I went through Polly’s luggage.

I went to find PJ—I love U2, but the show was too big and Peej wasn’t getting enough love. Everyone was in the famous people room, so I went to find her and she had already split and there was nothing but me and her luggage, so I looked.

It was really tidy and together.

All the shoes were in separate bags and all the gowns were in muslin dress bags.

Her makeup was all Mac and in a perfectly contained storage unit.

There was no sprawl or excess.

I’m still freaked out and feel the need to confess.

She was pretty much a minimalist right? Someone needs to make me feel better about this.

The deli platter hadn’t been touched and there was no evidential signs of booze—why can’t I be more like her?

I wore this great flapper dress onstage the other night and it just fell off, like it burned off and the doors fell off and a mirror broke and rooms get trashed—like why can’t I be tidy like PJ?

Any intellectuals have a theory on her tidy luggage, it was so fucking Zen.

It was either Rock Star totally and I just don’t understand or—I don’t know, I’m confused.

Maybe I need to let her know I went through the luggage, like not riffed, and OBVIOUSLY I would never open a journal but I just wanted to sort of see what she does with her bags.

I mean bag.
It was one suitcase—tasteful.

I mean, I have like racks and racks and shit everywhere and feathers and sequins and the blood of virgins, etc. etc., and here’s PJ with one tidy-assed bag and I felt very confused.

Here’s my other me and PJ story.

I had heard of this hotel in London, the Portobello. It was supposed to be really cute and special—I just came back from France and was for some reason all into my French Riviera rich-lady outfit thing, like i was really really put together. …

I go to this little teeny lobby and there’s these little eccentric people and they show me this little teeny perfectly appointed room—it’s so small, barely my shoes fit—this is their biggest room—it’s also got a quill pen and ink pot.

I immediately call my assistant and say, “Hey, you know, you gotta get me into a big hotel. I’m way too big for this place…” I’m now walking up the stairs on the cell phone. “I mean listen, if I was PJ Harvey I could like… fit and use the quill pen.”

Boom, I’m back in the lobby—there’s PJ—she totally hears me say this. She’s in really nice black pants and a little red t-shirt, checking out to go to Germany. I totally cop to it: “This is such a you place, but I’m like a galumph, I need the Royal Suite at the whatever—so my shoes can fit.”

She just nods ruefully, and I think—like when I saw the bags last night—”why can’t I be like together like she is.”

I am so humiliated and laughing that I’m in my French Riviera costume, my luggage so overwhelming it’s falling out the door of this hotel—I mean one big suitcase is just books, one is just underwear, whatever—whoa I’m a consumer I guess.

And of all the people in the world I mention because the quill pen just drove me bananas—I could see PJ sitting at the teensy desk writing all those great lyrics, tortured beyond belief, while I have to spread out all over many rooms—even in a slum, I don’t care—and I’m barking her name “IF I WAS PJ HARVEY MAYBE I COULD STAY IN THIS PLACE BUT I’M JUST TOO BIG.”

And there she fucking is.

(Source: firasd.org, via tulletulle)