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Boy Genius & Poet Laureate of the 1990's:     Kurdt Kobain

1/8/2015

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A few weeks ago I took a trip to the ever-dreary, vegan-friendly, grunge mecca, Seattle. When I was a teenager in bumfunk Texas, I had fantasies of moving to Washington—the land of perpetual flannel, riot grrrl, pine trees and independent coffee shops. The Twin Peaks lover inside of me will ever-yearn for Snoqualmie Falls-fueled moments of inspiration and gloom. I make sure to make pilgrimages relatively often—and each time I go, I find/see/taste/experience something that feels life-altering and important. 

Whenever I'm in Seattle, I spend a lot of time thinking about Kurt Cobain, but for the first time, I actually felt brave enough to visit his house--the very house in which his suicided body was found. I had always avoided it before, not because I wasn’t interested, but because I was wary of the very visceral response that was bound to erupt throughout my entire body/mind/heart/soul system. I'm a super sensi, pisces type: connected to the deep, archetypal waters of emotion and upheaval. I am full of salty waters, I water your weeping willows with my tears. 

Kurt Cobain had a very strong impact on my teenage years and his passing was one of the first cataclysmic death moments that I encountered growing up. To a quiet, nerdy 14-year-old girl with black hair and chunky glasses, empathic little Witch Baby, full of stomachache and angst, Kurt Cobain was an almost-angelic figure. He said all of the things that I needed someone to say, a spokesman for the disgruntled, the unappreciated, the misunderstood. His lyrics inspired me to scribble in notebooks, to etch terse, rune-like fragments of poetry on the soles of my shoes. He helped make everything feel a little more okay. 

Seeing his house in person was intense. I felt haunted and effervesced. In the small park next to his house, a lone bench stands--acting as a monument to Kurt. People scrawl messages and leave artifacts, it is the closest that we can come to him. Sitting on the bench allowed me to gain a new perspective into his existence. Not just “Kurt Cobain sat in this very spot and looked at the grass and trees and birds” but a quick icy feeling of utter misunderstanding and the spiraling-gut-suck of being in a room full of people but being so alone.

I am a magnet for ghost particles and have felt very connected to Kurt since leaving Seattle. Little bits of his energy have lodged themselves into my pores and I have been holding him ever-so-tightly in my own heart-shaped box. His baby blues are nothing if not haunting and I am definitely haunted. So much of my aesthetic, my poetic drivel, my fancy-fingered literati has been influenced by Nirvana (and Hole, Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, Sleater-Kinney, Pearl Jam, etc.) I am full of milk teeth, poppies, umbilici, angst, depressive tendencies, sappy somethings, teenage rebellion, awareness, parasites, love spells, misspellings, broken wings, bad posture, marigolds, and dirt. Thank you, Kurdt.


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i sleep with the drapes 

drawn tight well into 

daytime, mourning my 

youth with the fervor 

of a victorian window.


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Original Goth Girl: Emily Dickinson

11/25/2014

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I recently took a 3-week/5-state/17-town trip to New England. (Which you already know all about if you follow me on Instagram. If you don't, you are missing out on hairless cats, abandoned buildings, and artsy/literary/creepy/weirdo stuff. Find me now: SOMETIMESGHOST.)

The absolute most important stop on my epic, fall-time adventure was to the Emily Dickinson Museum/House in Amherst, Massachusetts. 

I don't remember exactly when I read my first Emily Dickinson poem, all I know is that her words have historically had the power to sear my head completely in half: leaving my planet-shaped skull hairless and bloody, exposed to all of the despondence and glee that the heavens hold. Emily's words are magic.

In undergrad at Sarah Lawrence College (years and years ago) I undertook a "Queering Emily Dickinson" independent study project. I spent hours with her words, becoming very involved in her (lack of?) romantic interests, magnifying-glassing her correspondence, and picking apart the fleshy loaves of her poems. She is the archetypal madwoman poetess, the solitary scribbler, another product of her time/place. She lived for her poetry. She lived inside of her poetry. You can still find her there if you look close enough.

Emily's poetry is full of constant movement. I have found that with each reading (especially as I read them at different points in my life) her poems are always alive with new meaning(s), they are always fighting stagnation. Her strange punctuation, and plus signs (+) allow for multiplicity in meaning and breath. She never allowed herself to be boxed in; her fluidity spiiiiiiiiilllllls.

While listening to the awesomely-engaging, poetry-spouting tour guide at the ED Museum talk about Emily's practicality and ingenuity (she had a tiny pocket sewn into each of her dresses to hold a small piece of paper and pencil), I felt a slight buzzing at the nape of my neck. When I turned around, no one was there, not any psychical being anyway. Of course Emily's energy would feel fluttery and bee-like! I thanked her for the inspiration and support, blew her a kiss, and offered my own pocket as a safekeeping for ghost pencils and ghost paper. 

Here are a few of the pictures from my pilgrimage:

Emily's house.

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Paying homage.

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Emily's Epitaph: "Called Back."

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I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
       by Emily Dickson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, 

And Mourners to and fro 
Kept treading – treading – till it seemed 
That Sense was breaking through – 


 And when they all were seated, 
A Service, like a Drum – 
 Kept beating – beating – till I thought 
My Mind was going numb –  


 And then I heard them lift a Box 
And creak across my Soul 
With those same Boots of Lead, again, 
Then Space – began to toll, 


 As all the Heavens were a Bell, 
And Being, but an Ear, 
And I, and Silence, some strange Race 
Wrecked, solitary, here –  


 And then a Plank in Reason, broke, 
And I dropped down, and down –  
 And hit a World, at every plunge, 
And Finished knowing – then – 


(For tips on how to read Emily Dickinson's poetry, go here!)

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46 days until Hallowe'en

9/15/2014

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75 days until Hallowe'en

8/17/2014

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H.P. Lovecraft's Grave

8/14/2014

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Swan Point, Cemetery 
Providence, Rhode Island.

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