Just remember my name

It was the middle of the night and suddenly I wasn't sure I existed. I needed reliable information and so, I turned to google.

Like a good friend or the angel Clarence, google broke the news to me gently: I didn't exist, not in the way that mattered. I wasn't entirely surprised. Still, it hurt. With google's hand in mine, I clicked and browsed all the women I could have been, women who'd led lives worthy of public awareness. What if I'd turned a hobby into a livelihood? What if I'd gotten married and kept up my pitching? What if I'd had clear convictions? Or put my faith in practical solutions? Or just sold out entirely?

I gazed into the media mirror and found, with all these possible lives, I'd managed to choose the wrong one, the one that didn't count. But who says you can only have one life, be only one person? Life hands you Marshall Mathers; you make Eminem. If Mari Elliot can't sell reggae records, she can go punk as Poly Styrene. Poly Styrene - now that's a woman who knows who she is. I wish I could ask her for advice, except now she's gone Hare Krishna. Maybe I too contain multitudes. Then again, maybe the center cannot hold: I think a river runs through it, like the road not taken, and undermines its structural integrity.

But Poly had it wrong. She asked

Do you see yourself on the TV screen

Do you see yourself in the magazine

When you see yourself does it make you scream

No, Poly. It's NOT seeing yourself that makes you scream. It's tough out here without a fan base. And every woman adores a fan base.

Look - it's the sun. A new day, and time to be someone.