01 October 2003 ~ "We're here for YOU, Bobby!" and other news, good and bad...

Good news, bad news, good news, bad news...

Good news: I'm taking a program in school this fall.

Bad news: I'm not actually enrolled, because my stupid financial aid got fucked up due to some bureaucratic bullshit.

Good news: I'm going to the class anyway.

Bad news: It's a POETRY class.

I hate poetry. I really, really hate it. That's why I'm taking this program. I figure, what the hell; I'm going to be an English teacher someday, probably, and I'm either going to be required to TEACH poetry, or I'm going to have to endure students who don't like any sort of literature OTHER than poetry. One way or another, I'm going to have to learn to have SOME appreciation for it.

When I was in high school, my eighth-grade English teacher taught her poetry unit on Natalie Merchant. Seriously. This woman loved Natalie Merchant, so she brought in a CD player, a Natalie Merchant CD, and printouts of all the lyrics. So, we sat and listened to music and read. It wasn't so bad, really. It shouldn't have led to my presently vehement hatred of poetry.

It's just that I hate that archaic stuff. I hate literature that feels it's too "artistic" or whatever to use slang and contractions and informal speech. It just seems so fucking pretentious. It TRIES too hard. I don't want to read about somebody's meeting with Dionysus; I want to read about somebody getting sloshed in a bar. I like to have ideas presented to me in a surreal way; don't get me wrong. However, poetry rarely seems REAL enough to me to seem... well, sensual. It just seems to be trying too hard to prove something.

So, I'm taking a poetry class. I'm TRYING to like it. I don't yet, and I'm horrifically ashamed of the poem I had to write last night for today's class. But maybe, just maybe, something will come of this class. Maybe.

I sort of take the "Norman" approach to poetry. Take a bunch of words and letters that sound cool or look cool next to each other, put them on a piece of paper, and stir. But there's no passion in my poetry. I just couldn't really give a shit about any of the poetry I've ever written.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Good news.

About two weeks ago, I received one of the highest compliments I have EVER received, with regard to my writing. I was so touched, and so astonished at these particular words, that I actually had to grab a Kleenex and wipe my eyes.

The person who issued the aforementioned compliment is, oddly enough, someone I have never met: an internet pal of several years, whom I finally got around to talking with on the telephone. I emailed him a couple of chapters of the book recently. And he said:

"Helena, your writing reminds me of John Coltrane."

...which is touching AND astonishing, because, what the fuck -- I'm seriously not THAT good. Bear in mind that these chapters were better than most of what I've written in this journal... But they're not THAT good... I would never have the nerve to make a comparison like that. Not ME...

But it's also odd because there's this one Coltrane song that I listen to almost every time I sit down to write. I listen to the song as the computer's warming up. It's kind of a simple song, I think, but the dynamics are so intense and vivid that you can listen to the same few notes over and over for twenty minutes without getting tired of it. The tension just kind of grows, and grows, and grows... It's what I want to do with my book, so I figured I might as well have an appropriate soundtrack playing beforehand... Odd, though, that somebody I've NEVER MET could have said... THAT...

My friend, who shall remain nameless until he instructs me on what I should call him, has rapidly become my best phone friend. Not, of course, just by virtue of his comment about my chapters, but we've had some incredibly kickass conversations, the like of which I've usually only had with people I've known for like, ever.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Bad news.

My youngest brother got kicked out of his father's house. Some minor altercation about a pack of cigarettes, it seems... I'm sure I didn't hear the whole story, and I didn't hear it from everybody's perspective, so I'm hesitant to make too many comments, but.... allow me this one....

What kind of a sick fuck kicks his own son out of the house for having a smoming habit? And then doesn't call around to find out where his own kid is, for two or more WEEKS? "Hey, son, I don't want you to die of lung cancer, but I don't give a fuck if you're living on the street, in alleys, with crackwhores and junkies and child molesters and rapists..." I ASK you: what kind of a sick fuck does THAT take? Sure, my brother can be a pest (I mean, if anybody should know that, it's his older sister...). Maybe he copped an attitude. Maybe he really was being a dick. Maybe he pulled out a cigarette and lit it in the house. I don't know; I wasn't there. But no matter WHAT he did, he's only seventeen years old. And, pest though he might occasionally be, he's my brother, and I've known him for seventeen years... And I know him to be one HELL of a good kid. He's smart as hell, he's funny as hell, and, if I wasn't his sister, I'd say he's cute as hell, too. (Naturally, that would overstep my bounds as a big sister; I must maintain that he's ugly and funny-looking, or what kind of a sister would I be? *grin*) He's a great kid, and he surely doesn't belong on the street. Doesn't belong in a family that treats him like dirt, either.

We ALL deserved better.

I wrote him a long letter a few days ago, and I'm going to send it as soon as I locate my stamps.

I also wrote dear ol' dad a letter... I may need more than one or two stamps to mail that one. I may need some time, too. I don't think I've included everything that I want to include. There's just not enough wickedness in my pen to inflict upon him the damage that I want to...

One of my favorite scenes from "Twin Peaks":

Bobby Briggs is sitting at his family's dinner table, and his dad, Major Garland Briggs, is talking in this very solemn monotone: "Robert, I was hoping we'd have a chance to discuss the events of the past few days. Not necessarily the physical events themselves, but rather the thoughts and feelings surrounding..."

Bobby rolls his eyes. His dad continues:

"Rebellion in a young man your age is a necessary fact of life, and, candidly, a sign of strength. In other words, Robert, I respect your rebellious nature. However, being your father, I am obligated to contain that fire of contrariness within the bounds established by society as well as those within our family structure.... Robert, I notice an ongoing reluctance to enter in a dialogue with me, your father. There are times when silence is golden. Silence can be taken many ways, as a sign of intelligence the quieter we become, the more we hear..."

Bobby, thoroughly bored, disgusted, and probably pissed off, lights a cigarette at the table. His dad slaps it out of his mouth and it flies across the tablre and embeds itself in Bobby's mom's meatloaf. The dad says:

"Now I am a tolerant man, but my patience has its limits. To have his path made clear is the aspiration of every human being in our beclouded and tempestuous existence. Robert, you and I are going to work to make yours real clear."

And, to clarify, Bobby's mom gives this sweet little smile and says: "We're here for YOU, Bobby!"

What's up with sending your high-school-aged kid out into the wicked, wicked world, over a fight about cigarettes? Why not just offer to help make his path clear in his beclouded and tempestuous teenaged existence? And cripes, if you can't do that, at least call around to find out if he's okay...

Anyway, I'm changing my name. Not my online name, Helena Thomas -- that can stay for awhile longer. I'm changing my real name. It causes me physical distress to associate myself on a daily basis with a man (specifically, my biological father) who could do the same kind of fucked up shit to my brothers as he did to me. What: like I want to identify myself with that bullshit? Hey, at least I have a LITTLE bit of compassion...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Good news.

Have been a little bit nervous about continuing work on my book... I mean, I've been doing it, no problem... But, I've become a little bit more apprehensive since I finished the first third of it... I've been thinking: I've been working on this project -- it's been my biggest and most ambitious and most important goal -- for SIX years... What am I going to do with my life once it's DONE?

But I have a new idea...

It'll take a lot of work and a lot of research, and it's going to be exhausting, mentally and physically, but I have a new idea... For the first time in six years, I have a brand new idea. I mean, a GOOD one... One that I'm not going to be ashamed of in a year or two. One that I'm not going to forget about in a year or two. One I'm not going to have to lie about, or disown later...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Good news.

Tomorrow is Jake's birthday.

Bad news.

I'm a complete and total sucker, and I already gave him his birthday presents.

I was being SO sneaky... I really was! I lied about what time my class ended, took a bus to the mall, then downtown, and then back up to the school, and got off the bus just before my usual stop so that Jake couldn't possibly figure out that I hadn't been at school for three hours...

I got him this stupid-ass plastic Vulcan in a box from Toys 'R' Us. Jake likes Vulcans. He thinks I look like one. Depressingly enough, I probably do. I also got him a cigarette box from the Spar. The Spar is the restaurant and bar where we first met, and Jake's been bugging me about wanting a cigarette case pretty much SINCE we met, so it only seemed appropriate. It's a pretty little thing, and I tucked a pack of Spar matches inside it. Alas, then I was so excited that I had to give it to him right away, despite my expert skills as a sneak. I'm a decent sneak, but I'm a blabbermouth.

Heh! But I still have a trick up my sleeve... Jake's birthday is tomorrow... And I may just be able to acquire the recipe for a black forest cheesecake before tomorrow night...

* * * * * * * * * * *

My back has been hurting like a bitch lately. I think it's the cooler weather. It makes me hunch over or something, and my muscles get tense. I'm going to go eat some hot soup and take a hot bath. Maybe then I won't feel like somebody's stomping on my spine from the inside out...

~Helena*