memoir notes exploring such; Memories of SM

I think there is something 

    in the recesses 

         yes….. something there…. within the recesses….

       come let us search ….

      

        my dearests whoever may still be there; my sub-self…. I say to you that if for no other reason

         if

         for 

       no other reason 

                 ….indulge me my darlings

and follow me into my deepest 

     deepest …. chasms and …. recesses of 

a crew tangled cerebral passages 

      The wikkawizard awaits you—said the rider to the fly 

well, anyway—

         As Jim Morrison said, “back there in seminary school….” when I was just a lad 

The first thing I did when I got to Holland was lose the twang. The southern drawl. Which I’d not any knowledge I was guilty of until Steve. Steve— he came sailing by to make fun of me whenever he could. He was a lot older than me. He was a bad boy. Bright red hair and cheeks and handsome as a prince. He had that Lady Diana smile; the big teeth. All his sisters had the same smile and the same bright red hair. Looking back, Prince William kind of looks like him but he had green eyes. One was scared; he’d jabbed his eye with a fork as a kid. 

Steve was one in a million. I think that after him no other male could ever compare. Caroline hated him. But for some reason Steve decided to never leave me alone. In this funny way he provided the needed buffer against Sargent. 

Hierarchy 

Steve was like the one everyone admired. Mr. Page was crazy about Steve. I pretended a friendly hatred toward him. 

I was eleven. 

But there it was— the dreaded recess. God, how I hated recess. Sargent with his horny hand grabbing for my sex was beyond suicidal for me to want to wake up for school. 

Why did Steve chase me? Why me? I mean, I was the most unwanted person to ever be picked for gym class teams. So humiliating. To be there wanting to melt into the walls. And there was Caroline so great at volley ball —God, I could not reach the net nevermind get a ball over it—would I feel better at the end if the day doing their shit? No fucking way 

Suddenly …. cough …. God I’m so sick …. 

Was I above faking illness to get out of my bad coordination challenges? Oh ….yeah 

Mr. Melchers ….no I won’t even say what he was like but I conjured Vanessa Redgrave at that moment to explain my ailment 

So lucky!

I sat on the bench that dreary gray Dutch day ….as Caroline did amazing volley —yay—don’t I suck?—and sunk into the book my mom gave me “Mrs.Mike” I still remember it ….and Mike …. 

    then there walked Steve ….! Shit. Damn. So even worse than before as humiliating —he was great at everything in the gym, of course. While—me? My trip my ice skating instructor back in Florida who then lands prone on top of me in front of the entire ice skating floor at ….the fucking Miami Beach Fontenblau 

   the flashback when he threw me down just sealed my humiliation with him too ….

and since that day, 

    I’d realized staying in the classroom during recess to avoid Sargent? 

     …..only made him corner me in the fucking empty classroom …. Mr. Crabtree? Never anywhere useful 

I’d say there were at least half a dozen times 

      I was cornered in that room. Fred just standing there laughing. Fred. He’s another story. And his dude kick JP. Jean Paul—yes, actually from Paris. Fred—Hawiian, and the spitting image of Freddie Mercury as a boy. Fred and JP would play Queen and copy Freddie and Brian May respectively —convincingly. And while both those boys were clever, they were stupid. They were idiots. Like Moshe and David from Israel and why? 

Because they followed

        Sargent  

in that fucking chase  —I was cornered by all the boys in my class. Where was Mitsuko when I needed her? Where was Caroline? 

After endless minutes sweating it out, I ran past, calculated, endured Sargent’s raping hand in exchange for the door out

    but Moshe and David stood at the doorway that lead to the outside. I had no choice but to turn to the bathrooms. They faved the doors leading outside. Six doors. Three marked like little girls. Three marked like little boys. 

I ran for a girl’s. Locked myself in. 

What happens? 

Sargent leading, they climb the walls over the stall! I am surrounded boy all the boys and all alone!

I was seriously terrified. I could have cried if it were not for my pride. 

When Sargent jumped from the ledge to join me in that stall —telling me what he intended to do ….nothing innocent 

    I ran. I fucking ran out that door—knocked off who it was hanging on it, I ran out that barrack door, I ran in search of Caroline, I headed for the playground with the swings …..

    and all the while the boys are behind me!!!! 

And so that was when Steve appeared —it was that day…. not too long after the ice skating moment we had and by magic there he was when it seemed as if I was ….no, seriously I think it was a Lord of the Flies situation; Sargent had a decisive goal in mind and he had all the boys backing him 

but Steve was that ace because the boys idolized him even more than Sargent—and Sargent too 

For me it was like trauma but the ninth grade teacher showed up, only after Steve herded up the boys— Mr. Morton and what did say….? “I can’t really blame the boys!” 

sexist and shocking for my virgin ears to hear this from a Quaker teacher! 

But it was Steve who —made me laugh about it that day when he kicked Sargent’s ass. Literally. And looked right at me. Primitive leadership 

So, this day he found me with Mrs Mike at the gym sitting alone on the bench faking sickness …. and there he was showing off to me as he shot baskets, never missing as I pretended not to notice until he came right over and took the book away from me. He stood there looking at it. Thumbing it. He was thoughtful. Then he looked at me and did that bright big smile and asked,

“do you’d rather read books than play sports with your class?”

I wasn’t used to being put on the spot. 

Or noticed —for me

and it didn’t make sense to me why the most popular boy at school cared enough to take some interest in me. I mean, really, back in Florida I was usually forgotten when it came time to passing out the cake and cookies. Nobody took any interest in me except to remark on how different I seemed (is she a gentile?) I looked or the unusual shade of my red hair so having a moment like this stunned me

I decided to be honest 

“Yes.”

He handed the book back to and said,

“just be sure to not spend your whole life hidden behind your books.”

It seemed uncharacteristic to me he should say such a thing. Wasn’t he a bad boy? Why did he care?

notes in memoir

I find I get nostalgic.

I think about the parallels between the experiences and their meanings. I sit on the precipice between the lives. I look out over what was and search for what sum total this amounts to within my soul 

there are so many times 

that I fall under the current;  fall within the arms of rapids that take me within their ferocious flow 

“if I could compare the two lives….” (Kundera)

I see a lot of parallels but before I shrugged off this silly observation 

this repetition of experiences that repeat. Why again. And again. And again. How dismally boring. Caught in a Groundhog Day loop of neverendings.   

If I were to compare— oh, I don’t know…. who I was before —when first this green southern girl at a private school where my looks of “exotic” kept me in that social category of freak 

definitions mean different things to different people. Everything is relative. 

I want to draw a diagram in our imaginary sheet of paper. 

When I was “before Holland” —I was a freak at school. I wanted to always just melt into the walls there. A private school, you know, by Biscayne Boulevard and —no, red flags for prejudice as I prefer to avoid such things; but I did not fit at that school. The word exotic I find is some polite suggestion of —I never could place my finger on —what 

but I did not fit in with my private school world as a preteen in — yes—southern Florida. There were so many stigmatisms 

If I were to lay down an overlay between the two lives I’d say that befire I did not exist and then suddenly I did exist. I could not blend in Florida. Not at my school. 

I never changed myself. Per se. but the perception of myself as seen by new environments always changes 

    my meanings 

I guess looking back I can say undoubtedly now that, I was happiest when I was in the Netherlands. Those years. But I did feel an outsider in the country. I did not like that.so as it was never my personal choice to be there, I resented the attitude I got from the people when —those encounters occurred. Such as the time I have mentioned previously when I was reprimanded by a policeman for failing to provide him with proof of my identity in the form of my American passport.

I did feel uncomfortable often for being there. I consider this feeling when I hear all the politics about Immigrants. 

I had not —myself—chosen to be there. But I felt the constant slap of my presence there. So— what do I do? I learn to blend. I do it well. Except —Dutch people are very very very big so not always convincing to be me there, you know? But, I knew where to go as I grew up there as a young adult first encountering society independent of parental chaperones and learning how to negotiate payment transactions for my own purchases. 

But I learn fast. And I became expert on the art of camouflage —

But to compare the Celf in Florida to the one I was seen as in Holland —it is like having a light shine over a darkened recess of a very old map where all the mountain ranges can be seen 

All the reasons I did not fit in in that Florida school by the Jockey Club and the Yacht Club and the Golf Club became the reasons I was interesting to people I met when we got to live over there. Recently, I saw a school friend say that as students living abroad in holland, we hit the lottery young. Some of us appreciated this but also 

the experience at the Montessori international school by comparison to the regimented American school 

never mind just that, now in retrospect I know I am dyslexic —but the acceptance I felt at the former school I did not feel at the American school —but, the American school of The Hague by far was much more broad minded than what I was exposed to in a small southern private school in Florida. 

I know if for nothing else I desire the exploration of why any of that matters to me 

et ainsi, un autre automne que nous ne rencontrerons jamais.

I wish I had a pet that took care of me

sometimes I think of him as a giant mastiff. he would be fierce to everyone but to me he would have kind eyes and lay down beside me. he would keep me warm at night and protect me from those who try to invade me. he would would be loyal to me and devoted and adore me. and he would always be there. instead of demanding I take him on walks, he would demand to take me and get me out when I was sad. he would carry the heavy bags when they got too much. he would know when danger was coming. he would carry me on his back and take away 

he would smell good. not like flowers, but like pine trees and wet earth, his warm tongue would wash away all poison and pain 

and when he lay his head upon my lap he would suggest I should sleep 

and watch over me. and my dreams 

 When hell freezes over 

but it would be remiss I think if I did not at some time say, about Persephone’s father that as I have so often touched upon this Hades has mellowed. Hell has freezed over. And I did not say before. I could not. Those shocks of truths about yourself you find can still surprise you. Especially about him. I buried that. Well, it’s like knocking your elbow wrong —it hurts, but I do hear it; have, no I know and can tell he—that I’ve caught up with him. It’s funny about life.he found my boxes with sentimental things. He found some old love letter from a guy I don’t remember. His voice was odd but it’s weird. Something he said last year about some character in a show we watched at Christmas….how’d he put it? It was like —this guy was caught in the act by his girlfriend and the guy regretted it instantly and I didn’t get it ! I sat there discussing this with him and he said something like, “he knew he had a good thing but then he wasn’t used to it so when someone else gave him attention it went to his head but then he was sorry but —see, he wasn’t used to it!”

I don’t know. I didn’t like the explanation but then I understood 

I ignored it

until now 

I knew what he was telling me but I ignored it. I mean what do you do with it but no it was more too much for me to process emotionally just beyond my circuits to hear what he was saying. But I heard it. Like a sphinx. The one on the shelf with the pieces glued together. 

It’s weird about people sometimes. It’s weird about people. In my sphere. How they swirl around. Now he paints. It’s good for him. But it blows my mind. Still it should not surprise me maybe more hallelujah —so, sometimes I just get these moments like …. I don’t know ….

I guess I believe that all our contemporaries are parts of our soul, and the networks; the atoms we are pulled to, our connections we are drawn to and bond to are the fragments rooting to fit 

Notes in effort to find if there is purpose

When you think about the world or the earth, maybe it’s just me, but I wonder about how much it’s valued. 

Looking to move off to Mars

Sometimes I think about the earth this way

Like a ship that has treasures that may one day get lost in a dark abyss

Do connections matter?

Would we remember earth as well and fondly care if there were no physical evidence left? What would Shakespeare mean without Stratford upon Avon or the Globe theatre; a notion; an idea

who would know to feel to care and feel affection for the wistful romance upon the steps of the Montmartre or understand with true amusement what is behind that hidden glory of the architectural reason for the Dutch gables 

Are connections part of the individual whole because of their relation to 

those that know their value 

as it serves to define and measure the individual’s meaning