02 July 2004 ~ Helenastories...

First things first... Happy birthday to my best friend, Aaron Jesús Leroy. One of these damned days, you really ought to email me back so I know you're still alive. If I can't take you out for shitty coffee and, that Oatmeal Supreme crap (or whatever it's called) at Denny's, at least I can send you some good wishes and shit. I miss you, dammit.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I feel like telling stories today. Unfortunately, I don't know any. At least not any fictitious ones. I'm terrible at making them up. As I've been told, I'm a pretty girl, but I'm not very creative. Oh well. Guess I'll just start babbling and see what happens. As always.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Lovesong

...So, it was like pulling teeth to get me to act like a somewhat normal kid. I refused to have anything to do with pop culture. I didn't see a movie with Molly Ringwald in it until I was old enough to drink. And unless you count the New Kids on the Block cassettes that my aunt insisted on giving me, and an obsessive love for the dude from Roxette (what awesome hair!), I didn't listen to the music of "my generation" until Kurt died. And I kind of gave up on popular music after 1998 or so. It just started sucking. It was a nice four years or so, though.

So... yeah, it's kind of weird, but I didn't hear a Cure song until 1996, at a Tori Amos concert at Binghamton University. Ignorant little me, I didn't even recognize it. Duh.

I went to the concert with my friend Jayden. We wrote letters to each other for six months about how excited we were to go to this concert. We spoke in "Tori-speak," a difficult but amusing language I'll have to utilize one of these days in Wet Cleanup. She called me up one day and played me this bizarre Tori cover of "Whoomp, There It Is." Over the phone. We were obsessed. Completely and totally obsessed.

I don't remember anything before the concert. I'm not even sure how the hell Jayden got into town. All I remember was skipping through the parking lot like a couple of fucking morons. But Jayden and I did a lot of skipping around like a couple of morons.

There was this strange triangular piece of plaster strapped to the ceiling somehow, above the piano. I remember thinking it looked pretty stupid. And then Tori did this song, this Cure cover, which of course I didn't know, and some tech person projected all of these weird images onto the plaster thing.

I remember thinking it was the most beautiful song I'd ever heard. I remember feeling like I couldn't breathe, but in a good way. I bought a concert t'shirt and wore it to bed every night for about a year. I don't remember if I ever washed it. I beat the hell out of that t'shirt.

I decided that THAT song was somehow sort of sacred, or something. That I'd never play it for anyone else unless I was really in love. (Whatever -- I know it sounds dorky, but I was sixteen, okay?) Jayden located somebody who'd made a bootleg of that concert, and she sent me a copy.

When I lived in Santa Fe, I made a copy of that song for this boy I really liked. He had blue hair and long eyelashes and he kind of made me stammer. But the song didn't dub correctly, and he said he couldn't hear it. All the other songs I'd put on his tape were fine, he said, except that one. So I knew it wasn't really love.

When I moved back to Binghamton, I put a copy of that song on a tape for a boy I really liked. He wore a lot of black and silver and had a beautiful British accent. He believed in werewolves and had beautiful blue eyes. I sent the tape to him, but I didn't put enough postage on the envelope, and it came back. I think I remade the tape. I don't remember. In any case, I knew it wasn't really love.

I made a mix-tape for Neil a few years ago, and put that song on there. But Neil disappeared, and so I played the tape until it wore out. When I found him again, I downloaded all the songs, changed a couple of them around, and put them on a CD for him. But I didn't put THAT song on there. Cripes, I was practically a married woman and all... Of course, it would have been absolutely crystal clear, to anybody who listened to that mix-CD, that I was completely in love with Neil -- although I probably would have vehemently denied it had anybody other than Neil asked me. In any case, I didn't put THAT song on the CD. I downloaded it. I played it about a half-dozen times. I put it in my computer folder labeled "Neil." But I didn't put it on the CD.

Neil still has the t'shirt I gave him three years ago, from the Tori Amos concert in 1996. I think I sort of blushed when I gave it to him, thinking about all the times I slept in it. Neil has this weird effect on me sometimes where I feel like I'm fourteen years old with a crush on the hottest boy in the world. That sort of middle-school feeling of goldfish flopping in my wrists whenever he looks at me. Really, ordinarily, I don't blush over dumb crap like t'shirts.

Neil made me a CD right after I gave him the one I made. He put THAT song on there. It wasn't the Tori Amos version (and to my knowledge, I have the last surviving bootleg of the Binghamton concert, since Jayden's house burned down), and it wasn't the Cure version. I don't know who it is, actually. It doesn't matter. I love it.

I wonder how he knew... I mean, it's a common enough song. Everybody knows it, apparently, except 16-year-old Helena. But still...

I know this time, it's really love.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Hanging Out With Satan On The 41

I love the word "Satan." Every time I hear it in my head, I think of the way Aaron says it: "Dude, we're gonna do a ritual to SATAN! Heh!"

(We did the ritual to Satan in a now-defunct bar known as Club-607. It involved giving the "Satan" sign [more popularly known as the "punk rock" sign], and lighting matches between our fingers. It was dumb. It wasn't a real ritual to Satan. We were really just trying to freak out the slutty little clubber girls all around us...)

So, every time I see Satan now, I force myself to think of Aaron saying, "Dude! Satan! Heh!"

Satan is following me.

Okay, let me amend that before you call the white coats on me... Satan, as in, the Incarnation of Evil, is not following me. I don't think. When I say that Satan is following me, I am referring to a very creepy, apparently human, individual. Not, like, El Diablo. Satan is just a nickname. A rather FITTING nickname, it seems, but just a nickname.

One day, I was on the bus from campus downtown. I was poking through some notebooks or something and not paying the slightest bit of attention to anything around me... And then this guy gets on the bus. And I swear to you, I felt a blast of icy-cold air before I even looked up at him. When I did look up, I was actually freaked out by this person's appearance. He wore all black and had dyed-black hair. He had sort of squinted eyes, similar to the kind of eyes Asian people typically have, but he really didn't look Asian at all. It was impossible to tell if he was glaring or smiling.

Now, there was NO reason in the world to be freaked out by this person's appearance. For crying out loud, I wear all black ALL THE TIME. And at least half of my dearest friends have dyed their hair black at some point. And really, there's no reason for somebody's eyes to freak me out, regardless of color or shape or whatever. But this guy just had something about him... It wasn't anything VISIBLE... It was just a case of very, very bad mojo. Privately, I nicknamed him Satan.

Two days later, I was on the bus to campus. This woman I knew was sitting next to me. The woman in question, I should mention, is a sociopathic compulsive liar, convicted of at least one felony, a former addict, and a thief. She was telling me about how proud she was that her boyfriend was a racist, when Satan got on the bus. The woman gave him a glance as he got on the bus, and immediately sort of shuddered. "Ugh! That's just CREEPY!" said the woman.

Dude, there's got to be something pretty creepy about you for a woman like HER to be freaked out by a mere glance in your direction.

Still, there's nothing specific about this guy that I can put my finger on -- nothing that SHOULD give me the creeps.

Ever since that first day, I've seen Satan two or three times a week. He rarely looks in my direction, so it would be absurd to think he's actually following me, but he keeps popping up in different places. It's fucking WEIRD. I mean, for a couple of years, I've been running into this one guy with dreadlocks who smokes American Spirits and talks a lot about naturopathic medicine, but I always see him in pretty much the same place: the place we had in common, which was the smoking area outside of the library on campus. It's WEIRD when you see the same person ALL over town, ALL the time.

Satan wears this rosary around his neck. It's got the crucifix removed, so it's just the beads. I hadn't noticed that the first few times I saw him, but that, in and of itself, is not enough to freak me out. I suppose the point of the cross-less rosary is that you can pray all you want to, but there's no Jesus/salvation/heaven. Something to that effect. Although I wouldn't call myself Christian, I don't really like the message. Its kind of fucked up to take somebody else's religious symbol and deliberately fuck it up. It's kind of like flag-burning or something. I mean, it should be perfectly legal and acceptable and all, but it's still ugly. But still... there's no reason why that should freak me out.

I saw Satan one day in the computer lab on campus. I didn't see what webpage he was looking at, but the background was black and the lettering was red, and the heading was in three-inch-high spiky letters: "SATAN!"

Cripes. I just thought the dude was inexplicably creepy. I didn't think he was ACTUALLY a devil-worshipper.

I don't think I've ever met anybody who worshipped Satan. I've known a couple of self-proclaimed Satanists, but I think most of them outgrew it by their sixteenth birthdays. ("...And Satanism is different from devil-worship," as Neil reminded me... Yes, I know...) I mean, frankly, I don't care what the hell you do, as long as you don't try to make ME do it, or fuck with me in the name of your Deity, or whatever... But it's still sort of intriguing, because I never actually knew any

Satan appeared on the front sidewalk of the downtown library one day. He stared at me over the top of his book. His squinted eyes followed me down the street. THAT was when I decided I really just didn't fucking like Satan. I don't like it when strangers stare at me, and especially not with that cool glare-smirk, like they're waiting to see if I get attacked by a pack of wolves at the end of the street...

Now, when I see Satan, I've taken to digging out a pen and writing an old Jewish charm on scraps of paper and discreetly holding them against my torso. The charm is not supposed to ward off the devil, or evil in general, or the evil eye, or anything. It's more specific than that. But it's the only one I know. This guy honestly freaks me out, and I DON'T like him. I don't know why -- there's no reason not to like him, or to remain completely neutral on the subject. And after all, I'm usually the first to jump up and start a conversation with the guy on the bus wearing all black. (My mother is rolling her eyes and nodding.) I should be interested in meeting this person, not irrationally terrified of him.

Dude, Satan, quit following me.

Heh.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She Who Shall Remain Nameless...

Speaking of Satan...

Last night, I heard a name I really never expected to hear, ever, ever again. I was introduced to this person: "...and this is my daughter ____." It was not, by any means, a common name. I used to have a friend who went by that name. And eventually, she became an enemy who went by that name. I've NEVER seen it anywhere else, not even on the internet, and I did look it up once, out of curiosity.

It was a secret name, as we all had secret names. Nobody outside of our little group of friends used our secret names. I really never thought I'd hear that name ever again. We MADE IT UP, for gahd's sake. Last night, when I heard it out loud for the first time in probably six years, I choked on my dinner and had to cough up half a taco into a napkin. It was pretty gross.

I think it must be some sort of a sign. A sign of WHAT, I don't know. But there's so much synchronicity buzzing around my life that people who don't even know me can hear the crackling...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Nightmares...

Have been having bad dreams lately. Three nights this week, they've woken me up. One morning, I woke up sobbing and beating the shit out of my pillow. The dreams are never the same, but they're always about the same person...

Sometimes I kill him. Sometimes he kills me. Once, he trapped me outside this house in the dark and set fire to the curtains, while two of my dearest friends were inside, and I watched it burn. Sometimes I see him destroying everything I've got. I can feel his hands around my throat. I can hear him screaming at me. I can feel punching and kicking. I see my baby, bleeding and broken and scared and asking me how anybody could hate her so much. Sometimes, I'm standing over him, and I've got one chance to punch him, to hurt him as badly as I can -- and I hesitate because I know I'm not strong enough to hurt him. And in the dream, I begin crying with this helpless rage.

In the dreams, his eyes turn black, and he hisses in my face, "this is who I really am." He calls himself "Black Eyes."

And then he's sitting across from me, drinking a soda and talking about some mundane crap. Star Trek, or his car, or some friend or another. Once, he was asking me to loan him some gas money. And everything's completely normal. But I always know that underneath, he can kill me. Underneath, I think, he wants to kill me. Underneath, he wants to smash my belongings, tear up my notebooks, burn my clothes. He wants to hurt my friends and kill my baby. And on the outside, he's just talking about how great his life is going. He's talking quickly. He doesn't make any sense. The words get confused. And then he's angry, and he's hitting me, and all is lost.

And I wake up hating him.

I wake up wondering why I can't just forget everything.

I have my life: some clothes, some pictures, my research... I have a little bit of money and a little bit of food, and I'm really pretty healthy... I have my friends. I have my love, my sweet Neil, who sings me to sleep, long-distance, when I'm lonely... I am happy. I am happier than I have ever been. This is MY life, and I love it.

And I don't understand why it's not enough to make me forget.

I don't understand how I'm capable of this much hatred. Or this much sheer terror that one day, I'll wake up and he'll be standing over me with that sword. Not the fencing sword he used last time, but the one with the blade. I still feel the pain. I still feel the gasping.

And I always wake up, but the feelings stay for a long time. I see vehicles that look like his, and I feel like diving into the bushes to hide.

I've talked to him... I've had lunch with him... We sat on a swingset and he told me about how he's in love with this musician-girl. I told him never to marry a musician, because if she's a good musician, she's already in love with her art more than she'll ever love him, and if she's a bad musician, he's stuck listening to bad music forever. I even managed to hug him when I left.

But I couldn't look into his eyes. I used to love those eyes so much. But I know... I know that deep down, underneath the talking and the eating and the musician-discussion, this is a man who could kill me. Who would not hesitate to do so, if the urge struck him. Who would kill me, and kill my baby, and do whatever it took to fuck up everything I love. These are the capabilities of this man. His eyes are brown, but I have seen them turn black, and inside those black eyes, there's nothing but a monster. I don't think I will ever look into those pretty brown eyes again without knowing how much hatred he has inside him. I don't think I'll ever think of him without despising him for putting this kind of fear and anger into me. It's not shame that made me look down at the ground that day we had lunch together. It was the fear that I can no longer tell the difference between Brown Eyes and Black Eyes. It was the fear that there really is no difference.

I love going to bed at night. I'm always exhausted by 11 or so, and sleep always comes easily. I imagine I'm curled up next to Neil, and if I listen very closely, I can almost hear the sound of his breathing. I always fall asleep peacefully and quickly.

I just wish I wouldn't wake up sobbing.

As if it wasn't enough, the damage he already did -- now he has to visit my dreams and cause it all over again?

Lately, I wake up feeling utterly alone, and backed into a very tight corner. And I feel like somebody has had me de-clawed.

Sometimes people ask me, "are you safe right now, where you're at?" And I always say, "yes." But I don't feel safe. I never feel safe in this town anymore.

And I wish I could wake up elsewhere. Anywhere other than in my scared, helpless self.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I have to make some phone calls. I've been postponing them.

Be well...
~Helena*