Thursday, September 02, 2004

Let your feelings slip boy, but never your mask...

Still answering incessant queries about my hair every square foot. Mom's taking me to a prof. "groomer" tomorrow night so I'll get it "gay-clipped" before the wedding. I feel like a substantial amount of my competence has been severed as well. With my long hair valenced over the back of my skull I felt free to smile at everyone, felt free to dish out my every emotion across the din of the dancefloor, felt free to be completely crazy all the time...now, "yuck" I'm a yuppie....A YUPPIE!!! I look like every other lad with short hair and fraternized Greek letters sewed into the sleeves of their polo shirts spewing aimless, amoying chatter into a cellphone.

When I was driving to my sisters last beauty competetion in Schaumburg (top ten finish in Miss Illinois...winner of (?) some cool independent talent event...attagirl Jenn!) I was driving really fast through the west suburbs and noticed that all the houses ALL the town houses looked exactly the same. I stareted thinking about the girls I dated from Chicago and how they all even 'looked' almost exactly the same. They all looked like Ms. Swissy--drop dead gorgeous, long flippy hair, and a persona so plastic that it would melt on top of the wedding cake.

So much for unity in diversity....

What's odd and just a tad eerie is that, when I look in the mirror I look exactly like I did ten years ago, little David trying to find his voice in high school. WhenI started writing tons of really bad poems-- remember my famous opus...

"In a world so jaded so inane
To put its' trust in Kurt Cobain"

and my famous cult-following mascochistic anthem--

"I lick my thigh and not ask why
Indelible scars are hard to reply...."

Yuck. Worst than my new haircut. For all those fledgling writers trust me....Your prose will get better. I hope mine has!

Anyway, one thing I haven't blogged about yet (but one thing that I need to blogg about) is this: between the ages 13-16 I was sexually molested on numerous occasions by contortedly twisted men plural (not by Misses Solomon, my hot freshman algebra teacher "Shit I wish!"....but by sicko's)...it really fucked me up for a long time and it all but marred my own sexual masculine ethos throughout my twenties.

I was naive and trusted people who were kind to me. Highschool was one giant antidepressent vial anyway (My highschool had the top teen pregnancy rate in the Nation! Three girls in the top ten had kids! Plus an avg. ACT score of just 15!!!!)

Anyway, this is where I'm coming from...this is my soil. My back alley...my terra ferma...if my writing or bloggs sound extremely weird or if you think some of my fiction treats 'sacred' activites in a less than scared thread--you now know exactly where I'm coming from.

On the same token I can honestly say that if I wasn't being molested by yuppie fuckwads during my formative years I NEVER would have started writing. Just wouldn't have happened. If I didn't have sicko's sticking their hands down the front of my pants I'd have no reason to independely open up my own chest and investigate my every sliced emotional stimuli. I'd have no reason to question my academic trajectory and no reason not to love my own cradle-fed extremely WASPish ideology of God. I'd probably be that person in that Western suburban houses I drove swiftly past with a mortgage and an expecting wife and an SUV. Nothing wrong with that of course, but I wouldn't be a writer. Hell, I probably wouldn't have been much of a reader and outside of all the immense hurt harbored over the years, I've gleaned endless amounts of joy simply from reading and hammering out sentences ....not to mention all the amazingly cool and aesthetically unqiue people I've met through writing....people who impell the calloused tips of my finger to strike the keyboard with reverberating ardor night after night....all of this...this life of mine grafted in the arts has been granted to me through the shady lurking fingertips of icky violatiors and by my taciturn religious parents who couldn't understand why their God-fearing son was crying in the shower all the time.

My message to you (dearest reader) is one of hope. You are the landlord of your own body and you have a right and innate AUTHORITY to kick out any tenant. Any time! I have so much faith in you...we live in a society where sex is a global marketing asset as well as a very hush-hush taboo religious contraband....dearest reader, whoever you are, know that I am fucking on your side. Know that every word that's ever bled from my fingers was inspired by a violation, by an infringement, but know that some shaft of light equating hope can shine through those crazy, horrific times enabling you to grow into that awesome "elaboreately unique" individual that you are!

Every word is for you dearest reader. Now it's time for us both to grow. See you at the mountain top!

1 comment:

arya said...

i am so sorry but i love your short hair. it is an unexpected twist that leaves people guessing. but i'll love you all the same if you grow it out. you set an example of great courage to openly talk about your abuse and seeing how you have coped with it and learned from it is inspiring. now, give me the names of those f*ers so i can create voodoo dolls of my own. i learn so much from you my friend.