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This morning when I saw the news of artist Yayoi Kusama, I remembered my childhood friend Cori, who has been gone for 24 years.
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As teens we connected by chasing grown men after sneaking out of pup tents; visual nightmares; making trouble with siblings; and chaotic actions that had powerful consequences.
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Cori and I confided in each other while we smoked pine needles behind the Jamestown Library, strung boy's bikes up in weeping willow and maple trees, and made forts together that the older kids would always steal from us.
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And we stayed outside all day, every day in summer with no water bottles.
The movie-like images and sounds that tie this piece together, make no sense, but we shared those with each other too: terrifying minds-eye animations. Later we shared the songs that moved us in happier ways.
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As we grew up, we shared our daily traumas as dryly as our dreams, matter of fact style. No big deal. After she crossed over, I missed feeling her presence – save for a couple of dark jokes that made me chuckle out of nowhere this past year.
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Cori knew things I do not know.
She left boldly-colored and connected memories, and even stronger people. Her temper was fierce, and she was fiercely tempered. Her love of music was pop-cultured and sexy. Occasionally a giggly, absurdist nature peeked out from underneath her concerns in life. Those moments were rare and priceless. I hope her daughter remembers them.
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I hit her with a zipper and she introduced me to the best music. More on that below.
This week also marks the passing of two other awesome women: Dolly Parton and Yayoi Kusama. I feel as connected to these two women as ever, through their public work, but I never spent one actual moment of time with them. Kusuma passed at the age of 97. Dolly Parton died a few days later at 80. I am in awe of each of their approaches to living naturally on this lovely little blue dot.
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These icons were authentic and plastic all at once. Perhaps, that's a paradox of this time. All I know is you deserve to learn more about all of them.
⚪️ Dolly Parton aroused life with pink and blonde 'tart' garb, deep-fried country decency, powerful talent, and ability to write her heart as plainly as she described herself all twinkly: "I know I'm not dumb, and I'm also not blonde."
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She gave over 330 million books to kids so they could travel in their hearts and learn how let their minds fly. She wrote "Jolene" about a bank teller who flirted with her husband. She utilized doctors to give her an image, not just her health.
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Dolly had the glow of a woman sure of herself, and bold enough to stand for sexuality and morality, while bedazzling the stage that is life with warm rhinestones and sound.
She brilliantly sold something special and she sauntered all the way to the bank. How many tricks were up her sleeve? More than you will ever know. Her husband laid low. She loved him like a rock.
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🔴 My friend Cori was a tomboy with a huge chip on her shoulder and a protective coating that made many scared of her, or desire to test her. Cori suffered no fools and trusted nobody. For the longest time.
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Her background of bad male babysitters had made her wary, but that did not stop her from falling in love again and again until she passed. She had joy under wraps, loads of it, and shouldered much for peers, parents and many who knew her. The weight may have made her die young, or perhaps the toxins in her work environment... or smoking.
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Cori was a badass and creative soul, who could draw really well. As kids we made dangerous, homemade fire pits where we fried Steakums, went crabbing under ferry docks, and were often asked if we were sisters. Because of the colors of our hair, I never understood being mistaken, but I loved that mistake. 🔴 ⚫️
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Cori was all muscle with a giggling cigarette, and with a mane her mother almost killed me for cutting. Cori took the heat that day and Roxy glared at me for a week about the "fix up haircut" that needed to follow.
Cori and I started smoking True Blues soon after the episode I'll relate below. It was Jamestown, and kids could buy cigarettes at The Islander, for grownups, and grab an extra pack once in a while for themselves.
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By 3rd grade, Cori would hit anyone as needed, and on our small island, fighting elementary aged kids was a thing: fist-based blood sport that happened with boys and girls alike.
Cori had just moved here, mid-year. And one day after lunch we were expected to fight for real. We were nine.
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See, the kids told Cori that I wanted to beat her up, they told me Cori wanted to beat me up. As a transplant who wore the same floor length Hawaiian muumuu to school most days; and Cori in ToughSkins and hailing from from a long-time island family, we were worlds apart.
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I was a pacifist. She was pissed.
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I was terrified all day, dread building in my body from the murmurs, but still my body marched me to the playground after lunch, instead of home with a stomachache or whatever kids do these days...
On the pavement, we were encircled by the cool kids – the ones who grew up on the island and had owned the entire floating joint for generations. They stood on a settled ground of family land, oily engines in driveways, black-sleeved band T-shirts, and cross-family understandings.
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Cori looked like she could kill me and blow up the school: red face to match. I saw her bent knee stance, squinted eyes and clenched fists, and was terrified. I stammered and cried, "can't we just t-t-t-talk about this like civilized human beings?"
The answer was silence and angry eyes. The other kids were excited.
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I didn't know how to fight, but my brother had taught me how to rat-tail a towel and snap it. I had never successfully gotten a *snap* before. "Weak!" he'd taunt me and demonstrate again. I was terrible at it, and didn't fight anyone but him, but that day, with my blue nylon wind-breaker, I snapped it at Cori because it was all I had.
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Pure self preservation.
The zipper at the tail end of the jacket rat tail hit her hard on the thigh and she fell, silent and curling in agony on the pavement.
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I bent over her crying too, I'm so sorry, oh no, are you okay?
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That's the day we bonded after school and sang along with Fleetwood Mac's Rumours – my first real album of "my" music.
Stevie and Lindsey's sexuality and fight was palpable. I was "Dreams." She loved "Second Hand News." We sucked up second hand cigarette smoke courtesy of Aunt Diane, who had welcomed us after school on Coronado while sipping a can of beer -
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Diane was the best babysitter ever.
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Love that woman. My God, I was lucky to know the whole lot of B's.
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As we grew older, Cori and I talked about everything: even the nonsensical nightmares that haunted us. For her it was an old lady's face zooming in and out from a dark field of nothingness. For me, it was a grid of dots pulsing and buzzing in a dark field of void.
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When I first saw Kusama's art, I saw dots that took that fear away. Kusama had red hair too. You should look her up. I hope Cori has peace about the old lady. She never got to be one. This is a loss.
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Cori and I told each other all the other things too, and watched dumb TV like The Dukes of Hazard in bed, like sisters do. We kept each other strong and ate crap food and hotdogs from Paul at the stand downtown.
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We got in strong trouble, unlike the herbal-tea-filled fake joints we sold her little brother. We had fun.
🔴 🌕 Kusama was a red-haired artist who dealt in dots and distinct atmospheres. She lived on her own terms and remade the world in pop colors with dots all over. When I first saw her work, I knew her mind encompassed worlds from the outside in. And her world was beautiful.
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Kusama overwhelmed atmospheres with circles to share her message about the cosmos being love for all, and to help her obliterate herself into the whole. Her message always, one of love. Kusama lived her day life as a world-class artist, and spent many nights checked into a mental hospital. Her choice.
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Kusama chose every part of her path and kept herself working to share her love, by any means necessary and for as long as possible.The world agreed about her genius, and her dark side was there for all to see, made bright.
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There is no wrap to this story of iconic women: iconic to me. There are endless ones. I share a bit of color, and dots, and stories in hopes you connect to your iconic souls, have a listen to your music, and have yourself a bit of freaking old school fun in living color.
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With gratitude and dropped balls for you to look into later,
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More Text & Images
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Sex & Death in the time of Kali Yuga
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I have 20 minutes to write this, so lucky for you, it should be short1. When I was around 15 years old, my mother announced one random day, that we'd now "entered the age of Kali Yuga." She meant this personally, like in our house. I was a tough teenager after all... "What are you talking about?" She replied with …
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Categories: Body & Health, Family, Mommess, Silly Pop Culture References, Spiritual Mechanics, Uncategorized, Writing
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