my cabbage rose obsession

 

retrospective, my Oregon trails

The sky was always full of ash there;

waiting at bus stop on the way to work at Rare Earth in Ashland

Self serve, the best tomatoes; there was a cash box and their trust

My Goat friend in Talent on the walk home

my knee and a Mountain View eating lunch

Ashland bookstore 

 

i fear I am so dreadfully sad. i do not think i am ok. and the enormity is stunning ….and cannot, shall not, will not utter aloud to anyone because they would never understand

is there nowhere left to breathe.no place to rest a heavy head no warm shoulder; this cold world

What if —as a human race— we lose our memories because of AI ?

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.”

Lately I have been thinking about ‘Voice’ and how any of us of whom walk this earth has any. 

As an artist.

As a thinker.

As a citizen of this planet …. And The Love Letter We Leave Behind ….

it feels like 

        there is something important to preserve that —may be is becoming lost. Is this the role I should take then. 

There is so much futility. I don’t wish to add more to the heap. But still—no….it feels lazy to shrug it all off ….not my problem, not my generation, not my place, not my role; and it could be true. But I ….can’t. It seems I just can’t. It seems I am unable to sleep at night because I am haunted by the sense….I just did not play my part as I should have, and it won’t shut up so it could be it’s just a mental dysfunction I have…. DNA memory from dear old dad. Believing I needed to make an impact on humanity. I ….could have just inherited the delusion and it’s time to snuff it out….but….it seems wrong;a waste; an irresponsible attitude after everything —all the shit of the past.maybe I’ve been aware all this would happen and would have to first ….before I gave my voice 

Jm muse; disarming the complex noir

“You know those subtle things that ….happen—looking back….you realize what ….” I stop to take a breath —then, forge on, “you missed….” 

Jörn watches me. We have spent days together enclosed in this ….time we have together ….it has allowed me to learn how to let him in again 

He says,

“go on, tell me….duva—what was it ….? I am not here as your head shrinker, or spy— you should know by now ….we have a bond ….”

I must turn away. I am not used to any such ….kind words ….life has been so brutal to me for so long. Kind words make me cry

I will all of my strength not to weep and swallow as a painful tear breaks my wall. But I cannot let on. I am me. I am mine. I belong to me. And I am fine….nothing comes in and nothing goes out and we are very very far far away ….not here….

“he said ….” I stop. I start. “He said….” I stop I start. 

“‘Cuckold’ he said,” I glance at Jörn, “it was always in their fights! And point to me! He’d say, ‘you think I don’t know I was cuckhold? That bastard nigger baby….’”

and the asthma kicks in. 

I don’t let on. 

I am strong. I am tough. I don’t need anybody ….and there, the agony releases —my shield 

I am armed. I am prepared. Nothing comes in….

“….yeah,” I say, “it was scathing and hurtful remarks to me—he said ….cruel things all the time, of course. Stupid. Was number one. But I tested genius as a kid. He put me down for being dyslexic but he never came out and said it to my face but he said that no one in his family history had my problem. And pointed out physical things about my body as I was growing up. They were insulting now thst I understand what he was saying ….

“but I was just in the way…. Wasn’t I? He just hated me for what we know now for a reason that is ….i was a product of sin; adultery. The product of his wife fucking a notoriously famous politician. You know? Even though she knew Ethan first; loved him all her life; was her first and true love; forced not to marry!!! Because it was the way it was—born on the wrong side of the blanket. I blindly have carried the weight of their ‘sins’ ….and offered myself as scapegoat to thst father —why, Jörn? Because I felt it! I felt it. I could never quite grasp why ….but I felt dirty ….and I didn’t know why ….what did I do? What was this curse….?”