To the man I love

Dear Z,

I know you don't read this anymore, because anything I've had to say to you for the past three and a half years I've turned to you and said aloud. For the past three and half years, you've been right by my side. I'm writing it anyway, because I have about three decades' worth of stuff to tell you, and you are past hearing me.

The last time I wrote one of these letters, it was an apology. I bruised your already tender feelings even more by being unthinking, and I wanted  - no, needed - to say sorry. I didn't intend this one to be an apology, too, but I have to start it off with one. I'm sorry I took you for granted. I got so used to you being a rock that I kind of forgot how crystalline your core is - like mine, I have to acknowledge. I see so many things about you that I have in myself, and it has given me comfort since the beginning. There are things which are alien to me, too, like your absolute insistence that you neither desire nor require love. I know better. I have seen you after soaking up the rain of love from me, my family, my community. I remember the tension and anger in every line of your body when you came to me, and I remember when I started to see it leak away, leaving a smiling, gentle, happy man in its absence. I know that the home we shared was precious to you, maybe more than you are willing to admit even to yourself. I told you a few days ago that I knew how terrifying it is to know that someone can see you with clarity that you can't turn on yourself, and I know you are worried I am going to use it as a weapon against you. I'm sorry that we never took the chance to ease all those fears. I am so sorry you never came to me.

The crazy thing - and I mean it sounds dumb, it sounds like the sort of thing they would put in a book that had high heeled shoes on the cover - is that once I made peace with my own insecurities, I have never doubted you. Not once. Even when I was blue and swirling in darkness. Even when you threatened to walk out the night before our epic trip. I think it was a mistake then, and I think it's a mistake now. I say it because I have never personally known two people to do what we did - be the absolute best versions of ourselves we could be for each other. I believe to my toes that we are meant to be together to keep us straight in the world.

This summer has been a motherfucker, that is for certain. It was so much - far too much, frankly - and I was overwhelmed, and I leaned on you really really hard without ever having a discussion about it. I took and took and took from you, and what I gave back wasn't much, and I know you burned out. I should have kissed you more. I should have reached for you all those times I really wanted to instead of letting you close in on yourself. I should have flung myself into your arms the second you walked into the room at the Prospector. I didn't because... I don't know why. Because I was afraid of being rejected. Because I was afraid it would feel like a bigger burden. Because the sheer magnitude of what I feel for you terrifies me, and I know it scares the shit out of you too, for different reasons.

I am so tired of living my life in fear.

I love you. The words can seem so trite, so I tried to show you every day how much you mean to me, and sometimes I wished how you showed me was clearer, but the fact is neither of us did a good enough job with saying those words. I've loved you since about three months from the day I met you. Maybe it didn't even take that long. I love you still. You are in a tiny circle, truly rarified company - the people I have chosen to be my family instead of having Fate fling them in my path (this is where I say, hi, mom! hugs to the sisters!) I want you, too. Right by my side.

Bea misses you horribly. So does Jack, although he is less forthcoming. I miss you most of all.

-s

whenever i am doubtful, this reassures me you were meant for me

Another letter to a filmmaker who is screwing stuff up

Dear Zack Snyder,

I really believe that you are a fanboy. You are camped out at 9:15 on Wednesday mornings outside your local shop to pick up the week's new issues. You bag and board anything and everything in case it might be of value some day. You know as much about obscure letterers and colorists from the '60's as baseball fanatics know about the Baltimore Orioles leftfieldsmen. I'm not doubting your geek pedigree. I know you too fucking well.

You're the sniveling little shit who disparagingly asks me upon my arrival at said comic book store if I'm "looking for something in particular - a gift for a boyfriend, maybe?" You're the one who points me firmly in the direction of the Buffy comics when I say I want horror pulp (not that there is anything wrong with the Buffy comics, but they're not exactly Hack 'n' Slash, are they?) You follow me not-terribly-covertly around convention floors making comments about the fit of my Star Trek t-shirt. You are the idiot who insists on trying to rolling to seduce my very powerful, not-at-all sexy mage in a one-off D&D adventure.

Here's the thing, Snyder. I don't much care for your movie-making. I think in your eagerness to make movies that are frame for frame reenactments of the comics they come from, you lose any desire to imbue your films with honesty or weight. It's frustrating when you do that to source material like Frank Miller's 300 and downright detrimental when it's something like Alan Moore's Watchmen. I don't know what graphic novel you were reading, but the Watchmen movie you made was NOT the Watchmen comic I read. The book was filled with fully-fleshed, complex characters with realistic motivations and emotional lives. Your movie? Not so much.

And now you bring us Sucker Punch. On the surface, there is nothing about this film that I shouldn't like. It is filled with dragons and mechas and sword-wielding lovelies and Jon Hamm. But why, for the love of Firefly, must you make the female characters look like they fell face-first into a vat of Porn Spackle(tm)? And why must the entire story be predicated on the assault - implied SEXUAL assault - of a teenager? And why do you take incredibly talented actors like Carla Gugino and Jena Malone and force them to emote with their fake eyelashes? You first remove all the power and agency from Queen Gorgo and Silk Spectres I and II, forcing them into roles where the ONLY art they wield is sexual - the sword-wielding and high kicks are merely frames for their ridiculous costumes. Now you are intent on selling us a whole two hours of this disenfranchising nonsense.

NEWSFLASH: We women live in a world that is fucking FULL of disenfranchising nonsense. We don't need it spoonfed to us in the guise of empowerment. Neither do our daughters, and just as importantly, neither do our sons. I want my budding geek son to not be the guy who chases girls out of the comic book shop, either directly with his nasty attitude or indirectly by insulting their intelligence and sensibilities with his complete ignorance of what makes a tough woman tough.

Honestly, Snyder. Your take on female power makes me feel bite-ier than the JJ Abrams Star Trek reboot. That is saying something.

Yours,
stella

P.S. In case you have forgotten what sexy AND capable looks like:

For what it's worth

Dear Z,

I don't know that you will read this; you have done a very thorough job excising me from your life, and I can't imagine that you would go subjecting yourself to a big ol' dose of my own self-aware self-promotion. On the other hand, we got pretty close, didn't we? and there was a lot of stuff I wrote on here that was more or less intended expressly for you. You always knew that. You are a smart man; I know you sussed out what was yours and yours alone. Which is why I can see that the last thing I posted could have felt like a kick in the gut.

I didn't intend for it to. I didn't intend anything by it, really, except blowing off steam the way I am most familiar with - by letting other, more talented artists (well, with the exception of the Sex Pistols, but in my defense, that's an Iggy Pop song) do my talking for me. I was so ANGRY - not at you, at myself, at my own emotions - and I was so tired of nurturing this thing, this pygmy mouse lemur, this incredibly vulnerable porcelain shell of love. I wanted nothing more than to grind the damn thing under my heel, to snap its spine and leave its bloodied carcass for the vultures, and go on being the cynical, jaded, lemur-murdering bitch I apparently long to be. I was exhausting myself waiting for someone to take it from me, and I was ready to take matters into my own hands, perhaps to drive my destiny myself for a little while.

You misconstrued my meaning, and maybe the time was ripe for that to happen - you certainly didn't flush the last seven months down the toilet over how a blog post got tagged - you ended up tagged as stupid boys more than once, remember? But I do feel bad knowing that it was the straw that brought the damned camel to its knees.

For what it's worth, the playlist from last Friday contains songs I hardly ever listen to. I have played it through, in its entirety as it exists on this blog, only twice now. I am putting up another little list for you to listen to, and I will tell you this: these are the songs I have been listening to over and over again since last fall. They are a much bigger part of the story of you and me.

Finally, I am just telling everyone (you know you are not the only one reading this) that primates are remarkably fucking resilient creatures, and they do not take kindly to mistreatment. Stupid zombie lemurs.

love,
-stella

Here's your hat, what's your hurry?

HEP: Hip, cool, righteous, in the know.

HIP: In the know, worldly wise, clever, enlightened, sophisticated.

HIPSTER: "Someone who's in the know, grasps everything, is alert."

Cab Calloway, actual hipster

Dear Williamsburgians, and associates on college campuses and in cities coast to coast,

We would like our word back. Until you start wearing zoot suits, slicking back your hair, and smoking REEFER instead of WEED, you are unworthy. Find a new word. Also, trying brushing your hair and mustering enthusiasm for something.

Thank you,
Jazz men (aka hipsters, aka the heppest cats around)




Seriously? Maybe they'll go away if we quit paying attention to them.

Athos, Porthos, Aramis

I was going to make this a post about how I bagged on dressing like a pirate today, and caught some flak for it. It was going to be amusing and light-hearted; I was going to make fun of my geekish tendencies again. But when it came down to it, the real reason I didn't dress up today is because I don't have anyone around to appreciate my efforts. The two people who I would put on a corset especially for are all the way across the country. They might as well be across the planet today. Once upon a time, the three of us traveled to a magical city together, and we had some times.

This is Lafitte's. He was a pirate who retired as a blacksmith. This building is hundreds of years old, and feels it. We drank whiskey at noon here, while the heat of the day built around us. Every window and door was wide open; gleaming carriages guided by top-hatted drivers kept gliding past, the horses' tack gently jingling. The first day we went - the first day we werein town - we managed to all dress in shades of purple. This was unintentional. None of us changed, though.

Lafitte's from the inside. When I think of New Orleans, this is what I see in my head. You could feel the history when you touched these bricks; they felt alive.


This is La Fabulous trying to make a Frida Kahlo face. She made this face a lot; when we were reading ghost stories that scared her, when the primates seemed too human, when there were only hours left for all of us to be together. You can see she is wearing the saints in this picture. On our way back to Sitka, we thought she had lost them in the airport. Luckily they had only slipped down into her bag. They never leave her for long.


This is Lady L. internalizing the whole experience. She is doing that by eating pralines in the grass of Jackson Square. There was jazz playing. You can almost hear it. That might well be why she is smiling.


We look astonished because that is a mama elephant. She is pregnant, and we got to feel the baby moving. It's happening in this picture. Lady L. got to touch her, too, but I don't have that picture.


Sunburned, hungover, exhausted, and exhilarated. I don't recall buying anything at the French Market, but here is the proof we were there. Here is the proof that once, we were as inseparable as the Three Musketeers, if that cliche doesn't make you roll your eyes. Here is the proof that two of the best women in the world are my friends.

Dear Ell and Vee,
Happy birthdays, my darlings. I miss you both so much. Thank you, again and again and once again, for all that you are. No matter what, this city is ours.

Love,
Ess

P.S. - I don't know which of us is which of the musketeers, except La Fab is Porthos. Obviously.

Ahem...

Apologies. This is not worth the karmic backlash.

Carry on.

The week between Christmas and New Year's feels like lost time.

I hope everyone had a really good holiday, or at least at holiday that didn't make you contemplate alcoholism or fratricide or ill-advised, impromptu visits to your hometown hair salon that you haven't visited since you were thirteen for a good reason.

And speaking of thirteen (check out that segue!), there are lots of bloggers jumping on this little bandwagon lately that has you penning a letter to your thirteen-year-old self, saying the things you really wish someone had said to you. I haven't been tagged to do this, technically, because I only have three friends who blog, and they are all too kind to force me to do these sort of pointless exercises. I thought, though, that there might be some merit in this address, so I am partaking.

Dear Thirteen,

Shit's really fucked up right now, huh? Don't flinch, I know you hate coarse language, but in a few years you'll embrace the power of a good expletive, and you'll never look back. Right now, you feel alienated, lonely, and scared. Right now, you have chronic nausea and headaches that you won't tell anyone about. Right now, you have a very pregnant 18 year old sister with a serious disease you don't really comprehend. Right now, you are a helpless cork bobbing in a very angry ocean.

Here's the good news: Shit's gonna get better. You will be very far from the family you love so much, and you will learn to live outside of someone's shadow, and things will be okay.

And the bad news: Shit gets worse before it gets better. Evidence of your childhood will disappear, and the man who was a better father than your real father will disappear, and you will never have enough. And then things will improve, and then worsen, and then improve, and then worsen, and very probably this will be the pattern for the rest of your life, but. But. You are a strong girl and you will learn to shout FUCK YOU with the best of them.

Here are some things to cling to: 1) All those books everyone teases you about reading? Other girls are out there reading them and drawing the same conclusions.

2) The way you obsess over movies and music? Vast knowledge of popular culture makes you very interesting to talk to at parties.

3) The family that doesn't get you and sometimes marginalizes you and involves you in dramas you don't understand? You will eventually distance yourself from all the crap and learn to love them for who they are. Be warned: they will never get you, they will always marginalize you, and the drama is unstoppable.


You don't realize it right now, but someday you'll think you're actually kind of pretty. Someday you'll have a functional, mature relationship the likes of which you've never yet seen. Someday, your kids will not have a perfect Christmas, and it will still be enjoyable and they will still love you at the end of the day. Someday, you will take stock and realize that there are people who love you on both coasts, all the way to the corners, literally. So hang on. The bad stuff is fleeting, and the good stuff is pretty damn good. Plus, when you grow up, you'll like alcohol, which helps.

Eighth grade is almost over, and Darryl Piersaul noticed you, even if you don't think he did. The Indigo Girls will release Closer To Fine this summer. It will be the first tape you ever buy with your own money. There are only a few more months until you leave Kentucky forever, and only a few more years before you live close enough to the ocean again to hear it roar. Hang on; you're almost there.

Love, me.



By the way, the asthma gets better when you move out of the city, the headaches resolve when you're pregnant with your first child, and the nausea fades sometime in high school, until the first time you fall in love. It's a doozy. Be prepared.