Note to Readers, 1984

Dear reader,

My primary intention in this notebook is to write exactly what comes to mind.  It is also a study on you.  You're free to read it all, but as I've said before, I am not responsible if you are shocked.  If you're a complete stranger, I have a lot of sympathy for you.  After a handshake and a congenial conversation, surely you wouldn't expect this.

Well, don't freak out.  Contrary to many personalities, what you see and talk to in person is the real me.  When I write, I usually write fiction.  I experiment.  I want to reach all people and don't want to be known for just one style.

And then there are the diary-like entries, where I actually have serious topics of discussion.  But there's always a little sarcasm involved.  You just have to know where to look for it.

Anyway, you've come this far.  You must continue.  I hope you find something of use in here.  Well, good luck one and all!

Love, Sharon

- March 19, 1984, A.D.

"And the meek shall inherit the earth"

I'm not going to grow up and get a job

I'm going to become a sewer rat

and eat scum

I'll grow hair all over my body

become short

and fat

a long, thin tail and tiny legs

I'll be covered with slime

and crawl along the passageways 

and sneak into your house

to eat your food

and your pet hamsters, fish, cats and dogs

I'll bite off your feet in the middle of the night

you'll have nightmares of me as you bleed to death

I'll chew holes in your ceiling on rainy nights

and in your walls to let the rodents

and cockroaches through

You'll never keep up with me

I'm too quick

your house and household will decay

until I'm better off than you

until you become one of us,

chewing away at the "civilized" world

until you, too, are sewer rats

and the echo of a growing race will

sound throughout the underground

a tunnel for you

is all that you need

and all scum are created equal

- March 19, 1984, A.D.

Open letter to the friends who let me crash here on St. Patrick's Day

In a study of the people here, I find that they are congenial (and quite wasted) punks, one of which I find myself to be, and I am quite happy with it, although happiness is not a very good word if you wish to use it to describe the people here.  There are probably a lot of suppressed dreams and a great need for some form of escape.  We are not lost people.  Day by day, we live.  What tomorrow will bring is an unasked question.  We are the people who can change the world.  Or we can get fucked up and talk about it the next day.  I have dreams.  But I like this life for now.  But no one should let themselves forget.  Everyone here is the owner of twisted principals, but it somehow seems to work.

We can sing about how fucked up the world is.  Or we can change it.  We can ignore the system.  Or we can make waves.  Hypocrisy and corruption will always exist.  The government is fucked without a doubt.  But you can't wait for the next guy to prevent annihilation.  If you can't do it, then fuck it, waste your life.  Everything lives on without you.

There's a great power in youth.  If you're aware of that, then you can do something more than sit on your ass and say the world is fucked.

Call me a fucking idealist, but sometime I'll get out of this fucking life.  I'm always one of the survivors.  I am youth, and I will not stand still, thank you.

What is rebellion?  Does anyone know?

They are very nice fuck-ups here...

The world is full of people who've been through a lot of shit, so don't put me down if I'm leading a generally happy life, because a lot of people don't get it that good.  I don't ever want to grow cold.  I care about these fucking strangers in my life.  And yet none of them are strangers.  If you think you know me, then you do.

[I wonder - do grade school witches become punks when adolescent dreams fall through?]

Break into a cold sweat and think of dreams long forgotten...  Try not to be sick.  Don't move.  The feeling will go away.  Everything will be clear in the morning, if I make it to the next day.  I stand still on a spinning world.  The darkness modifies the light.  And all I see has been seen and said before.  A living metaphor of a dying lifestyle...

Sorry reader.  You probably don't know what the fuck I'm talking about.  It is too late to worry if I am a burden in this so-called household.  I am here now, and I will stay.  It is too late.  St. Patty's day is over.  No more green beer.  The drugs are wearing off.  In light of the fact that this is a public report, I shall not go in depth into my impression of each of the people here.  Besides that, I probably have no right.  They deserve my respect.  I don't know how they are with respect.  If they take it well and such.  But they've got it.

- March 17, 1984

Confined

is there no hope

for a weather worn soul

when the storm returns after midnight?

is there nowhere to go when emotions unfold

and you find that there's no one in sight?

I am the jester

and you are the fool

I am the hero 

of tragedy's rule

and I am confined to my weather-worn box

it is here that I'll wait for the call

is there no light

in the thick of the night

that will carry me out of this darkness?

is there no one to call

or to hold when I fall

who'd help make my suffering less?

I am the jester

and you are the fool

I am the hero

of tragedy's rule

and I am confined to my weather-worn box

it is here that I'll wait for it all

I am the warrior,

rusted, unfed

my enemy dragon's

undying, undead

and I am confined to my weather-worn box

the feeling is nothing at all

- March 13, 1984, A.D.

Pencil to Paper

Pencil to Paper

what a fantastic love affair

to give life to an object

to give meaning -

I lay my soul down for all to see

on this paper

each revealing line sends me skyward

Reader -

if for some reason I cannot love you

by day

if society prevents it

if my self-consciousness withholds me

take to heart these words

you have not been forgotten;

Pencil to paper

a polychromatic dream

to give hope to a wounded soul

to lay at rest your fears for a while;

You know me -

I'm the adventurer

basking in the sun of life

but I'm shipwrecked half the time

it's fascinating, but it scares me

come,

be my rescue team;

Pencil to paper

unfolds me like an origami swan

delicately, I am revealed

crease by crease,

I make myself known

to touch the light

instead of it touching me

to light the light

or, better yet, out-light it

that is my dream

Pencil to paper

is my reality

in mother's arms,

yet total rebellion;

a forgotten dream,

a lover's cry in the dark,

a sleepless night;

all the truth in the world lives

in my pencil to paper existence

- March 1, 1984, A.D.

The Monster Inside

I'm tired,

falling into another daydream,

wanting someone to grab me by the arm

and shake me back to reality

I'm choking on my own blood

walking back and forth through the dark, musty

corridors of my mind

the ceiling drips,

drips

twisting,

falling, 

shaking,

the walls of the corridors breathe with

every step I take

they envelop me

and then release

gripping,

releasing,

pulling me along

every ten feet,

a dim lamp -

but the shadows are stronger

I can only see the outlines

the walls pull me along

The stale air sets heavy in my lungs

it is a thick river

flowing in

and out

I breath and I step in sync with 

the corridors

my footsteps echo

my heartbeat echos

every step is heavier

sinking,

falling,

holding fast to the slimy, 

moss-covered bricks

holding fast to the light of the next lantern

holding fast to the hope of an escape

The darkness weakens me

I fall

and succumb to the grip of the 

serpent-like floor

the bricks become scales,

the hideous skin of the beast,

secreting an acid

that eats my skin

and burns

and dissolves me

until I cannot feel the difference

between myself and the floor

oozing,

unfolding,

I become one with the beast

and I breathe as it breathes

my heart beats as its heart beats

falling,

sinking,

moss-covered and slimy,

I become stone

I am bricks

I am corridors

the dim lights hit my surface

and I am one with the monster...

- Feb. 20, 1984, A.D.

Letter to Stan Ridgeway

Dear Stan,

Hello!  I'm glad to see you got this letter.  My name is Sharon Porter, and I'm a devoted follower of yours.  I only wish I could keep up-to-date with your projects.  Not much news comes around Central Illinois.  Anyway, I just wanted to write and tell you that you have a fantastic voice.  I'm also very impressed by the lyrics and your style on the keyboards.

Me?  I'm a poet, but would love to pursue music.  I just put together my first two songs with a friend of mine.  In each one, I'm basically reciting my poems to the music.  The first one sounds like a showtune.  It's called, "What Frightens Me Most? Insanity".  Although the poem is quite serious, the song sounds pretty light.  It's a little haunting.  The second one is meant to be kind of pseudo-punk (perhaps a little bit of a take-off on valley).  It's called, "I'm Vacant".  Anyway, we're getting together an acoustic guitarist, a violinist, harpist, flutist, trumpet player, and perhaps me doing some strange effects with walkie-talkies.  Although we may be playing at a place locally, I can't honestly take any of this seriously, but it should be a lot of fun.  My dream is to someday be able to afford keyboards.  Any suggestions as to how to succeed in music?  Is there any easy way?  No, I don't suppose there is.

Well, I hope to continue following you in the future.  If I don't ever get a chance to meet you, I hope to at least see you perform someday.  Or who knows?  Maybe someday you'll see me perform.  If you ever hear of a band called Pagan Lip-Readers, don't pass up the chance to go see them.  I'll probably be with them doing something or other.  Until then (!!!), I hope you have a lot of success and go very far.  I'm behind you all the way.

Love,

Sharon Porter

- Feb. 1, 1984, A.D.