What I have to date in my most concrete notes(not their entirety that will still be highly edited) concerning Helga are as follows:
When I was a youngster, I wondered what I belonged to. America, being a ethnological jambalaya, encompassed the quirky diversity of my family. My father came from a line of Germans who straddled the German and French border, and also had connections with the Dutch. Like Austin Power's faja says, "You can never trust a Dutchman", and my mother caught on to this notion quickly. She left my father when I was four, and married a man who reigned from Italia years later. War was ever constant between my parents, and caught between the blood-thirsty origins of the Dutch, the Germans, the French, and Italians, I became my own little Switzerland: a peace loving mediator protected by the Alps of Indecision.
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs (my dad actually had apple trees so isn't that big of a rip off) I'd often make like Tom Sawyer and get myself, and if I was lucky, my sister in trouble. My sister and I looked nothing alike. Where she was dark, beautiful and mysterious, I was blonde, pale, skinny, and actually rather goofy looking; it wasn't a stretch to compare me to taut preteen Swiss boy.
Not to say I was always that way.
As a baby I was reasonably cute, with blue eyes and chubby cheeks working in my favor.
When I got older though, I stretched into a bean pole and went through what people refer to as an "awkward phase". My nose and body elongated and I simultaneously shrank into a tall, lanky, boney-nosed ragamuffin. It really put a damper on Elvis-impersonating career aspirations.
I decided to become an amalgamation of Shirley Temple and Fred Astaire instead with dreams of conquering the country one tap dance at a time.
The pizazz appeal held over for a while, but soon them glitters was gold no longer and I came away being only a little less klutzy than before. Shirley Temple and her Jesus had stolen the mojo Elvis's pelvis once had, and it was time to regain my cool back.
I turned to Johnny Cash and his compadre Bob Dylan.
Trading in my golden curls and tap shoes for a mess of Bobby D hair and a suit of black, I had changed my sandpaper grit from vaseline to a cat's tongue in no time.
Another excerpt:
As an artist in the 21st century with the previous two centuries to live up to, in order to survive it is imperative to have a leg up on the competition. In the modern age, it sometimes takes more than one person, or a reinvention of one’s self to do so. In the past I've wondered if I'd want others to read about my experiences, and how I would juggle between privacy and public knowledge. I've wondered whether I'd want my grandparents to read about my failed relationships in gruesome detail, or questionable experiences in vulgar sarcasm. It led me to question what I want to share. What do I want to proclaim? Am I a vagabond brazenly preaching or am I an introvert desperately seeking a confidant?
Perhaps I'm a closet vagabond. I like that.
When I was a kid, I wanted to run away and live on the river as an outlaw a la Mark Twain, Shirley Temple, or Butch & Sundance. The appeal of escape and the freedom of character it brings has always been there. Samuel Clemens did it by becoming Mark Twain, Marcel Duchamp became Rrose Selavy, Charles Dodson became Lewis Carroll, and Robert Zimmerman became Bob Dylan. With the name came a persona, a completely separate identity that compensated for the mediocre shortcomings one had before their new self-invention, or liberated facet of their true self. One was no longer tied to the creative limitations society dictated, because their new creation took the rap for them to be as outlandish, inventive, and eccentric as one so chose to be. It is in this spirit of reinvention and eccentric liberty that I unveil Helga Minelli, and her conception.
I have my notes for the bus stories I've been working on, but they shall be posted at a different time.
As for the bus story I'm in the process of printing, here's a little preview:
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs (my dad actually had apple trees so isn't that big of a rip off) I'd often make like Tom Sawyer and get myself, and if I was lucky, my sister in trouble. My sister and I looked nothing alike. Where she was dark, beautiful and mysterious, I was blonde, pale, skinny, and actually rather goofy looking; it wasn't a stretch to compare me to taut preteen Swiss boy.
Not to say I was always that way.
As a baby I was reasonably cute, with blue eyes and chubby cheeks working in my favor.
When I got older though, I stretched into a bean pole and went through what people refer to as an "awkward phase". My nose and body elongated and I simultaneously shrank into a tall, lanky, boney-nosed ragamuffin. It really put a damper on Elvis-impersonating career aspirations.
I decided to become an amalgamation of Shirley Temple and Fred Astaire instead with dreams of conquering the country one tap dance at a time.
The pizazz appeal held over for a while, but soon them glitters was gold no longer and I came away being only a little less klutzy than before. Shirley Temple and her Jesus had stolen the mojo Elvis's pelvis once had, and it was time to regain my cool back.
I turned to Johnny Cash and his compadre Bob Dylan.
Trading in my golden curls and tap shoes for a mess of Bobby D hair and a suit of black, I had changed my sandpaper grit from vaseline to a cat's tongue in no time.
Another excerpt:
As an artist in the 21st century with the previous two centuries to live up to, in order to survive it is imperative to have a leg up on the competition. In the modern age, it sometimes takes more than one person, or a reinvention of one’s self to do so. In the past I've wondered if I'd want others to read about my experiences, and how I would juggle between privacy and public knowledge. I've wondered whether I'd want my grandparents to read about my failed relationships in gruesome detail, or questionable experiences in vulgar sarcasm. It led me to question what I want to share. What do I want to proclaim? Am I a vagabond brazenly preaching or am I an introvert desperately seeking a confidant?
Perhaps I'm a closet vagabond. I like that.
When I was a kid, I wanted to run away and live on the river as an outlaw a la Mark Twain, Shirley Temple, or Butch & Sundance. The appeal of escape and the freedom of character it brings has always been there. Samuel Clemens did it by becoming Mark Twain, Marcel Duchamp became Rrose Selavy, Charles Dodson became Lewis Carroll, and Robert Zimmerman became Bob Dylan. With the name came a persona, a completely separate identity that compensated for the mediocre shortcomings one had before their new self-invention, or liberated facet of their true self. One was no longer tied to the creative limitations society dictated, because their new creation took the rap for them to be as outlandish, inventive, and eccentric as one so chose to be. It is in this spirit of reinvention and eccentric liberty that I unveil Helga Minelli, and her conception.
I have my notes for the bus stories I've been working on, but they shall be posted at a different time.
As for the bus story I'm in the process of printing, here's a little preview:
