This weekday was your average forgettable day until That sound, unforgettable now but so nondescript at the time.
Time, our fatal flaws realized in a mirror, faded paper mocked up words from olden times that don’t much matter anymore with gender reassignment, biased reporting and single payer death mill. Is it me or are there more pharmaceutical company ads than ever before….
In silence, make the command, “Creator of All That Is, it is commanded that the activation of the youth and vitality chromosomes of (your name) take place on this day. Thank you! It is done. It is done. It is done. Show me the master cell in the pineal gland.”
Are you there pineal gland, it’s me Margaret?
Sunday Morning worship at Secret Bonita Gardens
In silence, make the command, “Creator of All That Is, it is commanded that the activation of the youth and vitality chromosomes of (dee dilly dumpling) take place on this day.
…Thank you! It is done. It is done. It is done. Show me the master cell in the pineal gland.”
The best part is I have no idea the source of this prayer…but it seems fitting for this gorgeous Pasadena day.
Try to observe in your imagination the Virtual DNA Strands stacking in pairs on top of each other with a telomere cap (chromosome tips)
at the ends.
Sometimes this happens so fast, that you may have to ask the Creator for a replay later.
“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.
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.
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.
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 feelthat 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.?
Revisiting strong imagery method meaning eyesight to the need reading glasses
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.
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.
Off the shelf She was straight out of biologically
packaging Eva, The blow up woman
by There’s Something about Earnest
She was always a delight
My good man,
Said Arthur of
delta (phi) dawn
the blow up
who inadvertently got passed around
like nobody’s business
From the shores of kitschy koombaya
to the morning after pill from Ralph’s
EVA bore. The emblem.
(lettered monogram to look like E-R-A )
“equal rights ass!” emblazoned across
the made in China Badonkedonk
of a plastic fantastic
In with the in-Crowd
From Sigma Wink and a Nod
to the Delta Phi Episolon Explosion
at St. Nate’s palettes
Covering for chaotic order
of secret societies
From the raging hormone set
Disturbed initiations leave indelible marks
get a load of that broad
what do you do
She’d been the goody-two-shoes, role played her brain transmogrified, pretended to be anyone she was NOT, behind darkness, just to survive,
Everyone must accept one or face prison time. She had a “choice,” and after that anthrax shelter stint, she decided the Rutger Hauer lookalike would be best for her “needs” as an aging, not quite ailing, sometimes failing but rarely falling, just hurtling headlong trying to escape this dimension of nonsensical pain, needless suffering – as if there is an acceptable form, the need full suffering – oh fuck off maker, the great ether, send me your meteors!
I am but a woman
entreating the sky
to break open
once in a while
Abraham was a hologram. The woman’s perfect companion.
We live in such Cyborg times what will become of love
It seems reasonable to believe — and I do believe — that the more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us the less taste we shall have for the destruction of our race. Wonder and humility are wholesome emotions, and they do not exist side by side with a lust for destruction.
March 29th, a Wednesday, idol march, marching tides of woe spread across the land and so..
With all that I have been through lately, not more than some, less than others, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the worst pain you have experienced, I guess being unconscious technically gives you a 9.7 or something because you don’t know it’s pain, it’s in and out of who you are and what they’re trying to take from you. In this case, my life.
And that is the problem I face as I go through each day, with noises startling, except here, ironically, across from the UPS Delivery hub and near the brewery with its famous artist buttressing the 5 Freeway which always feels like it leads out of this place, whereas the others bury you right by the side of the road where they found you.
It’s hard to have hope and faith when for the past 8 1/2 (one of my favorite Fellini movies) months, I have been consistently victimized by the system, which my frontier nature hates to say, I don’t believe in that, but it’s happened from a hostile neighbor to an illegally operating management company to the police themselves, twice now, once being tossed in jail for no reason and then treated as if I were some most wanted criminal because, quite simply, I was white. They will never say this or let it be told, everyone hates the dying race so much, they think it’s okay to be hating, berating and almost killing us – for the ‘sins of our fathers’ — they think it’s okay to destroy our lives, for no apparent reason, these are not people we even know, no crime of passion, no well-orchestrated specific reason to be brutalized over and over again except those of race and gender.)
The lawyer who committed slander, defamation of character, malicious intent and actually lied publicly in a harmful manner, deliberately trying to harm us by preventing us access to housing when we did nothing that she claims but because I was beaten and barely alive, could not do anything but try to recover for many many days and weeks and then someone lies and causes strife, illegally, a lawyer? Not such a great track record for our legal system from enforcement through supposed guardians of justice.
The Sheriffs who detained us for picking up my own car because the tow yard is a chop shop about a mile from where I got beaten within an inch of my life, while trying to get a burger at McDonald’s. Who witnessed this? Why did the hospital then not call the police but told me they thought I was drunk so they just let me wait, and never questioned why my supposed husband never said he would be back or seemed to care if I actually woke up–somehow I did. I still have the stitches. The bruises are mostly gone. The head trauma, alas, will be with me longer, if not forever.
The nerve damage done by LAPD and that first fiasco was permanent to my hands but this last beating and the hospital’s irresponsible treatment of me (all because I was unconscious — no one thought to consider that perhaps I was not drunk but had been harmed in some way maybe a car accident hit and run, as I thought, until we heard the recording of my call to my partner, which I still can’t bear to listen to, 6 weeks later…I cannot bear to hear it, it is too traumatic, still, overwhelming in the shadow of the past eight and a half months of consistent persecution — and for what reason? Who knows, if there even is one. Those who blame the victim always seek to find a way to plant their evidence on you, to keep their corrupt privilege operating without you in the way, or they just beat a woman almost to death in a parking lot for no apparent reason).
This is the first I have written of this publicly and some of you know or I tried to tell but you simply didn’t believe me or thought oh there she goes again, I seem to have the worst luck, maybe or you have already written me off for my freelance career and struggles to survive in a world that just was not ready for me. I was certainly ready to make my mark, a positive one, to live in peace and contribute positively to this world. That is all I seek and have ever sought. I don’t know how far I will get in that path as I am overwhelmed and exhausted each day, “just not the same” those around me notice, and for that I am pained, mentally, knowing ‘what has happened to me…’
To reiterate: around the third week of February the night before checking out of a very strange airbnb experience, I was severely beaten in a McDonald’s parking lot in the early evening hours and taken to White Memorial Hospital, who broke protocol at every turn, never even reporting my near-fatal ‘accident’ (accidental beating???) to the police, which is actually the law.
I am invisible (adoptees know that), and expendable (the ‘film and television industry’ taught me that, after working with the most unloyal f-%$s you can imagine, and very few ‘friends,’ who actually have a soul in this town, I realized way too late) but now I feel destructible, worn-down, beaten up, tired, sad, soul-tired, suicidal on occasions but from existential nihilism more than any other specific, so don’t worry, I never do it, I love life and butterflies and the earth way too much, and I am just now trying to recover.
Please be kind. Please if you know me don’t use my honesty against me. I am just a human, trying to survive after someone speaking spanish probably two men, it sounded nicaraguan, beat me within an inch of my life near my car, which was impounded for $ 1,395 (all tow yards in Los Angeles say we were fleeced) and they called the sheriffs, who of course illegally searched us, what else do they do?
I suppose this is my statement since no police officer has ever asked. I have yet to see a judge. My case is a rare form known as a wobbler. Murderers and rapists are given the right to swift hearing but not the victim of police brutality. This is the story of the past eight and a half months of my life, since last July.
Namaste, be well, my nerves are telling me to quit, the nerves in my hands, always from numb to pain now thanks to LAPD RAMPART back in July 2016.
Katherine E. Walker
born 1965 Cleveland, Ohio adopted 6 weeks later, my birthname we think is Turner