Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to an Alien Life-Form

To What-ever-you-are,

Greetings? We come in peace?

Well, it’s probably more likely that you’ve come here. In which case, please don’t hurt us. Earth has lots of amazing things to offer you, like Lady Gaga's wardrobe, Neil Patrick Harris and the recipe to Sizzler Cheese Toast. If these don’t impress you, then you should find a new civilization to pillage and plunder, cause it doesn’t get much better than Sizzler Cheese Toast, and that’s a fact.

If you don’t hurt us, I’m sure we could find a way to live together in harmony, although it might take a while since we’re still working on the living in harmony bit at the moment despite being all the same species. I’ve seen enough episodes of Doctor Who to know that in time we could totally live in peace with one another. Unless you’re Dalek, Cybermen or Sontaran, in which case I’d appreciate it if you’d promptly Fuck Off before you ruin everything you giant pricks.

So I guess we should, as they say here on earth “get to know each other”, especially if we’re going to be engaged in some sort of multi-galactic Politics. We’re human beings, or humans for short. We have survived her for a relatively long time and we have opposable thumbs, which are awesome and really nifty for holding things and turning doorknobs. There are also animals on this planet, some of which we like to eat, and some of which like to eat us. We don’t like the ones that eat us very much, except Sharks, which we like to celebrate for an entire week (a week comprises of seven days), which we call Shark Week.

This is a picture of a Shark. Source: www.shark-pictures.com

Don’t jump to the conclusion that we worship sharks like gods though. We are really diverse creatures, and although some may indeed consider sharks to be gods, there are many others that pray to other deities and then there are some who don’t believe there are gods at all.

Sorry for the religious talk, I know it’s one of those things you aren’t supposed to talk about the first time you meet someone.

So, uh, you like, uh, stuff?

Sincerely,

Ell-Leigh

 

Dear As Yet Unidentified But Possibly Still Existing Creature from Outer Space,

How’s it going? I’m well, happy, fed and warm, so things for me are pretty good.

I have so many questions to ask you, questions I feel I should ask if I’m lucky enough to be granted an audience with a real live alien. You don’t mind being called that, do you? An alien? If you have a preferred name please send it along and I’ll make the change. Maybe I should capitalise the a…

So I should probably start with telling you a bit about myself before I grill you! (I don’t mean literally grill you like cook you, it’s just a phrase, a saying…a metaphor? Do you have metaphors in your language? I sure hope so.) I’m a human being and I live on the planet Earth. I’m of the female variety of humans and I like to eat ice cream, although if you had to break it down a large percentage of my diet wouldn’t really be made up of ice cream, so you probably shouldn’t use that as material in any human being dietary research studies. I bet you’ve never had ice cream, have you? You poor creatures!

I’m pretty small for a human, really, there are in fact human children who are larger than me by age twelve. So again, not really a useable fact about the average human, my height. I spend a lot of my time going to things with friends; shows, dinner, pubs, but I also spend a lot of time working. Half the time I work with children and half the time I write. Do aliens, sorry, Aliens, have to have jobs? In fact, is there a currency that you work with that necessitates having paid employment or are you a ‘everyone pitches in and takes out what they need’ kind of society? Does that work for you? Here, we call that the ideal of communism, the commun- part I assume meaning communal and the -ism something we just like to chuck on the end of words to make them end, but don’t worry, you’ll get used the language, anyway the point I was making is that we’ve never really gotten that kind of communism idea to work properly with us, so if that is what your society is like it’d be great to see it in action! How’s that for a tangent though, I start out giving you a basic introduction to my life as an earthling and I wind up at communism!

That’s probably enough about me anyhow. If it’s alright I’ll ask you some more questions now, but if you find any of them rude or embarrassing please just disregard. Ok? Ok. Here we go. First question; I have always wondered if you guys wore clothing? And how you communicate with each other? Also, do you keep pets? Is there more than one species living on your planet? How do you die? Are there illnesses you catch, or degenerative diseases, or is it just old age that does it to you? What is your average life expectancy? Have you built structures, like buildings for shelter? Do you live in family groups or grouped somehow else or singularly? Do you have a concept of work time and down time, or is it all go go go for you, like it is for ants? Is there such a thing as Alien governments, or any type of societal hierarchy?

I should probably leave it there, I always ask all these questions and it ends up requiring a huge reply from my reader! I hope you write back, and if you do please feel free to ask me any of the same sort of questions and I’ll happily answer.

I have this fear that you’re going to turn out to be, well, a not very exciting type of Alien. In my mind I picture you as an intelligent creature with independent thoughts and a concept of things like life, other species and exploration of other solar systems. It’s possible, though, that you’re just some kind of bacteria like single celled organism, some kind of amoeba, and that would be disappointing. You might be vegetation also, of course, which probably means you wouldn’t answer this letter. Anyway, if you are a bit more primitive than I’m expecting, I’d like to share with you some knowledge that we humans have that might really excite you. It sure did wonders for our species, that’s for sure.

See it! That’s called a wheel. I tell you, get the wheel involved and the possibilities for life are endless. If you go to this page here it’ll tell you all about what it does and how we use it.

That’s probably enough for now. I hope this letter finds you well, and that maybe one day we can meet. Just give me a warning in advance, though, because otherwise I might get a bit of a fright initially. I’m sure you’re a lovely Alien though, once a person gets to know you.

Well, cheerio! Please write back!

Lauren

A Letter To My Hometown

Dear Toowoomba,

How you been? We don’t hang around as much anymore. We were pretty tight for a couple of years there though, nearly two whole decades we lasted. But you can’t have too much of a good thing now, can you?

Sometimes I’m not overly flattering towards you, I mean, I know that you know sometimes I tell people more about how I was born in Melbourne than how I grew up in you, even though I was only in Melbourne for a few short months. I pick my timing though, for the people who I think will reply with a, “Oh Toowoomba! My mum just retired to there, it’s lovely!” I give them the answer about you. For those who are going to do a, “Oh Toowoomba…wait…where is that again? Isn’t that some small country town?” I might stray more towards pretending to be more cosmopolitan…

I hope you’re not offended by this. Of all of us, you should know how much appearance matters these days; you do after all go to a lot of effort to maintain yours. Your colourful gardens, parades, historical buildings and the phenomenal number of schools are all put in place to make you seem family friendly, lovely and quaint.

Now we all know that’s not all there is to you, with your ‘gruesome murder rate’, insane amounts of drugs and crime and unbelievable population of bogans (seriously guys, a facebook page?), but I was actually pretty happy to grow up with these things. After all, if I can feel safe walking down a Toowoomba street at 2am, I can pretty much feel safe anywhere. I am un-phaseable when it comes to going places alone, when drunken men slur at me on a night out on the town I simply walk by, knowing the self defence course it was recommended I take in high school has taught me how to deal with them if it’s ever necessary. But it’s usually not, because the confidence you taught me means they pretty much leave me alone. I owe you one, Toowoomba, for helping me cope out in the big bad world.

People call you ‘the womb’ for short, and I guess that’s pretty smart. I am certainly a product of you, whether I like it or not, and though I’m not sure I’ll ever return to live permanently, I’ll probably always carry traces of you in my character. We’ve had some good times, some great times even, and every time I go back to visit I’m reminded on every street corner I pass of the memories you hold. So cheers to that, Toowoomba.

Until next time,

Lauren


Dear Toowoomba,

We had some really good times you and I. We were like best friends; we practically knew everything about each other. I would stroll through Queens Park in the dry winters or hot summers before I got my license - even after I got my license – I was just so fond of you. Many sunburnt days were passed walking through the city centre, shopping and chilling out at Grandie, or going to the movies at Strandie, or meeting for coffee at the McCafe. I even studied there, spending hours lying about the Quad between classes discussing plays, drinking flavoured milk and eating chips and gravy, the Refect’s speciality. I soaked in the Toowoomba night life, freezing my arse off in short dresses and heels in winter and dancing on the Fibbers dance floor to “Girlfriend” by Avril Lavigne on many a Friday night. I knew your streets backwards and there was barely a destination I had to Google Map to find. Those were the days.

I remember when the first Sushi stores opened – so metropolitan – and when a Smiggle franchise opened its doors half a year after my studies had finished. You were growing up a little. But by this time I’d seen a bit of the world; Houston, New York, Las Vegas, LA. Even a week at Mooloolaba had me noticing how out of date and full of flaws you are (they have a Moroccan restaurant there!).

So you can’t blame me when I jumped at the chance to move to Brisbane. Sure, it’s not NYC, but it has an international airport and restaurants that sell Nepalese food. It has a public transport system that’s actually practical. It has more than one cute boutique-clothing store aimed at my age group. I wouldn’t have to drive for an hour and a half every time I wanted to see a play that wasn’t being put on at one of the two theatres at home.

I’m doing really well. My new place has two pools and a gym (no need to trek to Milne Bay here!), I’m close to heaps of great shopping centres that would put Grand Central to shame and probably make Garden Town run into a corner and weep. I’ve been to the theatre once already, and am going again in a week’s time, I went to the markets yesterday and am planning to hit The Valley for some fine vegetarian cuisine from Grill’d.

I hope you don’t hold it against me. I’ll come back and visit, often. Half of the best people I know still live within your city limits. This isn’t the last you’ve seen of me, not by far. Just don’t be insulted when I conveniently side-step when answering the question “where did you grow up?”

Ell-Leigh

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to My Skin

Dear Skin,

I’m writing to apologise. I know you were enjoying the extra care I’d been giving you the last few weeks, and it was really nice to see you being clear and gummy again. You were glowing!

Then I decided to go on a cleanse. We’d been getting some reports from digestion that it would be necessary to do so soon. Now you’ve got an itchy rash happening and pimples are coming up from so deep they possibly originated in our soul. Your job is hard enough without rogue toxins trying to escape through you and me piling on cloggy make up to disguise them.

You’re much more important than I give you credit for. Sure, I praise you when you look good on my face, but I still paint all over you to “improve” what you’re trying so hard to create. You do so much more than just look good though, you sweat, heal when I hurt myself, make Goosebumps when it’s cold, hold my insides, uh, inside. And just when I start making some effort to repay you for all the hard work you do I decide to pump a crap-load of crap out through you to “detoxify” my body.

I hope it’s worth it, not just for my sake, but also for yours, because not having all of that toxic waste around should make it a lot easier for you to do your job and look fabulous while you’re doing it. I also promise I’ll continue to give you the products and support that you need throughout this long process, and will try not to wear too much make up where possible. I would like to remind you about how I’ve stuck with my “no sunburn in 2011” resolution, and assure you that my new pledges will be just as successful as this one has been.

I speak for all of us here at Ell-Leigh when I say we want you to know that you aren’t going through this detox alone and that we’re here if you need someone to talk to. As you know a body is full of complex systems that have to support each other to function, and although it may feel lonely, out there, away from the digestion and cardiovascular organs, we want you to know that we appreciate your work and recognise that the last week has been hard for you.

Sincerely,

Management
(Ell-Leigh’s Brain)

Dear Skin,

Guess what? Today, at a skin care shop, the consultant called you normal. Did you hear it? “Let’s see, your skin type looks pretty normal…” she said. Well, wasn’t I chuffed! I mean; normal! What a first.  

We do not have such a kind recent history, you and I, and I’m sorry about that. You were never quite what I wanted you to be, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t treat you quite how you would have liked, either. You see, I always dreamt of having that glowingly clear, porcelain type skin, the kind that people liken to a baby’s bottom. You, well, you were not quite that; I can most certainly assure you that my face cheeks have never been compared to those of an infant’s posterior. I’ve kind of really resented you for that, which in hindsight is not really fair, because how did you know I wanted you to look like bottom? You’re a face. Yes, Skin, I’d say we hit a bit of a rough patch during puberty, and it was more than just a case of simple miscommunication.  

Too oily in some places, too dry in others, too sensitive all over, over the past few years I’d label you passable at the best of times, at the worst downright awful. It’s hard to remember a time as a teenager that I wasn’t constantly on the alert for the pimples you grew on my face, both driving me crazy and being generally humiliating. I can, in fact, remember the very first one there ever was. I was only in Grade Six at school (so young!) and I remember a boy asking me what it was. “It’s just a pimple,” I tried an air of nonchalance. The reply? “Wow. Geez.” Yes, geez indeed.

Of course, I wasn’t exactly helping you out with my icecream scoffing, chocolate adoring* ways, was I? I was intelligent enough to understand that my diet, what it contained and what it lacked, was inextricably linked to the condition of you, Skin. With this nutritional knowledge I didn’t really change my ways, though, I just kept hating you and the seeming injustice of it all, eating more chocolate and icecream and sometimes icecream with chocolate, all the while your condition continuing to worsen.

Skin, for a long time, I regarded you almost as an enemy, which is not really so positive with you being my body’s largest organ and all. It wasn’t our best time, and I suggest we put it behind us, Because, you know what? Things are getting better now. I mean, obviously, since someone looked at you today and decided that you looked perfectly normal and all. Puberty’s over, and suddenly, thankfully, I don’t have to worry about you so much anymore, which leaves a surprisingly large void in my time. I’m beginning to realise just how much of my thoughts have been focussed on you, so tied up you were in every aspect of my life. From eating to sleeping to what make up I used and how I could cover the blemishes up, how much I was stressed and whether certain types of exercise made you look worse or better, I could take you into consideration with nearly every decision made.  

On the positive, now, not only do I have a lot of free time to do things other than frown at the mirror, but I also have a really good knowledge of nutrition, how my body operates and my specific needs and what to look for in friendly, natural ingredient based skin care products. I’ve finally come to my senses and eased up a bit on the icecream/chocolate scenario, adding more raw veges and large amounts of detoxifying lemon water to my diet instead.

Without having to try and ‘fix’ you, I wouldn’t have become so interested in healthy living, and I’m pretty grateful that you guided me down that path. Also, not growing up with the snazzy looking, bum-like skin I wanted made me think about the other things that made me attractive and acceptable, things a bit more permanent than my looks.

Skin, I haven’t been too nice to you and I’m sorry. You do your best, I know you do, and I promise to keep doing my best to help you out as well. We make a pretty good team, you and I. Tonight, I drink a big cup of pure old water in your honour.

Cheers Skin.

Lauren  

*For the doubters out there: during that time I single-handedly proved that for some of us (me, at the very least) chocolate definitely is linked to skin blemishes. I used a system of trial and error, the trial and error both ending up being the eating of copious amounts of chocolate, and the evidence undeniably pointing toward chocolate being an awfully terrible choice for my skin. So...there!

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to the Douche We Love

Dear Matthew Newton,

Oh man you put me on shaky ground. This is not how love should be, you know? Love should be ever patient and kind etc., so says The Bible. But at the moment for us love just consists of me making ever awkward and increasingly line crossing public statements to your defence, while you go making ever awful and increasingly line crossing public mistakes.

The problem is that I have this thing for you that I just can’t deny. It originated with Looking For Alibrandi, of course, when you were heartbreakingly perfectly cast as John Barton and made me sob all over myself. Then there were appearances on Thank God You’re Here, when I was just discovering live comedy, and next ABC’s Stupid Stupid Man. Yes, you made me laugh, you made me cry, you made me swoon. You surprised me with the talent you showed in Underbelly and I found your attempts at a New Zealand accent a little alluring.

But along with the good, has also come the very, very bad. From domestic violence to drug and alcohol abuse to trashed hotel rooms and media scandals, you’ve really run the gamut of terrible choices over the recent years, haven’t you? You’ve been involved in incidents which are nothing short of awful, and that makes being a fan of yours a pretty difficult thing. Speaking out about you in any sort of positive way turns me instantly into a social pariah, and the footage of you in all my old favourite television shows and films is now tainted with the knowledge of what the media likes to label your ‘personal demons’.

Matthew Newton, you've turned me into what I call a sufferer of ‘Celebrity Stockholm Syndrome’. Young, naïve and inexperienced in the ways of celebrity worship, I was drawn in by your pretty (if unusually large) face and your droll comedic ways. I was, then, shocked and saddened by what I heard was going on in your life outside of showbiz and as much as I have issues with our society’s labelling of celebrities as ‘role models’, I have to say I was pretty disappointed in you, Matthew, you kinda let me down.

But then…then you started getting it back together. Things seemed to be going well, and mentioning you in public no longer led me into an argument about whether I was condoning the abuse of women*. I began to appreciate your lack of headline making, and the longer things were quiet on the media front, the more I felt grateful to you that you were holding it together. Yes, a classic case of CSS indeed; soon you’ll have me robbing banks.

I’ve heard lately on the news the phrases ‘heading to rehab’ and ‘receiving mental help’ being bandied about. If you are, I do hope it is helping. If you aren’t, I do hope you’re helping yourself. For now I’m trying to just remain a definitive fan of your work but not of your person. It’s difficult, because in our celebrity driven society we’re taught to worship the whole person; their personal life, career and media presence all rolled into one, but for now with you I just can’t.

As I said, Matthew, I’m in a hard place here with you, but I think you’re in a harder one. I hope life gets a little bit better, okay? Find something that helps. And stop being a douche, so I can get back to being your fan.

Lauren

*Which, the author would like to point out, was not, is not and will never be in anyway way condonable or considered anything short of disgusting. 

Dear John Mayer,

I grew up listening to you. When I was in grade eight, your song ‘No Such Thing’ hit the charts and you were, through my narrow understanding of the world, the height of alternative cool. I had a picture of a much younger you on my school books, which I would gaze down at while deeply contemplating putting the lyrics “I want to run through the halls of my high school, I want to scream at the top of my lungs” into action. Your lyrics meant so much to me at the time. “They read all the books but they can’t find the answers”. Yeah. Exactly. Only cool alternative people like me understand life really… Nerds.

Your Room for Squares album would play on repeat while I would play on neopets and chat on msn for hours. It was a pivotal part of my musical education, since I couldn’t pick up Triple J in my bedroom, and the other radio stations weren’t even close to being alternative for my tastes. And you were only a few years older than me… Not really, now that I think of it, but a teenage girl will dream, especially after you released “Your Body is a Wonderland”. Jesus H Christ. Let’s just say, it wasn’t only a love for alternative pop rock that was awoken within me when that song came out.

Your next few albums were released into the untamed musical wilderness and they eventually became part of my rather exclusive cd collection. Bigger Than My Body struck a chord with my dream of becoming a hugely successful Academy Award Winning actress, Daughters similarly managed to evoke emotions deep within me, although what they related to completely baffles me now.

I even bought Continuum at full price. It was around this time that you started being embarrassing. Your pop-rock presence was starting to look out of place in my predominantly cool Triple J influenced cd collection. On top of that your dramas with Jessica Simpson and later, Jenifer Aniston were on every second tabloid magazine, and what they were saying about you wasn’t exactly nice. This was mostly because you were behaving like a douche bag. You had also started to lose your boyish good looks – this didn’t help.

Then I grew up a bit more, and you started being really embarrassing. When people see your music on my ipod I apologetically explain that firstly, I agree with them, you are a douche, but that secondly, Battle Studies (which I’d nonchalantly purchased by myself from JB hifi) isn’t too bad an album, if you’re impartial to slightly bluesy pop rock. However, mostly I just shrug and pretend that I don’t know how it got there.

It’s not so much that your music hasn’t evolved, cause it has, and it still accompanies me when I drive long distances alone, (alone - I’d call it a guilty pleasure, but it isn’t quite that – I don’t like your music quite enough anymore for that title…) but I think your music and your audience from your first album just grew up in different directions… and you’ve been a bit of a git.

It’s just that your music doesn’t fit with the image I have of myself, a grown up, slightly more sophisticated and less famous version of the alternative cool twenty-one year old I had in mind at thirteen. And your behaviour doesn’t match what I now look for in rock star celebrities; way too wanky, not quite enough actual attractiveness, Triple J approved. It isn’t cool to like your music, and you haven’t really been terribly likeable either. And yet I have every one of your cds – and you’re the only artist still living today who I can say that about… (I find it embarrassing to admit, and plan to blame it on the advent of downloading music. Yes, it’s iTunes’ and Napster’s fault.)

So John - if I can call you John – I’m sick of having to be bothered to sneak around if I want to listen to your music. So either pick up your game, get some street cred and stop being a douche, or I’m going to have to break up with you.

Ell-Leigh

Sunday Correspondence: A Letter to the Female Film Character I Admire (Even Though She Is a Terrible Role Model)

Dear Claire Colburn,

I’ve often wondered; is it that I see myself in you, or that I see the girl I would like to be? There must be a reason for the way I admire you that is more than just my jealousy of the way you can pull off a red beret, making it seem completely casual and not at all ‘try-hard Francophile’. Yes, although they’re pretty neat, I think there is more to it than your skills with headwear.

Of course, you’re not real, and I don’t kid myself into thinking that you are. You are a creation of a team of filmmakers, primarily Cameron Crowe, but also costume and set designers, cinematographers and editors and, let’s not forget, Kirsten Dunst. But fictionalisation has never stopped admiration before and from the moment I first saw you in an Elizabethtown trailer I marvelled at you.

Firstly and foremost, I think, it’s your comfort in yourself. You acknowledge your tastes, personality, wants and influences and wear them openly and you do this in a way that goes beyond the definitions of quirky, eccentric or cool and lands at just being yourself. You’re an amalgamation that is Claire, you are your own brand of human being and you seem to live it so easily. You don’t sway to be one way or another to the dictations of anybody else and it’s this comfort, this ease within a person that makes them, makes you, irresistible.

And you know what, everybody likes you for this. Yes, everybody. You are exciting, sensitive, witty and fun. You put people at ease with your smile and charm and without worrying about who you are and what you look like, you have infinite time to give to each person. With this you gain a rare insight into the lives of others’; you become an observer, an empathiser and a confidante to all. You make friends quickly, are accepted easily and adapt as necessary to fill gaps in any social situation.  So self assured are you that others immediately feel better about themselves; more relaxed, more positive. You are a star.

This self comfort and assurance, however, do not equal self pride or value. No, the self confidence you demonstrate does not perpetuate into self worth. You openly label yourself a “substitute person”:

“We're the substitute people. I've been the substitute person my whole life. I'm not an Ellen, I never wanted to be an Ellen. And I'm not a Cindy either…I like being alone too much. I mean, I'm with a guy who is married to his academic career. I rarely see him and I'm the substitute person there. I like it that way. It's a lot less pressure.”

and you put the needs of others ardently before your own. With this label you reassure yourself that you aren’t wholly responsible for anybody or anything, you relieve anxiety about getting hurt by maintaining a pretend distance. You are scared, and so you hide from vulnerability by flitting between connections (you are, in fact, an air hostess) and only ever sharing half the truth about yourself.

And so I feel the need to tell you this Claire; being an amazing person counts for nothing if you don’t know and seek what you deserve. For Pete’s sake, you have Orlando Bloom at one point literally spelling out what it IS you deserve. In fact, you have Orlando Bloom basically offering himself to you as what you deserve. Orlando Bloom! And you don’t take him up on it!! If this doesn’t make it clear that you have some serious issues then fine, leave Orlando alone. I’ll have him.  

Claire, this is a difficult letter to write. On one hand, I really kind of want to be you. On the other, your story makes me very sad. I know that you’re flawed for the purposes of dramatic tension, but oh Claire, so much of me wants to shake you until you get it together.

In the meantime, best wishes. Don’t get jealous if you see another girl walking the streets in a little red beret, it’s only me trying but not trying to be you.

Lauren

Dear Edie Sedgewick (as portrayed by Sienna Miller in the film Factory Girl),

Wow, I’m totally out of my depth here. You are, just, so, way incredibly cool. I don’t know what makes a person cool and another person not, but whatever it is, is what sets us apart. You make everything so glamorous, with your “darlings” and your making statements into questions by putting “don’t you think?” on the end of your sentences as if you’re language patterns come straight from a Marilyn Monroe film or Breakfast at Tiffany’s. You’re so stylish, and you own it, and you hang out with people who changed the world.

I’ll be proud if one day I can lay claim to the title “pet owner”.

Not that my friends aren’t cool, don’t get me wrong. They’re very cool, and clever, but they aren’t the kind of glamorous superstars you surround yourself with. I’ve met those types of people but I never seem to get along with them, and they don’t seem to like the fact that I’m not going to change just to please them. I’m proud of myself for this though. They can be as glamorous as they please but if I disagree with them I won’t bend over and take it. I think this is another way we differ.

The first time you went to the Factory and they were filming that horse? And you stepped in when it reared and you calmed it down? Didn’t that make you feel at least a little uncomfortable? Didn’t spending all that money just to keep up while working without getting paid get on your nerves just a little? And when you met Billy Quinn (Bob Dylan, cough) played by Hayden Christensen, and Guy Pierce’s Andy Warhol started getting jealous and weird, why didn’t you speak your mind earlier?

Was being famous and cool that important? ‘Cause if it was really worth it maybe I’ll try harder, kiss a few arses, lose a few kilos, buy a fur coat and give up listening to music that isn’t “good”. ‘Cause it really looks like you’re having fun… until it all falls apart.

I just want to know if the moral of the story is that no matter what good things do fall to pieces eventually, or that if you keep control of your life you have a chance to hold on to them. I want to know if you can be a little reckless and charming and live the perpetual party and still keep some of the things you love, or if you have to stand your ground and keep control and be bored to stop things slipping through your fingers. In order to leave any legacy at all do you have to burn out bright and early? Sure the Tortoise may have won the race, but the Hare had more fun, right? And who’s life would they make a movie out of? The Hare’s.

I’m sorry for getting so emotional (and comparing you to a children’s story so much), but I think that’s the thing about movies. The characters you want to succeed are the ones that make you the most passionate, and you clearly made a great impression in those first few scenes in the mid sixties. You lived through a lot of really hard times but came out with an appreciation of art and a person who likes people (both of which are a rarity in this world). You flaunted your bold fashion style and made the world fall in love with you, all the while wrestling with inner demons most people probably can’t even comprehend. Your look changed the fashion world.

Women looked to you as a leader into new looks and styles, and now, almost fifty years later they still do. And that means more than a lot of people give it credit for.

This letter probably seems a bit harsh since you paid for your mistakes, literally with your life. I’m sorry you couldn’t keep on the straight and narrow, and make your life better and longer. You were a firework, burning out bright for a heartbreakingly short time. Your legacy lives on in every “return to retro” packaging, in every blond pixie haircut, in every set of earrings with feathers that tickle your shoulders when you wear them, and whenever Lady Gaga wears tights with a leotard and no pants. Without you the world would be a fair deal duller. And although you crashed and burned, like a star that might have died millennia ago, the memory of your spark still brightens each new night sky. 

Ell-Leigh