Kelly! I am so proud of you! That was huge for you to turn down meeting Amir's mother at Thanksgiving. I mean, that was one thing in your trifecta of requirements--meet family, meet friends, monogamy. But you stood firm and wanted it all. So I am dying to know what happened at your hours long public goodbye. I got to admit, if it had been me I would have taken the chance to meet the mom at Thanksgiving, then let him string me along for a few weeks to see what he could do for me for Christmas.
Can't wait for the next installment of Korangyville.
Thanksgiving sounded yummy. I am glad that you listed duck and turkey separately, as I have heard of those turducken things and figure that it was probably invented by a man. Who else would want 20lbs of solid fowl meat except a testosterone-fueled carnivore? [Insert Tim Taylor the Toolman's grunt here.] Your feast sounded so delicious-and pretty! Part of a food's appeal is its presentation. I read an article that sound is also a factor. This chef in London runs the Fat Duck restaurant and has a special dish---Sound of the Sea. It's shellfish, seaweed, foam and "sand" made of finely ground ice cream cone/eel/vegetable powder and the plate is served with a conch shell that hides inside of it a tiny iPod that plays sounds of the ocean. It has moved at least a dozen patrons to tears. This is based off of a psychology experiment with potato chips. The experiment: two bowls, exact same chips from exact same bag. Pesson puts on a pair of headphones in which their crunching sounds were amplified on one bowl, muted on the other. People reported fresher chips when louder, stale chips when softer. This may be part of marketing of KRUNCHER chips. (Fantastic chips! My favorite are jalapeno flavored.)
Our special meal was a slice of turkey loaf, ham loaf, on top of a scoop of jellied cranberry stuff, mashed potatoes, soggy stuffing, a half soggy roll, three pieces of lettuce w/ranch dressing and a pumpkin-filled something. I was very happy and thankful. It beats bologna. [That my the next meal.]
At home my favorite dish is the cornbread pudding my grandma Jane used to make and the Tex Mex dip Grandma Betty made. Both have passed and I wonder if I'll be able to reproduce those in the future.
I have successfully gained ten pounds of stress-related wieght. I'm stressed, so I chew my lip until it is raw. I buy sunflower seeds (high in fat) to nibble with my front teeth to save the flesh from my lips. Then, I had migraines, so I was on steroids for three months to get rid of the stubborn pain. Not helpful. And then I am lonely and depressed, a good reason to eat. And then its the holidays which either gives me a reason to eat in celebration or eat out of depression. So I have a plan. I've stocked up on seven packages of mackeral and sardines, am ordering 5 more, and plan to substitute one meal per day with a package of fish, which will 1) reduce my caloric intake 2) give me a psychological boost from omega 3 and 3) stick to condiments. No snacks, just condiments to make the food I do get taste better. And as much as i hate to, I'm going to have to start exercising in my room. Don't get me wrong, I like to walk and jog and will do the requisite crunches, push-ups, etc. but exercising in my room is difficult and depressing. More depressing than anything. I really thought they would have let me out by now, however, I grossly underestimated their position.
I am really suprised I haven't heard from you this week. I hope you are well and the Universe blessed you with something your heart desires.
Drink something festive for me this month. I love the December holiday season feelings in society. The closeness and social gatherings. Extra care and tenderness for strangers. A remberance of what is good in our lives. And food. And twinkle lights. And the freedom to read about baby Jesus or light a menorah or whatever people do for Kwanza. What will you do these next three weeks?
Take care,
Sarah
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Letters from the Inside, Michael Swango, #102 & 103
[Ed.: As usual I am abandoning the underlining he does, but it remains in his actual letters. I am also skipping anything like movie or tv talk and only transcribing more personal and and interesting text.]
My Dear Scheherazade,
I am sure the reference is obvious, but I will explain why in a bit. You know i love to keep your beautiful mind working at all times...
Please excuse in advance what I am sure will be a somewhat disjointed letter(s). It has again been too long since I've written...so with no "stamp issues" currently, let me get to as much as I can. And there is a lot to discuss, both serious and not so much...
[Ed.: Omitting movie talk.]
The other day on the news I heard about a woman with the enchanting first name of Scheherazade...so beautiful. Anyway, with all the tales and storeis and reporting and interviews you have done I could easily see you staving off your doom each dawn from some brutal Arab prince by telling him a marvelous story each night...except the ending which you tell the next night and begin a new stoyr. Because, Kelly, you do have well over 1001!
I'm not a poetry guy in general, but did you know that the film No Country for Old Men's title comes from a haunting poem, "Sailing to Byzantium"? I think by Yeats, but not positive. Look it up and tell me what you think.
One more item: I know you are not a Stephen King fan, but I think I've mentioned several times that some of his best work tends to be his novellas and short stories. I defy you to read his SS "The Jaunt" and not remember it for a long time. The ending will chill you to the bone. Anyway, his most recent collection is titled Full Dark, No Stars.
Given your interest in all things sociopathic, I thought you might want to read the story "The Good Marriage". If you do, tell me about it. I will read all four of them when they come out in paperback.
***
Now to your letters. Yes, I will get to your most provocative comments on the graphic discussions you feel I am writing and your wanting to know the ins and outs of what I did and why... PLEASE know that you do not sound like "stick in the mud" or "scolding". Way too much makes you uncomfortable, and you really do have issues with open discussion of certain subjects---but that's who you are and I accept you 100%. But that doesn't mean that our conversations should not try to push beyond our self-imposed borders. I will continue to do so--and make no apologies---and I hope you continue to push me and prod me as well. Because if you are not changing and evolving AND opening yourself to new ideas, why bother?
So--all that to come, but I must take the bits of your letters in order to avoid missing any of your marvelous missives:
IN FACT, may I make this observatoin. You must try to see me as more than a sociopath or partial sociopath or former sociopath--and trying to understand that without reference to the 95% of life what went on outside of that.
Don't get me wrong, Kelly, I understand your fascination. And given what has happened to you in the fairly recent past it would seem imperative that you seek out some of these answers. But, dear Kelly, I see you as a far, far more complex person and woman than what defines you as "narrowly" as a blogger or publicist or a woman who narrowly excaped adeath in a scooter accident.
You are all those things and more--so much more. And I want to know everything about all the above and what you see so afraid to discuss.
Just know that yours truly also has many, many levels and sides and depths. You cannot know the whole without knowing all the parts, in depth and in detail.
What a fascinating journey---on both sides. We've actually only just begun...so much to discuss...so little time. Please excuse me if some of the following seems dated:
> All the build-up for Lone Star, a couple of scintillating episodes with great promise...and then like Kayser Sose in The Usual Suspects...POOF- he's gone!
I commented on that fantastic photo of you at Amir's event. IN the audience twirling your hair...How did he not run down to you from the stage and propose on the spot?
He's a quite the handsome man, is he not? Does he tend to change his facial hair, which he clearly has no problem growing?
And I told you how I thought "John" might perceive the whole confrontation with you regarding the court case and beyond...
Your comments please.
Your friend, XOXO
Michael
***
Dear Kelly---
Oh My God, she said to herself, he actually wrote a second letter shortly after the first! It's a Festivus Miracle!
OKKK, picking up where I left off:
There was a great picture of you in the audience at Amir's event. You stand out so clearly from the sea of men in coats and ties. You look HOT, Kelly and OMG the legs! My point in recounting this ancient history is that it only proves how utterly and totally human and feminine you are, and the essence of love, is powerful uncontrollable emotions and contradiction on a grand scale. There is also an immense sexual component that cannot be separated from the rest, but we'll discuss that when you're more "comfortable" ... You konw if you opened yourself up to actual discussion, you might actually hear something new, Kelly. Imagine that!!! That's gentle chiding, not anger!
One more comment on the photos of a smiling Amir at his event, clearly in good spirits. Tell him he wears a bow tie very well. But you already knew that and I have a feeling he does as wel...
Stunning painting by your friend "Wish You Were..." It is just beautiful and amazing. However, I do not have that "feeling of loss and longing" that you have most of your days. In my situation, aboard the Starship Enterprise sans crew to Alpha Centauri, 4.3 light years away, that cannot be allowed.
> I just answered my own question about Amir's facial hair by seeing that fascinating photo of you and him at the museum this past summer. He is sans facial hair completely with a sinister and debonair look on his face. You look like a woman in love. Period. And so different from the photo of you with long hair and a drink in your hand.
UNEXPECTED STUNNING REVELATION:
I was once a loyal and faithful user of FLEX shampoo. It came in a big bottle, was amazingly inexpensive, and was fantastic.
And you tell me they don't sell it anymore at stores? Say it ain't so...
Can you tell me exactly when this happened? Late 90s? Early 00s? Recently? You must have gone ballistic.
So ends another of your amazing letters.
***
Repeating what I said at the time: You do not overhwelm me--keep sending me EVERYTHING you do. Naturally it is your letters and revelations and allowing me to know you more intimately that are most welcomed. And I want to do the same, or as much as you will allow...
Congrats on your Mr. Beller's Neighborhood stories turned into podcasts. How did the recording session in Brooklyn go? AND more importantly, how did they sound online?
WOW! What a truly odd [and by odd I mean bizarre!] episode with the woman selling comforters on ebay. My God, the only thing missing at the end of her sad story was the single gunshot...
Fascinating essay on the amazingly negative reaction to Gap's new attempt to change their logo. I had seen a story about it on one of the entertainment shows, but hte article gave the precious and welcome details.
KK--You would think they would have done a focus group on a new logo before unleashing it on the world. It is works for a vodka...
Yes, the new logo did SUCK! Sort of like New Coke redux@
In answer to your questions on focus groups, my days of them took place during my years at medical school in Springfield, IL. Like several other midwest towns (then and now) Springfield was considered the "heartland" and an ideal test market for various consumer products.
I was always short on funds, and they would pay you for your time. So...the answer is yes. Several times. One was actually for a shampoo (not Flex, however)!
By the way, as previously mentioned (not commented by you at the time) this was the same time during which I was a regular sperm donor (X3 years).
***
The next part of your missive requires a lot of discussion...
You saying I am inh the minority in liking your writing our possible collaboration...you writing the Big Three... the widow and the stewardess. I dont' want to minimize this by shorthand: the widow was and is a beautiful sensitive woman with whom the intensity was beyond belief...The stewardess hurt so muich, and I liek to think I helped her at a time of desperate pain and need...
You take care. Know the Universe will take care of you and good thoughts your way from the west every day. Hang in there you amazing woman. Thinking of you.
Your friend,
Michael
PS Great line from Glee:
"Rachel, you are as brilliant and talented as you are irritating..."
My Dear Scheherazade,
I am sure the reference is obvious, but I will explain why in a bit. You know i love to keep your beautiful mind working at all times...
Please excuse in advance what I am sure will be a somewhat disjointed letter(s). It has again been too long since I've written...so with no "stamp issues" currently, let me get to as much as I can. And there is a lot to discuss, both serious and not so much...
[Ed.: Omitting movie talk.]
The other day on the news I heard about a woman with the enchanting first name of Scheherazade...so beautiful. Anyway, with all the tales and storeis and reporting and interviews you have done I could easily see you staving off your doom each dawn from some brutal Arab prince by telling him a marvelous story each night...except the ending which you tell the next night and begin a new stoyr. Because, Kelly, you do have well over 1001!
I'm not a poetry guy in general, but did you know that the film No Country for Old Men's title comes from a haunting poem, "Sailing to Byzantium"? I think by Yeats, but not positive. Look it up and tell me what you think.
One more item: I know you are not a Stephen King fan, but I think I've mentioned several times that some of his best work tends to be his novellas and short stories. I defy you to read his SS "The Jaunt" and not remember it for a long time. The ending will chill you to the bone. Anyway, his most recent collection is titled Full Dark, No Stars.
Given your interest in all things sociopathic, I thought you might want to read the story "The Good Marriage". If you do, tell me about it. I will read all four of them when they come out in paperback.
***
Now to your letters. Yes, I will get to your most provocative comments on the graphic discussions you feel I am writing and your wanting to know the ins and outs of what I did and why... PLEASE know that you do not sound like "stick in the mud" or "scolding". Way too much makes you uncomfortable, and you really do have issues with open discussion of certain subjects---but that's who you are and I accept you 100%. But that doesn't mean that our conversations should not try to push beyond our self-imposed borders. I will continue to do so--and make no apologies---and I hope you continue to push me and prod me as well. Because if you are not changing and evolving AND opening yourself to new ideas, why bother?
So--all that to come, but I must take the bits of your letters in order to avoid missing any of your marvelous missives:
IN FACT, may I make this observatoin. You must try to see me as more than a sociopath or partial sociopath or former sociopath--and trying to understand that without reference to the 95% of life what went on outside of that.
Don't get me wrong, Kelly, I understand your fascination. And given what has happened to you in the fairly recent past it would seem imperative that you seek out some of these answers. But, dear Kelly, I see you as a far, far more complex person and woman than what defines you as "narrowly" as a blogger or publicist or a woman who narrowly excaped adeath in a scooter accident.
You are all those things and more--so much more. And I want to know everything about all the above and what you see so afraid to discuss.
Just know that yours truly also has many, many levels and sides and depths. You cannot know the whole without knowing all the parts, in depth and in detail.
What a fascinating journey---on both sides. We've actually only just begun...so much to discuss...so little time. Please excuse me if some of the following seems dated:
> All the build-up for Lone Star, a couple of scintillating episodes with great promise...and then like Kayser Sose in The Usual Suspects...POOF- he's gone!
I commented on that fantastic photo of you at Amir's event. IN the audience twirling your hair...How did he not run down to you from the stage and propose on the spot?
He's a quite the handsome man, is he not? Does he tend to change his facial hair, which he clearly has no problem growing?
And I told you how I thought "John" might perceive the whole confrontation with you regarding the court case and beyond...
Your comments please.
Your friend, XOXO
Michael
***
Dear Kelly---
Oh My God, she said to herself, he actually wrote a second letter shortly after the first! It's a Festivus Miracle!
OKKK, picking up where I left off:
There was a great picture of you in the audience at Amir's event. You stand out so clearly from the sea of men in coats and ties. You look HOT, Kelly and OMG the legs! My point in recounting this ancient history is that it only proves how utterly and totally human and feminine you are, and the essence of love, is powerful uncontrollable emotions and contradiction on a grand scale. There is also an immense sexual component that cannot be separated from the rest, but we'll discuss that when you're more "comfortable" ... You konw if you opened yourself up to actual discussion, you might actually hear something new, Kelly. Imagine that!!! That's gentle chiding, not anger!
One more comment on the photos of a smiling Amir at his event, clearly in good spirits. Tell him he wears a bow tie very well. But you already knew that and I have a feeling he does as wel...
Stunning painting by your friend "Wish You Were..." It is just beautiful and amazing. However, I do not have that "feeling of loss and longing" that you have most of your days. In my situation, aboard the Starship Enterprise sans crew to Alpha Centauri, 4.3 light years away, that cannot be allowed.
> I just answered my own question about Amir's facial hair by seeing that fascinating photo of you and him at the museum this past summer. He is sans facial hair completely with a sinister and debonair look on his face. You look like a woman in love. Period. And so different from the photo of you with long hair and a drink in your hand.
UNEXPECTED STUNNING REVELATION:
I was once a loyal and faithful user of FLEX shampoo. It came in a big bottle, was amazingly inexpensive, and was fantastic.
And you tell me they don't sell it anymore at stores? Say it ain't so...
Can you tell me exactly when this happened? Late 90s? Early 00s? Recently? You must have gone ballistic.
So ends another of your amazing letters.
***
Repeating what I said at the time: You do not overhwelm me--keep sending me EVERYTHING you do. Naturally it is your letters and revelations and allowing me to know you more intimately that are most welcomed. And I want to do the same, or as much as you will allow...
Congrats on your Mr. Beller's Neighborhood stories turned into podcasts. How did the recording session in Brooklyn go? AND more importantly, how did they sound online?
WOW! What a truly odd [and by odd I mean bizarre!] episode with the woman selling comforters on ebay. My God, the only thing missing at the end of her sad story was the single gunshot...
Fascinating essay on the amazingly negative reaction to Gap's new attempt to change their logo. I had seen a story about it on one of the entertainment shows, but hte article gave the precious and welcome details.
KK--You would think they would have done a focus group on a new logo before unleashing it on the world. It is works for a vodka...
Yes, the new logo did SUCK! Sort of like New Coke redux@
In answer to your questions on focus groups, my days of them took place during my years at medical school in Springfield, IL. Like several other midwest towns (then and now) Springfield was considered the "heartland" and an ideal test market for various consumer products.
I was always short on funds, and they would pay you for your time. So...the answer is yes. Several times. One was actually for a shampoo (not Flex, however)!
By the way, as previously mentioned (not commented by you at the time) this was the same time during which I was a regular sperm donor (X3 years).
***
The next part of your missive requires a lot of discussion...
You saying I am inh the minority in liking your writing
You take care. Know the Universe will take care of you and good thoughts your way from the west every day. Hang in there you amazing woman. Thinking of you.
Your friend,
Michael
PS Great line from Glee:
"Rachel, you are as brilliant and talented as you are irritating..."
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #51
Kelly,
I got a flourescent orange letter from you last night, thanks. I am always affected by color, especially in unexpected places. I never noticed it much unitl I lived in a world of cement and steel, harsh lighting, hard angles, and three colors, all traditional institutional colors. And speaking of colors, I created another Black, White, and Red envelope for you. I even shunned the bell stamp for the flag because it had red, white and dk. blue, which would not upset the balance much. I like this one. I tsort of created itself. Oftentimes I paint a variation of what I see in real life, but this, I pulled directly out of my ass. I nominate it museum-worthy!
Glad you liked Mr. Mini [Ed.: painting she did on previous envelope]. God knows you need all the pleasantries you can get right now. When I read your last entry, about the snapping hairband, I totally got you. As in, I was recreated myself. Overm y life,I have gone through cycles, like waves, of depression, since I was like, 14. At 16, I made a valiant effort at suicide, only to wake up alive and pissed off, even more depressed. In jail, in prisonm and because my circumstances keep getting harder, the waves get bigger. Higher highs, lower lows. Crazy, panicky shit. More tears and snot-clogged tissues than I care to count. And it is in those valleys of the wave where those snapping hairbands, a not-good news letter, or in one case, a falling coffee bag, that trigger the urge to just fucking die. I've thought of a dozen ways to end it that would not be too painful or traumatizing. I researched it when I was in Chicago---the levels of pain or panic associated with different types of suicide. And from what I have read, the idea of just walking into the sea surf or sliding down into your tub m ay sound like a soothing way to go, but it is not. One reason why drowning is not ranked up there at the top is because it is not instaneous relief. It is pretyt much like suffocating, because what you are really doing is depriving your lungs of usable oxygen, and so you must suffer the crushing agony of carbon dioxide buildup in your system for about two-three minutes before you lose consciousness, and then another minute or so for your heart to quit. That's why guns are popular. Instant (hopefully) relief. Or the razor-blade-in-water method. It's a lot slower than poeple think. You have to lay in your bloody water for like a half-hour before you bleed enough. If you cut really well, maybe 15 minutes to lose consciousness. 45 to be beyond this world. And it's a cold way to go, literally. I actually found the perfect way to go, where I could jsut lay, listening to my MP3 player until the Universe booked me out. No pain. No panic. And I even wetn so far to begin writing my last letter, but by the time I figured out how to get what I needed (it took 2 days of plotting), I rose up enough out of the valley to push it off for the next time. And then a month later I was arrested. And two years later, I'm still stuck in this bathroom. Anyway, I just totally get you in that moment.
Don't forget, if you commit suicide [Ed.: I never said or even alluded to killing myself] Mini would be the first to find you, and that would traumatize him for life. You wouldn't want that. And then he'd be without you, which would make him want to run in front of a speeding car. Even then, it would only break his legs, leaving him a traumatized, ownerless, gimp. You simply can't do that to Mini.
Did you ever figure out what was written on the copy paper the bank guy was holding?
I, too, look in the mirror, unbelieving the soft wrinkles starting to form around my eyes, on my forehead, around my mouth. And simply cannot fathom that I have lived in prison for ten years. You talk about your youth and innocence being wasted. Don't I fucking know!
I cannot believe you wrote this: "Because he's so prominent and I'm a nobody with a bad reputation, I try hard not to discuss the industry with him." Kelly, I get tha tyou aren't on the Top Ten List of Who's Who in RE, but WTF? Don't you have faith in your abilities? The more you treat yourself as a precious object to be had, the more value you have---because of the way you show up to people. And what about your reputation is so bad? Bc. you were fired for blogging? Because you are the Plaintiff in a lawsuit? Your personal life has absolutely NOTHING to do with your ability to work. Or create. Or organize. Or whatever job skills you need. I have a very bad reputation, yet that sure didn't impair my job skills when I was out. That proves that it's all perception. Perceive yourself as worthy and amazing, because you are. And others will catch on quickly.
Although Amir knows your situation and has not offered to help with job leads doens't mean anything. Men are DENSE. Often they just miss it. Plus they want to feel needed, so maybe he is waiting for you to ask.
How did you know you had so many readers of your now-defunct public blog? Does it tell you how many views you got? And you think you are a nobody..shush.
I understand about not being able to talk about the deal with "John" openly. My random thought was -- ok NY is a blue state...
I hate it how every time I get handcuffed behind my back, my nose itches.
So, do you smell like your apartment? And what does your apartment smell like?
What will you do for Thanksgiving? I bet Chinese food is popular in NYC.
Hope you liked my first story. I look forward to getting a response from Michele. Oh, that info you sent for the Creative Non-Fiction Magazine, how much does s single issue or subscription cost? I'd liek to see an issue before I write something to submit.
Hope you are well and the Universe has brought you a big, happy blessing!
Peace,
Sarah
I got a flourescent orange letter from you last night, thanks. I am always affected by color, especially in unexpected places. I never noticed it much unitl I lived in a world of cement and steel, harsh lighting, hard angles, and three colors, all traditional institutional colors. And speaking of colors, I created another Black, White, and Red envelope for you. I even shunned the bell stamp for the flag because it had red, white and dk. blue, which would not upset the balance much. I like this one. I tsort of created itself. Oftentimes I paint a variation of what I see in real life, but this, I pulled directly out of my ass. I nominate it museum-worthy!
Glad you liked Mr. Mini [Ed.: painting she did on previous envelope]. God knows you need all the pleasantries you can get right now. When I read your last entry, about the snapping hairband, I totally got you. As in, I was recreated myself. Overm y life,I have gone through cycles, like waves, of depression, since I was like, 14. At 16, I made a valiant effort at suicide, only to wake up alive and pissed off, even more depressed. In jail, in prisonm and because my circumstances keep getting harder, the waves get bigger. Higher highs, lower lows. Crazy, panicky shit. More tears and snot-clogged tissues than I care to count. And it is in those valleys of the wave where those snapping hairbands, a not-good news letter, or in one case, a falling coffee bag, that trigger the urge to just fucking die. I've thought of a dozen ways to end it that would not be too painful or traumatizing. I researched it when I was in Chicago---the levels of pain or panic associated with different types of suicide. And from what I have read, the idea of just walking into the sea surf or sliding down into your tub m ay sound like a soothing way to go, but it is not. One reason why drowning is not ranked up there at the top is because it is not instaneous relief. It is pretyt much like suffocating, because what you are really doing is depriving your lungs of usable oxygen, and so you must suffer the crushing agony of carbon dioxide buildup in your system for about two-three minutes before you lose consciousness, and then another minute or so for your heart to quit. That's why guns are popular. Instant (hopefully) relief. Or the razor-blade-in-water method. It's a lot slower than poeple think. You have to lay in your bloody water for like a half-hour before you bleed enough. If you cut really well, maybe 15 minutes to lose consciousness. 45 to be beyond this world. And it's a cold way to go, literally. I actually found the perfect way to go, where I could jsut lay, listening to my MP3 player until the Universe booked me out. No pain. No panic. And I even wetn so far to begin writing my last letter, but by the time I figured out how to get what I needed (it took 2 days of plotting), I rose up enough out of the valley to push it off for the next time. And then a month later I was arrested. And two years later, I'm still stuck in this bathroom. Anyway, I just totally get you in that moment.
Don't forget, if you commit suicide [Ed.: I never said or even alluded to killing myself] Mini would be the first to find you, and that would traumatize him for life. You wouldn't want that. And then he'd be without you, which would make him want to run in front of a speeding car. Even then, it would only break his legs, leaving him a traumatized, ownerless, gimp. You simply can't do that to Mini.
Did you ever figure out what was written on the copy paper the bank guy was holding?
I, too, look in the mirror, unbelieving the soft wrinkles starting to form around my eyes, on my forehead, around my mouth. And simply cannot fathom that I have lived in prison for ten years. You talk about your youth and innocence being wasted. Don't I fucking know!
I cannot believe you wrote this: "Because he's so prominent and I'm a nobody with a bad reputation, I try hard not to discuss the industry with him." Kelly, I get tha tyou aren't on the Top Ten List of Who's Who in RE, but WTF? Don't you have faith in your abilities? The more you treat yourself as a precious object to be had, the more value you have---because of the way you show up to people. And what about your reputation is so bad? Bc. you were fired for blogging? Because you are the Plaintiff in a lawsuit? Your personal life has absolutely NOTHING to do with your ability to work. Or create. Or organize. Or whatever job skills you need. I have a very bad reputation, yet that sure didn't impair my job skills when I was out. That proves that it's all perception. Perceive yourself as worthy and amazing, because you are. And others will catch on quickly.
Although Amir knows your situation and has not offered to help with job leads doens't mean anything. Men are DENSE. Often they just miss it. Plus they want to feel needed, so maybe he is waiting for you to ask.
How did you know you had so many readers of your now-defunct public blog? Does it tell you how many views you got? And you think you are a nobody..shush.
I understand about not being able to talk about the deal with "John" openly. My random thought was -- ok NY is a blue state...
I hate it how every time I get handcuffed behind my back, my nose itches.
So, do you smell like your apartment? And what does your apartment smell like?
What will you do for Thanksgiving? I bet Chinese food is popular in NYC.
Hope you liked my first story. I look forward to getting a response from Michele. Oh, that info you sent for the Creative Non-Fiction Magazine, how much does s single issue or subscription cost? I'd liek to see an issue before I write something to submit.
Hope you are well and the Universe has brought you a big, happy blessing!
Peace,
Sarah
Friday, November 26, 2010
Letters from the Inside, Ira Einhorn, #3
Hi Kelly, [insert sign for Taurus]
Hope you are feeling better. I take no meds and ever virii in creation seems to love my cells, so... I empathize heavily with sickness; may it pass quickly.
I am an expert in the paranormal as in anything else I have ever studied, so your story [Ed.: He is referencing Brujeria] conveyed and yes you should have listened.
I was a ground for psychics and one of my closest during the 70s knew more about the paranormal than any planetary being: Andrija Puharish.
I midwifed URI which was his international bestseller that I got to Bill Whitehead at Double Day--he was my conduit for many books. I was an unofficial editor there frolm '68-'69 to my being blown out of the H2O.
My network was set up to involve the top physical minds in reflection upon the paranormal.
I held physics and consciousness conferences all over the USA. Ah, the puckered lemon of history.
Look up: SPACE-TIME and BEYOND, SARAFATTI, WOLFE & TOBIN (a book I agented); BEYOND TELEPATHY- a book I had reprinted.
For Taureans--try to find Marc Edmund Jones (I think that is correct): He is the clearest and the finest--read his chapters on Taureans in any book you can find. Better than my babbling. And look at his studen: Dane Rudhyar- The Astrology of Personality.
I am very intuitive and psychic in a wayno one has been able to explain, including myself; I did palmistry so naturally and accurately that i felt like a fraud, so I took up astrology to ground myself. I read everything extant. I did 200 charts (all the movement heavies were my friends) and then put it all away.
BUT
The psychic is very real and I worked with some of the best.
Our rationality is the tip of the iceberg, a took that has driven spirit from the world and we are all suffering loss
ALAS
Taureans are fixed earth--2nd house of the Zodiac--the house of resources---but al my Taurus is found in my chart in the 8th: SCORPIO--Love, Sex, Death and the Occcult (hidden) in A + - sense.
Steadfast, ridiculously loyal, particularly as my Venus is found at the mid heaven.
Just think: Years of women filling my bed, knocking at my door, calling me, writing me.
Wall to wall and then: Boom, I meet a woman who really pleases me.
AND MONOGAMY
Without a 2nd thought.
Instant transformation/transmutation.
14 years, for me of CLOSENESS, infinite patience with the cultural difference: she's Swedish--mother problems--distant father, but lots of love and caring.
In astrological terms I'm a Uranian-- my sun is combust Uranus and in conjunction with Mercury.
I change/transform in an instant and communicate it. I should have een or would have been an actor in 1920.
In 1960, I became a life actor on the Movement Stage.
Journals are the crux of a very big tale. [Ed.: He is referring to the fact that 63 of his journals were seized by the police and used against him in his trial and he is petitioning to get them back contending they were taken and used illegally.] You can't take personal writing; It is protected and then taken illegally they were given to a writer: My life's work---PLAGIARY--to be used against me and then used illegally in court. [Ed.: He encloses he court document/petition.]
I read early, I was a math whiz and progressed from comic books to sports books to the classics, mostly innate. The desire to learn was insatiable.
A good highschool--Central High in Philly--a sage as a mentor and close friend who encouraged me, but the drive was innate.
There is always the thrill of the first page of a new book, not unlike the first kiss of a new love.
I felt that way for 14 years with my wife.
Genuine love and adoration, energy. Our bodies liked each other. Again: Little to do with upbringing in temrs of instilling. Support--yes! My mom was there unitl her last breath at 94.
By 12, I was beyond them.
I filled my room with books, but I was also social and athletic: I could have gone to a small school on a football scholarship.
I chose an Ivy League school.
I've come to love Latin and try to do some daily. English comes from North West Germanic and I've studied its older roots (Old English, Old Norse, Old High German, Middle High German, etc.). I'm not a philologist, but I love the feel of language as much as I love women's bodies.
Sex and intellect but not dry intellect.
Ellen Burstyn and I were close for a few months--not lovers--but close.
I looked closely at a script she was doing (RESURRECTION).
She wanted me to meet everyone she knew, but I went off to teach at Harvard and was so in demand that I neglected her as she didn't attract me physically and then my universe exploded: The Prince of Iran (the Shah's nephew and man) asked me to set up and run his satellite net, but Iran in 1979 was poison to my politics. I knew the downfall was coming.
OMNI was interview me for a big ferature.
I went off to Yugoslavia to talk to the ruling council about a tesla celebration (Google me and the RUSSIAN WOODPECKER.)
My translator who stuck to me like glue for 4 Belgrad days was Tito's translator.
Arthur Koestler had agreed to do a book length interview and a recent friend was on the way to see me about writingt and acting in a 60s TV Dope Opera. ETC ETC ETC. Then the morning of his coming, life ended.
More Anon,
I
Hope you are feeling better. I take no meds and ever virii in creation seems to love my cells, so... I empathize heavily with sickness; may it pass quickly.
I am an expert in the paranormal as in anything else I have ever studied, so your story [Ed.: He is referencing Brujeria] conveyed and yes you should have listened.
I was a ground for psychics and one of my closest during the 70s knew more about the paranormal than any planetary being: Andrija Puharish.
I midwifed URI which was his international bestseller that I got to Bill Whitehead at Double Day--he was my conduit for many books. I was an unofficial editor there frolm '68-'69 to my being blown out of the H2O.
My network was set up to involve the top physical minds in reflection upon the paranormal.
I held physics and consciousness conferences all over the USA. Ah, the puckered lemon of history.
Look up: SPACE-TIME and BEYOND, SARAFATTI, WOLFE & TOBIN (a book I agented); BEYOND TELEPATHY- a book I had reprinted.
For Taureans--try to find Marc Edmund Jones (I think that is correct): He is the clearest and the finest--read his chapters on Taureans in any book you can find. Better than my babbling. And look at his studen: Dane Rudhyar- The Astrology of Personality.
I am very intuitive and psychic in a wayno one has been able to explain, including myself; I did palmistry so naturally and accurately that i felt like a fraud, so I took up astrology to ground myself. I read everything extant. I did 200 charts (all the movement heavies were my friends) and then put it all away.
BUT
The psychic is very real and I worked with some of the best.
Our rationality is the tip of the iceberg, a took that has driven spirit from the world and we are all suffering loss
ALAS
Taureans are fixed earth--2nd house of the Zodiac--the house of resources---but al my Taurus is found in my chart in the 8th: SCORPIO--Love, Sex, Death and the Occcult (hidden) in A + - sense.
Steadfast, ridiculously loyal, particularly as my Venus is found at the mid heaven.
Just think: Years of women filling my bed, knocking at my door, calling me, writing me.
Wall to wall and then: Boom, I meet a woman who really pleases me.
AND MONOGAMY
Without a 2nd thought.
Instant transformation/transmutation.
14 years, for me of CLOSENESS, infinite patience with the cultural difference: she's Swedish--mother problems--distant father, but lots of love and caring.
In astrological terms I'm a Uranian-- my sun is combust Uranus and in conjunction with Mercury.
I change/transform in an instant and communicate it. I should have een or would have been an actor in 1920.
In 1960, I became a life actor on the Movement Stage.
Journals are the crux of a very big tale. [Ed.: He is referring to the fact that 63 of his journals were seized by the police and used against him in his trial and he is petitioning to get them back contending they were taken and used illegally.] You can't take personal writing; It is protected and then taken illegally they were given to a writer: My life's work---PLAGIARY--to be used against me and then used illegally in court. [Ed.: He encloses he court document/petition.]
I read early, I was a math whiz and progressed from comic books to sports books to the classics, mostly innate. The desire to learn was insatiable.
A good highschool--Central High in Philly--a sage as a mentor and close friend who encouraged me, but the drive was innate.
There is always the thrill of the first page of a new book, not unlike the first kiss of a new love.
I felt that way for 14 years with my wife.
Genuine love and adoration, energy. Our bodies liked each other. Again: Little to do with upbringing in temrs of instilling. Support--yes! My mom was there unitl her last breath at 94.
By 12, I was beyond them.
I filled my room with books, but I was also social and athletic: I could have gone to a small school on a football scholarship.
I chose an Ivy League school.
I've come to love Latin and try to do some daily. English comes from North West Germanic and I've studied its older roots (Old English, Old Norse, Old High German, Middle High German, etc.). I'm not a philologist, but I love the feel of language as much as I love women's bodies.
Sex and intellect but not dry intellect.
Ellen Burstyn and I were close for a few months--not lovers--but close.
I looked closely at a script she was doing (RESURRECTION).
She wanted me to meet everyone she knew, but I went off to teach at Harvard and was so in demand that I neglected her as she didn't attract me physically and then my universe exploded: The Prince of Iran (the Shah's nephew and man) asked me to set up and run his satellite net, but Iran in 1979 was poison to my politics. I knew the downfall was coming.
OMNI was interview me for a big ferature.
I went off to Yugoslavia to talk to the ruling council about a tesla celebration (Google me and the RUSSIAN WOODPECKER.)
My translator who stuck to me like glue for 4 Belgrad days was Tito's translator.
Arthur Koestler had agreed to do a book length interview and a recent friend was on the way to see me about writingt and acting in a 60s TV Dope Opera. ETC ETC ETC. Then the morning of his coming, life ended.
More Anon,
I
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #50
Dear Kelly,
I'm surprised my fingers are still allowing me to write! For the last two weeks I have written and written, pages and pages, edited, copied, copied again and I am pooped. I sent Michele B. another submission today. It's a story about me and my father, very touching---sort of bittersweet. It developed on its own so I had started it from one thought---about how when I was a teenager, I used to go through his stuff just to feel close to him, learn about him, and I stole his socks.
He had cool socks.
Not the boring white tube socks, although he did have some white socks, but trouser socks of all types. Wool socks.
ARGYLE SOCKS!
Anyway, the story turned out ver different. It makes me appreciate the relationship I have with my father.
If she chooses the first story, I will edit down the father essay to 300 words and submit it to Reader's Write. Or maybe submit it the way it is and let them edit it. I noticed that hte longest RW entries are 300 words. My stories are 1000-1500, so it would be a lot of editing. Or maybe send it to that Non-Fiction magazine. Either way, I got plans. On a day when my mind does not want to work, I will hand copy it for you.
I don't know if it is the change in seasons, the upcoming holiday (for which I have used as an excuse to buy $30 worth of junk food to l ast me through 2 weeks of self pity), or being moved to a room with white-frosted windows so I can't see out of get sunshine in, or what, but I have been feeling sort of empty and lonely, stressed, anxious an dsort of searching.
Okay, bullshit, Iknow why I have been feeling this way, but it's a cumulative effort. It's like I'm okay dealing with living in the latrine, but when the shit starts backing up, there's only so much you can take before the stench makes you want to puke.
Of couse part of it is situational. Living in a cement and steel bathroom for nearly two years isn't easy. Today is day 692. That's fucking ridiculous. And they give me no way out. Like most people can earn their way out by just sitting and following the rules for a couple of weeks or months and they get released. Even ones who got caught traficking pills with a staff member. 30 days. 90 days. Beat up an officer? Get out in a year. Beat up an inmate? 60 days. Get 42 write ups in a year? 70 days. I m ean, these are just examples, but Iit does get a little infuriating when they tell me I'm a threat to the safety and security of the facility so I stay locked away, yet these people aren't a threat? WTF? No to say I want them to stay. Hell, I don't wish that on anyone. Free the people!
And then there's the holidays, my mother's health, my sister's divorce, feeling guilty that my father is going to spend like $800 to fly out here, take a cab from the airport to here and back just to see me for two hours through fucking glass. It's just so wrong. And I think about all the holiday gatherings I have missed and how things would be different if I were home. Last Thanksgiving I spent in a Super 8 motel room eating "Dennys" turkey dinner with two slices of pumpkin pie and a slic of pecan pie for dessert, watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire--I was a little depressed.
And then there's my ex-lover, partner, whatever. That is such a long story, but after waiting two years to be able to talk/write to her, she professes her love which is what I've been dying to hear, only for me to write back with all these excuses why I don't see it working out between us. I am such an idiot. I fucking love that woman. Like, be still my heart, make every molecule in my body dance, would walk to the ends of the earth for--and it broke her heart. Now I'm trying to back upand start over, seeing that I hurt her and may have blown whatever chance I had at getting what I wanted. For over four years--her. I guess it was really out of fear. Like, who wants to stick it out with someone locked in a cage inside a locked building inside a locked compound? I am just so sick of being disappointed by people. I don't expect too much. I hardly expect anything at all. But then they offer to help and then they flake out. I think that it's because they see the enormity of what i face and they get scared, too emotionally attached to the outcome, and rather avoid the disappointing possibilities than to try at all, even with the possiblity of success. I used to think there was something wrong with me, but I recently have come to believe that a lot of people care so much that they don't want to deal with the hurt or difficulties I go through in my life. I don't know. It just sucks.
And there's all this legal research and pending court issues. Of course I dont' want to deal with that. And dear God, I don't have the money. Who does? Are wealthy people the only ones who deserve justice? Bullshit.
Fuck.
Pbbbth...
Anyway, that's my bitchy session for the week. Glad you could attend. Please leave comments in the suggestion box.
Goodnight.
Peace.
Sarah.
HOW ARE YOU?
I'm surprised my fingers are still allowing me to write! For the last two weeks I have written and written, pages and pages, edited, copied, copied again and I am pooped. I sent Michele B. another submission today. It's a story about me and my father, very touching---sort of bittersweet. It developed on its own so I had started it from one thought---about how when I was a teenager, I used to go through his stuff just to feel close to him, learn about him, and I stole his socks.
He had cool socks.
Not the boring white tube socks, although he did have some white socks, but trouser socks of all types. Wool socks.
ARGYLE SOCKS!
Anyway, the story turned out ver different. It makes me appreciate the relationship I have with my father.
If she chooses the first story, I will edit down the father essay to 300 words and submit it to Reader's Write. Or maybe submit it the way it is and let them edit it. I noticed that hte longest RW entries are 300 words. My stories are 1000-1500, so it would be a lot of editing. Or maybe send it to that Non-Fiction magazine. Either way, I got plans. On a day when my mind does not want to work, I will hand copy it for you.
I don't know if it is the change in seasons, the upcoming holiday (for which I have used as an excuse to buy $30 worth of junk food to l ast me through 2 weeks of self pity), or being moved to a room with white-frosted windows so I can't see out of get sunshine in, or what, but I have been feeling sort of empty and lonely, stressed, anxious an dsort of searching.
Okay, bullshit, Iknow why I have been feeling this way, but it's a cumulative effort. It's like I'm okay dealing with living in the latrine, but when the shit starts backing up, there's only so much you can take before the stench makes you want to puke.
Of couse part of it is situational. Living in a cement and steel bathroom for nearly two years isn't easy. Today is day 692. That's fucking ridiculous. And they give me no way out. Like most people can earn their way out by just sitting and following the rules for a couple of weeks or months and they get released. Even ones who got caught traficking pills with a staff member. 30 days. 90 days. Beat up an officer? Get out in a year. Beat up an inmate? 60 days. Get 42 write ups in a year? 70 days. I m ean, these are just examples, but Iit does get a little infuriating when they tell me I'm a threat to the safety and security of the facility so I stay locked away, yet these people aren't a threat? WTF? No to say I want them to stay. Hell, I don't wish that on anyone. Free the people!
And then there's the holidays, my mother's health, my sister's divorce, feeling guilty that my father is going to spend like $800 to fly out here, take a cab from the airport to here and back just to see me for two hours through fucking glass. It's just so wrong. And I think about all the holiday gatherings I have missed and how things would be different if I were home. Last Thanksgiving I spent in a Super 8 motel room eating "Dennys" turkey dinner with two slices of pumpkin pie and a slic of pecan pie for dessert, watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire--I was a little depressed.
And then there's my ex-lover, partner, whatever. That is such a long story, but after waiting two years to be able to talk/write to her, she professes her love which is what I've been dying to hear, only for me to write back with all these excuses why I don't see it working out between us. I am such an idiot. I fucking love that woman. Like, be still my heart, make every molecule in my body dance, would walk to the ends of the earth for--and it broke her heart. Now I'm trying to back upand start over, seeing that I hurt her and may have blown whatever chance I had at getting what I wanted. For over four years--her. I guess it was really out of fear. Like, who wants to stick it out with someone locked in a cage inside a locked building inside a locked compound? I am just so sick of being disappointed by people. I don't expect too much. I hardly expect anything at all. But then they offer to help and then they flake out. I think that it's because they see the enormity of what i face and they get scared, too emotionally attached to the outcome, and rather avoid the disappointing possibilities than to try at all, even with the possiblity of success. I used to think there was something wrong with me, but I recently have come to believe that a lot of people care so much that they don't want to deal with the hurt or difficulties I go through in my life. I don't know. It just sucks.
And there's all this legal research and pending court issues. Of course I dont' want to deal with that. And dear God, I don't have the money. Who does? Are wealthy people the only ones who deserve justice? Bullshit.
Fuck.
Pbbbth...
Anyway, that's my bitchy session for the week. Glad you could attend. Please leave comments in the suggestion box.
Goodnight.
Peace.
Sarah.
HOW ARE YOU?
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Letters from the Inside, Sarah Pender, #49 Part 2
[This is the personal essay she submitted to the book, Our Voice, I told her about.]
Harriet Tubman would be proud. Through a modern-day Underground Railroad a change of brave friends passed me from an undisclosed location to a Motel 6 to a sagging brown couch to a Super 8 to a place I can best describe as the Cockroach Inn. After being conveyed across state lines, I am left with two bags, three hundred dollars and time to find some direction, which have determined is anywhere away from Oppression.
For years, I prayed to the God of justice to rescue me. Then, disillusioned by a blind, ignorant Justice and an apparently deaf God, I vowed to save myself. Slowly, I stitched together the tatters of my shredded self-esteem and quietly harvested pebbles of courage until I had enough to smash out of the House of Pain.
If i return, He will kill me--mayben not physically but He will eat my soul until I beg for the swing of Death's scythe. That is, if I have soul left, because rightt now, I'm a so hungry I would sell it for a cheeseburger. Although I know that I am being hunted like wild game by a posse, led by Him, of trigger-happy thugs, starvation is a worse fate, so out into the concrete forest I go to forage for food. Luckily my hotel window frames the view of Super Walmart.
Sunglasses and a billed had shield me from the searing August sun. Thick air pushes against my face, smothering me, quickening my pulse. But I shove back against the anxiety and start walking. At the busy intersection the tiny walking man lights up and I quick-step across. From behind their steering wheels a dozen hostile eyes burn me. Though red, if the light abruptly turns green I wonder if road rage would have me run down. Feeling uneasy, I step into a half-jog, and just two steps from the opposite curb, a multi-tasking motorist screams to a halt, almost greeting me with a chrome bumper kiss. Then she glares at me like it is my fault.
My heart pounds furiously, demanding to be let out and absolved of this runaway nonsense. Slow, deep breaths soothe my colicky nerves. I focus on the sun-dappled sidewalk reflecting a shadowy dance of a sugar maple; it's low branches sweet my crown in calming solidarity.
Summer beauty is suddenly swallowed by alarm.
A jelly bean sub-compact follows me into the strip mall entrance and slows dramatically. The shaggy-haired driver rubbernecks like I am a highway accident.
I dribble in my panties.
He turns back.
In protest, my stomach attempts to wrench itself from my gut because it knows that He has come. However unlikely it may be for a hired assasin to drive a powder blue hatchback, I am convinced it merely disguises lethal intent. My legs want to bolt, but switch getaways are not made in heavy boots. People do not clomp their way to safety.
I hold my ground, but avoid meeting his eyes when he stops me.
Through the driver's window, he says, "Excuse me. Do you smoke?"
"Uh, no. Sorry." I tremble.
His hands brandish no weapon.
"Oh well. Alright then." His tone speaks not of a professional predator, but of a boy turned down for a prom date. "You have a nice day."
He creeps away leaving me confused. Smoke? Dude you just passed a gas station. Either I missed a vital puzzle piece or that heat has scrambled my brain because I don't get it.
Instead of exiting he recircles. A stall tactic.
I stare with dread at the approaching car. If this is it, just shoot me.
He pulls so close that his air conditioning licks my face. He says, "I can't believe you don't smoke pot."
This frozen pea of information unplugs me, and I really look at him. Just below his scruffy chin, his neck is strangled by a red tie laid over a thickly wrinkled shirt that puckers over his belly. Fast food trash litters the passenger floorboard, and from the rearview mirror, dangles a marijuana leaf.
He is not hunting me. He is soliciting me.
His chubby face waits for an answer, but words lodge in my throat.
He adds, "Because you totally look like you would smoke."
Oh, sure. I can see how my white t-shirt, jeans and twenty dollar shades pigeonhole me as a pothead. What a dope! Please put your Geo Metro in gear and putter away from me. Finally, I cough out a series of responses referencing a husband before I sidewind away from Shaggy, confusion still hanging in the air.
Inside the sliding doors, the cold blast flushes my lungs, refreshing me for about five seconds before a wall of sound slams into me. Beeps and clicks and a wailing child set hte backdrop for a widespan view of profound abundance. Ceilings erected for dinosaurs cover rows of shelves and towers of merchandise, enough to outfit the army of a small communist country. A front line of tanks is formed by checkout stands, lit up and ready to fire.
An ancient,smiling prune greets me.
I greedily accept a wire card as a possible battering ram inm case another svengali shows up in Frozen Foods. Of course, I get the retarded cart with one wobbly wheel that pulls left. It's a sales stragegy to crash you into stuff you dont' need or even want, but once collided with, you rationalize why you can't live without it.
In Produce, uniform stacks of colorful cornucopia beckon me to eat fruit once forbidden in our House. From a cascase of peaches, I select a fuzzy orb and tear off a plastic bag. I shake it, roll it between my fingers, and try opening it with my teeth. Finally, I give up, relinquish the peach, and peel open the uncoooperative bag.
A gigle bubbles up, and momentarily the dark tide recedes, but surges again, throwing me into a surreal Miracle-Gro induced hallucination.
Heads of broccoli, lettuce and other vegetables resembling bulbous yard weeds, pulse like Frankenstein's green heart. Potatoes blink at me. An Ugli fruit snarls.
I dark into the dary section, snagging a bag of baby carrots along the way.
Blessedly, the milk does not moo at me. I pluck cups of Dannon from teh refrigerated shelf, avoiding the probiotics. I can't believe they market this stuff as a seven-day program to make you poop. I pick up pre-packaged chedder and turkey slices, because a deli experience may induce psychosis.
Then I wobble into aisle four and am paralyzed by the Great Wall of Snack Bars. Thousands of colorful boxes line up in ranks like tiny soldiers divided into troops of chocolate, granola, fruits and nuts, low-fat, high-fiber, onm and on for endless minature battlefield miles. I am left with an unfocused stare and hinged-open mouth. like a heavily medicated psychiatric patient minus the drool.
The din of shoppers grows to a roar and together with the harsh flourescent lighting, is as torturous as any military interrogation room.
I must seek shelter immediately.
I manuever through the jungle of sweatshop labor goods to an express lane, but I have one item over the limit. l consider ditching the yogurt cup in the soda fridge, but that's only slightly less rude than leaving unwanted butter on the bubble gum rack, so I veer toward an automatic checkout, softly chanting, "I can do this."
I panic only briefly when the computer cashier loudly accuses m e of stealing. My innocence being verified on the screen, I defend myself. I scanned the stupid cheese, lady. I poke buttons until she shuts up and lets me feed a twenty into her hungry mouth.
As I collect my change a sense of pride swells in me.
Although I survived in the House for eight years, surviving was reative: obeying, retreating, silence, or saying yes to anything to avoid pain. The moment I decided to escape the clutches of oppression, I shopped surviving and started living.
Now, I get to say how it goes.
It takes a lot of courage to own my life, to make choices and deal with the consequences without anyone to blame. It takes courage to move forward through the fire of fear instead of backing away. Even if I get burned, on the other side is a reward for having the guts to try.
I leave with my plastic sack trophy dangling from my hands. Emotion pinches my heart and wrings tears from my eyes that drip off my chin and onto the thirsty pavement.
At first, I whisper into the wind.
Then, to the sun, I turn up my face and stretch my arms out l ike the wings of a great blue heron taking flight, calling into the sky with a triumphant cry, "I am free!"
Harriet Tubman would be proud. Through a modern-day Underground Railroad a change of brave friends passed me from an undisclosed location to a Motel 6 to a sagging brown couch to a Super 8 to a place I can best describe as the Cockroach Inn. After being conveyed across state lines, I am left with two bags, three hundred dollars and time to find some direction, which have determined is anywhere away from Oppression.
For years, I prayed to the God of justice to rescue me. Then, disillusioned by a blind, ignorant Justice and an apparently deaf God, I vowed to save myself. Slowly, I stitched together the tatters of my shredded self-esteem and quietly harvested pebbles of courage until I had enough to smash out of the House of Pain.
If i return, He will kill me--mayben not physically but He will eat my soul until I beg for the swing of Death's scythe. That is, if I have soul left, because rightt now, I'm a so hungry I would sell it for a cheeseburger. Although I know that I am being hunted like wild game by a posse, led by Him, of trigger-happy thugs, starvation is a worse fate, so out into the concrete forest I go to forage for food. Luckily my hotel window frames the view of Super Walmart.
Sunglasses and a billed had shield me from the searing August sun. Thick air pushes against my face, smothering me, quickening my pulse. But I shove back against the anxiety and start walking. At the busy intersection the tiny walking man lights up and I quick-step across. From behind their steering wheels a dozen hostile eyes burn me. Though red, if the light abruptly turns green I wonder if road rage would have me run down. Feeling uneasy, I step into a half-jog, and just two steps from the opposite curb, a multi-tasking motorist screams to a halt, almost greeting me with a chrome bumper kiss. Then she glares at me like it is my fault.
My heart pounds furiously, demanding to be let out and absolved of this runaway nonsense. Slow, deep breaths soothe my colicky nerves. I focus on the sun-dappled sidewalk reflecting a shadowy dance of a sugar maple; it's low branches sweet my crown in calming solidarity.
Summer beauty is suddenly swallowed by alarm.
A jelly bean sub-compact follows me into the strip mall entrance and slows dramatically. The shaggy-haired driver rubbernecks like I am a highway accident.
I dribble in my panties.
He turns back.
In protest, my stomach attempts to wrench itself from my gut because it knows that He has come. However unlikely it may be for a hired assasin to drive a powder blue hatchback, I am convinced it merely disguises lethal intent. My legs want to bolt, but switch getaways are not made in heavy boots. People do not clomp their way to safety.
I hold my ground, but avoid meeting his eyes when he stops me.
Through the driver's window, he says, "Excuse me. Do you smoke?"
"Uh, no. Sorry." I tremble.
His hands brandish no weapon.
"Oh well. Alright then." His tone speaks not of a professional predator, but of a boy turned down for a prom date. "You have a nice day."
He creeps away leaving me confused. Smoke? Dude you just passed a gas station. Either I missed a vital puzzle piece or that heat has scrambled my brain because I don't get it.
Instead of exiting he recircles. A stall tactic.
I stare with dread at the approaching car. If this is it, just shoot me.
He pulls so close that his air conditioning licks my face. He says, "I can't believe you don't smoke pot."
This frozen pea of information unplugs me, and I really look at him. Just below his scruffy chin, his neck is strangled by a red tie laid over a thickly wrinkled shirt that puckers over his belly. Fast food trash litters the passenger floorboard, and from the rearview mirror, dangles a marijuana leaf.
He is not hunting me. He is soliciting me.
His chubby face waits for an answer, but words lodge in my throat.
He adds, "Because you totally look like you would smoke."
Oh, sure. I can see how my white t-shirt, jeans and twenty dollar shades pigeonhole me as a pothead. What a dope! Please put your Geo Metro in gear and putter away from me. Finally, I cough out a series of responses referencing a husband before I sidewind away from Shaggy, confusion still hanging in the air.
Inside the sliding doors, the cold blast flushes my lungs, refreshing me for about five seconds before a wall of sound slams into me. Beeps and clicks and a wailing child set hte backdrop for a widespan view of profound abundance. Ceilings erected for dinosaurs cover rows of shelves and towers of merchandise, enough to outfit the army of a small communist country. A front line of tanks is formed by checkout stands, lit up and ready to fire.
An ancient,smiling prune greets me.
I greedily accept a wire card as a possible battering ram inm case another svengali shows up in Frozen Foods. Of course, I get the retarded cart with one wobbly wheel that pulls left. It's a sales stragegy to crash you into stuff you dont' need or even want, but once collided with, you rationalize why you can't live without it.
In Produce, uniform stacks of colorful cornucopia beckon me to eat fruit once forbidden in our House. From a cascase of peaches, I select a fuzzy orb and tear off a plastic bag. I shake it, roll it between my fingers, and try opening it with my teeth. Finally, I give up, relinquish the peach, and peel open the uncoooperative bag.
A gigle bubbles up, and momentarily the dark tide recedes, but surges again, throwing me into a surreal Miracle-Gro induced hallucination.
Heads of broccoli, lettuce and other vegetables resembling bulbous yard weeds, pulse like Frankenstein's green heart. Potatoes blink at me. An Ugli fruit snarls.
I dark into the dary section, snagging a bag of baby carrots along the way.
Blessedly, the milk does not moo at me. I pluck cups of Dannon from teh refrigerated shelf, avoiding the probiotics. I can't believe they market this stuff as a seven-day program to make you poop. I pick up pre-packaged chedder and turkey slices, because a deli experience may induce psychosis.
Then I wobble into aisle four and am paralyzed by the Great Wall of Snack Bars. Thousands of colorful boxes line up in ranks like tiny soldiers divided into troops of chocolate, granola, fruits and nuts, low-fat, high-fiber, onm and on for endless minature battlefield miles. I am left with an unfocused stare and hinged-open mouth. like a heavily medicated psychiatric patient minus the drool.
The din of shoppers grows to a roar and together with the harsh flourescent lighting, is as torturous as any military interrogation room.
I must seek shelter immediately.
I manuever through the jungle of sweatshop labor goods to an express lane, but I have one item over the limit. l consider ditching the yogurt cup in the soda fridge, but that's only slightly less rude than leaving unwanted butter on the bubble gum rack, so I veer toward an automatic checkout, softly chanting, "I can do this."
I panic only briefly when the computer cashier loudly accuses m e of stealing. My innocence being verified on the screen, I defend myself. I scanned the stupid cheese, lady. I poke buttons until she shuts up and lets me feed a twenty into her hungry mouth.
As I collect my change a sense of pride swells in me.
Although I survived in the House for eight years, surviving was reative: obeying, retreating, silence, or saying yes to anything to avoid pain. The moment I decided to escape the clutches of oppression, I shopped surviving and started living.
Now, I get to say how it goes.
It takes a lot of courage to own my life, to make choices and deal with the consequences without anyone to blame. It takes courage to move forward through the fire of fear instead of backing away. Even if I get burned, on the other side is a reward for having the guts to try.
I leave with my plastic sack trophy dangling from my hands. Emotion pinches my heart and wrings tears from my eyes that drip off my chin and onto the thirsty pavement.
At first, I whisper into the wind.
Then, to the sun, I turn up my face and stretch my arms out l ike the wings of a great blue heron taking flight, calling into the sky with a triumphant cry, "I am free!"
