21 April 2000 ~ The cave…

I’m afraid of myself right now. I don’t know why. I don’t know quite what’s wrong, except my skin is kinda breaking out, I’m lonely, and I’ve had a gahd-awful boring day. Honestly, in all fairness, that’s all that’s really wrong. Not exactly a reason to throw myself off the Bridge, but shit, who says I need a reason?

I guess I’ll type an entry. I can’t sleep.

When I was fourteen or fifteen, I decided I wanted to be a hippie.

I’m not sure where that desire came from, really. I mean, there was a slight neo-hippie movement in 1994 – everybody started liking the Grateful Dead and all that, and bellbottoms were actually cool to wear again, and… I dunno. I think it was really an accident of the Grunge movement, but I’ve never really been a trend-follower, nor a trend-understander, so I guess I try making any profound links between cultures and styles that I don’t really comprehend.

I thought hippies lived in caves. Oh, I guess I rationally knew they didn’t ACTUALLY live in caves, but I entered my “hippie” phase via “Eight Miles High” by the Byrds, “See Emily Play,” by Pink Floyd, “Guinnevere” by CSNY, and some stuff by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. And somehow, listening to those songs, it’s fairly easy to imagine oneself in a cave with mushroom plumage and stalagmites (is that the right word?) glowing pink and pale blue and green like nature’s candles… Smelling kind of primal and fungus-y and dank, and yet not actually unpleasant. You know; the kind of light, erotic scent of a TINY little bit of B.O. Dark, and yet... not so dark. I dunno. I guess it’s sort of creepy and sort of bizarre, and I honestly did know that hippies didn’t live in caves, but *I* wanted to live in a cave. Listen to “Eight Miles High” and then try arguing with my adventures in imaginary spelunking…

So I’m a dork. Fucken sue me.

I wore tie-dye. I had a floppy red dress that made me look like Mary Magdalene that I wore all the time. I had fake Birkenstocks. I didn’t pattern myself after the hippies of my parents’ day, (or slightly before my parents’ day, actually), I just went with what I thought should be worn in a sacred hippie cave. It was kind of like a religion, a belief-system; it was ALL just a little bit sacred to me. Maybe that was what the cave was: a place where I, and the last of my naïve little dreams could find solitude.

I wrote poetry under the name Dove Rogers. I signed letters, simply, “love and peace,” and I actually meant it as more than, “well, if I just put ‘love’ it’ll seem too forward…” Okay, okay, it was totally queer, I admit it. I can’t remember exactly why I picked the name, except that “Rogers” probably had something to do with Roger Waters, of Pink Floyd, who I still think is brilliant.

I drew these fantastic tattoo-like designs and titled them after songs from the musical “Hair.”

I was still a little too young and innocent to get the whole concept of free-love.

I protested. Sort of. A girl from the school newspaper pissed me off so I started my own underground zine. The day I got called into the principal’s office at school to be questioned about my involvement in the project was a sort of triumph for me. I wrote to the local newspaper after a gay beating on Fayette Street (Fayette Street being half a mile from my current residence…). I decided the whole world was unfair. I also decided that I could change it somehow. I have NO idea what my plans were. I seriously think that whole part of my life was my last ditch effort at trying to preserve my whole-hearted belief in goodness in the world.

Then Jerry Garcia died. He wasn’t my favorite anyway; like I said, I was more into Pink Floyd and all that. But still…

Tonight I walked down to the River and sat beside it for what seemed like a long time. It was raining, so I think it seemed like a longer time than it was. I turned on my walkman, in which was playing a copy of Pink Floyd’s “Relics.” Only Pink Floyd could write and produce -- and release! – a song called “Careful With That Axe, Eugene.” Ya gotta respect that. I DO respect that. But I realized that I don’t really believe anymore. I don’t really believe that wearing a big comfy Mary Magdelene dress and sandals and an AIDS ribbon is going to fix anything. I don’t really believe that focusing my energy on anything is going to move mountains. I don’t really believe that positive energy and hope is what makes the world go around. I don’t really believe that my imaginary cave exists anymore.

Sometimes I don’t really think I believe in much of anything. Maybe that’s all I really want.

Love,
~Helena*

”Teenage wasteland… only teenage wasteland…” --The Who, perhaps singing about Woodstock ’99?