Thats a Dracula quote in case you were wondering.
Heres another...
"No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and dear to his heart and eye the morning can be."
You see what I'm doing? Thats right. I'm setting the tone for this post.
Oh shut up...just read.
--------------
A goth walked by me on the street today.
I was walking my dog and she paused to give him the obligatory scratch between the ears.
She looked strikingly out of place with the sun shining and the birds tweeting. I’ll spare any description of her, and let your mind default to a stock image the word Goth implies, suffice it to say I did not find her attractive. Despite this I decided to inquire about her station in life. How does one become Goth?
Ophelia Desdemona Galswinth (as she liked to be called) explained to me that she was not always this way. And that the death of a close highschool friend was her tragic undoing.
Naturally this lead her down the path of Gothery and hand crafted Ouija...
It was her introduction to a local Glamgoth legend Blodwyn Morgana that truly brought her into the fold. She said that Blodwyn showed her the bittersweet beauty in the darkest eve, and joy in absolute sadness (though this had the ring of an oxymoron, I rolled with it). He told her that true Goths existed thousands of years ago. He denied their post punk roots (and especially any association to Joy Division.)
Though I preteneded I had heard of Blodwyn, this was not true. Indeed I was growing bored with our discussion. Only when she mentioned her living selling hand carved Ouija Boards did my ears perk up.
Infact she guarantees their effectiveness (I presumed a warrantee of this sort was a rarity among todays Ouija makers, how does one prove a faulty Ouija?) She claimed she was the runner up of 2003’s Samhain competition for best beginners Ouija carve. She flatly rejected the current trend in laser carving. I nodded my head in agreement. Laser carved Ouija’s?... Please.
She insisted she frequently communicates with her deceased highschool friend. She likens the conversations to a cheaper version of Skype. But with dead people. She also claimed close affiliations with G.G Allen, Bon Scott, and Dom Deluise.
On her forehead I could see little beeds of sweat, sneaking their way out from pores burried beneath her pale white layer of makeup. Yet she kept talking, you could tell she didn’t want to stop. This goth was braving warm afternoon sunlight for an impromptu sidewalk discussion with a complete stranger?
Goths aren’t supposed emote. Brood yes. Share no.
Was she lonely? Looking for a connection. A person to share all the minutiae of goth life, to validate her existence. Perhaps she thought that person could be me, if only just for a moment.
But I couldn’t be what she needed, and I had to let her go and get back to my world of computers and drycleaning. Of work and personal expectations. Of defining my own odd little subculture for others to scoff at.
When I interrupted her and told her I needed to move on, she gave me her card. It was a fanciful little Ouija board[1] illustration on one side and her email address on the other. I thought to myself that OpheliaDesdemonaGalswinth@hotmail.com was a very long name to type in.
I took her card and told her to give my best to Blodwyn.
She surprised me with a big Goth hug that left a streak of white makeup on my cheek.
0 comments:
Post a Comment