Inequalities … Fiction Continued,,,

The atheist that goes to church. The lady that won’t fit in the airplane seat. The good father that got taken away in a crash, the drug dealer who won the lottery, the innocent incarcerated, the guilty that walk free, the genius with OCD, the neighbors whom you have helped who then steal from you, the raccoons I didn’t mean to run over, the plastic bags that kill the fish, the paper bags that kill the trees, rescue volunteers lost at sea, the idiot savant musician, water with no land, deserts with no water, mountains with no air, that not every dwelling can face south, gifts bestowed upon the ungrateful or gifts given with an agenda, false-flattering con men, people who got in on quotas while your stellar test scores meant nothing, the lonely that cannot reach out, the ones who want to be alone but never have any peace, the rich girl who still put gum in your hair, those born too early, those born too late, the good people watching people they love suffer while assholes never notice or care yet then inherit a fortune, babies that get shot in the face, where is it, tell me where exists this equality? Is equal fair? Is it even possible?l If it were even possible to find some splinter of joy, would she have to steal it? Or would it even be stealing if she had paid enough in pain along the way? Was it natural to be suspicious of anything or anyone actually at least mostly good? If there were any way to ‘steal happiness’ she would do it while she still could. She had done it, and would do it again.

These people she was thinking of, from so long ago, why were they reappearing now when they had been sucked into the vortex of unmemory, why had they arisen now, unwanted spectres telling their not funny jokes, singing along with every song from every band she didn’t like, hordes of them, young ones with their rock concert t-shirts and way-too-old press-on attitude “life sucks then you die” “the one with the most toys wins” older ones with their endless girlfriend- placating/reassurances “I wouldn’t even know what to do in a strip club” or “I didn’t even know I was at a nude beach, really these days you can’t tell.” The first was awful because they believed their world-weary stoner cliches, the second was awful because other people believed them.

It was a long bike ride and while it was great, if one stopped, within minutes the cold sea air would set in, making one’s clothes damp and freezing. It wasn’t technically all that cold at between 40-50 compared to other places so why did it feel colder than when she was in the mountains at much lower temperatures? The dry, crisp cold of six thousand feet was preferable. Even when one did keep moving, the more one sweated, the worse the recovery from warmth back to cold was. How could it not be freezing yet steam was coming off her indoors and she could see her breath more often than not. On the coast, wool was one’s friend, as bulky and uncool as it was, it stayed warm and didn’t get soggy with the dampness.

With the advent of the internet she did find out what had happened to one of her childhood friend, the one with this skin disease, impetigo, which made all the other cruel little bastards treat her like a leper. She worked for some health-care giant and had turned into a very big girl, but not in the way her mother was, likely almost 6 feet tall with sensible, blunt-cut hair and a gap between her teeth and heavy tweed skirts, beige shirts, things that looked like a cross between a camp counselor and a prison guard. She knew her friend’s family weren’t actually Officially Poor, though no one who lived in that same modest tract-home development had much. Not like now. Her father vaguely resembled the father that killed himself on that show ‘bewitched’, Darren.

During the time her friend’s parents were splitting up, the parents came up with some kooky plan to take us all on some field trip of their own to somewhere ‘fun’ – a place that I can’t remember now, some amusement park type place, or maybe it was just pee-wee golf. I don’t remember any fun, I don’t even remember what it was or what we did there- only that some of us got to go with the mom on the ride back and some of us had to go with the dad. Those of us that went with the dad did not have a fun trip back. I heard the mom’s bunch didn’t get back till hours later and had stopped somewhere for food. We didn’t stop anywhere, we just listened to the dad swear under his breath while driving and telling us to shut up and feeling somewhat afraid and wishing we never went. He had that same slicked back creepy hair as Darren too.

Checking out, checking in. She wouldn’t believe what the head-shrink said. Just because she thought the sound was coming from somewhere else and asked ‘are you hungry?’ when her stomach growled, just because she sometimes used ‘she’ and ‘I’ interchangeably, just because it took a second sometimes for her head to catch up to her body didn’t mean she had lost it, that she indeed was ‘dissociated’ or had some unfixable ‘disorder’ . And just because she had dodged a few bullets doesn’t mean she saw them coming. If the bullet was big enough, there was really no way to dodge it.

A bullet like the secrets that had been kept from her for so many years. Secrets she had never learned directly but that she had figured out. Sure, things made more sense now, but they still sucked. She was not like them, and actually had now not spoken to them in years. There were parents out there who kept promises, parents who actually got up in the morning with their kids so they wouldn’t OD on Flintstones and baby aspirin. There probably were parents who didn’t think it was ok if their 12 year old daughter went up to the middle school after hours to talk and smoke with the 30 year old janitor who had other ideas. They probably wouldn’t have let that go on a week, let alone for two years. There were parents who didn’t stay up all night getting drunk and parents who let their kid’s friends come over. There were parents who didn’t drag their 16 year old out of a high school dance , screaming about them being ‘on drugs’ because there were a couple of no-doze in their teenager’s purse.

Some of their friends she now disliked retroactively, not because they were annoying hippies who talked about astrology but because of the things she had figured out about them and what their various connections were to her parents. Now little comments, and even digs they took at each other made sense. Now she knew why they had to drive up to the farm in Petaluma and sit in the car for hours, while her parents took turns going into the house. They were friends,then they weren’t friends, then they were friends again. The guy with the plate in his head from the war that lived with us, the schoolteacher who was always patting her hair and looking uncomfortable. She looked back and hated the effing 70’s. Long jean jackets, floppy hats, feathered hair, big combs sticking out of the back pockets of bell-bottoms. Awful fringed vests.

Another friend,not the one with the skin condition- had older, boring parents that she coveted. Her friend’s mom watched lawrence welk. Her dad wore a mechanic’s blue coverall thing and hung out in the garage and smoked. He used this stuff called wildroot to grease back whatever hair he had left. They had a certain food for every day of the week. The friend spent every sunday from 10 am to 2 pm writing down the top 40 which then went into a binder- she had been doing this for years. Calling her on the phone during that time period would elicit a panic every time the commercial break was about to end and the next song would be announced. This friend was somewhat like a girl she knew now, whom if asked a difficult question, answered it in a somewhat sing-songy way, as if the preschool teacher tone of voice made up for lack of content.

This one, the younger version of the first would say things like “Are you judging me?” if any kind of debate arose. We had to be in total agreement. I was willing to be wrong, to not have an opinion if I didn’t know enough but this seemed silly to her. She seemed to have this middle-of-the-road pat answer for all the ills of the world that often started with “people should..” She often seemed to try to work at finding things that she said she liked probably because I did but somehow it didn’t feel real.It could have been she just needed a ride somewhere and didn’t have anything better to do, but I didn’t really care. I believed she did like me, at least as much as she could. There was a certain quality of relaxedness about hanging out with her because it was just so predictable.

Friend one, whom I hadn’t seen for a long time, my own fault- maybe I felt like I didn’t want to burden her with my life, or didn’t have it in me to try to live up to hers- and friend 2 were very into brand-name things, and just like on the commercials, both said it was because they trusted them- like accepting anything else would somehow be demeaning. How was it that both of them routinely would go to parties, and report back they got so drunk they dyed their hair blue and puked and passed out, yet if anything slightly deviated from their routine, or was even questioned, they would get all snippity – as if somehow part of their life they had sort of shellacked into place, endless memento collages and photos and cutsey clutter, like fluffy cat phone holders and framed rock album covers and best friend half heart necklaces and and the other part was like playing Russian roulette with a wasted dr kevorkian while telling him you didn’t care if tomorrow came or not. It wasn’t equal, these friendships.

Nothing was ‘equal’ in actuality, and likely, nothing was ‘fair’ either. Because of this recognition that usually accompanied that ever-present sense of mortality, when the scales even momentarily tipped in her favor, she would notice, she would appreciate, and she would reciprocate and then some even if it meant doing without something else. For now, the down blanket on some other neighbor’s discarded leather sofa meant warmth. The pervasive sense of calm would usually last a few days and she would sleep deeply in the quiet wake of what had started to feel like a protracted exorcism.

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III Writing, Continued…

How long would this little bag of food keep? I put it into the trunk,knowing it was cold enough, the milk would probably not spoil overnight. All windows closed, doors locked. Already peed in the bathrooms by the rest stop, if I had to go again I was parked by the trees.The key was getting here when it was dark and parking but not so late as to make one’s arrival super obvious. By now it was almost 10.
I crawled into the backseat from the front of the car rather than getting out and then going in through the back door and lay down as best as I could, shoveling the coats and blankets over, trying to create a kind of nest. The wool blankets seemed to be warmest.Old classic IPOD starting to lose charge but enough for tonight. Looking up on the night sky through the back, I noticed that the huge expanse upon which I was gazing was not static,that much was going on up there. A shooting star, sparkly clusters randomly moving around, the little dipper there was a lot to see.

Never having been, I thought: this is sort of what camping must be like, only not in the car. Then I thought of the dangers of camping and realized, with some smidgen of anxiety, that I had no real weapon. I did have the little throwaway go phone which still had some money on it, but that would be little actual help if something went wrong. No one could see me curled up in the backseat though, and having kept the car somewhat purposefully messy, it didn’t look like there was anything good to steal.

It was a good spot, a road where one could see everything but a road that wasn’t much traveled and yet close enough to where people lived that I could park in such a way that I could pretend that my car was one of theirs. Hiding in plain sight, kind of. Other cars would drive by, but cops were looking for people sitting in their cars- people smoking pot, drinking or making out-the cops didn’t get out and check to see if there was anyone sleeping in the back.

At one point I thought I heard some people walking by, maybe walking their dog. They didn’t notice me, or if they did, they didn’t call the cops.I locked the ipod so the light wouldn’t come on. I fumbled around and found a small water bottle on the floor and took a benadryl. The nights when I was up here I would wake up during the night, a couple because the blankets had become dislodged and it was cold, and once or twice because it was so cramped back there one had to wake up in order to turn a different way. Even for a relatively not-so-big person, these little cars were not made for this. The seat was angled back, so one always felt as if one were sort of rolling towards the trunk. I thought of the people at the RV ‘resort’ and envied them their real beds, their own bathrooms, their mini-fridges. BBQs and their electrical outlets where they could charge their gear.

I hunkered down, opting for bent legs rather than half-sitting and being able to stretch out as I could then better disguise myself as a pile of clothes. I thought of what I might do in the morning, how I would fill my thermos with coffee at the quik-mart, then without using much gas go to a different spot and have a kind of makeshift breakfast in the front seat.I wouldn’t be able to sleep much past the overly-bright dawn. Staying in the backseat until the morning commuters passed was a good idea. If I didn’t drink a lot of water now I wouldn’t have to pee and thus I could stay sort of half-sleep waiting for most of the morning rush to drive by, yet still be out of here before the dog-walkers and joggers started.

~~~~~~~

There’s not much out here, a long promenade, a peninsula of parking lot, a pier,
People whisking hair out of their mouth, pulling their jackets tighter. A sense of communal amusement and suffering because of the wind, the fog, the bird noise. The door to the cafe has some sort of fan/vacuum that supposedly keeps flies out. It’s loud and evokes a sensation of entering some kind of spaceship, or other controlled environment.

There’s a bunch of older locals sitting in the prime view seats. There’s one table, in the corner for parties of three only, a little sign on the table warns. One of the local fisherman will likely talk to me, start asking questions. This isn’t a great place to hide but it is less noisy than some of the other options, the place with the over-priced framed artsy scenic photos on the wall and a bookshelf of donated books like the 90’s version of ‘PC’s for dummies’,or or ‘Belgium on 20 dollars a day’.

There were places to go, away from here. I use to think about leaving the area mostly be I was still afraid of someone from many years ago-that he might know where I was, yet he suggested in a court document that he did not. If that were true, in between stints in prison he must not have gotten on the internet much. If he didn’t try, that was good. I pictured a dumpy halfway house, then a series of grotty sofas and crash pads-friends of convenience, girlfriends met at 12-step meetings- cigarette butts, old VHS porn tapes, mean dogs, gross pizza, dirty bathrooms. If that had been a lie, that he did not know my whereabouts- he had not bothered me for a very long time. I felt sorry for the latest kid he created but I was secretly relieved he had other irons in the fire.

There were ways out of the enclave, the north way led to more people, people I would not know and lots of them. More public places in which to hide. The south way led to nice outdoor places, places to wander, places where I had purposefully created good memories so I could retrieve and relive them. Places where the new, good memories would then overwrite the bad, or sometimes even rewrite over other good memories, but good ones that only made me miss my previous self, a self so long deceased that it needed other, external yet related memories to help recall.

Remembering and recalling this self-it was like crying- instead of actually crying, what replaced that was simply thinking of crying. Sometimes my gut would tighten up, or my eyes would become hot but nothing else would happen. Or I would make a sound almost like a low howling but nowhere near full-on crying. On rare occasions when I was lucky a few drops of the salt-water would drop without any sound or movement. Why had I lost this ability and why when I did have the ability, it was not the right moment and would almost have to warm up to it? Why was some part of me still annoyingly dead, a sensation or rather a lack thereof I had had since almost losing consciousness (or maybe I did) when I was being strangled a long time ago.

It was a kind of doubt that this life was ‘real’ and instead, it was some kind of parallel universe, some kind of mental/spiritual construction that was believable enough for me to mostly buy the scam. Even though I usually insisted on logic, ever the skeptic, sometimes cynic – this particularly creepy belief didn’t need to make logical sense or need to be proved ‘true’ for the suspicion to be there.

Somehow it was possible in this schema that other people’s reality and lives could be real, yet mine not, even as theirs was in inextricably tied up with mine in their real lives and world. I was haunting my own life. This half-self me was here in the parallel universe, a kind of blade-runnery replicant, the other parts were sort of hovering in the ether of others lives and the original self was back in that apartment, seeing the light start to darken, turn that greenish-grey as if one had stared at a light bulb or the sun yet closing in like the unavoidable tunnel of general anesthesia . Perhaps that was why I was not at all afraid of going under – maybe it somehow took me back to a place I already half was, or that it was ending the thought-noise of one of my divided selves.

And why when it was so hard to cry, how was it that other senses were as active as ever, often times saying what someone else was thinking, thinking of someone and then they would call, being able to see the weakness, darkness and emptiness in others when before I would only see their false construction, their imitation of life. This was not always a gift – sometimes they could ‘tell’ that could see these things. Sometimes the good could tell, sometimes the not-so-good.

Leaving things of this earth, the loss of the ability to cry out loud spooked me. Had I lost this because I had indeed become stronger, or was it actually the opposite- was crying something essential for survival that my old self had needed, but this one did not? If I was still myself, but once or more removed, then where were the other selves? There were times where it seemed I had passed myself on the street, an older self, a younger self. And there were people that seemed like others that I thought I had lost, that were gone for good, that ‘came back’ as new people I was meeting for the first time. Of course I never told them any of this. I wondered if they too also had some of these bizarre feelings or if that was just too ‘out there’ for how they were wired. Hardly anyone understood any of this, and why lose whatever trust and credibility one had to the land of ‘what if-ness’ mixed with total weirdness? No way would I try to foist this stuff upon their hapless selves- if they picked up anything strange, they could tell me or they could blow it off or shrug it off..

I asked one of them, actually one that did not fit into that same creepy schema, someone who was outside of that, asked him what he thought, not quite this kind of thing I am telling you, reader, but the ‘what’s it all for?’ question, the ‘what’s the point? why are we here?’ His take was disappointing: there was no point, there was no purpose, there was nothing after, there was nothing before. I guess he basically thought we were just random muck, mucking around here and there, making new muck, and mucking up what we could and rolling around in the muck whenever we got a chance.

“That’s it, huh? That’s what you really believe?” I think the response wasn’t so much affirmative as it was self-convinced “yep, that’s all there is, that’s it. Why do you waste your time on this crap?” It was as if the very idea of questioning it was irritating in itself to him- but…how could one not ask oneself the big questions?

He was sure that all that all that stuff was crap, just as I was fairly sure it wasn’t. I wondered, had he never had super vivid and realistic yet otherworldly dreams like I had all the time? Did he lack any and all of the ‘extra-senses’ that made going to malls or family reunions unbearable, because of all the things one would mentally ‘pick up’? Maybe it was true. Maybe he had none of those things …so in his reality, all there really was, was food, money, winning and losing, mucking around ,and material stuff-an endless loop of the same thing over and over. No wonder he didn’t even have the possibility that all this had meaning. If one didn’t have legs , one could go on and on about running and they would still never know what that was like. He didn’t take me seriously when I nagged him, maybe you should finish this project, maybe you might want to finish this other thing, while you still could. How could one be so ‘meh’ about everything and still be alive. Perhaps he too was divided and didn’t know it.

But what did I know, I was starting to be convinced it was better to be liked than loved as one didn’t really always choose loving, as in one’s children, you just did it, like breathing- but usually liking was a choice. Someone had decided came to a conclusion that they enjoyed your company, character, personality- whatever- whereas lots of people used the word love in the same sentence as an apology: “I know he drinks, but …I love him” “I love her, so what’s a little lateness?” You didn’t often hear ‘like’ used as either an excuse or disclaimer, used as a kind of tacit apologetic. Usually you heard ‘like’ before something good: “I like that guy; he doesn’t bullshit.” or “she never flakes out, I like that in a person.”

Maybe the selling of the idea that this is all there is and then kaput ,lights out is in someones self interest as a means of distraction. As a means to a kind of ‘theft’-not only distraction but a form of advanced lying/stealing. How different were lying and stealing anyway? Theft of the truth was a lie, wasn’t it? Telling you ‘ Hey look over here, you need to listen to my agenda, I have the answer, don’t look anywhere else, everything else is bullshit, I’m sooo confident, it must be true!’…and the more you gave of your time, of yourself, the more you believed the lies and the ability to get to the truth, that the ability to see the lies was sucked away.

Even if you came away with some grain of truth, you had probably paid for it so dearly you likely would have been better off discovering it on your own. What if you didn’t agree or had questions? Well you were surrounded by so many others who on some level, probably unconsciously, knew that they had so much time stolen already, they felt like they had to commit absolutely and mindlessly to whatever the agenda was. Besides, everyone would turn on the questioner if they called someone out, even if they weren’t called out for the actual belief system that was being hawked, but called out for ‘hey are you getting anything done, is this really good enough for you? ‘

And some people couldn’t take being turned on and questioned -much less ask these things of themselves-especially on the internet. People didn’t enjoy being questioned, hassled or trolled unless they liked just any attention at all, and making a career of trolling was so derivative- you had to start with something someone else did first- it didn’t seem very creative once you dissected the whole premise.

Trolls, while they are hanging out under bridges, don’t usually have epiphanies (well OK maybe even some huge trolls might actually get sick of it, epiphany or not)and ask themselves:
Is this how I want to spend whatever I have left? Maybe believing one’s cause was the only cause worth a crap stopped one from questioning, is this it, is this truly the stopping point- I knew people who couldn’t be wrong, if they were, it would eff up their entire construction of their world.

Others didn’t want questioning because people who were so invested in whatever scheme was their bread and butter. As I told someone once, some people just can’t be wrong. I should have then followed that up with, cause when you are wrong, it’s usually your fault. You’re not only wrong. You’re to Blame. You effed up. Some people can’t get this and every time they know they weren’t wrong, like hmm what side of the street paving will that leaf fall? When they are right, it’s like: YAY I WIN, I WAS RIGHT ! Then they do a little victory dance.

If the leaf didn’t fall on the side they guessed it would be, then it’s ‘oh I was going to guess that other side’, or ‘oh I wrote the wrong side down but I meant this other side’, or ‘oh I was looking in a mirror and so left was right and right was left’…. ‘I was thinking of this side because there was a red fire hydrant and I was distracted and somehow yeah, it was your fault because I would have picked the correct side had you not got me off track, cause you suck’…to them ,being wrong was like some horrible OCD Hydra that would carry down to make spiraling generations of wrongness, like Lake Wobegone in reverse would happen-therefore in their universe, there would not, could not ever be any original wrongness: thought behavior, calculation, beliefs, anything. Being wrong was just too scary and didn’t have any payoff.

They couldn’t afford to be wrong or to say hey people, get a life, do other stuff besides this, put energy into that and what you want will probably happen anyway as a result ..but it sure as hell ain’t gonna happen this way, and oh yeah, duh if the problem got solved, I’d be out of work , my little kingdom would crumble and that would sure blow.

One would think truly feeling one’s own mortality would give one more pause as to what one wasted time on, whether or not one believed in something more. But maybe there was some payoff to getting people to ‘overspend’ their time on whatever the agenda was, even if that way didn’t work and had created it’s own government-like money, time and energy grab program,a life and spirit-sucking machine, not so unlike the official one that people railed about constantly.

After all, time is and would always be the greatest currency there is for mortal flesh. Stealing that was like soul-stealing. The greatest thing that could be stolen, a kind of subtle murder.

Writing, chap II

The cans, filled with sand and heated on the makeshift wood-stove, had finally warmed and begun to give off heat. I placed a ceramic cup filled with milk on top of one of them, taking care that it was not the hottest one or the cup would crack and the milk would be wasted. She had arranged the refrigerator so that she knew what was what even without much light, so a gallon of orange juice would not be confused in the dark for the one full of milk. This is how the blind must do it, she thought. The glass being half-empty or half-full was a common saying, but how would the blind know when to stop pouring? The old microwave made the milk half-hot and half-cold and this neither/not she did not like.

She reached into the stove with her metal stick and stirred what was left of the crumbles of the fire-log, thus temporarily brightening the room. Looking across a long, narrow valley, there was nothing but an occasional streetlight. Well, it was the middle of the night. She imagined the good people of the town, in a kind of collective snoring and as she looked out at their dwelling, felt as if she were looking in on them, as one would a child. Sometimes she felt as if she could hear them cry, in a way, or rage, or sense their happiness, or worries.

She could always tell if someone was behind her or nearby, or even casting a glance on the rare occasion she was out getting supplies. Why then, when she stood in the window like a sentinel, did they never see her, whether in the full light of day or back-lit by the fire? How is it she could move right next to them, ride her bike right behind them and they did not sense her?

Sorting through a trunk that had some old clothes in it, she thought of someone that she used to know in college. How this person would trade in excessive superficiality and copycat-ism because likely she had not established enough of a real self. She collected all the accoutrements of the time, had big hair-sprayed bleach blonde hair, spiked wristbands. She didn’t care much about having all kinds of people she didn’t know that well at her apartment, or if she partied till sick or spent all her money on coke or the latest style of leather jacket.

The apartment seemed to be decorated with head-shop memorabilia, from elaborate colorful glass pot bongs to silver spoons strangely juxtaposed with girlie childish stuff, like black and pink stuffed kitties and assorted zebra-print seat covers. There were rock-fan books and concert programs, but no books in evidence.
Was all this even real or just the result of an unimaginative false and handy construction? Looking back from this far, she could see how her friend was perceived as much more ‘fun’. It didn’t make sense though. How could someone
only care about motley crue, boyfriend(s) drama, wasting money and drugs, yet be in these same classes and why did she even want to hang around me? Looking back, why did I ever want to hang around her? Maybe because it seemed she could do whatever she wanted. Her dad still paid the rent on her large 2 bedroom, 2 bath (plus walk in closet!) tower apartment near the college, maybe because it was rent-controlled, maybe because he didn’t want her to follow him to the outskirts of the east bay. Her mother was dead, some kind of illness. Though my own mother was creepy and cold-blooded, I still felt bad for her because of this, though it seemed as though she used the fact as a quick lever for sympathy rather than actually talking about things she remembered about her mom, or her qualities. I didn’t get this then- it was one of those things you can only figure out later, after one has lived more life and heard stories from more people.

The things we learn only over time. There were other people that came later- as ‘friends’ kind of well, similarly untrustable in the same way. Similarly indirect and weaselly in their approach to others, always angling to give out as little of themselves as possible. The inevitable pause when asked a common, innocuous question. The way they were selfish about the tiniest of things even after receiving much more “oh can I have my hair rubber-band back?” and much more concerned with arranging their rock/drug/mall memorabilia and keeping that in order than the well-being of their friends. How I actually believed at the time a phone call out of the blue saying “I miss you” actually meant ‘I’m calling to check where you are, I’m calling cause I want something, etc’.

Why then, when she had more money, more freedom, more ‘friends’ of whatever type than I did, why did she start to copy me, why did she want whatever I had, when I had so little? Why did she hear a terrible and true story from myself and then, later take the opportunity to make that story worse? She was awful and cruel and manipulative and fake but around the time I realized this was, I also realized all these things could easily come without a high degree of intelligence. She tole when she could have simply asked and received, or ‘earned’ most minimally. She lied when lying wasn’t necessary. Her lies were imitative, almost lifetime movieish in all their self-righteous, reproachful horror -“I’m terrified” “this is the worst thing/greatest thing I’ve ever done” Blah blah blah. I’m surprised she didn’t affect a British accent.

But for all the fake sweetness and continual lying, she didn’t get or perhaps it never occurred to her that one of her pawns could ever exceed her level of shining people on. Perhaps not in the same exact way that ‘friend’ did it, perhaps in a far more low-key, inscrutable way. ‘Friend’ went for the covert, yet spur-of-the-moment and hastily-slapped together. Even then, I looked at her betrayal as a kind of ‘art of war’ opportunity, though at that time I knew nothing of either Machiavelli or Sun Tzu. At that point, I hated her enough to accept that in order to avenge- it wasn’t really revenge, it was more complex than that- that I too, would bleed.

Chapter 1, The Lobotomist’s Runaway Daughter

Another cold night, in the car, listening to the waves. I would blast the heater and try to make sure the windows that were not functioning with the electric open mechanism were all the way up. Tiredness started to creep up on me, my eyes started to itch, even without my contacts in. Earlier today I got what is commonly called ‘the creeps’ which is not that uncommon for me, but this time it came out of nowhere. No, not what is called a ‘panic attack’ , no, it wasn’t that. It was something I could turn from, with some effort. Something I could manage to distract myself from.
I have heard some people describe the feeling of loneliness, but it wasn’t that. That must be like the feeling that occasionally overtook me when I felt something, anything at all and started to vacillate between wanting to cry and sort of scream, but not like a horror movie scream, it was more like a slow, low keening, something akin to howling but without the ooo oooo oooo that usually kicks off a dog or a wolf howl. It rarely turned into actual tears, or the tears would be separate from the sobbing sensation, the tears would leak out, only a couple, and then usually the feeling would go away, only to be replaced by the wanting to make a noise as if one was in pain. It was not like what people think of when they think of crying. Then it would pass relatively quickly.

The other night I stood by the lookout and listened to some type of music and tapped my foot or bounced my leg along to its spastic techno beat. It didn’t feel the way listening to normal music felt- it felt like sound meant to drive one into another mental space and it did. Let me see the dissociative off-ramp up ahead. In about 10 minutes of foot-tapping, it did. I became aware of it being cold outside. I felt like I had landed or was in the process of landing. I could feel myself going away from the state I had briefly visited, a kind of waving goodbye to that part of myself that had started to enter that frightening land of thoughts that mixed with emotions I could not identify.

How was that possible to feel something (really anything these days)and not know what it was? Imagine eating something unknown and tasting flavors that one did not have words for. Unnerving. Then it would sort of go away for a while like a receding tide but then mocking laughter knowing it would come back. I would pick up a scarf and smell it. Something that would bring back a feeling, a memory of that unidentified taste and at the same time, would separate thinking from the feeling, and never the the twain shall meet. As if there was some kind of referee I had never met that kept the two apart.

The referee was all business and would not tolerate the one side running away with the game. The referee had ultimate power over the other two- thinking and feeling.. although at times the referee’s job was too exhausting, at times the referee just had to sleep or took time off and forgot to notify thinking/feeling. They thought the ref was still there and went along as if that were the case. The problem lie in that when the ref was absent, one side would start to gain strength yet neither would know what the score was. It would just happen. One side would be bleeding out, yet not know it, and there was no one to stop the one side from continuing to smack the other silly.

Sometimes there would be a voice, whose was it? Mine? The voice might say it was afraid or that it felt weak , it would speak when the dissonance between the other two was great or of her own accord. Other times it would be more like poetry or a story. Sometimes I wouldn’t remember what the voice said, only that it was indeed me, not like some outside voice like people who had schizophrenia would describe, this voice was me and would speak not in my head. It was more like a narrator, yet still me. The narrator kept the rest of me tethered by a thin thread to what was happening in the now, real-time. Though I would not always remember all of what was said.

If it felt like fire, she would say so. The narrator was much kinder than the referee, though she appeared far less often. Was this narrator talking to someone else or to herself? Was she conveying things I was thinking or feeling or was she also telling me things, in either a direct or veiled way, like an oracle? It felt like both. It was hard to know whom to trust. The ref was like the adult, the narrator the child. One was like the waking mind, one was like the way things were conveyed in dreams. One told what to do, one told what one was doing, or reminded one of things like hot or cold. But sometimes neither one was there, they both went away.

Then she would feel physical things she usually didn’t notice, and would wonder if she had somehow fallen down or been hurt otherwise yet was unaware or didn’t feel any pain, like feeling a long hike the day after. A backache, a twinge here or there. During these times the other two would have shut up, as they were not needed. In this phase, all the physical, earthly things would be intensified although there was still some distance from them. That was almost all there was left.

Hunger, fear, sleepiness. Soreness. Dreams that were slow and mundane. A sense of having been consumed, the stillness of ashes. The freezing hands. Anemic pallor. What was all this? Remnants of humanity? All these physical things, puzzles to solve, distractions, at times simply annoying or unpleasant. It was always me who had received- but this….. now it was I who was left feeling I had graciously donated blood I did not have to give and it had left me bruised and weak. Cauterized. How was this possible? I was the oldest, I was the strongest.

Then another layer, another veil, feeling the cold or tiredness but being apart from it. Warmth, food and sleep not fixing it. Knowing there was no way to fix it. No one else noticing it. Then the cold feeling of being a ghost would come, and the physical stuff would subside -sometimes this would last a while. Could you repeat that? What was that last part again? Not answering the phone. Prescience. Being past the fear of the knowledge of ones aloneness and the realization of the inevitable finality and the void. There wasn’t enough strength here for either the ref or the narrator.

Rahm Emanuel’s New Police Chief Sucking up to Blacks- blames 2nd amendment, The Man, Sarah Palin for Crime in Chicago

 Government-sponsored racism? In Chicago? Wait, wasn’t Chicago one of those  places where they were going to get rid of the police test because it was automatically deemed ‘racist’ because blacks weren’t passing it? This video, can you say P A N D E R I N G?

When crack hos walk the street, and there’s a gun on everyone you meet, who do we blame?  WHITEY!

When the children can’t read, and more and more mouths to feed,who do we blame?  WHITEY!

When people worry about their seat, and they catch the scent of defeat, who do they attack?  WHITEY!

“The NRA does not like me and I’m OK with that. We’ve got to get the gun debate back to center with the recognition of who’s paying the price for the gun manufacturers being rich and living in gated communities.”

 One of these days, peeps, we’re going to have to talk about what being a political pimp is. We’re heard of poverty pimps, program pimps (think the do-nothing-give-us-your-cash-bitches type stuff and squirrely ACORNish stuff) but then there is just straight up, boot-licking, corn-syrup coated 976-HOTT, rile up the underclasses bullcrappity, like this douche.

He’s using his ‘I’m-on-your-side,we-hate-the-same-people-look-I-ripped-on-palin-i-hate-rich-white-people-even-though-i-probably-am-one-dont-let-that-stop-you-from-believing-i’m-on-your-side and-i-must-be-your-friend’ voice, mixed in with a little  let-me-entertain-you stand-up comedian. It’s like the class/race equivalent of ‘hey, your feet must be tired, cuz you been running through my head allll night, baby!’

According to January – May 2011 Chicago Police Department crime statistics, 56.1% of Chicago murders were gang-related. In 29.6% of these murder cases, the offender was an acquaintance, intimate partner or relative of the victim, while in 38.6% the relationship was not established. In 81.8% of cases, the assailant had a prior CPD record. 65.9% of offenders were African American, 38.1% were Hispanic, and 2.3% were white.

 “She (Sarah Palin) was caribou hunting, and talking about the right to bear arms,” he said. “Why wasn’t she at the crime scene with me?”

  You’re a  moron, McC.  Look at the stats. You think Palin and her “hey kids, look at that grizzly,isn’t it neat-o , it’s only feet away and it’s a mommy, like me? Oh, this is so cool! ” You think bagging on that, as head-scratching as that show was the one time I watched it- you think Sarah has anything the EFF to do with crime in Chicago? Palins, Tigers and Bears Oh My! You think whatever amount of white people that are left in Chicago have anything to do with this BS? You’re actually going to do race-preaching because you know it’s like some kind of soul strip-tease that people will go “oooh yeah mama, shake that thing!” and give you money, right? Oh wait, they’re already giving you money. Umm, you work for The Man.

This is just so effed up. And all those people taken in by this bullshit, yelling “yeah tell it!” and clapping, so desperate are they for someone to even pay attention to them, actually believing this dude gives a rat’s ass,thinking he’s on their side, when really they don’t have a side- no one wants Bill Cosby AKA Buzz Killington, lecturing about hey, stop having kids at 13, then 15, then 16 by different baby daddies, learn to effing read, and don’t  smoke crack and steal shit and rape and kill people . Being lectured is no fun. It feels insulting, embarassing and just sucks. So no one wants to be the mean, lecturing person- people want to be liked and popular n shyt- so- they blame Whitey AKA The Man. Even when ‘the man’ looks like the brady bunch mom on 5 hour energy drink (Palin).  

Anyway, The Man is a totally punked out biatch about now. When The Man was doing gubbmint sponsored real ‘racism’ n shyt, people were too afraid to be rapin, lootin and killin.  Now this wannabe, gubbmint ho is up there just trying to entertain yo azz and make you feeeeeellll better. We do the same shit here in the outer reaches of Whitelandia, only we pat ourselves on the back for all the good deeds we do instead of having this d-bag up there trying to make us think he’s cool and our friend.

No, we don’t care if our d-bags like us, we’re trying to look cool to each other- and we can only get cooler by being like Sean Penn or Bono and thinking we can save the world- and by having dudes blame The Man, meanwhile…. while he is ragging about NRA dudes living the high life, and oh he is so full of shyt- how many gubbmint poverty pimps/program panderers live awesomely- you know, like those TV preachers? So in the words of many a guest on Jerry and their practical…umm ‘wisdom’…, ‘he don’t know you, he don’t pay your bills and he needs to sit the eff down!”

It’s kinda like the way we white people blame our parents, blaming The Man is.  Sort of.  Except The Man isn’t really their ‘parent’ so we have these stand-ins*for The Man.  We’ve heard many, many lectures-based on-  do your homework,don’t pick your nose, be nice to animals,do return the favor re play dates and gifts, don’t smoke crack cause this momma and daddy won’t be reading you those gay-ass sad letters on ‘Intervention’ and paying your rent, do tell the teacher if some kid smacks you on the playground- don’t come back with a gun or knife and try to kill them, do not drink and drive, don’t talk mean about ex’s, do buy fair trade coffee, don’t spit on the street, do pay your bills on time, don’t wear inapropriate clothes in public, do tell your kids about pervs and how not to talk to them, believe they need any help from a kid, or believe any BS about how they’ll kill us if you don’t get in the van, don’t write bad checks, do write thank-you notes, don’t go in other people’s medicine cabinets,do remember to visit grandma, don’t double-dip in the peanut butter, don’t make yourself puke on purpose, do pick up your own socks and put them in the laundry and recycle n’ shyt. That’s just the beginning.

*I suppose one could call them ‘scape-ghosts’ for when you’re the only whitey in the room, you gotta invent the fake scape-ghost whitey to hate on, so everyone doesn’t turn on you.  

OK , and now… the suckuppery:

http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/bill-kellys-truth-squad/2011/jun/27/rahms-cop-gerry-mccarthy-fire-racist-rant/

A-Hole Nation: Dystopian S-heads That Hate America

 

A retired U.S. Army chaplain is being threatened with legal action for flying the American flag in his front yard, the Daily Mail reports. Fred Quigley, 77, of Macedonia, Ohio, a minister who served active duty during the Vietnam War, has been told by the homeowners’ association that his flag violates the property rules.

Read more: http://nation.foxnews.com/american-flag/2011/06/26/us-veteran-faces-legal-action-flying-american-flag#ixzz1QQOlF8zG

Migliorini said: “We just want the rules and regulations followed. ”   
 
Seriously, who would complain about this guy and his flag? Why couldn’t the association guy just let it go? Think there was some little rule-following chicken pecking at little pieces of grain over and over, unable to see past their own shoes..”not following the rules, not following the rules, incapable of critical thinking….”  People are getting mighty fed up with this kind of crap, politically correct crap , and just crap in general. 
 
Maybe Quigley should rent out his condo/house to section 8ers and just write it off as a place to ever live himself- that will make those association aholes wish they let a military guy fly his flag. If they complain or come after him complaining, just say they are ‘Evilnaziracisthaters’ and sue them.  Or he could take to dressing up and walking around in uniform around the grounds, would they like that better? He needs to be creative about this.  I know the  ‘it’s not right, people pay attention, someone stop this’ is valid technically- but on the odd chance nothing happens and it is him against some ahole bureaucracy/legalism- well that’s where the creativity comes in. Singing. Has Quigley thought about that? I like Battle Hymn of the Republic.  It doesn’t matter if you can’t actually ‘sing’ -this isn’t American Idol, (Idolatry?) , just carry on Quigley, whenever the mood strikes you. 
 
 If they come after you for that, maybe you are disabled and they are discriminatory and disproportionately singling you out, ruining your legal right to “quiet enjoyment” .  Also, you do realize you may need a companion animal . Awww little yappy dog companion animals…and your companion yappy dog needs to wear a flag sweater. And it has a collar that plays the national anthem, as does your Christmas tree. Pretty sure companion animals supercede any of that association BS, but you might want to get a note from a doctor. I hope they are disabled compliant there and have all their zoning bullshit in order. If they want to play the shithead game, fine- just be a better shithead.