Once Upon a Time Deb Ran Away From Home (But Just for the Summer)
In Feri Trad, there’s a lot of talk about one’s Fetch. I have a shaky-at-best grasp on the concept of the triple soul. Probably because my talking self is so goddamned loud (yeah, we’re cussing again, welcome). Like she never shuts up and she’s that terrible guest at the party everyone (God Self/ Primal Self) wants to suddenly need to go home or pass out drunk enough to shut the fuck up but without alcohol poisoning (yeah we’re also back to stream of conscious, pull up a seat). So they’re silently hating her from across the room mouthing shutupshutupshutup to each other. But she won’t, because see: Talking Self.
Okay, so Fetch. Your Fetch needs to be fed with food that your Fetch finds delicious (shoes, booze, recreational drugs, sex, modern Irene Adler activities, chocolate cake, sushi, watching the Twilight trilogy for an entire evening, I don’t know, it’s your Fetch. You know what crazy shit she’s into better than I do). They’re kind of like Gremlins, I guess? If you feed them little pellets of whatever they’re into, they’re reasonably docile. You feed them after midnight (or not at all) and life becomes very, very real all of a sudden. Because Fetches are also liars. They’re pathological, if it’s any consolation so they believe it themselves. If they feel neglected for too long, they start a full campaign. Like, it’s no longer enough for you to be tied to the bed post by your spouse but hey you know what would be a great idea? A ball gag with a new partner while in full shibari bondage. You met yesterday, surely this will work out fine, right? (Spoiler: Um, no) Half a piece of cake? Loser, there’s a whole fucking cake in the fridge. You should eat it all. It’s going to be amazing.
My relationship with my Fetch is (quelle surprise) antagonistic, much like how I have a dysfunctional relationship with my Muse but still counsel on working with yours, even if she’s a total pain in the ass. Left to her own devices, my Fetch resembles Aubrey Plaza’s character here:
Obvi, she should not be left unattended. But I promised her that we would have the summer off. You saw some of our adventures, Queen of the Night, another visit to the McKittrick, lush farmer’s markets, any place that would serve us tea and scones, a midsummer’s revel party at our house, drinking tequila and eating amazing food in the Mayan Rivera with rowdy Brits, brunch at a restaurant Justin Timberlake owns with my PEH. But she’s greedy because she’s a Fetch, so we went to a festival. We watched star showers, revived a cult to Mary Magdalene, ate ice cream for breakfast washed down with beer. We got seduced by a rather charming, gorgeous boyinto evening cocktail parties in the woods with handmade bacon Manhattans in the woods with chandeliers and Turkish rugs and fat babies for me to hold. When my Fetch feels underfed, she’s unbearable to live with. Her mantra is, I need to be off my leash, I need to be off my leash. Jared, the charming boy in question suggested it wasn’t so much needing to be off the leash as off the res. I suspect he was right. My leash is long enough, but I needed time to decompress from my new occupation and adult life can wear one down.
I say this with the utmost love and devotion, but I needed a little time to be away from you, Charmers. I needed to find my voice again. Somewhere between word-vomit, bleeding all over the internet and stark academia is where I needed to be and I needed time away to find that for myself again.
One Last Fling Before Fall Claims Us
During the summer, late one night, Jow and I came up with Vagine. In Broad City, Illana rather charmingly refers to one’s vagina as a vagine. Somehow, this morphed into the idea of Vagine as an alter-ego. Vagine came up in the French suburbs which is like saying straight out of Compton in U.S. terms. She went to a fancy French boarding school on a full academic scholarship, she wears little black Audrey Hepburn dresses and pearls and sunglasses when she performs. She performs gansta feminist rap and sells t shirts that say things like Your Girlfriend Loves Vagine.
Sometimes, I freeze in life. When things don’t go right or when I feel overwhelmed with social anxiety. I get really in my head and it’s not even word thoughts so much as a steady shriek of terror/rage. I was supposed to leave for the festival and Bryan got held up at work. Hours were going by and I was starting to freak out. Jow said, What would Vagine do? Vagine is French, and for those of you who have been with me from the beginning will remember my fascination with French women. When I lost my last admin job when the company closed, I read all the books about what French women would do. So I thought about it. Vagine would have a glass of wine, a cigarette and immerse herself in her novel with a Gallic little shrug about life is so unpredictable, non? So I did that and once I did, I was calm for poor Bryan who had a terrible and stressful day.
You shouldn’t use your alter-ego for everything, of course. Masks tend to get sticky and if you forget who you were then . . .Let’s just say I’ve seen it happen and it’s not pretty. But if you build a glamorous alter-ego legend/back story for an alter-ego and name her, it can take you out of your head enough to deal with an occasional snafu. It gives you space to play inside your own head, and if that’s not magic I don’t know what is. Think of it as an emergency glamour strategy for yourself.
Eat, drink and be merry, Charmers. For tomorrow we start the Books of the Dead.