Alot had grown stale, circa 1973. Hamlet's aside kept repeating, in the cultural semi-consciousness; to be? or not to be? To be? or not to be? The needle got stuck in the groove, so it seemed. Kids like her would be oversaturated with a Shakesperean baseline. All rhythms and words measured against iambic averages, pentameter mean. Then when all seemed safely so, they were informed: we don't know who Shakespeare was, umm, or if he wrote those works and words we shoved down your throats, little chickadees. Sorry if its unsettling, shakespeares still the bees knees.
No matter what she did, she realized, some people would never like her. Which was cool, once she understood, because this gave her allowance not to like or please everyone. She met the eyes of judgment with matching eyes of fire. Zinfandel could so easily wash away the pain of being judged, douse the fire. Back to the enduring legacy of generation x girls like her. To know them you need the backdrop. Where they came from, what they came from, and what they had to endure. In summary this was the process of finding seminourishment within the culture. She first found her capacity to nourish herself. Then looking outward she saw the offal of culture as it was. Hardened eyes and attitude maybe came from what had been processed, packaged, flavored, microwaved, heatlamped post its voyage to the bottom of the deepfryer. The grease could be mistaken for steam soaked into the paper scaffolding holding what never really came together, together. Think about the influences. Like diversity in people can be associated with diversity in climate, the weather.All in all this amounted to a temporary something. Call it relief. Call it semireplenishment. Call it whatever you want. She could make it from noon to seven pm. A large enough window of time and energetics, to generate momentum to evolve herself slowly. Turtle evolution was cool and well known. (The story of the hare and the tortoise, locates the seed that was sown). One year stood out, astrologically so. She was about to touch the premier full moon of the new year. And with it came some potency, some amplified feeling in her. The feeling turned her on and turned on her social circle. Which then lit up like some 20 watt transparency with fangs of light sautered on the walls through the filter of the lampshade. Then her whole tribe sunk into the juicy metallic taste of a ripe half-century old american standard wall outlet for those old general electric turntables with matching postbellum deux de monde hair curlers become subservient t her tribe and their purpose to generate noise out of nothing. Scrap sound system picked apart and wired together haphazardly but with purpose. Definite imperfection in a very real way. Not all neatly up in a row like bombs awaiting their drop from a generic saab diesel! This momentum took its drive from possibilities without end. Like where Alphabet city meets Numeric Avenue which squares off with dead presidents on downtown streets. Madison intersected with B Street then got triangulated by Third Avenue. One two three, as it goes, hits a B side or floats up for a birds eye view. You can choose destruction over creation? she exclaimed one day to her posse, Who knew? Who fucking knew?
Well that did it! It was on! For her, the synapses all could be fucked with, managed, rearranged. So can we, exclaimed her transmittors in their neuro-variations. So can we! was the cry on the intracellular precision bands. Spirals upon spirals had her spinning in infinity. Like Paul Simon said, by way of translating some divinity. She resonated with it all, the music, the literature. The sex and the drugs. The intoxicating feeling of deprivation in the mountains. Air got thin. Air got cold. Afterwards the heat of the lodge felt so deliciously bold. Her world hit her hard, thats just the way it was! Concussion force hit the X generation like Vietnam veterans coming home from a very real nightmare. What was real could be sacred, she learned through and through. She would be real and anti-fakeness. Dress down the pretty faces. No hype, she conveyed to her circle, now a spiral to be exact, no adware spyware, dont nobody care for us in the marketing industry! They selling stepford white pussy now, lets get busy! She got control over image, by changing her ways. She jetted from the maniacal spinning out in her cadillac days. One dui was all she took, and she got so lucky, she knew. Drunk driving used to be a pasttime for her. She got control of her adrenaline junkie.
About fact-based theory. no second guessing. time to take a seat for some soakup session. Really, will you sponge now? Or are you not so resilient, not so forgiving, not so flex, not so cushioning, just an excuse for a really hard landing? If so, coerce the confession. Such a situation is damaging, diverted, divided and ready to be conquered. Starting with the humble confession, only then might it all come together and coalesce. The damage could undergo analysis. The unbroken fall from an unknown height measured in unknown stories of a nondescript apartment building two doors down from the austerity of the projects in the way of her common capacity to overcome deep deep depressive thinking leading to impulsive untold otherworldly actions orchestrations movements, in the key of desperation flat, followed by some prototypical chord progression the grunge movement adopted in between sets of screaming truth of tragic course of life, present time bookended vaguely as the life of generation x kids on x hitting skids from rowhouse repitition to moshpit meditative new releases. All of it naturally damaged the psyche, creating chinks in the links of the spine, the C's one two three and four. Will certainly need to be fused, some doctor remarked in the ER, seeing the body and tissue so badly bruised. Generation X case study. Tragedy. Bag it and tag it. Cold case the file. Basement cold stored. Still down there, sure, but the quality always has a life about it, if its truly a gen-x case. A surprise in every box! There was, sure enough, hope in her wheat american midwest type hair with some ends acoustically radiant, could not be sized down, zipped, boxed, filed, cold cocked, nah! None could tame that wild in her. She had unfaded hair braided, evolution occuring. Then there became thought! Underneath the pain of the feeling, which was validated by thought, which at first silent, then became spoken, then on the mic, announced, then screamed, sung to the bottom of the lung kinda release only generation x types wearing fleece could make out of damaged bruised, otherwise written off parts of self in society. Others responded well. How could they not? She arose like a phoenix, no embellishment. They could not and would not diminish her primal scream. They allowed her to become their waking dream, the kinda trust the grunge movement established almost on the spot. Generation X. In love. In pain! In lust. The kids they all acrobat like scissors, dearly departing in mechanical syrup... the venue was mad fresh! Could just as easily been Seattle by the sight of it, the diversity, the alien energetics! Could have been Bangladesh! She went from the gutter to her fame by way of the express. She would settle for more, when all that was ever offered her and her peoples, demanded she settle for less.
