Memories of Elephants

at some point
don’t you wake up
somehow
and
decide
NOT TO BE EVIL
or do you
look in the
mirror
and realize
that
what
looks
back
at
you
is
dark
and
hollow

 

 

 

 

artwork by robert montgomery at robertmontgomery.org

 

The week of those who were born

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

decree

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.

File Nov 28, 2 10 39 PM

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

uncontrollably

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.

 

Well, ok.

 

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

Screen Shot 2016-02-24 at 1.25.26 AM.pngScreen Shot 2016-02-24 at 1.25.34 AM.png

 

2014-05-28 18.10.49
me in happier times

2014-09-03 01.58.2910152510125573960

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image

The Math of Story, pt. 2

Or the continuing math of the continuing story.

the deep dark motion


an expanse that happens to come and go  unpredictable,
since the emotion attached to the action or inaction beckons 
self-flagellation, mutation, abomination.
But today that is not the way I feel or think perhaps it is the sunshine perhaps it is the adherence to whatever shreds of practice can be maintained in constant (chosen, assigned, managed, apparent) chaos, a swirly world of why is no one listening to what I want?
Why am I not absolutely perfect, never misunderstood, completely influential, with flawless, arguments, solutions to every problem and that other thing, which remains to be seen, will eventually be determined as I am trying to sort that out each day as part of the healing I must face, or die. Literally I won’t be able to continue the way I was and that is both frightening and freeing–not so much for the baked-laced-drench-your-desires-saturated-over-consumption phase that occurs in many artist’s awakening and they use it as an excuse to get fucked up. Not that so much. This is one of those shifts they talked about but I was too far up the valley to feel it until now and I don’t want to jinx anything and go back to the shitstorm that usually seems to present course for me to chart my way through.
 
I want, more Lonesome Dove cattle drive than Bonnie and Clyde so I can focus on things that I want to put energy into —  because sharkland beneath the sea of sharks swimming and eating and swimming and devouring everyone who is good, with those dead eyes.
on a stretch of road
littered with lost souls, we held our tongues.
so now, in this
day to day
existence
we can’t tell
which
is easier
and all we want
as days go by
is less trouble
less testing
less trying
for needless senseless random exercises in futility-
no. no more of that please and thank you.
even if no one reads this, no one cares, no one knows a god-damn thing – there will be no random futility here. That’s been disassembled and analyzed and I’d be happy to explain my theorems to you, they are well thought out. What else ya gonna do but work out those kinds of academic problems when you’re living a block from skid row and it’s hard to tell where your next meal’s coming from sometimes.
 
but no matter
no mind
that’s all
behind
us now
get it
driving fast
write off
the past
and then the hush that came before the roar…

It’s as if
the sea does part
but
these days
it
happens
on the
freeway

Wednesday is a goth girl

“Never give up. Never let things out of your control dictate who you are.”
Unknown

The mornings are cool near the desert and life begins sluggishly because it stays up late. The to do list creeps up slowly following like a hungry dog, starved for attention, as they always are. Dogs are in fact bottomless pits for that, and perhaps that is the problem between us and dogs. There really aren’t any because we want to be needed so absolutely, so resolutely, so infinitely because it makes us feel loved and we want to be loved, salutated, abbreviated, and exonerated more than any marketing meme expert will ever be willing to annotate and tell you.

I play with words because the meaning has been knocked out of them by a fast cash paced society where we are all just moving along the moving sidewalk of life, through the airport of existence, looking out for crazy bombers to lose their nerve when faced with the absurdity of a plan that includes killing yourself for someone else, and yes, that includes you, God, and you know what, that’s why god loves me. If you understand that, then you are a Buddhist koan, answering itself just like Narcissus knew that looking inward would be the place to start.

However, the ‘fable’ warning only poets and biologists seem to ‘get’ was that if you go too deeply into the inner me, you, narcissus alone without an ‘other’ (first caveman sort of thing), you can drown. Like chimpanzees, we need OTHERS. We rely on our fellow kind, the humans and the people who look like humans, not so much the alien race pretending to be human (the guys in suits planted in certain supposedly strategic positions around the world) or the hybrid shape shifters who wreak havoc on our guardian angels (who prefer to be more like us and are known to slip up on occasion which just keeps the good-evil thing in a bit more of a fair game, because then they have to make up for it).

Some will say: I DON’T UNDERSTAND A WORD YOU ARE SAYING.
Some will think: OH THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT THIS THAT IS DELIBERATE.
Some will analyze: AND THAT IS WHY IT’S ALL JUST STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS DRIVEL WITH NO BASIS IN REAL LITERATURE.
Some will realize: THINK AGAIN.

I may always need a re-write but the way I phrase things and the words I play with are based on a long-standing study of literature in a way you probably can’t even imagine, so if you do have feedback like I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A THING YOU ARE SAYING, it would be nice to know more specifically why you ever read a thing I write and why some of those things resonate with you, even if you don’t ‘understand’ me. That’s one of the harshest things to hear–it’s actually easier for them to not agree with you or not like the way you write than to have someone you have trusted, admired and felt comfort in, albeit fleeting as every passing kindness is in these brutally distantly close times, tell you in some off-hand, dismissive way that you make no sense to them, and actually, come to think of it, never have.

That was part of the elusive heartbreak files, which only served to cause more heartbreak in the end.

I am only trying to monetize my pain so I can use it to pay for the happy ending I intend to live out for the rest of my days.

Prometheus has a mistress

yet it is not
surprising
that few people know this

Icarus
ascending
nobody cares
this time
it’s hot in
the desert
she is sick
of wasting time

granted,
the mistress must
wait
each day
for
him to come
home from
workprometheus hurts

AH, Prometheus
I could love you
better than
Athena
Prometheus
moulder of mankind from clay
tortured by Zeus, reborn every day?

accelerated then degenerate
as is
the ancients way

The last days of January

I came back to cottage # 43 to take a nap but instead polished off the Glenfiddich 17 (or possibly 12, I can’t recall because the bottle has already been taken to the recycling bin) and went through the box of cards I found in my father’s closet. You see, he is an amazing artist, despite having become a medical doctor because his own parents thought his dreams of becoming a wildlife manager were not going to provide him with enough God-almighty dollars, and so he has over 6,000 (at least) photographs loaded on his iMac which I have been wrestling with the past week to get his iPad set up so he can look at butterflies.

He perks up when he hears a birdsong and we tried to play the identify this song game but of course apple wanted someone’s credit card number for the free app, so I gave them mine which is always dubious as I can’t seem to live off the edge for more than a year or two at most (having decided to do exactly what my grandparents warned against–pursuing my first love, well actually more like third, and choosing a ‘career’ in film and television. (The first two are poetry and photography, with a hint of horses, the ocean and little creatures in there as sub-categories).

Back to the day at hand. My father keeps his room at 90 degrees or more. I am now wearing a t-shirt in Ohio after 8 inches of snow fell. This from a girl who does well in hot, humid climates, but loves snow because I never get to see it living in Los Angeles and now I guess I love snow because I guess you could call these pre-hot flashes for my pre-menopausal state, which I have self-diagnosed being too poor for even Obamacare.

My grammar and syntax are not up to par, and for that I apologize to all my English teachers and professors, but not to Bukowski, Henry Miller or T.S. Eliot, my favorite writers. This is all their fault.

That’s the worst-written preamble to a confession I’ve written in a while.

LET US GO THEN YOU AND I

I sit down to go through my dad’s cards that he has made (photographs of birds, butterflies and petroglyphs) because I want to send thank you cards to all my friends who have rallied to send me here to see him for what could or could not be our last time seeing each other in the physical realm. I love my dad for many reasons — not the least of which being he is actually my adopted father, and for some reason, we have always just ‘got’ one another from the watermelon seed spitting contests, to playing poker for M&Ms to today when he flipped off the nurse (who I ‘luckily’ met later and agreed) with a gesture I can replicate but not explain and we laughed the way that Walkers laugh. She is a bitch, this nurse. I have let her know with my body language and explanation of how I clean his urinals because they stink of piss.

I apologize in advance, retroactively and from afar, so bear with me, there’s a story here in this roasted chestnut and for those of you who say you don’t understand me, well yes, you could hire me an editor or just leave me the fuck alone.

I sit down on the ‘love seat’ in his cottage and start going through the box of cards (one thing that did not have blood on it from his ‘recent’ ambien-induced sleep-walking fete that took him into his closet and left him bloody–thanks Cleveland Clinic best heart doctors in the world jerk-offs for not caring about your patients, even the ones who were residents and interns at your esteemed medical establishment, and me, I was born there–go figure) — and I start looking at the cards and choosing which one goes to Ashley, and Val, and Virginia, and the lovely high school friends who have so kindly helped me in a time of need that I don’t like one bit — and I started to cry as I have been doing lately, and I am not a crier. I hate crying. I am the person you can cry to. I am the strong one. I am the one who has nothing to lose while you have everything, and I can always make you feel better (emotionally that is, let’s not go to that other place right now)…

Because — well I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. I am crying right now.

It’s like when I would drive down Kahuna Road on Kaua’i at a certain stage of my life and when I would hear “Rocky Raccoon” on my White Album maxell tape, I would start crying. ROCKY RACCOON? Yes, it used to make me cry when I would hit this one turn in the road where I could see the Pacific ocean just perfectly as I passed Kapaa High School.

My Dad’s current girlfriend (he left my mom after 38 years of marriage, our family pretty much imploded and with it any hope of me believing in marriage–I have remained UNMARRIED despite having common law status relationships with 2 men in my 49 years, who I ultimately don’t trust) told me that my father said to her — he wouldn’t do a thing differently in his life.

We’re like that–I never regret. I don’t believe in it.

Thank you for putting up with this stream of consciousness…

Now, I must wipe away those aggravating tears and prepare to meet the grandkids of a dear friend of my Dad’s who want to go into FILM as a profession. And you know what? I don’t discourage kids from that–I just try to save them some pain.

http://www.glenfiddich.com/us/

Delusions of Gladness for Spectacular Sadness

I cannot explain why this song makes me want to cry (or has in the past, now I slightly choke up before the next item on my to do list, storage full warning, why is there popcorn stuck to my bread, and why did I just call it my bread?)

I have to check the laundry. The room is a mess. I can only deduce this is part of my ‘process.’ I wanna write a punk song called, “Just Ask Tony Robbins.”

There’s always a reason to feel not good enough

-sarah mclachlan