so it is 29th october 2008, and the planet still disregards us

well, it disregards us as much as it can. it still endures our abuses, still rotates, still revolves. our depressions and joys, deaths and births do not draw from it a nano-second of notice, in spite of all the ways in which we interfere with it.

read a blog entry yesterday about a couple being denied medicaid for some truly ludicrous reasons. the social service rat-race again. the social service rat-race that sat back and let my life be destroyed. i’m not the only person to be hamburgered in the bureaucratic grinder —  it’ simply that they ground me up even finer than they do most of their clients.

anyway, those are the kinds of blogs i most like to read — blogs about people wrestling with real stuff, stuff that’s not easy or funny or smiley.

time for another off-the-cuff poem by a person who sleeps in a bandstand every night (thanks to human services):

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read…  Spite and malice…  Scealta liatha…

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25 opt, saturday, still 2008, still living outdoors in turners trolls

fussy-assed, fudge-mouthed, fog-brained bimbo…  jeeze, I think I know her. I think I know lots of hers.

I always thought that if I wandered through this planet long enough, I’d find just a few people who were more, and meatier, and deeper, and more interesting than most humans are, but if it hasn’t happened by now, I guess it never will. I have distilled my view of the human race down to a very brief formula, born of repeated hurt, betrayal, and bullying:

             men are cold and clueless; women are cold and vicious

Oh, maybe those exceptions I always hoped for do in fact exist somewhere. But it seems I’m not going to run into them. Here I am living outdoors, with certain people who’ve known me at least casually for over twenty years. Does any one of these self-proclaimed “christians” offer me a couch or a spare room? My loathing for so-called christians grows in strength every single day that they walk or drive right by me and ignore me.

           —–ogden nash?

well, let them die.

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Friday 24 October 2008     Turners trolls

Ever since I learned about Cassandra, in college, I’ve identified very strongly with this mythological figure. She was a member of the cursed House of Atreus, and she had an affair with the god Apollo. While he was delighted with her, he gave her the gift of prophecy. But later, in a rage because she had been unfaithful, he had to retaliate. Greek gods weren’t allowed to take back their gifts, but they were allowed to give other gifts that would nullify the orginals. And Apollo, in his rage, had to leave Cassandra with her prophecy gift, but he followed it up with the curse that no one would ever believe her. And so she spoke truth all of her life, and was never believed.

As a person with Asperger’s, who has never made the amount of eye contact that neurotypicals seem to require, I’ve been labelled by many, many people over my lifetime as either a liar or a paranoid or a fantasist. After all, people who won’t make enough contact are obviously lying, and may even be nuts. And I, the Aspergian, have lied in my lifetime less than anyone else I’ve known, and I haven’t made up untrue stories about people or events, and I haven’t imagined things out of thin air. I’ve been calling myself Cassandra in my thoughts for decades.

Being the homeless bum that I am, living now in a park, I spend a lot of time here in the Turners library to be indoors. Fishing through an old book of early female amerikan poets yesterday,  I found one I’d never heard of before, and whose every poem in the anthology I liked. Here is a particular favorite. 

Cassandra……..      louise bogan

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oct 24, friday, 2-0-0-8    turners outdoor living

 It comes and goes, of course. The way many things of the heart and emotions seem to do. Swelling and receding, like seawaves. But in these seven months since my life and my loves were ripped from me,  the death wish is almost always strong and present. Shame and humiliation are constant seawaves too, living outdoors as I do, having been turned into a bum by a landlady, a crime-chick, and a great a walrus we call the DMH, as I have. And general reflection on the countless, literally countless, times I’ve tried to build a relationship of meaning with another person. All the jitters that go with it; fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of another loss. Reflecting on these things in my hobo bed and in my hobo days, I feel an enormous sense of futility, yes, and also of exhaustion.  I am 100% mentally and physically exhausted by trying to exist in time and space with humans.

A wee ditty that goes to my point:

und das ist für heute das Ende

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thurs oct 22,  2-0-0-8  gaia, living outside in Turners Turds

I am majorly raging on Mr. Matthew today, so here it comes. He’s got a goddamned nerve believing, as he does, that he’s a good guy. Going through all kinds of self-sacrifice to be a pretend bum on the streets and play his undercover games and fight the really big criminals. Take a gunshot to his neck. Be a hero. Truth, justice and the amerikan way. Bla bla bla. And all of this feeds his ravenous ego in such a way that he glows with self-importance. I’ve seen more than once.

He cannot be a hero leaving his sociopathic job and being a man who loves a woman well. He sees no heroism in that. His ego would not get enough puffing up being just that. It’s too pedestrian, too lacking in egocentric drama. He has told me a bit about the shooting. He’s told me he’s the best undercover guy. He says these things glowing with pride.

I don’t believe for a second in any “noble” motives for doing the work that he does, and for continuing to do it after he fell in love with me, after he knew I felt like bait, after he saw how much the homelessness and the separation from my animals was hurting me. There is nothing noble about staying in a dangerous and often lawless and often cruel (to pieces of bait like me) job, only to inflate one’s ego, a sense of one’s own grand importance and supposed indispensibility. NO ONE is indispensible.

The brave man, to me, is the one who can gain mastery over his ego, enter into committed love, taking the risk that it may not end happily. To put one’s heart and one’s soul on the line, rather than one’s neck.

And what about you internet folk, you tinkle toys. What is it you want? Judging from popular blogs I’ve looked at, you want a lot of adolescent posturing and joking around and acting like life is just a romp. Not me. But I’m old. I want blogs that discuss people’s real lives and real thoughts and real feelings, the “nice” feelings, and the other kind too.

another one for Matthew, the best undercover stooge:

still 20 October 2-0-0-8… this day hasn’t croaked yet… still living outdoors

Sister Moon is the the title of a book of poetry I once wrote, back in my own life. I believe the manuscript is one of the ones the psychotic landlady threw into the dumpster when she was moving me into her talons on 3 April 2004. I haven’t seen it since second April 2004. Anyway, I dug out the title again because it fits what I’m going to prattle on about today.

I wrote a post about feeling sisterhood with someone recently {this post has not been copied to wordpress}, and someone showed up to add their own tag to my post, yet again. I’ve qvetched about it before, and I will again, because it’s one feature of Soulcast that I can’t stand: you’re allowed to put tags on other people’s posts. I’m a proprietary writer, and I don’t want strangers messing with my work.

So I suspect very strongly (for reasons you don’t know) that Moonriver is the one doing most of these unwelcome tags. Moonriver loves both head games and code.  Not to mention falsity. So, my own tag for the aforementioned post was sorority, but some unwelcome kibbitzer, probably the Moon Man, added sorores.

A little parody of the old song lyrics (whose writer I must call Anonymous), for my anti-pal Moonriver.

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oct 20, mon 2-0-0-8

still still dwelling in pesky park, turners turds…

Moonriver has left me a comment. He reads my poems with interest. Wow. Isn’t that sweet.

Occasionally I take a gander at Moonriver’s blog, but drowining in fictional bullshit isn’t my preferred way to meet the grim reaper. Truth is a beast that Moonriver wouldn’t recognize if it bit him in the ass.

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That isn’t love, someone said to me today, in reference to Lord Matthew’s “love” for me, and it sure ain’t the first time someone’s made that comment.  Oh, Matthew’s in something all right, but it damned well ain’t love.

So the tag someone added to this post (it’s not here on the WordPress version) is Mondfluss. Not only yet another unsolicited tag, but perhaps also a confession? Mondfluss means Moonriver.

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still  sat 18th october 2-0-0-8. the day won’t leave.

———-  tina, tina, it’s the day but not the date. i’m so tired, lille one, and still living outdoors, that i forgot two days ago. you were so good to tony, and so good for him, and next to all that, what do spoiled little boys from private-school pamper-factories know about love. nuthin atall.

i’ll go to the kitchen window if I can, tina. no one lives there right now. i’ll go to the kitchen window like i did for liam, and forgot to do for sèamas. nine years and it’s way too long not to see you, not to see tony and tina and tina and tony in love   —————————————

                      ~~~~~~~   jim croce

i didn’t swallow last night, but i must. last night was too hard. can’t have nights like that. never did anything to deserve this meanness, this abuse. have to swallow, and go on tony-tina thinking while i do. send them my way, great loves, your energies, your molecules, and help me slay the maybe-dragon. been a captive of that dragon way too long.

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18 October, year 2-0-0-8

moons and junes and ferris wheels  (j.mitchell)

                                              ………………………….love

you laced the night with raging storms, you threw the lightning ‘cross the sky, you kissed my mouth with promises. you burned me with your lies.    (j.brel)

                                              ………………………………….. more love

and when all has come to dust, I will kill you if I must, I will love you if I can. And may I never learn to scorn the body out of chaos born, the woman and the man.   (l.cohen?)

                         ………………………….  and love again

Ever notice that for some people love is so straightforward and simple, and for others it’s one horror show after another? Due to such horror shows, I have scorned the body out of chaos born. No, didn’t turn gay or anything else draconian. Just backed myself away from the whole lacerating mess.

Every guy “in love” who lies or customizes the truth or moans and groans to manipulate a woman or whines and pules so Mommy will fix it for him should gargle one half hour with the OLD Listerine, the really mediciny stuff.

Matthew:    ecce mendax

swallowhollowswallows, from which we get a nelogism, whollow. so if you’re whollow, are you partly whole and partly hollow? I have no idea.

pink-and-blue dizzybrained last night. blue sky and pink clouds over this whole town, and I got dizzy rotating in a circle to see it all. pink-blue dizzybrained.

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

oct 17, 2-0-0-8   still living outside in Turners fails

or is it ergotic? forgot to look it up. yes, I still use a dictionary made of paper and ink. motion that covers all possible trajectories over time. some people’s lives are like that. mine hasn’t been. one trajectory only: straight down.

the broken-hearted know no second spring again … from the old folk song… but no one thing holds true for all. some of the broken get a second spring, some don’t. gyroscopic and myopic.

and there was on this post, when first written, a tag added by the infamous Moonriver: pensées.

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(sculpture available at www.toscano.com)

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