Notes from across the divide

These are all quotes from the diaries my aunt Mary kept as a young person. For those new to my friends list, I have posted about her a lot. She’s my mom’s youngest sister, who died in a car accident in 2007 after a 17-year drug addiction. I found years’ worth of her poetry and journals after she passed away.

Anyway, these things were written in journals throughout the early to mid 1980s, when Mary was in her teens and early twenties. This is how she explained herself to whoever she imagined reading her words in the future:

“Dearest, kindest world with endless opportunities,
Be nice to me and give me a little freedom, and just a few things to enjoy.”
-Summer 1980 (she was fourteen years old)

“I wake up in the morning and shake dreams out of my hair.” -July 1980

“I would gladly give away my creativity to all my friends.” -1980

“Life can be good and life can be treacherous. That’s why they say it has its ups and downs. Then again, death is more than often caused by ups and downs, so to live is to die.” -July 1980

“I love loving. It’s the ultimate in a deciding factor. It’s the difference between reality and the supernatural.”

“Touch the stars, they’re breezing by.”

“When people smile, I smile too. When they cry I cry. When I don’t see them I wonder what they are feeling and if they think of me.”

“Next time you want to understand me, look between the empty pages behind the lines.” -1981

“Words stuck in my throat are released beneath my pen.” -1981

“We are the young ones crying out.” -1984

“Take me as I am: alone and dreaming, a poet without a plan.” -April 1984

“What is written shall remain.”

“Maybe I’m not star material, but I know how to feel and be real.”

“You speak of the coming days. I speak of today and laugh a lot. Your crazy smile keeps me going.”

“This is Captain Mary aboard the cosmic ship Bethany [her hometown]. I am quite alive and enjoying this evening. I am at the head of my bed, in full control, and the music is real cool.”
-February 14, 1985

“I am the living Dead: ahead of my time and behind.”

“I’m filling in words that shouldn’t be said between bound covers.” -1989

“If I die soon, I want everyone to know my life was good. If I live longer, then everyone will know they helped make it that way.” -January 1989

And this last one was written in 2004:
“I dedicate my words to everyone I’ve ever known, dead or alive, or will ever know, dead or alive.”

*****

Rest in peace and poetry, Mary. You’re a supernova that will never stop bursting into life.

Dawn in a Trash Can

Yesterday the sun rose inside a garbage bin.

We gathered up all his things. Packed them into a black metal trash basket and then headed to my parents’ house, where I plucked out the rest of it. Every letter he ever wrote me was in that basket. Every photo, every note we once passed back and forth, scribbling furiously to each other. His journal that he kept all throughout high school was in there. So were all those poems I wrote for him at sixteen and seventeen; literary high fructose corn syrup. I wish I could go back in time and shake the stars out of my eyes, but those stars had already fallen. We couldn’t snuff them out of history. We could burn them out of the future.

We burned it all in the middle of the empty dead end road. I didn’t look at the photos as they were consumed. Wouldn’t look back at that gaze staring out to challenge me. Instead, I looked at the writing. The pocket-sized spiral notebook fanned out like an accordion. Like a flower opening in bloom. The ink-inscribed torment and rage and confusion bowed in on itself, the pages wilting into a fetal curl. In their destruction, they reconfigured into shapes of beginnings. It wasn’t him that was destroyed; it was his pain. The pain he both carried and injected into others. I haven’t taken much from organized religion, but I always liked the idea of fire as refinement. Fire consumes while it purges. It leaves only the pure elements behind.

I burned all the love letters along with the hate ones. It can feel tragic to throw out beautiful words, but that beauty was what made them so dangerous. It had anchored me long ago, but that anchor had almost drowned me.

For years, I’d kept all these remnants inside a clay box in my old bedroom at my parents’ house. It was a box I’d made at Creative Arts Workshop the summer when I was six. Ever since grade school, I’d designated it as my pint-sized gallery of pain. I’d used it to house objects associated with bad memories, from embarrassing to sad to traumatic. Things I didn’t want to look at, but was also reluctant to throw away. In high school I’d kept an angry note from another ex in there, along with the padlock to a drawer where I’d locked up my childhood diaries. The journals were full of memories I’d repressed by siphoning them off onto paper. I wanted to hide them from myself, but also to remember. To tattoo them into my brain in invisible ink. That was when I’d started keeping those things, while also intent on tucking them out of sight.

I burned the box along with its contents. It blackened in the smoke, but wasn’t melted. It was stained and purified at the same time.

My sister was there, and so was Mike. Dedicated and steadfast as ever, he lit the flames. My sister circled around the fire, talking excitedly. Remembering history. Telling me about her own life and friends. She was there, and we love each other. When all those other layers are eroded and refined, that’s what matters. And so I folded up this moment as a keepsake to look at fondly; not to hoard away.

As the relics crumbled down to ash, the smoke started to smell faintly like almonds. I’m sure there’s a long history of symbolism behind them, and they could be waxed poetic about for ages. But what struck me so much was the simplicity. I half-wondered if I’d hear his distant guitar notes floating from the smoke, but the trace of almonds was enough. After burning down years of horror, what was left was a scent so refreshing and benign.

I thought of burying the debris or leaving them in the garden, but decided against it. As long as I held onto his creations, they held power over me. If I discarded the ashes in a poetic way, then they’d still retain a significance greater than themselves. So I tossed them out unceremoniously in a dumpster behind Sam Ash (the pun not realized at the time).

Something tentative was budding in the absence, and I wanted to let it grow.