02 November 2001 ~ Annie Lennox, closet-goth; Erich, Steely Dan worshipper, and the mix-tape that theoretically doesn't suck...

Began the evening feeling pretty damned low.

Decided to weed through my excessive number of blank tapes and stupid tapes and long-forgotten tapes, chuck all the bad ones, and poke around with the good ones...

Found this weird old note I wrote -- it's in my handwriting anyway -- about Annie Lennox being David's female counterpart, and both of them being closeted goths, which cracked me RIGHT the hell up, and completely dissolved whatever sense of bummed-out-ness I'd been experiencing.

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And while I was digging through my shit, I found this letter I wrote... It sort of intrigued me, so I'm typing it up here. Things that don't get typed up here end up lost forever, and this -- for some reason, didn't seem like something I'd like to lose...

March 16, 2001

Erich ~

There is absolutely no reason for me to be writing you now, and not a chance in hell I'll ever send this or admit I'm currently thinking about you, but the time sort of seems right. Am over at my boyfriend's (Norman's) apartment, quite peacefully lying on his futon, a pack of Camel menthols at my side along with a couple of novels and a packet of song lyrics... Would be a very pleasant evening, except Norman got asked to play a gig with some people who evidently regard Steely-motherfucken-Dan as a supreme being, and Norman has been playing their dry, repulsively boring songs over and over for several hours, trying to learn the chords. Naturally, being subjected to music (and I use the word loosely) of such an amazingly dull magnitude, I thought of you...

I read through several of your letters to C. last night and was oddly sympathetic to some of your words -- a first, so far as I can recall. [Gahd, I fucking hate Steely Dan; they remind me of constipation...] Anyway, parts of it reminded me of just how much, and why, you've always made me a little nauseous, and parts of it -- not the SAME parts -- reminded me a little of myself. Strange; truly very strange.

Despised you all over again for your secret "habits." The drinking, the speeding... Might not have cared so much had you not hidden it from me, made me feel like such a fucking idiot when I found out. Maybe would have been a little upset -- perhaps more than a little bit -- since, after all, my only drug experiences, then, were via your beloved cinema, and you must admit that Fosse never really glamourized Dex. Would have had all kinds of misinterpretations; would have relied heavily on knowledge gained in DARE classes, and would have completely misunderstood all of it, but that was no reason for the lies. Had almost forgotten about all that shit until last night.

Still, felt an honest connection with your references to Binghamton-born angst, though can't understand what, precisely -- what specific traumas -- ever gave you the impression that B's dramatics were constraining you. So much you never went through, so much you exaggerated in order to raise even a little self-pity, a little justification for your "tortured artist" act. Perhaps I alone know most of it was bull -- you magnifying every crumb of unpleasantness in order to create a more perfect image of yourself as a martyr and B. as a Judas. You made your own problems -- aside from your mother -- and had every chance in the world to change things before they became too much. Gahd's sake, you should have known better that to attempt relationships with me -- or Meg or Julie, for that matter -- since you damn well knew... hm... not sure how to finish that sentence. Thoughts have passed already to a certain Tom Robbins quote: something about the tragedy of the strong-willed falling to the tyranny of the weak.

But anyway, regardless of whether or not you had any sort of legitimate reason for feeling angsty (and you told ME I had a "persecution complex"!?), I identified with your desire for a change of scenery.

Am becoming rapidly fatigued, and am going to surrender myself to a short nap rather than finishing this letter; doesn't matter much if I finish it or not, because, as I said, there's no damned way I'm going to send it, or admit to having written it. For now, I'm off.

~Helena*

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That letter sort of astounds me... Perhaps you can't see what exactly about it is so unique or surprising, but, upon re-reading it tonight, I couldn't believe the tone I'd taken: the skeptical, near-cynical, truly disgusted tone. It's amazing that some stupid schmuck like Erich can completely change my outlook on the world. I think of him from time to time -- usually when there's a Steely Dan song playing -- and I swear, I sound -- and FEEL -- like a stereotypical ex-wife. Perhaps that's not so far from the truth. After all, Erich's and my relationship WAS long, intimate, and horrific. It was the sort of relationship where you realize you're WAY too close to somebody you REALLY don't like all that much. The sort of thing where you realize you're sleeping with somebody you just don't care a THING for, and you don't see much of a way out of it. Gahd bless, if Erich and I had gotten married, which we DID briefly discuss, I'd have left him within a week. And if I hadn't done that, I would have shot him.

But it's funny, because even with all this dislike I have for him, I still feel like I KNOW him -- or knew him -- EXTREMELY well. I mean, really, I do NOT like him, and I have no reason to believe I will, ever, for any reason, but I think he's maybe the only person I'd feel comfortable being THAT much of a bitch to. Because I knew him well enough to see that there was absolutely nothing to lose by losing him.

Anyway, just found that sort of amusing...

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Made a mix-tape earlier this evening for Neil. I promised him one when he was here. It's a lovely mix-tape. Well, it would be if my stereo didn't royally suck. Perhaps I'll try again tomorrow with Norman's stereo.

By the way -- I'm selling a boombox and a TV, both in perfect -- if dusty -- condition. If I know you and I like you, and if you can come pick them up, I won't charge you much. I just BADLY need some money, and to get rid of some stuff that would be extraordinarily difficult to relocate. Let me know: belong@angelfire.com.

~Helena*