My mother died in 2012, June 23rd. Throughout my childhood and short adolescence she needed me. And I needed her, although not as much. I hated her quite a bit but I loved her deeply as well. It was a horrible drama, that relationship. It was very hard on the both of us. Codependent. Sad. Self destructive. Always, it seems, that the people you hate the most are the ones who remind you most of yourself. I am lucky and unlucky in that I am very wise to my own faults. I turn them over and over like coins in my pocket… Jangle, jangle, jangle. Money I can’t seem to spend or make go away.
The only inheritance that I got from my mother after she died was a small life insurance policy and her remaining benefits from the Veteran’s Administration. I spent it like water, a compulsion and an illness for people that are Bipolar like I am. My mother was the same way. The first thing I bought was a pillow top bed. I named it Barry White because it’s white and fluffy and ecstasy compared to the tiny, lumpy day bed that I had been sleeping in for years that made me wake up in pain every day. I had needed it for years. But, I traded it harshly. My mother’s cremated remains and the last ditch policy from the VA bought it for me for $700, a selfish, indulgent sum, after she died. So, it really is a thing that I would give back if it would bring back my mother. Just bring back the screwed up, complex, completely un-self aware woman that got a really raw deal like I did (it’s generational and universal unfortunately). The woman that created me; loved me with all the things she really doubted she had and a couple that she completely denied she had.
She was a rapacious alcoholic. She had already started dying of it by the time I was about three or four. I still remember a moment in the hospital, holding my grandmother’s hand in some sort of waiting room, while they pushed her in on a wheelchair, looking corpse-like and ill, green and weak, but with a tremulous smile telling me, lying to me, that it was all going to be okay. I remember it vividly, I think, because even as a toddler, I knew that it was a lie. She was permanently out of orbit emotionally and a serious mistake maker, a trick that she taught me to repeat, sometimes I think intentionally because she also had a knack for spite. And honestly, now, I forgive her everything. Wholly.
I want, just for a day, to go back to that November six months before she died. She bought me a ticket for her birthday and I wish I could go back to that day, November 11th, and get on that plane that I didn’t because of all said above reasons and several more. If only I knew that it was my last chance to see her, fix it for her, say what I needed to say and what she needed me to say. Because one day, for a really short time on the phone, from across the country, she actually stepped up, became a real mother for the first time and apologized to me for every mistake she ever made. Even the ones she forgot and I never knew about. And I intentionally put terseness in my voice and a grudging, “thank you,” and hung up the phone, still bitter. Just give me November 11th and then send her back where she’s whole, warm, safe and completely healed, I can only hope. Where she is maybe now getting a brand new crash course before whatever might possibly happen next, I don’t know, but I’ll figure out soon enough. Whatever place that she hangs out in now. Fuck the bed; I’ll take a concrete floor. I want that November back. It has been a long time wish on a now dead star that I haven’t said to myself or anyone else until right this second now, a couple of weeks after I sent four handfuls of her temporary Goddess vessel to the four directions into the sea. The same sea that she took herself and her two kids to in order to get away from the darkness that was chasing her so that we would maybe have a better shot at what she didn’t.
Right now as I write this, the humiliating and private but spiritual flood gates on this alarming day are wide, wide open, gaping and terrifying. And right now, although everyone is in and out on Facebook, they love me and are subliminally aware of what’s going on with me. They are the only ones witnessing this weird, emotional process. Because my dad wouldn’t understand and my children will never find out. Here I am, on the goddamned internet that my mom tried so hard to get on so she could talk to me every day. She bought her little computer, took lessons, but could never, ever figure it out. Now she has really reliable and affordable access whenever she wants to explore and learn my bizarre, morphing social network life that I have grown to depend on because all of my loved ones, my adopted family, are scattered across the world.
My mother was hospitalized many, many times for her building cirrhosis. Each time, she would stop drinking for a while and she would heal a bit, feel better and start the spiral again. At the end of it all, she said that she had pneumonia. My grandmother had found her in her cottage after two weeks of not hearing a thing. She was prone on the floor, lying in her own body fluids, unable to get up, much less walk, as swollen as her legs and belly were. My grandmother promised herself it was just the pneumonia. That she’d recover again from the alcohol poisoning like she always had. I got about ten seconds with her on the phone before she lost consciousness for the last time. I still keenly remember the plaintive confusion in her voice, I hear it over and over, the exact sound, every tone, her sharp Kentucky accent when she said my name, as if she couldn’t remember she had a daughter, or worse, maybe that she couldn’t believe that I had called. Then, she fell into a coma and over the next week, one by one, all of her organs died except her brave and stubborn heart.
I was not there when they touched the few small buttons that ended her life. I wasn’t there. My sister flew in to Kentucky from North Carolina, as she was closer, to sign the release and let her go. She did it without hesitation, which was kind but only accidentally so. She took care of loose ends, the business of death, and then she went straight back to the airport and back to her more idyllic life. I don’t hold it against her to not have forgiveness towards my mother. My mother had not done right by us at all. We were neglected our whole lives. We were cruelly manipulated because of our own mother’s cowardice and jealousy. My mother confessed to me that I was her favourite once. I don’t know if she had ever said the same to Ann, but the possibility of such a thing is vast, because that was my mother.
When Joy Christine Lamb née Combs took her last agonal breath her hand was empty, without another warm one to hold it, and she died alone. Very much alone, without her daughters. For months after, it ran over and over, these images in my head. The glaring lights over the headboard of the hospital bed that make the shadows of a sick human face look more like a skull. The sound of the heart monitor going flat and sharp and keening like a scream. The slight whine of the respirator deflating for the last time. And I prayed so very, very hard that whoever the nurse was that removed her intubation tube had done it with a solemnity and kindness. And at the very least, with professional regret. It was her job. She probably did it almost every day. But on that particular day, although she did not know the vibrant redhead that had faded, the comatose and sunken woman in that bed; she did it, that final confirmation of death, removing the only thing in her throat that was keeping her alive. She did it in my stead.
Then came the cremation. My mother had no money. No burial. Her memorial was brief and mostly empty. I sent my sister words to say in my stead but she refused. I forgave her that too. I was sent her ashes. I would not be moved. They were mine. I had knots in my guts up till and after I got that deafening knock and that sad, small, heavy white cardboard box with a huge orange sticker that shouted “HUMAN REMAINS.” The postman was quiet and kind. He had done this countless times.
Shortly after, I heard a certain song. A song that took over this entire experience and somehow made it all positive. And right. And sacred. And as eternal as Scotland, which holds most of my heritage and DNA. The song is called “Feather on the Clyde” and it is written and performed by a man who calls himself Passenger these days. He wrote the song about one of his favorite cities, somewhere I’ve never been, although he took me there. Glasgow, Scotland. And as I heard his vulnerable voice telling my tragic family story that he did not know, I soaked in what he sang and the melody that is gentle in its regret, it made so much sense. Life is a river. Ever moving, changing, ebbing, rising, falling, but always tumbling to its end, the sea. A sea so deep and vast that none of us can ever really fully understand. My mother’s pain came at her from all sides and it never ceased. My mother is Glasgow in my aching heart, the river Clyde splits her into many paths and she took all of them, but could never, ever go back. And I could not cross it. For many years I tried, I swam so hard, and for many years I drowned, to the point of moving to the God forsaken desert where there is no water at all and I still drowned. Until now.
I will go there to Glasgow one day, to stand on those banks and visit her. Think of that song, and the unbreakable Scottish ginger thread that I got through my long mother line. I will stand there on a bridge, hopefully on a brisk, lonely day. I’ll leave a token in the River Clyde for her. Drop a solitary feather, whatever gift I happen to find that the ducks may leave behind, and watch it float and flutter, drift and fly, until it finally descends to barely touch on that water to help me remember, let the past go, let it float away.
I was always helpless and hopeless in my efforts to save her. But, she always wanted to go to Scotland. I’m keeping my promise.
Edited to update with new information: As of 2020, I have accepted that Bipolar I was a misdiagnosis by a counselor who was not qualified to make it. I have been properly diagnosed with CPTSD, or Complex Post Traumatic Stress, a less stigmatizing label for Borderline Personality Disorder. Link to a more recent blog post describing it ad nauseum here below:
Bits and pieces of this have been published in several places… But here it is in its entirety. It’s my favourite personal essay. So proud of this.
I’m not a real woman, a normal woman. I always attempt to put the truth out there, to warn off, to caution away. I am only a Rubix cube, and it is for this reason alone that men pursue me ruthlessly. I am a puzzle that needs solving. An intricate and magical illusion that needs to be logically explained. Because of course, it has to be some sort of trick. I cannot be real. So, I’m a mysterious box that needs to be opened. A door that needs to be unlocked. They are all looking for my key. It’s not really about me. It never was. They call it love. They tell themselves this. They tell me it’s my passion. It’s my kiss. It’s the feel of me wrapped around them, tight and pulsing. They’ve never felt this way before. Nothing like the self destructive tsunami of passion that only I unleash.
And then come my complications. I am pain. My blood is made of suffering. My soul swims in melancholy. I am the Lemarchand Configuration box and inside, there’s a beautiful demon who predates contemporary, painful souls by thousands of years. I am not a fictional villain in a horror film. I’m so much worse than that. I am the first demon, Lilith. I’m the bitch that dared to be bold and defied God by refusing to obey Adam, to blindly follow his lead.
But, I am also Pandora. I keep the apocalypse safely in my jeweled box in an effort to keep the peace. My soul is an archetypal powerhouse. My wild streak is thick and endless. Durga and Kali are my constant companions. Freya and the Morrigan too. They are the unkindness of ravens to my singular wolf, following me around, close to the ground, ready to pick at the bones of what I’ve left behind.
So go ahead, try to open the box. Say my name out loud. Steal my skeleton keys. Attempt to destroy my mystery. Strangle the thunder and lightning in my eyes. Curse me in your confusion. Just don’t look too close in my closet. There are monsters in there. Monsters that I made of plaster and paper maché. They all turned real; glittery rainbow scales and wide, translucent wings. Fire screaming out of their mouths, because they need to help me destroy something just to regain my sort of bitter stasis, sense of self, and emotional release.
My Chinese horoscope says that because I was born in February on a special leap year, my sign is a dragon and yes, it totally fits. All the good things and all the bad things. My self involvement, selfishness, fragile ego, stupid vanity. I’d rather shove those feelings into an airless vacuum so they cannot breathe and grow stronger, but as much as I try, I am always unsuccessful. I’m most adept at the self loathing: the doubt, the fear of failure, the fear of success. I’d much rather hide and deny my sins and poor decisions and painful, terrifying images in the box and keep my dragons locked away so I can’t hurt any more people than I already have. So that I only hurt me.
The last man I had a serious, committed relationship with was five years ago this last February, and I’ve been celibate for all of those five years, my wolf sedated and chained in my basement. Despite all the men that seek me out and shower me with false flattery. Immediately, they all think I’m their destiny. That they are foreordained to possess me because I will make them better. I will make them happier. I will make their life more profound. I will make them different than they were before. I will cure them of any and all malaise and restlessness and ennui that eats away at them. I will let them save me. I am the magic love potion they will put to their lips and I will fix them. They all think that these things are somehow my responsibility. They feel this way even if they don’t know that they’re obviously broken and bleeding and their visions are askew. But it’s my lunacy if they do.
Their bit of self awareness becomes my tragedy. It’s not love. It’s never been love. It’s merely fascination. Distraction. Transfixation. Pointless repartee. All they want is to own me. The man that taught me the agony and ecstasy of true love, he never loved me. Not really. He was bored with his own complacency. So I became his short lived novelty. And then he threw me away. He was smart enough to put all the puzzle pieces together and he was hard enough to dig deeply into my insides, scramble my guts up, slice and dice my heart into shredded meat. No other man ever affected me that deeply. I fully believe that we’ve met before, that we share a destiny. But just because it is your fate to meet someone and fall in love with them, doesn’t mean that the relationship is ever supposed to work. After all, life is suffering. We were star crossed lovers less than Shakespeare, but with much more misery. There’s something that we need to learn from each other in this lifetime, but I don’t think either of us has figured that out yet. All I know is that he looked into the box, saw me, and accepted me. So I let him in.
All of the men, especially him: they are greedy and think that once the puzzle is solved, the box opened, the door unlocked, they’ll achieve something. Something ethereal, rare and priceless. A holy grail. Something dangerous with great power. To that they are wise. This Pandora has been punished in Purgatory. Treated like trash, raped in every possible way, physically and mentally tortured-made to feel I had nothing left of me. It is only a soul that sustains me. Only a very small part of me. They all know what they want from me but they dare not say it.
They all think that they want to look at Pandora in the eye. They all think they can take me. Nope. Not alive. Not anymore. But, what the fuck are my needs? I’m not even sure what those they are because I’ve never received them. Respect? Honesty? Chivalry? I never understood love until one June, the one when I was twenty two. And when I did, it destroyed me. Sent me down the wrong path so I would get lost in darkness and density. My drug of choice is the most devastating and destructive in the world. I’m addicted to love. I feed off of it. I need it. Those endorphins, that post-coital bliss, that intimacy, the masculine hand stroking my hair, and the promise that he said he’d keep.
The rest of them, the faceless ones. Some just walked a circle around me and strategized, thinking they were smart enough to sort it out just by over-thinking it. Some got close enough to give it a good try: a Trojan horse, a graceless goodbye. But it is in their complacent failure and intimidation that the truth is revealed. My complexities are a maze, and Minotaur waits for me. Takes on all challengers. Shatters their armor so that I can see that in them, there was never and always will be nothing for me. None of them felt that I was worth that price. So they capitulated again to their lassitude state of humid and sweating boredom. The others, the ones that use frustration as a weapon, the ones unable to cope with their own inadequacy, they attempt to destroy me. Crush. Smash. Obliterate. Rape. Humiliate. Control. Kill. Emotionally and physically.
For many years, breathing was barely a thing to me. A risk. A worthless wish. If I am not their Willow tree, if I am not their putty, if I am not this sad, fragile, frightened thing-then men must bridle me. Either that, or flee because they are frightened of me. I was told by someone that my intelligence and beauty were intimidating and maybe that’s the problem, they’re all fucking cowards. Scared of my mind, my wild, and my secrets left unsaid.
And long since then, the others cannot allow themselves to leave a piece of me unharmed. They want my strewn innards and bleeding skin as their favorite memory. It is the basest compulsion in the Id in every man that ever lived and lied, even after they died. All of my lovers, they are only about the end game. But all of them, every one, retreated in defeat. Because they weren’t smart enough. Their courage wavered and fell. They thought that their black knight could check my white queen. You cannot check my queen, boy. You cannot capture me. This is not a game. This is me. This is my fucking curse, my chess pieces, my board, my hurt.
So many people are afraid of darkness because they don’t know its secret. In darkness, there is but safety. You are lost to all but sound and touch, so if you cringe, pull into yourself fully, they’ll never find you. They’ll never hurt you. But in darkness there is too much austerity. Loneliness. Missing pieces. So either I am picked apart by scavenger vultures or I am abandoned like a sightless oracle. This is my fate. This is how I will die.
So really, they, those unworthy men, have never seen me. I have never let them open the box simply because they are only dying of curiosity. And they all fall down in droves at my feet. Because I wouldn’t let them near me. It’s better this way. For now. I am historically legendary and my stories are passed on through the annals of DNA and the ripe, painful wombs of my female ancestors.
They, the men, all think it’s love. The truth is, though, they only want to step close to their fear, to warm their hands with it, put their paws on me, so that they can come and feel more alive for a few seconds and leave in one piece. They fool themselves into thinking that they are following the Hero’s Journey; archetype of the ancients, that their fathers will welcome them home to their very own Valhalla as conquering sons. Elevated. Enumerated. Celebrated as fearless and brave, all boasting of their female slaves.
For their rapes and pillages and piracy they are lauded. Even still, they are weakened by me. My heart is a haunted house on unhallowed ground. Ghosts abound and no crucifix or useless prayer will save them. They’d much rather save their own sad, little hides than seek me out in the maze, while I am curled up in the cold, wet grass beneath a gravestone trying like hell to stop the shiver. Hush the cry. Slow the bleed. Heaving the hope left by the petrichor that reminds me that I am not a Willow tree. I’m freest when my heart is broken. Less concerned and apathetic. The stillness and quiet of emotionally suicidal cliffs calm me.
I tell my lovers that my heart is only a token, a small, but deadly key that has a gravitational hold on me. It opens up everything: a box, a puzzle, a small and stolen soul that would never belong to them, because it doesn’t even belong to me. My heart is my curse, brought out of the earth as a talisman that holds me fast, eternally trapped in my secret and sacred wilderness. In my private serenity. My quiet and desolate reverie.
The song that cracked this open for me… this version specifically. Love you, Faustus. Thanks for this. ❤ Passenger: Golden Leaves, RTTV
I was absolutely stiffed in American High School. Sure, we were assigned JANE EYRE, but my only loose grasp of “Gothic” was the tedious trend. Crushed velvet. Bell sleeved dresses with the skirts halfway to my ass and thigh high tights. Chunky, heavy shoes and Merlot lips. Eight eye Doc Martens, coffin shaped patent leather purses, Nick Cave and especially, especially Type O Negative. I had a trite obsession with vampires (sigh) but no grasp of what Gothic was, even though I was unknowingly addicted to it already. Although my favourite English teacher, Ms. Hessian (what a sexy name, I always think of shiny riding boots and Tom Thumb spurs when I think of her, even though she wore five inch stilettos every day. Damn, I loved her), covered the classical Hero’s Journey in Greek literature, she glossed over the anti-hero. I was cheated out of Heathcliff and unfortunately succored myself with Lestat. Oh the woe. Oh the regret. Most achingly absent from my early studies, though, was the tricksy and scandalous half Scot that was “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” Had I put all the pieces together back then, if I had “walked in beauty like the night” instead of stumbling through the entire collection of Anne Rice novels, I’d be better prepared to attack my current work in progress, WITCH OF THE BAYOU.
If only I had put all the pieces together back then. Mary Shelley, Bram Stoker, the Brontë sisters (I like to think of them as the original and most heartfelt Sisters of Mercy) and most specifically, Lord Byron and his personal archetype. What a fucking legend the guy must have been. I mean really, what kind of personality must you have to inspire an entire archetype and all that throbbing and devastating literature that came afterward? Attracted to the “bad boy,” ladies? You’re so cute. Try to take on a Byron, ffs. If I met a larger than life man that had the snaps and traps of George, I think it might kill me for sure. I might die destroyed, with my heart sorely broken, but I would probably die fulfilled.
Now, I’m staring down the barrel of my own Gothic novel, and I’m worried I’m not up to the task. Come on! WUTHERING HEIGHTS, DRACULA, FRANKENSTEIN, JANE EYRE… I evidently suffer from an acute sense of hubris just to imagine trying to take this genre on. And honestly, is there even a real market for Gothic literature at all, anymore? (Crimson Peak notwithstanding). I’m stirring ideas around in my cauldron. Just pulling off the basic elements of a proper Gothic will be challenging enough. For all of those authors who will say “just write what’s in your head, don’t try to make it a Gothic.” NOPE. I want to write a Gothic. I have always wanted to write a Gothic. I want to plan ahead and try to drag the genre screaming into the American South and somehow do it remote justice. And so now, I must square off with my characters.
The story and my writing is gratefully, gratefully already instinctively Gothicky by a large amount. But there are some things that are unclear. I might try to pull off a Byronic heroine in Amelia Rose. I know, I know, flouting tradition. She has both aspects of dark lady/light lady (again flouting tradition), but is she a Byron? Does she have what it takes? Or do I want to turn the unfortunate Yves (her one and only lover) into a stronger, darker, more powerful force of nature in Amelia’s life? I can’t decide and so I hesitate… and in doing so, write pointless blog posts and procrastinate on my novel. In comments, feel free to discuss the idea of a female Byron, and in general the elements of a Gothic. I’d heartily welcome the opinions and viewpoints.
Some people know the origins of the Muse, the four epic Greek Muses in classic Greek Lit and Legend. Usually, it’s an ethereal thing. They don’t REALLY exist. They’re a culmination of our subconscious bringing us inspiration. Some artists, writers, et cetera, have had the rare gift of actual people being muses: husbands, wives, lovers. I’ve had two. Nearly complete strangers, though. Nothing and no one I could touch, really. I’ll preserve here some details of my private life. So, I’m kind of in between the two, I guess. I have this manic kind of Orpheus Hypothesis/Theory in my mind of my Muses… trust me, you wouldn’t get it, it’s very hard to explain, kind of delusional, and just plain weird. If it works out like I think it might, I’ll let you know.
Basically, I’ve had my Calliope, the muse of Poetry. He started my first novel… with a huge, huge dose of poetic and romantic pain. He was the first and last man to break my heart. We’re still friends, but a long time ago, he wanted to marry me. It’s bluddy complicated and ancient history because now he’s just an arrogant prick I know and love very, very much. My revenge (authors can be so petty), I had a huge argument with him about racism. I deleted him, deleted his phone number, everything, and took the dedication to him out of the book. He’s very bitter about that. Muahahaha. Honestly, though, I wish I had the foresight, no, the memory of how forgiving I am with people and left it in there. It’s dedicated to my second muse, ^ this guy, and it should have been dedicated to Anthony too, we were both just having a tantrum. I’ve known him for almost twenty years now, I should know better than to just write him off. Anyway, digression, and… go.
Now, the second muse of Orpheus comes to me… he is my Euterpe, the Muse of Music. Passenger. Michael David Rosenberg. It’s funny because he goes by his moniker and became instantly someone who affected my soul. When I learned his full name, I was like, well… that’s kind of… not extraordinary. Not as flairy as the last one… Anthony Esposito. He even signs his autograph with a little star over the “i.” He’s a rock star. How’d you guess? Anyway, back to Euterpe. In the same vein of my life, Euterpe is a musician too and I wonder if this will be a pattern.
I met him in person last year, after two years of waiting and repartee between us. He was sort of connected to me like I was to him. I entertain him. He likes my writing. Hopefully loves it by the end of the year. It was awkward and terrifying. I was originally going to L.A. to see him. Then I backed out because I couldn’t stop the panic. He’s a surreal, magical being to me (as he is to many others, we tend to tease him about his “silly little pointy ears” and his “hobbitses feets” ‘WE LOVES THEM’ and on and on). I have about 576754848475543 nicknames for him and he has a couple for me. Anyway, he asked me three times for a copy of my novel. So I must give it to him. There is no choice.
In eleven days I will be in L.A. to hand him this thing he helped me deliver, this child, this book UNTIL HER DARKNESS GOES. Writing for me is like a pregnancy. Note; I fucking hated my pregnancies. They were horrid and I’d never do it again. I love my kids, but having your uterus tell you it’s going to fall out, just nope. NOPE. Anyway. Eleven days. My anxiety is ramping up now. It’s hit me. I’m going to see him again. I actually am practicing looking at photographs so I might have the ovaries to look him in the eye this time. I’m very, very, painfully shy and reserved in person. Very awkward, socially weird, seriously quiet. I don’t want anyone to look at me. Ever. Inferiority complex, I guess, but I’ve always been this way, since childhood.
Meeting him again is causing severe, nauseating panic. He brought me in the venue privately last time and sang one of my sacred songs to just me. It was a moment I should have been able to look him in the face for. It was rude not to. Now I’m giving him something. My novel. This baby. My guts are in knots constantly and I’m putting off getting packed and ready because as long as I do that, it’s not real. As much as I want it to be real. It will be real, and I can’t deal. Kali help me. Will update later with the after affects and what happened… and if I even get to see him at all personally. He’s a bit popular these days.
***
So, back from the city of Lost Assholes. We had quite a time. Every time I doubt myself, I’m pleasantly surprised. I never doubt him. But first…. if you’ve ever been to the emergency room in Los Angeles, I’m fucking sorry! I’m so sorry! What a nightmare. Short answer: I have a genetic kidney disease that is quickly killing me… and I ended up getting admitted to the hospital WHILST I WAS ON VACAY. SO NOT FAIR. Rebekah (my worthy partner in this venture) tried to convince me to stay, but ended up helping me do a proper AMA Escape from Hospital Ward because the doctors were taking forevah to get me sorted. So, when we showed up to the Wiltern and went backstage… I was fucking BOMBED. I was totally bombed on dilaudid. If you’ve never had it, then you’ll never know. A pharmacist once told me it’s basically legal heroin. I managed to act like a human being and chat a bit and Mike jokingly offered whisky (Laphroaig, because there is no other whisky, thankyouverymuch), and I jokingly (or not) accepted… I probably would have, and that would have been a bad idea.
Moral of the story is that, my delusional Orpheus theory might just pan out because (this is so weird) both of my muses said the exact. same. thing. when they got the book. “Sick.” (Is this good? I think it’s good.) Short story, we went front row, blew him a kiss good bye and went to the ocean in Santa Monica… which almost swept us away and the water was cold, but being by the ocean always fills me with joy and lifts me up. Rebekah took a trek up to the mountains and I stayed in bed sick. And then we came home. So worth it. Everything was so worth it. It pains me that I can’t do it again next year. If he even comes to the states this tour. Whine. Bleat. Moan. I love that man. My Faustus, Sir Mikesalot, Sike, Hobbitses, et. cetera… What a fuggin guy, you know?
That “Faustus, I think you call me?” has been my text alert for three years. Pathetic.
If you don’t know who Damien is, look him up. I sent this poem to him years ago, when he was still on death row. As a thank you, he was kind enough to write me a poem in return. I still cherish that letter, along with all the rest of them that I received. We don’t speak anymore, really. Shame, I miss him. But I think I bring back memories of prison, so I don’t begrudge him for moving past it.
Tori Amos: “Playboy Mommy.” I want to write this story. I wish I could ask her about this song, where it came from, how it grew. After all, it might be a cover, but I doubt it. Tori has always been a goddess to me. I mean, Goddess. She can do no wrong, personality or her job… She got me through puberty with relatively few scars. I was that one melodramatic, depressed, angsty girl, and she appealed to the goddess in me. She put, and still does place, me in touch with my femininity. It doesn’t hurt that she’s Neil Gaiman’s bestie, either. I’ve not seen her live yet. I know when I finally do, I will need kleenex. I will probably sob. Like a Beatles fangirl. That’s how much she means to me and sooooo many other women across the world.
Anyway, this song doesn’t make me cry like so many of her others. I think it’s beautiful, a bit tragic, and I want to know more, even though I’ll have to make it up. I imagine a woman in a black trench coat and dark, dark glasses, standing alone at a grave with her back turned. When she leaves one rose and walks away, the image disappears… The only other thing I think is that maybe it will be best told in first person, posthumously. Her daughter’s diary. I love posthumous pov. You don’t find many that are good, but I’m an Alice Sebold believer. Anyway, why or how she’s at the grave of her daughter, I don’t know yet, but that’s just the start of it. I hope it comes to me eventually. The intrigue of the story has been rolling around in my heart since I bought this album so very, very long ago. I want to understand it and I want people to hear it and see it, but mostly feel it. And just maybe it will be a ghost story. Maybe it already is.
I may be in relative danger posting this, I don’t know. He still lives in town, as far as I know. And he knows where I live. So, I have been inspired, partly from my first muse’s request, that I write this story down; fictionalize it and make it into a novel. He swears it will be my 401K. Fine, I get why. It’s ghoulish, nightmarish and horrifying. That sells. But, it’s ghoulish, nightmarish and horrifying. And it’s my past. And I don’t know whether I want to go back there and invest SO MUCH ENERGY into thinking about it and writing a new story around the truth.
Oh yes. See, his suggestion started when he was bitching about his ex girlfriends. I’m like, “you pussy, you have nothing to cry about. I have a cannibalistic serial killer as an ex. Shut the fuck up.” And he’s like, “say whaaaa?!?” So, I told him the story. I’ve told several people the story. What? It’s a conversation piece. A CHUNK. Evidently we taste like pork and Satan loves me.
See? Nooooooooooooooo. I’m sitting here laughing because I can laugh at it now. Now. When he told me, I immediately threw up and hit the door. It was one hell of a story, full of plastic bags and body parts and pure insanity. Voices he heard and what they told him to do (kill me). The thing was, why I believed him, because what the fuck, if you heard this story, his story, you’d be like, no fucking way. Nope. I believe everything he said to me because he cried. He sat there and sobbed and begged my forgiveness for what he had done because he was in love with me and wanted to marry me. But maybe that too, was only an act. Whatever the truth, I had a choice to make.
When the person you’re dating confesses something like that to you, there are only three possibilities, and not one of them will comfort you at all. One, it could be that he actually did exactly what he said he did, which is murder almost a hundred people over ten years in Portland, Oregon for pay. Two, he could be lying to you, but why? To make you frightened for your own safety and life, that’s why. To manipulate and threaten you. To see how you would react and if you would believe him and what you would decide to do once he told you. The last possibility I had to consider was that he didn’t do any of it, but he was mentally ill enough and delusional and hallucinating that he had done it, so he believed it enough to be real to him and confessed his crimes. Not one of those possibilities told me it was a good idea to give him a chance and stay.
I KNOW!!! WHO ELSE BUT ME? WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO BE ME? GODDAMMIT.
He was not just a potential serial killer, but he was also psychotic. I witnessed him hearing voices. I witnessed him having visual hallucinations. I witnessed his severe paranoia and incredible rage. He often answered the door with a gun in his hand if I popped by unannounced, and then he would be verbally abusive and cruel and nasty to me for wanting to just stop over to surprise him and spend time with him. I wasn’t allowed to speak to his friends unless he was there. He was jealous of them and he felt like they were his property and I wasn’t allowed to associate with them at all because I would try to manipulate them against him. His name was Chris and that’s all I will say about who he is. But he tricked me. See, I have this name superstition (this will so go into the novel because it’s just so quirky). I have a name superstition and there are certain names I don’t like the sound of, or too many serial killers had the name, or my abusive ex husband has the name (as well as two other exes that were ridiculously toolish). If the name rhymes with something that’s off, it’s a no. Well, Chris is a good name. I thought I was safe. So I dated him… for six months of horribleness. Then, I saw his driver’s license. Gary Christopher. GARY? GARY?!? Check the Green River Killer: Gary. Gary: rhymes with Scary. It. Added. Up. This superstition works every time, I swear to God.
So, third novel will be a lot of elements of truth with a lot of elements of fiction and hopefully, you’ll not know which is which. Maybe I’ll post the truth up here one day but I don’t think so. I’m still scared of that motherfucker and I don’t know if he stalks me online. He’s a big guy; 6’4″ with a long stride and one hell, I mean, one hell of a tight bowstring temper. Don’t make the guy angry. Just don’t. My guess is this: Paranoid Schizophrenia (voices, hallucinations) mixed with OCD (that one was obvious, really) plus Antisocial Personality Disorder (no pity, the guy had no pity and no heart, really, except for himself). Yeah, don’t make him angry. He’s done it 86 or something, I forget, times, he’ll do it again. Happy Halloween.
That was my fave shirt of all time. I miss it. It says, “My Heroes Have Always Killed Cowboys.”
My kids, getting to know them as young adults and trying to see myself in them in some way, even though they grow up in someone else’s custody, (because Arizona’s Domestic Violence laws are just… I can’t even say), is just fascinating to me. I just ran across a post the other day on my Rated PG family Facebook account, as opposed to my “anything goes” except for phallic photographs and unmentionable furs and especially hate, account that is my default. I rarely use the family one because at this point; my son Kiah has no internet access and that’s really my only means of communication with him because his father is a prick and gets off on separating us intentionally. Even if it takes moving hours and hours away. I keep two accounts in order to protect myself from my sociopath ex husband and to use one account as a base for administrating pages that I don’t think are any of his business. Also, I intentionally keep my son off my default account out of a mother’s responsibility to set an example for her son. And I told him that. He knows about my other account. All of my friends do too. He understands and is cool with it. And he also knows that I must keep secrets from his father because unlike my daughter, he remembers.
I need a warning label and I am not about to let my son see that part of me yet. It’s not that he’s not mature enough. I was absolutely horrified when he found my author page and read one chapter of my WIP that is dark and intense and really frightening and he liked it. I panicked. We had a talk so that I could sort out how that chapter made him feel. “Creepy, mom, and sad, but you’re really, really good.” *mind blown* When I popped in my other account the other day there was a photo that I hadn’t seen that Kiah tagged me in. And it brought all of these following memories just flooding back… of me. Great times when I was truly one wild hellion mare that wore no saddle, no bridle, “fuck you and you and you and you, you fucker fucking fuck.” I love my son so much. He’s such a sweet joy and like me, such a cheeky little git, although much more polite, which is exactly why I’m trying hard not to corrupt him.
My daughter Aubrey is very much different. She has a bit of a dry, subtle wit and she’s much more calm and serene, although not at all serious. Her favourite thing between us is me secretly texting her British swear words and telling her what they mean so she can use them at school… SEE? I’M HORRIBLE. Still, though, she’s just kind of poised and contained. If you had known me when I was her age, there is no way in bluddy fucken ‘ell you would ever say that we were anything alike except in looks. At right around her age, I lost my virginity to a very handsome, notorious rakehell named Joey that all the girls wanted and I mean all of them. I wanted him too; he was a trophy. I know, scandalous. Then we committed and I got to know him and we bonded and were on again off again for five years. He still has photographs of us together from those days. I think he might have been in love with me, although I was absolutely clueless back then. I would have never even dreamed that I had gentled The Virgin Surgeon, Joey Shover. But, looking back now I remember every time he would surprise me and show up, tap on my window at 2 am and wake me up for a chat (let’s face it, chatting was not really his goal, I was no dumb chicken), I would let him stand outside my window for hours, whispering to me in my satin lingerie (me, not him, although that would have been aweshum) that covered just enough, but never enough for my father’s taste. Then, I would tell him to go home and not let him come in, even though he had walked more than ten miles from his house to mine, for hours. I never gave an inch.
I have a serious superstition about names. Michael is definitely tops on my list. For both wondrous good and icky bad. Two Mikes brought my best, closest friend in high school and I together and then ripped us apart. The one that brought us together is one of the most special Mikes in this world and always will be. The one that tore us apart, I don’t remember what he really looked like anymore. But still, he was a Mike. By my freshman year of high school, I was very good at sneaking out of my bedroom window, walking half a block to my best friend Leslie’s car, which was idling with the lights off, laugh, hop in and then we would haul ass and go out all night, smoking and drinking and then I’d sneak back in just before my mom woke up. I skipped school for weeks at a time, (still graduating with honors, and lettering in academics and maintaining, somehow, by the grace of some unknown God, a 3.6 GPA). Leslie and I helped each other with homework. Sort of. When finals came around, we were both fucked in different ways, so like always, we got shifty. I wrote her term paper for her and she gave me all of the answers in the Geometry exam that we kind of smuggled to each other in the halls on a Friday. At the end of it, I got a B on that exam (SCORE) and she got an A+ on her essay (a better grade than I got on mine, at least you now realise where my loyalties always lie). Outside of the chains of academics, we would just drive all day, aimless except for the object of not ever getting caught. We had conspired together to foil both our school and our parents, by intentionally missing a day and waiting right by the phone for the school to call to report the absence by an automatic operator, and then we would block the number. Savvy. Free and easy under the sun and with the sea salt of the Gulf in the wind, we would go to Clearwater Beach an hour away and hang out, or spend the day in Ybor City, wandering the one time legendary bohemian and cultural hotbed of Tampa since its founding, where Teddy Roosevelt was served Cuban cigars and sandwiches overlooking the brick top roads and Art Deco style buildings. This was where only the coltish but wise enough, at least on their licenses, went on weekends; to drink, dance, see shows and get laid. We’d walk or drive for hours, completely happy, no worries, no cares and when we got hungry we were also always broke, so we’d share a meal at a cheap restaurant with both of our lunch money and leave a .15 tip. i felt so guilty. We’d laugh like horrible, shitty teenagers and joke, “why bother?” But we still felt bad.
I don’t at all feel guilty that we nicked random lawn ornaments, flashing traffic barriers and street signs; including a huge, heavy as hell, solid concrete deer with embedded metal antlers. Leslie and I thought it was just plaster or plastic, but by the time we tried to snatch it and discovered that it weighed at the very least 75 pounds we were already in the middle of this unknown family’s front yard, exposed in the moonlight, away from the small copse of trees that would have hidden us. We were too invested in the challenge and dare of the situation to back out so we tried very hard and failed to contain our co-conspirator “oh shit, we might get caught” giggles that were making us cry and our guts hurt, and together we pushed, pulled, yanked, shoved, wrangled, wrestled and finally dragged that beast of a prize into her car. When we hauled that thing in the back seat, its tail broke off trying to get it in. Why did we do this? Because because. Because hilarious. Because dumb. Because hell yeah, we’re eternally 17 and hot-as-hell honey blonde, bad ass bitches, hair down to our asses and Hellfire in our eyes. After we escaped without a hitch, laughing until we were sobbing, we didn’t know what the hell to do with it so we dumped it at my boyfriend Billy’s house, who I had seduced and led by the nose, even though he was way too old for me. Trust me, he was powerless. I was way too old for my age and yet too young for my flesh because of the horrible environment I grew up in.
Leslie and I would wreak havoc just for the dare. We were both completely complicit and totally guilty. We reinforced each other’s horrible, shameless behaviour whilst our mothers hated each other and blamed the other’s daughter for being the bad influence on theirs. It got to the point where we were so close that it horrified my father because he thought I was gay. We were attached at the hip for a long time, until the name Michael came between us, when I learned the true and gutting betrayal inevitably wrought by the human mating instinct, an arguably ne’er do well, unknown vocalist with looong black hair and a golden throat and two beautiful teenaged girls. Where something intangible and un-guaranteed was chosen over deep girl love, kinship and friendship. And I still wonder if there are any regrets.
Until that happened, we would tip over portable toilets on construction sites, all of them,. so that the crew arrived at work the next day got a really shitty surprise. We smoked pot and sorted out that “November Rain” by Guns N’ Roses had to be the very longest and most intricately layered song in the universe. Leslie’s little brother Jerry, who was 13 or 14 had a mad crush on me and I thought about seducing him but then I wouldn’t, as I actually did have moral limits, even if they weren’t learned from my mother. He was a really sweet, sweet kid who thought I was a legend because I played guitar and could nail “Foxy Lady” by Jimi Hendrix easily because my instructor insisted I learn it when I switched from classical to electric. He just thought it would be wicked for a female guitarist to whip that song, along with AC/DC, Black Sabbath and more, and do it pretty well for a lazy shit who didn’t ever feel like practicing. So to Jerry, I was an unattainable and disreputable sex goddess that made pirate with his older sister who he idolised and I played a Jackson heavy metal electric guitar with EMG pick ups and a rare, custom, one of two white on black, ridiculous, hideous spider web finish worthy of Dave Mustaine of Megadeth (GAG). To Jerry, that was the dog’s bollocks. He started taking lessons from my instructor and lucky him, unlike me, he chose a vintage Telecaster, that I was too dumb to grab, not knowing what a smashing guitar it was. I was touched and really fond of him. I teased him and flirted with him mercilessly to make him feel good, but it never went anywhere from there. I knew my own nature well and that might have devastated him.
Leslie and I were voracious and unstoppable and we just didn’t give a care. We drank way too much and nine times out of ten it was Cuervo Gold. Yikes. The first time I got well and properly off my face, we were jumping on the bed, half naked monkeys in our lingerie. It very suddenly went all wrong and I ran to the bathroom and hurled. It came out of my nose and I was sure that I was going to die of alcohol poisoning and I kept begging Leslie that she needed to take me to the hospital but she assured me I would be fine. I learned that an early (or really late) afternoon Burger King hit would help settle the roiling nausea and the evil pink slip of payment the next day: that legendary, horrid, unshakable Jose Cuervo Gold hangover. I cannot even sniff it to this day.
Leslie also knew when her neighbors were on vacation so we broke the lock on their screen door, sneaked in their yard and skinny dipped in their pool for no reason except how scandalous it felt having water slide over indecent skin. We wrecked the fuck out of Leslie’s car on the way home from seeing the horrible band Jackyl live. By far they were the loudest (and one of the most obnoxious) bands I’ve ever seen. It was a mid-sized arena and the band had an enormous, way too cocky wall of Marshall amplifiers packed in stacks to the ceiling and within five minutes my ears were bleeding. But, she and I never, ever regretted that night because the opening band was called The Screamin’ Cheetah Wheelies and although we were far away from the stage, we both heard that singer’s voice and looked at his sexy southern spellbinding and absolute Jim Morrison swagger and we were both instantly hypnotised. That started our fangirl obsession with Mike Farris and his unbelievable, powerful, naturally perfect and unique voice. On the way home from that show we were speeding, going about 90 on a deserted interstate, with my boyfriend trying and failing to catch up from behind, his blood pressure probably sky rocketing trying to keep calm at our utter rapaciousness, since he had a decade on us. When we almost missed our exit, which wasn’t really our exit, i just panicked and thought it was, Leslie tried to make it and we spun out 360 degrees and crashed into the railing of an overpass and almost died on the highway that night. Leslie had been drinking beer at the show, which I didn’t like, so I had abstained. We both freaked out about calling the cops or her parents and so we dashed and tried to pretend it was a hit and run.. Poor Billy, who just had one of the worst scares of his life, had absolutely no power to talk sense into us.
As far as the SCW band, (their nickname) no matter who I went to see them with, I didn’t care, I never missed a single show when they came down from Tennessee. It got to the point of extraordinary. As of today they are still the very best band I’ve ever had the absolute pleasure of witnessing live. My passion for them and their three albums of Southern boogie I had on constant replay was enormous. The passion I had for the soul in Mike’s voice was even more heady. It was just as passionate as how tight, bounce a quarter off a porn star’s ass cheek tight, they were live, even when they were annihilated on jet fuel and white powder. They were magical. The first time we saw them headline a gig in St. Petersburg at Jannus Landing (legend), we got hit on by one of the guitarists. We mugged him off before we realised he was a band member. Despite our regret it was lucky for him we were so arrogant, as we were both dicey and taboo for a musician, being so young and untried. Awkward, but fuckawesome. When he learned how young and naive we really were, he changed his mind. He was always a good guy. He had this certain smile on stage when he looked at you, unmistakable in its friendliness and open acknowledgment of kinship and respect.
I’ve met a whole hell of a lot of bands, but I only got to “meet” Mike himself once and it vibrated my spine so hard that I’ll never forget the small details. After that particular show, I was standing outside near the stage door and when the band came out. Mike, who with his talent alone made me swoon, but with his darling looks, he completely made me flail and fangirl and gave me the vapours and I mean SHIT. LOSE. MY. (I never fucking cried though, thank you very much, but I did have to wring out my panties after every gig, I ain’t even gonna lie). He was the first one to walk out, more of a bit of natural and easy strut than a walk, completely wet from sweat, his long hair hanging in his face, true rock star. He ignored the half naked groupies straight out of hand. But when he saw me, he directly halted in front of me and got in my space to the point where I was, “hey now, whut? I’m cool. It’s cool. Everything is cool.” He never said one single, solitary word. He gently reached for my face and held it in both of his hands and kissed me sweetly on each cheek like I was cherished. It was a true and proper, non-sexual elegant greeting where I was concerned since I had done a lot of growing up overseas and that was very significant to me, Then he turned, still ignoring the crowd who were witnessing this event with pure jealousy, popped up on the bus and didn’t come out the rest of the night.
And when the rest of the members stopped to chat us up, one of the guitarists, Rick, keenly looked at me and said, “I know you, you’re at every single one of our gigs, front row.” and the rest of the band, Bob, Steve, and Terry, acknowledged the same. I thought to myself, holy green mac and cheese crap balls (well, quite a bit more profane than that, actually), I realised that if they recognised me, then they were paying specific attention which also meant they might be either attracted to me (which blew my fucking mind because I always thought Leslie was the looker between us) or were touched by my absolute devotion to them which was just as good, maybe better, in my book. I was so amazed and moved by all of them knowing who I was by sight, if not name, because I truly loved each of them to bits. I idolised that band like none other.
I still get a bit fangirly about it to this day, edging on 38 years old, just thinking about that night. Every Michael I’ve ever met or known is pretty much a legend and very significant to events in my life, both good and bad But with Mike Farris it is his voice, his soul, his amazing swagger and his gorgeous personality that has stayed with me, that changed me. He does gospel now, and though I am not Christian at all, I still am compelled to listen to him. His voice still gives me shivers and he’s currently an underground legend as far as vocalists go in the Nashville area. When I eventually found him on Facebook, we had a very short chat and I just asked him, like I ask everyone that means anything to me, if he had heard of the blues musician Chris Whitley and he said, “that guy was an absolute hero and legend.” Dear Mike Farris, You’re Fucking Perfect. Love, Me.
When we weren’t constantly going to rock shows, Leslie and I found other hapless adventures. Our favourite, favourite time of the year was the Renaissance Festival because that was where the most beautiful, long haired, bad romance novel cover, perfect looking men (imagine Fabio only 10000% more attractive) in only kilts, boots and the skin on their backs were out and sheeny in droves. They were everywhere, wolves in a forest of lambs. They worked the archaic children’s rides and Leslie and I would sit down on a bench and just stare and drool, especially at a particular one, watching them flex and push the rides, until that one, the hottest one, went on break and walked by us and said, “a dollar to ride, two dollars to watch.” The Winningest Fail Ever.
Now, it’s 2014. My daughter is a graceful ballerina; serene, sweet, dutiful, non judgmental, polite and mature young lady (who even says “wanker” with an elegant way about it). I love her more than life itself. She is wise and already self aware, composed and full of a kind of a glowy grace that I never had. No wonder, her name means “Ruler of the Elves.” I’m so grateful for her the way she is, it makes me feel very happy to know that she is going to make sure things work out for herself, but I kind of want to see more of my scrap and spirit, that cagey bite when she’s stepped on instead of the crushing hurt. My son Kiah turns 13 on the 27th, one week. I’m flipping out. My baby, the last child I will ever have, is going to be a teenager. When I went to my exclusive Facebook family account that we’re friends on the other day to take care of something, I scrolled down to see the last picture Kiah tagged me in. He is trouble and I am full of pride… and horribly terrified.
I haven’t thought of these past events and shenanigans for a very long time now. I am bemused that I thought of them tonight of all nights. After many, many years of being railroaded and bullied until my spirit was broken, another Mike gave me a kick in the teeth (in the nicest, ingratiating way he could, but I am not stupid), woke me the fuck up to how pathetic and useless I had been for over too many years especially the last one, and reminded me that just because I want someone, I don’t need them and I will not be a sycophant. I may not be as beautiful as I was at 17, but I am still better. Stronger, wiser, and I don’t have to knock over toilets to prove it. Or steal concrete deer (although, I might do that again, honestly. It was fun, and my balcony is just missing something). I’m too deep, passionate and intelligent and too damn good for simply two dimensional. I don’t deserve two or even three dimensions. I need at least six. I won’t get it, I’m sure, because as Buddha said, “life is suffering.” But I’m not going to hang my hopes on little stars… I’ll send my wishes up to the celestial.
Even though I don’t need this creature that probably isn’t even real, he still helped me remember who I am. Maybe he would be worthy. Maybe not. I’m sure I’ll never know and I’m still deciding if I care. I threw down a gauntlet in front of over a hundred people, Politely slammed a couple of doors in a couple of faces, shut down and engaged myself from my spiritual, animal core. And I’m ready. I had lost some control of my goals and definitely lost control of my tits, which is very rare and it was stressing him and me out, just separately.. I never ever thought I’d get that wild, heady, unbroken and ‘do try to stop me, asshat’, force of nature filly back inside of me. I don’t have to. She’s still there. She’s just been cranky and full of malevolence and malcontent; snorty, ears pinned, on stall rest for decades. She needs a lot of paddock time. A little stretch, a bit of crow hopping, a few five foot rails and fences to take, a whole hell of a lot of gallop and eternal green and hopefully English fields of free.
Anyway, I’ve set up a playlist here of SCW for any reader to listen to if you haven’t already. DO IT NOW. They had this warmth in their melodies and a sweetness and genuineness in their lyrics that were meaningful and full of light. They broke up because they were misunderstood by the cows only into popular music. Many people don’t get it like I do. I guess it must be a Southern thing. I was born in Alabama, raised in Florida and across several countries in Europe, but I’ve always had the South in my bones. Every time i go back down there, I feel in my very DNA a familiar affinity with the scents and sounds of the Deep South. Despite Flannery O’Connor and the like, it’s still very hard to describe. It’s a vibrant and rich reverence, a dark moist soil love for huge oak trees that drip Spanish moss. It’s the forests and the Smoky Mountains when the blue clouds settle down and cuddle them and you’re standing above them, looking down on that love, the twisting blue-green and granite fisted highways in North Carolina and Kentucky, the pure gorgeousness of the entire state of Tennessee and the friendliness of its people. It’s unmistakable in its humble glory and truly significant, especially if it’s engrained in you, etched in your bones… born and raised below the Mason Dixon Line.
***Although the diehards have always begged SCW for a reunion tour, it will never happen. I’m hoping by saying never, I should never say it, know what I mean? Mike split to get sober and take proper care of his wife and family. I have no idea where the other guys are, sadly. Mike is such an upstanding man and I’ve always admired him from afar; even when he was at his lowest point in his own personal hell. These days, he still has that swagger and swank, just in very different ways. He’s gracious, kind and loving towards everyone. A wonderful husband to his wife and father to his children. A truly graceful and iconic Southern gentleman (still has rock n’ roll hair and sexy panache though, I feel so guilty for my arguably nefarious admiration of such an upstanding, moral, happily married guy, but hey, I’m a poncy, naughty mare).
Peace x
Love, Kiah (aka Oogey)Okay, maybe I was a teensy weensy presumptive about the Hellfire in eyes issue. SO MY FACE.He’s not sad… just dramatic.CHEEKY with my eyes.
I was twenty two and the circumstances were and still are bizarre to this day. But he changed my life-more for worse than better, but still, better as well. It is those better ways that keep me loyal to him in the small ways that I am. I don’t hate him, no. I don’t. In fact, a part of me will be forever deeply in love with him because he was the first man, even before and more thoroughly than my own father, to advocate for me, to push me-my limits, my buttons, my levels of absorption. It was him. He was the first man who told me that my personality, my brain, my everything; I just blew his mind. He’s not the only one that’s said it but to this day, he’s the only one that counts. He was my first and my most powerful muse. He told me that I could do anything I ever wanted to and that he was proud of me, that he believed in me. He told me I would get an agent and I would be one of the best writers ever read and he was the first one to say it and the only man that meant it without any reference to himself and he took no credit of any kind from it and he was the only one who knew what the fuck that meant when he said it.
When I speak of him with anger or hate it’s not pointed at him, not entirely. Because really, what could he do? He and I were too different. He broke me and he knew it. He owned me; him saying those things to me, he loved me, and that he wanted me to be his wife if only his dog Rupert could be the best man. That I would look gorgeous with the heavy weight of his diamond on my left hand. He knew that when he wrote out ‘Mrs. Rana Esposito’ and said softly that it had a beautiful ring to it… he knew that it took the fire and indifference about me that he loved away. His love, for the first time, and forever after, made me completely weak. He was the one that showed me that true love was a drug and I needed it more than heroin. How could I ever blame him for losing that spark-even when it made my light go out for good? Do I miss him? Yes I do. I still miss him every day. Our cranky chats, when he’d hit me up when he needed me, when things were shit and he needed someone to help him work his kinks out and go back to being Mr. bad ass rock star… I miss that. He only ever apologized to me once. Only once. I felt like he owed me a lot more than that. Many, many more apologies because he said and did a lot of shitty things to me, but I’m glad that he didn’t hand them out when he didn’t mean them.
He was and is a man with very few regrets. If I am something to him at all, I need to find comfort in the fact that I am one of those few regrets that he has. I know that he regrets that he hurt me. I know he does… Or he wouldn’t have come back like some sort of revolving refraction of my past… pop his head in over and over and try ‘us’ all over again… Because like me, there was always something for him about me that stuck with him, that left some sort of mark on him, even though it was much smaller and more shallow than mine.
I’m most angry and insane about not his loss, but about what it did to me. The night he broke my heart, I remember it perfectly. I was at our beach house in Florida. We had been on the phone and he let the hammer swing down and I hung up, the phone just barely clicked on the receiver, a tiny, quiet end of a conversation and a life… and I got up off of the canopied bed and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the beach and just looked out at the black ocean feeling this warm/cool breeze, hearing the heavy surf and I remember the screened in area, the tiny squares and metal smell of them. I remember the black metal railing that I fisted until my knuckles went white. I remember the perfectly trimmed hedges just beneath the balcony, framing the concrete parking lot. I remember the shade of yellow that the paint distinguishing the parking spaces became underneath the street lights in the parking lot. I remember the moths and mosquitoes that flew around those lights… The halo around the lights that was blurry by both the contrast of the light against the night sky and my quiet tears… I remember the exact and huge, heavy, all-encompassing feeling of succinct and final loss and devastation and the harsh realization that it would never, ever be the same for me… It felt like I had a mass grave of bodies packed in rows on my chest and I couldn’t breathe. If I inhaled the sobs would explode and I would shatter. For days after, I sat in a corner with my arms wrapped around my knees-barely speaking. It’s so damn easy, just thinking about those nights, those weeks, those months, those years, to have it come back to me… not a mild reflection of the misery, no… but that same horrible deep, ripping agony, the kind that you hear your own fascia around your guts and your heart tear in your ears, the kind that is way, way too fucking real…it comes back as fresh as it did that very night, after eleven years… so easily.
He broke my heart every single time after when he inevitably would lose interest and leave again. But, because it never fully healed after the first time, it didn’t hurt quite as much… But all of that pain still belongs to him. He was the toggle switch that changed my fate. He inadvertently pushed me down the path towards the cliff that I jumped off of. The one that led to the abuse and the rape and the complete and utter destruction of everything that I could have ever been before.
What is perhaps the hardest is that he was the water that mixed my creative process into a seething, raging, beautiful thing and now, after all of this shit, my creativity-the very essence of me, the entire point for my being on this fucking planet: my writing, my art, my music-my first nature, is the most difficult thing for me to face. I dig my heels in and back pedal away from it with emotional violence, a beaten horse. I only find the opposite of solace in it now. It’s fucking beyond painful to try and work; to knead and push and callus my hands and write and draw and play. It’s all agony and uphill for me because I judge my work not on its beauty because that has disappeared. I judge it on the pain it causes me-by the memories. The reason my novel has taken these long years to even get towards half way complete is because it is, in truth, about him. Him and me, and all of the what could have, should have, would have… and it hurts to go back and work on it, even though it’s such a fucking worthy and beautiful story, as much as it’s morphed and moved into different spaces since. Because still, whenever I see my main character, it’s Anthony’s face, his tattoos, his eyes, his hair… his life. His life… and the complete barrenness of mine.
My most favourite song that he co-wrote with his first band Lynch Mob, he played bass and did back up vocals. This was from their first album, when I discovered him at 14. I had pin ups of him on my wall. Ironic, this song being my fave. In the extreme.
2nd Star To The Left, Straight On 'Til Morning 