poet’s corner

alone in the waiting labyrinth 

follow the rose pedals to the door

he 

     catches

                  me 

& lights away all & every darkness 

& alas delivers me

these are the hardest days for me ever

I belong to me 

‘A Thousand and One Shades of Soft Violet’;note

Greg&DiandraStory ~

now under working title:

‘A Thousand and One Shades of Soft Violet’ /literary character exploring psychological theories through her study called ‘goodnight stories’ as she struggles with her own demons 

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?