Melanie and Leeyana didn’t quite miss their flight. Melanie forgot something in the bathroom before checkout and Leeyana had to wait for her at the coffeeshop in the hallway tapping her foot, sipping herbal tea too fast, thinking about her bladder in a disconcerted manner… and then there Melanie was, tugging her luggage on wheels, scarf and red hair flying, half excited, part scrambled.
The first rows of the plane had
boarded by the time Melanie found Leeyana and so the girl friends had to
extract their tickets from their bags as they rushed their stuff to the gate.
Boarded, the girls found themselves seated in the middle of the plane. As they sat
down, Melanie chatted away, about the house - an old, decadent house, it had
belonged to her mother’s family for a hundred years, that’s where the money
came from, that side of the family, though her dad was tenured now - about her
parents - dad was great, funny; mom was a space cadet - what was she doing now?
“Spritually informed” interior design? Leeyana placed her backpack under the
seat in front of her, located her iPod in the uppermost pocket, inserted ear
buds, and selected Adele’s first album. As the plane took off, Leeyana relined her
seat and closed her eyes, and that was the position she stayed in until Melanie
woke her up some twenty minutes later.
Melanie, reaching for the airline
magazine, found the USB when it slipped from between the pages, trough the mesh
of the pocket, and into her open purse. Seeing it fall, uncertain what it was,
Melanie leaned down, perplexed, and plucked the object out of her purse with
her fingers. She held the object up in front of her as if an insect specimen.
It was in fact a USB, 1 gigabite, marked
S.i/S:
Melanie poked Leeyana, pad of
finger denting skin through Lululemon hoodie. Poke. “Lee.” Poke.
Leeyana, serenity effected, said,
“Bathroom?” without moving or opening her eyes.
“No,” said Melanie. “Check this
out.”
Leeyana opened one eye, the one
closest to Melanie, and the USB looked like a white, oblong egg, a moth’s cocoon,
there, held up so close up to her eye. She pulled out her ear buds. “What’s that?”
“It’s a USB. It
fell out of the magazine.”
“Someone must have forgotten it,”
Leeyana made to lean into the aisle and call a steward but Melanie pulled her
back into her chair.
“No,” said Melanie, wide-eyed,
impish, and Leeyana smiled, if tentatively.
See, Melanie Mitten and Leeyana
Gorski had been roommates for over two years. A Craig’s List ad drew Melanie to
Leeyana’s two bedroom apartment a twenty minute bus ride from UBC. Back then, Leeyana
had been set on medicine and Melanie hadn’t yet considered law. The friendship
began slowly; Leeyana had raced from apartment to gym to class to homework to
work to apartment to homework each day, but she nonetheless appreciated the
saucy remarks of the lady who had joined her in the apartment, who won Leeyana
over with wit and enthusiasm, even amid disarray, and an irreverence of a kind Leeyana
had never encountered before, which allowed Melanie to find fun in a chaos that
would have had her roommate sitting the bathtub until her skin wrinkled,
drinking white wine and reading a novel that would bring her to tears. When it
became evident, however, a few months later, that the blithe good moods were
the cover for an indecisiveness that had begun to erode Melanie’s grades, and
was leading to increasingly frequent nights out with ever differing men, over
whom she would cry openly and then promptly replace, and Leeyana walked in on
Melanie on the phone with her parents, who were threatening to withdraw their
financial support if she didn’t get her act together, Leeyana surprised
herself, she who had always been so armoured against the weaknesses of others,
by providing first the shoulder to cry on, and next, what was, in her own mind too,
then and now, an impassioned argument, told over the course of days and a
bottle of Pinot Gris - or four or five or six - on the virtues of
post-secondary education. Because for Melanie, who admitted she had had everything
handed to her in life, to realize that there were things she had to work for,
that she couldn’t spend her twenties in a flurry of long parties, brief
friendships, and even briefer romances, that she had to want something more
than “a good time,” and plan and work to achieve it, this was a profound revelation,
and though it may have been ingenuine when she fed Leeyana’s words to her
parents the following week, they settled there, and they stayed. A positive
experience in a class the next semester, the blessed semester, led Melanie to make
the decision she’d be putting off for three years - “Environmental Law,” she
said, beaming and blushing in the small kitchen. “Something I can feel good
about.” The smile vanished. “Do you have any idea how far ahead of us Europe is in terms of renewable fuel? It’s embarrassing.”
( Now it was the Northern Gateway Pipeline that had Melanie in a tizzy - she
attended every rally; her room was full of brochures; her Facebook page linked
to every editorial; she had amassed an impressive collection of buttons. )
So it was from Leeyana’s offering
acumen to a person who struck her as more likable ( to men, to other women, to
everyone, with her easy good nature and cheekiness ) than she, and seeing that
person take that wisdom to heart and grow from it, and from Melanie attaining enlightement
through a lady who struck her as together in ways she was not ( always on time,
always prepared, always careful, things Melanie had to learn to be, now she had
a purpose in life ), and Melanie’s gaining a sense of self through that, developed
a bond that was to carry the roommates through two years of challenges personal
and professional.
Which means that when it was Leeyana’s
turn to doubt the choices she’d made, she was grateful to the sometimes piquant
but fundamentally optimistic and intelligent Melanie stay strong in a
conviction that with our lives we should that which makes us happy, truly
happy, in and of itself, not what others might expect of us, nor even what we
may have expected of oursleves.
Cause Leeyana Gorski had
fantasized about becoming a doctor ever since she was a tween - the exclusive
education, the white coat, doing a good job at a difficult task, improving
people’s lives, being respected for it - that thought was satisfying to Leeyana
( who’s mother, a Tamil who’d spent the first eight years of her life in South
Africa, before immigrating to Vancouver, worked in a doctor’s office, and who’s
father was a HighSchool administrator ), and this was why it took her so long
to identify the chill began at the pit of her stomach in first year university,
which she buried with work all the way up until premed, by which time it had
spread to her whole body, bringing her down to a worrisome 110 pounds when she
finally went to the university clinic complaining of a “light headedness” that
was affecting her studies. Only after Leeyana dismissed the nurse practitioner
because she wasn’t a doctor ( her mother worked reception at a family doctor’s,
and had profound respect for the proffession; in some moods, but never when Leeyana’s
father was around mind you, Leeyana’s mother expressed regrets at not marrying
a doctor - “But, education, this is noble,” she would say as if requiring
justification. ), and only with great effort did that doctor ( not much older
than Leeyana herself, a boyish white woman ) manage to extract from Leeyana the
fact she had eaten only two meals a day - organic yogurt with organic granola
and organic fruit for breakfast, and organic greens with organic spiced chicken
or fish with a small bowl of rice and organic lemon tea for dinner, no snacks, but
the occasional bottle of white wine and regular doses of antidepressants, with
an hour and a half on the treadmill at the gym on campus each morning, for
going on more months than she could count, as well as, and this was the clincher,
the fact Leeyana didn’t think this lifestyle was a problem, rather, good sense, and she understood the alcohol was a
treat and a bad habit. The prescription, delivered bluntly, was, “Eat more,
work less, try counselling.”
Angry at this shallow evaluation
of what Leeyana herself was coming to see, in her slipping grades, as a deeper
issue, her marks plummeting just as it mattered most, it was, therefore, not
the young doctor’s clinical reduction of her troubles that set Leeyana on the
path to recovery, but her roommate Melanie’s tough but kind impositions, the
little reminders, along with food, or as one or the other of them were picking
up socks or surfing the internet, that maybe there was more to life than “being
a doctor,” more to life, in other words, than being impressive. Melanie implied
it wouldn’t be such a big deal if Leeyana didn’t get in to med school. Maybe it
would be the best thing that had ever happened to her. It was Melanie’s pointed,
prodding humour, her incadensce, opened the door made Leeyana ask herself,
honestly, probably for the first time in her life, honestly, what did she really
enjoy doing. In and of itself? When she wasn’t wrapped up in trying to
be the best at everything? Exactly what the teacher wanted when they wanted and
not a moment too late, lest her hopes and dreams snowball into oblivion, just
as they were doing now, anyhow? What, in other words, did Leeyana do for fun? And the answer was, it
dawned on her as she lay in the tub with a novel and a bottle of white wine, “I
like to read novels.” Everything else Leeyana did in life was work, but she
read novels for fun.
“Then do English Lit,” said
Melanie, who was, Leeyana recalled, at the moment she related this discovery,
halfway through brushing her teeth.
Leeyana had scoffed. “English
Lit? Please tell me what I am supposed to do with that.”
“My dad’s a Prof, remember?”
Melanie wagged her toothbrush at Leeyana, slinging a mixture of saliva and
toothpaste, and Leeyana, sitting at the kitchen table, had creased her eyebrows
together as she watched a frothy glob splat onto the linoleum floor. “An expert
in Modern Canadian Poetry with a personal taste for Al Purdy,” said Melanie,
and she stuck the toothbrush into her mouth.
“Al Purdy?”
“Cananadian Pot. Inker.”
“Do you really see me as an English Professor, Mel?”
“Ha ha ha. No.” Melanie vanished
into the bathroom and spit. When she came out, she said, “You are way too
high maintenance for that, lady. Most of them, English Profs ~ and I tell you
this because I care ~ dusty up here as a used book store.” Melanie pointed at
her head. She sat down at the table.
“Seriously, Mel,” said Leeyana,
tipping her pretty, glossy-haired head to the side, like would an elegant sort
of bird ( with her moon face, delicate nose, little lips, almond-shaped eyes
with thick lashes, and sleek black hair, Leeyana had what had what women called
“effortless beauty” ( men told her she was “cute” ) but, besides making sure
she was always clean, always neat, Leeyana thought little about clothes,
makeup, or hair - Melaine’s haphazard but perpetually fabulous hipster style
was something else her roommate envied her ). “What would I do with an English
Lit degree besides … spend my thirties working at a Starbucks? … or a Chapters?” Leeyana made an
uncomfortable face when she said this she hoped made her feelings clear to her
friend. Leeyana Gorski’s pride had been diminished, yes, but it was not gone.
“How about writing a novel?”
“Oh, gee … I could never write a
novel.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too fact-oriented. I almost
cried when they made me write a short story in HighSchool. I wrote about the
time my Polish Grandma died, about how she used to say mean things about my mom
and I being brown. It wasn’t fiction at all, but I got an ‘A’ on it. Part of
the reason I like reading fiction, I think, is because I like being amazed at
what the author comes up with. It’s like … vicarious living.”
“Yes,” said Melanie, putting on a
psychiatrist’s expression, hand rubbing chin, lips pursed, one eyebrow arched (
Melanie’s face, in contrast to Leeyana’s diminuative features, was all extremes
- wide mouth; long nose; too many freckles; very round, green, heavily lidded
eyes - Any one of these elements, alone, might have been ungainly, but together
they gave the face a distinctive charisma - along with how animated it was, it
was a face you could not tear your gaze away from - “I’m the chubby Cory
Kennedy,” she’d said, in typical Melanie fashion - throwing out a pop culture
reference that went right over Leeyana’s head ). “As if in fiction ... you
allow yourself to feel the wide spectrum of the emotions you suppress in daily
life.”
“Excuse me? What did you say?”
“You heard me,” Melanie had said,
and she had grinned, a spectacular, toothy, gummy affair.
“I suppress my emotions?”
“Lee, darling, and I say this
because I care,” Melanie had put her hand over Leeyana’s hand, white over
brown, her countenance beyond sincere. She blinked. “Girl friend, you wear that
ponytail to bed.”
Leeyana had opened her mouth and
then closed it.
And Melanie had asked, “What kind
of novels do you like?” while looking into Leeyana’s eyes as might a kindly aunt,
which eased the pain of the insult a bit, and reminded Leeyana of why she liked
Melanie - Melanie, for all her ( recent ) concern about pipeline legislation, didn’t
dwell on things, and therefore, didn’t allow Leeyana to dwell on things.
“I like novels about women
traveling in foreign countries and … the romances they get into. I used to
think if I became a doctor I would go to Africa
and ~”
“Oh my God, Lee.” Melanie had
withdrawn her hand to cover her mouth and had slapped the other down hard on
the table. “I never pegged you for the type!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your secret is safe with me,”
Melanie had said, though Leeyana wasn’t sure it was. At the time, Leeyana had
taken a deep breath and let this go, a stress relief technique she’d read about
in a magazine at the gym, and had been practicing, along with eating more and
working less.
“You’d make a good agent,” said
Melanie. “Like, a literary agent. That’s all high ambition, get the best deal, wear
a pant suit with your hair up a tight ponytail and so on.”
Leeyana Gorski smiled now,
recalling this conversation, two weeks before their trip to Ottawa, and how Melanie’s
buggy green eyes always shone a little feverishly when she was on the cusp of
uncovering something once hidden from her, like Leeyana’s secret passions.
“We should look at it,” said
Melanie, and she wagged the USB in Leeyana’s face.
“Melanie, just give it to the
stewardess.”
“What if there’s something really
dirty on it?”
“Yes. Exactly. I don’t want to
see kiddie porn, Mel.” Even as she said this, Leeyana regretted it, and she
looked down at her sneakers in a dejected way, as if she had made pedophilia
real just by mentioning it.
“Dude. Can you imagine if I found
a priest’s kiddie porn?” Melanie grabbed Leeyana’s arm and her nails dug in. “I
could probably make mad cash leaking
story to the press.”
“You’re joking.”
“Duh I’m joking. You don’t carry
that kind of material on an airplane. It’s like a quarter, you send it courier,
inside a tub of peanut butter. But, we won’t know unless we loo-ook.” Melanie
wagged the USB.
“It could have a virus on it.”
“I’d have to open the file to get
the virus.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t, but I’m curious enough
to try.”
“It’s an invasion of privacy,
Mel.”
“Lee, are you saying there may be
a child molester out there, and you have the chance to track him down, but
you’re too scared to do it? Those who see evil take place and do nothing to
stop it are equally complicit.”
“What? No.”
“It’s probably not kiddie porn,
geez, Leez. Hey ~ here’s a thought, what if it’s vacation photos, and they’re all of this
really hot guy, and then we find out his name, and track him down on Facebook,
and I say, hey, I got your USB, and then we go to coffee, and fall in love, and
get married, and have babies, and go to live in North Van, and start a
community garden, and he’s like, a contractor?”
“Do you really what you want to
tell your children you found their father though Facebook?”
“I did not find him though
Facebook. I found his USB on an airplane. That’s fate. That’s so romantic. Whatever,
Lee. You don’t want to look at it, I have my own computer, so, scoot.”
And Leeyana did, if while nervously
looking about, hoping no one had caught on to what she and her friend were up
to. Leeyana waited in the aisle, scanning faces, all of which were absorbed in
their own affairs, while Melanie removed her carry-on luggage from the overhead
baggage compartment, laid it on Leeyana’s chair, pulled her pink and stickered
laptop out of her bag, bumped into someone, apologized profusely, and then slid
back into her seat where she set the laptop up on her lap with a look that
could only be described as wicked. Leeyana
put Melanie’s bag back in the overhead compartment, sat down in her seat, and,
as the laptop booted up, said, in a whisper, “What if it’s a virus?”
“If it’s a virus I’ll get my bro to
fix it,” Melanie said as she inserted the USB into the drive. When the computer
registered the external hard drive with a blip sound, Melaine bit her botton lip
and clapped her hands lightly.
“What if it’s some new mega
virus?”
Melanie turned to look at Leeyana.
“What is this the beginning of a Japanese horror film? It’s probably some guy’s
Power Point presentation for Systems Internet Site, or whatever. Ooh. Maybe
he’s a Dot Com Guy. Look, see ~ it’s a PDF file. Nothing to worry about, eh?
Just a PDF file. Double click open and ... ‘S.i/S : Andrea Coates’ Splendid
in/Sanity.’ Huh. Oh, hey, it’s a novel. That’s pretty cool. Admit it. A novel
thing to have found, a novel.”
“Andrea Coates’ Splendid in/Sanity?
What is it about a mental patient? Who’s the author?”
“Andrea Coates, I guess.”
“Weird.”
“It’s probably some student’s
experimental novel. Ooh. Maybe it’s Alt Lit.”
“Alt Lit? What’s Alt Lit?”
“ Hipsters posting their GChats
on the internet, making PDF books. I read about it in Vice. They called Alt Lit a hub for ‘boring infantile narcissists.’”
“I hate that magazine. I can’t
believe you keep it in my house.”
“But the dudes are so hot.”
“If you think racist misogynists
are hot. Think she’s on Facebook, then? This ‘Andrea Coates’? She’ll probably
want it back, if it’s a draft of her novel.”
“Probably. But if it’s Alt Lit
it’ll be all over the internet ~ or, if it’s a student novel, we might be doing
her a favour, not giving it back. I mean, you’re serious about this English Lit
thing, right?”
“Shhh.”
“What, is it a secret? You’re
serious about this English Lit,
literary agent thing ~
and you know my Dad can hook you up ~ you gotta know there are a lot of shitty,
boo hoo, I’m so damaged, look at me, young novelists out there just waiting to peddle their utterly mundane,
barely-concealed autobiographical story at you. Trust me, my dad can be a pretty mean guy after three hours of
marking undergraduates. Ooh, we should show it to him.”
“And if she’s a real writer?”
“If she’s a real writer and she’s
lost the only copy of her book on an airplane? I have half a mind to publish it
myself, just to punish her for being so stupid.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Of course I wouldn’t, Lee. Writers peg their hopes and dreams on their novels. She’d probably sue my ass so fucking
fast I’d have to wire her my savings account right now.” Melanie laughed a throaty
laugh.
“Is it finished?” asked Leeyana.
Melanie scrolled down. “Looks
like it is. The last line is, ‘I know, thought Hap’e Blue, in the End, All
you need is for me to prove mySelf.’”
“What’s up the capital letters?”
“Experimental prose? Student
novel? Hasn’t seen an editor yet? Full of typos? Alt Lit?”
“But … she’s trying to prove
herself to us … right?”
“What?”
“I mean, isn’t that odd how the last
line seems to be addressing us? We doubted the novel but the novel is trying to
prove itself, trying to get us to give it a shot.”
“Whoa. You are an Arts
Student in denial, Leeyana Gorski. What did you say? That you think it’s a
sign? The Universe manifested this novel onto this airplane to give you a sign
you’re meant to be a literary agent? You want to keep it? Submit it to Penguin,
make a Mil?”
“Maybe,” said Leeyana, and she
blushed, but enjoyably this time. “It’s kind of … I dunno, magical. The way we
found it. Maybe she did it on purpose, this Andrea Coates, leaving the USB for
us to find.”
“Sure.”
“This is what I think,” said Leeyana.
“I mean, there’s a better chance of something as small as a USB getting back to
‘Andrea Coates’ if we track her down on the Web than if we hand it over to the
airplane, right?”
“Oh, of course. They’d loose it
in a second. They don’t even know how to keep track of fully-sized luggage, let
alone anything as small as a USB.”
“We’ll keep it, then. We’ll read
it. We’ll be the judges of it.”
S.i/S:
Splendid in/Sanity
How many of us dutifully live our lives the way we are “supposed to,” forever looking outside ourselves for clues without questioning the source of those suppositions?
—Anodea Judith, Eastern Body, Western Mind
Intro
ThirTeen Year-Old Hap’e was not so
Happy. Her Family had moved back to the Small Town
in BC where she was born after Two Years in Ville Mntr where she had learned to
speak Quebecois Fluently and dress in Skimpy Tank-Tops and grown her Hair Long.
Her Parents, the Blues, were Nice and Stable People, but too Much so for her -
the TweenAge Girl wanted to be Rebellious and, as a Result of this Stable,
Comfortable upBringing, didn’t know how to be. The MiddleSchool she
attended in SmallTown Northern BC portrayed TeenAgers as “Good, Sober and
Chaste,” or “Bad, taking Drugs and having Sx.” Hap’e Blue mistrusted biNary
Thinking ( she was More of a His Dark Materials Girl than a Harry
Potter Girl ) and so, inStinctually, she mistrusted the School. Schools
were Factories meant to transform Free-Thinking Children into subServient
Workers, thought Hap’e Blue, who loved Freedom and Thinking. Over Summer, in Ville
Mntr, before the Twin
Towers fell, Hap’e and
her Sister Myra had wandered for Hours between Sweaty Brick Streets. By Autumn
2001, the USA Crippled, at the SmallTown MiddleSchool in the NorthWest of
Turtle isLand, All the Way across CA, Hap’e Blue’s Capacity to reason
Abstractly ( in French Class, where her New Fluency made her Suspect to Former
imMersion Friends, Hap’e Blue presented an Essay arguing a Linear Conception of
Time was not so Much a Concrete Reality as a Manifestation of Hegemony - “C’est
Seulement qu’on crois que c’est come ca, que c’est come ca. Si on disait que le
Temps était Circulair, come d’Autres Cultures y disons, on xpériencerait le Temps
dans une Mannière Circulare.” ) meant Adults didn’t worry about her and Kids
didn’t get her. Hap’e Blue’s ClassMates hung out after School but didn’t invite
her along. Boys made Comments about her Boobs but didn’t ask her out. All the
Other Girls who had Boobs got asked out by Boys, thought Hap’e Blue. There was
this One Boy who would tease Hap’e about her Boobs until she cried or
threatened him with Violence, after which the Boy would threaten her with
Violence. So Hap’e Blue went to see the MiddleSchool’s Counsellor. She said she
was being “Sxually harassed ~ or SomeThing.” The Counsellor paused in the Work
he was doing filing Papers into his Desk. He told the Young Girl he knew of the
Boy in Question. “Just ignore him,” said the Counsellor, and he smiled. “That's
the Thing to do.”
Thus it
was that what Little Regard Hap’e Blue had retained for Authority since Puberty
hit her like she wanted to hit that Boy succumbed to its Contempt and xpired
watching her MiddleSchool’s Counsellor begin filing his Papers back into his
Desk.
Clever Little Hap’e Blue was going
to have to solve her Problems herSelf. Her Biggest Problem,
she figured, was that she had no Friends. She was Sad because she was Lonely
because she had no Friends. The French imMersion Kids pretended to be her
Friends but they weren’t - SomeThing was missing from their interActions - a
Vital inGredient. Hap’e Blue was tolerated in Groups but left until Last when Kids
partnered up for Activities.
In
Hap’e’s Xperience, there were Four Basic Qualities that made a Kid a Reject:
being unUsually Ugly; being unUsually Stupid; being unUsually intelLigent; and
being inSane. If she could figure out which of these Traits she had, thought
Hap’e Blue, she might be able to figure out to how to change herSelf, and be
liked.
First, Hap’e
Blue looked in the Mirror. There, she swore she saw a Girl as Pretty as a
Popular Girl was: Skinny with Fresh Feminine Curves; Oval Face; Clear, Pale
Skin; Big Brown Eyes drawn up with Blue Liner; Pear Nose; Freckles; Reasonable
Lips; Straight Brassy Hair that went down to her Boobs … Cat-like, it was the
Look of a Zillion Cute Little White Girls. And I’m Well-Dressed, thought Hap’e
Blue, what with my Chic St.
Laurent Street Sale
outFits and Many Pretty Girls at School wearing Hoodies and SweatPants and even
Pijama Pants because that, it seemed, was the Fad in Lazy, inVisible Northern BC. If she dressed with Less Care would Kids
like Hap’e Blue? Maybe. Maybe they’d “get” her if she wore Low-Maintenance,
Analogous Clothes rather than the Pieces she had chosen so Carefully for their
Dash in Ville Mntr, having Only her Meager Allowance to spend, but Really, the Postulate
didn’t hold up. While from what Hap’e Blue observed, at her School, Pulchritudinous
Girls dressed in Comfy Clothes were festooned with Admiration and Affection from
Boys and Girls like Wild Rose Petals were being tossed at them from Woven
Baskets as they laughed their Ways down the Halls in their SweatPants with the
School’s Name stamped on the Butt, Hap’e Blue beleived, and tV Habitually
implied, that being Glamorous would guarantee a Legion of Sychophants and Enviable
BoyFriends. Even, or eSpecially if, the Pretty and Stylish Girl in Question had
a Nasty Personality, which Hap’e Blue might just. So, even if Hap’e Blue was Attractive,
there was SomeThing else about her, SomeThing More unFortunate that Selfishness
or Snobbery ( Common Traits of the Very Popular Girl ), SomeThing Awful enough
to cancel out Routine Prettiness and a Knack for Clothes, those Otherwise Winning
Traits when it came to TeenAge Girls.
It couldn’t
be that Hap’e Blue was Terribly Stupid, either, Kids didn’t like her, because
if AnyThing ( besides her Boobs ) stuck out about the Tween, it was her Brain.
Perhaps the Problem with Hap’e Blue, who was Pretty and Stylish, and not
just lying to herSelf, as Best she could tell from looking in Magazines and
then looking in the Mirror and then looking in Magazines and then looking in
the Mirror - yes, if a Professional covered her in Three Pounds of Makeup and
anOther Professional cast her in a Flattering Light and yet anOther trimmed her
Stomach Rolls and smoothed her ASymmetries on a Computer, she too could pass
for a Hollywood Actress - was that she was Smart, interested in the World and
Politics and Art and Stuff, whereas Most of the Pretty Girls at School were interested
in Makeup and Gossip and Boys. So, as an Xperiment to find out whether the
Problem was she was too Brainy
to be Likable ( Pretty and Stylish and Brainy … maybe she was inTimidating? ),
Hap’e Blue told One of her ClassMates she got a ‘C’ on a Test when she Really
got an ‘A.’ The Girl said, “Good Job, Hap’e,” while touching Hap’e’s Arm in a
Friendly Manner. This hurt Hap’e Blue as if the Girls’ Fingers had been a Hot
Iron. She retreated to a Corner. Why should her Talents be the Cause of her Social
Xclusion? And what about Elaine Sneeuwen? thought Hap’e Blue, after School,
waiting for the Bus. Elaine Sneeuwen was a Pretty Blonde Girl in the English
Classes and she was like the Queen of the Grade. Elaine Sneeuwen was admired by
EveryOne and had dated Five of the Hottest Guys in the Grade, More Popular Guys
than Any Other Girl. But Elaine Sneeuwen was also Really Good at Sports and was
the Only Girl in the Super Selective Advanced Math Class ( which Hap’e Blue had
tried to get in because in QC they are a Year ahead in Math from the Rest of
the Country, and the School had given her an IQ Test to see if she qualified -
not just a Math Test, but an IQ Test - but then noOne told Hap’e Blue her
Results, and she didn’t get into the Class, and Hap’e supposed this meant she
wasn’t a Genius, at Least not according to IQ Tests ). Elaine Sneeuwen had
moved to the Small
Town from Vc City Two
Years ago, the Same Year Hap’e Blue left for Ville Mntr, and had Smoothly risen
to dominate a Clique Hap’e Blue called the “Preppies,” cause they cared about
School and Sports and behaving Well. This was as opposed to “Populars,” who
were More into Fashion than Preppies ( even the SweatPants Look was “a Look”
with Populars ), didn’t care about School as Much, and SomeTimes did Drugs, or
“sKids,” who were from Troubled Families and did Drugs Often and got
suspended.
No, it
wasn’t that she was Brainy, nor even was it she was Pretty and Stylish and Brainy,
Kids didn’t like Hap’e Blue, or she would be like Elaine Sneeuwen, she thought:
a Cause Célebre, unAnimously, but without needing to be said out Loud, elected
“Queen” of the School. Not that Hap’e Blue Necessarily wanted to be “Queen,”
she just wanted to be embedded in a Group like All Cool-seeming Kids, but, for
All her inFeriority Complxes, Hap’e Blue had Pride enough to realize there were
Qualities to her could have delivered her, like a Limousine to the Prom, to
Teen Queen-dom, were it not for the Idiosyncrasy or Idiosyncracies marked her Persona
non Grata. The Fact she dressed like a Little
RockStar in Animal Prints and Sequins and Glitter and Pleather - shopping in
Ville Mntrl was Such Fun! - while Elaine
dressed like Xactly what she was - a Girl who participated in Every
XtraCarricular Sports Team - and that Physically Hap’e Blue looked like All the
Other “Hot Blondes” in a World of Prominent Hot Blondes, this, for Some Sad
Reason, had no bearing on her School-Wide Status. There was SomeThing to her Personality
so Ominously Heavy it overpowered her Merits? Among her Peers she was as Lowly
as Any unFunny, Buck-Toothed, Pimpled Pariah, relegated to wandering the Halls
aLone in a ThunderCloud of Misery and Resentment, getting Sxually harassed by
Boys and lashing out at them and being laughed at called a Spaz, bracing
herSelf against the Stings Each Time she was left until Last in Gym Class, or noting
the Way the Jokes she tried to make among the French imMersion Kids hung in the
Air like so Many unClaimed Farts.
By
Process of Elimination, then, must it be that Hap’e Blue was … Crazy? Off in the
Head? Mad? Nuts? Delusional? Disturbed? Out of her Mind? On a Frenzied Journey
to the Erratic and Tragic beFuddlement of a Wasted Catastrophe, no Degree of Smart
Hot Blonditude Capable or saving her from being tossed in the
Loony Bin with the Other Blathering Whack-Jobs?
Scary.
Hap’e Blue did have an Affection
for Magazine Articles about Psychology. Rather than read about Pop Stars ( who
were like Candy ), or Kids who participated in / volunteered for do-Good Causes
( who were like Christians ), preTeen Hap’e Blue enjoyed reading Magazine
Articles about Kids who slit their Wrists. These Kids were unHappy for Some Reason,
just like she was, and got Attention from their Parents and from the Media ( ! ) via desPerate Acts of Self Harm, which
Hap’e Blue found Fascinating in its Emotional and Physical Xtremity. If she cut
her Wrists with Razor Blades, would Hap’e
Blue get be in a Magazine? Probably not, nestled in nowhere like she
lived. Didn’t seem worth it, then, cutting herSelf.
The Magazines
said these Kids, the Ones who, in Secret, slashed their Contemptible or
Sacraficial Bodies with Any Sharp HouseHold Item they could find, were
“depressed.” Was Hap’e Blue “depressed”? She Certainly was Sad a Lot. According to EveryOne ( Magazines, School, tV ) a
Majority of preTeens suffered from “Low Self eSteem” on Account of their
Hormones / the Cruelty of Other preTeens - whether you were Friends with them
or not - and yet Hap’e Blue observed that even if they All had “Low Self eSteem”
cause of their Hormones / People were Mean to them, the Majority of the Kids at
her School, the Kids who weren’t Losers, had Friends who called them or went Home
with them after School or hung out with them on WeekEnds and these Friends were
the Foundations of their Budding TeenAge Personalities. So, what Hap’e Blue had
must be even Worse than “Low Self eSteem,” like “depression” to xplain
her Sense of Sadness / Social Isolation. But, besides not wanting to slit her
Wrists, not Really, not unless SomeOne would put her Tragic Story in a
Magazine, Hap’e Blue did not have Many Other of the “symptoms of depression.” She
ate Plenty and had a Rapid Metabolism that supported this Healthy Appetite. She
had no Difficulty falling aSleep at Night. Even though she didn’t like getting
up at Seven AM to catch the Bus to Stupid Waste of Time School, she allways
did. And, in Truth, Hap’e Blue xperienced Moments of Great Joy, Ecstatic
Delight, even, upon seeing a ButterFly or a Cool Piece of Art, for Xample, to
go along with her reOccurring Bouts of Melancholy and Self-Conscious
Self-Loathing. With Hap’e Blue, it wasn’t so Much “I hate mySelf,” as “why is
mySelf not Good enough for People?” She’d been told that “being yourSelf” /
“loving yourSelf” was the Key to Happiness enough Times to believe it. It rang
True. This aWarenss - that her Problem wasn’t so Much “in her” as it was
“between her and Others” softened the imPact of ThirTeen Year-Old Hap’e Blue’s
Crisis of Self.
Maybe I
am “bipolar”? thought Hap’e Blue.
Being biPolar was considered even Crazier than being depressed because biPolars
also got “manic” - they were called “manic depressives.” That sounded Right.
Both HyperActive and given to Sorrow. According to Magazines, which Hap’e Blue
read Voraciously, People with “bipolar
disorder” were SomeTimes Totally Full of themSelves and Wildly Charming, they
SomeTimes threw Fits of Rage, talked inCessantly, or spent Far too Much Money,
or did Mind-Altering Drugs like there was no toMorrow. It sounded Xciting to
Hap’e Blue, being biPolar. People with biPolar disOrder at Least got to be EgoManiacal
and Sxually Libidinous before Things came crashing down on them like a Trade Tower
hit by an AirPlane of Reality, whereas People who were depressed just felt
Sorry for themSelves and didn’t get out of Bed. If she was going to be inSane,
Hap’e Blue at Least ought to have Fun being inSane. Nonetheless, Hap’e Blue had
to admit, the Condition would have sounded Far Funner had the Magazines Articles
not highlighted the Suicide Attempts, Psyche Wards and Heavy Meds that were the,
Seemingly inEvitable, Flip Side to a Manic’s Highs.
The
Magazines Hap’e Blue read implied that being depressed or biPolar was Some BIG
NEW THING. Kids had Never been “depressed”
or “bipolar” before, but now Lots of
them were, and the Authorities couldn’t figure out why. Hap’e Blue laughed when
she read this. “It’s because of Stupid
Boring subDivisions and Stupid Boring Schools and Stupid Boring Pop Culture
with its Stupid Boring Commercials being Hard to put up with for those People
who aren’t Stupid or Boring,” she told the Magazines, but the Magazines didn’t
listen. Month after Month their Articles were the Same - there’s an epidemic of mental illness among people aged 8 to 18 -
without offering Solutions ( Xcept
Drugs prescribed by Doctors, and the Effectiveness of these Drugs was
questioned ). Such was
the Obtuseness of these Fear-Mongering Articles that the Imaginative Hap’e
Blue began to suspect the Answer as to why Gen Y was so Fucked up was known to Authorities
but not being given for Some Sinister Reason that had to do with the Pervasiveness
of Stupid Boring subDivisions and Stupid Boring Schools and Stupid Boring Pop
Culture with its Stupid Boring
Commercials.
ThirTeen Year-Old Hap’e Blue was
an Artist, and she knew Artists tended towards inSanity, eSpecially the Really
Good Ones. Hap’e Blue was Pretty Good, for a ThirTeen Year-Old. If the Kids at
School liked AnyThing about her, it was that she could draw, though she also
liked to write Stories. But of Course, thought Hap’e Blue, isn’t a Condition of
inSanity not knowing you’re inSane? Isn’t my Effort to figure out whether
I’m Crazy Proof I’m not Crazy at All? The Kids in the Magazines offered no
Xplanation as to how they got “depressed,”
or “bipolar,” or whatever, Xcept that
their Brain Chemicals were out of Whack, this was what the Doctors said, and
then the Doctors would prescribe New-Fangled Medications to correct the
disFunctional Brain Chemicals, which was like treating the Kids like they were
Robots, thought Hap’e Blue, and not People. Like All their Emotions came from
the Wiring inside of them and could be fixed by tinkering under the Hood, as
opposed to being a Natural reAction to the Stupid Boring Society outside of
them, which Hap’e Blue figured it was. Then the Medicated Teens would say, “It took a long time to find the right
combination of medications for me but now I am on the right combination of
medications for me and this combination of medications helps me,” just like they were Robots now if they
hadn’t been before. Maybe, thought Hap’e Blue, the Kids did complain
about the Stupid Boring subDivisions and the Stupid Boring Schools and the
Stupid Boring Pop Culture with its Stupid Boring Commercials making them Sad
and Crazy, but the Journalists didn’t write that down or their Editors cut it
out because they were in League with whoever it was benefited from keeping the
Population Stupid and Boring, whoever was behind subDivisions, Schools, Pop
Culture and the Advertising inDustry. Of Course - who paid the Magazines? Not
the Subscribers, but the Advertisers. Or the Journalists Only talked to the
Kids after they’d been brainwashed by the Medications in to forgetting why it
was they used to be so upSet about their Lives. Or noThing a depressed or
biPolar Kid said was taken Seriously because they were “Mentally Ill.”
SomeThing like that, thought ThirTeen Year-Old Hap’e Blue.
Either Way, in Support of this
hypoThesis of hers - the Medications prescribed to correct “Mental Illnesses”
are a Means of keeping the Population Stupid and Boring so that Advertisers can
xploit us - the imPression Hap’e Blue got from researching antidepressants and
antiPsychotics was that these Pills were indeed as Questionable as the Label
“Mental Illness,” their Effect Often enough a Numbness as Bleak as inSanity but
with the Emotional Vapours that Once wafted from the subConscious Mind to
whisper Radikal Thoughts to the Curious Listener suppressed by the Sanitary and
Obedient Hand of Pharmacopeia.
“Shut
up Pills,” thought Hap’e Blue. Not meant to treat the Cause but the Symptoms
of Misery and Rage so that the Kids who dare fight the System with the Only
Things they have to protest with - their Bodies and their Minds - stay deFerential
to it. There is no Way to fix the Misery of living in a Society of Stupid
Boring Things but getting rid of those Things and replacing them with Better
Things - Free, Complx, Beautiful Things. The Authorities of the World make
their Money / get their Power off Stupid Boring Things, that’s why they want us
to conform to them, thought Hap’e Blue. So, those aren’t “Happy / Healthy
Child” Pills they’re feeding those Kids in Magazines - there is no Pill for
Happiness - what a Rediculous Concept - how Foolish these Adults are - how
Cruel and Corrupt if not Foolish - no, they’re “Don’t Complain” Pills, “Don’t
Question” Pills, “Follow the Crowd” Pills, “Keep your Head down” Pills, “Work
your Job” Pills, “Obey the Law” Pills. They’re “Lamb to the Slaughter House”
Pills and I am not going to take them.
Even if I am not Actually inSane,
thought Hap’e Blue, who was ThirTeen Years Old, so these Thoughts would be
Better described as Feelings - I ought to go inSane. Go inSane like it were a
Performance. Go inSane to show the World Madness is the Sanest Response to
being forced to live in a Boring, Slyly Despotic Society run by Adults that are
Dumber than me or are lying to me, where the Kids who are rewarded are the Ones
who shovel their Shit ( do their School Work ) without Protest and a Person’s
Life is not but being shunted from One Kind of ( inCreasingly Abstract ) Prison
to anOther - GradeSchool - MiddleSchool - HighSchool - University - Job
- Marriage - Mortgage - Children - Old Age - Death. InSanity is the Only
Freedom to be had from this Society. InSanity or Death, thought Hap’e Blue,
TweenAged Girl. And Personally, I want to live.
The Proposed Course of Life, here, CA, the “First World,” at
Turn of the 21st Century, is One of enSlavement to a Stupid Boring Evil Society
I don’t like One Fucking Bit, and so I swear I’m going to get Free of it while
I’m still aLive even if that means going out of my Mind. It’s Worth the Risk
cause if driving mySelf inSane for Freedom, Beauty, and Creativity doesn’t kill
me, doing what I’m told to by Idiots and Liars for the Sake of a Stupid Boring Evil
Society Most Certainly will. But I must be Careful in my going inSane. I must
go Very Precisely inSane. SurReptitiously, subLiminally, subVersivly inSane, or
the Adults will blame my Brain Chemicals for my Behaviour, as opposed to themSelves,
their Attempts to enslave me and the hypoCrisy that streams out their Mouths and
their Medias to achieve it, because even if that Hypnosis doesn’t fool me, not
me - I’m too Smart for you, Society! - it’s still the Cause of my unHappiness.
It is so iNane, Manipulative, and Pervasive, and for what? SubDivisions?
Schools? Pop Culture? Advertising? Governments? Armies? Corporations? What?
They All suck. All of them. They’re Rotten. I’m done with them.
CAUSE NOW
YOU GOT IT
SLUTWAVE
GIRLKORE
The
Fulfillment
of
Naomi Wolf's
Promiscuities
A Coming of Age Novel
ABOUT A GIRL
as
imPortant
as those
of
Stephen Dedalus
or
Holden Caulfield
Certainly
no Less
Controversial
for its Time
The
Debut Novel
to bring an End
to the
Masculine
Monopoly
on
Literary
Grandiosity
Jack Kerouac
for a
Feminist
Generation
reincarnated
a Bi Curi
Canadian
Girl
Bret Easton Ellis
North
Sylvia Plath
gone Optimistic
It's about a Girl who wants to build
Her Name is
Hap'e Blue
and there's Some Thing you ought to know about her ...
Hap'e Blue
is addicted to
and
meaning
features
while
getting fucked up on
( or around )
and
Whew
Oh Yeah
GIRLKORE
The
Fulfillment
of
Naomi Wolf's
Promiscuities
A Coming of Age Novel
ABOUT A GIRL
as
imPortant
as those
of
Stephen Dedalus
or
Holden Caulfield
Certainly
no Less
Controversial
for its Time
The
Debut Novel
to bring an End
to the
Masculine
Monopoly
on
Literary
Grandiosity
Jack Kerouac
for a
Feminist
Generation
Allen Ginsberg
reincarnated
a Bi Curi
Canadian
Girl
Bret Easton Ellis
North
Sylvia Plath
gone Optimistic
It's about a Girl who wants to build
Her Name is
Hap'e Blue
and there's Some Thing you ought to know about her ...
Hap'e Blue
is addicted to
and
meaning
features
while
getting fucked up on
( or around )
and
Whew
But wait
I think I’m
forgetting
Some Thing
I think I’m
forgetting
Some Thing
Oh Yeah
a Novel of
a Novel of
a
Novel
a
Novel
a
Novel
begins in Small Town Northern BC, where biPolar TeenAge Goth Girl, Hap'e Blue, gets involved in the Drug Scene via her on again / off again Boy Friend, the inSenstive Stoner, Caleb McEwan. Chapter Three, 17 Years Old, out of her Parents' House for the First Time, living with Two TeenAgers in the Deserts of Central BC, Hap'e Blue suffers a Nervous Break down and has to return to her Small Town Home, where she receives a Vision of her Fate from the Gods of MDMA and Literature - Hap'e Blue will build a Utopia.
Chapter Four, Hap'e Blue is a NineTeen Year-Old Philosophy Student Tree planting even Further North, in Love with Alcoholic Newfie Philosopher, John Collins. By Chapter Five Hap'e Blue is Tree planting again, but her Lover is present Only in his Absence.
S.i/S: is told in Two Parts : Forest and City. Backtrack Two Years to see what Hap'e Blue Really got up to in First Year University. Her Life witnessed in Rural and Urban Landscapes, the Reader is left to wonder, along with an eSpecially Tenacious Psychologist she meets at a Club in Brooklyn - is Hap'e Blue in/Sane - or what?
A Mystery to be revealed in the ups and downs of her Adventure, which spans Western Canada from Fort Nelson to Haida Gwaii to Victoria to Japser and makes Stops in Toronto, New York City, the Caribbean, and Japan while referencing Every Thing in between.
Now, if you're wondering
Is
Hap'e Blue
you
?
The Answer is
That's who's who
Or
if this were a Trailer for a Movie
it would say
"Like James Fey's
A Million Little Pieces
it's
based
on a True Story"
It's my Life
turned
in
side
out
ANIMA
ANIMUS
I
Andrea Coates
Media-Savvy Author of S.i/S:
believe it to be a Classic Novel
the Kind of Novel that will catapult it's Author to
InterNational Notoriety
( and so Young )
which looks like
Andrea Coates being interviewed by Magazines
You call yourself an "Anarkist " ~ what exactly does this mean?
Free for All.
You're probably one of the world's best dressed writers. Could you describe your style influences for us?
Cyber Gothic Lolita Raver Hippie Drug Punk Anarkist Business Slut Bitch White Trash Lady Junk Majik
"Whoo!" is the Catchphrase of the rEvolution
Andrea Coates meeting Jonathan Franzen at a Conference
and being like,
"Hey, JF. What up, Bro?"
"Oh, Hello. Was this supposed to be a ~ Dress-up Party?"
"Nah, Nah,. Is Cool, Man. Is just me."
"And who are you? ( Could be the Wine making me see Things ~ how come her Hair stands straight up in the Air like that? )"
"I'm Andrea Coates. I wrote a Book ~ Splendid in /Sanity."
"Oh. You mean the one with the, uh, TeenAgers who ~?"
"That's the One. I wrote you a Letter, too, Once, when I was EighTeen. You remember that? You sent me a Post Card in Return."
"What did it say?"
"My Letter or your Post Card?"
"Your Letter."
"That I thought you were a Misogynist and wanted to hit you in the Face with a Copy of The Corrections. Then I included a Short Story about a Young Man suffering Erectile disFunction in Mexico."
"How did you say you got into this Conference again?"
"The InterNet."
Andrea Coates attending the Giller Prize dressed up as Lisbeth Salander from the Millennium Trilogy
I'd like to thank the Douche Bags who fucked me and the Bitches who wronged me inspired me to tell this Torrid Tale. Thanks Guys. Much Love. Free for All. So,
!PUBLISHIT! !PUBLISHER!
I got like a Whole Psychedelic Realist Movement to provide for with this, you know
Andrea Coates
Read Chapter 6 : Vncvr City Flaneuse
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