I mean I want to revise my previous thesis…. Maybe…. I mean maybe there is such a thing as love…. But not when you’re thirteen…. I don’t care what any of you kids say…. Stop it, Tim…. Enough…. I don’t want you to say anything for the rest of the year…. No one cares what you think…. Go back to writing reviews of the pep rallies that no one reads.
My cat died last week. Thirty seven years old and died falling off the counter. She was dead before she hit the ground I suspect. I still haven’t buried her. I’m too sad about it. I just stuffed her in the freezer and now whenever I want a popsicle, I see her and I start crying again. On top of that, yesterday, I was sitting on my couch and I noticed a tear in it. I should probably get some thread and stitch it up. It’ll just get bigger if you don’t do something about it. You know what they say, a stitch in time . . . something something. Something about stitches. But it applies universally. To all ways of fastening things. Like pull up your zipper now or you’ll be cold later. Or take the antibiotics now before you giveit to other people. Or like, go to rehab before you OD on cough syrup or PCP or whatever. Or like, take care of your mama. My mama’s doing okay. In fact, I was having a pretty good day if I wasn’t thinking about the cat or my couch. But then Shotgun shot me in the foot. I’ll probably get gangrene. I’m hoping the burlesque show might cheer me up. Hey what are you guys doing?
Why not?! Because you write about me over and over except it’s not me. I’m funnier than that. I’m smarter than that. And then after you dumb me down, you expect me to keep playing this paler version of myself . And then the point of the play is always that you aren’t in love with me. So night after night I have to go in front of an audience and be rejected you in every dumb play you write about me. And like an idiot, I keep coming back for more. I think, “artistic license.” I think, “fiction.” But I’m just lying to myself. You’re obsessed with how in love with me you aren’t. And maybe you don’t even see it. But I’ve seen it in a thousand different moments over the last several years. So I’m just going to quit. I’m not going to be in your play.
Welcome. Welcome. Come in. There’s seats down in the front. Everybody here? Great. So this is, “Finding Your Voice.” My name is Lucy and I am here to tell you that you are valuable. Your thoughts are valuable. Your feelings, your ideas. The patriarchy spends a lot of time telling women in subtle and not so subtle ways that what they think or feel or believe is wrong. I am here to tell you they are all full of shit. You have a lot to contribute to our community and I am here to help you find and free your voice. This will be an era in your life of freedom, an end to the oppression of denying your true self. There will be no more writer’s block. No more insecurity. No more second guessing or self censoring. You ready to get started, you future leaders of tomorrow?
Okay so I don’t know if there are stragglers, but I’m just going to start the tour. Hi, I’m Marissa. Hi. Welcome to Alcott College for Women founded in eighteen ninety five. You are here because we are the best. You know the saying. Smith to bed, Mount Holyoke to wed and Alcott to run your company. But our grads are not all CEOs. We have novelists, painters, journalists, lawyers, doctors, philanthropists, architects and professors. (as if responding to someone on the tour.) Yes, right and mothers. But you already know all this. That’s why you’re here. . . . No, Gloria Steinem didn’t go here.
… Amelia Earhart? No. … Helen Gurley Brown? No. … Well, scores of amazing women, just not those three. … No Aphra Behn died a hundred years before the college was founded. … No, not Gertrude Stein. No. … No. … No. … No. … No. … No… We’re getting sidetracked here. Let me show you the campus. Designed Stanford White after an exploratory trip to Italy and Greece it’s a neoclassical … yes, that’s right. Imposing, isn’t it? It gives a weight to our studies. We aren’t f- fooling around at Alcott. We are the future leaders of the arts, business and– No, not her, either. Stop! Hold on! I know you! You’re the tour guide from Wellesley. You’ve been warned before. Don’t let me see you on this campus again! I don’t care if your girlfriend’s here or not. This is my work study job. I won’t have it! I simply won’t! We’re not continuing until you leave. … Go! Just go! GO! GO! GO!
… Is she gone? Behind me, the cafeteria. You’ll spend a lot of time there. And the library of course. The intricate structure to my left is the cathedral, mostly used for–GET OUT OF HERE! GO! GO! Okay, I think she’s finally . . . This way to the STEM wing. That’s new. Then the Theater. But you probably want to see the dorms, don’t you? I SAID GET OUT OF HERE!!
My name’s not Violet. My name has never been Violet. I always introduce myself as Elizabeth. It’s my name. It’s always been my name. Meredith called me Shrinking Violet once during my freshman year and ever since then, everyone thinks my name is Violet. My name is not Violet. It’s been fourteen years. Stop fucking calling me Violet!
(PRAGUE: Relax, Honey.)
I will not relax. You know, I’ve expended so much energy over the years trying to get you to notice me. All of you. Why do I care what you think? How is it I think about you when you aren’t there? Still. All the time. All of you? You’re not that special. You never were. No one cares about you. No one knows who you are. You’ve built this wind tunnel around you that celebrates your cult. It’s not a real thing. Theater isn’t even a real thing. My mother thinks I open curtains during Lion King. And you! All the things you do are insignificant. You are selfish and you are oblivious and you are all terrible people.
Your instincts are right. I can’t wait for when you fall on your face. I hate you so much. So so much. So so so much. I’ve done everything. I cut my hair. She doesn’t notice. I dye my hair, I dye it back, shave it off, grow it back. Nothing. Change my eye shadow. Change my lipstick. I put on my good bra and the tight dress and glitter but nothing. Nothing. You wear that and have that face and don’t write a fucking word and she’s all over you drooling like Prague shouldn’t drool.
We don’t make art. Art makes itself through us. But we have to be open to let the muse in. I mean the state of being where it’s not just us doing it. Time passes and you don’t notice. It’s like you’re in a trance. You come out and you feel like you were led on forces beyond you and just touched God. It doesn’t happen every time. For some people almost never. But it’s the reason to make something. It’s the dirty secret of why people are really artists. It’s the chance you get to commune. That high you get from creation when you’re with the muse . . . Or with God or whatever you want to call it. And you come out of it and you’re like how did I do that? It couldn’t have been me. It must have been someone else.
I think athletes know about it too. Scientists. Mathematicians. They all know what it is to get in the zone. It’s just that for me, the way to that thing is through painting … Or sculpting. But the muse won’t come if you’re thinking about your critics. It’s why Fred doesn’t read reviews. It’s why artists drink. That shuts up the critical voices for a little while, at first, but it destroys you other ways I guess. I don’t know. I’m not an alcoholic. But I am addicted to making art with my muse. If you could only access that all the time– but you can’t. Or at least I can’t. But that’s the flaw of criticism.
You think the artist is creating something for you. But she’s not. She’s feeding her addiction. The art is just the byproduct of the process. The art is for the artist, not for the people.
Atrocious. Juvenile. Bland. Obvious. Derivative. There is no skill whatsoever. It’s an imitation of other hacks rehashed to make this hack look less of a hack. I’m offended that I was even asked to come to this event. The maker of this dreck has single-handedly devalued what it is to be a human while proving his parents right. He should have been a dentist. At least then it would be clear that his intent to cause us all pain and misery was not accidental. It makes me want to do physical harm to myself. I would rather slit my wrists than have to look at it. Please stab me. Please stab me to death so I can get this image out of my retinas. I just want this nightmare to be over. And I do mean nightmare. I don’t speak in hyperbole. Someone should break his arms so he can never do anything like this ever again. Perhaps his legs too, lest he try to paint with his toes. Better still, he should be shot in the head and his organs harvested to repay any persons of sub-par intelligence who may have at one time purchased his art. No, not “art.” “Work?” Not “work.” What can we say? Scribbling? Leavings? Ejaculate? It makes my eyes hurt.
I know you don’t want to pick up the phone because you know it’s me, but I really wish you would. Marie? It’s your father, Marie. I mean, I understand. I do. It’s just, sometimes when I stop to get something to drink–No, not that kind of drink–I don’t -not now–but some water or something. I go hours and hours without eating sometimes but you have to stop now and again. But what I was saying, whenever I stop working these days, you’re the only think I think of. If I’m honest with myself, most of my work is about you. I want to hear from you. I want to hear your voice. Maybe you’ll call me or maybe next time I call, you’ll pick up. I won’t be around forever. I’m not dying. That’s not what this call is about, but I’m not young anymore either. I was hoping -anyway, give me a call if you can. I talk to your mom sometimes. We’re talking again. She says you’re doing really well. She’s proud. I’d like to be proud too if you’ll let me. Call me if you…
(The phone beeps signaling the end of the message.)