A place amidst the noise

I am reminded of how I used to write when the click pen I have chosen has trouble flowing and after two short sentences I go looking for the backlit keyboard like Pavlov’s dog salivating over the bell signaling auto-correct of the brain. 
You see, I straddle the timeframe between pen and paper (curiously, “pop em” from google algorithms, but not my brain) and backspace keyboard. I am both the white out generation (eschewing the subpar Tandy corporation’s first “word  processer” for an electric brother typewriter – the irony still holds). 


And so I think (or the voice refuting translation bouncing from coast to coast in the linguistic vortex of my cranium and cortex) I just want to write. 




***


[A little backstory]

I began writing at an early age, possibly 11 or 12, writing in a serious way. 

To me, that meant cathartic if obtuse expression of deep pain and confusing, conflicted emotions for what was happening to me and who I was told I was.
Writing is a way through that-being adopted, having dissociative disorder, reliving trauma and actual repeated abise, continuing thru a treasure trove of toxic workplace Who’sWho of Assholes into a wasteland of small-minded, back handed hacks across the industry – of highly paid hacks.

Dark tower 

Cho Ch ok Kay oh

Sick of the nomadic privilege

The hours turning into days 

of wasted time 

Who wants their legacy to be invisibility? What then was the point of suffering then?

paraparesis, 

 point moot, for 

sarahkthe oswrving,  

branded diatribe 

Forget uR duvided
Whohoo 

The artificial 

it’s now official

Control Z

I have

filled in all the blanks

like a good girl

I did my homework

got to the church on time

and forever

gave at the office.

This was gestalt

zeitgeist

koyanykotsi

How could my spirit animal

be both the lizard

and raptor

that devours

her?

 

Ah it all begins to 

make sense

then dissipates

before a pen

and blank

page

can be

located

There is so much else

to do.

We end up doing

our lives

frittering away

the moments

that make

up a skull

deity

and why do we relent, again?

why do we submit to anyone,

much less an entity

in whose ‘image’

we are ‘made.’

 

We were made,

yes,

like a wise

guy,

a good

old

days of our

misbegotten youth

img_2540-1

“Well, they say youth is wasted on the young,” and my alter-ego who is more and more becoming my imaginary self, the one that actually lives not the one you think you know, which is made up of a bunch of things I can’t even understand much less fathom, fact-check, respond to or avenge myself of.

 

WHY ARE THERE ONLY SUPERHEROES NOW? It’s exhausting just trying to get by much less vie for a promotion over some sharing economy bitcoin sumggling operative for the new world disorder which I didn’t really think would accelerate this quickly which makes me think (literally I am thinking I wonder what this looks like because I don’t have my reading glasses, again, and am writing the way I want to write, which is the way I used to write, one where my hands – the vehicles of my thoughts, poor things — can barely get the words out fast enough without the requisite inline self-consciously fragile, proliferating a trail of tears, like peanut shells detonated with invisible nerve gas, killing you slowly in a veil of fake bliss. The Ether, they call it.

img_4225

I always like using the wod ‘they’ because it’s so ridiculous. It’s the biggest network of know-it-a;;s the world has ever seen and, astoundingly, also the largest network of people who have nothing in common ever to be assembled on this planet, as far as we know.

 

My God, we are stupid. We want to blow each other up, we are parodies of ourselves by now with the beautiful warriors bombing the shit out of places named in the Bible or Nostradamus, an anagram for ghosts from faraway towns where you feel something lesft behind, possibly a chink in your armor from where a rip in your soul bled a little on wounded knee, by broken stone creek, in love with life, my lord my lemming my lesbos island l word for woman la la, it’s always an M, for some reason, and if it’s not, you’re the bad kind. The nasty grandmother knew her nomme de grandkid was a recognition of what a jerk she was, especially to my occasionally completely vacant farther (I called him that, he always used to say that was his name in reference to me, and I was therefore “nearer”).

 

But back to the use of the word “lord.” Well the God-particle equivalent is not Gaia for ‘she” is the planet itself which is eeming to die in its storyline, but like a human mother, we don’t know when and when we lose her, it will be the worst pain of our lives. And them, if we are lucky, gray matter jinxed in space where we send light out (instead of darkness, think about that — I do, every day — try to keep one good thought about this awful species we are stuck in called humans, I mean it’s hard, I have to go back in histroy and just conure up a list of my favorite artists – painters to jazz musicians to filmmakers -= and “all the science I don’t understand’ and some of it I do–all that I actually do, but still can’t really make sense of it.

 

Not in the way that saying and believing what you’re saying to be absolutely true, the absolute is incarnate, in that word “LORD’ when you beg–for a break, relief, a reprieve, an explanation, some retribution, restitution, alms, a vacation, some good news, one kid to survive another day in one of those wars our taxes pay for.

img_7289

Why are we at war? It’s just what we do.

[The alien jots down notes in the background, some sort of Cyrillic whispy lettering that expresses the sentiment, she can see it in her mind’s eye–is there any other organ’s eye? If so, she didn’t even want to know. She was now officially ‘too old.” Thank God. Damnit. she thought, never one to press her luck in any language on an article of faith, proof from science, logical deduction or otherwise therefore and so forth and so on.

 

She was making herself sick avoiding this deadline. But yet she wasn’t going to climb up on a step stool (after fake sleeping when her evil-good-looking vacuous 80s cheating husband ‘went off to work’ although no one ever said what he did, just that he became a photographer, had been a baseball player…but imagine his leaving the room, thinking she’s asleep, he tells her mother who has been hovering, worried that the medication could be making it worse or the acid that Scottish boyfriend gave her good girl daughter back in the last stretch of the 70s, that was when she changed. HOW SO, you ask? Ah, but that is precisely what they will never tell you.]

 

The domesticated animal paces. He could kill his ‘master,” yet he chooses to rely on man for meat. 

That could all easily change. She prefers not to think about that.

img_4190

Yet, it is her job to think about it. In fact, she works for the Agency of DIsinformation classified sub-atomic particles and records or note subdivision, on the floor that doesn’t have a stop on the elevator but the fire escape is high tech. You just think it and you’re down, underground, in plebeian safety, that is until others like you run amok — they need little reason just a certain conglomeration of self-interests with enough oomph and looking for a fight, and you’ve got a pick pocket riot in the sewers of the sublime river. The other option is Elysian Fields, but unless your bloodline allows, you only are invited there for some feat to demonstrate your incalculable merit, undeniable talent and uniquely astonishing pizzazz.

 

Which you don’t want to come off as sass. So, that is the end of the sci-fi world for now, the dog wants at that very barky pit bull who lets everyone know she’s walking her two fat chicks, so then our dogs can pace and go nuts too, and the reason we are all up is because it’s ungodly hot during the day so we follow our man’s best friend’s lead and nap during the day then run amok throughout intervals of night.

 

Or what we think of as night. The whole planet hiding behind Pluto that is eating the sun and the illuminti spaceships converted dungeons — we can build it, they will come, what do they want that either we or our beautiful lovely life-sustaining miracle of a planet possess (if it’s uniquely human, it’s probably stupid) — because otherwise they would have dispensed with a life-defying death-chasing entity of a “thing” that isn’t quite a collective like a hive, or is it? A hive that cuts itself for being an adolescent and ends up witnessing things that would have been nice to skip over.

 

But doesn’t it just feel that way now? Does it really matter who controls it – whether it’s the ad-lib-tard heavyweights or the dehydrated marshmallows (I still have no idea what a nowflake is having terminated any new vernacular in that sub-strata since ‘snow bunny’ was something around me said in the 80s and possibly as late as 91).

 

I have always been enamoured with words. Well, always is a meaningless word anyway, because there is no way we can say with certainty ‘always’ having forgotten quite a lot the more we live. It’s quite ironic really and can you imagine explaining irony to intra-terrestrial life? Will it look more like Sigourney Weaver’s Alien or cute little E.T.?

Screen Shot 2017-07-12 at 1.11.55 PM
60,000 people today found out they would remain as refugees.

Jesus Christ! I don’t want to know!

I’m sure Jesus must have thought that for a millisecond around that burning bush. The idea that the ‘tree of knowledge’ was forbidden but we don’t really know why except this snake which in every other culture is a sign of wisdom or something semi-psychic, not evil, which “Christianity” brought along with crusades and inquisitions and very bizarre things in the name of the Prince of Peace.

 

Jesus, what were you thinking?

 

The idea that one can be offended by words is absurd yet they are worse weapons than many spears, knives and hatchets combined (although not in succession with the same target — that would be far worse, admittedly, and this hyperbole is only for the purpose of sardonic satire which isn’t really satire because no one dies, relax, not yet anyway. It’s mostly Science Fiction meets The Year of Living Dangerously meets Plan 9 from OUter Space. I mean why not? WHy are we purporting angst?

 

Lord knows there’s plenty more where that came from.

 

More grief, more storm and fugue! More ego-laden hero-driven boasts and proclamations littering scarred neophytes in their wake, proclaiming was it worth it? 

Was what worth what?

 

This was the last thing she heard before waking up.

As she stood behind the childproof gate, obsessing about imperfection, this chronic illness, she wanted to go back to purity if there was such a thing, it was intensity a drive to pain as some sort of self-inflected punishment for failing — at it all.

 

So brilliantly, so effectively, with such joie de vivre and flare!

Crash and burn, only the good die young.

 

No, she was not one to climb the step stool, deliberately place the terrycloth bathrobe belt around my neck and then decide to die. No, can’t do it, at least not yet.I found that out standing on the 9th floor of that hotel where they’d thrown a woman out the window (for not paying her debt) and looked out the unscreened window to the concrete parking lot, alley and Main Street below. I thought, within the first nano-second of the leap, I will want to undo it like control Z — which just gave me an idea for a zombie story — control z control z control z my life.

 

today I saw a 3-D pen…

..and, as such, considered

the fact

or would it be

notion

of suicide

 

Not just

BY THOSE OF MY

generation

but by

pen

sharp object

despair

death sentence

 

 

Here I am

not exactly

 woman, hear me roar

everything verifiable is intuitive, and 
there will be time for bad things to happen

THE BOTS READ IN CYRILLIC

HER NEMESIS

 

anti-TRUTH,

anti-BEAUTY

KEATS

 ETERNAL

QUOTIENT

 QUI

Continue reading “today I saw a 3-D pen…”

One would think –

… with so much going for me, I’d be more, well, influential. Being “effective” takes too much real-time. 

But, according to the experts, my “personality type” is known to radiate authenticity, concern and altruism, unafraid to stand up and speak when they feel something needs to be said.


  • How do we know when something “needs” to be said versus when it’s best to STFU ?
  • I was once vehemently presented with a never-ending closing argument from a Berkeley business grad that “there is no such thing as altruism.” So chew on that for a micro-minute.
  •  Unafraid to stand up-well this was demonstrated in fifth grade when I inexplicably, heroically and vociferously stood up for Sharon who I felt was being picked on, mercilessly and without rules of common decency – if you are 30+ years older, maybe it ain’t a fair fight-by our bullshit teacher Mrs. Duff. I had to write an apology letter but I made sure it wasn’t about principle only breach of societal  mores.  Meaning don’t question your bullshit teacher at a red neck school, unless of course she goes too far and then you can’t take it anymore.
  • Other occasions during which I was brave: saving Deena from irreparable harm when she went flying off Durante and bounced off her head; getting team through TROUGH of death we’re all gonna die channel during Wailua race; standing up for tolerance first then the hammer as the Solomon of my senior class.
  • Authenticity is one of those words that has come to mean less than it was intended to when over-adopted as a way to describe anyone who wasn’t a fake asshole, like the multitude of jerk offs I have had the pain of working with in reality (about as inauthentic as you can get) television. The Patricks, the Daves, the snarky little Brady bitches and the schlock editors who weren’t good enough to be the actor they secretly believe themselves to be. And somewhere in this schlockism, Hawaiian shirt-wearing career climbing edifice is a scumbag named D*+# O*~v3* who slandered me for his own perceived gain. Problem is he will always be fake, and not quite as talented as he needs to be. The good looks and low IQ failsafe humor can’t carry you forever, Mr. inauthentic. 
  • Concern? I used to but now it seems the concern is concerning me. Being almost killed by two men’s fists in a McDonald’s parking lot in the armpit of the world City Terrace, East Los Angeles, will do that to a person. #brainttrauma and all…

ENFJs easily see people’s motivations and seemingly disconnected events, and are able to bring these ideas together and communicate them as a common goal with an eloquence that is nothing short of mesmerizing.




Nothing Short of Mesmerizing 

my new tagline 

Whatcha think?


A double whammy 

How could she have known? She was up against too much. Yet, like Sysiphus, she blindly persisted, pushing that rock of hypervigilance up each hill, sometimes twice in an instant. 

How was she to know? Know what, he asked. She silently sunk below the surface,  with a secret appetency for dissociative clamoring she could never dismiss.

The dissociative disorders are a group of mental disorders that affect consciousness defined as causing significant interference with the patient’s general functioning, including social relationships and employment.

Now, I must transgress while you undress…

The musty attic taste, the smell of malice hanging in the air, a dread-filled dream she never quite awakes from…

 Sexually traumatized children and adults feel stripped of their dignity and sense of control, and often reenact in feeling, thinking, and behavior the dissociated imprints of horrific, and loathsome memories. These and other untoward effects tend to encroach upon all spheres of victims’ existence—upon their bodies, minds, emotions, faith-based values, relationships, and cultural values. 

The persons being discussed in this article are child sexual abuse (CSA) victims, and sexual assault (SA) victims.

Or in her case, both. Complex & chronic. 

While in SA the trauma wears away and fractures the structure of the personality already fashioned, in CSA repetitive, trauma-on-trauma deforms the personality.

 In CSA the very foundation of the self structure is affected due the experienced battering to the spirit and injury to the soul.

Essentially, the effects of trauma activate and imbed within the survivor a legacy of chronic, unrelenting, inescapable traumatic anxiety. 

Both forms of trauma leave indelible trauma imprints on the mind and body, associated with both classical and operant conditioning and biochemical encoding of fear structures on the substratum of the self.

These trauma effects pervasively influences the way victims (a) process feelings, (b) think about their distress, (c) find a personally purposive theory of healing, (d) shape the quality of communicative interpersonal transactions, and the way they (e) experience personal identity. 


Studies have shown that women who have endured sexual assault are more likely to be diagnosed with a mental condition, such as anxiety, somatic, depressive, and substance abuse disorders, than women who have not experienced this type of psychological trauma. 


revictimization is associated with having been sensitized by the original trauma, and losing the sense of self-protecting acuity essential to accurate appraising of environmental risks…

Scientific findings reveal that sexually assaulted women who were also abused as children have a higher degree of psychopathology than not only nonvictims, but also CSA and SA victims.

These survivors, moreover, are more likely to suffer suicidal attempts, experience sexual dysfunction and general health problems, and a significant minority experience revictimization; that is, being subjected to another assault. 

Studies and clinical experience reveal that CSA victims are more likely to suffer severe mental illness… 

She’d already added revictimization to her stats; having subjected to another much more violent assault. 

How could she ever be hypervigilant again?


…revictimization; that is, being subjected to another assault. 

Depending on the age at the time of the trauma, adult patterns of sexual trauma symptoms differ significantly (e.g., trauma in early childhood vs. at the adolescent years, etc.).

Child sexual abuse and assault victims often respond with numbing of emotions, and avoidance of feelings, people, places, and circumstances that may trigger horrific remembrance. 

CSA victims strongly desire the abuse to end, and have had to adapt to violence and abuse over time-

SA victims eschew mental and behavioral rehearsing of the trauma and struggle to make sense of what has happened, distracting from [pain] to allow them to minimize the anxiety they would experience were they to become fully aware of the meaning of the sexual terrorism they had endured; they engage in denial, avoidance, and numbing. 

This excessive suppression of strong affect contribute to the expression of dissociative vulnerabilities. 

As a consequence of trauma, victims become hypersensitized to “sexual signals” from the opposite sex. They may perceive more “evidence” of sexual interest than non-traumatized women,12 as they scan the environment with high levels of hypervigilant anxiety. 

While one in every six American women have been victims of attempted or completed rapes in their lifetime, on American college campuses one in every five women reported being a rape victim at some time during their lives.

in 2001 there were 249,000 victims of rape, attempted rape, or assault. 

Studies and clinical experience reveal that CSA victims are more likely to suffer severe mental illness, along with acting-out, violence, suspiciousness, and hostility disorganization.

In child sexual abuse and adult sexual victimization the person experiences the traumatic onslaught as a transgression of the self. 

…Traumatizing abusers are often not relatives, but know the child victims they molest (60%). Fewer perpetrators are relatives of the children they abuse (30%).

Denial is particularly strong in victims who knew their assailants.

These survivors, moreover, are more likely to suffer suicidal attempts, experience sexual dysfunction and general health problems, and a significant minority experience revictimization; that is, being subjected to another assault. 

The fabric of her self unraveled at an unprecedented pace these days, ever since the beating, an ambush, the details slipped away with only a phone call from the scene to illuminate the black hole left in her brain by the repeated blunt force trauma, to the chin, each eye, the temples and the chest.

How was it that she had her bag, her phone, car keys and wallet? But no memory save driving down that hill into a hell she can’t even remember. The damage to her brain was permanent. What more could be destroyed? She’d lost everything more than once, never could have kids, lost her career to the whims of a crazymaker, and was told her status as the bastard child was reason enough for the continual abuse she most certainly “deserved,” by some  design, convinced of that meaningless existence that only adopted children know in their  bones.

All that matters is blood in this world. Without that, you are invisible, dissociatied from belonging, given up because you were a  burden, a mistake, not the apple of anyone’s eye, just there, for the taking. The trauma repeats with lupine prowess, until she can take no  more. 

That is where we are today. 

Biochemical encoding of fear structures on the substratum of the self…

They are on edge as they anticipate and evade further assault, take flight away from relationships and from life itself, and into the arms of isolation and stasis which strip them of vitality and of a future of possibilities and personal growth. These victims can benefit from the intervention of well-trained trauma therapists.

People often speak of “spirit” as being a part of the total self, as in the well-known components affirming expression, “mind, body, and spirit.” 

Perhaps the truth is that spirit is not “part” at all, but pervades the whole of the self. Recently, one of the authors saw a training card at a national trauma/substance abuse conference that read: “There is no part of life that does not contain spirit; therefore, spirit is not a part.
Now, what of the lost self that bleeds from erasure of self that comes with adoption?

How am I to ever heal? Each day brings intensified anxiety, skin crawling shame and the burden of blame that hangs on every bloom of joy, withering hope with malingering despair.

When you told me I didn’t matter, I believed you. 



  • Thank you for letting me express this pain 
  • Thank you to the author of this article CSA

We’re Just a Minor Threat 

🌿My mentor would recognize where I need to focus my tremendous talent!🌴
My Mentor: Wanted

M. C. Escher