Secrets of the Self – how I became a warrior by Alysse Aallyn

Inspiration –

The desire to participate in the world of art hit me early. As a young teen, I was fascinated by the internecine struggles of the Trojan War and the Wars of the Roses. History was a family story, history was a crime story. Books for children – the Narnia stories, for example, couldn’t match the explosive, desperate sweep of historical intrigue. I had a facility with English that allowed me to “opt out” of language drills – I read the encyclopedia instead, which was full of improbable information. I loved reading to the class, and the class loved to have me read to them.

When I entered boarding school at age 14 I really began to write in earnest. But the faculty did not like what I wrote. Moby Dick and the writings of John Steinbeck were seriously offered to me as models. This was the first moment I chose the Warrior Path. I complained that we were not reading any female authors and in fact, made a resolve never to read male authors again (I broke it for the Russians, who were feminine enough for me – especially Turgenev.) I liked Colette, so I read Francoise Sagan. I modeled myself on them – they were literally anathema at my school to such an extent that I decided not to go to college and pursued acting school instead.

That was a dumb decision literally no one helped me with but by that time I had discarded The Appropriate Path to such an extent I don’t know if anyone could have reasoned me out of it since Adult World seemed so desperately stupid to me. What I chose – I thought – was the world of inspiration where magic could be created, second by second.

PLAYING HIDE & SEEK IN THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART

Life class is

My game – you started it.

Now I’m too obvious –

Resembling

This swollen storehouse where

nothing is explained.

We are all

Open to interpretation.

Outside the tiny window a single tree

Flowers in its smug

Delusion.

This whiteness weights

my soul. I long for the whick

of teeth on lip; and bite

the bended elbow where the blood 

lies gathered. Take responsibility 

For unfinished work.

Unsignatured because

It never finished school. 

No blood here, lady

You must have

 Imagined it – a

 Powder burn without 

A bullet.