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.
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.
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?
This week is a busy week for people whose birthday is or was February 22, starting with Zookie, who has known me since I was born or before I was born if it is possible to know collective consciousness then well yes, Zookie would be on that list. I never called her because I couldn’t find her number which I thought I had but have not yet located.
The years of disarray, the illness, the betrayal, the infinite anguish I endured just saddens me. the thought haunts me that the ‘therapist’ i turned to to help me sort out my fucked-uped-ness so i could have a chance of surviving til my 75th birthday god-willing, another 1/3 is about right I think i have about that much in me to contribute — if I am lucky i will be like Barry, my dad, who was still alive a year ago.
The pit of my stomach drops a bit, my throat is sore — I smoke too much, which is funny, I never was a smoker, I was so healthy, my life has run the gamut, I have embraced it all. Now I just wish to lift the senseless anxiety – I no longer want to compete for what should be mine – or yours – or whose better at what? Kissing ass is the name of the game and the politics usurped the skill. I don’t honestly know what was wrong with me and I can only assume there must have been something because I finally can acknowledge that my intelligence and talent should have placed me in a much higher ‘category’ of whatever realm I was in by now instead of the constant insecurity.
I just can’t take the misunderstanding anymore. The clearly spoken and precisely said words being heard/translated/believed to be other than their meaning and somehow my emotional fortitude has gotten me only to the spot I most believed in – only because it was the bottom. The aloneness. Caring for mountain goats up somewhere that by now will be more of a sad thing than anything I could have imagined at 15.
I wanted nothing of this — the badness I have seen and known. I could have been one of those professors in the country, had a family and raised horses and been very happy. Instead how the fuck did I get here? I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. It all bores me. All I ever seem to feel is overwhelmed at how much I have to pull together — and somehow find a way to find a way to be someone someone wants to hire – because I honestly don’t know and that’s the scary part, at 50. I guess before I embraced the chaos but now it just feels well not that interesting and I just want meager ability to count on if I show up and do something that is of service–and I’m pretty sure I can contribute. I just can’t pitch myself to anyone.
Too tired. Too much to sort and mail and get birthday cards to my uncle in the mail – I think it’s too heavy for regular stamps so god-forbid I have to go to the Burlington Post Office tomorrow. Plus my mom’s card, she’s his twin. My brother’s twins’ birthday is today – their cards are late. I also stupidly suggested a telescope to which my usually no thanks brother said great idea which obligates me – in my own mind – to follow through.
What would I like to do?
Immerse myself in some very complicated literary and history study; cultural anthropology; teach 56-75 some decent college; next 5 years, get these projects off the ground, their marketable i just can’t do it alone so I guess that’s the thing and I’m not sure how to really go about that so instead I am just going to stick with chores, errands and things like this http://kadavy.net/blog/posts/the-10-minute-hack/
Since I can’t find the meditation that I downloaded and then got barraged about doing my healing reading which wasn’t exactly the only thing in front of my brain – the whole thing is mish mash that I’m not sure can ever be clear enough for a person who was so paint-by-numbers, I could do anything I set my mind to at one point in my life. I know that.
I guess I know that.
Because even as I say that I think – wait a minute – no – because you would not be here, so out of sorts, no novel, no autobiography, prolific in a messy sort of a way. A focus, an aesthetic, no problem. The whole women whining thing a set back perhaps, being gen-x, being a nomad, as my father called me, all those wrapped into one. Being doggedly loyal, very slow to learn that you should quit while you’re ahead with some people, I bleed dry and then somehow am resurrected.
i used to think i was the chosen one.
this was supposed to be about the 7 birthdays (following several last week too) this week – i know a lot of Pisces. they are so emotional compared to my leo sun fired virgo cool scorpio restless gaze upon the universe only to know more than i can articulate and in a method of delivery outside the pre-set categories, which has always been the problem which is why i think i could go away from society and live out my days. this is why i am struggling so hard to take care of business — the unraveling of my life started so long ago, but most directly associated with becoming ‘freelance’ that I feel compelled to write my cautionary tale for the millennials to avoid the pitfalls that elizabeth warren just outlined to a tee–my life. I fall in line with those in Detroit — except this Flint massacre is a new low and that is where my heart wants to go – can I find a way to make a living a way to support myself humbly follow? Oh please god that would be all i ask to tell the stories the way they aren’t being told and just be able to not have to be fucking running scared in the same way as i was over the past 5 years of hellish bosses and people who used me up big time.
tomorrow i have to mail the other twins’ cards.
and here I am emoting
hoping no one reads this, really
but this is where i tell the story of my emotional coming together
my mind is not the enemy
nor is my heart
everyone is trying to help
i broke down today again badly i went there there is no point to me – it’s easy to argue from a purely empirical data way
no one depends on my
my existence is genetically null
that is hard to take sometimes
when I am not leaving behind
any tome to
the depth of the existence
i have actually lead
i feel – overwhelmed
without the ability to really focus
i guess without that balance
on the other side
and I am just divided
and I am tired of that
and I don’t even know how much of this is actually true–and what that even means. I know I mean everyword I say right now but it’s like the truth serum of various substances, pain in my wrists (from writing on the laptop versus the planet of the apes opposable thumb callous i had going on the iphone ipad writing combo – and just the press of time always time time time running out)
Well it already ran out on me for having kids, then my career just went poof, I shit you not, I really didn’t do anything wrong, it was so weirdly political and out of control I had no other option than to take a look at why I was constantly being abused in an industry where to speak up was sure sudden death – but what happened anyway? I got fucked over by bit players and for some reason an editor thought he could slander me and make me lose a job which is illegal by the way by actually recounting a rumor that was a lie. This saddens me.
And so I remind myself of the mantras Progress not perfection
Try not to remember that I cried for 45 minutes and was so distraught
that everything seemed to backtrack
no matter what I do I am a mess
and I was so not a mess…was that just because I was so tightly wound to cover up the wounds of all the secret scars being imposed for too many years? is it to late to unravel and re-bandage up to heal? should it just become some other form of numb?
I don’t know.
I doubt I’ll do the 10 min hack tomorrow in a few hours (I am either constantly anxious like right now with a mix of creative inspiration and dread) or I’m very focused on cleaning or cooking or trying to organize all the paperwork when I feel like Robert DeNiro in Brazil. So that’s a struggle and avoidance piles up.
The lack of focus is not my style either but I’m pretty sure I have cultural ADD.
And worst of all how am I to get over this “poverty consciousness” thing when I KNOW ALL too well that it’s a real thing. Not manifestation. I’m not doing enough — enough of what I don’t know because I’d gladly do it! I submit resumes, I look for jobs — but you have to filter the infinite listings to key words and nothing fits and you waste time and get older and then find yourself developing an anxiety disorder you never had before and that alternates with paralyzing depression, the effects of 46 of repeated emotional trauma, the therapist said.
I guess I will try not to feel like a loser when I can’t do that super-dude’s ten minute life hack when I wake up a few hours from now (I don’t sleep much when I am worried like this –but then I will crash and sleep for a long time when I can relax) – i did sleep in until 1030 am to day and it’s hot in that room – i don’t like feeling scattered and that’s exactly what it feels like and I don’t know really how to fix it – am i just being impatient? Am I that stuck on some aspect of nothingness?
I have been making progress — I have. I just can’t believe how extreme the pain must have been for me to pull a 180 from responsible about everything to can’t keep up with taxes and all the other financial vampire tactics once i lost that first job after 9-11. Never really recovered. But I never really had the mentor a woman with my talent and temperament (I’m not the most politically-minding when in comes to internal games–I find that to be a waste, however I am finely attuned to the forces of the outer enemy, of which I’ve come to find are the majority of the people I’ve worked with.
This is raw, uncensored, needs an edit, but I had to say I am disappointed in myself that I cried so hard to day and it was for long enough to go the the dark place i don’t want to go but honestly i need some help here. i just need some work to do some one must know of something i can offer of i will end up not well because i’m the kind of person who needs a purpose
and checking my email isn’t it
and trying to find the mediation mp4 file i paid for but can’t remember where it downloaded
or the fact that i bought a sketchbookbut i’m a sucky artist
that i have notes all over the place
and it all just represents wasted time to me and that makes me very very sad
I have learned now that while those who speak about one’s miseries usually hurt, those who keep silence hurt more.
The truth is a dangerous thing, especially to those who have been warned never to speak.
The truth leaves you alone. Abandoned. With only truth as your companion. Left for dead on a sidewalk.
The lie, on the other hand, smoulders in embers stoked by the infinite jest. The joke is on you. What good did telling the truth do for you? Disrupted your entire life when you just couldn’t live with such seminal shame from the oblique obloquies piling up in droves, threatening your very survival. That is the absolute truth.
And yet your life as others have told it is only and always the lie. A lie no one even owns. A lie that has had a dangerous life of its own.
The lie gave the liar everything they asked for. The truth destroyed everything you worked your whole life for, obliterated all the things you’d had to overcome.
The sinister shadow re-invented as billowing storm. Soulless winds of evil swirl, released by those who could not only do what had been carried out, but stamp out any hope in the remains.
The truth was weaker than the lie. She could not get over that. All the liars were rewarded, every step of the way, while telling the truth had only given her more to overcome. And no one ever wanted to hear about that.
The facts cannot be un-lived. The dark deceit can never be erased. No matter what is said in its place.
censure or blame aimed at a person especially by numerous persons
to discredit, disgrace, or bad repute resulting from public blame, abuse, or denunciation
All you can ask is why? What made the liars lie? What did they gain by her demise?
What does it mean to live in truth? Putting it negatively is easy enough: it means not lying, not hiding, and not dissimulating.
The truth no one wanted to hear. The truth, twisted like the rope around the tree, unraveling the lie, over time.
Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.