Secrets

It's something that isolates us, defines us, buries us. It's something we couldn't bury, or define. Sometimes it's still happening. Sometimes it has happened. The thing that is always there. Sometimes there. Sometimes always. Lurking in whispers, and whispering in shadows.
It is something that shadows.
It is something.


And then Frank Warren invited us all. The lurkers, the isolated. The buried, the past. The now of us, the skin of us.
The shadows,
And the whispers.

The Secrets.

Frank has invited us all to share our secrets on 4 x 6 postcards of our own creating, anonymously. His website,
Postsecret, has taken the secrets that isolate us, and changed them into something released. Anyone who's mailed in their secret can attest. The process of naming it, writing it, seeing it, and then sending it off into the world is a healing experience. It's a chance to stop feeling isolated.

Dave committed suicide last week. I hadn't seen him in years. My husband knew him pretty well some time ago. He left behind a family. He left behind many questions. The only thing he took with him was his secret. What it was, I don't know.

On the aftershock of this, I drove to Ramapo College. I drove to the place in my head where secrets were being released tonight. Ramapo in Mahwah, New Jersey is a small gentle campus nestled in the woods off Route 202. It was the perfect place.




21 year old Erin says that Frank Warren is her hero. She attends Ramapo College, reads Frank's books and blog, but hasn't sent a secret in. "When it's time, I'll share." She recalls reading Frank's first book in an airport, and being hit by a secret that said Loving you saved my life.



Katie said that when she sees a secret that she could have written, it's creepy in a way. Lauren told me when she reads a secret that doesn't apply to her, "I feel relieved." They are also Ramapo students, also loyal readers of Postsecret.



They've come from across the campus and across the state.

Keri who drove 4 hours from south Jersey first heard of Frank Warren through the All American Reject's video for Dirty Little Secret. According to the band's website, they had the idea to use Postsecret postcards in their video. When they contacted Frank for permission, it was granted as long as they made a donation to the Suicide Prevention Hotline. Frank confirmed this as he spoke.



Frank is a tall man, with deep eyes filled with the nameless secrets of a million souls. 175,000 secrets have been sent to Frank at his home. It is said that he is the most trusted stranger in the world.

What do you think about when you stare into the darkness alone on your back in your bed in the night.
Who you loved, who you left. Who you hurt. Who you forgot.
Who you devastated, fucked, betrayed, worshipped.
When you disappeared.
What you took.
Where it was that you finally broke.
That one memory that still turns your stomach.
That one moment that will never cease and desist.




Frank told secrets at the exhibit. Secrets like, that 2 suicides occur for every 1 murder. Secrets like, that both men and women have secrets but that women's are better. Secrets like, which secret in his first book is actually his.

He told us that the most popular secret is, I pee in the shower.

Over 100 people were unable to get into the room to hear Frank talk. The room was packed, filled to capacity. Many of the ones who didn't get to hear Frank tell us secrets waited around outside and came in afterward to talk with Frank and have their books signed.

Arriving early at these events is key. Some come from far away, and as I understand it, can usually get in. But arriving early is key.

The event was enchanting. It was like an intimate conversation with an old friend. We heard about Frank's family, his methods, his start, his mail carrier. The table in the basement. The things that have moved him. The ways he's been effected. The many secrets, the ways they come. The lurkers. The whisperers. We heard all about ourselves.

Different postcards incited different reactions from the students and guests. But everyone laughed together at the one in the All American Rejects video that read: I cheated on my SAT's and got a scholarship.

The lies you tell, tell on you in the end.

"I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo." -Radiohead

But we're all OK.

And I'm reminded of the daisy scene in Harold and Maude. Harold compares himself to the daisies, saying they're all the same. Maude says, but they aren't. They are all unique. Beautiful. Some are shorter, some are fatter, some bend this way, some that way. Some are missing a petal. Some are just buds.

Technically, they're both right.



And that is how secrets work.
As unique and as different as the secrets are, they are what unifies us all.
In this one thing, we are together.
We are all haunted. At least a little.

We're all the secret holders,
All of us,
In the one universal whisper
called Postsecret.

It's All in the Wrist

"I have a job for you." He looks angry. He looks like he wakes up every day that way.

I can not believe I used to fuck this guy. "What is it?" I cross my legs. I look at my Cesare Paciotti's.

His desktop is a disaster. He rifles through it as if he knows exactly where every thing is. He pulls a paperback from the undertow and tosses it in front of me as he sits. He exhales as if annoyed. As if he's always annoyed. I can't believe I used to fuck this guy.

I don't look, I'm still looking at my shoes.

"That author." He gestures at the book. "He cracked a couple of weeks ago. He's taking a very long siesta. I think he said Thailand. Whatever. I need an essay, for a collection of essays. He was supposed to have it to me by Friday." He reaches behind his seat grabbing papers from the fax machine, mumbling something under his breath.

"You mean tomorrow?" I look up at him. "What's the essay supposed to be about?"

He answers me, but I can't focus. I'm looking at the novel. At the name. At the author. "YOU handle HIM? Are you kidding me?" God damn. I am so glad I used to fuck this guy.

"Yeah." He's not looking at me. He's checking his email. He's handing me a paper with the outline for the essay. He's looking at his phone which is not ringing. "See you tomorrow. 9am."

I try not to salivate. "Are you, ... you mean, ... me?"

He nods. He's making a face at his computer screen. He's typing. "How do you spell disist? Cease and disist. D - I - "

"This is for real? This isn't a joke, to get back at me for dumping you?" I'm frozen. My hands are shaking.

He's looking back and forth between the keyboard and the computer screen. "I dumped you. And, that was 16 years ago. And, no this is not a joke." He moves his mouse and then makes a brushing motion with his hand as if he's shooing me. "Now go. Write."



Nine o'clock AM his assistant shows me back into his office. He's on the phone. He looks up at me and says, "I gotta go." He hangs up and motions for me to sit. I'm back in front of his desk. I'm back, in my Cesare Paciotti's. My mouth dry. My hands clutching a folder.

"Veronica, I'm sorry. He submitted his essay on time. It was here when I got in this morning. I had no idea he'd meet the deadline."

My face must show my disappointment. "I see." I nod and try to stand but my legs aren't cooperating just yet.

He gently takes the folder from my grip. He slows down. He finds a minute he doesn't have. And he reads. He gives it his full attention.

When he's done he carefully hands it back to me and smiles. "If it means anything to you, yours is actually better than his." He looks at me with kindness.

"Liar." I smile.

I completely remember why I used to fuck this guy.





“I remember holding you while you sleep.”
-Badfinger



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Sun Shower

He hands me a towel as I emerge wet.
He prefers moments to promises.
He's not hung up on that whole completion thing.
He's not hung up on forever.

He hates commitment and will not let you forget that.
He draws your nakedness. With no promise. With one moment.
He can make you believe that moment is all there is.
He'll make you believe because he believes.
And maybe he's right.
Just maybe, he's right.

He drives an Alfa Romeo Spider.
His dog is very cool.
He drinks Samuel Adams.
He's not lonely.

He prefers moments to promises.
He'll make you believe because he believes.
He hands me a towel as I emerge wet.

I'm Impressed. Anyone Else?

"hate is an interesting thing. It's just as contagious and deadly, if not more contagious and deadlier than any plague. In my opinion, it is the only plague. not a plague cast by a higher power, but a plague cast from grown to young. hate is a movement and it has to be stopped. It is transferred to innocent minds that know no better.

the sad part is, the ones doing the transferring were once innocent-minded their self. which brings me to my point slash question. at what point is someone responsible for their own hate? for the hate they were taught to have for their fellow man. at what point is someone not responsible to think for themselves? to think maybe the hate they were taught might be wrong? take gay bashing for instance. at what age, at what point in someones life are they inexcusably wrong for gay bashing?

no one is born a basher. no one is. one of the main ingredients in the recipe of homophobia is fear. at what point is fear excusable? I myself don't have the answer. all I have are the questions. some idea, but mostly question.

the most important thing to remember, when faced with hate- is just to remember who you are. ask yourself if the person doing the hating really knows you. If what they're saying is the truth, or merely a jab at you. an attack to do anything to get to you.

these people do, and always have reminded me of the poor unfortunate souls from the movie 'The Little Mermaid', because if you think about it, all they're trying to do is drag you down. they want to drag you down in hopes of making you feel as miserable as they are.

haters are some of the most lost and sensitive people out there. they're lost because they don't know how to stop doing something they were taught. they're sensitive because deep down they know it's wrong, and they're paranoid someone might call them out on it. haters are just waiting to be set straight. they're usually the loudest, because in their own minds, they're the quietest. they can't think for themselves. they have everyone elses opinions and voices in their heads."

- Chris Crocker, Age: 19

Words on Words

"I don't want reviews,
I want an audience."
- Garp, The World According to Garp


"If I could write, I'd feel better. Maybe."
- Roberta, The World Acording to Garp


"I wrote a book. And then another.
And people seemed to like it.
Thats when Hollywood came knockin' at my back door.
As soon as I cashed that check I wrapped my lips around that mighty erection that is the film industry and sucked hard just like a good whore should."
- Hank Moody, Californication


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Fecundity

Me - When I was little and we'd drive through Jersey, I would see the signs that say, 'The Oranges,' and I thought wow that family is so big they actually need their own exit off the highway to handle all the company they get.

LD - That's cute. When I was little, I thought New York was it's own country. When my parents would say, 'We're going to the country,' I thought it meant we were leaving our country, and going to the other country, which was all the rest of the world outside of New York.

Me - That's funny. The United States of New York.

LD - Right. We should invite the Oranges to come for a visit.

Me - The whole world is just as big as it is small.

LD - Ain't that the truth.




There was an old lady who swallowed a fly
I don't know why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I don't know why she swallowed the fly
Perhaps she'll die.

...

There was an old lady who swallowed a cow
I don't know how she swallowed a cow
She swallowed the cow to catch the goat
She swallowed the goat to catch the dog
She swallowed the dog to catch the cat
She swallowed the cat to catch the bird
She swallowed the bird to catch the spider
That wriggled and jiggled and wiggled inside her
She swallowed the spider to catch the fly
I don't know why she swallowed that fly
Perhaps she'll die.

There was an old lady who swallowed a horse
She's dead of course.

-Author Unknown

The Story

"I was really stabbed in the back, by five different friends. And each time it was a total shock. Isn't that stupid?" There's Irish Bailey's in my coffee. There's too much pepper on my eggs. There are five tales I'm not telling.

"It's not stupid. It's trusting." There's a Bloody Mary in his hand. There's a job on the table. All tales aside, there's a story.

"It's affected my ability to be a friend and to have a friend. I'm the perfect person to write this for you." I get it. I see it. I sip the coffee and give him a grin. "Your plot is pretty sick. This thing is fucked up and brilliant."

He laughs a little and has to look away for a moment. There's a vulnerability. There's a shyness. I saw the story in that one second. I saw the whole thing.

The line of his jaw exaggerates as he smiles. "There's something about the plot that doesn't quite work. I don't want to lose that. I worked hard for that. I don't want it to suddenly flow. I want to keep it the way it is." There's a story. And it's not the one he thinks.

I nod, a mouth full of toast. "Right where it's about to connect, it flies off in a totally unexpected direction that goes against nature. And the reader is left with his mouth open, thinking- what the fuck. And then you reel it back in. You pull the plot back, and it begins to come together. Until the next chapter when- BAM! It splinters apart again." Because that's how life is. It doesn't all make sense. It doesn't all flow.

He laughs out loud. This time he keeps looking at me. He's frighteningly beautiful. There's a disarming. There's another level.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. He leans in. He's closer. "I know you get it. That's why I know you can write it. And it will still be mine." And he still hasn't mentioned the real story. But he's closer. There is a book. And then, there is a story.

"Exactly." This is why the ghost is the image. This is why the ghost is the Word.

"I want to ask you something." There's a wetness to his voice. There's an earth I used to know.

I lean forward. Closing in on the closer between us. "What."

"I know you get this book,
and I know you can write this book.
But do you like this book?"

There is a difference between a nod and a smile.
There is a thirst.
And this is the story.





"And the sound we make together
is the music to the story in your eyes."
- Moody Blues

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Liar Passed

I probably went in around 10 or 11 pm.
His friends were there,
He wasn't.
But I knew it wouldn't be long
Before he was summoned.
Before he was told I was there.
I knew he wanted to talk to me
Over a misconception
An inaccurate thought
A piece of information he had
That was just plain wrong.

So I wasn't surprised
When he arrived.
He started some shit
Because he was young and reactive.
He was full of himself
As well as piss and beer.
And when I combated every Word
With elegance and grace
He was startled.
And quieted.
To a degree.
And then he asked if we could go
Someplace private
And talk.

And I said all right.

We were open,
Without veils.
We were our own secret.
The flow of understanding was special.
Even now,
Even now I can't deny that.

We straightened out misconceptions.
We shared fears.
We talked about dead grandmothers,
And doorways.
And powers, and energy.
We talked about banishings.

We talked until 8:00 in the morning.

When we said good bye
I still wanted more.
There was an exhaustion,
But there was also a rescuing
A clear and ethereal connection.

I'm older than he is.
I've experienced a thing or two
That he hasn't.
I've had connections before.
I'm not discounting the magic.
I'm just saying.

It was obvious
That he had not.
It was obvious,
That he was blown away
Probably for
The very first time.
Impressed would be an understatement.

Afterward he was this docile creature with me.
He had lost his bluster.
He had lost his attitude.
He had lost his distance.

The experience spun him around.
And I believe that it was through that spinning,
Through that headspace,
Through that release,
That he was able to find
The courage to come clean.

He confessed.
It was all a lie.
He wasn't at all
Who he had said that he was.

I tried to take the higher road.

The friends we shared at the time
Will tell you.
I tried to accept it
For what it was.
He had lied,
He was sorry,
But the connection was still there, right?

No.
It had diminished without forgiveness.

I couldn't get passed
How disgusted I was.
My heart had changed.
And it all fell apart.

Some friends took his side,
Some took mine.
Fewer took mine.
For,
He had been more popular.
And while I kept quiet
He told everyone.
Every one.
With his own spin.

And people grew up.
And people changed.
And left.
And the place we knew closed down.
And soon no one was in touch with anyone,
Except for a small handful of people stuck.
Picture basement apartments in their parent's houses.
Picture resentment brewing
As the world went on
And they didn't.
Picture unemployment
And way too much free time and energy
To think about things.
Picture nothing.

At one time
Years later,
Years ago,
I did try to reach out again.
I tried to make amends.
Honestly, I can't tell you the reasons.
But I will admit it was partly
Out of the curiosity
As to whether or not
I could.

Basically,
I could.

He didn't make it easy.
And then came the point
Where we were both done,
And shoved off hard.

Sometimes you stand in the doorway
And you watch as someone leaves
Fading away into the distance.
And sometimes you aren't even looking.



"I tried to hang on to the past,
But I couldn't keep my grasp.
Nothing lasts."
-Matthew Sweet

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