Wham Bam Thank You Starman

Wham Bam Thank You Starman

David Bowie’s 1972 record, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars is a gorgeous, heartbreaking album, and not solely because of the rose colored glasses most fans will view the work of the man known not only as Ziggy Stardust, but Thin White Duke, Aladdin Sane, and several other less notable titles after his passing in January 2016 from cancer. What Bowie accomplishes in one album is impressive. From the beginning track “Five Years” to its final track, “Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide”, the album (henceforth to be referred to as Ziggy Stardust for the sake of space) tells a kind of story of an alien named Ziggy Stardust who apparently had a “God given ass.” but an ego to match who set out to save the planet from itself. It’s an admittedly silly premise. Until you remember that Bowie is Ziggy and then it just sounds like an excuse for Bowie to pat his ego on the head. Fortunately, that’s not the case.

When Bowie begins the album in “Five Years” first just talking, then despondently screaming about how there’s only five years and that everything is so short, it’s not immediately apparent that he’s setting up a story that will be completed with “Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide”. Bowie, however, was clever. Of all the songs on the album, these are the only two tracks that have any sort of orchestral sound to them. All the others play with 50s rock, 70s glam, or something only describable as Bowie. If Ziggy Stardust is viewed under that lens, a story begins to emerge to some degree. If “Five Years” is explaining how short of a time people have, then the next nine serve to explain why it’s so short. These little people fill their time with the things that are killing them, trying to be rockstars and live it up like in “Star” or to just keep pushing on, just hold it together even though they’re falling apart like in “Hang On to Yourself”, a song in which Bowie seems to channel the likes of Buddy Holly in his hiccupy “c’mons”. “It Ain’t Easy” in particular plays with harpsichord of all things to illustrate the difficulty between knowing and choosing good. “Suffragette City” sounds sexy in its own right, talking about a “mellow thighed chick” who “put my [Bowie’s] spine out of place”.

Bowie’s slower songs tell the story of Ziggy Stardust concurrently. “Starman” somehow talks up Ziggy Stardust by bringing some excitement to the lives of average, boring people, while simultaneously removing any culpability from the speaker in the song if he doesn’t show up with lines like “He’d like to come and meet us but he’s afraid he’ll blow our minds.” And then, of course, there are the songs that Bowie seems to have written to himself, “Lady Stardust” and “Ziggy Stardust”. Ziggy, of course, is Bowie’s persona for the album, but it’s in “Lady Stardust”, practically a ballad to himself, when he talks about a long haired rocker with makeup who everyone disapproves of and sings lines such as, “Ooh how I sighed when they asked if I knew his name.” that one truly feels Bowie’s struggle between being some kind of rock god and just a fellow who sometimes makes music and wears interesting clothes.

Finally, of course, in the grand finale, “Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide”, Bowie somewhat ties together all the loose threads. In the span of the song, while also further reflecting on reality vs. fantasy and all the other themes he toyed with in this record, Bowie basically lays the human race out as a bunch of lazy bums clutching to their vices and shortening their already short times, waiting for a Starman who’s not perfect either to save them from themselves. Bowie, though, does not give up hope on humanity. He promises that, even though Ziggy may not be anywhere resembling perfect, he’s still amazing and screams “You’re not alone.” and “You’re wonderful!”, leaving us with hope that everything will turn out hunky dory in the end. 5/5, Starman.

If It Kills Me

If it Kills Me

I believe in getting help. As an American teenager coming of age in the late 2010s, more options for mental health care are available to me than at any previous time in history. And I have availed myself of these services...except for when I needed to the most.

My junior year of high school was hard and my AP Bio class was too hard. There was this song I listened to to try and cope --”This Year” by the Mountain Goats. In it, the singer croons, “I’m gonna make it through this year if it kills me.” That class could’ve. When I read, the words on the pages of the textbook made sense individually, but when put together they meant nothing. I loathed myself. I’d thought because I’d never needed tutoring before, that I was somehow less and I sunk into such a pattern of simultaneous pride and self-loathing the thought of things I’d once reveled in made me nauseous and dizzy. This and my father’s recent job loss meant my stress levels rose to a point where I could barely function. One time my biology teacher called on me to come up to explain something to the class that I actually knew something about, and I was hit with such intense vertigo it’s a miracle I didn’t hit the floor.  

Life got better. I readjusted my focus and I talked to good people and I went on retreat. I healed. But I never sought help. I, who extols the virtues of counseling, never sought any myself. While I don’t regret much, I do regret that. Knowing that if I had contacted someone, anyone, I could have dealt with my problems and learned how to manage my stress better and maybe not have gone through all I did. Instead of spending weeks and months tunneling under the earth, I could have spent more of my precious little time up in the sun.

The Settling in of a Champagne Soul

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The Settling in of a Champagne Soul

In a room that smells like a sneeze, I found my soul.
Jazz seeped into my skin.
Settling in.
Baking.
Taking.
Burning.
Making.
I came as a sinner with hate in the making.
And yet I'm partaking
In the grand unbreaking
Of what lies within.

I grin
For a moment and catch myself
Detach myself
From the wars I didn't begin.
But what lies within
Doesn't take to beating.

Repeating
The same song every day.
And I pray --for the chance
To take control
Make it slow
And breathe for an hour
But our
Innocence is gone.

Bang a pail, rang a gong
That's the sound of something wrong.
But I can't go along,
No I can't join the throng.

Because I found my soul
And I now extoll
The virtues of a room that smells like a sneeze
And dust in the breeze
Doesn't compare.

So say a prayer, kiss my hair, and take me from here to there.
Tell me that I'm beyond what's fair.

So when your memories of me are all but rare
And I feed the grass and my soul soars onto the air,
You'll feel good about having known the girl with jazz in her skin
--take a sip, swirl the gin--
And remember once again
How it felt to begin
The ballad of a soul.

The Girl Who Ate the Stars

Image credit anyone?

When I was fifteen years old, I became a silent film star.

It happened incidentally. I was two days into my first year of high school and I’d heard the drama department was holding auditions for the fall plays that day. They were going to be putting on a trifecta of one act plays, each directed by a different student. As someone who had always loved drama and was looking for something to join to make friends in this crazy new school where she knew no one, this seemed like the perfect opportunity.

So I sent a text to my mother, begging her to let me stay. She soon sent a text back, granting my request. From there, I grabbed an acquaintance so that I’d have someone with whom to sit during the audition, tried my inexperienced hand at applying makeup, and dutifully trekked down to the dining hall (though, really, given the amount of food consumed in this all-girls’ school, it should have been called the “mess hall”), where auditions were being held.

We were a frightfully small school, back then: barely 130 students in total. It was our fourth year being open and our first year with a senior class. There was never a senior class more beloved, more revered. Being there at the same time as they were like witnessing the assumption of Elijah into heaven, seeing great people going on to great things they more than deserved. They were goddesses.

Had there been any senior students in drama, I doubt I would have auditioned. I was only two days in and I already sensed their supremely elevated status. To cross them would have felt like blaspheming. But, as luck would have it, only freshmen, sophomores, and juniors had come, that day. And so, I, with about thirty of my closest strangers, came to the audition and sat in a chair and waited. I can honestly say there’s no feeling in the world like waiting to audition. You’re nervous. You’re excited. You’re sure you’re going to fail and, yet, you’re praying you’ll succeed. Your insides are this big ball of ugh. It’s heaven and it’s hell and completely insane. And then, you audition.

When I got in front of the student directors and the drama teacher, I wasn’t expecting a big part. I thought I’d end up as some bit player, strut my moment on the stage, then quietly slink off into the wings, to wait for another play in which I’d hopefully get a bigger part. Sure, I wanted a great part; but I never in a million years would have expected one. I was but an underling freshman. And, so, when I began to read aloud the monologue provided for me, I was in that, “Well, I have nothing to lose, anyway, so I might as well give it my darndest,” mood; that mood where you don’t really care about something, while at the same time, you really, really, want to succeed. I call it the eye of the hurricane moment. As a result, I probably looked far more relaxed and confident during my audition than I actually was. The entire time, I kind of just wanted to run off the stage and go cry into my locker and eat my feelings or something equally bad for me. But, I didn’t. In a way, I couldn’t. I’d already committed to this, even though I didn’t yet realize it and I had to be strong. I had to be confident.

Now, I’m pretty good at channeling my pain into something productive. Kids picked on me: I developed a wicked sense of humor. People criticized me: I honed and refined my arguments. I got bad news from a doctor: I fought, kicking and screaming, for the right treatments. I’m completely out of my league and totally uncomfortable; but, I don’t stand to get a big part anyway: I channeled all that nervous energy, all that worry, all that fear, into one of the greatest performances I’d ever given. The words rolled off my tongue like magic, like swirls of fairy dust speaking enchantment into the universe. I was Audrey Hepburn with her pearls and sunglasses, I was Vivien Leigh in a dress made of curtains, I was Mary Pickford, catching Douglas Fairbanks’ eye. I was Julie freaking Andrews, dancing through the Austrian mountains and jumping into street art.

I was incredible.

And, other people thought so, too. When I finished, there was no, “Thank you for coming, please move along,” there was no “Our people will call your people.” There was clapping, real, genuine clapping. The type of clapping you can’t do out of pity; the type of clapping you mean. I almost passed out. They like you. They really like you. These were the words I whispered to myself, shocked. Middle school hadn’t been a good time for me; I hadn’t really had any friends. I was that weird kid who spent all day in a book and loved debating more than actually talking. But here? In high school? In the theatre? Here, I fit in. A puzzle piece had snapped into place and, no, the puzzle wasn’t complete, but it was getting there. And for the first time in a long time, I was pretty sure that puzzle was going to be a really cool one.

What followed after that wasn’t nearly as earth-shattering. I went on to get the role of the magic mirror, a snarky, sassy old thing that I’ve been told stole the show, which couldn’t have happened without the phenomenal cast that supported and worked with me. They were crazy, had weird rituals like insisting this one monkey prop be in every show, and drove me absolutely insane. And I loved ‘em for it. These people taught me how to be a part of something bigger than myself, how to work with and rely on other people, and how to be myself around other people. They’re not blood, but they’re the family I chose for myself. I got nicknames: Mur, because my name is Mary and every Mary was a Mur there, and Pickford, after Mary Pickford, the famous silent film actress who I was told I rather resemble. I also got from them an extreme amount of confidence -- so much so that when I audition now, I’m hardly even a bit nervous. Instead, I am like those seniors I so revered. I’m calm, I’m cool, I know my value and no one can convince me to the contrary. I am fully myself.

          Becoming myself, of course, wasn’t an overnight occurrence. I had to work hard on my acting

and my inner self to get to the point I’m at, today: happy, confident, comfortable. But without theatre,

without my talent for acting, I would have never gotten so far, so fast. I would have never met some of

my best friends; I would have never developed such a high amount of self-esteem; I would have never

become Mary Pickford. I am the girl who ate the stars, the constellations of fear and the comets of

worry, and in doing so, became brighter than the sun.
-Pick

Anne

From the moment we met, I loved the character of Anne Shirley. She was bold, fiery, and rash, but a dreamer and a creative. Anne was dramatic, she was an optimist. She had a tendency to get herself into trouble and come up with some completely outlandish scheme to get out of it. We were the same person, so similar that when I first read L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables it was like meeting the perfect, redheaded version of myself. I’ve never exactly had a problem finishing books I’ve started reading, but this one even less so. I practically devoured it.

However, back when I read Anne of Green Gables for the first time, I was under the care of a lackluster librarian. It is a truth universally acknowledged (by me, that is) that the quality of one’s librarian has an enormous impact upon the quality of one’s reading material and as mine was sorely lacking in the finer qualities all great librarians have, after finishing Anne, I was loathe to find something else to read of a similar quality, save maybe Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, and was forced to forget about Anne Shirley and her fantastic life on Prince Edward Island. Ever after I pondered what life for Anne was like after the book, not content with the ending given as a final ending. It was not that the ending did not work fine for a regular ending, but for the end of a universe, Anne making up with Gilbert Blythe and beginning a teaching career was simply not enough. I was frustrated (rightly, I think), but I had to let it go.

Fast forward a few years and I had the good fortune of having a fantastic librarian who possessed all the fine qualities the previous had not. One day, frustrated with the lack of reading material not about snotty teen girls or in the form of grotesque comic books, I expressed my frustration quite vocally to said librarian. Mrs. Alberts, the ever patient saint, led me to a little-accessed shelf in the middle school section of the library I wasn’t supposed to go in and handed me the book Anne of Avonlea. Apparently, a sequel to my beloved book existed.

I must admit that I approached this longed-for sequel with trepidation. It wasn’t the style of book that I normally read at this point in my life, but as my beloved Mrs. Alberts had suggested it, I caved and cracked it open. Like before, I was hooked.

The new book was incredible. It had all the magic of the old combined with new characters and the development of the old. I loved it, and I went through it in a day. After that, I went through the rest of the books in so little time that the other librarian who worked with my librarian started to get frustrated with how quickly I kept checking out and turning in books. I didn’t care, I had what I’d always been looking for: a real ending --the sixth book in the series, Anne of Ingleside.    

The premise of this book was a simple one: Anne Shirley is married now (her earliest years of marriage having been detailed in the previous book, Anne’s House o’ Dreams), and a mother to six children. It follows Anne, Gilbert, and their children through several years of their lives, just telling little stories about them. An absolutely darling plot, it held the kind of sweet old fashioned-ness never found in modern books, and I grew to adore the way Anne lived her life.

For one, Anne was a domestic. She took pride in raising her children and creating a home out of her house. She is seen in numerous scenes sewing for her family, gardening, and generally doing all the things modern society claims oppresses women. Anne hardly seemed oppressed to me, though. She didn’t do these things out of obligation or because she was forced to, but because she wanted to. It was her choice to do all these things, as it was her choice to continue writing (though not publishing) and stop teaching. Anne went to college, she could have gotten a job or done whatever she wanted to, really, but she decided on marriage and staying home with a family. This choice, this freedom seems to be integral to living a good life to the author. Kindness, too, to children and your fellow man is integral. Anne never tolerates cruelty and never uses corporal punishment. In all things, Anne pushes love.

In most things, I agree with these beliefs on how to live a good life. I aim to live with as much love as possible. Women should have a choice between staying at home and working outside the home, but if they do wish to stay home, then that choice should be respected. The author and I also share a love of life’s small blessings, in taking joy from life’s small beauties, and that babies are an essential good. I differ with Montgomery in that I’m Catholic and to me, the Church and her teachings are some of the most important parts of my life and I don’t know how to live without them. To me, while not the only, it is the best way to live if true joy is what is longed for. Nothing else compares.

My Cinderellification

Image credit: Nikita Gill

Until the age of seven, I wanted to be a Disney princess. Now, I don’t mean that I wanted to work at Disney World or something, I mean I actually wanted to be a singing, dancing, mice befriending Disney princess. And I wanted a prince. Not just any prince, but one who would sweep me off my feet, take me back to his castle, and live happily ever after with me.  I wanted a fairytale. Unfortunately, I started to grow up. In doing so, I began to care less and less about my prince and my happily ever after. Now, I had media, and the views of a fallen society, and even other misguided females feeding me falsehoods. The world lied to me and caused me to believe that the only way I’d ever find my prince was by me actively seeking him out. I thought that the girls who waited for their prince never got one. Fortunately, this isn’t true, but because I believed it to be so, it damaged my views on life, views that I’ve taken a long time to fix. I am, apparently, not the only woman who dealt with this.

See, in the beginning, woman was a mystery, hidden and set apart. As God is sacred, woman (made in His image and likeness) was also considered sacred. She was a mystery worth pursuing and as God wants humanity to desire and look for Him, to seek Him out on our own because we want to, because we love Him, and not out of some sense of obligation, like it’s something to check off on a list and not something one does out of a desire to be with Him above all else, so do women. Women long to be cherished and loved and respected We desire flowers and love notes and hand holding. We long for a prince charming. And men were happy to comply. They recognized that as God reveals Himself little by little, a woman’s modesty would only allow her to reveal parts of herself as the relationship progressed. There were certain things a godly lady didn’t do and rather than trying to challenge that, men encouraged it. They wanted to be princes.

Then somewhere along the line the fall happened. Like me, that little girl who wanted to do nothing more than ride into the sunset with her prince, women became rather disillusioned with their own mystery. We were led to doubt that we’re sacred. Strikingly, we now believed that being desired was the most important part of our existence. This wasn’t a holy desire, either. And so most women gave up on the belief that they were worthy of being pursued. Instead of being the enigma in a mystery novel, we were the idiot in the end of the Nancy Drew novel who gives the whole plot away and confesses everything. Because women still had that desire to be loved, to be cherished, we still looked for love, but now in the worst ways. We forgot how God wanted it to go. And so we dressed (and still dress) immodestly, we gave (we give) away the things one should only give to her husband, and we forgot (we forget) that our virtue was anything at all worth protecting. We forgot about Prince Charming. That he’d wait for us. And because we stopped holding men to a high standard, because we opened the door to the bank and gave the thieves everything the vault held, they stopped rising to that previous standard.

However, it doesn’t have to stay this way. The fact remains that woman still is worthy of love and honor, of not pursuing, but of being pursued. Because when Jesus died for us, by His blood and by His cross we have been redeemed. We are made clean. And by His redemption, we have been given the opportunity for change. Are we able to go back, to change where it went wrong and destroy the mistakes that led us here? No. For one, that would be a paradox. If our sins never existed, how could we know to go back and change them? For another, our souls have already been marked. We can, however, be absolved of our sins, “resolve to sin no more, do penance, and amend our lives.” Modesty, guarding the treasure like this is Raiders of the Lost Ark, it’s the Ark of the Covenant, and the wrong person getting to it will melt people’s faces off, waiting to be pursued --these are all still viable options. No one is irredeemable and if we as women resolve to be held and cherished as we once were once again, then we can change things. I myself have in recent times been trying more and more to commit to living life better, living it, well, like this. With chastity and grace. And I am so much happier for it. I am waiting for my prince again.

Living as a mystery isn’t popular today. Our society is so oversaturated with sex in the worst context that we no longer as women feel we are able to wait and be pursued. We think if we don’t do the pursuing, we’ll lose out on love. This couldn’t be any further from the truth. If we are willing to live with the risk, to put ourselves on the line and demand something better, then men will rise to the challenge. So women, let us be pursued. Let’s be a mystery once more. Let’s wait for Prince Charming and not settle for less. For that little girl who wanted to be a princess, I know I will.   

Housekeeping and Things

So... I've been gone awhile, haven't I? Well, all I really have to say is that life has gotten busy. Nothing more but that and an awful case of writer's block. But I'm back now! Yay? Yeah, this is lame.
Um, in other news I may be publishing more soon? I have some essays and book reviews and I did just see La La Land and I have a lot of feelings on that and lots of fic ideas and I'm posssssibly going to be journaling my way through my 2017 resolutions so all I really have to say is to expect more soon, I guess?
Cheers?

-Pick