Two Headed Boy“This song is for somebody that a lot of people lost this last week. This is for somebody named Jack."
John Cameron Mitchell said
He’s hoping that by doing Hedwig again
He’ll get himself out of the rut he’s in
He says he thinks it’ll be the thing to finally liven him
From the death he’s still mourning
I was right
And I didn’t want to be
When I guessed that the Jack who died
To whom he dedicated his rendition of ‘Two Headed Boy’ to
Would have to be his soulmate of sorts
Since given the context of Origin of Love
Why else would he sing a song of that title to someone
And I cannot pretend I know how he feels
But I hope this works
And I hope Hedwig saves him
Because I know it saved me
I'm Bringing My 16 Bar Cuts Along Just In CaseIf ever I were able
To get back into Musical Theatre
I think I would be bound to be the sort
Whose fervor overpowers their form
Like Elaine Stritch or Alice Ripley
And I think it helps going in thinking that
Since those two are outliers of sorts
In a world that now is demanding Sutton Fosters
Yet there is that glimmer of hope
Which I’m not yet ready to let go of
Flaunting Your Sexual OrientationOkay
For the first time ever
My dad acknowledged my Queerness
But he did so by saying,
“So your mom told me
You were going around
…Sexual Orientation… or whatever…
Don’t do that.”
And since I didn’t want my last words to him
Before I left for New York
To be an argument
I just nodded
It was the best conversation we’ve had in ages
And I didn’t want to ruin it
I don’t know
Don't Tell MamaIn the new Facebook that I made
I put my pronouns as They/Them
And my Gender as Genderqueer
I’m not informing my Mum of this
I’ll befriend some family members
So the word might get out
But as for now
It seems, I suppose, I’m closeted
But she’s proven to me
She cares more about Grammar
Than an individual’s wants and needs
And considering some of the stuff she’s said
I cannot trust her with this
I absolutely can’t
I used to be narrow-minded enough to think
Before I felt the deep inherent pain of Queerness
That those who don’t come out
Are somehow less sincere
I regret ever thinking that, obviously
But she’s expressed so much anger and disapproval
At who she knows me to be already
That tacking on another “radical rebellion”
Would hurt her, so she’d hurt me
All unintentional and supposedly well-meaning
Yet hurt is hurt
And I’m wise enough to know
That’s the last thing in the world right now
It would only dr
20 Minute Call From My Former New Yorker AuntAlert at all times
Aware of bags
Student Rush Tickets Opera
Don’t just think in terms of Spoken Theatre
They need Wizards too
And at the Ballet
Still a Catholic College
I don’t know where you are with the church
But they are a resource to you
All infatuations End
It is a brutal place
Takes great pride in chewing people up
And spitting them out
Don’t think it will love you back
Don’t be closed from any options
If opportunities arise that aren’t in theatre
If you’re interested, don’t ignore them
Don’t overlook throwaway papers
Get to know main library
It is a palace
Go to the Met
Free or reduced with Student
I still love New York
Parts of it
It’s an experience unlike any other
You’ll never forget it
Forty-Seven YearsThis year
Is the same age
As Ruth from ‘Pirates of Penzance’
That makes me really happy
Like-ability Is Vastly OverratedIt seems my mum is getting less tolerant with each passing day
Because she keeps insisting I oughtn’t be shoving her face in my identities
She says she just wants to protect me
And un-ironically quotes Hedwig senior,
“To be free one must give up a little part of one’s self”
And that little part, in her mind seems to mean my agency
The fire inside myself that says I ought to use this voice of mine
To call out awfulness in spite of the consequences I might face
I tell myself I ought to be strong like Eartha Kitt
She dealt with difficulties that likely wouldn’t have erupted had she kept quiet
But I know from the residual discomfort I feel from Columbia
The effects that occur within myself when I allow myself to keep quiet are far worse
I tell her, as kindly as I can, that I don’t want to end up like her
She proclaims herself a bleeding heart hippy
Yet refuses to take a stand that is anything other than what the news anchors recite
And only laments injus
Hedwig Is NOT HeteroI know everyone’s opinions and interpretations are valid
But on a visceral emotional level
Hedwig IS about Queerness
The show as a whole donated to a Queer Youth Housing Organization
And the movie is mentioned in:
'Fabulous! The Story of Queer Cinema’
and 'Another Gay Movie’
There’s an academic journal about Hedwig through a trans lens
And I genuinely want to write my book-
‘Wicked Little Town: Why Hedwig Means So Much To Sad Queer Kids’
It might happen someday (NaNoWriMo)
And as for me now
I think I need Hedwig now more than ever
And it’s lucky for me
I’ll be in NYC at the same time as the return of the original Queen
I’m writing that letter whether I get to see JCM’s Hedwig live or not
It's OkayIt's okay to be sad.
It's okay to be mad.
It's okay to cry,
To not have the strength to try.
Sometimes people just need to
Let it all out,
Scream and shout,
And that's okay.
Admitting something's wrong
Doesn't take your strength away.
Ask for help
If you need it.
Don't feel weak
Just because you
Enough to move mountains.
Crying is good.
If you didn't cry
Just bottle it up
Until you burst.
You don't even
Need a reason
Just have a good cry.
Take a long bath
And watch a movie
That makes you laugh.
Bake a cake
Just for the sake
Of making something.
Lay in bed
Until the bad thoughts
Leave your head.
Just sit back and relax.
Because it's okay
To not be okay,
And to take a day
Just for you.
Words Are Powerful ThingsYou’re so angry
You let words swarm up inside.
Screaming to get out.
They yell and shout.
They sit there,
Turning into horrid things that should never be even whispered,
In the softest tone.
You get so angry
Cause you’re so afraid.
Like so many other people
You let your fear burst into rage.
The monstrous words inside of you
Refuse to remain in their cages.
You let those words escape your lips,
All of the sudden you feel like your words have killed someone.
As you see their face.
Words are suddenly bullets.
They’ve pierced your victim’s heart.
Fragments of a once pretty, friendship scatter on the floor.
The pieces so broken, I doubt you could find all of the shards to make it whole again.
There’s a slamming of a door.
Whether that be real,
Or just a metaphor.
To say you’ve been locked out,
From this once dear friend of yours.
I hope one day.
You’ll find better words
To form a key.
So you can find your way back to them.
I am LostMy thoughts are orcas
Trapped in bathtubs.
Within microcosms -
Stuck, glued tight,
Melting like Dali's clock,
In a cock fight
With my conscience.
Sometimes I forget
All that regret
Burning through -
A pain so forever
That I hardly ever
Feel it anymore.
A cut so deep and quick
That it stops -
Time is static -
Before it bleeds.
Fluttering in the wind.
So much to see.
My heart is vacant,
My lungs made of lead
And both are my enemies
Because I'd rather be dead.
But no I wouldn't.
I'm fake, made of a paper -
A corporate rock whore -
And I don't know
What I stand for.
But maybe I don't have to
Stand for anything -
A word without a definition
Still leaves a mark
On pure paper.
A meaningless spark
Can still become a fire.
A tickle of love
Can still become desire.
untitledthere are a thousand
unwritten love letters in your eyes
now I keep thinking about
and the color green
all I know is that
my skull's been
warriors traversing well worn paths
boots leaving tracks across
chests and necks
and it's comfortable
it's not like drowning
more like slowly lowering
into hot bathwater
and we are just skin and cosmos
bodies and words
our tongues landlocked
we are adrift in
our own little sea
we've plucked our wings
and now we can't fly
tell me the truth
that the sky's overrated
I'd rather be with you
on the ground
or buried beneath it
skeletons entwined truthfully
I've always thought heaven was
a pretty sort of lie
but I've read a book or two
or people's idea of it
and I disagree with myself
popping thought balloons
on the idea that heaven
is in the way your eyes
fold origami swans when you smile
that shitty laugh
that hollow above your heart
like your chest's caving i
Happy Songs on the RadioI don't write about happy things.
I don't listen to songs about romance.
I can't feel what the artist is singing so passionately about.
The longing to know what it's like makes me want to scream and shout.
The way people write and lace words together,
About how happy and perfect they see the world.
Has always been a stranger to me.
I wish I could see,
The way you did.
I really do.
I wish I could feel the same way as you.
To be able to hear the lyrics,
'I love you'
And picture someone to match those three words.
I wish I could hear these songs,
About how everything is perfect.
Absolutely nothing is wrong.
But I can't.
I hear those songs and I feel empty.
Because I can't feel what they're saying.
And I keep listening,
But I am just wasting my time
Trying but failing to relate.
When I hear the songs on the radio.
They make me squirm in my seat.
I feel happy but sad.
Something so bitter sweet.
Because part of me feels so happy for the person.
Who sings so happily.
But another, darker half.
novelthere’s tea you still need to drink.
you left it on the counter again, because you’re
always forgetting where you put it.
it’s probably cold by now, but
it’s there for whenever you’re ready.
here’s a blanket to lose yourself in.
you don’t have to give it back.
here’s another book i think
will make you cry if i ever find the courage
to give it to you. i’ve underlined every
line that made me want to scream, that made me
want to rip out my hair and destroy everything
beautiful about myself, that made me want to
drive across a desert in the middle of the night,
that made me fall in love with everything wonderful
the universe has left to give me.
i can’t find the words to tell you what it’s about.
i guess it’s about growing up and finding love
but it’s also about figuring out how to exist comfortably
and it’s about people who are good and people who
are not always good and the things they do and the worlds t
I was so mean, my god was I mean, and you were the innocent archetype. You were never that open, or naive after that year. I feel like I broke you, but it took me so long to realize, and now I cannot apologize since, I'm sure, you don't remember. Many of the people I hurt don't remember me, but my words shaped their souls and I wish I could take all that back. It's true, you know, those that are hurt tend to hurt others, but you are anomalistically kind, and I wish I could be as devoted to anything in life as you were to everything. You'll make it I swear, even while I am stuck. I'll be your Renfield, perhaps then I'll earn your forgiveness.