Tag Archives: charlie


7 Jan

“Je préfère mourir debout que vivre à genoux.”


(English translation follows)

On peut tuer l’artiste. On ne peut tuer pas l’art.

Et d’essayer à brûler une idée, ceci ne fera que se répandit comme une traînée de poudre.

Et les Français, quand on leur dit de se taire…

ils ne deviennent que plus fort.

Mes amis français, ne vous arrêtez pas. Vous êtes Charlie. Et Charlie a plus à dire.

You can kill the artist. You cannot kill the art.

And to try to burn an idea will only make it spread like wildfire.

And the French, when you tell them to be quiet…

they only get louder.

My French friends, don’t you stop. You are Charlie. And Charlie still has more to say.



29 Dec

“I don’t know if I will have the time to write any more letters because I might be too busy trying to participate” – Charlie, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I saw this movie for the first time tonight. Most of it, anyway. Enough to understand the important parts.

And of course, I cried at the end. Not just because the end of the movie is meant to take your heart and jerk it in several different directions at once. But because the end, especially the end, that wasn’t just a movie for me. I tried to make light of it, throwing out comments like “that’s a damn nice psych ward room.”

But that’s because internally, I wasn’t seeing Charlie’s cozy room. Internally, I was seeing my psych ward rooms. The ones that I spent too many days in last year. Over a year ago now, actually. It’s strange, that those days, the most bruised ones I’ve garnered in life, are so far away now. It’s been a year. It’s over. I’m free.

But I remember the days when I wasn’t. I have notebooks, drawers of them, filled with pages and pages of those days when I was not participating but was just trying to survive – or, slowly letting go of the idea that I would. My life is there, on those wrinkled and worn and smudged notebook sheets. I couldn’t bear physicality, so I existed, put myself into letters.

Because I needed a way for my narrative to be important.

And so it’s there, years of myself, scribbled down in journal entries and poems and short stories. Years where I left marks of myself in metaphor and analogy. Years where I could only be a silent girl, inked into existence.

In the end, they were all letters. Some of them were addressed as letters to God. But in the end, they were all really letters to me.

I forgot to pack those notebooks with me for my trips this holiday. Well, not quite “forgot”… I didn’t even think about doing it in the first place.

Because I don’t live my life in those notebooks anymore.

Now, I am participating.