. I start seeing signs everywhere, and the air looks clearer.
This is also supposedly how I am able to communicate with Kurt and others. I feel as though people are looking at me differently, with a sense of recognition.
I make my way down Hollywood, turning left on Vine. And then another left on Sunset. Amoeba music is a huge warehouse full of goodies like classic records, t-shirts and posters galore. I have no idea what we planned to find there but I’m sure he would lead me to something else grand.
I was right.
Within moments of entering the store, I am magically lead to the posters section where I fumble through until I find the poster of Kurt that is now this book cover. I grab it without hesitation. Sure of its purpose and the trip I was lead on.
I approach the clerk, and with too many emotions swarming… I find it hard to lay the cardboard casing on the counter. Way. Too. Personal. I argue with myself regarding lying it face down.
But the price is on the other side. So I give the clerk a look, sunglasses still in place. I sense that she recognizes me and that the article of purchase rings a bell in her mind. She leaves the counter briefly and never returns.
I am later told that she became emotional in the back once she realized who I was. It is a touching story.
So this is my husband from a different time. I would have loved to grab a smoke with you once…
Another clerk returns and rings in my purchase. Without a bag large enough to fit it, I stuff it under my arm and continue on my way.
I’m back to Hollywood and Vine and have the whole day at our disposal. Kurt is feeling up for a drink and the euphoria that comes with it but I’m low on cash. He convinces me to go for it and imagine I have millions at my disposal and I deserve what that is like to not constantly worry about money. It felt good.
On our way to the Frolic Room, a little hole-in-the-wall off Vine, A guy approaches with enthusiasm. I sense he is flirting. I tell him with sarcasm (as I’m technically alone), that I’d rather have a drink alone with my husband, and nod casually to the picture under my arm.
He laughs as though he recognizes me once again and gets the joke. He still persists, holding a notebook of writings towards me as if to share…
I enter the bar in hopes of losing the guy. I sidle onto a stool and prop the picture of Kurt on the stool next to me. I order my usual Vodka and Diet and smile to myself.
A drink together. I can’t wait to have a buzz.
He feels it too. I step out for another smoke, and seemingly become bombarded by the guy with the writings and two brothers who want to rap a few songs directly to me.
I begin reading the notepad and feel that I recognize the writing as Kurt’s. Could this be another sign or just a brilliant coincidence? It sounds exactly like something Kurt ranted about in his journals that I read privately a few years back.
It speaks of the 13th dimension. There is a drawing on the notepad of a cartoon figure playing guitar. Another symbol that reminds me of something that came from Kurt. I believe it.
Kurt agrees and assumes it came from him....
I think this is the one and only Kurt and I am feeling high off of the fumes. He leads me to two different places on foot for two different reasons that end up making perfect sense.
Guitar Center. Amoeba Music. I am dressed in an outfit that I deem perfect for the outing. Old jeans a black shirt and my Seattle shoes. Really faded shoes that are a female version of what the Converse all-stars are. But with a special meaning. You will hear more about them later…
I am waltzing down Hollywood Boulevard and feel every bit the weary widow dressed in black, with aviator sunglasses, my blonde hair fluttering in the breeze.
That’s me. The “weary widow”. As Courtney became every bit the “merry widow”. This begs to answer an age-old question. If one was meant to cross paths in life, and spend a lifetime together, but one was taken from the other before destiny took its course… does the one left bare the right to call themselves a widow still? I believe so. I feel it. Every day hurts even worse. There is no moving on for me.
Although he tries to grant me the opportunity to furnish me with the smell of his skin, the touch of his hair against my arm and the feel of his eyelashes against mine… there is no moving on. I need him for one moment, in person.
The novelty of this lifestyle was still fresh on that casual stroll from my apartment near Franklin Village down to Hollywood and Vine. I felt like such a rebel, walking with him by my side. Crossing a freeway overpass I watch all the mechanical animals inch along in their metal coffins, jammed in wall to wall traffic.
My thoughts. Not his. He begs for me to flip them off. Two birds from both hands. I casually place my cigarette in my mouth, leaving my hands free of charge.
And up they go. Straight to the cars below. Fuck you, bastards. Have fun at your piss poor job while I serenely waltz (stoned) mid-day to the store to pick up some dead rock star wares. Maybe I’ll even stop for a drink with my iconic husband along the way. Why?
Because I can. Shit suckers.
I continue along the way and wander into Guitar Center. My usual routine consists of gazing at a section of vintage Fenders for no particularly reason other than their beauty. But this time my feet urged me to the back of the room, near the sheet music.
I usually glance through with an inkling of purchasing a certain band, usually classic rock, to fumble with on my old Ibanez…
But this time, my eyes scanning the shelf, they fall on an old Nirvana CD, all by its lonesome. I turn to my invisible husband and he’s already salivating with excitement.
Get it get it. You’ve never bought one of my CD’s.
Something tells me this was no happenstance. As if he knew that single cd would be there waiting for me. I only have one hundred dollars to last me for a long time, so I argue with him for several moments and he gives me the run-around that I can imagine a frivolous Kurt back in the day doing…
What’s ten dollars at this point. You’re absolutely right.
But my laptop’s a piece of shit. The cd player is crapped out…
Fuck it. Buying it without the means to listen to it hold even greater value some how. So I purchase it.
I eye the asshole behind the register and loathe the fact that he has no idea what this disk means to me or the value of the ten dollars it cost.
And I send Courtney Love straight to hell again.
Next stop. Amoeba music. By this time I’m told by the spirits that be that I am some kind of Love Child who has now crossed over to the 13th dimension. I believe it. I start seeing signs everywhere, and the air looks clearer.
This is also supposedly how I am able to communicate with Kurt and others. I feel as though people are looking at me differently, with a sense of recognition.
I make my way down Hollywood, turning left on Vine. And then another left on Sunset. Amoeba music is a huge warehouse full of goodies like classic records, t-shirts and posters galore. I have no idea what we planned to find there but I’m sure he would lead me to something else grand.
I was right.
Within moments of entering the store, I am magically lead to the posters section where I fumble through until I find the poster of Kurt that is now this book cover. I grab it without hesitation. Sure of its purpose and the trip I was lead on.
I approach the clerk, and with too many emotions swarming… I find it hard to lay the cardboard casing on the counter. Way. Too. Personal. I argue with myself regarding lying it face down.
But the price is on the other side. So I give the clerk a look, sunglasses still in place. I sense that she recognizes me and that the article of purchase rings a bell in her mind. She leaves the counter briefly and never returns.
I am later told that she became emotional in the back once she realized who I was. It is a touching story.
So this is my husband from a different time. I would have loved to grab a smoke with you once…
Another clerk returns and rings in my purchase. Without a bag large enough to fit it, I stuff it under my arm and continue on my way.
I’m back to Hollywood and Vine and have the whole day at our disposal. Kurt is feeling up for a drink and the euphoria that comes with it but I’m low on cash. He convinces me to go for it and imagine I have millions at my disposal and I deserve what that is like to not constantly worry about money. It felt good.
On our way to the Frolic Room, a little hole-in-the-wall off Vine, A guy approaches with enthusiasm. I sense he is flirting. I tell him with sarcasm (as I’m technically alone), that I’d rather have a drink alone with my husband, and nod casually to the picture under my arm.
He laughs as though he recognizes me once again and gets the joke. He still persists, holding a notebook of writings towards me as if to share…
I enter the bar in hopes of losing the guy. I sidle onto a stool and prop the picture of Kurt on the stool next to me. I order my usual Vodka and Diet and smile to myself.
A drink together. I can’t wait to have a buzz.
He feels it too. I step out for another smoke, and seemingly become bombarded by the guy with the writings and two brothers who want to rap a few songs directly to me.
I begin reading the notepad and feel that I recognize the writing as Kurt’s. Could this be another sign or just a brilliant coincidence? It sounds exactly like something Kurt ranted about in his journals that I read privately a few years back.
It speaks of the 13th dimension. There is a drawing on the notepad of a cartoon figure playing guitar. Another symbol that reminds me of something that came from Kurt. I believe it.
Kurt agrees and assumes it came from him....
(CONT'D)
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