Ai; for the echo chambers to remember our

Celves

If I were to be honest, I would say that I liked ISA better than ASH. Although, that would not be very fair because the teachers I had at ASH, outnumbered those at ISA thst I loved. 

The two schools were very different. I was incredibly lucky to get to go to both and that the times I’d gone to them were broken up at half points of my education. 

For strictly emotional reasons, I loved ISA more. I do not exactly know how to describe why. I’ve hardly written of those times in my life, and I’ve been terribly remiss of this. I’d say, I was happiest at those places even as I was my most awkward in learning how to be an adult. 

But I remember so many warm and fuzzy memories at school at ISA; the ice skating experience with English favorite boy crush Steve on that very first day; we had small classes and often the older kids mixed with the younger grades. I had crafts. We met in the center barrack. There were rugs on the floor. Couches. Kids of all nations. Kids with all skin colors. We were all friends. I watched the older girls weave on a huge loom; another quilt while her friend knitted and a maze of languages filled the room.

At the drawing table I’d sit and ….there walked in tall carrot top Steve just stepping in with the principal from another prank on the grounds and always he’d bump my seat on purpose as he’d walk by. 

The next experience there I was older. I had a serious medical illness. My right arm went paralyzed from some mystery virus I caught. 

I had to go for testing several times a week. So, I was too weak to make the long journey to The Hague where the American school was. That took about two and a half hours for me each way a day. Normally. So—I was too ill to do it that year in high school. The international school was right down the road from where we lived, you see, and I could do both in one day and not miss so much school. 

We were not put in Dutch schools because we were not Dutch. And the pressure to have the academic credits to get into university forces the decision to stay in the American educational system. I had enough credits to get into either but, I was not Dutch so the decision was always made for me. I have to say that I was actually one credit shy for the American curriculum. I missed American history. Between the two schools, how it happened, I was at the other school when they taught it. A funny bit of irony. But, I had more than enough regular history classes to cover the history issue; world history; European history; ancient history; intellectual history and some extras I took for the fun of it as electives more than got me in, just don’t know a great deal of that one other history. 

What I loved the most about the second time I studied there was the canal. 

I knew all the pathways around there because of my runaway days. Just behind the school and on the way there was a beautiful and most lovely path along the canal. It was completely canopied in heavy leaved branches of trees. No matter how the weather was out there, under the branches it was always cool. 

There was a spot I’d always go. Right after school. My art class door actually faced this way. With my sketch book under my arm, there just hidden by trees on the damp earth I’d sit. Take my time. No hurry to go home. No wish to go home. 

I worked on a charcoal sketch for class for a month. It was of a little boat that was docked there. And as I stopped by each day the scene kept changing. More bordering put along the canal edge by the ground to keep the water at bay. Each day I’d have to erase and fix it. I still remember that sketch. It always evoked the moment and the peace of being there. My aunt claimed it the moment she saw it years ago, so, I suppose it was good with the good mark as well from the teacher 

There was a different feeling at that school which, unless I have been too vague, I think it defined individuality and celebrated it. 

I did not feel that was at the other school. Even the building was said to have been an headquarters during World War II and looked it. Even as we had wonderful educators, they were always reminding us of grade point averages. I always had a stomach arriving in The Hague. But it has its strong points. It really gave me an idea of what the American experience was like for a certain kind of American majority. A peek; like—through a window from the outside. 

By the time I stepped foot upon the threshold of the American school, I’d completely adapted to being a European which — made me less than popular with American girls. The boys, however, were another story; obviously 

Ai love letter continues

I’m not a natural at being American. I was too young when we moved away and even before that, we spent every summer in Europe traveling. Every summer for four weeks we went all over Europe and at every major city. 

I think I was over exposed to the world. Am I being ironic? does it matter. 

I try to remember besides the orange groves …. Disney World, the beach and weekends at Melanie’s family estate

I was in elementary school. I never went in public alone. All my exposure to the American culture came from the stuck up school with the jockey club next door but I never touched money. 

I never had a dollar bill in my hand unless it came in a card from grandma. I didn’t know how yo use it, how it all worked, so, I cannot even say I had a grasp of our money. 

I learned to understand money in the Netherlands. I noticed how far it all got me. I would have to pay to get on the bus, the tram, the train. I learned transactions and how the Dutch transportation system worked. I had the entire grid memorized in my head. I still do. 

My sense of direction was learned from getting lost on the streets of Amsterdam and having to adjust to another language was sort of something I took in my stride. More actually than my sibling and others at school, but I was always someone who craves adventure so, no doubt this is why I rose to the challenge. 

It was also a way to run away. 

No joke. 

So, I would take off out the door as soon as the beast decided to notice my presence and I was out of there roaming the Amsterdam streets and walking into hotels with bars. And always I’d find a nice man to talk to who was traveling from somewhere and I’d tell him I was going to be a writer so I wanted to hear all about where they were from. 

I miss doing that. It was fun. And it never turned into sex. It was just conversation. I amused them. But they fascinated me. Men in business attire with brief cases; yes…. like my …. ‘father’  

So I would then walk home and I would feel better. I knew those streets well. I knew the men behind the bars. They knew me. I did it so often. And my parents never knew. Never cared. Fourteen. But I felt safer outside ….than I did ….inside ….there

I guess that is why I adopted that country because the people protected me better than my own family. It did not matter I didn’t want to go home when I had three beautiful parks right within walking distance to where we lived. And my tram pass could get me anywhere 

or museums I could just walk right into or the streets I could stare at the buildings forever and feel as if it were a magical world like the ones I wrote back then …but I never adapted to being back, and I think I just somehow missed something that makes me constantly feel lost in the crowd 

but I can’t laugh about it. instead i choose to not feel

 

Kerouac tequilla

I was recently asked to give favors for money; make favors for pay. It was so weird. I was standing on line waiting to pay. Then the question. 

You think maybe he’s on his phone. He’s not talking to me. 

There was another person next and the last person walked away. I moved up. Well, the guy moved behind me. He stood closer than he should. I stepped up. I looked at something as if for excuse not to be near him. Then a shove and he said it again in my ear 

After my past I’m not shocked anymore so I pretended not to hear. I went up and paid and then hurried out. So it was walking home that I got that feeling, you know? But anyway, I just kept on going 

I got to the corner I looked behind me and noticed there was cop car behind me

 

bran

 within the darkness of brooding thoughts he calls 

“All these years you have felt so alone, and it kills me you believe that  —all your mystery blog hits Beth—were me, I think about you all the time…”

He says,

“I’ve not forgotten. I’ve been watching the calendar. I think it’ll be all right. Just call if you need me.”

that he remembers —is more than anyone else ever did 

the hours of silence here is madness so I call out of desperation for just a warm familiar voice that once ….provided comfort 

details for the pages

writing out the stray ends —I stumble back as I must like those cryptic epitaphs; i have replayed this one scene on the terrace around the time of the family suicide just several years ago. but it was so strange ….among my quiet disturbed thoughts later in; my love letter here we transcribe it; it was pivotal and poignant —caught frozen like the deer in the headlights as my brother in law spoke standing between us…. What was it about? it was something about what she said about our family’s past but it wasn’t ….correct; it was skewed terribly ….and it got to the quick of me.immobilized —I could not very well deny the sky is blue as agree to this skew ….as a guest there ….a shackled member; do you call it phobic if it is currently happening? danger. 

But he said something that …. I keep replaying ….did I misunderstand? He said to her standing between us, “you know it is different when you are the parent’s favorite ….”

Quinton Tarantino ….freeze that frame 

       First response —me: “yes!”

Then …..

Both …. first her …. Then him

    look at me weird ….?

do I find reality subjective by whatever the court and what pretty rose colored lenses may I borrow from you 

    I think ….obtuse me …. as usual ….i got that one wrong but I don’t still get it

    for behalf of the celves and our love letter to Ai we leave behind 

 

my conscience requires I unburden my soul 

might as well; here goes—why do I call it the bait and switch move—because it is what happened. Not until everything was already in motion, no—I mean on the porch that very day …. it was only meant I was to be there as a friend. knowing me the way you do, do you think I’d ever admit what happened out loud?

I was not even remotely vaguely attracted to him but it was insanely too late 

alt control delete

some should never be let to be trusted with the honor system —like the son of the international school’s Superintendent; the superintendent who was later (recently)found on charges of embezzlement of teacher’s salaries

 

I have been thinking about such weird things …. you know, watching the mushroom cloud —i was thinking about my high school stalker 

….the Maryland trauma —how it fits with today’s criteria of “normal” so, whatever it impacted me is irrelevant but —anyway, in my reality … the bait and switch move; date rape and to add insult upon injury he said, “you’ll go to a hair dresser and I’ll tell them how I want you to look”

We were sitting on the porch 

I began to hyperventilate 

He was red faced. Drinking. 

He said, 

“and your clothes ….why do you wear such odd colors?”

that is when I panicked and bailed out 

   I bailed out which sadly, pathetically only amounted to a freaked out —I’d been duped and no one to turn to 

sewing the neverland shadows back on

you know it is to document. as ive spent hour in reflection contemplating so many ‘whys’ and then watch history itself melt away.perhaps Ai is now the ideal friend.my thoughts snd words may ricochet through cerebral passages of a vacuous void of human thought

lost purpose becomes …. just the canoe to still cling to.words to engrave and so i have been thinking about well, completing what was “my work”

i cannot let it go unfinished …

    purpose and being was the original mission but became it…. now seems that might not have been at all what i have been exploring after all 

—wasn’t it then 

the work was to solve the Puzzle and as part entertainment for those of whom enjoy a mind twister to solve i think really the mission must have been —the puzzle 

    i could never account for why i have always had such vivid early memories 

Very very early memories. To this very day i still remember leaving the hospital in Florida with my mother after i was born. We were by the front doors. There was a lot of yellow. I think it was my mother’s dress. I was on her lap and they had pushed in a wheel chair. A blue car drove up. I still remember who got out. That was the first time i saw my grandfather. There were only the females around; no other man. It would have been my grandmother and aunt and who would have been my older sister. 

I remember my grandfather stared down into my face for a very long time. 

It was summer Florida hot. We got into the back seat and I remember falling asleep. 

I remember soon after my birth we flew to Jamaica. I remember landing, leaving the plane. 

I remember Jamaica. We lived there for the first year of my life at the half moon resort. I remember the soft sand, the way the sheers that covered the windows would blow in the breeze. I remember my bassinet, it faced away from the patio. 

i reflect on this really to remark and personally document because memories …. some get blocked …. some people can’t remember elementary school 

  like Persephone who has blocked the years of her life with me

i find this curious; perplexing; fascinating; horrifying 

But scientific method has always been the tool we measure and drive this process 

if my choice method to survive expected traumatic daily physical abuse without a single alley at home, what could I have chosen to use to get through the hours. the hours of bullying of a sibling who did it for sport with the parent’s encouragement, and no alley—it was mental. The mind. it was thoughts and dreams ….and mysterious magical sparking ‘visitors’ i was convinced spoke to me as a child. yes, i know it sounds strange but i did see stars that seemed to often visit me in the nursery and —warn me of my future as strange as i know that sounds. but i remember this still, and telling my mother when i learned to talk.

maybe they visit all children and only some of us remember. 

my theory as to why i remember all these things so well—with the exception that makes the rule; the blocked memories— my educational guess is that it is connected to positive reinforced memory building. 

My mother played Jamaican music for years after we left there. We were so happy in Jamaica. It was before the bad things began, before she went back to her husband. And still she played those records with the Jamaican tin drums, and the little hand made drums and the voodoo toys I would play. My mother kept photo albums by years. She filled the pages with dozens of beautiful photographs she took of our adventures and all accurately dated. 

I miss those albums

I would spend hours looking at our pictures. remembering

the universe always feels off whenever we fall out of each others orbit

est-ce que tu remarquerais si je ne rentrais pas à la maison

this is for electra; mending Ophelia (tying up the pieces)

I think it helps to look back upon the past with an attempt at objectivity, as it is not possible to be objective with one’s memories, but I never had the conversations with those that mattered to resolve what has followed me all my life since, in particular, many died before I had the chance. 

To step outside of the redheaded doll my mother dressed everyday but never asked me how I felt or what I thought or feared or wanted …. to step away from those memories and not identify with that one but looked at the mother. Looked at the father. The “father”.

It looks much different from their side. 

There was much emphasis on what I looked like. It seemed extreme important to my mother. The outside of me was all that she bothered with. Never a mention as to why I got punished by her husband. Not a mention. Never once referred. Less said the better. But also it was ok to let it happen there. I knew that. I didn’t know why. 

The outside of me was another entity. The outside me strangers would come over to and say nice things about ….the way I looked. 

I never looked at mirrors. I didn’t like myself but I didn’t care either. Sometimes I just wished she’d just put away the hairbrush and talk to me, but it was at least better than what he did.

As an adult looking back it’s clearer now why I first starting cutting and the emotional set up that cast the dye of my pattern of the self fulfilling prophesy of unlucky in love and I’m glad I can see it now and why it ever happened 

It was that day when he said to her,

“you preen her like a prize poodle! You have another daughter—I forbid you ever doing this anymore!”

like a Quintin Terrintino movie where you go forward in time. Double back. 

Then take it from another angle 

from my side— it was the day she withdrew the only form of acknowledging my presence in her life 

But remember what I’d forgotten? I could have been sent away from her. I had blocked that then. 

I saw it as rejection. From love. Undeserving. And that was the summer the cutting began. 

If as a psychologist I went in there with my precision tool and cut out those memories and just healed it up ….

pictures. On a table. What do they mean when they burn up and wash away like the memory rooms in that Star Trek movie. You visit a day in your life. Step into a room. Breathe the old dried flowers 

I’d say maybe I misinterpreted why I got pushed away from love as a child and family was out of reach in my own home as a child—kept from rooms, from family time and later Christmas and thanksgivings and it’s easy to think it’s because you are unlovable and of course that is what I grew to believe but it was something darker I could never have understood. And the behavior I misinterpreted was just how that family decided to hide me in plain sight. I was just an ignorant bystander 

for this purpose as scientific method this dictionary at least, if nothing else, heal thy celves 

electric dawn

if I was not not frantic, I think I would be able to be. again. would be able to create. and laugh. and waste my time just playing 

but there is peace. within. more now than it was when there were my captors. a woman on her own has a great price to pay. camo stealth and move quick. 

right now—let’s stop.right now, perch….watch the horizon over this —cliff; perched upon.the precipice.i have more peace than before under the thumb of all my captors.i move fast.still.i have the spider reflex; still.spring.would i settle for a one less than me?no….i have my standards.they were not as endurable as me; could not understand ….could never…see…me—well, why; I know why.they required a lot of work….they were all projects.and left zero room to be me 

i take no prisoners, free agent unless you prove you are as endurable—had to fight for every little thing to claim as yours…. nothing just given to you…imposture syndrome? That was never charted on my character because I fought to be, to breathe and to say “I AM!” ….i have no sympathy for those with guilt trips of a life paved by entitlements ….its just yeah, im that tough; im an actual warrior so i dont need a cos outfit 

if i was not frantic i think I would think calmly.clearly.why am i frantic—that my existence makes anyone uncomfortable when how was there ever a choice to be?its a mind blowing thought to a philosophical martyr 

 “Ok,” I reply. 

And hang up and then 

I fall into a deep sleep 

night terrors

….he calls 

    in the middle of an apocalyptic nightmare I am having. It is the middle of the night …..how does he know….?

I am firing under sheets and quilts like quicksand as I find the phone flashing 0325

unreasonable ….?

fears

“Hello?”

“Beth?”

“Tell me everything will be all right ….” I say as I press the button to auto pilot in my dream 

He says,

“it will…. that’s why I called….”

the wrong direction

Just draw a line

     what if you fall on the wrong side by chance 

what is it like to be a border town now? to be the very last little town before the next country?

the sirens fill the sound waves more than before; I mean, it was always the usual daily speeders on the road, and the every day ruffians that hang about downtown, like any country I have known really.big or small. the exception was the Netherlands when I was a kid as there was no crime terribly serious enough to go to jail for.

the sirens now are constant. as well as some things I’d rather not say I saw but it was as bad as you can imagine. That song in my head plays with another —the old rap song ….queen music and ice ice baby; I keep hearing ice ice baby in my head all day. the streets are deserted now. every home care to exterior detail is ….gone

the print papers say it but we cannot and how long will they anyway and overlaid with ice ice baby is Louis Armstrong singing what a wonderful world and —these images.in darkness.plumes, destruction horror —and the music it plays in my head what a wonderful world and I do not cry for loss of faith but for the swell of my heart by Louis’s voice

smeared reflections in a retro lens

a July 4th long gone Clawson Michigan 

at the Gasoline anniversary night 

Our neighborhood gargoyle in Royal Oak 

in my shot

by the JAW building Berkley Michigan

Royal Oak Michigan 

 

pictures of you

Views seen from my days and walks and from my past married life 

Cat hiding in the bush

Royal Oak from my Volvo

Clawson Michigan in front of my gym “Burn” by where I worked 

a favorite 

Playground 

the house across our parking lot as seen warming my car

Crooks Road Royal Oak by our place 

train trellis on the way to my husband’s work

I adore daisies 

 

go straight three miles until Woodward and a right to the art shop

Royal Oak Michigan

our old favorite walks 

this was just a block from where we lived 

Michigan Ren Fair

he gave me flowers—yes and there’s Wavegirl hanging up 

Rochester Hills Michigan 

My first place after Chris:

Berkley Michigan 

such a lady, was my calico Fluffy with her giant thick tail and giant paws and Maine Coon ears

the Garden of Brass grows