“A prophesy that comes true, especially a negative prophecy, is a prophecy that has failed. One doesn’t prophesy for the purpose of being accurate. A prophecy is an attempt to warn or to prepare people to make a change, and if they make that change, then what they’re preparing for just may not occur.”
–Paul Solomon
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Morning Trip (191)
“Here, surrounded by the products of nature, often I sit for hours, while my senses feast upon the spectacle of nature. Here the majestic sun is not concealed by any dirty roof made by human hands, here the blue sky is my sublime roof.
When in the evening I contemplate the sky in wonder and the host of luminous bodies continually revolving within their orbits, suns or earths by name, then my spirit rises beyond these constellations so many millions of miles away to the primeval source from which all creation flows and from which new creations shall flow eternally.
When, now and again, I endeavor to formulate my seething emotions in music – oh, then I find that I am terribly deceived; I throw my scrawled paper upon the ground and feel firmly convinced that never shall anyone born on this earth be able to express in sounds, words, colors or stone those heavenly images that hover before his excited imagination in his happiest hours . . . yes, it must come from above, that which strikes the heart; otherwise it’s nothing but notes, body without spirit, isn’t that so?
What is body without spirit? Earth or muck, isn’t it? The spirit must rise from the earth, in which for a time the divine spark is confined, and much like the field to which the ploughman entrusts precious seed, it must flower and bear many fruits, and, thus multiplied, rise again towards the source from which it has flown. For only by persistent toil of the faculties granted to them do created things revere the creator of infinite nature.”
–Ludwig van Beethoven
Ranting about Feeling Abused
I have not been posting. I feel abused. I think I am literally being abused too, aside from the feeling. The things that I want to focus upon, the things that are my passion become lackluster and trite at such times. I get angry about this, as expression to me, is surviving, and then I loop right back around to feeling abused.
I just had a very angry thought about anyone calling me or using the word victim. I swear I will hit anyone who does with something that creates large amounts of physical distress. A person, that through no fault of their own, is also forced by society to feel like a whiny victim if they can’t take it. This forces the person to shut up and not get the assistance that the person might need. What about asking me(or said victim) if he or she might like some help. And then follow through on the offer–even if it conflicts with some internal register of emotions and situations to avoid. Please forgive me there, if I created some abuse of my own. My street is buried under so much shit, that it is becoming very difficult to tell which is my shit, to be cleaned and which belongs to someone else. That belonging to someone else category is a right bitch. I can work my hardest and my best to have the life that I desire–really and not from some crap from a book, and when others in my life are abusive I am stuck with their consequences. This is beyond cruel and I feel powerless to do anything about it.
I twist and I turn trying to do the right thing and accept responsibility for my own reacting, my own fear, my own appeasing–efforts to be myself no matter what, and in so doing I believe that in some ways the abuser(s) are alleviated of responsibility. I feel fear not knowing if the abuse is a concious choice, which would make it simpler for me to make a decision or if it is wrapped within mental and neurological disorder, and the abuser cannot notice that they are doing it. Everyone has a rather vicious opinion on it. They love to share it. The load then just gets heavier. I am not doing it right, again. (please share your thoughts, I think it’s just part of the cycle and I vaguely recall that sharing and getting feedback DO help at some point)
How does a person who has been severely abused in the past NOT view life on life’s terms as abuse? Who defines what abuse is? Is the feeling of being buried a maladaptive reactionary thing from the past that is skewing the view now? If my last question has a yes answer, that will mean I lie down and swallow until I can swallow no more and I wish to cease this existence. I remember, when I was very small and growing up a defiant voice from my middle that would shout when feeling a need not to exist. “Why should I put you all out of your misery!? I will not give you what you want!”
I do not want to be my age coming along as I have, enduring all that I have and having given up all that I have for my children to have to endure abuse like this. I do not know what the next right thing is. If I do know, it just doesn’t seem right, and I keep waiting so that I do not cause injury, harm, or unforeseen consequences to humans unequipped to realize nor to understand them.
The sun is out the sky is one of my favorite shades of blue. The breeze is cold, invigorating. I am looking in at it from the chair at the computer, trapped on this side of the glass. I even resent having to miss such glories to think about it. My writing is an attempt to share this part of my daily inventory with other human beings, to see what might occur. It is too hard to tarnish that good outside of the window with these quivers and tears and shakes of fear and anger. So the last things I have that are good and that never let me down, are also being stolen away. I am in tears.
Masks Roles, Stereotypes and Identities
Made of Stone, Thinking, Choices, Identification of Behavior
The thing with this is, due to true experience, I can smell it sooner. This is good. This is also bad, reacting, while it can save my life, can also have me seeing zebras when all that is present is white and black. Maybe this is all still me on the inside when I am screaming and I think that expression is making it to the outside and being erased, I am wrong. Sometimes keeping my side of the street clean looks a LOT like giving others excuses for their own behavior, a lot like enabling abuse. I wish for strong people around me who can handle when I need to blow up and use music to speak more loudly for me and to forgive me when I am mistaken.
I wonder how many times someone makes a choice to give up a thing they wish to express to me because they do not wish to weigh upon me. I am quite sure that it happens. The thought makes me glad and full of sorrow at once that I might inflict what has me feeling like nothing, upon another who is giving me the gift of them.
I wonder if this too, is just life. If the process isn’t to an end, how is there balance? I’ll be rather angry and laugh if the answer is like what I hear in my head. It’s like the law of large numbers.
I REALLY HATE BEING INVISIBLE. and yet, I really like being invisible. If I cannot work that out, how the hell can I expect someone else to do so. Bad, bad form Elisa!
First Train Home
I woke at 5:25 a.m. today. I tried to lie there and to drift off. I heard sounds of fluid spurting out.
The cat had wanted attention, more than anything else, so we have been attempting to extinguish such displays.
Uhm, perhaps this morning, she really did need to be let out. I have yet to find the cat pee, or the source of the noise.
It did get me dashing out of bed, thank you cat, for that, I think.
I let her outside. I was treated to cardinal serenades back upstairs in my room by the opened window as I ran through my morning routine, an hour or two early. I am productive so far! I wonder if this level of alert and function will last!? I think that might be nice. I will appreciate it, even if I end up not being able to sustain it today.
I updated Goodreads. I have been bringing bag after bag full of books home from the library. Some look and feel good. Some I quickly realize that I should have listened to my nose wrinkling brain, and let them there. Normally, to stretch my tastes, I MUST complete reading a book even if I dislike it. I cannot recall why I do this. I thought some of it was due to the Goodreads challenges. I can’t let me count a thing as having been read, if I haven’t read it cover to cover. I also do not like wasting of time. I think that I might have a very funny-odd way of deciding waste. I made a neat satisfying done pile to return to the library today.
I am thinking that I might go back to my new community garden plot–YES! I got one this year! I am only able to weed a few minutes at a time. I am really glad that the ground appears to have been well worked and it is pretty easy to get the weeds out. I am not sure if I will grow food or a witchy garden. Perhaps some combination of both. The plants and flowers that I have a wish for, work well as pollinators and for bringing the creatures that make things mesh and eat the ‘pests’. Speaking of eating. The cat has created a mural of evisceration on the walk in front of the door.
Chores now, running through the head. When did the kitchen here become Hell? My insides are horridly unhappy over this. The heart DID love cooking. Everything involved with it now, allergies, disorders of my household, and simply screaming, and not physically being able to clean it make it a mountain.
Inside, I think…make sun tea and lemonade in the new half gallon jars. Make mayonnaise, it is the base of many simple things. Outside, I suddenly decide that the feeling in the house and perhaps the literal clutter, requires a clearning. I begin by lighting the candle and smudging my room. I have tea. A smile of satisfaction and on, to music, Imogen Heap, and her train for home. I think of that train of addiction and how it just keeps on going without you. I think in a broader usage –important concept of generalization here, it reminds me that when I think that I get off of the train and check out of life, I’m going to roil along like being stuck in an undertow or roaring forward on that train.
“Do what you feel, just how you like…”–Imogen Heap
A Request Granted! (imagine pink, silver, and purple sparkles and fire flying forth)
Frustration…action
First,
and then…
Elisa's Spot 