I am not an Uberperson but I sure as hell want to be.
From that hazy afternoon at Le Cirque, with Jocelyn, gulping our coffees amidst earnest conversation about some stupid movie I'd seen (Renaissance Man) that had given me an idea...
We were going to be Renaissance People.
Writers, poets, philosophers, strong members of community (but not THIS community), leaders, thinkers, dreamers, lovers...
Jocelyn was a masseuse, I was halfway through my third year of Comp Sci, still hating myself for haven turned down pre-med at McGill. I'd learned to juggle on my year-in-exchange in France, I was teaching her how. We both know how to make stained glass, she taught me how to raise an eyebrow at soft men (and bring them scurrying).
I taught her how to roll her own cigarettes and make origami roses, she taught me the art of leaning back as a beatnik in a cafe.
John taught me that it's okay to be selfish sometimes, and do things because they're just plain fun (though I'm still having trouble with that one). I taught him how to cry.
Thousands of people have taught me millions of things, and I'm still hurling myself full-tilt at dreams and goals that are sometimes as insubstantial as spilled vodka.
I am not an uberperson, but oh how desperately I want to be.
Steven asked me when I will know that I've done what I've wanted to do.
Aside from the easy answer "it's never finished" - I will know when all the nightmares I've caused and seen - have taught me how to keep the scars from other people, without blinding them.
Without turning this into a Brave New World.
Last night, drenched and sore and half-irate at the new DJ's inability to mix two songs minus the dead-air, watching cf as if he were a memory from the old gallery days (never stop dancing like that, cf), watching the boys from zks lose themselves amid the leather and vynil writhing of the floor, feeling the velvet swallowtails of my gothing vest whirl out behind me as I spasmed and lost myself to a KMFDM song that used to mean so much more to me...
Last night, I lay my head on Ollie's lap and let him stroke my hair whilst I watched the tumult around me.
I remembered the days when I had the sides of my head shaved like that stunning dream of a girl with her fists in the air, I remembered the shocking pink streaks that once adorned my temples.
I have nothing of that left but my tattoos, but I know that they will never leave me.
And I know that this shock of plainly-coloured hair is all for something, and when I am at my most confident, I know that I will not be swallowed by the mundane fray.
I hope.
One day, we will all be uberpeople. Beginning with Methybeth and Preacher Bob and ending with whichever body replaced mine in the subway entrance last winter.
One day, when Marc tells me that I "rock", I will believe him, and he will believe me too...