devices don’t equal insanity

Page Thirty-seven

friday 26 march  2010         greenfield  (new post)

In spite of the fact that I’m far from finished copying the original Sehnen posts from Soulcast here to WordPress, I’m going to write a new post. I interrupt myself in all the copying when I feel the need.

Throughout all of my online journals over the last two years I’ve made liberal use of thingies that are called literary devices. Most people who’ve studied literature have had to memorize them all at least once, and so have I. There are pages of them, and once upon a time I knew them all by heart, names and definitions and examples, but a lot of that is now deeply buried in the passive memory. Some of these devices also get carried over into conversational speech, and I come from a family who used some of them in large amounts and taught them to me long before I had ever had to memorize the stuff.

I’ve used these ways of speaking and writing with ill effect for me, it seems. Certain people I’ve talked to and certain who’ve written have taken my use of such stylistic elements to mean that I’m delusional, or otherwise insane. So, here are a few that I’ve used a good deal and with which I have therefore hanged myself in respect to being taken for a sane person:

                                                                  Simile                                        
                                                                  Metaphor
                                                                  Hyperbole
                                                                  Irony
                                                                  Sarcasm

Since I stopped teaching at the end of 1990, I’m not going to move into cyber-teaching and define these things for you or give you examples.  Certain of you will know them already, some won’t. But they’re age-old, legitimate stylistic tools, and the use of them doesn’t mean that a person is not living in reality. I’ll admit that I’m resentful over being hung out to dry as far as my sanity is concerned because I choose to use certain styles in my writing and speaking. I’m resentful that these snap judgments are made not on the basis of the events I present, but on the basis of a use of english that many undereducated folks seem not to be acquainted with.

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(gecko at http://www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

read…   Cutting the pie…   Extemporaneana

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All photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2012 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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niffelheim

Page Thirty-six                    (noch eine kopie)

sehnen posted on Jun 03, 2008 | views: 102 | Tags: flibertyjibityx, mein irisch kindx, wox

immer noch dienstag der 3er juni 2008    greenfield

Leben. Ein sehr kompliziertes Wort. Wie zu Hause. Zu leben ist zu atmen, ein schlagendes Herz zu haben. Aber was ist es sonst? Verschiedene Dinge, und  jeder Mensch hat seine eigene Definitionen dafür. Deshalb kann man atmen ohne wirklich zu leben. Man kann den Schlag seines Herzens fühlen, ohne ein volles oder heiles Herz zu haben. Und mann kann Konzepte wie zu Hause und daheim auf viele Arte und Weise beschreiben. Es reicht nicht, nur an den Körper zu denken. Ein mensch ist viel mehr als ein körperliches Geschöpf, wie wir alle natürlich wissen, und braucht auf verschiedene Ebene zufrieden zu sein.

Update 30 June 2009: Again, I won’t translate. I think the computer can do it. Foreign languages are like poetry: part of my life for decades. I started with french lessons when I was 10, and have been studying languages off and on ever since. My degrees are in foreign languages. But like the poetry, the grief and anger and unanswered questions that weigh so heavily on me now have wiped out the languages. I don’t care a thing about them right now, not a thing. All I care about is finding out what happened to my animals, how they ended; getting some kind of an apartment, and ceasing to love Matthew. I care about my one friend. That’s it.

Flibertyjibity is a tag that someone else put on this post. I’m not fond of that kind of editing of my journals, but on Soulcast people add tags to each other’s posts all the time. They seem to think it’s clever.

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read…   Kaikenlainen…   Lucked out

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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homeless weeks and dying ribbons

Page Thirty-five                    (copy)

sehnen posted on Jun 03, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: sissiesx

tuesday 3 june  2008     greenfield

Well, a song I wrote in the 90’s — I wrote lots of songs in the late 90’s, in the last gasps of the 20th century — comes to mind these days. I might as well put it here. What else does an educated homeless bum who went to a huge social service agency for help and got her family and life destroyed have to do?

dying ribbons

 

I, in company with gulls and swallows, 
linger breathing at the summer waterside.
Life looks new and full of long tomorrows,
moments bursting in electric summer light.

 

But death is waiting in the stand of trees there.
Death is speaking in a low, forgotten voice.
Whispers to the gulls, the swallows, to me
that time has no regard for tears or joys.

Then tie these anchors to our eyes to drown us,
tie these ribbons to our hands to light our way.
See the swallows as they dive around us,
see the ripples as they run and roll away.
We will raise our hands above this water,
colored ribbons floating on the water’s eyes.
Dying ribbons telling whisper stories,
stories breathing in electric summer light.

                                                                                    

We will echo in the quiet canyons
where the seekers of the silence come to stay.
We will echo in the blue of evening,
echo colors in the rising of the day.
So chain these anchors to my eyes to drown me.
Bind these ribbons to my hands to light my way.
Grieve the swallows as they fall around me.
Count the ripples as they roll and die away.
 
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So what next. Words from people whom I admire, maybe. That is, I admire both the people and the words.

Human beings are a lot meaner and stupider than they think they are.

~~~   kurt vonnegut

I’ve been a doormat in a world of boots.

~~~   jean reese

The unexamined life is not worth living.

~~~   aristotle, I’m pretty sure. but if you appeared before me now, Ari, I’d tell you that my life, even though very much examined, was not one iota worth living, except for the animals I knew.

I am a spirit of no common rate.
The summer still doth tend upon my state.
And I do love thee,
therefore go with me.
I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
and they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
and sing,
whilst thou on pressed flowers dost sleep.

                  ~~~   the bard of avon. Though if you appeared before me now, Will Shakespeare, I’d tell you that I couldn’t give my loved ones very many fairies, and always hoped to give them more, and failed. I’d tell you that being a spirit of no common rate hasn’t been a good thing in my life, but rather just another reason for Kurt’s mean and stupid humans to lash out at me.

If I disappeared today, what would I leave behind that anyone would give a damn about?

the tyranny of the weak

~~~   f. scot fitzgerald —- and if you appeared before me now, Scot, I’d tell you that my life has been plagued, and finally destroyed, by weaklings, sissies. For all my fears and illnesses, I’ve been through more hell than anyone I personally know, and am on certain levels stronger than anyone I personally know, most of whom would already be in the loonybin halfway through my 11 hell years if they had to bear it all alone, in poverty, without a car, with nasty physical pain. Sissies who have money and position and cars and some type of economic or bureaucratic power over me have made my 55 years a study in pushing the legendary boulder up the hill. Sissies, weaklings, whiners. The tyranny of the weak has been one of the stories of my mangled existence.

Update 13 June 2009:   I read through this blog and see all the poetry, and there is poetry on my other blogs too. I started reading poetry when I was 7, writing it when I was 9. It hasn’t been in my life quite as long as animals were, but it’s been a very long time. Especially in emotional pain I have always turned to writing poetry. But the sheer devastation of all that has happened to me in the last 15 months has finally wiped the poetry slate clean. I don’t want to see it, don’t want to hear it, don’t want to write it. It was part of my own life that ended 15 months ago, and right now I can’t stand the pain of getting near it. Again, my spirit, of which I had so much, is mostly gone. And of course I’m angry in this original post; very angry.

read…   Extemporaneana…   Mental hell

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thirteen weeks tomorrow

Page Thirty-four

sehnen posted on Jun 02, 2008 | views: 112 | Tags: luna stellaequex

mon 2 june 2008    greenfield

1.     another message for someone remaining unnamed:

Bill said, “She’s so fat, they had to roll her in on casters.”

2.     Disobligata I

 

                            in undis
                    alma mea semota
                            natans
                   noli eam revocare
                         sub mare
                   alma mea demota
                          ululans
                  noli eam revocare.

Disobligata II                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                                                                 

                 inter stellas negras
                  alma mea remota
                       lacrimans
                 noli eam revocare
 
 
 
                      
                  sub luna tenebra
                 alma mea semota
                           ululans
                noli eam revocare. 
 
 
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      (here to poetry)
      (here for languages)

 

Update 11 June 2009:  It was thirteen weeks of homelessness, of the absence of everyone I love, when I first wrote this post. Today it is fifteen months. I never dreamed when I first wrote this that I would be homeless so long, that I would never get any of the animals back. And I still had not yet heard the things from Matthew about federal protection and people wanting to harm me and my long-dead grandfather having been a mafia man. Nor had I yet heard from him that I had Asperger’s, for he was the one who told me that little bit of news too. He did so after a series of tests had been done on me in public places, without my consent. I think anyone would have to have been brain-dead not to have recognized these things as tests of some kind, since the clodhoppers who conducted them were decidedly unsubtle. Matthew even told me what one of the scenarios (staged in the health food store) was testing for, so he was in the project up to his eyeballs.

I was pretty sure I had it anyway, but I felt that Matthew’s pronouncement after the tests was believable and real, just as I found him believable when he gave me the other, uglier information.

My soul cannot be called back from the worst trauma of my life.

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read…    Scealta liatha…    Shadowpoems

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All photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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