The 17th of March 1988 – New York, New York

(fuck convention)

Marcelle,

Let me establish one thing, and let me establish this one thing right now.

I am not normal, and I am neither normal in pretense nor in fact.

The distinction is important because many of us, even those who claim not to be – especially those who claim not to be – are normal in fact. They are built for the system as much as it is built for them, and they accept the notions of love and happiness and pain and death without question.

Then, of course, there are the lucky few who carry the curse of weirdness, who fight it and fight it hard, who cover it up and try to fit in. They don’t belong, but they are well-indoctrinated. They don’t accept the world as it exists around them, but they force themselves to believe it.

I find myself thinking of clothing. Some people wear jeans and t-shirts, and they blend in with the crowd. Other people wear sharply-cut Italian suits, or they wear tank tops with Picasso paintings glued across the front, and they are praised for their style and taste. Then there are those, the ones the rest call the weird people and the fringe people and the different people, they wear pink feather boas to the opera and thick woolen coats on hot days.

But it is all covering up. It is all clothing, and, regardless of what you believe, the flair makes no difference.

Because there is an alien who walks among us, an alien who shows us what is and what is to be, an alien wearing nothing.

She is alien, alien in that her body is the exact same and her mind is the exact same as everyone else’s, but she refuses to use it in any way that resembles the others. For, we ask ourselves and then we realize, what defines an oddity other than finding unfamiliarity in the familiar and the unexpected in expectation. Of course, it is hard to handle – both in pretense and in fact.

And what is the point of all of this except to insist to you that I insist on being entirely alone?

So we find ourselves back at the start, where there is nothing. It is quite like the end, except that at the start there is still hope to find something, in spite of all the nothing and the nothing that surrounds us.

Goodbye Marcelle,

Lucinda

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