exploration

fairy tale disaster

Phsycology Letter Project

Buffy,
Happy birthday darling. You're eighteen but I can still vividly remmember you baking cookies in a princess crown and finger painting to the sounds of Elton John. I have no idea how you have become this beautiful young vegetarianwith a head full of possibilities and a hand full of college applications, but at least it shows I must have done something right.
I know how often you ask me about your dad- that anynonmous man you never knew. I know how you long to know the truth about our lives and your cihldhood and the beautiful disaster created when the two collided. So as part of your present this year my dear, I promise to shower you with honosty no matter how ugly the truth may be. I only hope after reading these words I will still be the heroine to you that I was before.
You were a product of Pina Coladas in Paris. You came from midnight dancing on cobblestone streets beneathe the Eiffel Tower and sheets of Egyptian cotton. Never think you are a mistake Buffy becuase you aren't. You were art. You were a masterpeice in the midst of a European Revolution. Like all beautiful things in life, you were unplanned.
Your father was a musician I met while spending that summer in Paris. Eighteen and he stole my heart with an acoustic guitar and pretty peniless promises. When my stomach began to swell and the morning sickness came, he stopped singing songs for me and fled. He left us for a red lipped senorita that taught him to tango. That was your father honey, a traveling gypsy who gave me the most precious thing in my life. You.
I know I haven't been the best mother. Ramen noodles were a sad excuse for dinner and I should have surrendered thosel ate nights in the studio for Mommy-daughter time with you. But if i could give you any advice about parenting it's that a good parent loves thier child. Unconditionally. They are patient and understanding and they embrace the teenage rebellion that eventually takes hold of all of us. They forgive. And forgive. And forgive. And love you while you stumble through the bitter flavored years of adolescence. If i was strong in anything as a mother, it was in loving you. Perhaps this is the reason for my suprising success- at 18 I was terrified of being a mother. I would look at you and your calleidescope eyes filled me with horror. You were so small, so innocent, so untouched by a material world. You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and I was so scared I would shatter you. I would raise you wrong. I wouldnt be there when you needed me. But my unjaded love for you overcame it all. I have always been proud of you Buffy. Always.
My hope for you is that you will always know it's okay to cry on the phone with the blondeb oy next door until three in the morning. It's alright to admit you can't do it all, throw up your hands and scream to the universe for a savior. You work so hard to save the planet darling,
please promise me you won't forget to save yourself.
Be careful with other people's hearts- remmember many have been beaten and bruised and are barely beating but you would never know it because in this world weakness is ugly and being beautiful is all that counts. HA. These are thelies the world feeds us with glossy spoons- please don't believe them. I'm begging you to keep standing out. Blending in is overated and the death of any poet. Don't fade into suburbia- unless that's what you want. I know you dream bigger than two car garades and jean skirts in grocery stores so don't settle for that. Don't settle for liking a man. Don't settle for thinking he's sweet and looks good in a suit. Do me a favor and fall in love. Passionatly. Recklessly. Sloppily. Fall into a love that is epic. Fall into the kind of love that hippies sing about.
Speak your mind. Don't swallow words with a sip of green tea- let them echo on crowded subways, in opinion filled lecture halls, in best selling novels. Don't worry when you get writers block. Anything meant to be written will be written- just open youe mind and close your eyes and be prepared for greatness and callused fingers. Never regret yesterday, it's a waste of time and an insult to the universe. Remember we are all moving in a circle- connected and never ending. Life flowing into death and bringing new life. Hearts beating all around the world and the circle still spins.
If i could dream anything for you it would be that you live the life you've always fantasized about. That you never doubt your intuition and you always know what an imprint you have left on my world. That you make music out of your tragedies and smile while you sleep. You are my inspiration. You are my best friend.
Happy birthday baby
love, Mom.

Life in a Yearbook

One day,
you'll regret all those times you ignored me in the hall.
One day it won't matter how electric it felt when he forgot to kiss you.
One day
No one will remmemeber the beautiful drunk girl in the denim skirt
Whose laugh was stolen from romantic comedies
And skinny legs were spread wide open
No one will remmember the overachiever who sat next to them in English
Her navy turtlenecks covering one sided opinions
And suicidal academic perfection
No one will rmemeber the long haired actress who starred in school plays
Her soft voice and articulate words will be lost to an era of breast implants
And merciless cameras
And the blonde teen dream who made you shake with envy?
In a few years her blue eyes will be forgotten
And she'll gain back all that weight she starved herself to lose
One day my life will become a yearbook
All these faces I wished loved me
All those boys that made me cry
All those girls that made me scream
They will be black and white faces in an amateur layout
They will be four years that I could have been loving myself
STOP WASTING YOUR TIME PERSUADING THEM
Their eyes are open but their minds are closed
and their hearts aren't worth it anyway.

Highschool of Heros

Black and white dresses filled that February night. Glistening cheeks and chapped lips disguised by red lipstick. We made love on that dance floor; elitist snobs, beautiful poets, strong willed jocks, big haired artists, skinny waisted sluts, blue eyed virgins, hooka smoking hippies, boa wearing misfits all bumping and grinding to nameless rhymes and for a moment in time we are a highschool of heroes and we love eachother with a reckless passion.
Monday morning we will trade this freedom dripping from our chests for a uniform of insercurity. For history books and ADD. For whispers and keyboards and fake smiles. But we will bathe this night in meaningless kisses while sour breathed parents watch with shaming eyes. We will nap on crusty couches with dark haired boys in our homeroom as Donny Darko lights up on the TV. We will let our laugfhter ring through a yellow Waffle House- eating grits and falling in love with our chinese waitress. Yes, we got down on our hands and knees to scrub away crimson blood. Yes, we made promises our rebellious hearts will never keep. But we will sing those songs for an eternity,
and someday when our cherry cheeks are wrinkled and the world has worn us down
we will find refuge in these digital pictures snapped with frantic fingers.

We are just a generation of plastic angels.
I have ink in my teethe and it tastes like the truth,
I would rinse my mouth but your listerines are nothing but minty poison.