Dear Kate;
This is an ode to the modern poets and writers that inspire me. And an apology, yeah there’s that too. But it’s mostly a love ballad — I promise.
It’s full of all the same tragedy and shock that any good film has, right? That we all have; that we all watch. Right? That’s the joke, right? What’s the joke again? Steady. We are but reflections. And here are my thoughts — ones no one asked for. And here you are; reading. Why am I here? We all battle the same woes, friend. We are gathering, silently and on paper. That is what makes us so dangerous. I just am writing it down. And I am not sure why some days.
Me? Who am I? I am a drama queen, in writing. Formerly seen in pictures, text messages and on the phone. What were those phone calls, anyways? — the “ohmygawd, mom — I’ve got to go the children are running around with knives. I’ve never seen this behaviour in my life.” Jaw dropping violence from children? Me? Her? (I am pointing to my sister?) I guess apples don’t fall far from the tree — eh? My anger has a purpose and a reason. I’ll save the drama for my writings; my antics, all those crazy things I did while banished there. Wrote, write, oh how I love to express. I forgot that. I don’t appreciate it being shrugged aside. I am a full being too. I am a full perspective growing up — too. We equally had pain. We pretend like the system didn’t rape me a second time. When they asked me “what’s wrong?” The answer of “send me home” was not sufficient. When I tell you, I wish you would have picked me up; it’s manipulation? Really? So I digress — forever embroidered in the blockchain. Yes, dramatic when I say — you will hear my pain forever; haha. I just really freaking love you, Mom, Sister, Friend, Woman I’ve never met.
Dark, handsome, gloomy. I am a fan of “the heathers”; you know, that cult movie that everyone has heard of. And no one has watched. I’ve watched it. It’s good — totally the original mean girls. It used to be on Netflix. That’s if anyone cares about a fan girl of the early two-thousands. That’s if anyone reads this, my public diaries. My sister scoff at my attempts at being a hipster; “the basic bitch is cool too.” God was she cool. Just as smooth as Regina George. She even bit like her too, full of silent rage. Even when I wanted to push her off a cliff; she was better than me in every which way. I couldn’t stand being on the outside so much as I — could not stand her on the inside living my imaginary high school life! Did I tell my sister I loved her enough then? Do I tell her I love her enough now? Who is it that sits up with me for hours bitching about the imprisonment of my youth? Who else knows my youth? Who else knows what it’s like to drown in two feet of water? You don’t. She does. Hidden words, silent moments — the sentences never spoken are now alive. I tell her about my sexual woes and she eats up every word. Smiling as she recounts my updates to my mother. I think she likes feeling less c r a z y than me. I feel the same way, as my father recounts their lastest fight. The scapegoat, the golden child. It’s irony, the whole thing is just — funny; you know, if it wasn’t this painful. My beautiful mother who pretends not to laugh at my new haircut. When she sneaks a look at the newest picture. The newest update in front of your eyes. Her eyes. It’s you who pretends to not see how much her fears were lived out in her children. Your children, our children — if I didn’t break the generational curse. Stomped on it, really. Is anger that bad? She’s happier now; after all the fights have settled. After my mom and dad lie peacefully apart. You know me, right? No one knows dark side like family. “your friends don’t even know you” ; you would say. Are you calling me evil? I am a hurt child; damn, it’s time to grow up. And it’s true my friends do not — they don’t. They really, really don’t. And then they do. And then they really, really do. And say what? Am I evil? No, I am a hurt child mother. Hurt people, hurt people. Like you, like me. Not bad, not good — discipline means to learn. No one else knows what that looks means when I make it at you across the room. Can I tell you I love you with a blink from across the ballroom? To preserve, I must write. I can’t use Botox to be young forever. I must face death; with eyes wide open, I must face death. Isn’t that just the root of it all — I had to go away, for I would surely die. And surely, I will die. Crippled by unnecessary fears of the ever hovering anvil; the ever hovering helicopter parent. Yes, this is to every ever too careful parent. Maybe they are just fucking fine and pain? That’s life; we haven’t earned heaven yet. I love you, I broke free. I broke your bondage that kept me tethered to home. I am not from Delaware any longer; just like all those starlets. You know, the ones I went to high school with that one girl who is in “the office” sister. She was a grade older than I. No, no — I have never spoken to her before. Nope, not ever. I don’t think a single word. I saw her though, yeah. That’s about it. And no one really cares, right? Because who are you? Who am I? Yes, who am I? The ever sounding question everyone must attempt to answer within their limited lifespans.
It was Olivia Gatwood that taught me, “when they call you a bitch; say thank you. Thank you very much.” It was her guiding hand when “I shaved my head instead of my pussy”. When my friend cried because the boy she loved did not believe in labels; I too thought of stitching chauvinist onto his jacket. Your words pricked me like knives. Heide Pribe held me up by the collar; chills. Their lyrical poetry sung inspiration to my soul; to write about those things you are suppose to hate about yourself. Modern girls spoke to the audience — and the people reached back. What happens when 'A Tale of Two Cities' becomes distant; heteronormative, not read in wide circles. Who speaks for the future? Who writes for the hopeless? Admiration is simply a projection; so is anger. To all those girls I do not know; I love you. I was not there and I wasn’t the one who pulled out your tampon out of you, Olivia; but I know real friendship. I remember the girl who instructed me how to shove it in — which hole? I guess, the only one I never was allowed to fondle. A platonic forbidden love. And to all the artist that spoke to you; so I speak nothingness comparatively too.
Because really, it’s all nothingness -- comparatively — right?
A daughter is taught to be a manic pixie dream girl. Wonder child; don’t have sex, remain pure. Beautiful angels don’t swear or squirt out their parents toothpaste across the floor. Why isn’t she blooming? Why is she overly social? Why isn’t she oh so focused on achieving our dreams for her? Sex is a present you save for men. I am worth my body count; not too many dicks have made me impure. Smile, have long hair, be sweet — tell people how much you love Jesus! I masterbate to gay porn; it’s okay to come out of the closet, shadow. Don’t say that; say this, it’s easier on the ears. Do not honk your horn when the other guy isn’t paying attention — that’s rude. Do not rock the boat, sit still. Everyone must like you; you must be friends with everyone. No on is allowed to hate you, anger is not allowed to exist. If you feel it building up; shove it down. Be a lady — just be a skinny feline with big boobs and long hair. The men like that; and you know, ha! Take my bra — burn it, please. I’ll say that with a smile. The patriarchy motto rings in my ears. Rose McGowan; you spoke for us. Rose McGowan — you rose for us. I know who you are, feline consciousness undercover spy. A take down queen that paid the price of doom. Rose McGowan, the empress with a pen; I love you. You inspire me; us. You speak to an audience of the silent majority; women, undercover queens. Artists, writers, dark lord operatives — you speak for more than yourself. You speak for us.
I had this shadow side that I tried hiding. Body hair; hide that monster, child. Good grief -- do not act as if you grew it yourself. Who cares? All of a sudden my body was made of holes; my shadow reached up from my heels. “Hello” she said as she swirled with black smoke. I asked her how we could work together to accomplish our mission. I held hands with the worst of me. A vegan and a meat eater; that little child of mine that once hid, I am holding her now. Integration, allowing myself to die one day; realising the absolute unimportance of my existence — while understanding I am also the world to a little child. It’s an interesting parallel — how long was I going to hold onto the fact that I felt that my mother ruined my life. Those were tears of a child. I wiped her tears away; growing pains. I lost my childhood religion; woke up laughing. I’ve been deluding myself — I do not believe in this god of this foolish Christian Bible. Ugh, I must stand up again. The towers crumbled, I fell. I rise.
Watching modern artists take the spotlight in little avenues, coffee shops, on the street sides — feels magical. I stopped appreciating the arts; hating this extremely emotional part of myself is hell. I must express and I must document my process on this forum. I am an artist, yes. And also -- a scientist. I love the healing arts as much as I love to write. I am writing so publicly because I want to see my healing take shape on paper. I want to see the ways in which my story takes place. I want to further explore the how's and why’s of emotional healing. And if a pattern could be established. This could then be replicated. This is all assumptive; I am simply promising to be brutally honest. I want to really unwind and see how it goes. Life is a journey — and I am searching for a solution for mental health ailments. For me, for you -- for whoever wants to think that there is more to learn about the mind. I believe writing can be part of the equation; Dr. John Sarnos talked a lot about that. I desire to see his work come to life — to have a living example to explore with curiosity. I believe in myself that much. In his books, I was confused on how this process was suppose to flow. He apparently conducted, “how to write about one’s troubles” workshop in the hospital basements on weeknights and weekends. How to write a memoir one-oh-one. He had a pretty difficult time convincing the mainstream of the efficacious nature of his technique. No wonder; he was the first of his time. I am simply walking in the giants before me. We all do the same, our life -- a solute to the soldier who died. I feel it fits within chiropractor's idea of retracing and reprocessing neurology. I wonder how does the art of story relate to one's' cognitive patterning? I am not sure; one day I would love to find out. The thing I know for sure -- is when an artist life is in the shitter; they write a book about it. I am a writer, so I write about it. If I was a scorpion would you get angry if I stung? What did you expect? It's the best way I can describe all those sugar plum fairies that dance around in my head. So, here's to you, Kate -- a long lost letter to you, the girl without feelings.
I have always felt terrible about the way that I treated you in high school. In retrospect; that plastic bottle with all those scribbled hate notes from Alex and I. Your welcome; that was my character at the time; sure. I believe it showed hers well too. I still remember vividly attempting to apologise to you that one time in French class. You said, “I don’t have feelings.” You cocked your head, oh!? I believed you then. I feel you now, I have felt you in the past. Expression is hard, those difficult conversations expressed animalistic. Suppress, repress, purge. Emotional bulimia. I couldn’t see the bully I was; and when the teacher pulled you and Lizzie aside. Accusing you of bullying me? Hmm. That’s just my memories. I am ashamed. I thought I was the good guy? I was a bitch and I am sorry. Not that my apology is needed; I hope only appreciated. I was inappropriate so many times; I used to be a mean spirited person. I hid it well. Eh, but what does it matter; I am burying that person. After I left -- I hung on for a time; thirteen years to be exact. I felt anger and hated. I felt abandonment. And I came face to face with those hurts and flaws. I am not an evil person; I am not a saint. I am human; and when I tell a stranger that I hate my mother — the silence feels real. We all hate someone. I don’t think I want to be that person any longer; judgmental, full of rage. I am letting my pain go now; I am letting you go now. I just wanted to say goodbye. And I wanted to say I was sorry; hurt people, hurt people — I guess the cliche rings true.
I didn’t mean to hurt you when I stabbed you; I was only trying to bond with another girl. I was only trying to tear you down, to build myself up. It’s nothing personal — right. I have garnered a deeper wisdom in time; reflecting upon who I am verse who I was. I see perspective and I am grown. My sister was right when she said, "No, Laura -- I am grown." There is no growing-up; it happened already. Do not assume the child is not watching -- with fresh eyes. My sister isn’t speaking to my father; I not my mother. Such an ugly divide. Sometimes I look at my sister and think she’s much more beautiful than I. It was me verse her; my cries compared to hers. My looks, her height, my weight compared to hers. Sisters, born to be rivals. Who else wrestled the most with me amid the seas of contempt. The ocean of home waved and stormed. As I hug my sister goodbye, she needs to barricade the door as my father just slips by to say hi real quick unannounced. Does he not remember protecting his space; doing that to his father -- when pop-pop used to show up real quick. A huge goose comforter to put on all the kids; he didn't want them to be cold. I loved my pop-pop meow; and my mom didn’t go to his funeral. What would he have thought? How sad — did he blame himself for my parent's divorce? Him and mom-mom being separated for eleven years. He loved my mom. They have pictures up of her in their house. He died in that house. His dead body taken out of that house. And my mom buried the good times with the bad. She buried my dad dead, forgetting she was spending his dreams. But money can’t buy your children home for the holidays anymore. I mourn that life that my sister now leads. A life with a house in Delaware: ugh, I am never coming home. But, can I be buried next to my grandparents? Oh, the blood of nomad. Can my bones be left to rest there?
I sometimes wonder if anxiety can have its roots in the fear of death. My parents projected “the fear of death” onto us so many more times than I could count. Are we not all just giving by the grace of god? Are we all not living in his good graces? My sister was going to die in the ghettos of Wilmington — raped in a race war in her half a million dollar home. Fear. Stop! The fear-based nonsense is robbing me blind. In other words, shut the fuck up. I learned to fight in the ghettos of Greenville, Delaware. My grandfather held a gun to the roof of another man’s mouth; for stealing his necklace. His gold necklace. He was in the Chester newspaper for shooting a man out of his deli, Mama's Deli. He owned it with his brother. My father tried to escape and created a war zone just the same. You can’t escape generational patterns with money and fame. What did my mother think when she saw his billboard all over town? You can’t run away from trauma with pills and doctors. You can try though; we can all try. I guess that’s all we can really do. It’s interesting to watching shifting mindsets arise in myself. I don’t fear the dishes, or old food particles. I am not dreadfully afraid of vomit as I was in my youth. I am the mother now; all my other projected mother — mother me; smothering me. I did it to myself. Truthfully, it’s all me. We all can change, and move on and grow. It’s hard to reinvent yourself on Facebook; hi — I am Laura; from where, exactly? To be determined. Please; do yourself a favor — unfriend me, I bite. We all do. Hi — uhh Kate — it’s me, I am just a fellow artist swimming in pain; wanting my projected family to see me, acknowledge me, care for me. Damn, ain’t that too true to be played on the radio. Broken radios do not play sweet songs that long, afterall. John Prine, you fled from Vietnam to die from Corona. I love you. I love, all of you. Aren’t we all just soldiers who either fought or fled? The trick is; no one gets out alive. Sam Stone came home went home with a monkey on his back. After serving overseas; he died with a needle in his arm. There’s even a song about him — see. So what’s the moral of the story? Act with love; we are only perspectives of perpetrators and victims of violence. It’s in us all. We are all made of darkness and light. Cheers to the artist who paint the many pictures of life; works that hopefully will out live is all. Cheers to the person who writes about my woes in the fiction books I read — all we want is our pain to be heard. And that’s universal.
So I guess this is goodbye, Kate. That is -- if I ever really knew you; anyways. You are free, my muse -- you, all of you.
