The Missing Box

Bianca Foss, came home from a night out and wrote a poem for all the world to see on facebook. 10am the next morning, she received two unexpected visitors at her door. Her Aunt and older Brother’s Girlfriend had come to voice a serious disturbance “we are here because of facebook” they told her “we have some concerns about your mental health”

“They were dressed in all black and wearing sunglasses” says Foss “they looked like a Men-In-Black* funeral patrol” Foss was shocked at there dead pan expressions as they expressed their believe Foss was mental unstable for writing avant-garde facebook poetry. Foss said she felt hurt by her family, and shaken that they were quite certain of the 'mental illness' exposed by her poem.

HEY WORLD, I’M NOT FUCKING DONE WITH YOU YET.

GET IN MY BELLY YOU FREAKAZOID, CAUSE IT TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE.

-Bianca Foss

This is exactly why I perceive facebook as horrifying to the arts. To quote an old friend, this is a classic case of FREAKS VS SQUARES.

Dear Bianca,

Don’t feel so bad. This is the oldest story in the book. Really! In Joseph Campbell’s “Hero with a Thousand Faces” we are informed of the path of the artist, or the philosopher, or the prophet.

The enlightened one goes out from there tribal community to endure several lessons and ventures back to share new discoveries. They are often met with fear and can be hurt or sometimes killed.

The way of the artist is not a choice. It is to be born with a sensation of being incredibly empathetic and close to the human condition as well as exceedingly dislaunched from it. It is to use the eye of one who is compelled to its subject, feeling within all parts of the matter and soulfully studying the thing from a distance, as to see it for a whole.

Ultimately we are breed to help the progression of humanity, but are commonly met with misunderstanding and resistance.

If a woman wrote a poem in the woods with no one around would she still be crazy?

I went to a poetry reading last night, and it was okay. There were moments of beauty. Towards the end my butt fell asleep.

I had been spending most my day writing before the reading. And it was validating to be surrounded by other writers. The scene was very typical of any bay-area arts gathering; a lot of cruel narcissists looking around the room with rat faces, believing to own the world and all the people in it through the power of the written word and a cutting wit.

Even so, we were gathered around the understanding of truth within a 60 year old woman calling a cock, pen, pelican, and mugging the same experience. She does not need a poster board or a doctors note. We were there because we got it. Humanity. Enough said.

The sense of community and validation is so soothing. It is our way of replenishing our spark, because all people come from the same fire. And when there are times of being denied our place among others, it hurts. Being crazy means being marked as off the collective path. if all people were unified in the practice of masturbating on bus stops or screaming strange greetings to strangers it would not be crazy. Not to say you or I would like to do those things (most of the time), but you get the idea. the kind of crazy we are talking about is a social construct that varies from society to society.

We are born to churn the world, because of our eyes, because of our voices.

Our pain is not alien and will aid us in time.

In a perfect world every voice is heard and understood with every humor within anyone. Every emotion and idea and thing will be brought together like a rainbow going through a prism.

For now we are essential colors streaking through naked skies and dirty streets.

Don’t give up, Sister.

Love,

Alese