Dear Dezi

Dezi-

You need someone who deeply cherishes art. You need someone who has a true connection and…need for art. Maybe I’m talking about me. I figured it out. Stupid as usual. We have things in common-not normal things. Abnormal things.

I don’t think we belong together. I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s no such thing. Such Western ideas of “romance” are nothing more than an extravagance on procreation; the spawn of boredom and entitlement. Not exactly disappointing, and at the same time, such a disappointment I’m not sure I still have a purpose.

I think I was meant to love. Not in the way most think. I don’t love in a desperate way. I don’t need and I don’t demand or take. But I give, and there is no end. I love unconditionally, and it fills me with purpose. I know that I am good at it; I feel. I am good at that. I feel for those who cannot express it, and also for those who can. I can even feel for something that is not real, as though it is real, but I cannot fake love. I love for real, and forever. Though I do not believe real love enables bad behavior, let alone encourages it. I do not love, necessarily, the way people want me to love. I love the way my mother loves. I will not lie to make you feel good. I will tell you the truth, but I will hold you when you cry. I was made to love. I am good at that.

I love my mother. She is art. I love her and I hate her. She insists that I adore her, base my perception of the world on her, and I do, and I often feel sorry for those who are average. But I also hate her, because she demands that I be so acutely aware of the deficiencies of the people, society, and the world. I do not fit in. I never will. I am grateful and proud. And wounded.

A wounded animal knows the sweetness of health, and I do. But unlike most mothers, and paths, she did not want what was nicest for me. She wanted what was best. No tears.

Why are you always some sort of secret? Why are you always a symbol? We are intellectuals; specific kinds, too. Astronomy, physics, psychology, psychology, psychology. Why do people do what they do? You say I’m smart, smarter than you. I am…perceptive. I am…observant. I listen. I ponder. I do not participate. I wonder. I wander. I do not think I am so much smart as I am a learner. I learn when I am taught. Instead of whining, I learn. And here is what I have learned:

People are stupid, at best. At best, stupidity is an excuse. People ruin everything, and yet I live for them. I am compelled to help them, even if they do not want it, and often at my own expense. It brings me joy. Joy that I almost cannot contain within my body.

I was meant to feel; it is what I am good at. I will no longer contain it.

People are lonely.

Lonely for someone like them but better. They long, long for God, but won’t admit it because they are caught in a mire of their aggressive ignorance. I love, cherish, respect and live for art. Those who do not are lost. But you and I are lost; lost in the web of mediocrity. An average life frightens me. I want glory. I want to achieve what is noble and good; things that are lost on my generation…and yours.

Yes, we come from different generations. Different parents, different siblings, different roles, different genders…so different. Yet, what does different matter when there is art? There is you and I and everyone else…sheep. And then there is art…and God. We can only cherish them, and cling to them for dear life. I love art, I love you. I love.



Maybe right now, you are making love. I hope that you are, and if you are not, I hope you are making art. And I hope you know it doesn’t matter what’s happened before or what will come to pass and why-but only that you are making love or art, and that is real, and stronger than you- yes you, even you.

And I know you’re strong.

Very strong, like me, because beneath your body and your life, there is art.

Love,
Lucille

Smash Face

It seems like at one time, I left my house to see people and do things, as well as turned around to look at my ass in my jeans,  pleased. It seems like once, I was funny and charming. Of course back then, I hadn't worked as a barista at Starbucks for five years. Back then, I was living in AZ with my quirky mother, the artist, getting into all kinds of wild shenanigans, kissing boys and not paying about $1,000 a month to...live. I was wrapped up in a tight, cozy coccoon of innocence and selfishness. I was warm and happy in my own made-up spotlight of importance, pleased with the spectacle of my teenagery drama.
Now, I'm too busy being mad as hell or too tired to care. I'm so damn depressing. I know I am, I don't want to be, I'm just having a hard time being funny and charming and optimistic while doing what most people do; continuing to work somewhere that has come to represent everything I hate about people, society, world, whatever. I want to make everybody laugh away their woes, I really do. But mostly, I want to smash faces.
I can't help this. But I have come to one conclusion, and I've shortened it to a simple phrase to help remind me of the reality of the situation, which is that there's nothing I can do about the majority of ignorance, and the problems it causes. This may seem like something that should be obvious, and it is, but one must be reminded when constantly faced with assanine behavior, that is usually followed up by ironic anger and blame toward anyone sane standing nearbye, me, in my case. I can't talk everyone out of their idiocy one by one, and even if I could, it's not as though they'd sit down with me at one of our tables over coffee, and listen to me telling them how stupid and useless they are, and how they need to change most things about themself in order to re-establish any kind of usefulness, or, hell, let's lower the bar and just make the goal: not a selfish pig. They wouldn't nod as I explained this, sipping at their Venti extra caramel skinny extra hot caramel macchiato. I can daydream of blending insult and poetry like a word ninja to anyone who wrongs me all day long, but after years and years of doing this, I've decided I would rather just grab them by the collar and smash their face into the counter.  That is why my new motto is, " Words don't work, smash face."
As annoying as everyone's comformist attitudes toward the numbing effect of luxurious, unnecessary crap is to me, I know that in my own way, I also am a cliche. I can float away from myself for a moment, and see myself ranting about how gross and helpless all of my customers are, and how they all mask their misery with mind-altering or numbing substances, drinking coffee to keep them busy util it is time to be drunk, as I smoke weed, and listen to music so loud that I'm pretty sure I've damaged my hearing, just so I can have the illusion of not exisiting for even a moment, in this abyss of mediocrity and entitlement. See? Depressing. No one wants to hear that shit. Not because it's negative, cause plenty of people seem to like hearing about how I walked up to my boss once and told her that I sometimes liked to imagine shooting rude customers with a crossbow, to which she replied, " Really? I prefer a flame thrower, because then they would run around on fire." Violence is great, we mostly agree, but ranting and raving about how stupid and shitty everyone and everything is? For some reason, other people don't want " People ruin everything" stiched into their throw pillows. Maybe " Words don't work, smash face" will be more popular. Maybe I wont care, and I'll say it anyway. Either way. I'm gonna come back on here and have some more things to say, I think. Maybe about Starbucks, maybe about my crazy mom or for reals crazy dad, or maybe about my totally sane, so sane he's boring boyfriend, or maybe even about my friend Dezi, who I have this weird thing with. We'll see.