Again, the difficulty with being a finite person in a definitive form. People get so caught up in the aesthetic visual representation of some thing, they are often narrow-minded to think that the physical vision upon which their literal eyes see is all they need to know about that thing.
Which is fine. Everybody does it. We all judge books by their cover because it gives us an inclination as to whether we will be interested in discovering what is inside. It is the wrapping paper for a metaphorical box: it speaks to the viewer in a way that indicates what type of story it has to tell: is it something that is interesting to you or perhaps it is not really your cup of tea.
But I am not an object upon a shelf. I am not a trophy. I am not a keepsake. I am not a certificate of authenticity. I am not a common noun, although I am a noun. I am known, I am renowned, I am existent. I am a person who thinks, feels, acts, reacts, senses, judges, perceives, verbalises and does.
And because I am sapient, I recognise I am also salient. I recognise my own distinguishing features, my strengths, my weaknesses, my desires, my flaws… I know what sets me apart from others, but I do not wish to be apart from others. Unfortunately, so often am I set aside or classified as being some sort of “other”.
I am judged and named a bunch of different things. I really don’t mind so much. Labels are useful to help classify or define an otherwise unknown. I love hearing what people think of me or about me because I think it’s fascinating that I can evoke such different ideas in people’s heads. I also know that I am not what they may judge me to be, labels are useful but they are not final. No one should think that their “labels” or “names” are prisons from which there is no escape. They are sticky notes: put it on, peel it off, or don’t peel it off. It might even fall off.
As a prolific list maker, behold my collection of labels. Here, I list them, for you.
Self named, handles to hold
- Lady Eclipse – My first email handle
- Midnight Envy – My first online clustertruck in experimental media
- Sweet Bitterness – The journaling went live as I joined the glass asylum
- Ataractic Paroxysm – Documenting my adventures along the nowhere roads
- The Mortal Muse – An evolution of my revolution
The names I have hidden behind as identities.
- Divvy Ralo – a child who wrote fan fiction, fables and parables.
- Kallista Taite – the sad poet who wanted to art.
- Julie Salvador – the star to the father. She performed and was applauded.
- Alita Lane – the person I wanted to be, my idealised version of my dreams.
- Kalliope Veign – the spin doctor you see before you now.
Opalescent shimmers of identities half formed
- Fiona – druggy junkie. face of innocence.
- Anna – femme fatale. user friendly.
- May – homicidal maniac. lonely.
- Erin – schizophrenic. bully.
Identified & classified, deigned by others
- Spoon man spoke to me, called me elegant, and I fell in love.
- Sly called me a stereo because I could be turned on and tuned to stations that people loved to listen.
- The Magnet, in retaliation, called me a home wrecker. She overheard his whispered confession.
- David called me the prototype, the basis for which others would be judged. We listened and swayed and rocked and played.
- Felix referred to me as a sorceress, and identified I was half elf. He drew me galaxies and wrote of war for me.
- Cripps said I was possibly the one. He also called me May. His was the first heart that I did not break.
- Carpet called me a suicidal witch, and a slut. For I was pretty reckless, and I did not care.
- Jaded Souls called me a goddess for I allowed them to find themselves. They understand the mind fuck.
- Jain called me the angel of death for the destructive power of my words. Bound by collar and ring.
- Calla Lily identified me as stitch, Rapunzel and Pinky Pie. Calla is the mountain to my seas. We have shackled our ankles to each other.
- Joel knew me as Clementine. He strummed and I sang.
- Rosalind knew I was a wizard. She helped me sort through my spells.
- Johnpocalyse directed me gnome. I thank him for so very much.
- A lost girl exclaimed (whispered) I was an Alchemyst, after I revealed to her my processes.
- Manning venerated me, encouraged others to learn to embrace the bullshit artist. This was in Shang-ri La.
- Sniper cried ungoy, and Markash teased the spider monkey on the muddy obstacle course. Mico fell down and twisted his ankle. The Photographer at least knew how to deliver a joke.
This is but the immediate names that come to my memory. I know there are more names, but I’ve already shared them somewhere, with someone, some way or how… I have so many names, it is difficult to keep track of them all. Each name denotes a particular aspect or facet of that thing that I do. I still find it difficult to identify what it is… that thing that I want to do.
I want to continue to do whatever it is that I do. I love the varied nature of teaching. It is fun, I am always learning, I can indulge my inner “never really grew up, merely learned how to act in public” bullshit lazy rebel.
I want to rewrite the bible. I want to glorify the real gods – the artists and creators I know, the people who are worth knowing. I want to share my personal experiences. I want to create and play music. I want to read tarot cards. I want to consult for a varied range of things, I want to be of assistance. I want to write. I want to speak. I want to think. I want to know. I want to be part of the thingy.
I want some damn credit for shit that was literally child’s play back in my day.
I know how to make noise, I’m pretty loud. I know how to make a scene, for people always seem to flock to catch a glimpse of whatever freak show I am enacting out in my circus of 1. I attract attention and yet I am never remembered. How easily it is that I am forgotten. No, I am that bizarre “every woman” who fits into vague categories in some sort of way, a bright shadow in a world of grey. I remind people of… some thing. Some one. Some memory they have of someone else.
Frederick, my silent defender (he spoke well of me to elderly ladies on a train), asked me about how I was doing. Of course I was excited to catch up with him! He remembered my face and he remembered my name. He asked me about my sister and I laughed because I am an only child. I told him he had me confused with someone else, the other Kim. The Other half-Asian chick from the same place. He was quite certain that I was this other female he was thinking of…
For all the hoop-la and laughs and shit, for all my attention grabbing ways… People certainly enjoy the show, but there is nothing memorable about me. I fade into the background of so many memories. People remember the essence of me, but they never remember me.