10.16.2007

Until the day someone dies.

I was thinking about this years' NYCD, and what it will sound like, and the fact that I'm on a much earlier deadline than I've usually understood for something called "New Years CD". Actually, there will be one recipient of this mighty annual extravaganza at the early date of November 2nd. The rest of you--and I will leave you to determine whether this is fortunate or no--will have to wait until at least New Years Day.

Some of this was written Dec 27, 2006, and was to serve as the intro for NYCD2007, which merely ended up a scant "best of" compilation, and not near what NYCD is generally understood to be. I never posted or told anyone I wrote it, and then revisited it for my Blogoversary post, although most of the really explosive shit was removed, and a bunch of other sentimental shit was added.

Some of this piece is new; I have now taken the two and made them into this, and I hope you enjoy it.

Welcome to the sneak-peek introduction to NYCD 2008:

An Open Letter To My Family
by: MIranda Moure

I only ever wanted the best for us. Unfortunately, everything I did was never good enough.
I think I, unlike the rest of you, have tried so fucking hard to be something beyond what I should have become born to a single welfare mother in the projects of South Seattle, and that included seeing that we could build something beyond what we were handed. I thought you guys at least saw that.

I know you don't. I know that now, I mean, really. I do. And I can see myself every day in my mirror that I salvaged from a Jewish girl’s dwindling apartment in Miami, but I can barely recognize myself anymore. Trust me when I say it's easy not to be able to recognize yourself anymore when you are entering your late twenties and you are realizing that everything you fought for in this such auspicious decade has been merely a beautiful farce.

Ahh, and that mirror. It always reminds me of Miami. I loved it there. Hey, real quick, show of hands: who still thinks I wanted to leave? That many of you?

To everyone with a raised hand: Fuck you, but we'll revisit that later. Don't worry about it for now. For now, let's talk about...

Oh! I know, how about my only relative whom I truly consider part of my family--that's right, my Niece. My Niece who, at the age of two, was my best friend the first time I lost my home and everything I owned for sticking up for "My Family" and ended up homeless at 14 living in her basement, babysitting her every night and crying all the time.

As much as I hate it when my family leaves me, I never really realized how hard it must have been for her everytime I left, and when I finally knew that this must be true it hit me like a frieght train in a coffee shop by her highschool looking right into her eyes. The worst part? No really, this is the worst part.

I had to apologize for it, and when it came out it sounded stupid and flat, like a hoop you're jumping through, and we both knew that it was because I had given her up for a cast of characters that were all already so very long fucking gone, and the one person who was marginalized the most can hardly be expected to forgive me for it. I don't blame her, I mean, the day she forgives me is probably the day I stop respecting her.

I can still feel the weight of that one apology, can still feel her sigh that seems to say that she thinks I'm not sorry at all, that sorry means nothing if I'd do the same things again given the opportunity, that from the time she was about four to fourteen I was gone, and I can't expect to fly to town and pick her up in some fucking rental car and regain everything we once had when I was fourteen, and she was two, and we'd wrestle in the backyard in the warm grass with all of our curly hair tousled about our wide stretched giggling mouths. I can still feel the way she looked at me like all of that was gone, and that I am an idiot even in my seniority to think otherwise.

I can still feel the day I met my father at sixteen, and how after half and hour or so I blew him off for a coffee and a Stranger at Bauhaus, damning the day he chose to try and get me back after all these years of his absence.

And Goddamnit--it sucks. It sucks that I gave her up to build loves with people who were largely little more than a distraction from everything going on that I can't fix. Well, fuck it.

Fuck it 'cause I'm still gonna try--I'm still going to find all of those things that tie together to define love, to look and hopefully find and even more hopefully make some more mistakes, and goddamnit I will learn something from them because even in her standoffishness and principle there is still one person who looks up to me. The only difference this time is that I will do it without you, because I am tired of you being a distraction, and I hate that I don't even care that I've realized that above everything, past the ciggarettes and coffee, past sex and rock and roll and television and whiskey and domestic lagers that my one vice is Love. I've fought for it far too hard and never demanded anyone fight for me.

Until now.

Oh, do you miss me?
Well get in the back of the fucking line, because I miss lots of things. I miss thunderstorms in Miami. I miss taking the steps two at a time in the town house I grew up in in Wallingford. I miss driving. I missed watching my niece grow up, and looking into her eyes and apologizing for that was the first real adult moment I feel I've ever had. Ever. I guess I finally realized that I somehow seemed to miss my childhood and growing up all at the same time, and now I guess I just keep missing because I'm stuck in this quasi-post-adolecence that is sustained by my last dregs of optimism.

Do you wanna talk to me?
Well, that couldn't be more simple. Call me. Visit me. Do something else other than wait around for me to pick up the phone or rent a car or move across the fucking country to fix your fucking life. I've hung that hat up, and feel no sympathy for your indecision. Fuck you.

Do you wanna fuck me?
Again, get in the back of the line. Yeah, I might have fucked you. I might have loved you. I might have done both. The one thing I can promise you is that I've never lied to you as you have undoubtedly done to me, and I never promised you something I wasn't willing to deliver. Still wanna fuck me? Damn, there's that line again, but before you take your place in it, please remember that fucking me isn't some kind of quick fix. You can't fuck me hard enough to make me feel or revert back to who I was or make me forgive you. I'm just not that kind of girl.

Oh, and do you wanna make me feel again?
Then top that. Top the look in her eyes when I deperately tried to explain why I left; but I wouldn't be lying if I told you you probably can't. Want to keep trying against all odds? Well, if you'd like to look to my history for a possible outcome then you might as well not bother, because it will likely appear that your efforts have succeded in the short term, and then I will distance myself from you for whatever reason and be completely unappreciative for everything you've ever done for me. Plus, most of you are far too weak to try, anyway. Don't kid yourself, really. Just go rent a movie or something--that's what I do when I want to forget.

There's no more time for any of that anyway, and there's no time for tears. No time for weak wills or weaker knees, just down the hill, up the hill; here where I fucking live in the shadow of the cathedral there is this constant waging war, an uphill battle where senses are numbed and trenches are dug deeper every day and the front pushes ever northward. Up you go, onward to work, upward to laundry day, done with you. I won't cry for you anymore.

And fuck it, right? Yeah, fuck it. I have waited for so fucking long to be here alone—so why am I mourning a family that never really was that I may have never really wanted? No really—I fought so fucking hard for all of you, and what did I get? A string of goodbyes. Not one thank you. Twins I can’t have. Fuck you, and fuck you the most for that one look on my niece's face.

Oh, that's right. Miami. No, assholes, I didn't want to fucking leave. But I didn't just do it for her, but for all of you fuckers. So all of you might see my conviction for all of us and grow some fucking balls to start chipping in and doing your part, too. So here we go—

FUCK YOU.

I’m only worse off because of you. You have only made me forget where I’ve come from while simultaneously made me fight your battles with this constant notion that if I don’t, you might wake up dead. Well fine then.

So be it.

Die. Send me your suicide notes begging for me to help and then just fucking kill yourself. Do it, I fucking dare you. Do you really think I'll be there at the very last second to knock the bottle from your hand? To loosen the noose from your neck? Do you think I'm still coming to the fucking rescue all the fucking time after what you've done to me?

Do you think I'm still stupid enough to think it would be my fault if you fucking died?

I’ll be right here, and I'll be fine without you. Seriously--me and my laundry and my laptop and my kitchen that smells like lemons and orchids and my record player and my art history books and all of my hair products with “oh so aptly named levels of hold” -–we will all be just fine without you. I’m sick of this weird combination of being pitied all the while I’m secretly pitying all of you and your many dependencies. That's right--all of these years I've been pitying that you have only ever used me when it’s convenient to you not because you’re selfish but rather because you don’t have the balls to do otherwise and I’m constantly wishing I ever had the guts to just tell you to do your pitying and squandering without me. To delete my number from your phone. To feign your love with someone else. To do your fucking cocaine without me even though, against my better judgment, I never even got on your fucking case for doing it. Goddamnit.

The worst part? No really, for real this time. This really is the worst part.

I enjoy being like this; I like marginalizing all of you for a change and saving my time for whatever I want.
Meaning? Meaning I’ll take a couple of goodbyes if they come with a fucking thank you, or even just some goddamn peace.

Think about it. Think really hard for a minute, and decide whether or not all of this applies to you.

If it doesn't, then be prepared to either fight with me, or never ask for more than you yourself would be willing to give, or it very well might apply to you one day.

If it does, then go to hell, because I’m not in the mood to wait around until I’m dead for you to realize that you love me.

I'm sorry, Lexi.

Cheers.

--M

3 comments:

lisa said...

whoa! um, for now? that is all, whoa! talk about in-your-face honesty. whoa........

Dr. Joey said...

yeah - like lisa, whoa. good for you for writing!

huntsmanic said...

like god, mirand prefers to burn the bush rather than beat around it.


i thought i knew the dates you're up but now i can't find them. let's talk soon, trade haps and whatnots; i can't wait to see you.