Drifting drafts of this novel have fluttered through my notebooks and ticked the tocking keyes of my laborious laptop, if you can sniff my drift. It is a BrentlyTale about a young lesbian, Brittle Vandalia, growing up in the 80s and finding herself in the "Naughties" all pinched between pretending to be the baddest bitch in the Brittleland and curling up bruised broken cold and alone in her vandalvigilante haunted warehouse hideout in St. Pigs Eye Minnesnowduh. Donchaknowduh. A little warning, this is written in a style my writing teachers have faught to kill all my life. Mished Sbellinz are outentional. Deel w/ it you prudestic grammer NaughtSeez. It is antiautobiographical creative-nonfictional farce with a graphic novel as a subplot. It is creative witness testimony to things I have seen and witnessed thus far into the fourth year of the my quarterlife. I am not human. This telling gives perspective of that. But to tell you the truth would break you. You will only find argument in the truth, and so here is the lie. My fiction. "Misery Friction" as Brittle will say. She is evolving. If i don't catch her now she will romp away to another writers keyboard. Enjoy. Kindly share and comment.
~~> BrentlyMD 87b Dec30th2014
_Mime_Shaped_Girl_by_BrentlyMD_(c)1970-2015+Brently_Michael_Davis_aka_BrentlyMD_____
She wakes daily at dawn. It is her blessing. It is her curse. Her eyes cracking to the stiff aching of her emptiness. She lives by urges, prods, poking, itches that insist on her sitting up and going into the day and before she knows it she has tricked herself into moving forward, on, ward unto the day, the game, the struggle,,, until eventuallay; she may lay, again, and fall away;;; into... being gone::: Gone. Distant. Into her Dreamworldreality. Her Dreamworldreality where her ways and means of the actualworld are weighed and meanly tested; trying her options, and displaying possibilities. Echoing infinite waverly wondrous weavings of tantalizing tortures and silly strifes: her Dreamworldreality --> it webs all elements of the actual into bamboozling basket houses of a play village game board reinterpretive triptronic dance where she tests, fixes, and heals her ego being. Aaaah, the Dreamworldreality. It was her escape from which she must drag her self like from ripping bands of scartissued ropes against the urging of her waking being. To be waking is to be aching.
Her eyes crack stiffly against her emptiness. Again with The Longing. Again, with the hurt. This time, it is centered in her heart. Age long remembrances she prays to The Longing to let go. She prays to The Longing to not be alone. She pleads with the Goddess to let The Longing go. To allow an easy actualization of the knowing that she is never really alone and that she can be happy with herself, and the Goddess is always with her, and breath is her all knowing guide... Yet, daily, at 7, eyes cracking in an ache of emptiness is how she feels. She has been searching to end this loneliness. An end to the ache. This mystery of her. This misery of mystery. This knowledge that she is lovable and talented and skilled, yet she hates herself for reasons that make no sense. And she can't help but believe in her heart that everyone hates her too. That everyone knows some secret about her that is so terrible she has forced herself to forget. Now. She runs from that. She is driven to remove herself as soon as her presence causes sparks that threaten to enflame the harmony of the places she rolls through. It is a dichotomy of self, the healing, loving being she seeks to be, and the cold embittered child that lays lumped in her chest. Like a crabby self protective stone troll who disgruntles her from making the connections she wishes for. She has no trust in men. Not really. She has come a long way. She will live with them, and even touch and hold them. And she is gifted at letting them know there is no chance with her. It's the woman's heart she craves. And fears, and will remain her leveled best at somehow landing one who might hold her for at least a few dozen moons.
"Yer a tripple nipple," she self bemonas, and rolls on her side tightening herself to the denial of the dawn and longing to return to the dream world, where she was a ninjajediwizardmonk Vandalia and was sproinging about a city scape denouncing the evils that bread there. 'Yer a tripple nipple, castrated tranny with labia like mudflaps and crooked tits. no one will ever love that. they may tolerate it for a few thrills, yet nay, you are naught it.' The grumbling oldman critic in her head cranks his rusty megaphonographic tyrades from off his dustyolddesked endless critiques. He is everyman who ever dissed her squinched into one crustyoldfart.
She flopps her arm about smacking the matress around her for her notebook and pen. Images of the various objects she is too rejective to open her eyes to look at pop through her mind as her hand waps them. Laptop. Tea cup. Vibrator. Leather Scraps. Sewing Tomatoe. "Ow! Shit! Needle!" She kermuffles from under her pillow going fetal and probing out more comfortable. She sleeps surrounded by her tools. Knives, cordless drill, soldering irons ar enot uncommon for her. she lives with the constant need to work or sleep whereever she goes. she is persistantly attempting to birth things from her mind into this reality which this reality has not yet seen. Probing more cautiously she asks her memory to review where the last place she was working with her notebook was. Her inner eyes displays it slipped down between the wall and the head of her bed. She reaches out, pokes her fingers down, and with two fingers pliers it up to the surface of her mattress and pulls it under the covers with her. she rolls to her side again and lets the light crack under the covers enough to see her notebook. Thankfully her pen is clipped just inside it's hard black cover. Her brother, Noal, the one she will never please, sent this to her for her birthday years ago. She sees Noal in her heart everytime she writes in this notebook, yet she knows that he would never understand anything she may ever write in here.
Her pen scratches:
"to write just to write an d le the words be allright .
to say that i know this will destroy me again and again,
to feel for a girl the ache to be knownd and be reeeled in
and by destroy i just mean the stabbing in my heart and mind
when it does not go well again, with a girl, with a friend,
with someone who wants to talk and talk and sit close and play
with each other's hair and be all gusshy, and yet be able to be tough
and climb trees and run and jump and look at fun stuff.
yet,
i,
me,
mine
self
something in i
me
is so absolutamentally offf,
brokken,
somehtinng is - invisible to me,,,\
and seems apparent to everyone else,,\
so guess what,\
/, welcome to the greatest fear of me
--> being perceived as _____________
and rejeccted for it.
_____________
fill it in.
i don't know what it is.
this grrrrl is clue lessssssssssssss.
i try and imagine what i am
what i seem like.
i am too self conscious to be comfortable in myself. that is how it feels. and i know it's the drugs. the combo. of the ssris, toobacccoo, gahnjah, and ... that's it. everyday i must write my mysery as fiction. Mystery Friction...
"*Can I rewrite the above in the 3rd person? There's a good idear. I should write Mystery Fiction under the name Misery Friction. Wait. No one would get it. They'd think it's stupid. Fuck it, i'm Worthless." she says to herself selfloathingly.
Her mind ticks on. Tricklingly she lets the pen fall into the closing cover of the notebook being shut by the weight of fleece. This morn must start somehow, she mutters in herself. Echos of the fresh new friend she was so hopeful to meet last night bob up through her brain. 'So tricky I don' what to thinky,' she ponders ponderingly. She longs so badly to connect to someone. Having moved so far from her past of angry rejective reactions and blame, toward acceptance and release. Her need to share, to create, to build, and to prove herself worthy. The endless reaching out. Admitting to her damaged past. The abuse. The inner scars she has saught to repair, or at least ease the reactive nature of her. Yet the more she heals, the more vulnerable she feels, and the less she is welcomed into their worlds. She feels she should be a natural choice to enter into a healthy relationship to adore and be adored in return. Yet ther is something, in her. Something broken. Something spent. Something so gnarled and twisted, that whenever she gets close to anyone, she runs, or makes them run. Professionally. Personally. She is at least 50% responsible for all this. The flood. The roof colapse. The sinking of the theatre boat. The maming of over 100 performers and audience at an outdoor puppet show. No one blames her. She was simply there. But always feels responsible. And certain that this cursing is following her. So she leaves. Moves on. Takes the hint. And says she's not going to look back. But it follows her. And she wakes to it every morn. So goes her song.
"Get up. Go outside. Go and meditate. Do yoga. Life is waiting for you there," her inner saint whispers. "No!" the critic cranckles. "You neeeeeed sleeeeeeep. You deserrrrrve sleeeeeeeep. And if you go there -- you'll see them! You'll see HER. SHE who shamed you. She who accused you of sharing too much and not listening. Because why? Because you acted like a little fucking girl!" He cantankered to her words that were like knives in her heart. She over shares. she doesn't listen. She isolates herself for weeks at a time with no visitors even if she does want them. She tries to go into the world, but the loops and kolors and the looqs of all the normies that stab her with their normal vision. The zombies. the blips in the video games. why can't she have a real relationship in her real all tea? yeah? no. not for you. Not for you, grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl, you are better in bed, with your notebook. it's cloudy. its rainy. stay in. just play with your mind today. just let tick the tocks of letters and leathers and laces and make yourself a super suit again. So what the last one was blown up by a meteor. Just get sewing grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Shite. Laptop is calling. Have to pee. Have to poop. Afraid of pooping. The scars from rape are much more than emotional. She once shouted this at a doctor after snapping him in a knee headlock.
To sit in ths sun and write with a hot grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl leaning on her back reading and kissing her while sipping tea and planning for a day and believing in all the ways that oh, shit, they are home. Can I write among them? probably not. Screaming isn't condusive to writing. the little grrrrrl who lives partime w/ her pappa doesn't like her and knows she has migrains and she suspects that every one suspects she drugs and drinks like she does which she is trying to let go of and her shame drives her to be alone. She hurles herself from bed remembering the first lines of her memoirs:
"I was conceived in the Fall of Love. Or more so, The Autumn of Love. October of 1969. St. Paul Minnesnowduh. So it was, for the summer of love didn't hit Minnesnowduh till 1969. 2 years sooner than it would hit the Dakotas. Yet, I digress before I begin: I was conceived in the Fall of Love, or moreso, The Autumn of Love. The time when love shriveled like leaf all flamey until brown and husk like and then lept from the branch of life with an absolute abandon to be buried by millions of her bretherin & sisterin for it loves falling that her father did plant seed in my mother..."
As she writes, she asks herself, for whom do I write? She writes for her. This mysterious fairy woman who she longs to write for. To read to. to recite to. to dedicate all her aching hours of making and remaking and fixing and figuring to her. to her. to leave a legacy to. her. this mystery she. this lythe little woman who she could pick up and run with. to leave for her. a legacy of wyrd art. before this bomb in her butt explodes and she is left bleeding on some floor somewhere to begin her months long slip into deaths spiraling flush. the bombs in her butt had upsourced developments up her spine and were building tumor condos at each of her chakra points in reaccuring echos of swelling and sureal disillusionment. Most days, she derailed as if being run under by the microtrain of her celular exhistence, at least once...
she runs from the house with her laptop to strike the keys elsewhere. She is hungry. she lives on a farm. no matter how much...
To be cont.
Mime Shaped Grrrl by BrentlyMD (c) Brently Michael Davis 1973~~2015 (c)
cont.
...she pays or invests, she is left with this emptiness and self hate that drives her to cling with longing, push away with aching, and run to a nest like cave of her own making. she does not feel safe in her home. she longs to share her stories, her creations, her makings, yet she is diverted and devided by her horrers, her devestations, her markings. she knows this. she addresses this. she tells it to therapists and they name call from the DMS4or5or3 or whatever they seem to need to know to put on the form to get paid. Yes, she has some kind of growth gripping her. Yes, she sees visions no else can understand or explain. yes, she is angry and scarred and acts from being hungry and scared. She is on an endless surging search for connection. This has lead her on a pathless road with no direction. So goes her song.
Everything she owned has been stolen. burned. destroyed. The little things she has managed to save or salvage have become too precious to her. "What you own ends up owning you," says her head. It drives her mad.
'It's okay. Move. Get up. You're not going to be comfortable here. You can't stand the smell,' she tells herself tellingly. She flits from place to place, looking for a certain type of comfort and safety to express herself as she feels the need, and yet, displacingly she inhabits a perstant state of illcomfort which, she surmises bleeds into all her relations. She knows this. She has seen it so clearly in the saphire of her minds eyes sitting vapasana day after selfnumbingly day in somesort of lotus or kneel or sometimes totally supine as she feels the invaders whispering messages up her spine, to climb, and climb and blossom in her brain. this girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrls brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrain, is not welcoming you here. NO! yet acceptance is her only choice. the doctors and drugs will not work, cannot work, she must do her work, she must continue to write,and get her story down, if only she had a shoulder to cry on, if only she had a trusted mistress to spy on her making, her aching, her beautiful struggle like no other. Oh, fair maiden, where for arte I me? Where be yee?' she pleadeth pleadilly.
'Mime Shaped Girl' continues:
I was raised as a mime. In a box. Pulling a rope. Against the wind.
I worked the festival circuit starting in 1973. My first professional gig, I played Tiny Tim in a street theatre recreation of Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" with the future elite of the Minninipolis Theatre scene in Minnesnowduh, in some warehouse, her mother was displaying MN winter landscapes and hand making Christmas ornaments with we 3 kids at her feet, dressed as Victorian urchens. I was 3 and my mom had recently run away from my father to be a gypsy painter on the road with literal modern Gypsies who sacrificed chickens and ate them in hubcap pits on the hiways and biways of Shlemerica. I was freckle faced, strawberry blonde, and in my own world. Today, in the "Naughties," ( my favorite name for the 1st decade of the 2000. The Naughties. It is hated by hipsters who hate hipsters, so she knows, the future will mostlikely be ) I would be diagnosed as "Asbergers." as would my father, mother, and my son. Who is, but I digress. Back to 1973. MN. Christmas. Dressed like an urchen boy because I wanted to be like my big brother. He had the penis. I was classic freudian penis envious from day one and have never progressed from that stage. It is th dominant remanent of some past life, I am sure. Images of castrations have always haunted me, but againg, 1973. I was dressed as a Victorian boy with a tiny wool suit, long wool pants, little leather boots, even with spats. I insisted my hair be cut short as soon as I saw my brother get a haircut. Everyone thought I was a boy, and in most ways, so did I. Except this thing I was missing. And my brother had it.
Everyone's gonna die somewhere,' she thinks finitely. 'how can I warn people i'm deathly ill and expect them to trust me to take care of myself?' She hates people feeling the need to take care of her. She had hidden her gender for 12 years, accept from family who really knew. She is inspired by boys who cry to come out and share who she really is. Is so proud. Sh even learned to grow a thin beard using mega doses of secret Chinese Yang Medicine. Now she was stuck having to come out to doctors trying to save her life. Trying to not admit who she really was. No amount of therapy could fix this fucked up wibbly waoblay way of thinking she would windilly wind. Her lies were so believeable that she could tell the truth without getting called a liar. She continues to run from the very places she has always dreamed would be the most safe, and yet, is left to mend in the dark by her lonesome. "You are never alone," Vahdeem would one dell tell her under a coconut tree on an polynesian isle. Vahdeem a Russian Naturapathic doctor who was like a cross between Sean Connery and Dr. Zhavago. "God," Vahdeem said pointing up, "is always here." Vahdeem pointed right on her sternum. She tensed ready to spin her forarm like the a windmill and open him up for a chin strike, but she was safe, she demanded and let him touch his manly finger on her breast bone. Her nipples were hard. He smiled at her with a pearly smile. For the first time in a lifetime she allowed a man to touch her without being driven by her fear. His pearly smile shined in the firepit of burning pallets she'd spent the day banging apart trying to keep up with the men. She felt safe and proud. He was telling her what she knew. So she shot out her hand flat agains his heart with slap, "The Goddess!" she beamed, "is EVERYWHERE." His head tipped back and he gaffawed. It was as healing as healing gets. Transended she would attempt to realize herself here. But as with all things. The more she traveled the less she knew. Her hunger drove her. Her need for safety. Her desire to not be alone. Her craving to share. Her hording. Her need to rescue and her craving to be rescued. This hunger. This emptiness. It would become form and fashion in the evidence of her being ... the farther you travel the less you know. George sang it. Lao Zi said it first. The old one. The first one. The author of the authorless book. Nothing gets done if it goes against the Tao, now.
I'm going to publish this blind and pray that it will stay in my name and that it will be read and heard as I hear it. A glorious story of a woman unfolding as a blossoming flower in the time when balance between man in woman bubble to the top of the American cultural surface. So goes my song. Aho! Mitaqwiahwzen. #brentlymd #mimeshapedgrrrl #steampunk #cyberpunk #graphic novel #sharethelove
_Mime_Shaped_Girl_by_BrentlyMD_(c)1970-2015+Brently_Michael_Davis_aka_BrentlyMD(c)_____
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