~ April 23, 2003 - 7:21 p.m. ~
Tinkerbell
Joined the faeries diary ring. Why not? There are so few people left in the world who still believe in faeries that I think we have to stick together. When I was little and I read "Peter Pan," I used to cry at the part where Peter appeals to all the readers of the book to clap their hands to save Tinkerbell's life. I would clap too, of course, but the whole bit about him loving her so much made me misty-eyed, even as a kid. My first screenname (created way back when AOL was brand spanking new and I was 14) was Llebreknit, Tinkerbell spelled backwards in my then-favorite faery's honor. I always liked Tinkerbell because she had sass. I mean, so many other "commercialized" faeries were all ethereal and floaty and kinda doped up. As if all faeries were benevolent little sprites that lived in flowers and went around singing all the time. I became a fan of Brian Froud because of the work he did showing faeries as more than little flowery creatures, but in all their forms. So many people fail to realize how dark and subversive faeries can be. My (Imaginary?) friend and fellow Space Pirate Neverly one wrote me this absolutely beautiful poem that I am going to reprint here without her permission (Sorry Nev, but it had to be done). It gives me little chills whenever I read it.
"Apostrophe to the Good Folk For Gina"
Why must I stand exactly in the rain with
this electrical night impossibly dilating my pupils
(perhaps for love of stormy romantic nature),
when in each flash the landscaping is exposed
like a snapshot of a summer day
and I can see quite clearly this summer night
which would drown me, I think, with roaring black
in the parking lot of my apartment complex?
Why is it not enough to stand here headragged,
Swaybacked, bow-legs locked and shivering
Tender under such weather.*
How is it these are anathema�s I speak?
To please you, Lordly Ones, the only keepers
of my changeling heart and only eaters of my verse,
I must really be here soaking wet and well past midnight
for love of you?
Why If I stand merely at the waters edge and listen,
pure of heart, in terror,
do you turn away in your righteous bells
and mutter that the world of men has quite gotten me now?
Why must I shake in the baseness of flesh,
from the gross actuality of the elements?
You demand I wrack my body in return for wonder.
*considering how others would not even open their jalousies to such a
tempest.
