Daylight
Daylight
(a fictional memoir)
about finding Alice.
In 1971 a book was published called, "Go Ask Alice". It was a book that I was told to read -- as a teen fascinated with plant medicine, "to warn me about the perils of addiction and drugs." Go Ask Alice is a 1971 fiction book about a teenage girl who develops a drug addiction at age 15 and runs away from home on a journey of self-destructive escapism. And when it's read, it feels like it harbors as much insight into addiction and mental health as if an anti-drug propagandist wrote this and tried to spin it as "a troubled teen's actual diary."
That was humor, this is true. It is known as a literary hoax.
I am writing a fictional novel based loosely on the same construct and concept. I am revising a lot of it, including dates, times, ages, people. And took the name, Alice, as the main character duh. Yes, I am taking over "Alice's Diary"-- and perhaps I'll pen it the way she (fictional she) would have actually wanted to portray the world of addiction. Each week I may post some more chapters. I may switch it up based on how you all like it, or maybe I can write alternative plots and ploys that could be optional. It's more a writing experience/experiment during this quarantine. Of course, I hope that it turns out to be a meaningful piece of art that I get to write with an audience guiding me a tad.
So my initial thought it to name the novela "Daylight" but that is optional and could change.
Mostly I want it centered around the fact that I am writing a "truer" version of an addicts life -- or looking through that looking glass with a bit more understanding and empathy. Beatrice Sparks wrote Go Ask Alice without a tinge of understanding.
And what a better time to do it? Quarantine.
And also, I am doing this for fun at my own pace. I just want you to have fun with me :)
Without further adieu:
Chapter 1: Alice.
[meet modern era Alice]
I was holding an old photograph of myself in my hands. My finger glazing over the outline of my younger self. I do not even remember her fully. Her laugh. The waves of her hair. The way she flowed. The way she seemed to bounce as she walked. Her hips, narrow.
I pinched the picture in half, bringing the photo closer to my now worn face. Her skin was too soft and perfect. Her breasts were tender, soft. Her hair perched low beneath her waist. Her head tilted and an almost laugh. From the vantage point of a few decades past, she was beyond beautiful.
She was breath taking.
It was me alright. Perhaps, there was some witchcraft in preserving oneself in a photograph this timeless. I put the picture back on the desk and pull the metal chain on the desk lamp. The room was now dark. Staggering out of the chair I carefully swept myself back to my bed. I undid the sheets, climbed beneath the comforters and sighed, audibly -- harsh, loud poofs of air exploded my from exhausted, aged lips.
The room was quiet, dusty, cold. The air conditioner was making a slight hum from the other room. The sink was leaking from the bathroom. And the thought of her was making tear roll down my eyes. Dammit, why did Cheryl have to send me these old pictures from eons ago? Could I just have left her dead, buried during the riots of stonewall? Digging up the past, that I desired to keep buried, tucked away -- hidden.
And I thought who was that girl?
Who was that girl who beat herself up over her weight and her looks. Who was that girl who constantly compared herself to others in a mirror that wasn't suited for her time. Who was this wonder woman with powers outside of this world that did not know she possessed skill, talent, luck. Who was this girl -- who was me? Who wasn't me anymore.
[meet modern era cheryl]
I remember the glide of my fingers down her waist. We were dancing when I took this picture. Her hands moving, her body shaking to the melody -- me behind the camera. It was a peaceful, she was there. We were there, Greenwich Village, Lower Manhattan 1968. Her and I.
As I held up towards the window, a glimmer of light caught a fleck. For a hallucinogenic moment, it was as if the picture came to life again. Alice was twirling. I ran to the cupboard, grabbed an enveloped -- looked up Alice's address. She had to see this old picture. Perhaps now she could see her beauty.
Cheryl sent the photo to Alice, with a note.
"I you hope can see now, what I always saw."
Thoughts? This is just a brief introduction. Had the idea when looking at some old timey photographs of hippie era days. I think it would be fun to add some real, true darker scenes and elements into the mix. I want to add a lesbian sex scene, I want to speak to the drug addict, to those suffering -- I want to actually be able to speak to the community and add a level of truth to 1970's free love movement through this tail.
That "Go Ask Alice" book does need to be re-done.
What would you like to see?