Diaries Kept

Dear Vivienne,

Glorious--strange news... I have met a wide-eyed, silent little slip of a girl. She seems to be telling a sad portrait of a story. I needn't believe it all. I know there is truth even in the most vicious of lies--but I am not as certain she is so aware.

I read her journal. She pressed it to my chest one night. Her eyes told me read it--or burn it--perhaps one right after the other: glimpse enough of the tortured thoughts on the open page, commit snapshots to memory, and then incinerate all but the very last of her words.

I read, for hours, her horror stories. In the morning, I returned it to her. Her eyes were never as green as but in that morning light.

I asked for it again the next night. I had seen her scribbling furiously in the margins. She shook her head--she would not. Perhaps there was finally something she had written that was so personal. Or perhaps this was a new journal, the other cast off in a trunk or a lake or a firebed and such new entries were not for my eyes.

The girl has murals of her dreams up and down her arms.

21/39

I had a love affair with a man in my early 20s. He was in his late 30s. We had this game that we enjoyed to play. He would tell me tremendous lies and I would pretend to believe him. I would tell him tremendous lies and he would pretend to give a damn.

It's not a time I very proud of, as I have my suspicions that this gentleman was no gentleman. He may have been married. He may have had kids. He may have been using me all along to get through some early (or late; he may be dead by now) mid-life crisis. It's all very possible and likely. But I enjoyed it for what it was: encounters with lightning. Our affairs were split into multiple stormy encounters, conversation for the sake of hearing ourselves talk: me pretending to be much older than I was (which, admittedly may have been a turn-off for him) and him pretending that he really had more than an hour to spare when he was with me. 59 minutes later and he was almost certainly out the door. But he'd be back. He always came back.

Well, until he didn't.

Good Advice

Dear Vivienne,

Life is interesting. You promised me that it would be. I remember you told me it would be difficult. No one else ever said that. Mom was fair about it; she promised that if I worked hard then I would reap the benefits. Dad said that things would not be handed to me in life. For a work ethic, they basically imparted that I had a lot of shit to do if I wanted to get anywhere. You said that however hard I worked, I would be met with resistance, troublesome people who would stand in my way or say no I cannot do that or no you must not do that, and sudden realization that because I truly want something does not automatically mean I will get it.

Earlier, I thought that meant, well, then why work at all, hard or soft on projects or love or commitment or schedules. Just fuck it all, seriously. Fuck It All Seriously. Do not take anything for granted, but accept the things that come and seriously ignore adversity, move past it, and try to find something else that works instead.

Now I am not so certain. I should have asked you to be more specific. It seems that all the good advice I ever got was in metaphors. That's lovely, but what happens if I'm interpreting it wrong? What if I took it wrong? What I was wrong? It only now occurs to me, likely dozens of years too late that the people giving me advice could have been wrong.

Even you, my dear Vivienne... you have lived sixty-seventy-some years and you must know by now that through those turns and twists that you had to turn and twist backwards to get to where you started and try again. And it must be that the advice you gave me at 8 or 18 must have been based on what you learned. But in those 10 years, you must have learned something as well that may contradict what you earlier said. So who do I listen to... the grandmother (yes, Vivienne, I know) that told me so at 8 or the grandmother (yes, Vivienne, again) at 18? All in-between? The days between those years, you spoke to me, were there clues to transitioning opinions? Surely.

Am I asking too much? I can't depend on you to know everything or tell me exactly what to do unless I was I researching to play you onstage (sometimes I wonder if I'm not). So maybe I think that I ask too much of you, am expecting you to give me all the answers when you had to struggle them for yourself. But can't that be the benefit of at least going through it all? To know, triumphantly, that you can impart what you had to go through so the one you love does not have to go through what you needed to go through to get through it all.

Vivienne, I must confirm: I have no idea what in the hell I am doing.

My love to you this holiday season,
Viktor

Afterglow

When Theresia left me, I went several months sleeping alone, staring blankly at my eyelids, and unable to think of anyone else.

And then one day, I woke up not alone. I turned to see an attractive, young woman next to me, sleeping a restful and apparently deserved slumber. A pang hit. My first lover since Theresia and I felt guilt. I had gone so long with nothing but a longing next to me as a I slept. I was suddenly faced with my desire for human contact being met with just anyone. It was not love--not a sweeping feeling of completion. Just flailing bodies. Satisfaction. Orgasms. A few.

Was I suddenly over T? Impossible. A love of all ages reduced to a slut moment of weakness. No--still hurt. Still pain felt within to ensure that I was not loved back. Somehow for a few hours and a lot of wine, I had gotten over it long enough to be met with with desperately search my mental faculties for a name that wasn't coming. She didn't stay long enough to warrant tea and a scone, never mind a formal introduction.

Nor did the second girl. Or the forth. Or the young man I met outside Blarney's city limits.

Why am I doing this?
Why do I enjoy myself?
Why do I still not feel "over" as what Theresia so solemnly requested I succumb to us being?

Over.

Lovers since... lovers that paled in comparison to passionate companionship, but remained worthy alternatives to the bleak sorrow for the three hours before that I would pass out every evening I put a nightcap on.

The lovers came and went, rarely with return appearances, except the odd third audition which left me a week for a weekend, filling my brain with jealousy and fear that perhaps this repeat visitor was Theresia's incumbent. Naturally it was not, and the 3rd was charmless.

The worst became when the sex got good. More than functional--hot. deep. enrapturing.

It was easier to just assume I was swine who'd fuck Circe even with the apple in my mouth because that I was simply how I was made to be. While I could still argue that in theory, I would wake up, no sorceress to blame for my behavior, or my feelings of warmth and satisfaction. Feeling of being... happy.

And while every day kept me lockstamped in reality's flaws, I began to think that maybe I could be happy again.

That made me feel awful.

Mother & Father

I think my father and my mother loved each other very much, even if they did not understand each other at all. I think it was an arranged marriage of sorts, almost political. This family merges with this family and lives prosper. There was no underlying resentment as far as I know, but they had entirely different ways on handling their marriage.

My father was a romantic. He would buy extravagantly, almost riches of embarrassment to my mother, on foolhardy occasions, making his conquest to top the last extravagance that much more difficult. She thanked him for his pleasantries, made love with him at least enough to grant him 2 children, and behaved as a devoted caretaker.

He would write sonnets, poems, lyre tributes... all in her name. She would smile, nod accordingly, and move on to the stove's grease gatherings with her apron in hand.

When his business failed, she held onto his shoulders, grazing her fingertips against his neck, and brushing her nails gently against the edges of his hair. She comforted him, gave him peace in a time he was certain he would lose her, us, his home, and hid dignity. She held him close to her in front of the fireplace, but never said anything about how they would eventually get back on their feet (she probably assumed we wouldn't), or that believed in his struggle and how we would persevere even in the economic ice age we were facing. She said nothing of the sort.

My mother did not like to assume things would get better, or worse, or remain the same. "We will know what happens when daylight wakes us up," she said once in a very purposeful if not entirely useful way, "and until then, we can dream as much as we like." She used the word "dream" negatively, as if to say (actually not as if, but definitely to say) that when we did get that glare of morning realization, the dreams will have served no purpose. They offered no truth or clarity. They were just fantasy; they would relate to nothing in the end. It was what we did when awake that truly mattered.

The business did get back on it's feet, my father managed to ensure we kept our home away from the lenders, and their marriage continued. When the lean years went and we all got fat again, my father would repeatedly chuckle, swirl his bride around the kitchen, and comment how she kept him fighting all along and it was through the strength she provided to him that kept him going. She would nod, smile, and gently caress his face while he shouted her praises. She would soon after find herself focused on another task, such as shining the candlesticks, or making a list of grocery items.

My father would leave the kitchen, and continue on through the house, dreaming of the woman who stood by him, and how lucky he was to have her. My mother would continue with her list, or begin contemplating whether the silver polish was beginning to weaken.

Treatment

You learn to not use the word "anxious." They have syringes for that. If you say "impatient" or "concerned," they generally give you the soothing voice. But not the needle. Frankly, they do not care.

They know what they are doing, and you don't, so it does not matter if you are ready--you feel--to go. They will simply ask the same questions about frequency, consistency, texture, and shade. It's a personal experience laid out on charts swapped between shifts.

Some use their names, they introduce themselves--expecting no doubt to establish friendships for life or six hours. But they do it for relaxation--calming the patient, so they think they have control. At any moment they can shout out "Sarah!" as if it's a beloved friend that may or may not be several feet away. It's a fallacy--you are powerless. Pipes sprout from your backhands, gowns of indeterminate size and fashion replace familiar fabric, and you are checked upon. Eternally checked upon.

They do not like each other. The same stay with the same; different ranks exist and the Betweens mumble--some more loudly--"Why didn't she..." "Why did they..." "Who do THIS?!"

You get old in a hospital bed. Instantly, your body weighs down, your skin weak. You are suddenly feeble, as if the simple willpower of the Bed knows better that you must be in dire need of rest. Insomnia persists, but you hang there motionless, ready whenever the nightwatching god decides you can close your eyes, until they need you again.

Not My Bag

When I was younger, I guess it must have been one of the primary school years... late, tho, almost secondary, I had an experience. I was not one of the tough kids in school. In fact, it must be known, I was something of a fop. I didn't have a lot growing up, in terms of possessions, but I made do. I took my father's old trouser pants, had no talent to make a stitch (still don't) so used safety pins to mend them so I wouldn't trip over them. I took a horrifying pair of scissors to my long shirts, tucking the tattered pieces into my pants (for both adding thickness so the pants wouldn't slide as much and also in case I ever grew taller and needed the shirts to be proper length again; it turns out, yes, I would in fact grow taller). I had a hat. I always had a hat. This was before I found lipstick, or eyeliner. But this was a time when I knew girls. I was just fascinated by them.

A lot of boys were threatened by that. They figured some toss of a boy that had it in with the girls must be up to something, and since they couldn't get close to girls (or didn't want to--this was adolescence after all), I was labeled early on as a sissy or a queerie. Fine as that was, it did put a cramp into my social life, and I began to withdraw a lot from the children at school, preferring instead to primp and puff my myself at a mirror, telling stories of enormous levity to myself, and thinking all along, someday I would fit in because I would discover something that they all would want to emulate.

The girls turned on me at some point. One little bitch in particular was named Gheraldine. She was a destestable whore of Babylonian proportions. She also was quite rich. Her father owned all the bird seed in town or something. We had a lot of birds locally, evidently.

So during school, we were all lined up for something--an assembly, a talent show, a bathroom break, who knows--and on the stairs I was stuck behind ghoulish Gheraldine in her designer heels of death (she was 13, ladies and gentlemen). She caught my eye. My eye was on her black, sequined handbag. I was just gazing into nothingness, the specter of shiny black shinyness of nothing. She chirped, "Oh, do you like it? My bag? Do want it?"

I ached. No. I did not want her fucking bag. I wanted to go home, and crawl under rocks and pretend that I was a spacedragon that was misunderstood by the world but was truly a kind and big hearted friend to humanity. I shook my head. No. I did not want her bag.

She scoffed, laughed, and twirled her hair with her free fingers. She used her other hand to dangle the purse as if to imply I was a mutt hungry for a scrap of meat. When her surrounding party failed to hear her delicate taunts, she made sure her voice carried better for a second reading.

I truly only have had a few moments of malice. But I didn't hit her.

Now I think. Maybe she wasn't such a callous, heartless whore of a human being with a knock-off bag that shone like the inky black of her soul. Maybe she was privately, secretly, and with a true humanitarian interest, looking to offer assistance with a young man cluttered with sexual identity issues. Maybe she thought, "You there, boy, take the purse. Let it be your beacon in this unforgiving world. It's yours. This is my gift to you."

And while I never took the purse, and instead acknowledged her open palm as a slap in the face, maybe she did mean kindness. Years later I would assume my true intentions on my I rejected the purse. It was not fear of being labeled a sissy. It was not that at age 9 or 11, I was shamed for speaking in a higher voice than the boys and a few of the girls. It was not even a pious disregard for the nonsensical beings who roared fits of laughter at the girlyboys they didn't "get."

Truly, perhaps it was that I had the foresight to realize, the bag was pretty and all, but I didn't have any shoes that would go with it.

I'm sure that I would've come up with a witty retort or such had I not instead taken her beloved bespangled purse from her, jammed my unusually tall boot heel upon it, and kicked it clear across the stairs and into a trash receptacle.

Wisdom that I would deem later as true, would dictate that I should have really done both.

Wait

I continue to struggle with body image. I always thought that as a performer I was above that. Well, no, I never thought that. I always thought that a performer should be above that.

When traveling with the Burning Theatre, I found that the different faces within the sideshow act exuded confidence and forthright righteousness. They sang, they danced, and expressed themselves wildly within their unusual frames. And then offstage, they were quiet, withdrawn, and almost ashamed to be seen by their equals. When it's a circus, you're there for the crowd; when they cheer or jeer, they are there enjoying themselves. When they leave, you're left to yourself without a spotlight or a piano accompaniment. You walk by the misshapen mirrors and see yourself as a normal human being.

I admit I do not have scales, am not a dwarf, having missing or expendable limbs, or anything else that people would assume makes them a freak. Cosie said to me one time that she considers the audience a freakshow; a group of middle Americans or what have you, stuffing their faces with popcorn and candy, so convinced they are on the outside view of the aquarium. But they too have their flaws and indiosyncrasies, just on the inside. At least freaks have the honesty to wear it on their sleeves.

When on stage, it's no matter. You sing, you dance. No one at the Burning Theatre ever made me feel normal or abnormal. But since leaving them, I occasionally look down at my doughy stomach, my invasively pale complexion, and the acne marks that sometimes appear on my arms or chest and think "Perhaps living with the supposed freaks makes you that much more vain."

I am not firm, I am not taut; and when I look at my stomach and sigh, it's an accurate summation of much of my life. It is disappointing, but truly, I am not doing anything about it.

Fidelity

This is no foreign concept, I assure you.

Despite what my lovers (or their village) choose to think, I assure you that I have only the purest of intentions when it comes to the fairer sex.

About that...

Having determined that sex is rarely so diligently sequenced or mandated by schedule or judgement, I consider no sex to be fair. I am merely referring to the ladies I am fucking--not the primal act itself.

Oh, and as for the gentlemen, I assure you: I have no never slept with a gentleman.

I'm too busy to sleep with anyone. I am certain I almost never sleep. Pirates don't keep their anchors much anywhere for long.

Ah, yes, fidelity. I have been accused of it, without warrant. I assure you that outside my odd tryst in Paris two summers ago, I am strictly one-at-a-time about the whole thing. Never you think that is some mandering moral concept attached, or worse, faith-induced fear. I assure you yet again that it's true for only one purpose: exhaustian.

I may have the heart of a carefree lead and the libido of a congressman but I simply cannot handle more than one affair at an instant. The small talk. The things in common--heavens, the things not in common. Their prattling family. I am not a people person. Quite honestly the only reason I conduct myself so boldly and find a new strumpet the moment the other's back is turned is only because I search--not for one to save me from myself--but for me to save myself from the previous lover.

Hard to Get

And anyway, what does it matter? We pick up and move on. Nomads do it all the time. I read a book about a man who was deeply in love with a woman, but she left him. She explained to him that it was part of her culture; she HAD to go. He waved goodbye to her.

Of course I cried like anyone would, had they the necessary brain power... it was so very moving. But then, I thought, Why the fuck didn't he just go with her? He was a drifter, man! He had no family, no ties, and the town wasn't very happy with his relationship with her anyway! So he could have escaped persecution, found a purpose and fulfillment, been with the girl of his dreams. But he didn't. He watched her go and waved.

What he fuck is wrong with you, stupid manboy? She told you she HAD to, you spent three days lying naked on top of each other, and every third minute, she said how she did not want to leave you, and you STAYED! Was this playing hard to get concept so thoroughly ingrained within you that you wouldn't suck up your pride, leave the abandoned medical waste shelter you were squatting, and actually do something with your life?

I set the book on fire.

She Never Promised Me

She never promised me forever--or any day that was not today--this hour--this moment. But I never expected her to go

We would always be together. She had other plans--adventures--the world was waiting.

"Am I not worth staying for?" I knew her answer.

"My life is not worth ignoring--I am worthy of the chance to experience it." But not with me.

"With someone else?"

Viktor, there is always someone else. She packed her things that night. She and her someone else were gone by next morning. I don't know where he came from. He may have been there all along.

Love

The first time I fell in love, I think I was about 7. It was fleeting. Some girl that paid me attention. I think for a very long time that is all I wanted. My father was away on military excursions, my mother busy with mending our clothes and furniture to last longer than it possibly could, and my sister was off at an academy for being too smart for her own good.

I was at basic studies, and a girl gave me a flower. Not knowing what to do, I took it and ran away. I was afraid she would decide to take it back. Looking back, perhaps I was truly making a deranged statement about my home life.

I never saw her again. But I kept the flower for as long as I could. And then it vanished from beside my bed.

I suppose she eventually caught up with me.

Dead

Mother always told me never to speak ill of the dead as they could not defend themselves.

Later, she told me not to say bad things about those who were alive as they still had time to redeem themselves.

Mother had good intentions. I would say something more about her, but I'm sure she is either dead or alive.