bitter basil, (hozier)

july 31st, 1969 - morning

closing - no, slamming her bedroom door shut, she sat down at her desk, opening her journal. did she want to write another journal entry? no. maybe a poem? no.

the letter.

she got to writing quicker than you can say "banana split."

ma and pa,
there's no easy way to write this letter. but there isn't any way to say this in person, so i'll just have to make do, i suppose.
i'm running away.
no, i'm not leaving with just the clothes on my back. i've saved up some money, and i'm gonna buy mikey's van and i'm gonna get out of bristol. i don't know much except that i will be going to woodstock up in new york. i know y'all won't like me going to a silly old music festival with a bunch of hippies on acid, but hey, i'm not exactly running away so that i can make y'all proud.
i'm not doing this to make you mad, or to spite you. i really just want to be free. i want to see the world and write it all down word for word. i want people to see my curls. if living a long life means that i'll have to stay in bristol for the rest of my days, then i want to die young. and if they call me a nigger because i ain't got my hair tamed, then so be it. they can bring their fire. my leave-in conditioner isn't flammable.
i hope you understand. i love you so much and i cannot wait to see you again.
your daughter always,
judy carver.

a knock sounded on judy's door. "judy? it's mikey."

judy ripped the page out of her journal and folded the letter neatly. "come in," she said quietly.

mikey opened the door to judy's bedroom. his eyes landed on the two backpacks in the corner of her room, filled to the brim. "you gave ma and pa a right talking to. i'm surprised they ain't whopped your ass already."

judy scoffed. "oh, i'll be gone before they even get the chance."

mikey's expression hardened. "you're seriously gonna go?"

judy paused. "...yeah."

mikey then sighed, sitting on the edge of judy's twin bed. "have you thought this through?"

"you moved out when you turned eighteen," judy deflected. "how is this any different?"

"judes," mikey groaned.

"no. don't go all lecture-y on me, mikey. get to the point."

mikey pinched his nose. "i didn't move out just because i wanted to, judy. i had school. a job. something to work towards," he explained. "it's not that i don't want you to go. i do, but... you gotta know what it is you're running towards, not just what you're running away from."

mikey was right.

"... i'm gonna go to new york," judy said slowly. "i'll go to woodstock. and i'll write a book about it."

"and after that?"

"... i don't know."

mikey sighed again. he reached into his pockets, pulling out a key. it was the key to the astro van. "you have my phone number, right?"

judy smiled. she opened her desk drawer and pulled out a makeup bag. in the makeup bag was stacks upon stacks of cash. she pulled out ten $20 bills and traded them to mikey for the key. "i'll call you when shit hits the fan." she emphasized the when.

she stood up and brought mikey into a hug. "please be safe, judy," mikey begged. "if you die, ma and pa will somehow find a way to blame me."

judy let out an odd mix between a laugh and a sob. "i won't die. promise," she said.

mikey pulled away from the hug, letting his hands linger on her shoulders. "the van's in the driveway. go through the window. i'll cover for you," mikey said, nodding his head towards her window.

she smiled gratefully, reaching for one of her backpacks while mikey grabbed the other. she opened her window and climbed on top of her desk, not forgetting her journal. she handed the letter she wrote to mikey. "make sure they read this," she instructed, to which he nodded. she climbed out the window and carefully scaled the wall of her house, landing on her driveway as she had done many times before. she looked back up at mikey, who threw down her other backpack.

"thanks, mikey."

"no problem, judes. see ya later, alligator."

her lips upturned. "after a while, crocodile."

neither of them wanted to say goodbye. this was the next best thing.

she grabbed her other backpack and got in the driver's seat of the van. turning her key through the ignition, she let the roar of the engine mask her insane laughter. this is it, she thought. i'm leaving home.

"FUCK YOU, MA AND PA!" she shouted, pulling out the driveway and driving unusually fast down the suburban street.

-

property of andrew hozier-byrne
31 july, 1969
dear diary,
what the fuck am i doing?
no, seriously. what the fuck am i doing.
i'm so stupid. why did i ever think this was a good idea? i could have started my career any other way, and instead i've decided to fuck off halfway across the world to a city i don't even know. who goes to america and immediately thinks, "oh, virginia seems like just the destination!"
i'm so stupid. i'm so stupid. i'm so stupid.
this is undoubtedly the worst way to celebrate my 21st birthday.