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She came to me in a dream.
Her parents named her Georgia Gladys Gail Keats, which is too many Gs and too many names of dead ancestors, but its what she got.
Sometimes she goes by Gla, but mostly she goes by George, because a girl in third hand red gypsy skirts going by a boy’s name is more of a gender-fuck than anything else she can think of.
Her hair is long, and dark and lank, hanging in strands, a curtain that often covers her eyes (a place to hide – shy girl, too much to think about).
Her eyes are brown, but they look like black holes from all the liner and black shadow and mascara she uses. Her trademark, if she has one, is red or black lip liner + acid green lipstick + two thick, black, bars drawn, like stitches or electrical tape, across her lips. A vision of keep-your-mouth-shut anger, at least that’s the idea.
She dreams in comic books (her interior monologue looks more like something Neil Gaiman wrote than anything like a train of thought) of being a painter or a writer or a recycled-clothing-designer, but most of all she dreams of Getting Out.
Schlumping a three-tonne, ripped apart school bag everywhere she goes, and layering five different sweaters one over the other to cover her skinny body and keep herself warm (protected). She zombie-walks through high-school – an appropriate term, given that you only come back from the dead when you’ve got some damn burning business to attend to (she should know. She can see them, sometimes, and it scares the goddamn fuck out of her) – eyes down so that no-one can see them burning.
She going to Get Out.
Six credits from graduation and applications into every scholarship, every bursary, every free ride she can find that will lift her out of the suburban sprawl, out of the house of parents who care too little and control too much, and land her in the heart of the city.
Any city.
New York or San Francisco or, hell, Oberlin. Anywhere but here.
Too young by years to be getting into bars, but some of the bars don’t care.
Babylon.
The three-story club that bills itself as a den of iniquity, but is really a haven for trust-starved freaks, street punks, anarcho-babies and wild-child artists.
People like her.
People who don’t stare when they see George-the-girl in her beat-up, multi-patched army boots, thread-bare velvets, hacked up nylon socks instead of gloves, and the white tuxedo jacket that she re-upholstered in patches of un-matching, textured and iridescent fabrics, including acid-green tulle on the lapels.
She’s got a boyfriend, who isn’t really a boyfriend, who isn’t even really a boy or even a human. And she knows – or at least suspects – this, but she doesn’t care. His name is Chaos, and she likes the danger and the light in his eyes.
Everything about his is fast. Snap decisions and sudden inspirations. Like an ADHD bipolar whose on Manic all the time. She can feel him burning, burning, burning-up, and wants to drink the heat from his lips.
He takes her riding on the back of his fast, black bike, engine roaring, and she clings to his back, the smell of leather in her nose.
He taught her to waltz in the rain one day, while the parking lot lights were coming on.
When she Gets Out, he’s coming with her, though she doesn’t know it yet.
He’s with her all the time.
The guy who owns Babylon is a freak/sculpter/multi-media artist named Fagan who builds skeletal, robot babies out of coaxial cable, crushed pop cans and a million other found objects and hardware store finds.
George doesn’t know that he thinks she’s another street kid – one of the hoard of homeless-by-choice-or-necessity kids who flock to his club for a warm place to spend five or six hours, letting the throb of the beat and the scream of the music drown everything out for once.
She doesn’t know he knows how many slip past his deliberately look-the-other-way door policy. She doesn’t know he cares about any of them, let alone all of them. But he does.
Doozy is the flower-bomb baby who sticks out like a ghost, white hair, white skin like ash, who forgets to eat, kisses and touches and fucks everyone and everything, hungry for the connection, and is on more meds than a cancer patient. Doozy’s been dragons and angels in past lives, or so she says. Most people think she’s crazy (even the doctors – thence the meds), but George can see the fire burning under Doozy’s skin, and knows that Doozy isn’t human, even if she thinks she is. Sometimes George can see the burnt-out stubs of Doozy’s wings out of the corner of her eye.
George kissed Doozy, once, two years ago. They’d been smoking a joint – hardly unusual – in a diner bathroom after the club closed, and George leaned over and blew the smoke into Doozy’s mouth, just because she could.
Doozy’d looked so happy when she did that, instead of taking another drag when Doozy passed the joint back, George leaned in again, and kissed her.
It wasn’t the last time.
George wonders how long Doozy’s going to live. Part of her imagines ‘forever’, and part of her has trouble believing that this ghost-girl of a fallen angel will make it to her next breath.
What’s the story? I ask myself.
The raid on the club, the fire, Fagan’s likely death, Doozy’s self-imposed exile in protest of a deity she just can’t work for anymore, Chaos’ wild-fire underneath it all (did he cause the fire? Did he cause it for a reason?)
Does she get out?
And where does she go from here?
Magic, mystery, mayhem, and urban-alienation. We’ll see where George takes me, if anywhere.
I hope she starts talking soon. :-)
Her parents named her Georgia Gladys Gail Keats, which is too many Gs and too many names of dead ancestors, but its what she got.
Sometimes she goes by Gla, but mostly she goes by George, because a girl in third hand red gypsy skirts going by a boy’s name is more of a gender-fuck than anything else she can think of.
Her hair is long, and dark and lank, hanging in strands, a curtain that often covers her eyes (a place to hide – shy girl, too much to think about).
Her eyes are brown, but they look like black holes from all the liner and black shadow and mascara she uses. Her trademark, if she has one, is red or black lip liner + acid green lipstick + two thick, black, bars drawn, like stitches or electrical tape, across her lips. A vision of keep-your-mouth-shut anger, at least that’s the idea.
She dreams in comic books (her interior monologue looks more like something Neil Gaiman wrote than anything like a train of thought) of being a painter or a writer or a recycled-clothing-designer, but most of all she dreams of Getting Out.
Schlumping a three-tonne, ripped apart school bag everywhere she goes, and layering five different sweaters one over the other to cover her skinny body and keep herself warm (protected). She zombie-walks through high-school – an appropriate term, given that you only come back from the dead when you’ve got some damn burning business to attend to (she should know. She can see them, sometimes, and it scares the goddamn fuck out of her) – eyes down so that no-one can see them burning.
She going to Get Out.
Six credits from graduation and applications into every scholarship, every bursary, every free ride she can find that will lift her out of the suburban sprawl, out of the house of parents who care too little and control too much, and land her in the heart of the city.
Any city.
New York or San Francisco or, hell, Oberlin. Anywhere but here.
Too young by years to be getting into bars, but some of the bars don’t care.
Babylon.
The three-story club that bills itself as a den of iniquity, but is really a haven for trust-starved freaks, street punks, anarcho-babies and wild-child artists.
People like her.
People who don’t stare when they see George-the-girl in her beat-up, multi-patched army boots, thread-bare velvets, hacked up nylon socks instead of gloves, and the white tuxedo jacket that she re-upholstered in patches of un-matching, textured and iridescent fabrics, including acid-green tulle on the lapels.
She’s got a boyfriend, who isn’t really a boyfriend, who isn’t even really a boy or even a human. And she knows – or at least suspects – this, but she doesn’t care. His name is Chaos, and she likes the danger and the light in his eyes.
Everything about his is fast. Snap decisions and sudden inspirations. Like an ADHD bipolar whose on Manic all the time. She can feel him burning, burning, burning-up, and wants to drink the heat from his lips.
He takes her riding on the back of his fast, black bike, engine roaring, and she clings to his back, the smell of leather in her nose.
He taught her to waltz in the rain one day, while the parking lot lights were coming on.
When she Gets Out, he’s coming with her, though she doesn’t know it yet.
He’s with her all the time.
The guy who owns Babylon is a freak/sculpter/multi-media artist named Fagan who builds skeletal, robot babies out of coaxial cable, crushed pop cans and a million other found objects and hardware store finds.
George doesn’t know that he thinks she’s another street kid – one of the hoard of homeless-by-choice-or-necessity kids who flock to his club for a warm place to spend five or six hours, letting the throb of the beat and the scream of the music drown everything out for once.
She doesn’t know he knows how many slip past his deliberately look-the-other-way door policy. She doesn’t know he cares about any of them, let alone all of them. But he does.
Doozy is the flower-bomb baby who sticks out like a ghost, white hair, white skin like ash, who forgets to eat, kisses and touches and fucks everyone and everything, hungry for the connection, and is on more meds than a cancer patient. Doozy’s been dragons and angels in past lives, or so she says. Most people think she’s crazy (even the doctors – thence the meds), but George can see the fire burning under Doozy’s skin, and knows that Doozy isn’t human, even if she thinks she is. Sometimes George can see the burnt-out stubs of Doozy’s wings out of the corner of her eye.
George kissed Doozy, once, two years ago. They’d been smoking a joint – hardly unusual – in a diner bathroom after the club closed, and George leaned over and blew the smoke into Doozy’s mouth, just because she could.
Doozy’d looked so happy when she did that, instead of taking another drag when Doozy passed the joint back, George leaned in again, and kissed her.
It wasn’t the last time.
George wonders how long Doozy’s going to live. Part of her imagines ‘forever’, and part of her has trouble believing that this ghost-girl of a fallen angel will make it to her next breath.
What’s the story? I ask myself.
The raid on the club, the fire, Fagan’s likely death, Doozy’s self-imposed exile in protest of a deity she just can’t work for anymore, Chaos’ wild-fire underneath it all (did he cause the fire? Did he cause it for a reason?)
Does she get out?
And where does she go from here?
Magic, mystery, mayhem, and urban-alienation. We’ll see where George takes me, if anywhere.
I hope she starts talking soon. :-)
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