Thursday night this was all true
Colette. Coco, for arbreved.
I was the instigator, the trouble-maker. Which was obviously a cry for help due to my confusing childhood. My parents raised me world-wide and world-wise, dragging me through political upheaval while they worked their foreign diplomacy. As they waved around their whiteman's hands at various fighting factions, their daughter was watching, sort of embarrassed. Then when Mother ran off with a Nigerian revolutionary, never to be seen again (save two blurry New York Times AP photos from a rebel insurgence...it's hard to miss the white lady on the far left), Father's waving hands stopped. But only for a moment to come together in the newly reclaimed name of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior. He had met a woman. He himself had met a rebel - a rebel against hellfire and brimstone. With his new found love(s) and winning personality, Father became the foremost Catholic televangelist, overdubbed in 17 languages on satellite and cable. The show is shot in Thailand.
But that's mostly just what I've read. Right after Mother donned the M-16 and before Father had an elaborate Italianate cross tattooed on this sternum, I was shipped off and plunked down in Geneva, Switzerland. An all-girl private boarding school. Fuck that, it was a luxury reform school for babysitting important and expensive offspring who should not be left alone. They tried many a governess, but I had them packing their bags within days. Only one was institutionalized.
So, right, so I was the instigator. The trouble-maker. A natural born leader with a flair for manipulation and corruption. Many of these girl may have been around the world, but they didn't know shit about shit. There's only so much you can learn from your hotel balcony. I was feared but admired. I collected myself some lackeys and we set about entertaining ourselves. Abducting girls from their rooms in the night and taking them on blindfolded ventures to the local basement cockfight. Convincing the young ones that, due to economic hardships faced by the school, we have sold them to the local brothel ("the local what?") and leave them for hours tied to random lampposts. Then there was the thing with Lucy and the kittens, but from what I've heard, her eyebrow have grown back and all is well. I can't say the same for the kittens, however.
This was what kept me from throwing myself out an overly ornate baroque window for four years. Now this, this, was entertainment. The education was a terrible yawn, even with the few gentlemen teachers they allowed us. They did alright in the classroom standing up and walking around, but get them more reclined and you've got to do all the instructing. They should have been paying me tuition. Which is why you throw impromptu tequila workshops for your dormmates, with one-on-one conferencing on the closet floor.
Blah blah, went to a prestigious college for a spell, established the institute's underground casino (the House took a cool 65% on a hard night), picked up a nasty coke habit, dropped out to start a small welding business spearheading a market of new space-age metal bonding (of which was particular interest to NASA at the time). Sold that to smoke cigarettes in Croatia on the beach for a year until started photodocumenting young war refugees turned runway models (copyright Random House, 2003...mother would be proud). Since then I've been sort of manically either hurdling myself into astrophilosophical conferences (I broke three chairs at the last one...S.H. was sort of amused, but not really) or holing up on Prince Edward Island taking very long baths.
I have now received a letter out of the blue from two old peers, Esme and Beatrice, who are going to be in Portland, Maine, for an evening for Beatrice's father's lecture on new physics and it's social implications "and wouldn't you please come down off your red-maple-leaf pedestal and have a drink with us?" How can I refuse? I have often thought of Bea with the hoped that she still uses only Egyptian cotton for her sheets and clove oil behind her ears. Esme, bless her orphaned heart, is a hoot, but, fuck, I hope she isn't as naive as before. I gave her the first cigarette she ever smoked, for christ's sake.
Oh, speaking of, I myself found Jesus (Father may be proud, as well). Or, rather, I found Catholicism. I have to say, there really is nothing like getting down on one's knees, breathing out a few Hail Mary's and a few Our Father's, fondling some rosaries clutched close to one's chest, and cleaning the slate every day. Every day! Brand-spanking new! Redemption is mine! Hallelujah!
I was the instigator, the trouble-maker. Which was obviously a cry for help due to my confusing childhood. My parents raised me world-wide and world-wise, dragging me through political upheaval while they worked their foreign diplomacy. As they waved around their whiteman's hands at various fighting factions, their daughter was watching, sort of embarrassed. Then when Mother ran off with a Nigerian revolutionary, never to be seen again (save two blurry New York Times AP photos from a rebel insurgence...it's hard to miss the white lady on the far left), Father's waving hands stopped. But only for a moment to come together in the newly reclaimed name of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior. He had met a woman. He himself had met a rebel - a rebel against hellfire and brimstone. With his new found love(s) and winning personality, Father became the foremost Catholic televangelist, overdubbed in 17 languages on satellite and cable. The show is shot in Thailand.
But that's mostly just what I've read. Right after Mother donned the M-16 and before Father had an elaborate Italianate cross tattooed on this sternum, I was shipped off and plunked down in Geneva, Switzerland. An all-girl private boarding school. Fuck that, it was a luxury reform school for babysitting important and expensive offspring who should not be left alone. They tried many a governess, but I had them packing their bags within days. Only one was institutionalized.
So, right, so I was the instigator. The trouble-maker. A natural born leader with a flair for manipulation and corruption. Many of these girl may have been around the world, but they didn't know shit about shit. There's only so much you can learn from your hotel balcony. I was feared but admired. I collected myself some lackeys and we set about entertaining ourselves. Abducting girls from their rooms in the night and taking them on blindfolded ventures to the local basement cockfight. Convincing the young ones that, due to economic hardships faced by the school, we have sold them to the local brothel ("the local what?") and leave them for hours tied to random lampposts. Then there was the thing with Lucy and the kittens, but from what I've heard, her eyebrow have grown back and all is well. I can't say the same for the kittens, however.
This was what kept me from throwing myself out an overly ornate baroque window for four years. Now this, this, was entertainment. The education was a terrible yawn, even with the few gentlemen teachers they allowed us. They did alright in the classroom standing up and walking around, but get them more reclined and you've got to do all the instructing. They should have been paying me tuition. Which is why you throw impromptu tequila workshops for your dormmates, with one-on-one conferencing on the closet floor.
Blah blah, went to a prestigious college for a spell, established the institute's underground casino (the House took a cool 65% on a hard night), picked up a nasty coke habit, dropped out to start a small welding business spearheading a market of new space-age metal bonding (of which was particular interest to NASA at the time). Sold that to smoke cigarettes in Croatia on the beach for a year until started photodocumenting young war refugees turned runway models (copyright Random House, 2003...mother would be proud). Since then I've been sort of manically either hurdling myself into astrophilosophical conferences (I broke three chairs at the last one...S.H. was sort of amused, but not really) or holing up on Prince Edward Island taking very long baths.
I have now received a letter out of the blue from two old peers, Esme and Beatrice, who are going to be in Portland, Maine, for an evening for Beatrice's father's lecture on new physics and it's social implications "and wouldn't you please come down off your red-maple-leaf pedestal and have a drink with us?" How can I refuse? I have often thought of Bea with the hoped that she still uses only Egyptian cotton for her sheets and clove oil behind her ears. Esme, bless her orphaned heart, is a hoot, but, fuck, I hope she isn't as naive as before. I gave her the first cigarette she ever smoked, for christ's sake.
Oh, speaking of, I myself found Jesus (Father may be proud, as well). Or, rather, I found Catholicism. I have to say, there really is nothing like getting down on one's knees, breathing out a few Hail Mary's and a few Our Father's, fondling some rosaries clutched close to one's chest, and cleaning the slate every day. Every day! Brand-spanking new! Redemption is mine! Hallelujah!
posted by evil at 2:34 PM
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