One of the major causes for the creation of False Self identities is betrayal. It is a form of chaos which is caused when someone we trust is unfaithful, disloyal, or deceives us in some way. Identities are formed in an attempt to handle or overcome this crisis.
If someone abandoned you after your repeated efforts, you might absorb the message: “I can never do enough. I must prove that I can accomplish and do enough.
When you are told the same shaming story your whole childhood, you believe it, bury it, overcompensate for you darkest ingrained beliefs foisted upon you as a unassailable truth.
…we draw a false internal conclusion from the external events that occurred. We spin our mind in circles, desperately repeating the story to ourselves and trying to rationalize the shock that occurred when we were separated from love.
It’s so difficult to relive any of it.
Experience the core shame. The feeling your body is always trying to contract, avoid, distract, and disprove.
Protect, suppress, deny, keep secret.
..you do not heal the core shame, because it is false. As long as we try to heal it, our lives are still organized around the premise that it was true. How can we heal something if it is not even who we are? If we try to heal it, we are accepting that it is a part of who we are, which it is not. Instead, you are realizing that it is not who you are, and “un-being” it.
Awhile ago I wrote “What is home?” as a study of my emotional attachment to 25 acres that passed out of my grasp at 22.
Little did I know then, when I could have envisioned myself marrying Mom’s newly discovered yard man, I forget his name but can still see a glimpse of him in my mind’s lazy eye.
Yet, here we are.
Here. We are.
We are present and accounted for. We belong to the beginning of light. We can only try to advance what is good in mankind with tremendous effort.
Our DNA is simply not wired to be good. In fact, that moral Notion takes consciousness and will, when propelling mob mentality is more expedient and not only are there no free lunches but you can’t even sing for your supper.
Telling that I chose to title Lost in the Shuffle and then went poof into the ether. Basically, cited Greek gods, a poet whose work I just discovered & Heather Locklear, who just ended up in trouble with pills and alcohol.
The idea was that my ‘biggest’ days on this blog had to do with mythology, Ruth Stone and “a best of film” review.
Therefore, it was concluded that I must work in more exorbitant taxidermy, a cinematic language flipping pictures & soundtracks, the employ of such tactics hard to express, suppressed, the same.
The light scatters
while darkness wiles away
fills the passage of time
Fills the minds of man
beneath endless blankets of despair
This I cannot hold
This has no place
beneath the still, cool night
sky indifferent to our sorrows so soon realized
so long to abide
silent suffering was never part of the appeal
Anxiety was brought by on by a ticklish antichrist
How do you explain — the list goes on & on but never feels complete, certainly far from over
The vastness of badness – and, naturally follows, but what are we to do?
There’s always holes in these effervescent arguments – alright sleights of hand passed off as fun and games jejune responses to the problems of humanity
This September there will be a projected showing, an unprecedented unveiling of the unholy ceiling where blood splashes make up 40% of the umbre these days…
How am I not to simply sit down and cry? Today is Saturday the last Saturday of July
What I wrote was far more poetic but now I am hungry and way beyond what
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.
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?
“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.