Terrified,
I stumble
Through the forest
Trapped in some other girl’s
Nightmare.
Lightning
Strikes each tree in turn
Everything turns to ashes
And we stand by
Watching
The forests burn
And then we turn
And we walk away
Leaving the vultures
To devour their prey.
Time to celebrate the first snowfall of the year which coincided with my first binge. A huge meal of vegetarian quiche and chips. At home I eat little and often. I was obliged to purge. As I listened to the ever entertaining Charlie Wolf. To use his own favourite insult against him: what an utter schmuck! ‘The one thing I dislike about this country (the UK,’ he announced to the nation, ‘is its devotion to the Welfare State.’ Well, bog off then, Mr. Wolf, and I strongly suggest that the next time you move away from the good old U.S of A that you do some research first. Or did someone put a gun to your head and force you to move here. I know – it must be frustrating, we’re so un-American. Well, guess what, there is a very good reason for that. And, speaking of the welfare state, I once corresponded with a medical student at Michigan University who was receiving S.S.D.I., Medicaid, living in section 8 Housing and driving a Saab. Just who is wedded to the Welfare State again? I know of no one in this country who is on state benefits and living in such luxury. Call me strange, but I think if you’re well enough to be a medical student you’re well enough to be relatively independent of the state. Charlie Wolf, it seems to me, revels in his own moral superciliousness.
Fearsome
Chapped reddened hands
Worn down by decades
Of work, work, work
And I tell her
That I cannot remember
The last time I spoke
I hold out my own hands
As soft
As ripe peaches. They yield
But still I cannot feel
Sporadically, I see
A vision
Of you floating before my eyes
Toughened by time in life
But in death you are
As you were before
And I see but still
I cannot hear
And I flee but still
I feel no fear
I often wonder if a close relative of mine is autistic or situated somewhere on the autistic spectrum. I handed him his Christmas present and he unwrapped it. No reaction. Resentment rose within me but then I wondered if he is capable of reacting. Aspergers syndrome is my amateur diagnosis. Half in, half out of the real world. A granite heart, incapable of feeling.
This Parkland’s fit for ambush
We are puritan, scathing, dismal to the last
As those grand coronations are diffused
Remnants of trees stripped down centuries ago
But the mutiny remains. Party after party
Voices, sounds, echoes, scents too pungent to inhale
We still don’t wish to sleep within those great stone walls
Together, we flee our erudite captors
‘But we cannot be pure without you’ they call
We are so sought after. They would not let us leave
A thong gathered around us. ‘Stay, Sainted ones,’ they say
‘Bur we are stained,’ we respond. A prickly silence ensues
Our captors – heads bowed and tearful – resume their blackberrying
On New Years Eve, last year I whispered to God, ‘Please, whatever Deity you worship. make life a thousand times more interesting than last year’. I remember whispering to God or some unidentifiable deity asking him to please, please, make my life interesting. Lesson Here Kids: ‘Be careful what you wish for. It may come true.’ That last quote was from the pen of the playwright: Oscar Wild in Lady Windemere’s Fan. I played a walk-on role in that play in out local Youth Theatre, before anorexia attacked with a vengeance..
Remember Martin Luther King urged us to judge people on the content of their character rather that the colour of their skins. I’d like to see that adopted for the ‘Feminist’ movement’, disparate as it is. acknowledging of course that that there are those who don’t wish to reach the dizzy heights of a comporate career. Individual cloice, anyone? I thought we were defending that position in Iraq.
Clearly, I do not advocate pullling troups out of Iraq and giving in to the terrorists. What would leave behind – carnage. They should really have gone onto Iraq in the beginning – marched onto Baghdad and obliterated Saddam and dynasty, But, strangely, no one paid and anttenion of my milistary plan because 1. I was atill at school. 2. I was a bit nutty 3. My voice was not raised loud amidst the thronging ‘Bring the Boys Home’
Out of the mouthes of babes, huh?
Eight hours to pass before my Mother arrives to collect me.
Writing however badly seems to take the edge off the anxiety
So Sick of Drowning 