Mary Van Notes

I read this post over at Star St. Germain’s blog This Is Star.   Gabrielle’s last poem is so beautiful, I had to share it here.  Thank you, Star, for posting this.  All images and content re-posted with permission from Star St. Germain:

Gabrielle Bou­liane was a video­g­ra­pher and poet, who I met nearly a decade ago, back when I was very much involved in Slam Poetry.
She recently lost her bat­tle with can­cer.
She was a vision­ary, a friend, and a force of nature.
I wish I had known her better.

I did this illus­tra­tion of her because most of the pic­tures I’ve been see­ing of her in other posts of this sort didn’t really cap­ture her the way I knew her.
To me, Gabrielle will always be in bunny ears–or a cow­boy hat.
She is peer­ing at me from behind a cam­era, or through a Live­Jour­nal icon.
She is cap­tur­ing something–when every­one else is too busy watching.

I am post­ing this poem of hers, because I think all of you should read it, whether you knew her or not.

When you hear that I have died, think of this.

Think of cool nights breezes while you walk to meet your friends for a beer on a Thurs­day. Think of wak­ing up in flan­nel sheets on a snowy morn­ing and kiss­ing some­one you love. Think of hung-over diner break­fasts and the best cup of cof­fee in the world. Think of the sound of tires on seamed high­ways while you travel, think of French kiss­ing and leather jack­ets and push-up bras and bour­bon, think of the joy of hard work with friends. Then think of me.

Not sad, not the melan­choly soli­tude of empty skies, but the full days and crowded bars and signed con­tracts, a smile too big for my face, remem­ber I said I stay busy enough to fit three lives into one. When you hear that I have died, know that I want laugh­ter, and danc­ing, real danc­ing, to music that makes you move with­out think­ing, you’re wear­ing boots and jeans and a great t-shirt and won­der­ing if the girl at the edge thinks you’re cute. And you moth­er­fuck­ers had best DANCE, none of this bull­shit rock-nod hands-in-the-pockets shoegazer non­sense, no, make an ass out of your­self, feel your hips, kick off the high heels and sway on the shoul­der of a stranger, when I die, you’d bet­ter be laugh­ing your ass off on side­walks, eat­ing deli­ciously unhealthy food, drink­ing shots and tip­ping your bar­tender well no mat­ter how much money you make.

And Adam has to read the poem he wrote, and Laura, and June, and Scott Car­pen­ter has to play “Don’t Go Away, Chloe”, no fuck that, every musi­cian I’ve ever made out with or video­taped or road-tripped with has to play, so drink some cof­fee, baby, it’s gonna be a long night. When you hear that I have died, the best thing you can do is to get laid that night with a com­fort­able stranger, use my story to get their sym­pa­thy, and when you kiss them for the first time, think of me then.

When you hear that I have died, and you will, remem­ber your best revenge is to live well, take risks, save up money and chase your per­fect hap­pi­ness. Beat the sys­tem and learn to make your art really sup­port you, craft into some­thing your audi­ence can’t live with­out. Then make the world an even slightly bet­ter place — stop throw­ing your cig­a­rettes on the ground, vote in the next elec­tion, graf­fiti your life on the eyes of the hungry.

Then just do me one last favor. Please. Love some­thing. Any­thing. Start with your­self, but find pas­sion in every­thing, from an apple pie to a novel, make a fam­ily, get a degree, walk what­ever path is yours with your chin up and feet planted firmly. Have the best sto­ries to tell in the old folk’s home, about life­long friend­ships and epic love affairs, about the time you lost every­thing and yet found your­self hap­pier than when you began.. and remem­ber that time we got in SO much trouble…

Poets.. remem­ber. This is the story that never ends. When one of us leaves, another walks through the door. The pages turn, the sun keeps ris­ing. All you can do in the mean­while.. is to speak for your­self. Raise your voice high, tell your story, join hands against the dark and sing our souls to the sky. Know the best in me comes from the best in you, that as you tell your story, you will be telling mine, and our lives will be linked together for­ever, and every­one who hears you will become a part of the change we make.

So when you hear that I have died..
just ….live.

–Gabrielle Bou­liane

This is her last per­for­mance in public:

Rest in peace, Gabrielle.
And to the rest of you, bunny up!

I wore blue yesterday, but I wasn’t feeling blue.  I had a fun day hanging out with friends downtown and drinking blue bottle coffee. I’ve been wearing my vintage letterman sweater a lot lately.  It fits perfect and keeps me cozy warm in the San Francisco wind.

50s letterman sweater: thrifted, had since high school
deer printed shorts: H&M
flower tights: Urban Outfitters
silver oxfords: F21
80s blue bow blouse: Wasteland (remixed here and here)
vintage Etienne Aigner purse: ebay

(photo by Joshua Cobos, taken with a disposable camera)

I feel a little bad for buying some new things at H&M recently.  For one because I’m broke and can’t afford it, but mainly because of global labor rights politics.  I became more aware of the issue after watching the following video.   Please, please watch this.

After watching that video, it made me not want to buy any new clothing that was made outside the USA.  Unfortunately I’m poor and needed underwear.   I hate that that is my excuse, as I think a lot of people just pull the defeatist card when it comes to issues like this.  They think, “Well, it’s going to happen regardless.”  If I know injustice is happening I can’t just say oh well.   I don’t shop at Target anymore because of the money the company spent on the Yes on 8 campaign.  I think you can make a difference by where you choose to give your dollar.  So I’m hoping to be better at that.  At least for the most part, I feel good that I buy vintage and American-made clothes.

One of my friends said, “Where do you draw the line? Appliances, packaging… it’s all made out of the country.”   And yeah, that’s true.  But again, if I know I can do one thing to help the problem, I’ll do that.  I will try my darnedest.  Because I know for the rest of my life I’ll remember the image of that charred hand reaching through a gated window in that sweatshop in Bangladesh.  I will never forget it, and I’ll think of it every time I read the label of an item made in Bangladesh, Madagascar, the Philippines….

Does this issue affect you?  Do you take action?  Are there stores you stay away from?  I’d love to hear what you all think of this.