Blast From The Past

Lest we rest, Triumphant
In silence

With our defiance displayed in an array of violence

By the tyrants, who's confidence in gods and monuments

Outweigh the judgements, laid by our government

an institution of confusion, the result of a cranial contusion

It;s just an illusion

Created for the usual, delusional masses

Those crazy bastards

  When I was a mere bud of the woman I am only beginning to blossom as, I wrote that. 13 years ago, as a young pup I had more of a sense of self than I do now. It's time to get back to my roots.

  This weekend has been a blast from the past, and has brought the realization that I know who I am, I simply learned to forget. Now, I remember.

Delving in

  What, why, when, how, who, if, maybe, could it, am I?


  So many, many, many questions that I do not as of yet have answers to, not that I have a desire to have all of the answers, but reality being what it is, and how it is, and knowing that I am in my own little world most of the time, it needs to be, to exist, somewhere outside of my own little internalization. I must be, It must be a reality close to me to survive, to exist, to allow. To be perceived by the knowing, the intimacy of dreams.
  I want for tomorrow to come without incident, to be a new day, a new life, and new desire, a new enemy to chase. I want, I want, and I know that in wanting I will eventually perceive the world in terms that are beyond desire, and roll in the reality in which I must certainly live.
  If in the living, the lusting, the chasing, the fighting, the flight from all of the previously stated, I am able to passionately latch onto some sort of outward persona, to "Become" whatever, whoever, and whenever I am supposed to be, yet also maintain myself,to some smallish degree, at least in the little box- the one in which I so long lived... I will have succeeded at life.
  Looking around me, seeing through their eyes, it is so frightening to see myself as they see me. I seem to be so out of place, such a candidate for the isle of misfit toys, I am, I was broken. A rag doll without her rags, not limp, but empty, devoid of fluff, of happy stuff, the stuff that matters.
  For the answers, the ones that lie beneath, the ones that matter, beyond the scratched lens on the surface of the water, what lies deeper, buoyant, bobbing gently below the surface, perfectly balanced, I must weigh myself down to reach.

Roiling in the eye

  The sky is overcast, the air moistly heavy with rain that is beginning to fall. All around me the nesting birds call for their mates to flutter home, as a large military aircraft that I can not identify rumbles over head, and on its tail thunder comes rolling in.
  Like a wave crashing to shore, gentle salty breezes wash over me, raising goose flesh on my arms. Another plane soars above us, somewhere above the clouds, again trailed by rolling, crashing waves of thunder, as another late spring storm makes its way up the coast.
  The air around me is peaceful, and yet somehow charged, it is the calm before the storm. Now the sky behind me darkens to a green, surrounded by dusky gray, like being in the eye of an ostrich feather. Thunder crashes again, rumbling and rolling, like the roiling surf. The storm brewing is not unlike that which is in my own mind. The fury which is encapsulated in the eye of memory.
  Local wildlife feels it too, so I sit and gawk as they scurry about, seeking shelter from the storm. As I too, seek refuge, and begin internalizing, the eye of the storm, and its beauteous calm will soon be upon me.

  Today my sewing machine bit the dust. I feel like I want to cry, as I look in the mirror at my tattered, ill fitting jeans, and typical T-shirt... I was in the middle of some new clothes. Yeah, I want to cry. Not just because of the damned machine either.
  Some days, like today, I feel so lonesome. I love my babies, and I really don't get all that much out of superficial interaction, but I also feel trapped in the realm of motherhood, and can not escape. I want conversations that stimulate more than my gag reflex as someone discusses their latest diaper blow out, or which formula they finally chose after their baby reacted badly to the first 3- because "I couldn't breastfeed"... If I had just a nickel every time I heard that, I would be a rich woman.  I want to mean something to someone, anyone, other than just mom.
  Today I looked in the mirror, and I saw everything I told myself I would never become, and it frightened me to no end... Realizing that I am losing my grip on who I am as a person, after fighting so hard to preserve it for so long- It's as though I looked up at the dangling baby grand hanging by a thread above my head, and couldn't shake the enormity of it's shadow, even when I stepped aside.

  Is it wrong of me to suddenly take an interest in "girly" things? Is it even for me, or am I just willing to put on an act so that I can get as far as a hello? I am not sure. Furthermore, would it even work?  I'm not exactly fitting the profile of beauty, even on my most attractive of days.
  It sickens me to see someone who has nothing to offer, be offered everything, because they fit the profile- they are fun to look at, even though they are as empty as a whiskey bottle in an alcoholics rubbish bin. Yet they are considered an asset because they are empty- Just look @ women who are in sales and you'll see what I mean... They thrive in that position because there is nothing else for them, they are nothing more than a showpiece. Yet they succeed when someone who is qualified is left to the wayside- Am I the only one who is sickened by this?

  K, so here goes... I quit writing again, not just this, but everything. I am in a uncommunicative state at present, and there are some (though very few, as I am a bit of a recluse these days) who are wondering where I am. Or maybe I give myself too much credit, and the fact of the matter is that no one is wondering anything, because I am an open person, and it is obvious that I have regressed back into my plastic bubble. Contradiction in terms- Recluse being an open person! LOL @ myself! Truth is stranger than fiction.

  After an interesting convo with the manimal on Sunday, I was heavily struck with the realization that I can not do what i desire, for there is no path forward. I have to market what I am good at, what meager skills I possess... I would love to be a Doula, but the fact of the matter is that it will put me in contact with too diverse a group, and I doubt my personal ability to remain neutral, which is absolutely necessary to be helpful, rather than harmful... A lot of people disagreed with my birth choices, but the simple outcome was the same with all three- uneventful, uncomplicated, unmedicated, unintervened, natural child birth. That is what I preach, and I know that I can not support someone who decides to risk it all by going the procedural route that most MDs preach. That is where I would be doing harm, although for the greater good.
  Next task: Figure out how to be social, and integrate myself into some form of society in which I am likely to find solace, and perhaps, even succeed at becoming a productive participant in what lies beyond the safety of my plastic bubble of sanity.
  The question that follows: Can it be done? (or am I too far gone, recessed into the crack in reality which allows me to function without any physical social connections, and very few interpersonal relationships.)   What I fear is that I am so offended by the shallow ones- the one who have NOTHING to offer, and are a leach, a likable leach that people keep around for amusement- that I may never find my niche.

  The resentment that I harbor for my parents, and particularly my mother is almost deafening- it is a constant ringing in my mind, not at the back, like a gnat flying about, buzzing in and out of my thoughts, but a damn relentless blood sucking mosquito, eating me alive.
  She now admits that it was wrong, what they did, isolating me, especially when I plead with them to let me free- let me go to school! Not realizing at the time that what they had done was illegal, and they would have to answer for it sooner or later. Now I belong on the Island of misfit toys... No matter how hard I try, something is broken.
  I feel so awkward with my peer group, especially when they learn that I have a child who is anywhere from 4-8 years older than theirs... Seems the stigma of being a Teen Mom never wears off, they just find new ways to judge you, and your over achieving public school attending, vegetarian child. No matter what I do, she will always have to live with it too. Even though she is a high functioning child, the label is still there- she must be illiterate, poor, white trash. OK, they have me on the poor part, sure are. It's life, you make due with what you have, not what you don't.

  AAAHHHHH!!!! I am just so fucking frustrated, I want to be "fixed", and for the sake of survival, just fit in! OMG, I can't believe I just said that... No, I don't want to fit in, I do not want to be a sheeple, I just want to look like one during daylight hours so that they'll accept me into their money making world.