After many pokings from various friends, a long explanation about why I got defensive about assumptions made about me on Facebook and wanting to add another post about Woman's history before Woman's History Month 2013 was over; I've decided to write about me. YAY! (Be excited damnit!)
Several people have told me after an antidote or two about my life has been divulged, that I should write a book. So I am going to give this a whirl in, at very least, blog form. Forgive me if this is disjointed, or confusing, I'll do my best to be as linear as possible, but I am gonna also write about what I remember best first probably...except for the beginning, I guess I can give you a vague idea of the beginning.
My parents are from Chicago, they met sometime in the spring or summer of 1967 I believe. At a party, they met at a party that my dad's roommates were having at the place they lived. In a house they bought collectively with money they made selling sheets of acid to the party community of Chicago. The house was on Altgeld Ave, and Lincoln. A few lots in from the street, but just around the corner from the legendary Biograph Theater where John Dillinger was shot. He always said it was fate, love at first sight. That voices told him it was her he was meant to spend the rest of his life with, but that is perhaps for another time, before I melt into a puddle of tears...
My mother moved to Quebec, Canada with her family when her father's job moved him there. My daddy moved to Los Angeles. Why, I'm not exactly sure...adventure I suppose...it didn't occur to me when running over this idea of biography in my mind how many questions were going to come up or how sad it was going to make me to not have my parents to ask...fuck. Especially since my father is still so alive in my mind that I could just call him...but, he is in fact no longer there to call...fuck.
Anyhow, I was born OK? In January of 1982, at UCLA hospital in Westwood California. I was both conceived and raised in Venice, California. I lived there till I was 18 and we were thrown out. My entire 31 years on this planet and I have moved 4 times and lived within a 30 mile radius of where I was born. I have a few, very specific memories of my young years, most of my real memory of my life comes in after the age of 11. My boyfriend thinks this is funny, and we've talked about how funny memories are because he is excatly the opposite.
One of my very first memories is of stepping on a bee, in order to kill it I suppose, and the stinger sticking in my big toe of my left foot. My older sister was with me (here I guess I should mention I am the middle child. I have one older sister, 11 years my senior and 1 younger sister, 1.5 years my junior. Odd age separations my mother informed me due to all of us being mistakes), I think she was the one to pull the stinger out. I have vague memory of her yelling across the lawn at my mom that I stepped on a bee. I think we were standing next to the night blooming jasmine plant in the north-west corner of the yard that wrapped all the way around the duplex we lived in, but I may be wrong here.
The lot where I grew up is still there. The house (well, apartment actually) is not. It was torn down by the people that bought the building after we were evicted in June 2000. It is a large, artsy, glass two story monstrosity reminiscent of Delia Deetz's dream home in Beetlejuice...
Several people have told me after an antidote or two about my life has been divulged, that I should write a book. So I am going to give this a whirl in, at very least, blog form. Forgive me if this is disjointed, or confusing, I'll do my best to be as linear as possible, but I am gonna also write about what I remember best first probably...except for the beginning, I guess I can give you a vague idea of the beginning.
My parents are from Chicago, they met sometime in the spring or summer of 1967 I believe. At a party, they met at a party that my dad's roommates were having at the place they lived. In a house they bought collectively with money they made selling sheets of acid to the party community of Chicago. The house was on Altgeld Ave, and Lincoln. A few lots in from the street, but just around the corner from the legendary Biograph Theater where John Dillinger was shot. He always said it was fate, love at first sight. That voices told him it was her he was meant to spend the rest of his life with, but that is perhaps for another time, before I melt into a puddle of tears...
My mother moved to Quebec, Canada with her family when her father's job moved him there. My daddy moved to Los Angeles. Why, I'm not exactly sure...adventure I suppose...it didn't occur to me when running over this idea of biography in my mind how many questions were going to come up or how sad it was going to make me to not have my parents to ask...fuck. Especially since my father is still so alive in my mind that I could just call him...but, he is in fact no longer there to call...fuck.
Anyhow, I was born OK? In January of 1982, at UCLA hospital in Westwood California. I was both conceived and raised in Venice, California. I lived there till I was 18 and we were thrown out. My entire 31 years on this planet and I have moved 4 times and lived within a 30 mile radius of where I was born. I have a few, very specific memories of my young years, most of my real memory of my life comes in after the age of 11. My boyfriend thinks this is funny, and we've talked about how funny memories are because he is excatly the opposite.
One of my very first memories is of stepping on a bee, in order to kill it I suppose, and the stinger sticking in my big toe of my left foot. My older sister was with me (here I guess I should mention I am the middle child. I have one older sister, 11 years my senior and 1 younger sister, 1.5 years my junior. Odd age separations my mother informed me due to all of us being mistakes), I think she was the one to pull the stinger out. I have vague memory of her yelling across the lawn at my mom that I stepped on a bee. I think we were standing next to the night blooming jasmine plant in the north-west corner of the yard that wrapped all the way around the duplex we lived in, but I may be wrong here.
The lot where I grew up is still there. The house (well, apartment actually) is not. It was torn down by the people that bought the building after we were evicted in June 2000. It is a large, artsy, glass two story monstrosity reminiscent of Delia Deetz's dream home in Beetlejuice...
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