20 October 2001 ~ The football team, the vampire sympathizer, and "stick around, snow white..."

A lovely October Saturday night.

Caffeine. Lots of it.

Work sucked. Nothing new about this. BUT! Just before my shift ended, a bus pulled into our parking lot and the entire Towson State University football team got out and ordered food! Whee!

Did that bit of giddiness sound sarcastic? Well, it wasn't. I really couldn't give a damn about most sports. I mean, I root for the Yankees and the Giants because I used to work with this guy -- ohhhh, Bugsy, how I miss you! -- who loved them, and he'd mope for days if either team lost a game. I was always happy to see him happy, so I root for them. I root for the Mariners and the Seahawks, because they're the Seattle teams, and I dig Seattle. And sometimes I root for the Army and the Navy football teams because I like it when zillions of uniformed miltary kids jump around ecstatically when their team does something good. It's cute to see a whole stadium full of jumping grey-uniforms.

Those are my sports afiliations.

And then there's Towson. My mom lived in Towson, Maryland for almost a year, and my family would visit her all the time -- sometimes weekly. When we couldn't see her, we'd sometimes go over to the college, and once or twice we watched the football team practice. This was almost ten years ago, but I still have fond memories of watching that team.

I flirted with a cute football player. He was a short -- for a football player; he still towered over me -- guy with the most beautiful black skin, and pretty brown eyes. He had a nice smile; the kind that says, "hey, wanna go in the bathroom and make out?" (Dude, those bathrooms are SO gross...) I sneaked him a coupon for a free drink. He grinned. I asked, "so, you're the Towson football team, you guys?" He said, "Yep!" I said, "who're you playing?" He answered: "We just played against Colgate." I said: "Did you win?" He said: "Nope." I said: "Well, fuck. I like you guys." He grinned. He ordered some more fries and asked: "So where ARE we, anyway?" I said: "Binghamton, New York. About fifteen miles north of the Pennsylvania border, and between five and six hours from home, depending on how fast your busdriver drives." He seemed impressed that I actually knew where Towson is. It doesn't take much to impress a football player. I bet if I'd flashed him, he would have been even more impressed. Too bad I didn't.

*grin*

* * * * * * * * * * *

Apologies for my rant yesterday. The letter still hasn't come. They said "October or early November," and it's about that time, and... well, nevermind. I'm impatient and that's all there is to it. Sorry for the hysteria.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Walking home, I have a lot of time to think. Well, forty-five minutes or so... Usually, I think about God. (Or whatever you want to call It/Them...) And sex. And writing. Yesterday, while walking home from work, looking up at the tiny little flake of a moon in the sky, I was struck by a beautiful, beautiful opening for a novel. A novel I started once, actually. A novel that's been stuffed into various drawers for several years because I never had the guts to work on it.

I have the guts now.

I found the book. It's wrapped in a white binder with a little notice tucked inside the clear plastic flap. The notice reads: "Give blood. Make miracles happen."

I read over my notes the other night. I pored over it. I laughed over it. I cried over it. And I thought, "this will be my masterpiece." It honest to gahd will be my masterpiece. I'm going to finish this thing someday, and I am going to publish it. This -- THIS -- will be worthy of being seen by the public. It may take me several years, but it will be finished, and it WILL be published. I am sure of it.

I fell asleep wondering about the consequences of resurrecting this beast... Its subject matter is EXTREMELY sensitive. It will likely destroy any credibility I've acheived in my life. It will alienate me from many people. My mental state will be questioned. My friends will wonder if they ever really knew me at all. Some people, of course -- those with weak personalities, those who are desperately confused about who they are -- will view it as some sort of gospel. Gahd knows this journal has attracted a few of those sorts, though, thankfully, only a few. Close relatives will be horrified. My book will be held up as an example. An example of "parents! don't let this happen to YOUR kids!" An example of "well, Helena did it, so why shouldn't I?" It will be misconstrued. It will be violently hated. It will be well-loved. Maybe it will ruin a few lives. Maybe it will save some. I don't know yet. I know only that I'm going to finish this book, and I'm going to publish it, and it's going to be beautiful. And the backlash is going to be fucking horrible. Publication might be ten years away or more, but I'm preparing myself already, because this is going to be a hell of a ride.

I fell asleep with the binder in my arms. Its contents are mostly nonsense right now: hundreds of pages of research and notes on seemingly unrelated topics. If you read it, you'd think I was fucked up. And probably I am for what I'm considering: essentially, creating a monster. But I love it. I love it so much. There was some horror movie in which this woman gave birth to the child of Satan or something, and didn't have the heart to kill him, even though she knew he was evil... Was that "Rosemary's Baby"? Hm... whatever. THAT is how I feel about this book. It is a monster, an absolute beast. It came close to destroying my life, and I do mean that, and I'm NOT being melodramatic. But it is beautiful, and it is MINE, and I am going to love it and nurture it and give it everything I have to give until it can stand on its own... Then, stand the fuck back and watch the gates of hell fly open...

*GRIN*

"Stick around, snow white -- this is gonna be FUN!" --the main character of my book, autumn, 1997...

* * * * * * * * * * *

Saw a couple of punks and street-urchins hanging out on Wall Street tonight. I waved at them and yelled "hey, guys, how's it going!?"

I don't think the Kids really take me very seriously. I guess I don't blame them. I don't really LOOK very punk. I don't have the big jeans or the safety pins. I don't have the buttons or the patches. I look well-kept-up, so to speak. If people were kittens, I probably wouldn't be mistaken for a stray, you know? My fur isn't matted, I'm house-trained, and I speak relatively proper English. And I don't have bugs. Or an alcohol problem. I don't really fit in with your typical street kid. I don't look like them, I don't speak like them, and I have a job and a home of my own. Naturally, this seems sort of threatening to the Wall Street Kids.

I'm always friendly to them though. I love them more than most people do. They're dirty, they're ragged, and some of them don't smell very good. They curse a lot, they spit a lot, and they couch-hop a lot. What's to love? But I do love them. In the mish-mash of Binghamtonian culture, I like the Kids more than I like most other folks. The Kids are REAL. I mean, generally, they're pretty lousy friends, and if you bum them a cigarette, you're assured they're STILL not going to do anything nice for you, ever, but I have this enormous respect for people admitting it when they really do suck. Most people DO suck. Most people ARE lousy friends. Most people don't give a shit about you. The Kids at least TELL you they don't give a shit. I think they're great. Greasy, but great.

I stopped one day and handed one of the Kids my discman. "You've GOT to hear this!" I told her.

She listened. She giggled. She began to sing along, sort of. She was delighted. "What IS that?"

"It's Seattle music," I told her enigmatically, having no fucking idea who the band was. It was one of the CD's Brian made for me: a cute song by a cute band whose name I don't remember.

"COOL!"

It takes so little to make somebody happy for a few minutes. It takes so damned little to impress a Kid who spends her life being shit on just because she's kind of scummy and has no motivation to NOT be scummy. I think my small gesture gained me a little respect from that weird little girl.

I was one of the Kids once. You'd never know it now. Now, I'm a key-jingling member of the working-class. Now, I actually go to my classes. Now, I actually go home every night and sleep in my own apartment. I grew up. I grew out of it. The Kids these days don't remember when I used to make out with acquaintances in the alley. They don't remember the chess games I used to interrupt. They don't remember the so-called "Annex," or the free coffee or the -- gahd bless! -- role-playing games. They don't remember seventeen-year-old Helena in beat-up Salvation Army leather and somebody's long black trench coat. They're probably baffled when somebody in a Gap shirt (okay, I bought that at the Salvation Army too...) stops to say hello and play them a song. A girl with a job, with a lease, with a quasi-education, with cigarettes she actually bought... If ONLY they knew...

Now -- NOW -- I understand -- in a vague, sad, wistful way, what David meant several years ago, when Binghamton was overrun by weird little goth kids and weird little punk kids, and weird little me with my notebook and my coffee, when he called himself a "vampire sympathizer." Fucking amazing. I always seem to be a few years behind David, but for some reason, without even trying, I often seem to end up on a path he's already beaten... But at least there's more in my refrigerator than Davidian (?)-style condiments and alcohol. Yep; I've also got a useless container of ricotta cheese.

Oh help.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I had more to say, I thought, but I have to get offline now... It's my night off; I've got trouble to cause. Or maybe just some lame TV-show to watch...

~Helena*