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So, this is the process of time, the heavy fall and layering on of days like flakes of snow. Jesus told me one time in a dream.
"Time falls like flakes of snow, He said, and just piles up."
Jesus used to talk to me in my dreams sometimes, when He wasn't busy with other things and had a flake to spare. I wonder now, what the point of it all has been. I can't come up with an answer that I know isn't a lie. I think there may be no reason at all.
Recently, Jesus has stopped talking.
Winter is a background noise. The most genuinely reliable thing is the coming cold. Mindlessly mechanical, advancing, almost as audible as the crisped leaves of the sycamore trees that perish and fall into the creek.
Strange how the hills can be so frantic and green one day, and so motionless and geriatric the next. I feel like that.
I've had dreams within dreams as the autumn approaches. The core dream sweet-talks seductively, winking, reveals the bald headed cancerous end. It cries out in a faint voice that sounds like the crinkling of sycamore leaves, falling endlessly into wintry waters.
I am almost 50. I notice that I've been doing the same things for half a century. Honestly, I have yet to break a single bad habit that has stayed broken.
I keep going back to familiar behaviors as long as I can convince myself they are somehow not the same ones.
Like paranoia. I fear the world. It is a place I will never get to visit, except on tv. It's all so gigantic, far away. Unreal. From force of habit, I avoid it whenever possible. I don't go there. Not, into the real world, where people are.
"Like sands through the hour glass," so are the molecules falling off my body. LOL Feeling pretty calm today, drank a bottle of wine last night that came from Biltmore House. Drank it all. I sure needed that! A mini vacation measured in ounces and alcohol %. I realize I am afraid of dying. Like my mother. Bugged eyed, comatose, but wanting to live, just one more time. With her flaming red hair regrown and flowing down, and wearing a sparkling gold cocktail dress and dancing like a beautiful fairy tale queen. Happy. Just once before she goes. Before I go.
Last night's migraine was a whopper. I feel wrung out from it. At least I got to see pretty lights before it hit. I wish I had running water and a bathroom. I would love a nice hot bath right now. I'd soak and listen to Rachmaninov, my favorite. It's seems so chilly this morning. I dread the coming cold weather like another migraine! LOL I wish I had money, I wish my eldest daughter were not so far away, I wish we still lived on our farm, I wish I was younger, I wish I was better at wishing.
My uncle died in a state mental hospital, back before society decided that those folks had rights and shouldn't be treated so horribly. He had tried once to escape, back in the day, and they captured him and he didn't step foot outside that place for almost 30 years. He'd tried to swim across the Tennessee river while working on the hospital farm. Tried to swim that big ole river. God almighty! I wonder sometimes, as they shocked him again and again, if he'd thought about those deep swift waters and wished they had taken him. I'm sure he did.
Not a lot to say about it,
about yesterday that is.
at least it's quiet now and the noise has stopped.
The constant yard work around here
has died down.
Not the neighbors,
they haven't died.
The neighbors are pot heads and are tucked away nicely in their remodeled house.
one works at the university
and the other councils drunks and addicts.
I laugh a lot at that one.
Our whole world is built on lies and falsehoods.
It's hollow on the inside
where we can't often see
and turn away from quickly
if a glance exposes the empty truth.
Maybe I shouldn't say some of these things. Maybe if I write really small, I can say more that fewer people can see. Tomorrow, I will be a molecule and look for attraction and reaction.
Ordinarily, my head is a curtain over my real world. Inside, I have lot of things. Nice clothes, a fixed up house with running water, my good health, peace and quiet, and my wasted youth back.
Jesus, but I wish I had my 20's again to spend with Daniel. My God, what fun we'd have! Reminds me of that Carly Simon song,
"Too Late Baby."
There's an old woman that lives two houses up from here. I see her everyday. Walking, up and down, from the corner to here, every day. The hottest days this summer she would walk, kind of shimmery and silver, a wave of gray haired heat, pacing. Patient.
Narrow shoulders caved forward, little head bowed, shuffle, shuffle, clock like. I wonder what she thinks about staring at the pavement, balancing the sun on the back of her head. Even now if I look out the window, I'll see her crossing between our houses. Today, she's wearing a blood red sweater.
Once there was a man who wanted to be God, and not being able to become what he desired, he lay down sick in the forest, and fell asleep. Along came a maiden, who saw the man near death She took pity on him and took him to her hut to care for. One day, when the man had recovered, he felt his Godhood rising in him as before and seeing the pity for him in the face of the beautiful maiden, he became filled with self righteous indignation and killed her.
Moral of the story, let sleeping Gods lie.
The pears are rotted on the trees. Wasps and hornets are haunting their remains, fat, golden winged needles, foundering in the sweet unreachable juices. Damn them, I shake the trees, each one, rot falls on me and I am angrily cuffed by the pear stealers.
I know my neighbours see me out here, rattling the trees, ducking, flapping away. Let them laugh. I'll have one last pear this season if it hair-lips grandma!
There is something to be said for stubbornness, and hunger, and the last perfect pear hanging just out of reach.
Just don't know what it is.
On the way home last night I happened to see a big hand written cardboard sign propped against a tree in the front yard of a house not far from the mill.
It read, "Last night was your last chance to bother me!"
That creeped me out!
What in the world! This morning, their sign was gone.
Someone stole a garden statue from off our front porch a couple years ago, and I put out a sign that read, "Thou shalt not steal!"
A few days later, they took the sign too. You just gotta love a red neck community!
I couldn't tell what she was saying, it sounded like, "Wah wah wah, bla bla, bla bla bla." Like the adults on a Charlie Brown cartoon. I just nodded and smiled as that seemed the appropriate thing to do at the time.
Wondering if my words sounded similarly distorted to her, I watched in stunned silence as she got up took a heavy bronze Isis off the desk, and walked to the office window, broke the glass and jumped 4 stories to her death.
Newspaper headlines read, "Suicidal Woman Jumps From Psychiatrist's Window"
I probably shouldn't have nodded and smiled.
Racoons are evil. They are of the devil!
They ate our moon pies, ran off with a pack of paper plates, got into the panty liners, pooped on my drawing paper, and ate one of our mama cat's kittens. They ate a bag of grits and threw trash all over the floor. Two little ones fell through a patched up hole in the ceiling while we were watching tv!
They scream and yell and carry on across the creek. I think they are having sex over there, eating moon pies and wearing panty liners and laughing their striped asses off!
The far moon,
a carcass above the hills,
reflects the mouth of someone
My hair has tangled
in a tree,
and I am bleeding
in unusual places
like some ragged Jesus
draped in the thin
words of God.
Perhaps the sky will take me home.
Dangle me among the stars and spaces
between the echoes.
I watch the hard
face of the moon
hair tangled blasphemer.
I poke a cold white finger
through these wounds,
turn from the phosphorous mirror
and know what it is,
to be forsaken.
It's late now, I am the only one up. Just me and the dogs are awake, keeping watch.
One night, some time back, some men came and were fishing in the creek next to the mill, their voices were loud and harsh in the dark, I was alone then. Terrified. They sounded drunk and were laughing like men laugh when someone is getting hurt.
I'm afraid of drunk men. I always feel like a little kid when I hear them, laughing like that, in the dark. I pulled the covers over my head and just knew soon there'd be crying.
Some people believe in lizard men. You know, Lizard men, that look human as long as they drink blood. They can travel through time and masquerade as prominent people, like the queen of England and the president. The government knows about them, they're in cahoots with them. They experiment on us. You know, those, lizard men.
They like to have sex with women, and live in vast underground bases and think about ways to have sex with women and take over the world and drink blood and kill little kids and have more sex with women. You know, lizard men!
I'm still a bit concerned today about this lizard men situation. I hear they are the ones doing the cattle mutilations. They use the parts for the gray aliens to make a milkshake sort of thing. They float around in it like a hot tub and absorb nutrients through their skin. They're not like us you know.
Lizard men eat meat.
However, lizard men won't eat you if, you smoke, do drugs, drink alcohol or caffiene, you don't taste as good.
Maybe the government is behind all this anti smoking, drinking, drug doing stuff, they want us to taste good.
Twinkle twinkle little star.
go away, I'm twinkling!
Now, where was I?
Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder....
how I wonder....
ok, hang on, someone's bothering me,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
how I wonder what you are.
there, finally, I feel better now.
I'm on a roll!
up above the world so high,
like a diamond in the sky....
can I just finish this goddamned thing?
up above the world so high,
like a diamond in the sky,
twinkle, twinkle little star
how I wonder WHAT YOU ARE!!!!!
Damn, let me tell you, poverty is a bad thing! I know some folks go on about it as though there was some nobility to it, but I have yet to discover anything good about it.
The people that say, money won't buy happiness, just haven't been shopping in the right places! People who say money won't buy happiness probably have running water in their homes, and a bathroom and a car that runs pretty good, and medical insurance, and oh yes, food!
Absolutely every problem my husband and I have could be solved with money! Period.
We need money!
I did a big thing this afternoon! I visited my neighbor!
Ok, ok, I know that doesn't sound like much, but to me it's a big deal.
I took some salve I'd made and some soap. Trying to be neighborly.
I wanted to ask her if she knew what was up with the surveyor stakes next to us. "Smells like a trailer park to me," I said. "I think it's going to be storage buildings" she told me.
What are you gonna do?
"Wish it was a liquor store."
"Me too." she smiled.
We had arrived at common ground.
When I was 12 , I woke up one morning, and realised I was a martian.
Didn't think it, KNEW it.
I drove my family crazy, I had to see the school psychiatrist, take "crazy" kid tests. They told my parents to humour me. They tried.
I knew I was from Mars like some folks know there is a God, Jesus or (insert diety here). Based on faith alone, there IS a (insert diety here) because they believe there is. They don't have to take the crazy kid tests either. Just believe. That‘s enough.
Maybe I'm a Martian after all.
You know where one of the main lizard men bases is? Under the Mormons. The government lets them stay there. No kidding, right underneath Salt Lake City.
What a great hiding place for them, underneath thousands and thousands of pristine little saints. All walking about right overhead, being good and pure and wearing their special underpants. The Mormons, not the lizard men. I don't think lizard men wear underpants.
But how brilliant!
Who would guess?
What better place to hide meat eating, blood drinking woman abducting lizard men, than underneath a shell of righteousness.
Those lizard men are so sneaky.
I stopped being a Martian when I went through puberty and had to wear a bra.
I remember, standing in the backyard, looking at the stars, talking to my friend Ralph. He orbited the earth and communicated with me through the tips of my shoelaces. I told him, "Ralph, I can't talk to you anymore because I have to wear a bra."
It made me very sad. One of the hardest things I'd ever done. I felt like a traitor.
I still think about Ralph from time to time and wonder if he's still out there, waiting for further communications.
There used to be an old inn back up in the mountains in Mullin's Cove.
Dad told me about it once years ago.
He was the mail carrier there and knew all there was to know about that haunted place and it's strange people.
The man who ran the inn, dad said, was a mean son of a bitch. He suspected his wife had gotten pregnant by another man and so, when the baby was born, he threw it in the roaring fireplace.
Dad says, to this day, sometimes you can hear a little baby crying off in the woods.
I once had this chicken, she was the perfect chicken, she could have been a star! Her little feet were smooth, not crusty like some chicken's feet, her comb was bright and unblemished. Her shape, sublime. Just plump enough to look chicken sexy and she had the brightest eyes you ever saw. Her feathers?Perfect! Clean! Beautiful!
I loved that chicken.
One day, a neighbour's dog came from a mile away, walked in the yard and, picking her out of a whole flock of lesser chickens ambled over and snapped her neck.
Simple as that.
The perfect chicken was dead.
Never drink with a person you wouldn't have sex with sober. This is my motto. I live by it and encourage others to do the same. Elsewise, you could find yourself waking up some morning in bed with a 450 lb. creature-person that somehow, you found alluring the night before, and, said creature-person might look at you with love and tenderness from feeling wanted and desired and be finally happy. Said creature-person, may have decided against suicide now that she/he has found love and acceptance. She/he owes you their life.
Now look what you've done.
Drunk women are not pretty. I'm not saying this because I'm sexist, I'm saying this because I have seen no evidence to the contrary.
Ladies, if you must drink in public, try a shot of bourbon on the rocks, it may be slowly sipped, allowing the ice to melt, last a long time and one shot (unless you weigh around 15 lbs.) won't get you drunk.
Also, snack on dry foods while you drink. Pretzels, chips, popcorn, packing peanuts, whatever you have, to slow the alcohol and prevent your panties ending up on a pool stick like a surrender flag.
People with little or no class should not drink in public. Alcohol does not improve them in the least. If they must drink, they might consider going to places frequented by other creature-people where they can sway red eyed and slobbering and slur loudly at others of their own ilk.
Or, they could just stay home and drink alone while watching Jerry Springer and cry because the Irish midget's daughter is running away with a truck driver with three teeth. Or laugh at the man wearing diapers, licking the feet of the transgender prostitute's, sister's, blind hairdresser's diabetic dog.
I have a big gilded mirror hanging at the head of the stairs that used to hang in my great grandmother's boarding house. That mirror captured every person that ever stayed at that big pink house. It caught Arnold and his banjo and Bible, and grandma and grandpa, and mom and dad, countless unnamed visitors. Even me, on my first day of school ever. Wearing my plaid dress with the big white bib collar. Each one of us, in all our fleeting glory. Recently, it captured my little grandson in it's spotted silver. Captured and held him, just like me.
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