Why `Fairies and Arsenicˊ?

During my time at Bennington College, many of my writing professors held a similar philosophy; That the first ten minutes of class are dedicated to freewrite. You can do anything you want, relevant or not, so long as the pen does not stop moving. Sometimes, remarkable things would come out. Most of the time, an outlet for journaling. Although, as I get older, I learn the importance of those outlet nothing pieces.

It's fascinating, to me, at least, the work that you as a creative cling on to, but don't know why. For me, it was a scrap paper I was handed in a ten minute freewrite in Camille Guthrie in the last two months of my degree studies. I was going through a particular rough patch, desperate for a job, publications, and a place to go home to after graduating. All of these factors were up in the air, and the only thing I could seem to write were little snippets of thought. Every time I would write one, I would be furious at myself for not creating something of more merit, shoving the outlet nothing pieces in the bottom of my tote bag.

Two months before I graduated, Camille slid a green construction paper across to my seat, and cheerfully announced it was freewrite time. I took out my gel pens, reserved for note taking and doodling, and got to work. I was particularly bitter this day, waiting for responses from jobs I had applied to a month before (and, still, to this day, have not heard back from most of them) and scared for what was next. I doodled angrily all over the page, the pen almost breaking through the other side. I write: It's devastating, but it's normal. All just arsenic and old lace.

I recall staring at the paper and feeling still. It was there; how I felt, and it was so simple, and I understood it completely. I decided to throw it away, but instead, my hands moved it to the back of my class journal, where it sat, and followed me from Vermont to accompany me to Massachusetts, New York, and back to Connecticut to settle. There were multiple times throughout this shifting of cards that I had found the scrap paper, really stared at it, and then would put it back down gently.

It's devastating, but it's normal. All just arsenic and old lace.

I believe, now, that this has stuck with me as a reminder. Life is a beast, often unforgiving and loud and merciless, but we all know this. It has been parroted to all of us since we barely understood what words were, let alone the power they hold. Life is supposed to be all of these things. But, life is also about breathing. It's about turning back to our history and admiring the people who have paved our lives into what we look back at today. People from last year, 100 years ago, from just this morning on the street, our ancestors lost to the folds of written history and exist simply through genes as proof. That's the old lace. The old lace is the people who have instilled into you that life is hard, and the arsenic is from the teeth that prove that sentiment true. 

When creating this blog, I wanted the title to be `Arsenic and Lace,ˊ to thank the outlet nothing piece that stuck to my journal over two years and now lives atop my dresser. To my surprise, though, Arsenic and Old Lace already exists in the title of the cult classic movie from 1944. I have never heard of it! It made me wonder how the phrase got lodged into my brain; perhaps I saw it on a flier on campus for an old movie screening and hadn't processed it? Perhaps I found the imagery from the poster in a collage book or an archive. Perhaps, it was a coincidence, but when you're looking for an individual, working title for your blog and portfolio, you really don't want something that hinders you from being the first search. So it was back to the drawing board.

I knew that I wanted a title that was professional, juxtapositional, and reflective of me. So I got to thinking about what else in my life could hold the same value as lace for my reminder that I never wanted to forget, and my thoughts turned to my grandmother.

My grandmother was my favorite person on the entire planet. When I was born, we were living in a big family house, my grandparents upstairs, and my mom, dad, and me on the bottom floor. As the story goes, I was an awful baby. I would scream relentlessly, all hours of the day, and the only solution anyone could come up with that would yield was hand her to grandma! It was as simple as that. I would always stop crying, but only for her.

My grandmother had beautiful, hand painted fairy figurines hanging above the sink in the kitchen. I can't say for sure, but I believe that this was the start of my love for fairies. I would build fairy houses, craft potions, create lore for the fairies that would visit me in the backyard. Everyone lent into it, of course, but none more so than my grandmother. She would create props, wings, songs, and rituals for us to do with the fairies, and would make little gifts for me to find after the fact. In elementary school I created a very elaborate and brutal game for other girls and me where we roleplayed fairies, spanning over all of the years. If you have ever been around a feral little girl with an idea, I'm sure you can get a vibe for what these recess sessions had in store.

By middle school, I was the weird girl who couldn't let go of my childish interests. By high school, I decided I was too cool for fairies. By college, I made my phone wallpaper Two Fairies Embracing in a Landscape with a Swan (c.1900) by Hans Zatzka. I was hanging out with a girl I had met on move in day a few weeks later, and I noticed her phone wallpaper was Fairy Dance (c.1859) by Zatzka. We both, of course, freaked over the similarity, and decided at the same time that we would create a college radio show and name in Fairy Picnic.

Pretty soon, and certainly after 3 years of being on the air, I was known as the fairy girl on campus. I wore makeup looks I affectionately called drawing on my face, and wore clothes with the sole intention of always looking cooler, more ethereal, than the day before. In reclaiming fairies, and using it as my source of creativity on the campus, it rooted me closer to my soul and inner child, and those roots tie me to my grandmother, who was taken all too sudden and soon, in a horrific and sudden twist of the knife. It connects me to my old friend, whom I think of with love and a bit of salt. It connects me to Bennington College, forever, and leaves me with the hostile emptiness that rests on my chest. That's what life is. Fairies and arsenic.