November
Tuesday 10 March 2009 photo 1/1
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Here is a boy.
He's not very interesting, just as you and I aren't very interesting. You shouldn't care about this boy and his problems. But you're here, and so am I, and we're in the mood to make a story. Let's make a story of this boy.
I'll tell you where he goes, and you can decide if you want to go there. It's always up to you.
We should start with the character, right? This is Bert, then, this boy here. Never mind what he used to be called, that doesn't matter. His name is Bert. He decided that's what he wants to be called, and we'll call him that.
Bert is young. Not fresh-faced, adorable young; no, Bert is the kind of young that makes you wince in sympathy. Bert is short, too, even shorter than a boy his age ought to be. When Bert hit puberty, his hair grew, but his body did not.
Bert looks just like the rest of his family, except for his expression, which has a tendency to be a little weird. His eyes are bright blue. His hair is a sunny blond.
But Bert has dyed his hair black, when we start this story. You might wonder why he dyed his hair black, when it's such a rare natural color. Think, though. Everyone who ever saw it said, "Never dye your hair, it's too nice." They said, "If I had hair like yours, I would never cut it." They said, "It's so handsome." The question, then, should be why Bert hadn't found the courage to dye it before.
Have you ever dyed your hair a dark color? No matter how careful the job, there's always a thick line of the color around your hairline. It takes ages to fade. Bert's black hair is only a day old, so he still looks like he's wearing a wig. When we start this story, let's say he's still looking in windows when he passes them, frowning at his reflection. He's so vulnerable, so young dumb dangerous, the way boys often are.
Let's put Bert in school for right now. Not for long, don't worry. There are people in this school, other bodies moving in the same space as our boy Bert. They don't matter, though, because we decided they don't matter. Focus.
Focus on Bert, among all these boring see-through bodies. Bert knows the others are see-through. He looks at their hands on lockers and their lips on lips and their clothes on bodies and he sees that they don't matter.
Or does he? But I said he does. You didn't have to follow me here, you know.
So Bert knows that these people don't matter, that tragedy is just another word for self-absorption, that grief is just puling puking whininess over the inevitable. What can he do? He is wincing-young. He had to borrow money from his mother to buy the hair dye that burned his eyes and turned his hair thick deep black.
Bert has a couple of choices. You know them, I know you do. He could kill things. He could kill himself. He could put his head down and shut his mouth and get through it, because that's what he's supposed to do. (That's what you did, and you turned out fine didn't you.) He could do drugs. He could drink himself stupid, pass out on the beach heavy-headed with his hand up a goth girl's sweater. Or he could become an international rockstar, burst out of his see-through town like pus out of a pimple.
But only boring see-through bodies think that you have to choose just one. Bert chooses them all.
Let's say he edits a straight-edge newsletter. Let's say that he takes care of his brother and sisters when his parents have a date night. Let's say that he goes out and sits on the front step when he needs time alone, singing along to his discman. Let's say he gets good grades.
Let's say he gets drunk one night and fucks his goth girlfriend out on the beach, lovesick and happy. Let's say his mother and father find out, and their frowning faces meet him at the bottom of the stairs. Let's say that Bert laughs, laughs and laughs and keeps laughing and runs through the suddenly open door.
Let's say Bert chooses meth.
And that's not anyone's fault but Bert's. It's not his parents, not his classmates, not me not you who put the pipe in his mouth. I didn't make him breathe in the thick plastic smoke.
I only told you about it. You just followed.
Bert chooses meth. Chooses weed and meth, meth and pills, weed and pills, pills and pills, booze and meth, booze and meth and pills, weed and booze and pills, and one memorable night everything, everything everything beautiful whirling see-through sky pricked full of lights stroking his face like a pinwheel's points spinning in soft breeze off sand and see-through he is finally see-through just like you like me like the boys and girls around him finally fine and simple and same--
Let's say Bert wakes up face down in a puddle of himself, snot puke piss shit sweat. Some important part of Bert is now dead. Let's say he smiles, spits into his puddle, and pushes himself up. Scratches his nuts, wipes his face, goes home to get kicked out.
Bert chooses meth again.
Bert chooses an audition in some guy's closet. They give him a microphone and shut the door, turn on the tape. He screams and then sings, sings and then screams. He giggles. He touches the gritty grid of the microphone. He is maybe high. He sings again.
Bert comes out of the closet and cracks a joke about coming out of the closet, even though it's obvious. They all laugh.
These people should matter to you, too, if you're going to care about this insignificant boy Bert. Quinn is a pissy blond bitch, Jepha is sloe-eyed and tattooed, and Branden is solemn and stoic. That is probably all you need to know. Focus.
They leave school. They live on friends' couches, in Quinn's parents' house, in Jepha's car. They work at restaurant chains with see-through people and serve blank bland food to blank bland bodies. They make music. They send it away. It comes back with red ink. They make it again.
A car hits Bert's dog. Bert sits on the step holding his knees with his hands and growls.
Bert's girlfriend dies. Bert's not-baby dies. Bert does not go to the funeral; he is too fucked-up to walk.
Quinn screams in Bert's face, full of wincing-young anger. Bert cries.
Bert chooses meth and pills and weed and booze and heroin and everything ever everything ever do you hear me everything ever his bones speak in tongues his skin shifting dunes he opens his throat and pukes up the world the wet weeping world and he is same and he is perfect and he owns it he runs it he made it what it is.
Bert's eyes are crusted together when he wakes up three days later. He thinks at first he is blind. Let's say that he's not.
Instead of school, there's international rockstar. The see-through bodies change in shape and voice and consistency. They meet more and more see-through people, more blank bland bodies that are briefly there and gone again. Bert watches them move around him. Sometimes he sticks his fingers into their flow, just to watch the saran-wrap people jump and stumble.
Let's say that Bert chooses to lose a habit, only let's say he picks up another. Let's say he kicks meth to pick up heartbreak. Let's say it's too late, and his new habit is as bad as the old one; see him eating more and feeling harder and crying at night with Quinn's hand on his back I can't do it this is too much it's all too too too too--.
Let's say he stops being so drug-skinny and wincing-young and the world says oh, oh here's an ugly boy.
Let's say that Bert knows that they're right.
I didn't tell you to follow. I left it up to you. Didn't I?
Bert chose a band. A band chose him. They fly all over the world and take pictures and tell reporters things that they regret later and get arrested and make music. And make music. And make music.
People still look at the pictures. People listen to the music. They think, here is a boy. They think that Bert is their voice their throat their significant celebrity their ugly bitch their coathanger for judgment their bad example their fanfiction character.
Bert knows better. I know. I think you know.
Here is a boy.
He's not very interesting, just as you and I aren't very interesting. You shouldn't care about this boy and his problems. But you're here, and so am I, and we're in the mood to make a story. Let's make a story of this boy.
I'll tell you where he goes, and you can decide if you want to go there. It's always up to you.
We should start with the character, right? This is Bert, then, this boy here. Never mind what he used to be called, that doesn't matter. His name is Bert. He decided that's what he wants to be called, and we'll call him that.
Bert is young. Not fresh-faced, adorable young; no, Bert is the kind of young that makes you wince in sympathy. Bert is short, too, even shorter than a boy his age ought to be. When Bert hit puberty, his hair grew, but his body did not.
Bert looks just like the rest of his family, except for his expression, which has a tendency to be a little weird. His eyes are bright blue. His hair is a sunny blond.
But Bert has dyed his hair black, when we start this story. You might wonder why he dyed his hair black, when it's such a rare natural color. Think, though. Everyone who ever saw it said, "Never dye your hair, it's too nice." They said, "If I had hair like yours, I would never cut it." They said, "It's so handsome." The question, then, should be why Bert hadn't found the courage to dye it before.
Have you ever dyed your hair a dark color? No matter how careful the job, there's always a thick line of the color around your hairline. It takes ages to fade. Bert's black hair is only a day old, so he still looks like he's wearing a wig. When we start this story, let's say he's still looking in windows when he passes them, frowning at his reflection. He's so vulnerable, so young dumb dangerous, the way boys often are.
Let's put Bert in school for right now. Not for long, don't worry. There are people in this school, other bodies moving in the same space as our boy Bert. They don't matter, though, because we decided they don't matter. Focus.
Focus on Bert, among all these boring see-through bodies. Bert knows the others are see-through. He looks at their hands on lockers and their lips on lips and their clothes on bodies and he sees that they don't matter.
Or does he? But I said he does. You didn't have to follow me here, you know.
So Bert knows that these people don't matter, that tragedy is just another word for self-absorption, that grief is just puling puking whininess over the inevitable. What can he do? He is wincing-young. He had to borrow money from his mother to buy the hair dye that burned his eyes and turned his hair thick deep black.
Bert has a couple of choices. You know them, I know you do. He could kill things. He could kill himself. He could put his head down and shut his mouth and get through it, because that's what he's supposed to do. (That's what you did, and you turned out fine didn't you.) He could do drugs. He could drink himself stupid, pass out on the beach heavy-headed with his hand up a goth girl's sweater. Or he could become an international rockstar, burst out of his see-through town like pus out of a pimple.
But only boring see-through bodies think that you have to choose just one. Bert chooses them all.
Let's say he edits a straight-edge newsletter. Let's say that he takes care of his brother and sisters when his parents have a date night. Let's say that he goes out and sits on the front step when he needs time alone, singing along to his discman. Let's say he gets good grades.
Let's say he gets drunk one night and fucks his goth girlfriend out on the beach, lovesick and happy. Let's say his mother and father find out, and their frowning faces meet him at the bottom of the stairs. Let's say that Bert laughs, laughs and laughs and keeps laughing and runs through the suddenly open door.
Let's say Bert chooses meth.
And that's not anyone's fault but Bert's. It's not his parents, not his classmates, not me not you who put the pipe in his mouth. I didn't make him breathe in the thick plastic smoke.
I only told you about it. You just followed.
Bert chooses meth. Chooses weed and meth, meth and pills, weed and pills, pills and pills, booze and meth, booze and meth and pills, weed and booze and pills, and one memorable night everything, everything everything beautiful whirling see-through sky pricked full of lights stroking his face like a pinwheel's points spinning in soft breeze off sand and see-through he is finally see-through just like you like me like the boys and girls around him finally fine and simple and same--
Let's say Bert wakes up face down in a puddle of himself, snot puke piss shit sweat. Some important part of Bert is now dead. Let's say he smiles, spits into his puddle, and pushes himself up. Scratches his nuts, wipes his face, goes home to get kicked out.
Bert chooses meth again.
Bert chooses an audition in some guy's closet. They give him a microphone and shut the door, turn on the tape. He screams and then sings, sings and then screams. He giggles. He touches the gritty grid of the microphone. He is maybe high. He sings again.
Bert comes out of the closet and cracks a joke about coming out of the closet, even though it's obvious. They all laugh.
These people should matter to you, too, if you're going to care about this insignificant boy Bert. Quinn is a pissy blond bitch, Jepha is sloe-eyed and tattooed, and Branden is solemn and stoic. That is probably all you need to know. Focus.
They leave school. They live on friends' couches, in Quinn's parents' house, in Jepha's car. They work at restaurant chains with see-through people and serve blank bland food to blank bland bodies. They make music. They send it away. It comes back with red ink. They make it again.
A car hits Bert's dog. Bert sits on the step holding his knees with his hands and growls.
Bert's girlfriend dies. Bert's not-baby dies. Bert does not go to the funeral; he is too fucked-up to walk.
Quinn screams in Bert's face, full of wincing-young anger. Bert cries.
Bert chooses meth and pills and weed and booze and heroin and everything ever everything ever do you hear me everything ever his bones speak in tongues his skin shifting dunes he opens his throat and pukes up the world the wet weeping world and he is same and he is perfect and he owns it he runs it he made it what it is.
Bert's eyes are crusted together when he wakes up three days later. He thinks at first he is blind. Let's say that he's not.
Instead of school, there's international rockstar. The see-through bodies change in shape and voice and consistency. They meet more and more see-through people, more blank bland bodies that are briefly there and gone again. Bert watches them move around him. Sometimes he sticks his fingers into their flow, just to watch the saran-wrap people jump and stumble.
Let's say that Bert chooses to lose a habit, only let's say he picks up another. Let's say he kicks meth to pick up heartbreak. Let's say it's too late, and his new habit is as bad as the old one; see him eating more and feeling harder and crying at night with Quinn's hand on his back I can't do it this is too much it's all too too too too--.
Let's say he stops being so drug-skinny and wincing-young and the world says oh, oh here's an ugly boy.
Let's say that Bert knows that they're right.
I didn't tell you to follow. I left it up to you. Didn't I?
Bert chose a band. A band chose him. They fly all over the world and take pictures and tell reporters things that they regret later and get arrested and make music. And make music. And make music.
People still look at the pictures. People listen to the music. They think, here is a boy. They think that Bert is their voice their throat their significant celebrity their ugly bitch their coathanger for judgment their bad example their fanfiction character.
Bert knows better. I know. I think you know.
Here is a boy.
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