The Book of a Teenager 2006

Book0fTeenagerThe lettering on the cover of this little book is in an oriental language. Only the first four pages have been written in ~ in English ~ by, it seems, a young female student at a school somewhere in North Vancouver. She had left the book behind the back row seating of a #210 bus that I happened to get on at Phibbs Exchange. The book contains no identification. But inside the front cover is written a quotation by a Ralph Miller whose name means nothing to me:
The only thing you get to be is who you are.

The next page contains the rules for the journal:

1. The secrets have to be true and honest.
2. If you write a secret it will have to be neat and tidy.
3. If you disobey these rules you can’t write in here again.

And do you know what? The last two pages are messy with crossings out and hasty scribbles. So she was right. She will never write in that book again. I could have given it to the bus-driver to go into the Lost and Found. But it seemed to me that her words ~ these little cries from the heart ~ needed to be shared and put out into the world, rather than being left to languish on a shelf somewhere in a bus depot.

She began, on February 23rd of this year, with a poem entitled The Wind Blows: it blows hard at me as I stand there on the grass field. it’s cold and sunny. I’m facing the sun, my eyes closed. I feel like a sail on a boat, or a kite. any moment the wind may pick me up and I would fly away … the wind blows hard towards me. but even if I wasn’t there, the wind would still be there on that grass field, doing its thing. blowing, the wind blows.

The next page is entitled “but we also love which is the real reason I did not leave her book in someone else’s hands. This seemed to precious to disappear into oblivion: everyone is perfect. perfectly disfunctional. (her spelling) perfectly fucked up. we are all perfectly fucked up in our own special way. we hate, kill and destroy. but none of that matters when the spark of love in a stranger’s eyes bring tears to your own eyes.

The next day, underlined, she wrote be silly like billy: simon says, be silly. seriousness is a disease,  it will bring you to your grave, it will make you be a slave. it will bring you to your knees. seriousness is a disease. damn the daemons of disease. do the world a favour please; do bend over my dear lass, and take the carrot out of your ass. And, on the next page, two short entries: Simplicity is key, that’s all there is to say ’bout that. any lock in the world can be opened, and I ain’t even jokin’ …

And who knows what locks in the world she has been opening ever since.