vanilla raindrops

email: noreia@planet-save.com.

This is my blogchalk:
United States, California, sometimes Steiermark, Austria, something bored teenagers say when they speak useless words into brick walls of cotton candy, English, German, Noreia,creative writing, fiction, reading, college student, strange, cat power, mogwai, arap strap, dresden dolls, white oleander, the earth, my butt, and other big, round things, welcome to the dollhouse, fuckers.

body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by bodyPUNKS!

body jewelry by BodyPUNKS!

 

R--

so maybe i shouldn't have written back so quickly. yes, i was angry. but i felt that the letter i wrote was more honest than angry. and i didn't want to wait, because i might have changed my mind about writing.

when the mail came yesterday and i saw your handwriting on the envelope, i was happy. i mean, it's always nice to get mail. and i like you, of course. we have fun together.

"why aren't you writing me back?" your curled handwriting floated in the middle of the line. "the whole point of me writing you is to get responses and advice and the like, my darling. what's up with that? i hope the reason you haven't been writing isn't because she's taking up all your time . . ." and you made it clear that you were more than slightly annoyed.

and yes, my darling, isn't that how it's always been? the whole point of -- not just our letters, but our friendship -- for me to respond to you, to give you advice? for the first nine years of our friendship, the point was for me to be your clone. at least that's what i wanted. i gelled my hair like yours. i learned the words to your angry rap songs. at thirteen, when that first cigarette was passed into my shaking hand, i lifted it to my lips. and you laughed because i didn't inhale.

and then high school. you laughed at my new friends, the ones who didn't spend their weekends shoplifting from the amusement park, the ones who hardly knew the meaning of the word stoned. the ones who were nice to people. for the first time i found it was possible to accept people who didn't wear nike cortez's and creased dickies, whose every other word wasn't fuck. and i found that they liked me, for me.

i hid the books from you, the ones about spirituality and self-discovery. but then, i was used to hiding things from you, hiding myself from you. you laughed when i "found Jesus" -- and then, for the first time, i knew what it was to stand up to you. "so what are you, a Christian now?" your footsteps slapped the hot sidewalk behind me, and i sucked in my breath, afraid to turn around.

"yeah," i heard myself say, and i exhaled. and your boyfriend, the shy mexican boy who'd known me before you met him, back in fifth grade when i was the tall, awkward eleven-year-old and had only one friend -- he said something like, "that's cool." but i could feel your judging eyes on the back of my head.

you laughed at my new best friend, and that was maybe the first time you felt threatened, that was before you all-out hated him. you called him gay, and as i wrote back to you yesterday, "i have to give you credit for one thing with him -- you were right -- he's 'out of the closet' now, and i think it's great -- he's not afraid to be himself. i totally respect him for being honest with himself and everyone else, even at the risk of judgment. plus, he's still just a really cool guy."

you hated God because he stole me.  four years later, i hated God too -- but i didn't tell you that. because it was too personal, because you didn't know the months, years of history behind it.

because you didn't ask.

i've tried to be there for you. i've swallowed my anger -- like that day i had a needle stuck in my neck for the tests to see if i had cancer, and you called me later and talked for ten minutes before asking, "how are you?"

"i'm tired, and my neck hurts," i said, and you said, "oh, i'm sorry . . . umm, are you busy? can you take me to albertsons?" i took you, and everytime i turned my head to watch for traffic before making a turn, the stiffness in my neck got worse. i mean, i should have said no. i probably should have said it then: "look, i'm really not in the mood right now." i don't even know why i didn't. but yesterday, when i got your letter, the first two pages complaining about me spending time with my best friend (who was there that albertson's-day, who sat on my bed as i cried, who stayed in my hospital room last summer after my surgery, half-sleeping in a stiff chair with my sister for two nights, who wrote me songs, who knows me, knows me), and then the next two pages complaining about your fiance-boyfriend, well, i was just tired. just tired of putting on this patient-kind-loving-there-for-you face, when i didn't even know why i was doing it anymore. something in me just kind of wanted to break, wanted to be honest about it all for the first time -- ever, really.

so i wrote back.

i told you i didn't mean to hurt you, but did you ever think about why i spend so much time with her? i tried to explain it. and i dropped it in your mailbox.

i haven't heard from you yet, though you've called here, asking to speak to my sister. i probably did hurt you. i'm sorry about that. i love you. i do feel tinges of regret. but on the whole, i think, i feel right about this. it's a start, at least. i'm twenty now, and somehow that feels . . . more free. i realized yesterday, i don't have to do anything i don't want to. i can do anything i want. i can be anyone i want.

i'm going to europe in a few months. you were asking for my time, angry that i was spending it all with her. instead, i gave you my heart, my mind, my truth, on paper. i hope that you can deal with it. i hope it works out for the good.

in my experience, somehow the truth always does.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Posted by: noreia at 13:37 | link | comments (5) |