I started my novel once...really I did...and this is how it went:
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
Okay then - onto an entirely new direction. It may be scattered and not particularly cohesive to begin with, but that's really all part of the process.
The strange things that go on behind the scenes of one's life, the entangled and intricate weaving of identity and experience that collide, have so much more to do with what becomes the end result than any of the surface superficiality. That's the point really, isn't it?
My BEHIND THE MUSIC, so to speak, is no more or less entangled than that of anyone else. But I would surmise that it is a tad more chaotic and defiant than that of my peers in the small Stepford town USA where I was raised. I was exposed to a life and a persona and such a rich enormous library of music and literature, there were just more facets to the diamond I called adolescence.
So, thus it begins, on a remote hippie commune, in a small town called Trout Lake, WA, where I had been left with my "sister" as my mother and her new husband left for a summer honeymoon.
The area where we resided was set back for what was seemingly a gazillion miles to my 8-year-old mind. My dear friend April (my "sister") whom I had been raised with, now lived here with a bunch of adults and very little clothes. Her parents' quarters consisted of a large tee pee, which towered above the dome shaped solar kitchen and the conjoining outhouses. There was no electricity. April and I slept in a two-story cabin with lanterns and pillows and stories about Jack the Ripper and Son of Sam told to us by the couple who shared the loft we were snuggled into. Sounds just like Little House on the Prairie right? I'll bet Pa told a good serial killer story or two in his day. There was a sweat bath tent heated by hot rocks where a variety of people would filter in and out of. I would test myself by sitting inside this tent until I felt like I was going to spontaneously explode into flames. It was at this moment that the ice cold water would be passed my way and I would deliriously stumble out of the steam and away from the dirt and sweat drenched bodies back into the daylight and off towards the next adventure. April and I were rarely clothed ourselves. This was particularly freeing and uncomfortable depending on our activities. Riding bareback on the horses was, for instance, one of those more unpleasant instances. There was a large field with a nasty bull that we would have to cross to get to the lake where we dove from a tire swing for hours. The hot springs that tricked my body into believing the water was ice cold at the initial first step held a natural whirlpool that would swell and dip in a magical fantastical ballet. On the roof top of the house that sat by the lake pranced a particularly ornery billy goat, holding court, and making threatening advances daring anyone to challenge the roof domain. It was the summer of love and peace and non conformity. And when it was over, my mother and new father swept me back to reality. In the form of a town called Haddonfield, where everyone wore clothes and the labels on said clothes were most important. Herein lies the exact moment that I began the great wrestling match with my own identity.
Initially, for the average 8 - year - old, the social circles are pretty wide open and accommodating. You all want to do the same things, you are all going through the same changes, you are all too young to judge one another based upon appearance...just yet.
I made a lot of friends, quickly and happily, many of whom I maintained from the 3rd grade until high school graduation.
The town of Haddonfield, the town that I tromped about in as though it were a large Storybook Land, was particularly charming and seemingly frozen in time. This was exactly the problem when I got older, the stuck in time thing, but as a young girl it was terribly great fun.
There were still a number of old school storefronts that became our stomping ground haunts...Neumeyers (where the ancient store owner would glare at us over his iron rimmed glasses as we purchased as many Swedish fish and Bazooka Joe that our pockets full of pennies could produce), Woolworths (a journey in time with every accoutrement imaginable ready for purchase with its lunch counter and Norman Rockwell characterization) , King's Deli (with the owner who had dated my aunt thus allowing us to swarm around it's jukebox playing "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" while ordering nothing more than one Vanilla Coke between 7 of us), the arcade that lasted all of about a millisecond in the "mini mall"(an arcade was much too distasteful for a town such as ours-might attract "riff raff"), McMillan's bakery where I got a freshly baked cream donut every single day after school for an entire year (it should be noted that the very robust McMillan's donut lady told me that all those donuts would catch up with me one day and I think it was a curse in disguise because dammit if they didn't).
Our little neighborhoods were mini countries unto themselves where the activities that ensued were only as good as the number of play age children who lived there...ours was rich with a variety of games. Kick the Can, Bloody Mary, Freeze Tag and the continuous street hockey the Evans boys played that went on for the majority of my life on Treaty Elms Lane. These were good days. There were no cell phones, no DVD or VCR players, no microwaves, no computers, even Atari hadn't surfaced just yet. This forced human interaction, outdoor activity and an endless train of books to read when all other options had been exhausted. These are the memories that are unmarred by adult concepts of what is acceptable to wear, eat, think, do or say. These were the moments that we were "allowed" to just be...without need for explanation or excuse.
Then I entered Middle School.
The strange things that go on behind the scenes of one's life, the entangled and intricate weaving of identity and experience that collide, have so much more to do with what becomes the end result than any of the surface superficiality. That's the point really, isn't it?
My BEHIND THE MUSIC, so to speak, is no more or less entangled than that of anyone else. But I would surmise that it is a tad more chaotic and defiant than that of my peers in the small Stepford town USA where I was raised. I was exposed to a life and a persona and such a rich enormous library of music and literature, there were just more facets to the diamond I called adolescence.
So, thus it begins, on a remote hippie commune, in a small town called Trout Lake, WA, where I had been left with my "sister" as my mother and her new husband left for a summer honeymoon.
The area where we resided was set back for what was seemingly a gazillion miles to my 8-year-old mind. My dear friend April (my "sister") whom I had been raised with, now lived here with a bunch of adults and very little clothes. Her parents' quarters consisted of a large tee pee, which towered above the dome shaped solar kitchen and the conjoining outhouses. There was no electricity. April and I slept in a two-story cabin with lanterns and pillows and stories about Jack the Ripper and Son of Sam told to us by the couple who shared the loft we were snuggled into. Sounds just like Little House on the Prairie right? I'll bet Pa told a good serial killer story or two in his day. There was a sweat bath tent heated by hot rocks where a variety of people would filter in and out of. I would test myself by sitting inside this tent until I felt like I was going to spontaneously explode into flames. It was at this moment that the ice cold water would be passed my way and I would deliriously stumble out of the steam and away from the dirt and sweat drenched bodies back into the daylight and off towards the next adventure. April and I were rarely clothed ourselves. This was particularly freeing and uncomfortable depending on our activities. Riding bareback on the horses was, for instance, one of those more unpleasant instances. There was a large field with a nasty bull that we would have to cross to get to the lake where we dove from a tire swing for hours. The hot springs that tricked my body into believing the water was ice cold at the initial first step held a natural whirlpool that would swell and dip in a magical fantastical ballet. On the roof top of the house that sat by the lake pranced a particularly ornery billy goat, holding court, and making threatening advances daring anyone to challenge the roof domain. It was the summer of love and peace and non conformity. And when it was over, my mother and new father swept me back to reality. In the form of a town called Haddonfield, where everyone wore clothes and the labels on said clothes were most important. Herein lies the exact moment that I began the great wrestling match with my own identity.
Initially, for the average 8 - year - old, the social circles are pretty wide open and accommodating. You all want to do the same things, you are all going through the same changes, you are all too young to judge one another based upon appearance...just yet.
I made a lot of friends, quickly and happily, many of whom I maintained from the 3rd grade until high school graduation.
The town of Haddonfield, the town that I tromped about in as though it were a large Storybook Land, was particularly charming and seemingly frozen in time. This was exactly the problem when I got older, the stuck in time thing, but as a young girl it was terribly great fun.
There were still a number of old school storefronts that became our stomping ground haunts...Neumeyers (where the ancient store owner would glare at us over his iron rimmed glasses as we purchased as many Swedish fish and Bazooka Joe that our pockets full of pennies could produce), Woolworths (a journey in time with every accoutrement imaginable ready for purchase with its lunch counter and Norman Rockwell characterization) , King's Deli (with the owner who had dated my aunt thus allowing us to swarm around it's jukebox playing "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" while ordering nothing more than one Vanilla Coke between 7 of us), the arcade that lasted all of about a millisecond in the "mini mall"(an arcade was much too distasteful for a town such as ours-might attract "riff raff"), McMillan's bakery where I got a freshly baked cream donut every single day after school for an entire year (it should be noted that the very robust McMillan's donut lady told me that all those donuts would catch up with me one day and I think it was a curse in disguise because dammit if they didn't).
Our little neighborhoods were mini countries unto themselves where the activities that ensued were only as good as the number of play age children who lived there...ours was rich with a variety of games. Kick the Can, Bloody Mary, Freeze Tag and the continuous street hockey the Evans boys played that went on for the majority of my life on Treaty Elms Lane. These were good days. There were no cell phones, no DVD or VCR players, no microwaves, no computers, even Atari hadn't surfaced just yet. This forced human interaction, outdoor activity and an endless train of books to read when all other options had been exhausted. These are the memories that are unmarred by adult concepts of what is acceptable to wear, eat, think, do or say. These were the moments that we were "allowed" to just be...without need for explanation or excuse.
Then I entered Middle School.
Good show lady & thanks for sharing.