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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Taim inis anois

Page Seventy-seven

sehnen posted on Jul 05, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: loathing is a placex

sat 5 july 2008    Greenfield

A mish-mosh today, suspension of regular business. I’m suspending that a lot latelyt, partly due to fatigue, and partly because one can’t get too predictable.

Doesn’t everyone who writes songs have  to write at least one corny love song? Isn’t that a rule or something? Anyway, this is mine. From 1995. I’m about to emend the title, which has always been Serenade for —, and then a certain person’s name. To hell with all that. There’s a new title. In spite of myself, I’m rather fond of the music for this one. Nihil est: all fondnesses are forfeit now, thanks to DMH and company.

Serenade

Only stars,                                                                                                                           

these points of fire.
Feel no loss, know no desire.
Only light
through endless night,
traveling free, sailing far.
But if a soul can reach and fly,
if souls can spiral high,
then I will  go with
stars that journey over oceans,
stars that hover over time.
 
 

i ngrá leat i gconai
i ngrá san oiche, faoi bhron
an uaigneas mor,
an ghealach chiuin
is na suile speir i mo chroi

 

                                                                                                                         


 
 

 

Only love,
this silent flame,
burns every loss, knows longing’s name.
Lonely you, out under stars,
wandering away, drifting far.
But if a love can reach and fly,
if love can spiral high,
then I will meet you in
stars that journey over oceans,
stars that hover over time.

 

i ngra, i gconai
i ngra, faoi bhron
an uaigneas, an ghealach
is na suile speir i do chroi

 

Okay, mish-mosh, tick-tock. So here’s something I’m real fond of from Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes (all fondnesses are forfeit now). There are many, many turns of phrase that I love in that book, but here’s only one.

Frank has gone to confession over something ridiculous because his grandmother made him, and she’s standing outside the confessional trying to eavesdrop. The priest chuckles during this ridiculous confession. Frank exits, and there’s grandma. She wants to know if the priest was laughing, and if Frank was telling jokes. Goes a lot like this, the grandma: If tis a thing I ever hear you tellin jokes to jesuits, I’ll tear the bloody kidneys outa ye. Isn’t that rich, tear the bloody kidneys outa ye. I love that.

Cruelly and wrongly done, the countless lies from the DMH, CSS , phony police chief, animal control officer, and the whole rest of the cast. Cruelly and wrongly done, sitting back and allowing my whole life to be taken away, making a bum out of me, making a funeral out of me. Cruelly and wrongly done, surveilling me and running psych tests on me in public places without my consent. Disappearing my family, lying to me repeatedly about where they were, never arranging for me to visit them, allowing me to suffer over nearly18 weeks and making my suffering a public spectacle for gawkers, psychobabble boneheads, sheriff’s boneheads, et alia. And one and all know that I can’t afford an attorney, have no brother or sister or aunt or whatever to step in and advocate for my rights. One and all know they can do whatever comes into their sadistic little heads to anne nakis, because anne nakis is, in this society, powerless and marginalized. Wrongly and cruelly done.

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Dulce et Decorum Est

Page Sixty-three

Thursday 22 July 2010…  Turners Fault  (a new post again)

                                      Come all you young rebels
                                      and list while I sing.
                                      The love of one’s country
                                      is a terrible thing.
                                      It banishes fear
                                      with the speed of a flame,
                                      and it makes us all part of
                                      the patriot game.
                                      ………………………
                                      And now I am dying
                                      my body all holes.
                                      I think of those traitors
                                      who bargained and sold.
                                      I’m sorry my rifle
                                      has not done the same
                                      to the traitors who sold out
                                      the patriot game.  
 
      
                                      ~~ anonymous
For my “protectors,” and for all the hordes of traitors who sold it all out over millenia.
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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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sehnsucht, secrets

Page Twenty-six                         (copy)

sehnen posted on May 09, 2008 | views: 77 | Tags: is cuimhin liomx

friday 9 may 2008    greenfield

also, es ist Freitag. die Stunden jedes Tages sind schrecklich lang, und die Einsamkeit ist enorm und unbeschreibbar. ich leide unter einer riesigen Sehnsucht  nach meinem eigenen Leben, was gestohlen wurde, und am allerwichtigsten, nach meinen 14 teuren Freunden.

es wird immer härter, immer dunkler.

“bígí liomsa, i gconai, lá is oíche. ag caoineadh ar an uaigneas mór, na deora go brónach.”   (e.brennan) is cuimhin liom na laethe, is cuimhin liom an grá ró-dheas, ró-mhór, na scealta.

und noch ein paar Worte für euch, von unsrer alten Freundin loreena:

                                                                                                                                              

    Cast your eyes on the ocean,
    cast your soul to the sea.
    when the dark night seems endless,
    please remember me.  
 
     …. (l. mckennitt)

ich erinnere mich doch an euch, immer, und die dunkle Nacht ist absolut peinlich und endlos ohne euch. viele, viele “deora go brónach,” und viele hässliche, leere Stunden.

Update 5  June 2009: I’m not going to translate this, as I didn’t when I wrote it last year. I guess the computer can do that for anyone who’s interested. here to the Languages page of my website, if you like that sort of thing.

the dark night is endless, and no matter the medications, so far it stays that way. since I was seven years old, the major meaning and purpose in my life, the major source of fulfillment, was taking care of animals. nothing I do for the last 15 months is important. caring for animals was it. remember that if Matthew can be believed, I have Asperger’s. a number of weird things were done in public places last year that looked like Asperger’s testing to me, and when these odd events were over, Matthew told me that I had it. some Aspergrians can find a way to make it with neurotypicals, maybe most of them, but I never could. for me it was animals. the days are emptier and darker even than they were last year, because last year I still had my denial and my hope, and the tremendous, unwanted distraction of this other crime-crap situation Matthew had told me about, and what all that might mean.

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read…    Being toward death...   Stolen stars

(photo from a gaelsong cover)

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dona nobis pacem

Page Twenty-five

sehnen posted on May 08, 2008 | views: 121 | Tags: dona mihi eosx

thursday 8 may 2008   greenfield

Very tired today. Starting to have some trouble sleeping. I can get very tired anyway, even when I sleep. Chronic fatigue syndrome and raging immune system work together to sap energy.

Shirley Temple, may you lose whatever is dearest to you. Ditto for you, Cry Baby. Psycho landlady and psycho tenant? Really I’d prefer that you simply drop dead where you stand. I’m angry in my overwhelming sadness, can you tell?

Dona nobis pacem. I started making signs with those words on them way back in 2000 or 2001. It means “give us peace.” But as we know, my animals and I did not get peace, we got mayhem. And I had a little thing I kept in the kitchen not long before we were destroyed that said adh mor.  “Good luck.”  We didn’t get that either. Foreign languages were always a big part of the life that we shared together, because I’ve studied a bunch of them, and because long ago I used to teach Latin and German to people who mostly didn’t give a rat’s ass about Latin and German. But I studied a lot of languages that I never had to try to shove gently and cheerfully down someone else’s throat, and that was fine.

So we listened to lots of songs in lots of languages, and if I knew the song, I sang. They loved for me to sing to them. If I can remember the lines I want and how to spell them (I’m very rusty in some of this stuff), I want to put them here for my stolen friends. They were written by Edith Piaf long ago; I think they might well be the only lyrics she ever wrote. She wrote them for her husband, the boxer Marcel Cerdan, who had been killed.

                               Si un jour, la vie t’arrache a moi;
                               si tu meures, quand tu sois loin de moi;
                               si tu meures, c’n’est pas de probleme,
                               car moi, je mourrai aussi.

Anyway, for my lost ones. I haven’t seen these words written in many years, so my spelling may be off. And I don’t know how to do accent marks on a computer. What the do you care? You probably don’t read French anyway. See how angry I am.

Update 3 June 2009: I am still a homeless woman, more than a year after writing this post. I now have a rented room, which is civilized, but it is not a home. Home to me, in the physical sense, means at least a bathroom, kitchen, livingroom, and bedroom. And that is what I had for 55 years. I was never restricted to one bedroom of space to move around in, let alone a shelter or a respite or a hospital or a park. I am a loveless person; all the love was taken. And a hopeless person. It’s almost 15 months now that I’m homeless. Whoever it was that failed in their duty to help me find a home — the DMH or matthew’s crowd or both — those people have caused damage; damage in the form of humiliation and degradation and hopelessness. And worst, the loss of all the animals. Dona Nobis Pacem. My innocent, wonderful animals and I did not get peace. They got torn away from me and from each other. Some of them got free of the stress of all that followed by the death of the needle (and I’m not even told precisely how many were killed.), and some of them got adopted, which to me is not nearly the same as staying with your own family, when you are old and have been there all your life, till death.

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(stained glass at www.signals.com)

read…  Braon…  Stolen stars…  Soulcast

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