Polly puppet

Page Eighty-two

wed 9 july 2008       Greenfield    (copying originals again)

sehnen  posted on Jul 09, 2008 / views 47 / Tags: tie these anchors to our eyes

 

pretty polly puppet
was strangled by a string,
and the cry was deafening.

           ~~  barbara-anne dorn

 

I hope Barbara-Anne is okay. It’s been so many years, and I can’t find her with a Google search. I can find someone with her name, but that one’s much too young to be the one I knew. I always loved her poetry, and wish I still had it with me.

So often I’ve felt like the powerless marionette, anybody with any kind of power over me pulling the bloody strings whenever they feel like it and contorting me out of myself, out of my personal freedom. And if you think that poverty doesn’t make you a marionette, just try it on for size. Try long-term poverty that you will never get out of because your body will never be fit enough to hold any kind of decent job again. Try government programs, and see how they pull your strings. Try being a lifelong poverty-renter, never having the personal freedom of your own home, and see how power-tripping landlords and substance-abusing fellow tenants pull your bloody strings. Try it on for size. Then Matthew comes along and tells me that he and other federal types from Burlington are pulling my strings. Try that one.

Will I get to make an ear-splitting, deafening cry before I strangle? Doubt it. The powerless are rarely heard, no matter how loudly they scream.

The human race sickens me. Including Matthew and his gang, who fancy themselves fighters of crime and defenders of right. They’re egomaniacal and sociopathic, and they break any law they like in order to get who they want to get. Respect for the law is anathema to them. They respect only the hunt and the kill.

And on homelessness:

 

I’ll dye my petticoats, I’ll dye them red.
Around the world I’ll beg my bread,
until my parents shall wish me dead.
Siúl, siúl, siúl….

 

~~~  anonymous

Siúl, siúl…. it takes up fifty percent of the homeless person’s time. The other half is hanging. Hanging here, hanging there. All of this hoofing and all of this hanging are contributing (I hope) to the critical volume of death energy as much as the heat is. Let this energy accumulate at a faster rate.

~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a href=”http://twitter.com/share” data-count=”none” data-via=”annegrace2″ data-related=”ziidjian:outre tweeting”>Tweet</a><script type=”text/javascript” src=”http://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js”></script

 

 

Irrational, whirling crap

Page Seventy-nine 

sehnen posted on Jul 07, 2008 | views: 61 | Tags: death is speakingx

mon 7 july 2008…    Greenfield

So, not much time today. Animals still to tell about, and Nookie, and so on. But i’m sick. I’ve mentioned before the teeming hordes of babysitters who watch what I eat, when and where I pee, what I do and where I go.  Matthew and his bloody gang of pretend heroes. Anyway, my sickness began at 10 last night, and by midnight I could no longer lie down, couldn’t sit because I have no soft chair to sit in, and sitting in my hard chair was laughable with so much pain. So I took my illness out to the sidewalk to pace in an upright position, to breathe some slightly cooler air (though what I needed was air conditioned air). I was getting a little bit shocky too, and sometimes walking helps avoid the worst of the shock, and also the passing out. I was on that sidewalk. She didn’t ask me if I were okay or if I needed anything (in her livingroom she had both a soft chair and an air machine, but these weren’t offered to me). She nagged about my sweater hanging on her fence. I did not ask her directly if I could sit in her air conditioned livingroom in a soft chair, because she would most likely have given me a ration of demented talk, as she has in the past. There’s another person in the house she gives those rations to too. I will not in any circumstance approach any person who I know absolutely will give me a spate of irrationality. I’ve had to take that crap all my life,from many an irrational, dizzy-spinning mind, and about 3 years ago I decided that I don’t approach no such whirly brains no more.                                            

So Anne don’t get no help offered, even in diabolical pain that makes me go into shock. I’m still quite sick, 10 hours after it started and I began swallowing prednisone. Didn’t use enough. Sometimes it’s hard to tell how much pred a particular attack is going to need. So I have to abort journaling missions early this day in deference to the screaming pain and desolate exhaustion of my cells. Slán le na laethe bhí.

Update 27 July 2009: This was July 7 last year, and Matthew had only told me on the 2nd that people wanted to damage me. By the 7th he may have told me that it was feds from Burlington who were protecting me, but on that one I don’t recall the exact date. My memory is very good, but it can’t hold everything. But in spite of the newness of this ugly information, I had already been watching people watch me since March, when all the time I thought they were working for the DMH. So the anxiety and anger had already been building a good while, and in this situation of no information and lots of guessing, anger, and anxiety, I pulled many people into the group of my babysitters who didn’t belong there. And as far as a house across the street from my rented bedroom goes, people often watched me from the second floor, pulling the curtains aside just a tiny bit. They watched me too often. All they ever saw was me smoking on the sidewalk. Why did they have to keep looking at that? On July 2nd there finally came a smidgen of information: there were people who were real big and real wealthy who wanted to hurt me.

And the periodic irrational, unkind outbursts of my landlady were just another stress. Why has this happened to me again? My last landlady, the one who destroyed my life, was irrational and mendacious and unpredictable and frightening. Why was this happening again? Why does it seem that lunatics are drawn to me like moths to flame?

I’m renting the same room again from the same woman, and this time it’s easier because she has a diagnosis and is reading books about her condition. It’s all out in the open, we talk about it. We talk about my depression and anxiety and Asperger’s. There are still some terrible days, and they still affect me the same way they did last year, but at least now the cards are on the table.  And she let me rent the room again, for which I’m grateful. All the social service clods have to offer is places where I have to share bedrooms with other people, which makes me just about homicidal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~  website  ~~~~~~~~~~~~