by Sasha Grey
But you never really commit to it. You’ll vigorously attack the first three days of every new regime, then slowly fade back into your beige life because it’s comfortable.
And beneath it all, most of us like being comfortable. Comfortable is safe and unchallenging. It keeps your boundaries nice and small so you feel like you’re living large in a small life.
No one wants to be trapped on the roller coaster 24/7. Thrills are bad for the heart. If you actually took stock of your life and turned it upside down to be the type of person that takes your own breath away, you would scare the shit out of yourself.
Living like that is terrifying because you’re finally on the other side of the fence instead of sitting around telling yourself that life wouldn’t be all that sensational if you got there.
Maybe it isn’t, most of the time. Life is what you make of it, and most people lack the imagination for anything substantial and exciting for long.
Look at those people who win giant lotteries. For most of them, the wildest thing they can do with the money is go on a spending spree. But there’s still no expansion in being—just them with a fancier leash tethering them to the person they’ve always been.
No vision.
And they end up bored as fuck inside a year, trying to buy happiness. Fulfillment. But those aren’t things you can buy. External things never are truly attainable. The thrill isn’t in the having, it’s in the pursuit of happiness. There’s a pinnacle, and then what?
The fall from the lofty heights of expectation.
But if you’ve got a goal, a vision for your future that involves creation, that is when the real magic happens.
Some people have kids to mask their unhappiness, as if that will fix all their problems, expecting that birth to be the best there is.
But it’s the birth of creation, of art, of mystery, of dreaming something up and freeing it upon the world that they should seek. Finding that one thing that burns from within—and it can’t be attainment. It can’t be accumulation.
It’s not about making something. It’s about taking a piece of your fucking soul, tearing it from inside yourself and throwing it out into the world so it exists outside yourself. It’s not a legacy. Nothing that grandiose. It’s a cycle. Using the experiences that have shaped you to create something that shapes others and spawns inspiration, that spawns that same hunger inside them.
It’s what cinema gives me. It’s the reason I ultimately want to make films instead of just watching them.
I want to know that people are reacting to the things inside of my mind.
I don’t have to see the reactions for them to have value.
I just have to know that piece of me is out there.
Inana Luna was doing this with these photos.
I can smell the journey like it’s my own. Shades of smoke and sex and come and regret.
Of passion half-fulfilled.
A year or so after she left the mainstream currents for the white waters of her vision, she went missing, seemingly without a trace. No photos exist of her from the four-month period she was gone.
Then, as suddenly as she vanished, she was back in her bungalow—found on the floor with a stomach full of pills and empty, unseeing eyes.
Gone again, but for good this time.
How does a woman go from being the insatiable, full-of-life boundary pusher who wrote those diary pages to a suicide victim? It feels off.
Maybe it feels off because I want it to feel off.
Anything to justify learning more about this woman whose dark eyes burn into me from surreal photos that captured something deep and dark and compelling.
Here was a woman who knew how I felt, because she felt it, too.
I fire off an e-mail to my editor, attaching a few of the more salacious pictures and high-profile articles to give weight to my desire to follow up on what happened to Inana, explaining my intent to do a piece going more in-depth than before. I give a few possible angles: abuse in the entertainment industry; was Inana a victim of her own celebrity hype; was it all a cover-up? My intuition tells me that there was a planned smear campaign against her. How did she go from being a revered model and artist to a “dirty pornographer,” literally overnight? Her images don’t look like the porn Jack and I watch together—or that I see in his search history. I have to dig deeper. To really hook my editor, I have to tie it in to the relatively new term for the phenomenon of suddenly vanishing from someone’s life: ghosting.
I want to do an article about ghosting, and the effect on those left behind.
But even if he says no, I need to know more.
FOUR
EVEN THOUGH HE SPENDS NEARLY every waking hour in Bob’s company or dealing with things surrounding him, Jack still soaks up news about the senator like he’s never met the man who’s still his idol. Unflagging enthusiasm.
Despite the dark circles beneath his eyes from having been awake for nineteen hours, he sits forward on the couch, leaning into the television like a flower trying to reach the sun, watching the news anchor with wide eyes and coiffed hair talking about DeVille.
“We’ve just learned that Senator DeVille has scheduled an announcement for later this week. Speculation is running high that at this time he’ll announce his plans to run for president, but as of yet that hasn’t been confirmed or denied by his press office.”
It shouldn’t be a highlight, but it’s been a slow week, and Bob’s been making waves with his stance on immigration reform, among other things. Jack still idolizes DeVille, and the thought of him becoming more like Bob makes my skin crawl, but that’s as unlikely as me sprouting wings and flying away. Jack is a good man; Bob is not. If I could have figured out a way to get Jack away from Bob without revealing everything, which would have torn the ground from beneath Jack—losing me, his mentor, his job all in one fell swoop—then I would have.
But as long as DeVille keeps his mouth shut, so will I.
Years later, I’m not without connections of my own.
At first, I fantasized about bringing him down and exposing him for what he really is. But time went by and we came to ignore each other better, ignore the memories churning beneath the surfaces of our skin. Besides, if it wasn’t Bob, it would be some other monster— maybe one who was even worse.
You know that old saying, “Let sleeping dogs lie”? Well, I’ve got one I found in a fortune cookie a week after that night Bob and I had our hands around each other’s throats, consuming one another like wild, hungry animals. “Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.”
Sound advice that I’ve chosen to take as a sign, but maybe that was the MSG humming through my nervous system, making the synapses of my brain jangle. Either way, things have worked out for the best, and we each keep a respectful distance from the other as much as possible.
I tuck my toes underneath Jack’s thigh, and he absentmindedly rubs up and down my shin, eyes still glued to the screen. “Is that true?” I ask him, surprised that he hasn’t told me the “good” news.
“Is what?” He turns to me, and the wide-eyed stare is almost convincing, but there’s a smile beneath the corners of his mouth.
“He’s running for POTUS?” If so, this is news to me, but it makes sense with the insane hours Jack’s been spending at the campaign office. “Isn’t that kind of sudden? He’s only been a senator for four years.”
“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he says teasingly. I hate when he gets in this NDA mode about Bob, even if he does it good-naturedly. It makes me feel like an outsider, as though Jack, Bob, and Bob’s wife, Gena, have made a new little family I’m not a part of. It makes me feel like Jack doesn’t trust me with everything, when I’ve done nothing to deserve his suspicion. He’s proud of all his hard work coming to fruition—I understand that. But he incorrectly thinks I love Gena and Bob, too, and that this is a wonderful surprise for me. He thinks I’d be excited and pleased for him to be working with the most powerful man in America.
In the world.
And I can’t correct his thinking in that area, so I smile and play along and don’t push about him not trusting me so I don’t cause another fight.
I guess I should have expected DeVille to slither up that ladder as quickly as possible. He’s perfect for the position, really, and Gena would be the perfect first lady—as long as nothing too taxing happened to tip her over her psychological breaking point. But she’s easily managed with the help of her various little yellow pills—probably the reason Bob chose her as his partner.
Men like him seek out power to better exploit others.
The Juliette Society would love to have one of theirs in a position like that—all the perks and resources of the office at their disposal.
If they don’t already.
That’s something I never thought about. What if they already have him? Then again, I know that the POTUS isn’t the most powerful man in the world, nevermind The Juliette Society, if he’s one of theirs. Even if we have a female president in the White House soon, the gender is irrelevant in this case, and it always will be. There’s always someone else, a committee of people, calling the shots from one level above. Who, then, is the most powerful?
And what would all that power and access do to DeVille? Would he go off the rails, drunk on his own hype, thinking he can get away with even more?
He probably would, but he’s a puppet, too.
I want to know whose the hand is.
Climb high enough and there’s one person who calls the shots, even from within a group, a natural leader, the one people look to before committing themselves to an action. That’s the person I’d love to have an interview with.
“Hey,” Jack says, frowning, “I’m only teasing.”
“No, I know. I was just thinking about my article.”
“Oh. Have you decided what you’re going to do?” He smiles at me, and I love that he remembers how much trouble I’ve been having deciding what to focus on next.
“Not quite,” I say, which is technically true. I still need more of an angle than “following up on a star who committed suicide.” That’s not going to sell papers.
“I could get you something with Bob. An exclusive.” He sits forward, lighting up like a kid talking about his favorite toy. “How amazing would that be? I know he’d do it, too.”
“I know, but I don’t want something handed to me like that. I want to do this on my own. It’s important to me.”
He sighs but lets it go.
I stare at the television again to avoid saying anything. Not wanting to focus on politics is a weak excuse—most reporters would dream for something salacious or exclusive, and Jack doesn’t understand why I’m not snatching up what could be a career-making opportunity, especially when I’ve been floundering for story ideas lately.
But sometimes, instead of boning you, life throws you a bone.
“Maxxy, pop’s reigning princess, was reported missing this morning when her father and manager called the police, saying that his daughter hadn’t been seen for six days.” A picture of Maxxy flashes on the screen, but even people in Sub-Saharan Africa know who Maxxy is.
The beloved bubblegum singer went on a mission a couple years ago, trying to give back to the “global community.” Really, it was a PR stunt to raise her profile as a serious humanitarian, the same thing that made people overlook Angelina Jolie’s Billy Bob Thornton, blood-vials-around-the-neck, brother-kissing phase.
It would have worked, had an unfortunate choice not landed her in a place that had recently been ravaged by Ebola. Maxxy didn’t understand that the area had been cleared of the disease and went from altruistic to hysterical. The whole conniption fit was recorded by an overworked, underpaid assistant. Maxxy looked like a deranged, stone-cold bitch, demanding the helicopter come back because “Screw the sick fuckers, my life is worth more than theirs! I’m the talent, get me the fuck out of here!”
It went viral.
And yet, she’d managed to claw her way back up to the top over the last few months. It’s amazing what a timely new release can do for a tarnished reputation, no matter how deserved.
We loved bald Britney, but we loved her comeback even more. But her stability is boring and we’ve moved on to Miley.
The wildest thing Gaga’s done in ages is be “normal.”
We love an underdog trainwreck that keeps us on our toes. And Maxxy provides that.
“How the hell could someone like Maxxy just disappear?” I ask, turning to Jack.
“If she really wanted to?”
“With help. Exactly. People like her do not blend in.” But did she want to? If she was kidnapped, there’d have been some demand for money or perks by now. But that means she’s trying to disappear.
She wouldn’t be the first celebrity to disappear. Sometimes stars get burned by the limelight or decide they’ve finally had enough and walk away. Rehab, private islands, darkened apartments filled with paranoia and regret. With enough money, disappearing isn’t that difficult.
Garbo, Bill Withers, Salinger, Gene Wilder, Captain Beefheart. Terrence Malick. Hell, even Dave Chapelle. Some end up only taking a long hiatus, others never come back at all. Did you know that Cherie Currie left music to go carve shit with a chainsaw? She’s pretty good, too.
The point is, Maxxy wouldn’t be the first to want to get away from it all—maybe fake her own death if she wanted to get drastic with it. It’s not even just celebrities that have longed to escape the spotlight—or enormous debts. I heard a guy once fled the country after faking his own death to escape an insane phone bill. Roaming charges strike again.
We all want to escape something—it’s just that most of us never go through with it.
But even when it doesn’t involve a fictitious death, people still willingly disappear every day.
You may have even been on the receiving end of a “ghosting” where the person you’re dating up and vanishes, never to be heard from again, and you’re questioning, after all the time you spent talking, whether they were ever really there at all.
Beats the hell out of that last awkward, “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, I guess, but I think it’s pretty low.
At least Carrie Bradshaw got a Post-It.
But what about the people left behind? People like Inana’s sister, or Maxxy’s father. That’s not even the end of it in cases like Maxxy’s. She’s not just a person, she’s an empire. She’s got an entourage. Her entourage has an entourage. How many people are directly employed by her with the sole aim of keeping that machine running smoothly? They’ve got loved ones and families as well who rely on Maxxy as a means of economic survival.
What happens to them while she’s missing? If she never comes back?
I wander over to my laptop and open a Word file, entering a few preliminary ideas about the fallout for those left behind. So often people focus only on those who leave, not the ones who are left.
Jack’s used to this from me—wandering away to write down an idea before it flits from my mind completely like a butterfly in a big wind—and after turning the television off a few minutes later, he heads into the bathroom.
A startling number of people have had high-profile disappear-ances—either unsolved, or that turned out to be ghosting and admitted as such, sometimes years later.
I lose myself in reading about their families and friends, interviews with people aching with the loss, not understanding what happened. And it’s thin, but it’s enough of a justification to tie Inana and her sister to something more than personal curiosity.
Jack startles me coming out of the bathroom, damp from his shower. “What are you looking up?” He kisses the top of my head.
I hadn’t realized half an hour had passed, and I roll the tension from my shoulders. “Well, Maxxy reminded me of a story I read recently about this model, Inana Luna—she did quite provocative performance art—who disappeared as well before turning up deceased. It gave me the idea to do a story focusing on women who disap
pear—the ghosts in our lives—and the impact that has on those left behind. She has a sister who I think could be a great lead, but she hasn’t replied to me.”
He rubs my shoulders. “Do you want to…”
“I really just want to work on this now that I’ve found something.” I brace for annoyance, but he just shrugs.
“It’s good to see you interested in something again.”
My smile is easy. “It feels good. I’m trying to look up more about Inana so if the sister does agree to a meeting, I don’t look completely clueless.”
“I won’t convince you to come to bed, in that case.”
“Not that you’re in any shape for anything tonight. The bags under your eyes wouldn’t make it onto the plane.”
“They’d definitely need to be checked.”
I tip my head back for a kiss. “Sorry.”
His lips linger on mine for a moment, not erotically, but sensually, and I give his shoulder a squeeze before he heads for the bedroom.
And I fully intended to research Maxxy, but after a cursory search, my fingers type in Inana’s name, taking me to a fan website as though my hands are haunted, possessed, in a fugue state that the ghost of this woman controls.
Her dark eyes seem to burn into you, no matter which picture of her you look at. No matter which scene from which experimental film. I guess that’s one of the hallmarks of a great performer—such people always make the audience feel like they’re focusing only on them. Looking into their souls, singing just for them, making love to them, dancing for them.
Yearning for them.
Inana’s the same—charisma oozed from her every pore. She was gorgeous, talented, had the “it factor.” There’s never been anyone like her.
What was it?
I search for any content I can, but I want to look beyond the interviews and clips from the films and TV shows she shot. Cameos and bit parts from before she made it big. A couple of commercials from before she made it at all, hawking skin cream. Campy backstage photos from stage plays.
