passing shades noir thoughts

“I still remember the day I walked into Dr. Rothschild’s office for the first time …. It was Long Island, New York. in Cold Spring Harbor….”

I have to stop to collect.calm.

Those chapters that you flip through ….in a dictionary 

the thumb-cuts at letters to save time 

But I shut the dictionary—snap!

Then open again …..Electra ….

like Alice we call through the pages. We do not exist. So….she is lost in that vast abyss of nothingness ….i was invisible 

I am invisible 

nobody sees me—like the invisible man.she slammed the door on me.on me.she slammed the door on me. I didn’t feel it. I know how to put a shield up when the warning comes.i know she did not mean it.she did not intend to hurt me.i forgive her everything.but—that said; i cannot abide by pride but —i am aware i am stronger than my foes….it is more about quality of life —is it?

quality of life 

      who has the right to rob anyone of that?and who has the right to take it away entirely.nobody —should I —need I remind you 

The will ….of the human spirit is the individual’s right to be 

   All stars in the galaxy. 

It was cold that day I walked in there. Cold Spring Harbor Long Island. I remember every detail of that road up 25a. The curve up to the right hand turn….that went beyond….the fish farm then onwards towards Seaford Oyster Bay, Nassau county;Hicksville, Greenvale, CW Post, Manhasset

There was this sense ….like a compass. The needle. It just wiggled there—like the Bermuda Triangle. The scent of my riding saddle from my primary blue Hyundai hatchback ….the autobiography id stolen of him from the Huntington library ….on my passenger seat…. a dizzy surreal sick waxing feeling with prickles of electric on my face and hands. Sweat. Fear. Dry mouth. 

It was the railroad, you see…. I’d just passed across Polaski Road from Huntington. And 

You ask me about when did I remember again? …. I heard some compare the lineage of who my father was to the iconic American family the Kennedys but …. I suppose with a long lens with a rainbow of color.”

I walk to the window. Sit on the floor. Put my head into the wall below 

“I was going over the railroad tracks, it was East Northport, New York —where I then lived between the biker bar and cemetery …. On my way home from work ….the train was going by….I watched it, stuck there and …. it was that reflective spacey feeling you get just after an intense psychotherapy regression…. and —like delayed reaction ….for me….like a veil lifted….  it all….came….back….  clear, and —like yesterday.i remembered everything; instant; like cold water thrown across my face —Mattie; the honeycomb blood pattern on my skin; the voodoo lady; the brear rabbit stories….the Thursday afternoon phone calls; the last time….the horror….and….

“The train finally passed…. I drove home in a daze ….but suddenly I knew…. realized….it all….and who I really was and —the chaos of its riddles —what was behind it all— my existence of being a shameful truth

“I suppose if I were to be honest, all I want is to ….merge all the selves—the celves….into one—identity—because now I know why all of it did happen….do I get released from the shame….? Maybe we get used to wearing the shackles. Maybe I need them. Maybe they hold me together now. Maybe that is all that ever did.”