robin hood, riding through the glen

friday 24 june 2011…           (back to copying originals)

sehnen posted on Aug 12, 2008/views 71/Tags: waiting for friar tuck, no singing

~~~  I know someone who is 54 today. I’m neither celebrating this person nor cursing them. Simply noncommittal.

~~~  Tonight I’m wearing plaid. Plaid has been sickeningly prominent lately in the clothing of Matthew Lacoy and his pals. Occasionally Matthew will leave a great pile of a certain type of clothing in the middle of the livingroom of his two-story apartment. He leaves them in the only room of his two-story apartment where I ever sit. He could leave them upstairs. I’ve come to feel that these piles are meant to be seen by me, but what they mean is anyone’s guess. You won’t believe this, of course, because it’s more fun just to call me nuts, but I have seen many other oddities in the behavior of Matthew and his pals that you don’t even know about yet, and I have learned by observation (not imagined via insanity), that these oddities have a meaning to Matthew and his gang. It’s a language I can’t understand because no one has taught me the vocabulary. And they never will. These piled clothes —- sometimes they aren’t even dirty, haven’t even been worn. Clean and creased from the package. So it was with the great pile of plaid shirts. Clean and creased from package. A line from a Scottish folk-song sings in my brain every time I see him or one of his pals in plaid (which is many times a day):

         They’ve but hired young brigands with belted-up plaids.

The brigands of my days. The landlady; the crime-chick; the goons at the Department of Mental Hell; Matthew and his pals; and the crime-chick’s pals too, if Matthew’s words are true. Since I have my reasons for believing his words are true, exactly what am I supposed to do in a moment-to-moment stress that is impossible to describe? What the landlady and the DMH did, and the resulting loss of home, way of life, and everyone I love. What Matthew and his pals and their opponents do every single day. What am I supposed to do with a load of stress and anger, grief and emptiness, that is larger and heavier than I can describe? I don’t know what you would do, but these are some of the things I do… I come and dump my emotions into these blogs. I suppose the emotionality is one of the things that leads people to decide I’m delusional. Emotional = nuts. But I have to sit at a computer and dump some of the load before I can proceed with the day… Sometimes I walk the streets with little stuffed birds that sing their song when you squeeze them. Every time I see one of Matthew’s pals, or one of the crime-chick’s, I squeeze the little bird and make it sing. My own quirky way of saying to them in a public forum that I see them and that I despise them…  Sometimes I sing right in a store or restaurant, or as I walk the street. Just at a normal volume, but people hear. I do this because I want to scream very loudly. At Matthew and his pals, at crime-chick’s pals, at case managers from the DMH. But screaming is not socially permitted, so I sing to release some pent-up anger instead. This public singing is also not terribly socially acceptable, but nobody throws me out or puts me in jail for it.

~~~  Lately Matthew has been saying that maybe I’ll be getting a new apartment very soon, and he’s said it more than once. On a Sunday nine days ago he made sit with him in his backyard for close to an hour in the heat. I kept asking him what or who we were waiting for, and all I got was:  Well you might be in a car driving to a new apartment.  And about every other day for two weeks he’s been asking if I have my driver’s license, and saying that he’ll be getting his new one very soon. On Saturday one of his pals said to me, in a ridiculous manner that I don’t even have the energy to describe, that a town called Nottingham (in New england, not Old england) may figure in my life soon. So I’m thinking of getting more deeply into the Robin Hood legend. It’s one I love anyway. How could a marxist-leaning person like myself not love it? Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? It’s right up my street. So, when I get finished with my plaids, I’m thinking of buying earthy greens and browns, and maybe tights, though it’s too hot to wear them right now. I have a robin-hoody hat in my storage unit, but who knows which box or bag to look in to find it. That hat is dear, dear to me. I found it one morning when I was walking my dogs at the river in turners falls. Just sitting there all alone on a picnic table at 5 a.m. I kept it. For a short time I used to let the dogs take turns wearing the hat, but as they were not terribly fond of this sport, I gave it up and kept the hat for myself. And the last two of those four dogs were stolen from me five months ago. Five months ago exactly, on the 12th of March.

~~~  dona mihi pacem…  peace is not happiness. peace isn’t the restoration of things stolen. there is no moment coming in which broken things can be made whole, or impossible things made possible. but peace at the age of fifty-five, would be, at least, peace.

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read…    Lifelines Scealta liatha

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