When I was a young girl I collected Barbies, and other trademarked dolls, usually representing a movie or television character, like Princess Leia, all three Charlie’s Angels, or Cher. I had boxes of clothing for them, a bright pink jeep and a lemon yellow motor home, and the ultimate “dream house” which had cut out holes in the roof for my hands to reach in, but no stairs or doors to any of the rooms. I had a few “men“, too, Ken with his “real” looking hair and smooth “boy mound“, and Han Solo who had painted on hair, and the outlines of a muscular frame, but still no “boy parts“.
You wander the alley reading poetry from the walls. Every word bleeds into the next, choking you, tears cutting through the cold exterior that you’ve been wearing for weeks now. Memories in the scratches and painted colors, coming alive, pulling you back into the past familiar, the broken heart recollections, the songs you once sang. I watch you from the end of the line, at the gate, in the shadows of all the barbed wire.
Perhaps I should have been a therapist. I have always been able to read people quickly, a skill that came from being the shyest one in the room as a child and adolescent, and also, I think, from seeing so much darkness as a child in people, seeing what they were capable of. I also know that it was honed even further in my late teens and early twenties both from my acting classes and from successfully hiding a drug habit. Trust me, learn to lie well and you will know how to read people well. Perhaps that would not go down in the books of advice oh "how o get along with others", but those are the things that made me as intuitive with others as I am.