tweedle dee, tweedle dum

sehnen posted on Aug 04, 2008 /views: 53 / Tags: smaointe ar na laethe

(oh, back to copying originals from soulcast)

mon 4 aug 2008….  greenfield

I guess I’m still an amoeba. I’m certainly still homeless, still without an apartment of my own, still renting a bedroom. Still tyring to claw more information out of Matthew concerning these crime-type things he has said are going on in my life. Clawing without success. It was bad enough, and hard enough, what I already had to deal with before any words came from Matthew. What the multiple-personalitied landlady did, what the ice-maiden, queen of deceit case manager at the DMH did. I didn’t need Matthew to tell me even more ugly things about my life and people in it, and then stop telling, refuse to answer my questions. If he wasn’t going to tell me all of it, then he should have kept his mouth shut.

There are those who think that as a result of the enormous trauma of being thrown onto the streets and having my animals stolen, I have gone nuts. Become delusional. That, while they know that Mattew truly exists because they see him on the streets themselves, they do not believe that he ever said the things he said to me. I have cooked this up in my sick mind. Well, they weren’t in the room with him when he has said these things, and I was. I didn’t make recordings of our conversations (although Matthew himself made recordings of some of them, as I have recently learned), and so I can’t prove he said the things he said.

For instance, we’ve just spent twenty-four hours together, which has never happened before. Ten o’clock yesterday morning to ten o’clock today. During this time, there were all the usual bizarre things I have to endure when I’m with him, plus some new ones. Since July 2, every single time I’ve gone to his apartment, he has gone to one certain window, where he stands looking out for about three minutes. Every single time. I find this to be out of the realm of anything I’ve ever experienced with any other person in my life, crazy or sane. The same window, for the same space of time, every single time I’m there. And then of course there is the whacked-out radio made to look like it’s a crazy accident, but I for one don’t buy it. And the sounds the radio makes. And the fact that he never listens to it for more than about 40 seconds.  And more.

Yesterday he had some new wrinkles for me. He asked me if I had my driver’s license with me — since we don’t have cars, what difference does it make? — and he’s never done this before. He asked me about every two frigging hours. And likewise, every time, he told me that his new license is coming in the mail any day. Every two hours. When I finally got sick of it and said what the hell do you care about all this license shit, he said this:  because we might be driving a car. maybe we’ll go to a new apartment for you. He’d already given me this answer yesterday morning after I got frustrated with something else. We’d come back from the health food store to his building, and it was hot, and I thought we were going inside to the air conditioning. He said we should go sit in the back yard. So we sat in the grass. And sat. And sat. And I got hotter and hotter. What are we waiting for now, I said. Maybe we’ll be driving to an apartment for you soon.

Now you can say he’s crazy, because that certainly is the act that he puts on much of the time. But when I’m alone with him, there are scenarios that are very different from that act. Because of things that went on at the building where I last lived, where I was thrown out, and because of other things that occur only when Matthew and I are alone, for which I sadly have no tapes or videos as proof, I have always found the unbelievable things he’s told me believable. If anyone credible ever convinces me that he’s been lying, then I will accept unequivocally that I’ve believed a liar. But believing a liar does not make a person a delusional, it makes a person wrong. Yet yuppies by the handfuls, yuppies who have degrees in social work, mind you, that exacting and meticulous course of study, have decided they can write about me on pieces of paper that I’m loopy because I believe a man who may turn out to have been lying. They insist Matthew never said these things. How, pray tell, can they prove that he didn’t say them, and that I’m nuts, anymore than I can prove that he did say them, and that I’m not nuts?

Enough of that for now. On to musings that often wander through my mind when I think of everything that’s been done to me and my animals over the last two years.

 

fog and rain
london town’s the same
borrowing time from friends
circles have no end….      ~~ anon

 

But you can jump out of any circle. I hope I’ll jump.

 

smaointe ar an lá
raibh sibh ar mo thaodh
ag inse scéil
ar an doigh a bhí
is cuimhin liom an lá
gan gach gan gruaim
bígí liomsa i gconai
lá is oíche….        (e.brainnan)

 

But they can’t be with me, my animals. Now or ever again. I don’t want something different. I wanted to keep living my own way, to the small extent that I was ever allowed by anyone to do that. I hope that autism, in extremis, will offer some interesting ideas of its own on how to jump out of the circle. And if not, there are always the old, familiar ways.

 

jåg kjann segler for ütan wind
jåg kjann ro ütan ohrer
men en huilhjas fron vennen min
ütan ot fehler tohrer…     ~~  trad.

 

As with some other things I’ve cited, I haven’t seen these traditional words in print for about 14 years, so my spelling may be whimsical. Oh, what do you care. Maybe you’re lucky if you can do acceptable spelling in english, and yet maybe you expect someone wordy like me to spell flawlessly in any language that pops into my head. If you do, then you expect too much.

Update 5 Aug 2009:  On year later. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, of Alice fame. For I’ve said more than once that soon after that crime-chick moved into my building in 2006, my animals and I fell into a rabbt-hole of lies and abuse and illegalities and surreal madness (other people’s, not mine) that we never made it out of. The animals all dead and gone now, killed by the people and the events and the madnesses of this rabbit-hole, and me still alive in a surreal, hideous existence that is in no way my own life.

(monkeys at www.whatonearthcatalog.com)

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