I recently needed to clean up my computer. Well, I lost my novel work for NaNo. All I have is the beginning. I will try again…
Here’s what I had saved…
I never swear. Really. I’ve never gotten over Captain Kirk saying H-E -double hockey sticks after he returned from Earth in “City on the Edge of Forever”. He was my hero and heroes never swore. Guess he had a good reason after falling in love with Joan Collins and watching her get hit by a truck. Still…he didn’t need to swear. That was the day in the 1960s that I vowed not to swear.
Now, I am finally embracing my insanity. It takes awhile. Many times of contemplated suicide and feeling as though you just don’t belong. Wow, what a terrible waste that could have been!
My first recollection of being queer, was when I was three years old. That is queer, funny, different, unique. My mother would forbid me to watch Lassie. Each time Lassie whimpered, I would cry. Not just tear up, I would sob. Then at five years old, Mom had my blood drawn. She was concerned that my incessant crying was a symptom of a disease or disorder. The process was fascinating and I was surprised by the deep purple color of my blood. I was extremely healthy and my body said so.
Forgive my rambling, I love words and can’t help but communicate every sensation. I also love all my senses. I have always used them frequently. Did you ever realize that moss smelled green?
As far as swearing goes, it seems like it is a terrible waste. Maybe people can emphasize with it if they didn’t use it all of the time. Swearing is like peeing in a swimming pool. Many people do it. Most get away with it. But it makes me feel as though I need a shower. Fairly recently, I was so angry that I thought about the F-word. Took me days to feel clean again. That’s just how I am and I have finally decided not to apologize any more.
Coming to the Meek House, was a great idea. Although it is known as the “Freak” house, it really is the first place that makes me feel comfortable. Too bad I need to share it with the mentally ill. They are quite a crew, yet, they really do have their fingers on the pulse of life.
Ah life, what a great teacher you are. Hang in there kids, it gets better. Much better…
My friend Dede didn’t hold out long enough. Poor, poor, Dede. Her name was Dauntless Dodge Baker.
What her parents thought when naming her remains a mystery to this day. I know she was destined for greatness. Wish she had considered it possible.
Being 16 and pregnant puts a heck of a cramp in ones style. Even still, Dede was quite a character. She was here from the inner city of St. Louis, MO . It was called the A B C program. A better chance to get educated without the perils of the city life constantly distracting a person. Looking back, all it offered her was a better chance of being impregnated by a white guy.
You know, if you want to save yourself a lot of grief, you can stop reading this right now. I don’t really care if anyone knows Dede’s story, much less mine. If I wanted to share I wouldn’t have stopped talking thirty-eight years ago today. I decided it was no ones business what I thought and haven’t uttered a single word since then. My thinking and feeling and touching and tasting and seeing and my ability to smell trouble have all been enhanced. People would be wise to do this. Listening and then coming to conclusions that I need not defend is the most freeing thing I’ve ever done. Political correctness has no meaning here. I am not prejudice and don’t have to prove that I am not. So there.
It was 1972, and I was rushing to my ceramics class. It was cold, even for November and I was regretting wearing my flip-flops and cargo shorts. The dried leaves chattered along the walkway. They’d scuttle and cut me off then lay lifeless only to be swept up by the next bone chilling breeze. I saw the hot pink paper wadded and dancing along among the leaves. It stuck out so boldly that I HAD to pick it up. I unraveled it to read,” 4 give me…BRB.” It was quite fresh and brittle. There had been a downpour the evening before so I knew someone had just tossed it away. What it meant, I would not know for some time. I stuck it in my sweatshirt and raced the final block to my class.
There are few more satisfying sensations than throwing clay pots on a wheel. The first THWAP as you anchor the clay. Then the hum of the wheel and the praying triangle hold your hands form to center this blob, soon to be, pot. As I watched the swirls tighten to center and felt the cool moist sponge dragging along the surface , my mind wandered. No hypnotist could provide a better refuge.
Dede and I had become friends in history class. At the time, I was just being friendly to the black girl from way “out of town”. She had a perkiness that was infectious. At first, I thought she had the world by a string. Of course, in the northern most corner of the Berkshires in Massachusetts, Dede was overly welcomed to be ALL she could be. No prejudice here. No sirree! She was cute, although if she’d been white, she would not have had the following she enjoyed today. The whole student body fell all over themselves making her welcome. I actually envied the stage she occupied. Everyone had an interest in her success and that was one big deal to a teenager.