Note: possible swastika in lower left hand corner. Nothing to joke about. If I were to draw a vaguely swastika-like symbol and put it on this site…well, I’d probably get what I would deserve for doing so. Nobody seemed to notice the hate cloud, which proves that Hitler was even more evil than we thought, to blatantly co-opt a symbol from the sky to mark his killing flags.

I wonder how many people have seen clouds like this…and what they took them to mean?

People are really horrible.

Re: Uhoh



show details 11:55 AM (14 minutes ago)

This is an odd sick feeling I have…

I deleted my affirmation, because it was an appeal to people who – for all practical purposes – don’t give a rat’s left leg about anything I may say.

It’d end up biting me anyway. Probably used to sharpen a tooth or two. People are awful. Simply awful.

Even the people I love seem to keep throwing the eggshells around…

Why can’t I just be deemed okay? Legitimate by response, or recognition, or simple acknowledgment of my hands outstretched and my heart getting burnt by the sun of your stare…

…and why in the world do people who claim to love me pretend I don’t exist. My brother didn’t even look at that silly kickstarter project. So weird.

I still need to work on putting out a book of excerpts…or an account of what I found in the space I was left hanging in during this latest little bit of strange failure to connect.

See, I imagine people sitting and thinking:

“why in the world doesn’t she just try to make friends?”

Urgh. I have been trying. I have been trying. And the normal ways of friendship seem to elude me. Why didn’t anyone at work email me as soon as they found out my dog-saint had died…and the children had been taken to Atlanta on the day we put her in the ground and the rain came and it rained and rained and rained…

I was looking for a different photo from that couple of days. I found that, even in early April – the sky distracted me…to look up and see an ‘s’ or an eye…well, it’s distracting.

I think the strings that held my heart were torn from that point on…

a blurry, ugly photo taken from within a licensed dog house

I ended up, that day in early April – after I spent an entire day curled fetal and leaking on the couch, unable to breath for the idiot grief of losing the only shoulder I had to lean on with all my weight…telling people to leave me alone so that I could stop wondering if anyone worried about me. They didn’t. There was nothing they could do, anyway. I am impossible.

“I don’t need a friend I need a saint.” not you…

This, I have been known to say.

(And to see her struck by that familiar car as she ran toward my voice and to watch the car drive by and to see as she ran terrified and weeping a high-pitched keeling cry, blood from her mouth like water…to see that the person whose idiot dog had distracted my saint urgently needing to empty her idiotic dog bladder at the end of a long day and forgetting, as she peed, that her joy was for me, for us…for the arrival home…and she must’ve been pulled by scent or jingling of tags and bounded whole-hearted across the street…and it was on her return to me – to my voice calling from the back door, not knowing where she was…it was then that she was hit, by a person who knows my name and kept driving…confessed a week later…

“I’m sorry that you hit a dog.” Was all I could say to her eyes dark and pleading.

The person who was walking that dumb little dog…they kept walking…even as my kids began to scream…

I try really hard to maintain some generalized love for humanity. However, it is not for the walkers and the talkers the sycophantic drunks who fuck strangers on a regular basis, but think somehow I am unwell.

The only people who have been genuinely kind are few and scattered and most of them don’t have email access. They are children and outcasts and piss-scented shipwrecks on sidewalks.

How sad that even in motherhood – with all it’s false sanctity – I feel quite dismissable.

I would like very much to be able to work more on the making…however, there is something inherently reasonable in my preoccupation with people’s aversive reaction to me…

It is a simple matter of belief and sustainability. Before I was experimentally ranting about divisive politics on fb and challenging the likes of Glenn Beck to consider the ways his sleek piggish eyes may need to see the likes of me. Also, there is the geneological issue that I still – in my thinking brain – am a little curious about.

I know I have cousins out there. I must. (The only two related cousins I have are estranged, by blood only second…they may as well be strangers…my whole extended family – for all practical purposes, is estranged…I don’t know why. It has always been that way. Us in the woods with the world swirled around.)

Before I was fumbling facebook with all it’s mysterious ways, I was politely inquiring of people here in the community. I was sending out introductions and shaking hands and launching small ideas that grew dusty on shelves.

For all the effort I have put forth in this past year, to rise out of the tragic misunderstanding of my marriage in a way that is honorable to my truest self and to build a network of people who I could assume would buffer me from some of the cruelty of the world…the many ways that people take advantage of good girls with quick minds and steady hands…

And even the local bloggers didn’t write me back…how odd is that? So much for your precious community.

I will write you all into the ground. And I will sing songs on the graves dug by your self-interest.

I know now that I what I always 1/2 suspected, but was too fearful to test…it is true.

I could have been remarkable. I came across another person I did not know existed last night. And we even look somewhat the same, though her eyes are clear and free and mine have begun to burn. We are the same in so many ways…

The difference is that the people who loved her must’ve have believed that her mind was sound and her heart was true…

I know Dr. Beck @ UGA and I weren’t related. We went over the possible linkage, but there was no connection. I also taught in the sociology department at UGA, as a grad student – in the fall of 2000. Before I quit the program because of human influence and disinterest, supreme dis-reality…I don’t even know why I even went to Georgia. It was so hard to get loose of Georgia when I left home. I should’ve stayed in Portland – been a librarian. UGA was the only school I even applied to. I’d never even been to silly Athens. What is my problem?

I probably should have just stopped hanging out with assholes and worked on my thesis. It is one of the problems with being a stray. You’ll give up food for affection, no matter how flawed.

I fucking cannot believe that this – after all of my efforts…I am still a damn stray dog.

I got put into a psychiatric hospital when I was 13 years old…

…and when I was 17, I asked to go back – because it least it felt safe.
…and when I was 23, the hospital in Athens wouldn’t let me leave and I couldn’t see straight for days my pupils were shrunken to pinholes from poison.
…and when I was 24, on the other side of the country again – the nurse in triage looked so surprised when, after I hadsat for hours, she handed me a photocopy list of ‘community resources’ and asked me if there was anything I else she could help me with…

“Well, while I’m here – do you think I could get some gauze for this?” And I showed the clean four inch slice straight through the dermal layer, packed with towels and bundled in sweater, held against my side. It was no real threat. I didn’t want to die. I just couldn’t go to work that day and I was scared to try to call out sick. My roommate dropped my arm and I off at Psych Triage and went back home and went back to bed. No wonder Nate Hudson seems a friendly ghost to me. He is probably trying to apologize. It’s okay – he was as wounded as I was and besides, I am still here – for better or for worse. RIP, Mr. Hudson.

After the nurse saw my arm, they wouldn’t let me leave. Get my records. Portland Providence. Early winter 2001. Sent me home with a sheaf of prescriptions and a newly stitched scar.

The emergency room tech smirked at me as he stitched it, after I rode over in the back of a squad car. “Pretty stupid way to try to get out of working.
Would’ve been cheaper to call in sick.”


I never belonged there. And now, I don’t seem to belong anywhere.

(for years, I told people that I had cut my arm – a clear swath through blue roses -with sheet metal while working at the hardware store. It is true that metal was used and that it was the hardware store I couldn’t bear the thought of on that given morning…it made sense at the time…I may have been a little nuts then…definitely possible…)

(So, yes: that was a lie I told, re: the scar on my arm.)

(Also: I did not report to my evaluator in November (Subjective Measures of a Supposed Self) the two hospitalizations at the turn of the century…bias of omission in my reported self.)

It is remarkable the calm that I write this with. In my chest is an awful warmish wrenching and my breath is too shallow and so maybe I am not calm.

It is called dissociation and it is the result of trauma. I am constantly in a calm state of emotional trauma.

Because I trusted people to give a shit. I have always tried to give a shit about other people. Or at least have the manners to acknowledge them if they look me in the eye. There is a lot I would like to do. There is a lot I could do.

However, it is so hard for me to believe the truth of this. How did I end up so easily erasable?

I will not go away. And if I disappear, because it is hard to feel hungry in the midst of unresolved trauma…well, I will have a solid record for my children of who is to be held accountable for the slow erasure of the person their mother might have been.

And if I am taken away and if any nurse dare try to touch me and if my parents dare try to save me in their terrified way that somehow compels them to place my care in the hands of someone other than myself…

(Though, admittedly – I am not terribly invested in the maintenance of my walking and talkingness…I love my kids…but, it is not fair to stand over a wounded mother and shake your finger and tell her she’s got to save herself.

Fuck you for that. Really. My whole damn life has been trying to save myself.)

I have done everything I could to navigate my circumstances well and in a way that I was led to believe would garner your approval and thus your protection.

Really – given the ridiculously baffling total insensitivity shown to me by near everyone accepted as being “functional” –

I absolutely refuse to clamor for a place in a world that doesn’t really care about much after all. I am in the midst of a major crisis of trust in regard to white middle class culture…

It is all such pointless and heartless shit. Why in the world would I give a damn about any of it?

I just want people to believe in me.

I cannot spell it any more clearly.

I don’t want your money. I just want someone to believe in me.

Of course, at this point – I won’t believe you if you say you do…what good is hanging my heart on a lie?

So, yeah – tough situation I’m in. The thing is – the longer it takes for people to believe in me…well, the higher the stakes…the harder it is to prove and the higher the cost if you don’t.

Because of the bewildering resistance to my attempts at self-directed actualization within my ‘community’ have been so ineffective…well, because I am a logic driven person – I have no other choice at this point but to continue seeking on my own…some place where I feel safe.

Adults are very threatening to me – in a literal and actual sense and also in my sense of subjective reaction. I know that the vast majority of people are likely good…and might even be nice to me.

However, my ability to trust in the ordinary world as being worthy and legitimate…well, it is gone.

I cannot believe that I held myself down for this shit.
——Original Message——
From: Me
To: Me
ReplyTo: Me
Subject: Uhoh
Sent: Aug 8, 2010 9:52 AM

I think something quite odd has happened.

The crisis of universal simulacra that spun all the webs from my eyes to the sky…in June, early July…

…this was taken in the sky over Hampton Park – the day of planes and green tinted water, skateboards and ducks…and I feel so much less scared when I am not here…under scrutiny from people who think they know what’s best for anyone…I was, again – for the first time in a long time, just a pretty mother with eccentric green shoes and too many tattoos, but look at her smile and try to ride that board and her boy lights up. I feel like I can barely leave my house around here – always waiting to run into to some well-meaning someone who has heard some skewed and scornful tale of my oddity…
(I can’t move.)

The simulacra has eased and I have lost the urgency of idea and flush of profundity that so reddened my cheeks. I feel really quite calm in mind, but my body it aches and quivers like there is too much space in there.

And the saddest thing is that even the Murray McMurray Hatchery seems to have taken me from it’s mailing list. Maybe they are just running late – sometimes they do.

(fortunately, came through for me…in the form of a funny wooden tie today. I laughed. I actually laugh quite a bit – as pissed off as I finally am…it is still pretty damn funny.)

This is a Century Plant – it was growing in a vacant beachfront lot in Folly. Same as the ‘Thank’ tree. It only blooms once in it’s life. I didn’t know this, but apparently the bloom precedes it’s death. People got huffy with me for lingering on the sidewalk (not wanting to brave the impatience, the spurs and ants to look at it close up) – I only took several pictures of it. I’d never seen one in bloom. Even the kids think my photo-ing is pointless. They pull me along, exasperated. My whole family treats me like a goddam idiot.

But, shouldn’t someone notice that tree of blooms?

My camera – the less crappy of the two was already starting to break then – the lens stuck with sand. Now it is blank screened and unblinking. Back to phone photography – I guess. The clouds are pretty tough to get a good picture off with the poor resolution of phone cameras.

Oh well.

It is probably good. I have a lot of pictures of clouds I haven’t even looked at.

10000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000s…okay, maybe not quite that many:)

I am not quite sure I understand what has happened and continues to happen…perhaps it is simple physics: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction…?

It seems the more I gently reach, the more I push away…

I understand that the people who have known me in a more passable state of walking and talkingness perhaps may feel I have gone quite mad. Which sort of sucks.

They can’t seem to understand that their wary “Are you okay?” pushes me right back into the closet I have been trying to come out of…

The Crazy Closet. Folks, I am not crazy. For the millionth bajillionth time…of course, what is it they say? That you’re not truly crazy until you believe yourself to be sane in a state of insanity…

I am – if anything – far too rational for all the world’s rules and customs to make sense to me…
most of it is utter fleeting nonsense.

I tried to play along. The funny thing is that when I started keeping this weblog, writing and drawing…I had no idea that anyone would find me odd…

I didn’t think I was particularly odd. However, when I actually began to consider my story and it’s driving impetus…and all the lonely spaces that seem to have filled up the landscape…well, it is no surprise that I am alone here.

11:58 AM (10 minutes ago)

Or worse, as she limps toward her last hope – to kick her because she trails blood, or to look away from her because her movement is raw and hard to watch.

I absolutely will not PAY people to comfort me. I will not PAY people to poison me. There is no salvation there.

In fact – I don’t really want to have much at all to do with people…which is a problem, because I have children and I need to be present for them and able to navigate to and fro, and I need to be able to afford to keep my home standing.

Otherwise, where will all my ghosts live?

I am looking forward to playing music today. There is, I have found – a small salvation in the resonance of the banjo…I feel harmonic when I play, even if you can’t hear it.

I don’t expect you to, at this point. I am not singing for you anymore.

Is there really anything to say?

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