The Fandom Monster

The Fandom Monster

I learned at a very young age that collecting soothes and sorts a scattered mind. In the chaos of my childhood home I built a sanctuary within the space allotted to me for sleep and solitude. I started with books – series like The Babysitters Club; Sweet Valley High; Fear Street – inexpensive little treats that added up quickly so that the pleasure of seeing their uniform spines lined up along a wall equalled the pleasure of immersing myself inside the stories. I also collected cassette tapes, VHS tapes and, most reverently and expansively: magazines.

Musicians, young actors and actresses, and models were usually my drug of choice. However, when Beverly Hills, 90210 premiered in 1990, I had the opportunity to collect on many levels. Young actors, both boys and girls, sold me fashion, beauty, music, trends and sex. Not only was I able to align my teen frustrations into organized well labelled stacks of VHS tapes but, because 90210 was a teen culture phenomenon, I was able to become an insane fully immersed collector. What were once simply shiny magazine pages from Teen Beat and Bop became buttons; stickers; collector cards; games; clothing; pillows; sheets; curtains; jewellery; dolls. My bedroom was a shrine with only space for me and my obsession.

With nothing but the knowledge of the fantasy world they have stepped inside, fandom that complete creates a fan mutant of a person. No longer a simple fan, the Fandom Monster will listen quietly and leap awkwardly on any opportunity to reveal their massive cache of knowledge.

Which is why, on the day the season two episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 was to air where “one of the gang” was going to tragically meet their end; I could not keep myself quiet when a girl on the bus said, with complete assurance: “Dylan is going to die, probably of an overdose.”

“First of all,” I interrupted, speaking with an authoritative tone that startled my usually reserved self, “Dylan is in recovery.” After getting that point out of the way, I explained that the week’s TV Guide ad (which I clipped each week and pasted into a photo album) featured David’s geeky friend Scott Scanlon in the cast photo and that Scott hadn’t been in ads all season.

“Obviously it’s going to be Scott,” I calmly observed. “He’s expendable.”

Never mind the fact that, at the tender age of 13, I had figured out how to discover TV tropes, I just needed everyone on that bus to understand that I knew what I was talking about, and they needed to listen.

The girl I was so patiently schooling shrugged and turned away, but I felt pretty great setting her and her friends straight. Felt even better that night when Scott shot himself in the face.

“I knew it!” I shouted into the empty room, my voice echoing off the glossy papered walls, the silent smiles of the 90210 cast gazing back, congratulating me for being their Biggest Fan.

Find me now on my new site Les Beehive!

Floating Words

Floating Words

In “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” Jean-Dominique Bauby explains the alphabet he used to communicate with visitors after waking from a coma caused by a stroke, leaving him paralyzed with only the ability to blink his left eye. Visitors would recite the alphabet, in order from most popular letter to least, and Bauby would blink when they reached the letter he wished to use. According to the kind of personality each visitor possessed, he or she would interpret the language differently – some given to fits of frustrated emotion when they couldn’t decode his words, others committed to painstaking, meticulous transcription.

The recollection reminded me of 2010, when my Mother, after waking from a coma, was unable to communicate for a time. She couldn’t speak, but she could hear. I wasn’t with her, but I would call every morning so she could hear my voice. My Dad would hold the phone to her ear and I would talk for a few minutes – fill the empty space with frivolous words: first of love, then mundane details of my days, then more love. Sometimes Papa would pull the phone away and describe Momma’s reaction if she smiled or nodded and my voice, not knowing its direction, would fill empty space, never landing. Words like “love”, “hope”, “miss”, today” never reached a destination; are still floating in the atmosphere in a North Carolina hospital room.

As Momma’s voice returned, conversation resumed, but because it was a strain, she chose her words carefully, was her own editor, spoke only what was necessary. Now her words come rapid-fire, but still laboured, still interspersed by attempts at great gulps of air that never fill her lungs. That never deters her; she keeps going, keeps talking. She no longer edits, when we speak, she puts on me every detail of the events that transpired to make her day miserable; every word spoken by those who have wronged her. I try to slow her down when she coughs or gasps, but she speaks as if in a race, forces all the words trapped inside her and making her ache, out of her and onto me.

I rarely speak; I don’t attempt to fit my own words into the space between hers. I listen, mostly silent, a sympathetic tsk here, a confirmation that I’m still on the line there, but no words of my own reach her. Even if they did, she would let them float with nowhere to land, there’s no space for me, no time for my words. She speaks as if her breaths are numbered, and I understand how she must feel, surviving what she did, feeling as though death will fully grasp her around the throat one day soon and squeeze, finish the job it started when she felt its fingers brushing along her skin. I’ll absorb what she spills onto me, do what I can to keep her breath coming, but sometimes, at my most selfish, all I want is for her to smile as I describe my day.

Find me now on my new site Les Beehive!

Writing Exercise Answers, July 9th 2013

Prompt #1: I was born…
I was born first. My story was the most vivid; the most told; the loveliest; the easiest. I was a gift: easy to unwrap, well presented, just what was wanted.

Prompt #2: When I was five…
When I was five I had already amassed 3 years of memories. I started my record young, first remembering my brother at my mother’s breast, next my doll at my toddler chest. When I was 5 I was a mother for 3 years. My first memory is of wanting what she had; finding and seeing peace that existed only in that moment, only in memory. Now the rosy memory seems a lie. I want nothing of what she has.

Prompt #3: My mother’s father…
My mother’s father has no name. She can’t recall the name of the man who she belongs to biologically and the name my Granddaddy’s wife and sister used is a mystery. My mother’s fathers are nameless, they are titles: “my father” and “Daddy”. The first spoken as a statistic, the second with reverence.

Prompt #4: My dad…
My Dad is a pervert. My Dad is ill. My Dad is brilliant and creative. My Dad is embarrassing. My Dad is fun. My Dad causes both panic and comfort. My Dad is strong and weak. My Dad is Swedish. My Dad is strange. My Dad is tired. My Dad is not wholly loved by anyone.

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Writing Exercise, July 9th 2013

Writing Exercise, July 9th 2013

Write whatever comes to mind after you read each prompt. Write in any style, for as long you please.

Prompt #1: I was born…
Prompt #2: When I was five…
Prompt #3: My mother’s father…
Prompt #4: My dad…

photo credit: Self-portrait writing in my diary, Boston, Massachuetts by Nan Goldin, 1989

Find me now on my new site Les Beehive!

Writing Exercises

Writing Exercises

I’m going to start posting prompts & answers to writing exercises I’m currently working on. Feel free to take the prompts & write your own words!

Find me now on my new site Les Beehive!

Bo & SB at Granville Island by Rachel

Bo & SB at Granville Island by Rachel

I’m not looking for another
As I wander in my time
Walk me to the corner
Our steps will always rhyme

– Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye by Leonard Cohen

Find me now on my new site Les Beehive!