�For what is a poem but a hazardous attempt at self-understanding: it is the deepest part of autobiography.� � Robert Penn Warren, novelist & poet (1905-1989)

So true, you know. When I�m moved to write poetry, it is because it is the only accurate expression for raw, uncivilized emotion, as scattered and nonsensical and symbolic as the words I pen down when I�m lost in it. Unlike journaling, which I do religiously (and no, this is not my journal), poetry has no rules. With journaling, I write about something that annoys me or angers me until I discover, through writing, the true source of my feelings. And they are rarely what I thought they were when I started to write.

But poetry, man, I can�t even describe it. It�s like crying. It�s like sighing. It�s like screaming. Sometimes, it�s like taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly with a smile. Because it doesn�t come from the head as much as it comes from the heart. And I rarely share my poetry, because it is way too revealing, leaves me too vulnerable. I can tell a story, and I can make a trip to the grocery store sound like a hilarious adventure. Where my words trip up, where I am not so confident, is sharing my feelings. Because in sharing them, I feel the old need to justify them. And I hate that need.

Anyway, before I get too caught up in my pre-weekend introspection, let me tell you what I did last night! 80�s club at Shooterz , baby. I�ve been to this club before for Therapy and Sabbat, one gothic, one fetish. But never before on an 80�s night. Most interesting. I now know for sure, where before I only assumed, that I cannot dance to this music. I got a peek at the 80�s when I was a pre-teen, but that�s just about it. I didn�t know any of the songs, and I definitely couldn�t catch a beat. Born and bred on techno-rave, and here I never thought of myself as a club kid. More like a techno-diva, yes that sounds MUCH better. And in truth, it�s a little more accurate.

With Kitty, Mr. H, and Missy, we were a tight little crew. Missy and I ran into my eldest sister�s ex-boyfriend. Not just any ex, mind you. This guy used psychological warfare to ruin my sister for a long time. She was a toothpick back then, �87 & �88, gorgeous and innocent. He was a high school jock-type. Through his insecurities and fears of losing her, he grilled into her head that she was ugly, fat, and worthless. It took forcing her to move back to NY with a friend and not telling him where she went to get him out of her life. He didn�t recognize me, of course, but he knew who Missy was.

Here�s the poetic justice: My sister is gorgeous, successful, brilliant, and loving, married, and just purchased her first house. Plus, c�mon, look at the awesome family she has (a.k.a. MINE). Her ex? A sad-excuse of a comb-over his glaring bald spot, and twice the size he was then, only this is not muscle. He was with a crew of 4 buttoned-down shirt & jeans-wearing, idiotic-grinning dorks. If I didn�t recognize him and want to play barb-jedi mind tricks, I would have avoided this group like I used to avoid the coodies. It was enough to see him squirm a bit in our presence, refer to my sister as the girl who �broke his heart,� and then cut the whole thing short to announce our departure of the club.

You mess with my sister, you mess with me. On the other hand, he�s just some clueless and insecure guy who was doing what he thought he had to do in order to keep something, but was ironically losing that something in the process. And she�s much better off for it. I honestly wish him good luck in his pathetic little life. May he learn his lessons here and apply them elsewhere.

Have a great weekend!!!!

-Barbarella

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