Thursday, October 27, 2016

Beth after Bran

Life after Bran

There had once been adventure wrapped up within the words of notorious authors.  I do not see this now. Now to me when I look upon these books so familiar to me.... they are.... my oldest friends because they have been with me since my formative years.... no, to me now.... they make me sad. They make me feel that perhaps they missed somethings in life by hurtful actions to others.

You see, it was something like this when I found I admired Scarlet O'Hara while I found myself appalled by her actions. I think I liked her power; the way she was an object of desire to men but instead of becoming a pawn to gentlemen from the old world Southern society, she figured out how to use each of her admirers to her own advantage.

I was always too moral to imitate the fictitious behavior of a heroine I admired but I always thought about what Scarlet would do in any given situation in which I found myself at a disadvantage. From there, I adjusted it to fit my own ideas of acceptable behavior.

I see now that my mother was the most like Scarlet O'Hara than anyone I have ever known. My mother had skewed morality. That I found I could never excuse.

I only mention this to explain why I find myself so wrongly judged and so wrongly executed by my most bitter undoers. Because I consider every action inside and out; examine and analyze; obsess.... and it seems that it is easier for others to manipulate truth to back up their own cruel and unusual abusive actions; defined and defended by themselves as just.

Just.... assssspersion.

I find myself exhausted of faith times. Of those people whose actions became of most detrimental consequence to me. Consequences. Over and over the judgement in their eyes as they justify to me why I deserve their cruel verdict is cast at me with this absurdity of righteousness!

Judgement. What Machiavelli spell has been given sway over the winds that swept to ruin my life by demon philosophy?

And why have I become so acclimated to remain calm in the face of my own burning stake?

Am I channeling emotions into a discourse of philosophy? Because if it is possible to be so dehumanized for others not to recognize their own cruelty while identifying any of the faults in question instead as unprovoked, malicious actions, deserving of the worst punishments.... why are the rights of one favored over the rights of another? Or rather, recognized even at all....

So, I do not feel a kinship any more to my femme fatals. The misidentification of being leant The Scarlet Letter by someone years ago who might have felt his judging irony missed its target of insult, may be best highlighted to me how often a Mary Magdalen is colored in the light of a scapegoat, depicted by the self-blind-sighted party that eventually believes their own political slogans as the word of God.

Bran is behind me. Dean? I do not know..... where.... to ..... put

He changes and.... Jekyll and Hyde --and it is like dealing with ....mist.

What is real? What was real?

He asks me over and over why I have chosen this life I am living. A life that is solitary for which I am forced to be self-sufficient, even though my means are --insufficient. He tells me I chose this. That it was nothing to do with his violent behavior that he says is exaggerated by me. Even as he has conversations with me that he does not recall. At least the texts can be saved and shown as proof, but the conversations are not as easily documented as reference.

I have been in communication with him. A lot of it has been positive but

....his amnesia of his own actions stands like a solid iron door

Sometimes it feels.... it is like these things are showing themselves to me by some Virgil who is guiding me invisibly to see where I have been blind.... in order to confront

Worse now because the directness of the bitter illuminations is focused and more potent after fermentation.

Sometimes I wish ....for one more chance with one lost fairytale.

Only sometimes, which is too bad because, that was the only firm faith that kept me grounded in believing in why. Why at all. Faith in illusion

Faith in illusion. Faith is illusion. I picked fairytales because that has been the fortress. My fiction. My mythology.

I acquired Scarlet O'Hara's power but not for sport. Necessity. I think of Anais Nin as she described June.

I find I doubt now that Nin got it right. It could be that June was merely seen distorted as it suited Nin.

It was the unexpected fleeting thought of this one day that crystalized for me that this is how women's actions are turned against them. If you isolate the actions from the events that lead to them, we are seen as monsters. And then hanged after the judgement is delivered by the enemy manipulating all the laws of subjective truth.

No one can be trusted ....but I keep holding on to the hope of finding somebody loyal to me to put my faith in.

Today... I feel like ....a stone. Cold and stunned utterly to the level of vacancy. Today, too, I look back at a year ago and

What. Not a reprieve to waste my time and energy but instead the sobering remoteness of my perspective ....and it becomes.... my most dependable confidant, cold in its indifferent embrace

Sunday, March 13, 2016

gravity from rebounding; Beth reflections

It has been over a year and I have not been with anyone and I think every time when I consider what I want to do with my free time, maybe be social or meet someone but no.... I don't want hands leaving clammy trails on me, the idea repulses me.

It has not been worth the trouble to be honest. I could care less. I think this strangely makes me more appealing to people--they see someone who is completely bored with the chasing game and fantasies of romance who is preoccupied. 

What am I preoccupied with? Survival. To just make it to next month without being any thinner. My clothes no longer fit me and I can't afford to buy any that do. So I see a world most people don't. People talk about food constantly. I try not to think about food, but then they tell me about a meal, share a picture. I go on Facebook and you see more friends with piles of food everywhere. My stomach growls and I get nauseated because it's been too long since I ate and water begins to make me sick on an empty stomach. Even the apps on my phone have food advertisements, close ups too.

The world I see is very different, yes. I don't even feel. I guess it's better not to. I'm not miserable actually, I feel like my body knows what to do with the nutrients I do give it and I think animals were built to survive on reserves if you choose well when the opportunity comes. I know that I am a survivor because I learned that young; the instinct.

It is 'Hugo' I find myself thinking about lately because.... enough time has passed.... it was one day ....something inside me shifted.... and I felt such a  terrible sadness.... it was for him. I had the most heart breaking image in my mind of him-- it was so awful... and I can't write about it. It was too awful.

I felt so sad. For him. For him. And it killed me. The kind that you cannot turn off. You see, I have been so angry at him. All this time. That anger over why he just gave up. How he just let it all fall apart and then blamed me. I fucked up the money he would say. And I know that everyone must believe him.... especially believe him that I was this Jezebel whore.

But it doesn't matter, not that because those people mean nothing to me. His thug family; one of my therapists called them that. Well, it fits, and all those people there.... that thug town. But 'Hugo' was never like them, that is why they never understood him and never will. I knew after a year both sides would see the other without the nostalgia of the other.

I don't know what I've been doing all this time since I left. 

I don't regret leaving. I know that the only way he was ever going to get out of that rut he dug himself into was if he faced his past with his family and childhood neighbourhood. Because he romanticised all of it and they did about him too. But they were awful to him growing up. And awful to him since I've known him. His pain stems from here. 

Not me.

The only way he will be able to be happy with himself or in a relationship is if he looks at the ways they hindered his paths. Once they are both aware why he is so deplete of hope and prosperity and look in the mirror.... well, I don't actually look as bad as they do by comparison. Even his best friend let him down numerously our years together. I am preferred as the scapegoat, of course, but I think eventually it will be time to correct their logic.

I had not let myself think about him since he left. Long after Bran, too. And then I realised I've been lying to myself. Even the attempts to date, my heart was never in it. I've been lying all this time to myself.... it's crazy to me how I can make myself believe something.... but I guess this is how I survive; I can brainwash myself.... until one day I wake up aware of feeling empty, because it wasn't real; just distractions to avoid something else. Rushing into anything.... All of that.... had only been rebound. I was so angry at him, I wanted to replace the disappointment with the first thing that fell into my lap. And my daughter.... Jamie--she ....was just the last straw. I feel like I've gone hardcore rogue.

But it is ok. I have survived. I am strong. Stronger than Vera who only knows how to run away. And brag. And be spiteful. To name one of my old friends from my life. Past. I see those people I once filled my life up with.... were choices I'd made when I didn't know how to give myself credit. I picked friends with huge egos and who were the most selfish people masking their selfishness with acts of flamboyant generosity for themselves to look good but were not necessarily ever the best choices to really help me by their actions. So in the end punished me with brutal opinions of me and my life. I won't name or list.

At first I reeled over this sense that everyone turned their back on me.... but I see it is only because they grew bored. And bored of the guilty reminder.

But this is how I am purging myself of people like that. It wasn't of my doing to but-- now I can see I'm better off without any of the people from my past. None of them. 

One day it was clear. 

I have been waiting 

        I think that is really what I have been doing. 

What do I mean to him? Do I mean anything? If I ever did.... if he really truly ever loved me.... but if he just lets me go too then that means he was also a fraud.... we were always broke, yes-- I don't think that has to have been but I don't think he could have been different while carrying his albatross. But if he truly loves me as he has said then.... he will find his way back to me and want.... to and want me more than ever 

     and then it will be worth it because he will want it to be better.... and I won't ever feel like his coffee maker or toaster because.... he will sound the way he sounded the other night on the phone when he said, 

"you know, Beth, you're pretty great....!"

Saturday, March 12, 2016

Beth after Bran

I think about it all sometimes now.... 

I think-- it was all.... disruption to my life. But in other ways it brought me back. I know that seems to contradict.

I don't know why Bran ever came into my life. There are times often when I have wished we had never met. 

My life is so different now. In many ways it is so much better. But it is such a very different me.

But in many ways my life is so meaningless.

I think that what I have found is the lens that can now see all the people who have been in my life. My past. All illusions have melted off of them. Without their illusions I see that all of them have been frauds. Every single one of them. And I also see how my heavy disappointment in them I blamed on my own flaws. Telling myself subconsciously that I have failed them, but I see I have always absorbed blame without even consciously being aware. I see my struggle for others approval was a waste because I see it should have been the other way around.

There really is only one who turned out not to be a fraud. Not that I ever thought he was but I didn't know he was the only one on planet earth who wasn't one until these last several years of having more 20/20. 

I stop here to pause.... am I ready to write about this, I wonder....?

Because our life was a living nightmare and .... well, what is there to say about that? But nobody can make me laugh the way he can or hold his own in a battle of wits or blow my mind with his unexpected poetic observations.... you know nobody is as good really 


Monday, July 7, 2014

Electra's Dictionary, Chapter 31 hunan-niwedio

                                             more representation in the portrayal of themes

When I first began writing as Electra, it was for the purpose to define identity because I see it as a source; the seed of where it all began.

But often, I feel like Don Quixote, delusional. Today I don't want to dwell on whether or not this one or that one was my father. It is almost irrelevant to the argument in some ways. This struggle over meaning. This struggle. This conflict. I know that none of this would have mattered to me at all had I not been desperate enough to call a suicide hotline when I was twenty-one. And the years that dragged me to that point. The rejection of father. From my father. I tried to replace something with something else. Like Freud’s thesis. Today's modern books on the young feminine psyche outline a fragile ego, as portrayed by Pipher's Ophelia complex. A neatly sketched picture. The early formation of ego. In many ways I am a stereotype. There is nothing that unique here in my head. But that was never what I needed to prove. Maybe in some ways in order to stand out as individual, yes. But not to really rally, as some present day Joan of Arc. All I ever wanted was to just fit in.

My own theory is: if it is this important to me and I am not all that unique, than I would not be alone in these themes I obsess over and dissect. Maybe this is really not all just for me. I am definitely driven. Driven crazy. Over this. It has a hold on me that won't let me go and I have no choice but to follow this through to the end. So follow me. I dare you. Because you might just see you in me. And even if you don't, you might see something else that answers something in you and your need to follow it.

Without an avatar, where do you hang a self-image? I mean this in a way, like a title of Self. Like when I first watched my daughter begin to wonder who she is in her place in the world and I watched her need to define herself through her earliest choices. Her favorite color. Her favorite imaginary characters. And then, later, when she asked me over and over if she was good enough to be an artist, or good enough to write, or good enough to be ….anything. And it was like pushing the graphite across the paper and the graphite took control, the way it should. As artists, we simply dust off what is already there. Like an archaeologist, as I have said. It forms itself and our hands are the vehicle. But my daughter is her own graphite and I chose to never force the hand. I wanted to watch what would happen on her own. And without the limitations I had. The manipulating chains of limitations.

I saw it happen and it was invaluable to me to watch her learn this. It heeled something that no therapy ever could have. I got to watch it happen slowly through time as she discovered self.

Electra really only became my avatar in full dimension when I caught on to this. Watching self born in her. Being cast off from a mold forces you to invent yourself. And it isn't always the choice to do this. At first, the early inventions were reactionary. Basic survival. And things like taking sharp objects to do self harm were one of those reactions. And a form of basic survival, as ironic as this may sound. In the silence and in silence scream. Hidden with no voice in rooms in my mind.

And no, I don't condone self harm. And this is why I didn't want to force the hand. I had to let go of her, step back and watch her, like those first steps alone. As mothers we must let go and always, every day, more and more. We are forced to act the opposite of what we emotionally fear. But then, letting go of her was not really my choice. It was chosen by my ex-husband. Hanging a concept of self on your child has devastating consequences. But I wasn't ready to let go of her. Especially, because I knew I was on the brink of discovering something that has something to do with the meaning of self.

As I paint my mural of Demeter, as she mourns over the pomegranate, symbolizing Persephone.... I am releasing this. It marks a hallway in my cerebral passages. And once I put this down, I can go on to the next level, like the levels of purgatory.

But the Self is still chaos. It is elusive to me.

If I give up now.... only I think it is really driving me mad. Which is why I write this self-involved journey. If I am honest, maybe something really worthy can come of all of this. Even if it emerges out of me like a tiny whisper and the chance of being heard is actually impossible.... because I hide. Because I have no voice. And this is why Bran is so necessary, because he gives ….Electra voice.

I can do it through him....
because, before there was silence
.and then there was Orpheus.

I know that what I confess here --may be It is not as if I close the pages of my diary and tuck it in a drawer. I know he sometimes reads my blog. But there is the need to pour it out and I seem to be more honest on here than when I just do it on a piece of paper. I say here what I don't say out loud. Like the voiceless things I say to him in the dark. I guess there is the part of me that wants him to know but also hopes he won't.

I don't want to need him. I am not someone who clings. But I see there is something I need to learn.... in him.

And I think now about talking to my marriage counselor about this. But I don't want to admit to this. She is not my confessor. And I wonder if I am just trying to give merit to something sinful in order to deliver myself. But I need him, I know I do. Because before I was ….losing all definition. And losing the belief in caring.

Is it delusional to need to keep the faith of some tired old cause because it gives you an anchor that keeps you from flying out of orbit? He gives me voice. He is Electra's voice. I can express these things I never could have before. On his stage Electra comes to life. And even if he went away forever, I would be OK. Electra would still exist.

Because I know he will never be able to get her out of him now either.

But I don't need anybody. And if he leaves my life forever, then maybe he was only ever a vehicle too. The hands that shaped what was already there by dusting off the chaos.

I don't know what I am going to do. Maybe nothing. And maybe I am full of shit. No, I most definitely am.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Electra's Dictionary, Chapter 30

On the plane going home I have that Sinéad O'Connor song stuck in my head, those lines: this is the last day of our acquaintance/we will meet later in somebody's office.... I am sad on the plane going home.

Thinking about what faces me when I land in Detroit. The void that seems as if it will engulf me. I feel it grow inside with each mile. I try not to think about him.

Then stare into the darkness from the airplane window that looks into the emptiness of space. I don't care what I'm looking at. I know it's taking me away from where I wish I still was.

I got lucky, I had an aisle seat but nobody came to sit next to me. But is it really luck to get an unexpected window seat when it feels the destination I am being carried to is breaking my heart and maybe the distraction of a passenger beside me might have let me fool myself for awhile.

I am not good at 'good-byes'. I have never been. I would assume just say nothing, just walk away.

I say to him the night before,
let me take a taxi. Let's say 'good-bye' here.” Because it would be easier to leave alone and the place we had lived together for a week.... as if it were only just for a few hours. I would rather pretend not to care. I do not want to deal with pain. I don't like pain.

But he says,
no, Beth, I'm taking you to the airport.”


But he just looks at me as if I make no sense, as if my question is ridiculous, he says,
I'm going to bring you to the gate.”

But that is what I didn't want.

I feel irrational. It feels unfair.

But I know I can't leave Dean, even if Bran considered leaving his family. It has something to do with a promise and a commitment and years of history. It has something to do with knowing that –- I don't do good-byes well. And I guess-- love. But it is a different love. It is not the kind that inspires poetry and not the kind that fills your soul. And, although, I pretend to be hard, I'm not. I'm not able to be cruel. I can't be ungrateful. And I know that Dean needs me. Even though he would never say it. He is unable to express or show.... those things I deeply crave. And thinking these thoughts-- I feel so guilty. It is useless to long for the moon.

But then I wonder when I will see Bran again. And the fear. There is always that.

I didn't want to love him. Didn't plan to fall in love. I didn't think I could. Anymore. I long accepted that ….old romantics turn into cynics.

I take a taxi from the airport, knowing Dean is still at work. And when I step in the door I want to burst into tears. The place resembles a fraternity house.... and almost trip over a beer bottle that rolls across the floor when I walk in. I have no choice but to start cleaning before I even put down my backpack because of the smell. I follow the trail of disaster to the bedroom. And in the process of cleaning, I find my phone to charge it, it is completely dead. And then later, I step into the shower and stand there under the pouring water trying to void my mind. I stand there a long time. It is like I am washing off a week of illusions and returning back to real life. Returning from some kind of fugue.

After the shower, I face the mountain of dishes piled in the sink and piled everywhere else. I am exhausted from traveling and my heavy thoughts, but I need the therapy of cleaning. It is the guilt that is also returning.

I go to bed early, too exhausted to think or move and fall instantly asleep. It is some time in the night that I wake up to noises. They scare me. I am disoriented. It takes awhile to figure out where I am. I had been dreaming. I hear retching. I get up and find Dean on the floor of the bathroom vomiting. I see he is drunk.

Are you OK?” because what do you ask in moments like this?

He doesn't look up. His face looks mottled blue and red. He grunts,
huh...?” I see he has missed the toilet in places. There is vomit everywhere.



Dean, I'm home,” I say stating the obvious but wanting to get a reaction.

I thought you were coming home tomorrow,” he mumbles mostly incoherently.

No, today.”

He puts his head on the seat of the toilet. He looks pathetic. He starts to snore there. I find something to clean him off with then drag him to bed. He lands face first into the mattress.

I go sleep in the other room.

But it is hours later of being awake ….because now I can't fall back to sleep. I get up remembering my phone and unplug it from the wall. There is a message from Bran that says: call me when you get this, I miss you.
But while I've been away there are problems with Jamie. The next week back in the real world are filled with the debris of my daughter's problems. I feel guilty for having been away. It was only one week but it seems so much can go wrong in just a few days.

And then, much worse, my symptoms return. The worst kind. The worst pain. The kind that makes me want to die. I think I am being punished.

Saturday, June 28, 2014

Chapter 29; I am Electra, Beth ydw I, pwy ydw I?

                                                               Faery in chains

There are many different legends and many different dictionaries I tell but one motif, all twisted and woven. These words and thoughts I tell, the stories I tell. There is truth in what I decide to reveal. With a pirate's X and this is how; camouflaged and distorted to conceal where I hang the "Do not disturb sign" from the knob to a door that I've never let anyone pass through. Spoken through that filter from who I am. What I am. Where I go to piece together some semblance of Self. Within a well, within a hell. Within a cell where darkness is daylight and symbols are language, through this form of expression in search of self. Translated and transcribed imprismed Celf. Encrypted and coded; a dictionary. Hidden in language that mark as legend.... to a map drawn in the sand measured with words that play in sober calculations. I choose this method of voice to reveal myself for reasons that are.... written on the walls. 

It is a riddle.

No matter where I go, this confusion over Self is always with me. Always and everywhere. And has always been. It is a conflict within the self; a struggle to find peace; a struggle for identity. And to exist.

Beth who is what because I have no name.

Bran wants to know things about me as I want to know things about him. And so he asks me more about myself; about Electra....

He presses me why I have never found out for certain who I am. But what should the DNA proof of identity mean to me? I am me. Not only an organism with a mix of chemicals, hormones and a helix of double stranded molecules. And I am not anyone's reject. I grew up believing I was the bane of my father's existence because he said I was. Often. I knew he hated me. 

He could be nice. He could be kind. He could be affectionate. But not to me.

Bran asks me,
when you say your father believed you weren't his, why do you think this? And if this is true why did you never find out?”

Because I don't want to talk about this--ever.... I consider how to say the minamal without seeming dismissive, but still it makes me uncomfortable.

He used to call me 'nigger-baby'.....”  but when I look at him, I see he doesn't understand. So I try again,
"I had to stay under the radar and be invisible. Not call attention to myself in any way, not excel. You know, 'don't be noticed'. I couldn't bring attention to myself good or bad; this was never said with actual words; I was conditioned, like Pavlov's dog but with punishment that left physical marks. Which is how I learned to hide."

Only I am sorry I say even this much. 

You see, I want to know. But I don't want to know. I don't think he understands this. Because he didn't grow up without an identity; or a lie for an identity. You see, I don't think I'd like the answer, either way. So I choose limbo. Even as I know I'm too old for “hide and seek", I'm still hiding but not from daddy anymore. Because I don't need anybody. I am me and I am mine. I belong to me, and I am fine.

Nothing comes in. And nothing goes out....

But sometimes the holding capacity inside have to watch out, when one falls in the other came out"* 

I know that repression will do this. As much as I try to deny that it matters.... I have stared into my reflection searching for what's hidden in the genetic structure of my face.

I wonder often if either of them really ever knew.... for sure 


In the dark I walk over to him. There are sounds that come from outside. They come through the open window. He pulls me to sit inside his legs. And with my eyes closed, I think; erecting a wall around my heart…. but wanting to remember all of this.... and I think about our day.... the cathedral that had once inspired Monet-- we saw today. There is something strange about seeing something so old. It makes you wonder and think about how fleeting we all are here. It makes me feel strange....and sad.... and, later, walking, looking at new sights, holding his hand.... walking in step with him.... and all through this, all day, there was more of those silences when I knew we were both thinking the same things. That we are here with each other but were, in our heads, back at our separate lives. Because time is closing in. We have to prepare for the inevitability of what we always expected was going to come. But we don't talk about this. It is there but we don't talk about it.

And then, later, close to him in the dark, I melt. Like whenever I am near him.  Like the way he always makes my heart rush.... I breath him in and take him in through all my senses; the  texture of his skin against my mouth... that I will miss. The feel of him against my lips. His smell….that I will also miss and try to recall and will later wish I could have captured in a vile for when the longing becomes desperate. We don't use words, we are silent but in silence communicate. I know his body language and I know what all his silences mean. He pulls me close and wraps my legs around him. And without preamble enters. He says things to me.In that moment that is so intimate. Those things he says to me.... but now it makes me shy to write. And it would taint its meaning. He says other things too in his language that I don't understand. Those words that sound like incantations.

And then later he asks me to tell him more about my secrets, but instead of answering I say,

"Is it so interesting to you?” and manage to evade him.

*Nada Surf, I Like What You Say