el, dearest—

one year later.it has taken me one year to trust myself again.but after self reviewing over and over and over …. away from the constant heckling; the 24 hour calling of my name; sleep deprived because he tasked me to be on call there the whole time I was shanghaied there…. my thoughts got all wobbly there….i didn’t trust the red lights on the smoke detectors in every room.like always feeling the fbi was watching me.ive had so many psychological headtrip experiences ….its not from being accident prone, its just life in the real world as a female who has zero back up. Shout all you want, I may be mighty but I am small and that is a Darwin reality 

lately instead of blaming myself for all that….the stalker, the fbi man…. lately I think— wow!I fucking made it with my own finger nails and nobody else’s help. and each situation I had to get out of. I had to leave or had I stayed would have caused much further chaos and turmoil.

one year later. I catch my breath. cannot believe I got out of there….right on the Mason-Dixon Line too….i can’t believe I got away from three very scary and very violent. Drinking cyanide well water and throwing up blood, skin and bones and attacked by a poison spider never mind the snake but what about what happened before the fbi guy? No I never mention that.and I don’t believe I am at all over what happened; I’ve just closed my eyes and made it go away.why am I so nervous?why do I feel uncomfortable around people either strangers or those I know?—because I’m not fucking stupid—why should I want to be close and trusting to people again when it’s so exhausting to live through the disasters they cause ….?why….i think I’m healthy to say—I’d rather avoid people awhile till I am convinced there is one I could trust within an six feet of my presence  

One year later I see better.and mourn what I lost—time; faith; years; hope— how dare these people decide to invade my life; who made them god?

but this is a shift for me

         I am free of the Demeter/Persephone weight

and the wait. those dark years are behind me. how strange when I read the book, I predicted my life would mirror Katherine de Roet’s from  the Anya Seton’s depiction; her pilgrimage as she mourned the estrangement of her daughter….her miles and miles of walking and her heavy sadness

I cannot get those tears back but I think I am far more wiser and far more wiser of just how strong I am and yet I know these are the very things that separate me from society.my excessive traumatic experiences and the manners of which I have learned to survive ….no one would possibly want to if thst had to really imagine 

So I forgive myself for being so hard on myself. And realize I should trust myself to know which boatof the lesser of evils to jump for

The mountain pause, like an eagle. and maybe see what this lady can do about that political demon or we are just all plain fucked 

dear….el

I start to think maybe it is not so bad.no, because, it felt there still are things I am not really desiring to leave just yet. Sometimes things happen that seem to ruin everything but then you see later that there was this feeling ….and I know what it is. it is a love hate because I detest my street; derelicts; the crime corner—like a corner of Miami Florida all over again. Without the palm trees. And the last frontier of the Adirondaks has this strange appeal to me still

What is it? Like the old tv show Northern Exposure; I like the unknown corner aspect of it hidden inches by Canada and Vermont like a secret valley. But, yeah, it’s got its skid row sense that maybe reminds me of my love of Punk and alternative. The dirty grunge. The spray paint. The university students. Then the breathtaking sudden views of nature cheek by jowl by the rundown weird houses with creative architectural ad-ons and all colors that remind me of quilters or scrapbookers. The tie dye curtains. The rampant sunflowers crawling everywhere. The air always smelling like weed; the porches that became front rooms with another porch added in front. The unexpected gardens and the unexpected garages with reggae music blasting as dreadlocked artists work on stained glass. So strange here, it is. 

Not as bad a strange as where I was before here. Which I don’t think I’m quite over nor any of the other.i feel like partly wanting to not come out yet—I resisted this change, I think, I had. 

Is it the Faun and Grant story these streets inspired that remains unfinished? 

 

           

Today I am surprised by a pleasant encounter. I meet a local artist, I guess you could say. I don’t tend to talk to people I don’t know generally usually; I was watching the water by the university and thinking about everything. Was so lost in thought. I was surrounded by defensive geese all of a sudden and he came over to get them away so it was awkward but he was so nice and helped me with my shoe. I don’t quite understand but he said he’s like a comic book ghost writer artist who lives right on Elizabeth street of all places. I had no idea anyone could be living in one of those house who would even be doing something like that. I guess he was what I needed to shift my mood, he was so assuring and sweet. He has a really nice dog

it is the spiraling that is the most dangerous ….about me

like a tsunami that pulls me under and tosses me against the walls

like the scars I hide.it is dangerous.i fear it….so im here 

was reminded the 26th, yesterday ….that looms its wake upon me still

was the day my mother died 

Greg&Diandra/Watch out for those spider reflexes!

While the grooms wore the dark midnight navy blue, the bride’s maids gowns were that kind of pale, shimmering rose-gold, of a glossy satin silk; the gowns were long, yet a simple slip dress style with spaghetti straps that had a slit up one leg and a scalloped edge. When she walked her long legs slid out from beneath, the satin fabric sliding smooth along the length of her leg. It was hard not to stare as she walked under the lighting and notice how well it became her complexion.

They started towards the dance floor area where the band’s loud music was blasting but he took hold of her wrist and lead her away from this direction and then it was clear he was guiding her outside 

“I’m sorry, were you set on dancing?” he asked and reached inside his suit jacket 

“Greg!” she looked oddly at him and edged back towards the direction of the entrance 

“Look, I just need to know—how much do you know? Ok? Just tell me straight all the shit you’ve heard about me!” 

He began in a suppressed tone. Then ended with a not so suppressed tone 

Diandra knew him well enough to brace herself for that but once over, she stood her ground and calmly said,

“I suppose I know all of it.”

Yet she turned away after she said this. She knew how he’d be looking at her. 

When his fingers bit into her arm to pull her, her street smart reflexes kicked in and —even with the gown and kitten heels, she elbowed him hard and shook him off 

“Oh! Sorry!” Diandra said looking up at him after, “I’ve toughened up since you knew me. Had to—lived in Detroit awhile….” But she looked at him, “I get funny when I get man handled unexpectedly ….and yes I know about that.”

“About….?”

“Your record.”

He looked at her blankly that way he has

“I know, ok? All of it—“

“All what?!” he moved to swing her round again, but she moved faster and warned him with her now wild eyes …,he knew those eyes. Remembered how they looked that night ….he shook himself to clear his head and stood back 

“I kept in touch with your sister—she never told you? I know about the embezzling, the sex offense, the anger management program—“

“Ok….”he stopped her but gently now this time when he grabbed her it was gentle as he covered her mouth to stop her words. “Ok,” he repeated in a whisper; he caught her to him so that the back of her was leaned against him and his hands covered her mouth. He buried his face into the top of her head and breathed deep the clean scent of her hair. 

He had not known his sister had ever been close to her. How had this escaped his awareness? 

“Did Hild know about ….?” he had to ask

“No!” Diandra spun around to face him, “of course not! I never told anyone—did you?”

He just stared at her a moment, she looked so beautiful in the moonlight. Then he realized she was cold, seeing her nipples in the light, he shrugged off his jacket just as some guests were walking out towards their cars.

“So then why?” Greg asked as he put his jacket around her shoulders 

She slid her arms through even as the sleeves fell long past her hands, she was glad for the warmth of it

“Why what?” but this time it was Diandra who did the grabbing by pulling him by his tie and looked up into those tempestuous eyes. And for a long moment they were caught up in each others eyes searching for their questions answered 

https://youtu.be/6uuhrSj3YoU?si=vh6S6stcSVZeK566

Social code

It was not until the day of Imogene’s wedding that Diandra caught any sight of Greg again; first during the ceremony as it was impossible to avoid seeing him (he wasn’t at the rehearsal), among the grooms and Diandra one of the bride’s maids 

But now with the ceremony past and the dinner underway he appeared behind her shoulder in a gorgeous formal navy blue suit that matched the grooms

“Care to dance, Miss Pim?” his eyes and expression unreadable 

“Oh!” Diandra was taken off guard, surrounded by a table full of well dressed wedding guest diners, she looked up at him having stammered and did the only social response that could immediately occur; she folded her fabric napkin, put it on the table and stood up —and as she glanced up at him, he pulled back her chair 

Byronic rue

Diandra did not see Greg again after that and she had not expected to. 

And she found herself going back to the old familiar streets. 

How strange are streets, aren’t they? Like mute walls that don’t talk; how many scenes have they seen over how many lives?

She instinctively found the old paths to all the old places she would go ….and remembered her mind. Her mind. To put your foot upon a step you once walked and recall the exact emotion of …. 

she stood stock still. As if something physical had grabbed hold of her throat. It was a physical jarring shock of pain as if started from the solar plexus and —it gave her pause. 

She walked over to a nearby bench and sat to think about the Diandra that she was then. The one just starting out.

And her eyes moved across the landscape. She remembered always looking for ….him ….across the horizon of the landscape. She knew his walk from far away. Knew his silhouette. And yes, always, she could sense when he would come. 

She also knew …. when he put up walls there was no use even trying —but, she’s not a liar; it had to be said because she knew. How could she pretend not to know? But then, that she was even sitting next to him should have said whatever he doubted about her. 

shadows and tree trunks look like people in the dark. it startles 

there is a change I feel in the air outside as I walk the side streets tonight. it feels something like 2008. I couldn’t place this sense until it suddenly came to me; one dares to truly hope at last

we walked together along the shore silently watching the sunset. no words were needed. the air that passed across my skin reminded me of his hands and the way they touched me. that sore and quiet intimacy of lovers and the freedom of my hips and how free my limbs glide, how sweet and satisfied that peace between us, how sated and perfect we walk as one 

who do you want next to you when your world falls apart

where sleeping wolves lie

 

It was later after the shots when Greg brought her back to where she was staying, compliments of the bride and she got out feeling quite tipsy when he drove up to the entrance. She waved as she started to head towards the front doors and started walking. 

But then Diandra heard him turn off the car and open the door to get out, so she stopped near the doors and turned to watch him walk up to her, a sudden wind catching in his hair as he reached her. He stood there looking down into her neat, pert little face with those large eyes that never have changed 

“Did you really think I’d have a wife and a brood?”

It was the strangest look in his eyes. Challenging? Daring? Searching…. for

Diandra only stood there and held her breath. She looked back at Greg,

“well, I heard about the scandal —not from ….” and Diandra implied with her head towards the hotel to imply the bride and at the same time Diandra looked away. She took a small step back and dropped her gaze to the ground where they stood 

“Scandal?” he asked and when she didn’t answer and kept her gaze at the ground he pulled her face up by her chin to look at him as he stared blankly back at her with no expression 

“I….” she dropped her gaze, “Natasha ….your cousin—do you see him?”

“Who?” he asked her coldly and he harshly pulled her chin to make her look at him

“Your son.”

She could have predicted his reaction. She knew before she even said the words what he’d do.

He turned around, went to his car and tore off without a word 

 

I miss Port Jefferson and the drive there; all the way from Huntington on 25a. The old tree lined beauty of the north shore on a summer day. And watching the sunset by the port and the ferry as it leaves for Connecticut 

desperate for intelligent life

despite it all, I start to feel the need to 

      gravitate closer to “the (NY) City” but not as in the city  …..Not as in so close to the city you can choke on the fumes. Not as in the city as you constantly deal with annoying tourists that are not from somewhere else outside New York but from the city (New York City) thinking they are playing in the country with the natives. I hate that. Jab you with their elbow to grab that perfect apple you’re reaching for. No it is something more like the proximity of it—like, a train ride away; a day trip ….the other day I found myself missing those irritating broadway show tv ads ….no, it’s culture I miss. I need it. What would be so perfect would be to live by all the kinds of places I like to go to. Museums with my favorite artists, places to see that let my mind wander, the possibility of encountering intelligent life, art, natural beauty, intellectual conversation….and gardens. Lots of gardens ….

….still

 

 

a weird phrase is now stuck in my head repeating; forced into sharing a burden of guilt

do we wither into the quiet corners? Those recesses of hither and yon, scratching the thoughts upon the walls who still listen 

instead of something at the finish, you’re just finished, it feels and I feel that weary sense of ….the sage watching from afar 

it’s called ‘the north country’ in this region; I’d dare to compare it to something like what would have been 1800’s England. 

instead of horse and buggy it’s the old jalopy

Cranbrook; the possibility of a railroad. How could that warrant change 

The distrust and dislike of change from locals 

then funds could fall through