Oh, sure, I have the diploma. But I never walked down that aisle.
After all the shit I waded through, never did I have the honor of that
rite of passage...having my name called from the stage amidst the boos
and the cat calls (and I imagine it would have gone no differently based
on my experiences in the school) from students and teachers alike. I
never graduated.
I remember why, too. Vividly. She looked at me dead in the eye, just
about done with the second semester of my senior year. I sat there
minding my own business in history class. I was still doing the punk
thing in those days, nearly a decade ago. So I had more leather than
fishnet at the time, but the ideals were the same. I just wanted to be
myself and was one of the few with the defenses and the balls to pull it
off...but it wasn't easy. I didn't do this to piss off my
parents...they were already pissed anyway. I did this because it was
me...but I digress. Back to the story.
In the eye she looked at me. I was the only one in the classroom
besides her that afternoon, working on the beginnings of the great
Senior Term Paper that so many of us had to do in that period of our
existence. Like Clint-Fucking Eastwood she looked at me. And she
stated one thing before heading out the door. She huffed at the idea of
me turning in a term paper. She found it funny. She looked at me and
said, "People like you...don't graduate." Then she left the room.
Now a lot of us had our classmates and peers smack us around regularly
like that because of our ways of dress or our ideals. But before I go
on, let's make one thing clear. This wasn't a classmate that spoke that
afternoon. This was the history teacher. "People like you..."
I did the only thing that I in my infinite wisdom thought of. Feeling
she was serious in her statement of the obvious, and I was right, I did
absolutely nothing for that class...including the non-completion of the
aforementioned term paper. Think about it...why bust my ass to work and
study if I wasn't going to get through the class anyway? And I had a
high average all through high school. The casual kids around me didn't
understand...how could someone who looked like THAT be smart? It didn't
make sense to them. I was very proud of my grades all through my school
years...until she showed up. The History Hack. "People like you..."
she said. I still hear it in my head. And I still cry sometimes. Over
the power one woman wielded over me just to ruin the GPA of some freak
because she felt it was her duty.
I completed summer school easily. My grade point average ruined for
fucking life because of one teacher's closed mindedness, I just carried
on. I received my diploma three months later. But I didn't graduate.
Because "people like me...don't graduate."
"Why didn't you tell me this years ago?" Dad asked. I brought it up a
while back and he was apalled that I didn't tell him about it so he
could have made a case about it then. I didn't answer. So I ask to the
wind that goes by my balcony on dark nights, as I'm jettisoned by
cranial delusions back to those days in high school and remember what I
looked like and what people thought of me and I ask, "Look at me! Would
you have believed me? Would you have put any amount of thought into
this beyond thinking I'm making up excuses?" The answer is
simple...think about it. They thought I was being rebelious when I was
just being me. They didn't know my intentions or motivations. There
was nobody to believe me then. "Would you have believed me then?" I
think not. Who believes "people like me...?"
I look around now, at my life, and I find it amazing how off everyone
was. Did I ever mention I was voted "Most likely to be jailed or dead
by 21" by my peers? You know how it works...all classes have the
official ballots. "Most likely to succeed." "Most popular." "Gave the
most blowjobs in the boy's bathroom." Then they have the not so
official one. "Most likely to be jailed or dead by 21." Yes, that was
my claim to fame. I laugh about it now. But back then when I received
the list, not wanting to touch it because I knew I was on there
somewhere, and being handed it by one of the super-dooper jocky "look at
the freak!" cat callers with a shit eating grin that looked JUST LIKE
the Clint-Fucking Eastwood History Hack grin, I knew I didn't want it.
But it was shoved into my hand. And near the top of the list, there it
was. "Marc - Most Likely To be Jailed or Dead by 21." Oh what a hoot,
eh? I still cry about that, too, sometimes when nobody's around.
So without further adieu, dear Linden, New Jersey High School Class of
1989. "People like me...?" Look around, you fucking stumps who
tormented me for four fucking years. Look the fuck around you. Where
are you now? "People like me..." I'm a head Marketing Engineer for the
fourth largest comp-co. in the states. I have a list of awards and Best
Buy type ratings that you wouldn't believe. I have a loving family with
two daughters. I have a zine that is probably the longest running in
the country with it's 79th issue to debut in about a month. I have a
site on the web that gets near 3000 hits/month...and that's only because
it's the summer. My record is over 10K in a day. So look the fuck
around you. I'm not jailed. I'm not dead. As a matter of fact, I'm
kicking some extensive ass. "People like me..." fucking rule. I shit
more earned respect than any of you have earned to date.
I'm done remembering any of you; teachers and peers alike. The last
tear over my "humorous" senior-year award has dropped. The last sigh
over losing out on the graduation rite of passage and my wrecked GPA is
uttered. The last remembrance of all of you has occurred. And if I go
to this class reunion...it will ONLY be to piss on your shit stained
teeth.
-Marcus Pan
I wish..
I wish I had the drive of some of the souls I have met recently,
and didn't have to plague myself all the time with the idea that this
life, what ever worth it may have, is at best a farce and at worse a
punchline on a joke I'll never get.
I wish that you weren't dead. I wish you were still here.
I wish that I could hate as well as you did, so everything wouldn't be
so cold.
I wish I could make the people who count happy. There are few
greater pains than being forced to truly empathize with another
authentic angst, and know also that you have nothing to offer them.
I wish I didn't have to see the world as a constant reminder of the
horrible crime that happened to my people so long ago, and has never
stopped. I want to be able to not hear the silent screaming from the
citys, the factorys, the tears of the animals and the sky as the
greatest of all Mothers learns to regret Her children.
I wish I wasn't one of them.
I wish that you could read this, and get it, the entire point. That
for once my communication could have the fullness of the idea's behind
it. It's the curse of the artisit, neh? Never in this lifetime, or
any other, will you perfectly display the idea behind your art. But
you have to try, and every failure to do so, and they all are, makes
you one more step closer to obsession, or burnout.
I wish it wasn't so easy to hate. I wish I could hate better.
I wish I'd never have to drink again. I wish I could drink like
every one else can. And most of all...
I wish I could sleep again, and wake up, and know that it was
alright. I will never be alright again, will it? No, it will only
be...acceptable. Satisfactory. Liveable.
Today is an important day.
-Jealousy
Ever have a moment that you know will stay with you forever? That the
memory of it will sum up the expereince of a certain period of your
life?
I had my kids Saturday night. We played Risk. Ate taco Bell. Watched
the Dark Crystal.
We made beds for them in the living room. They slept, and I lay between
them. The room was lit only by the soft light of the desk lamp, which
cast a shadow over the lions head gargoyle on the wall. There was my
Waterhouse calender. The gentle, sleeping faces. The woman typing at the
computer. I was completely surrounded by things I love.
Contentment isnt everything. And its a tough thing to live for because,
like enjoyment, it wont be hunt for. But when it comes, I no longer
fight with it, or question it.
-Albatross
So, I'm sitting around talking with my roomie who's about to embark on
her first sexual relationship in quite some time and she admits she's
terrified. "Why?", I ask, thinking she's worried about pregnancy or
disease or intimacy or something along those lines. "Because I'm fat"
was her response.
Pardon?
Okay, ladies and gents, it's time to take a step back here. This girl
is far from fat. Granted she's no supermodel waif but she's been
blessed with a finely curvaeous form that she should be pleased with.
And no, this isn't going to become a rant about the evils of the media
who inflict this self doubt upon women everywhere. That's been done to
death. It's about how we need to come to terms with our own bodies.
It's about how a wonderfully attractive woman cannot enjoy or even
anticipate the exciting, passionate weekend to come because she's
paralysed with fear about how her lover will react to her naked glory.
I fought this battle myself. For a very long time. Obsessed with the
idea of becoming thin I stopped eating. Anything. And let me tell ya,
I looked mighty delicate and waiflike in that hospital bed. *thwaps
self upside the head*
I have no reason to dislike my body. I eat right now...lots of salads,
fruit, grill my meat instead of fry, etc. The only thing I don't do
right is exercise I guess. I tried joining a gym once. Went for three
months. I bounced, stepped, lifted, strained, felt the pain. I hated
every moment of it. So now I excercise like I do everything else in
life: on my own terms. Walking on lovely days. Dancing. Playing
tennis (badly). Ice skating. And yet my body retains it's current
shape.
Whatever diety conceptualized women's bodies wasn't kidding around and
he/she/it was fair. Generally speaking to the women blessed with ample
busoms came matching ample hips. To the women blessed with fast
metabolisms and tiny little waists came tiny proportions to match the
rest of them. And on and on. Women come in all sizes and in my opinion
are all beautiful.
And yet the loathing continues. We stare at surgically enhanced
Hollywood creations and try to measure up. Rather than loving those
wickedly dangerous curves, we fret about their bounty. Rather than
loving those sleek lines, we fret about their lack. And so many women,
much like my roomie, torture themselves with worry over what their
lovers will think.
Well, here comes the Interrogator to try to ease your minds.
In the midst of all this panic and loathing a few pertinent details have
been forgotten. The first one being that your lover-to be is probably
so thrilled that he's got a live, warm, willing, enthusiastic partner
with him it wouldn't occur to him to whip out the tape measure to see if
you fit into the "proper mold". He's likely to be so charmed and awed
by your passion and finesse that he won't notice your supposedly big
hips or small breasts. Either that or he won't care. If he does then
he's a doofus you shouldn't be wasting your precious self on in the
first place.
Next. Why are we all so convinced that we are the only ones who have
something to fear? Men have as many insecurities as we do. While we
worry about what position might show our most flattering side, they are
concerned with being too thin. Or about their love handles. Or about
their receding hairlines. Or about their, ummmm, size. Or about their
performance. Or any number of the above. Now, do you really sit there
in the heat of the moment thinking, damn look at the bald spot? Of
course not. (I hope) You should be enjoying the moment as much as he
is.
Also, taking into consideration his love handles and bald spot and small
member, how likely is it that the last woman to grace his bed was
_insert supermodel name here_? Chances are his real life comparisons
(if the man in question is crass enough to compare you to his previous
lovers) will be other ravishing womanly creatures like yourself. Not
perfect but beautiful in their own way.
So enough with the self flagellation already. Easier said than done I
know. Don't focus on the negative. Find the positive. And don't even
try telling me that there isn't any.
I could and used to stress out about the fact that I don't have Abs of
Steel. Instead I choose to glory in the magnificent breasts I have. I
could worry about the fact that my hip bones don't jut out but instead
enjoy the fact that my butt looks great in the right pair of jeans.
And fortunately for every man who swoons at the thin, waif look there is
one who gets weak in the knees at a curvy woman.
The most important part is that you learn to love yourself. Be proud of
yourself and your womanhood. Revel in your beauty and sexuality. Great
sex doesn't come from a perfect body. It comes from total acceptance of
the one you have. It comes from the freedom of tossing aside those
inhibitions and allowing yourself to enjoy the moment.
Let's face it, what man in his right mind will ever be thinking "well,
yeah she gives great head but damn I wish she'd _insert body change of
choice_"?
And anyone who wants to argue with me can just kiss my big ole round
curvaeous heinie.... *grin*
-Elixxir, Interrogator of the Male Mind
(who says although this post was written in a fluffy tone I truly mean
and believe everything I said. I'm just in too good of a mood right now
to rant...)
A few days ago I read about an incident that really upset me, I'm sure some
of you have heard about it. A gay college student in Wyoming was robbed,
beaten with a gun, tied to a fence-post and beaten some more. It was a day
before he was discovered by someone who initially mistook him for a
scarecrow. While reading the AP wires today I found out he died from his
injuries.
It made me sick, literally. After hearing about the viciousness of the
attack I just want to go curl up in corner and hide for a while.
This guy, Matthew Shepard, was 21, spoke 4 languages and loved acting and
sounds like a wonderful person. But now he's dead because some prick was
embarrassed that a gay guy dared to flirt with him. Yeah, this happened
because Matthew flirted with some straight guy who took it as an affront to
his masculinity and, with a friend, killed him. It takes a REAL fucking man
beat a 100 pound guy with a gun while your friend holds him down.
They're saying that they didn't intend to kill him, it was just a robbing
gone wrong. Tell that to the doctors who couldn't operate on Matthew
because his head was so badly smashed.
This just really got to me and I think it's worse that I can understand,
somewhat, how it happened. I wish I couldn't but I have an idea of what was
going through their heads. Let's teach the faggot a lesson, let's show our
girls what men we are, let's just kick some ass. Then once they got going,
they couldn't stop. It's like being caught in the mob mentality. At a
certain point you stop thinking and just act because that's what you're
doing.
Knowing that I don't have the comfort of just saying "They're evil" and
going on my way. It's scarier knowing that they're *not* evil and that
under the right circumstances, almost anyone could do the same thing. I
know myself too well to deny that I could ever be capable of that kind of
attack - after all, wouldn't it be satisfying to do to those boys what they
did to him? A hand for a hand.
I'm more upset than I should be from just reading a story - my hands were
shaking earlier - and it's not like I knew him. But in a way I do. I have a
friend that I adore who's very, very similar to Matthew and I keep thinking
about him being in that situation. I wish...*sigh*...I wish this didn't
happen and I just needed to put some thoughts down about it.
-zoe
the question asked.....
If everything material you loved were destroyed. What would you miss most,
and why? (-oddlystrange)
the reply....
i have a small file cabinet that has paper copies of my old writing.
stuff i wrote when i was 12, 17, 19. it's not great stuff - however,
it reminds me of the passion i had then. it gives me hope for my
future writing and keeps me working at it. it's like a touchstone -
no matter what i am now, i was *this* once and maybe i can be again.
that leads me to another question...
what little thing in your life keeps you moving forward?
-risa (in a thoughtful mood today)
Submitted by Breezy:
I miss the innocence that I once had before reality raped me.
-Stevie, in reply to 'what do you miss?'-- alt.gothic
I miss being able to dream about what I might do in my life. Now I
pretty much know what my fate is.
-Buboe the Rat, in reply to 'what do you miss?'-- alt.gothic
Submitted by Petitebat:
There is a moment, standing on the uneven and
inspirational stone floor of a converted opera house, surrounded by
people from so many different grades of goth, with so much style, with
these magnificent sounds sweeping you along to a higher mental plane,
when you just can't even stand it, and you start to move because even
stillness is painful here. At that moment, for one brief second, you
see behind the curtain, into the gorgeous darkness beyond. You see the
collision of pain and pleasure, of style and substance, of the real and
the ethereal that gives so much kick to goth. You find out why you've
come, why you stay. It's really not describable, but it's the most
religious experience you can have - it is understanding, for the
briefest moment.
-Turning Inwards
Some folks might think it's about the outre outerwear - but it's not.
It's in the music, it's in the late-night coffees with those people with
the interesting thoughts, it about what _doesn't_ show. The modern
beatniks, poetry and mime, modern bohemians.
-klaatu
In fact I'd venture that most of alt gothic is like that. So many
people here, in fact, so many people EVERYWHERE, can spout of a
statement like "there is no wrong or right in this world. Its all
subjective." And be comfortable in their smug intellectualism. In
their "education" and logic and reason. Not one of them has held a
fact. Held on to a real, actual test of their conviction in their
logical, reasonable statement.
You want to?
Easy.
Find a dead baby.
Quite serious. Be driving along a darkened road on the way to
visit it
your family, as right with the world as you can be, and pull over at a
wreck. Notice the beer bottle shards mixed with blood as the screams and
moans blend into a white noise you never hear when you are there, but
which you never forget later. See the blood in all it's shades.
Clot.(about foreheads and severed limbs)
Arterial (still pumping from the breathing corpse in the smashed truck)
Venous (oozing from the young boys arm.)
You may, if trained to, respond well. You'll check on the
crumpled,
near bisected mini van, filled with a family (Mother, Father(dead)
Aunt(dead) Young boy, younger girl, Uncle) You'll run and help, break
out your first aid equipment, stored and practiced with but never used.
You'll bandage and console and apply pressure. You'll look at the two
bodies in the truck that struck the van...twin lumps of meat ground down
to paste...amid empty beer bottle. You _will_ remember counting them
(7). You will remove the victims to continue care. You will leave the
bodies and take out the living and begin hold the living together until
the professionals arrive with science and god on their side to take
these poor souls back fully into this side of eternity.
And you will remove the sleeping
baby from the wreck,
smiling at the way the world protects the innocent.
And then her brain will fall out in your hand.
She is dead. A dead baby. A cold, empty, lost piece of
potential. And
this will be wrong. You WILL be as sure of this as you ever have of
anything in your life. And you will continue to mechanically move about
he accident. And do your work. And for days...months later you will
clean your hands. Because the stain of a baby's brain and blood spilled
on your hand is something no one forgets. Because you may have had
every smug thought of the subjectivity of right and wrong before.
Because of a thousand other things.
But you will know that there are
absolutes.
And the cold bodies of infants,
are absolute wrongs.
I'm not target Ron with this. I'm painting ALL of us (yes, and me)
with this brush. If at anytime you dare so much as think that right and
wrong are subjective. That there are no absolutes, that you can reason
and logic and explain your self in to a place where there is not black
or white. Whenever you feel this.
Find a dead infant.
Hold her.
Ingrain her face on your mind.
And you will know
of one absolute wrong.
-Jealousy (occasionally a conscience.)
Submitted by Useless Beauty:
Oh lovely bed
Oh downy bed
With a spot
For my head
How I long
for your pillow
which feels like a
Big marshmallow.
-Letterbomb
DONNA - LOVE AND NECROPHAGY - AN ODE (REVISED)
Sitting here
Hearing bells
Alone, alone...
With my smells
I think of Lerve
I think of Donna
Then I boogie
Cos I wanna.
But how this story
Shifts from fair!
I spy a cat
Upon the stair.
Is it grey?
Is it black?
No it's dead.
Heart attack.
Thinking "Hmm,
This isn't right."
I whisk the corpse
Outta sight.
I chop and dice
(It sure ain't pretty)
Presto-chango
Franken-kitty.
I 'trode her head
To the mains
While pondering
This brief quattrain
But something's wrong
It's got me bothered
She's looking fried
And calls me
"Mutther?"
I realise now
I have digressed
I'd return to Lerve
But my flat's been trashed.
Donna, Donna
Your name, my mantra
Call the police
Will you?
Cant'cha?
This sucker's crazed
It's back from the dead
It's got those shears
It wants my head!
I'm out the door
I'm down the hall
I hit the stairs,
I trip
I fall.
My body vaults
Into space
Then I land
On my face.
There's no dignity
There is no grace
To my end
At this starting place
And what do I see
As the world turns black?
That rotting, stinking, grinning
Cat.
Standing there
Looking posed
Clutching those
E-lec-trodes
I'm serious Donna
I ain't foolin'
A-bout why
It is I'm droolin'.
I want your love! From all pain,
To offer your world, a brief refrain
To kiss your cheek, to taste the rain
Your hand and heart, but mostly your brain.
Kiss me Donna
My love is true
You for me, and I for you.
We'll live together
And never look back.
Just you
Just me
And that festering cat.
-Letterbomb, written for Lady Greycat
If you know who said any of the anons, have any clearups, snide comments, rude remarks,
or want to babble about love and life eternal, email me at Medakse@concentric.net
