The world of internet scams has hit home for me...again.
This time it's the Nebraska Book Company/Tyson Motsinger scam. It goes like this:
NBC buys a book off a third-party seller--mostly textbooks--and sometimes as soon as three days later demands a refund. The way amazon is set up, the seller is responsible for all books and if they do not give a refund they are kicked off of amazon. NBC does not return books unless the seller sends NBC a certain amount by paypal, and often still does not return the book.
There is no proof of what they do with these supposedly damaged or missing books, but they own 27 textbook bookstores in the US so I presume they resell them and make mucho bucks.
Amazon doesn't ONLY sit back and do nothing, it bans sellers from the website who refuse to refund these scammers.
***growl***
I finally caught them after they ordered two books in a row to the same address but with different names and suite numbers. I checked it out and realized I've been 'refunding' a huge company over $300.00.
To Nebraska Book Company:
You directly stole from CSA survivors when you scammed me. Everything I have extra goes to Guatemala or friends of mine who were raped. You also largely steal from college kids. Hey, at least my pocket book, flush with fuck money, can handle your thieving. These are college kids you're scamming, they don't have much of anything. Who steals from kids anyway?
To Amazon.com
Shame on you!
To Other Victims of this Scam:
I refunded NBC and cancelled all the books I was able to stop en route and refunded them with a letter telling them to never buy from me again. In the long run, it's best for me. I work with amazon, the shittiest book company around, because it is the largest. You might not want to sell off amazon anymore, and I'm looking at my options to quit amazon altogether. Right now I'm not rich enough or powerful enough to do something about it, but when I find some options, I'll opt out of amazon forever and wag my judgmental finger in their scheming, book blaspheming faces.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Videogame Land
For the past three weeks I've been playing a video game--Oblivion by Bethesda Works--pretty much 20/7. I've barely been up off my computer to go to the bathroom and get water. I just wiggle and swallow alot.
There is a storyline within the game that allows me to become an assassin. I decided to "try it" became so upset at the seceding storyline that I burst into tears and restarted the game altogether with a completely new character, killing the head of the Dark Brotherhood the moment I got a chance. I feel Ender-ized. What would the academy make of how I play my game?
I am SUCH a geek. And OCD. And other things, too.
There is a storyline within the game that allows me to become an assassin. I decided to "try it" became so upset at the seceding storyline that I burst into tears and restarted the game altogether with a completely new character, killing the head of the Dark Brotherhood the moment I got a chance. I feel Ender-ized. What would the academy make of how I play my game?
I am SUCH a geek. And OCD. And other things, too.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Grace.
I was reading of an SBC pastor who said he "erred on the side of grace" and kept quiet about babies being molested by a church deacon. It makes me so frustrated, a beautiful spiritual language being used in defense of simply not caring about one of the greatest gifts we have: children. That response, that right there, that's what makes religion anathema to abuse survivors.
Doesn't this guy have any idea what grace is? Isn't he a pastor? Hasn't he studied the great minds AND the great hearts that the human race has put out?
It's the line and metaphor between the crucified God and the resurrected God. They are both God, you can no more separate both aspects than you can separate a knotted rope and still call it a knot. To get us to grace, biblically, God died. There's no getting past that. Grace is not cheap, and the pastor was not the one paying, so it was not his grace to give.
I don't think you can borrow this type of grace from a child, or ask for it. It can only be stolen, and when it is stolen, it is no longer grace.
That pastor, he is a thief.
Doesn't this guy have any idea what grace is? Isn't he a pastor? Hasn't he studied the great minds AND the great hearts that the human race has put out?
It's the line and metaphor between the crucified God and the resurrected God. They are both God, you can no more separate both aspects than you can separate a knotted rope and still call it a knot. To get us to grace, biblically, God died. There's no getting past that. Grace is not cheap, and the pastor was not the one paying, so it was not his grace to give.
I don't think you can borrow this type of grace from a child, or ask for it. It can only be stolen, and when it is stolen, it is no longer grace.
That pastor, he is a thief.
Books and Babies
I've been collecting Spanish books and activity books for the kids in Xela so when I go back I'll bring full suitcases. Alot of them are great but some of these books I find just won't cut it. Case in point: Heritage Studies for Christian Schools--with activities including coloring Queen Anne's crown and making a paper Liberty Bell. It's great with homeschooled or private schooled American kids, but with sexually abused K'iche babies...sorry, I think I'll pass. Regardless, I'm interested in going through it and getting ideas. These activities are so clever. I WISH they'd work.
Another good book found: no death, no fear by Thich Nhat Hanh. I know what I'll be doing tonight!
Another good book found: no death, no fear by Thich Nhat Hanh. I know what I'll be doing tonight!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Obama's Kids
It irks me that people complain about Obama's little girls getting the H1N1 flu vaccine. Can you imagine the widespread panic of Sasha and Malia came down with the swine flu?
If they can't be protected, who can? The fear would multiply like crazy.
I'm pretty sure I came down with it a few weeks ago. My next-door neighbor had it, and I brought him some stuff from the store. Then I got the symptoms and was out of it for two weeks. If what I had really was H1N1, it's just a pumped up version of the flu, after all. Babies and old people are at risk, it is pretty nasty, but I'm not exactly perfectly healthy and I survived it just fine, without any doctor visits or antibiotics.
Everyone is so scared, and it seems a bit out of proportion.
If they can't be protected, who can? The fear would multiply like crazy.
I'm pretty sure I came down with it a few weeks ago. My next-door neighbor had it, and I brought him some stuff from the store. Then I got the symptoms and was out of it for two weeks. If what I had really was H1N1, it's just a pumped up version of the flu, after all. Babies and old people are at risk, it is pretty nasty, but I'm not exactly perfectly healthy and I survived it just fine, without any doctor visits or antibiotics.
Everyone is so scared, and it seems a bit out of proportion.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Heathcliff
H-----the Story of Heathcliff's Journey Back to Wuthering Heights by Lin Haire-Sargeant.
Worth diddly, but for a Bronte fan like me, I'm in fan-fiction heaven. Some writers question why anyone would want to write the continuation of their books, but honestly, when you fall into a world so utterly, how can you bear the silences? It's a great mystery that must be answered, even if by my own imagination.
I'm sure Haire-Sargeant is no Bronte family heir, but I'll tell you how it goes. I always dreamt of Heathcliff's time before Cathy, and after leaving Cathy to seek his wealth. He makes the book nearly horror with his brass cruelty. How did he become that way? His heart is so full of Cathy, and devoid of anything else. It's one of those loves, like Antony and Cleopatra, that drives the giver and receiver absolutely crazy. The old stories with such plotline as premise has been one of my favorite script.
One of the best things about London--the library. It was the first place I visited when I lived there. I spent my day off gawking in a darkened room at original writings by the Bronte's. I love them, I want what they're having!
Worth diddly, but for a Bronte fan like me, I'm in fan-fiction heaven. Some writers question why anyone would want to write the continuation of their books, but honestly, when you fall into a world so utterly, how can you bear the silences? It's a great mystery that must be answered, even if by my own imagination.
I'm sure Haire-Sargeant is no Bronte family heir, but I'll tell you how it goes. I always dreamt of Heathcliff's time before Cathy, and after leaving Cathy to seek his wealth. He makes the book nearly horror with his brass cruelty. How did he become that way? His heart is so full of Cathy, and devoid of anything else. It's one of those loves, like Antony and Cleopatra, that drives the giver and receiver absolutely crazy. The old stories with such plotline as premise has been one of my favorite script.
One of the best things about London--the library. It was the first place I visited when I lived there. I spent my day off gawking in a darkened room at original writings by the Bronte's. I love them, I want what they're having!
Monday, November 9, 2009
When I was with an ex-boyfriend in Southern California I bought and sold books--and I did very well. Then I ran for it, and ended up in Scotland. I left everything. My (nice) car, my dresses, my computers. I just got out of there. Most of it I never got back, and under the circumstances it really wasn't worth it to try and get it back. I just tucked, rolled, and started again.
But there were a few things I was able to get from that time period--the main thing was an investment that I have thought for a couple years was a complete mistake. There were four books that I spent about $3000.000 on and had sent to my sister in Angwin instead of to me in Southern Cal. I was hoping to turn around in a year and sell them for a different amount. My plan was to go to counseling on the earnings, or maybe a down payment on a house.
It just figures that now that I don't need the money, they're worth what I guesstimated they would be worth in a year.
Robert and I had a deal that if I saved that much we'd head abroad for a year to learn languages together.
......YIPEE!!!!!!!!! To Guatemala and Egypt/Morocco and Poland and India we go!
More on this when I actually sell the book. I don't want to sell the books for less than they're worth due to excitement. It won't be for another year, but I'm sooooo excited, still.
But there were a few things I was able to get from that time period--the main thing was an investment that I have thought for a couple years was a complete mistake. There were four books that I spent about $3000.000 on and had sent to my sister in Angwin instead of to me in Southern Cal. I was hoping to turn around in a year and sell them for a different amount. My plan was to go to counseling on the earnings, or maybe a down payment on a house.
It just figures that now that I don't need the money, they're worth what I guesstimated they would be worth in a year.
Robert and I had a deal that if I saved that much we'd head abroad for a year to learn languages together.
......YIPEE!!!!!!!!! To Guatemala and Egypt/Morocco and Poland and India we go!
More on this when I actually sell the book. I don't want to sell the books for less than they're worth due to excitement. It won't be for another year, but I'm sooooo excited, still.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Today I feel such a fraud. Everything in the news is about death and hunger and children dying.
Yet I...I slept till noon, and my hair is a rat's nest. I dined on rich coffee and milk and fresh squeezed orange juice. I lounged, and then slowly began my business routine of packing orders, for which I make too much money for the work I put in.
I've never gotten it, why some people work their hands to bone and never earn enough, and then people like me, right now, lounge, sell a few books, and are staunchly middle class with little to no effort--or those who are rich, even.
Why did my lawsuit win money when I can name at least one more seriously deserving woman, whose statutes have run? She was abused so terribly, her pain is so great, and her need is just as much or greater than mine. Why did I get money for my woes, and she gets nothing? It's just not fair.
And then, just within the group of people who were hurt by Scott, the youth who wreaked havoc in my church; I feel a fraud in this, as well. So many families were irrevocably devastated by his actions and the church's action (deny it if you will, you self-righteous hypocrites). Why am I the one who is finding healing? How did I get so lucky? Why was I born girl and only semi-disabled, so abused less horribly than those severely disabled boys? It makes me so confused. There is no symmetry.
I've always had an obsession with Robin Hood, ever since I played the computer game as a child. I want to take from the rich, and give to the poor, give the world some sense.
I've never taken a vow of poverty, but I have come to a tacit agreement with whatever love and fairness is out there that I'll do my little best, and with small steps and millions of networks, maybe together some of us can right some wrongs?
I don't know. I don't know at all.
Yet I...I slept till noon, and my hair is a rat's nest. I dined on rich coffee and milk and fresh squeezed orange juice. I lounged, and then slowly began my business routine of packing orders, for which I make too much money for the work I put in.
I've never gotten it, why some people work their hands to bone and never earn enough, and then people like me, right now, lounge, sell a few books, and are staunchly middle class with little to no effort--or those who are rich, even.
Why did my lawsuit win money when I can name at least one more seriously deserving woman, whose statutes have run? She was abused so terribly, her pain is so great, and her need is just as much or greater than mine. Why did I get money for my woes, and she gets nothing? It's just not fair.
And then, just within the group of people who were hurt by Scott, the youth who wreaked havoc in my church; I feel a fraud in this, as well. So many families were irrevocably devastated by his actions and the church's action (deny it if you will, you self-righteous hypocrites). Why am I the one who is finding healing? How did I get so lucky? Why was I born girl and only semi-disabled, so abused less horribly than those severely disabled boys? It makes me so confused. There is no symmetry.
I've always had an obsession with Robin Hood, ever since I played the computer game as a child. I want to take from the rich, and give to the poor, give the world some sense.
I've never taken a vow of poverty, but I have come to a tacit agreement with whatever love and fairness is out there that I'll do my little best, and with small steps and millions of networks, maybe together some of us can right some wrongs?
I don't know. I don't know at all.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
I'm back from Guatemala.
I had such a good time. I want to go back and live, I've got it all arranged, a wonderful Spanish teacher set up for Robert and I, a house reserved, everything. I just need to convince Robert.
While there I volunteered at a daycare and domestic violence shelter. I met two little brothers who--hey, assholes who are reading this to surveil me or pedophiles who are hunting for pictures--you don't get to know anything about my beautiful babies. They are too precious to waste on the likes of you motherfuckers, who are likely to hurt and ruin them. They've enough problems without adding you to the list.
But I love them. I want to adopt them, and will if in five years, after I get my masters, they're still available for adoption. I adore them, they are so beautiful, and wonderful. I miss them terribly. My language teacher is sending me updates on them. I love them as if they were my own, and the only thing keeping me from starting the adoption process now, is the knowledge that with my problems I'd probably hurt them more than I'd help for now. I need some counseling in my belt before I adopt.
At night I dream of all of us in Guatemala, them safe in their little room I found for them, dining and playing and learning on my fuck money. I keep wandering to the kid section of stores and dumping baby clothes in my basket, before regretfully returning them to the rack.
Now this...this is living.
I had such a good time. I want to go back and live, I've got it all arranged, a wonderful Spanish teacher set up for Robert and I, a house reserved, everything. I just need to convince Robert.
While there I volunteered at a daycare and domestic violence shelter. I met two little brothers who--hey, assholes who are reading this to surveil me or pedophiles who are hunting for pictures--you don't get to know anything about my beautiful babies. They are too precious to waste on the likes of you motherfuckers, who are likely to hurt and ruin them. They've enough problems without adding you to the list.
But I love them. I want to adopt them, and will if in five years, after I get my masters, they're still available for adoption. I adore them, they are so beautiful, and wonderful. I miss them terribly. My language teacher is sending me updates on them. I love them as if they were my own, and the only thing keeping me from starting the adoption process now, is the knowledge that with my problems I'd probably hurt them more than I'd help for now. I need some counseling in my belt before I adopt.
At night I dream of all of us in Guatemala, them safe in their little room I found for them, dining and playing and learning on my fuck money. I keep wandering to the kid section of stores and dumping baby clothes in my basket, before regretfully returning them to the rack.
Now this...this is living.
Old Books
I bought 50,000 books and am going through them.
I love them. I love touching them, the aged wrinkles, stains of coffee, sun-yellowed, sun-bleached, mouse-bitten, musty, beautiful old pages.
This one that I'm holding, Miss Nan (detours)--absolutely worthless online, but it has attitude. Scuffed jacket and on the first page in sloppy old-person Victorian cursive, "With Love, Nannie Eidon." Below that in graceful writing that looks like my mother's cursive, "Gratefully, Charles W. Horner."
The Serf by Guy Thorne. Musty as an attic, its contents as haphazard and old. In the front, a note to the skeptic reader, picking this old tome up for the first time.
this book is surprisingly GOOD! especially if you are interested in 11th century France, termanology, way of life, etc. Well written reminding me of Chelsea Quinn Yarbo's St. Germain books, especially "Better in the Dark" DRB 1995
Move over internet reviews! Nothing can contest a hand written note, secreted away into musty pages. I'm putting aside Flowers for Algernon for now, and snuggling with this crispy old book for the night.
Yum!
I love them. I love touching them, the aged wrinkles, stains of coffee, sun-yellowed, sun-bleached, mouse-bitten, musty, beautiful old pages.
This one that I'm holding, Miss Nan (detours)--absolutely worthless online, but it has attitude. Scuffed jacket and on the first page in sloppy old-person Victorian cursive, "With Love, Nannie Eidon." Below that in graceful writing that looks like my mother's cursive, "Gratefully, Charles W. Horner."
The Serf by Guy Thorne. Musty as an attic, its contents as haphazard and old. In the front, a note to the skeptic reader, picking this old tome up for the first time.
this book is surprisingly GOOD! especially if you are interested in 11th century France, termanology, way of life, etc. Well written reminding me of Chelsea Quinn Yarbo's St. Germain books, especially "Better in the Dark" DRB 1995
Move over internet reviews! Nothing can contest a hand written note, secreted away into musty pages. I'm putting aside Flowers for Algernon for now, and snuggling with this crispy old book for the night.
Yum!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Guatemala for the Soul.
¨Staying overnight inside of the ruins of Tikal is not allowed but a night of playing hide and seek with the guards can be quite an adventure and fun! ( Don`t stay at the most logical places, stay at one place, don`t make fire or use flashlights and have Q 100 on you to bribe the guards if they catch you)¨
Yup, this is actually a recommendation from the inglorious hostel ¨Los Amigos.¨ I couldn´t stop laughing.
http://www.amigoshostel.com/travelinfo/tikal.htm
Yup, this is actually a recommendation from the inglorious hostel ¨Los Amigos.¨ I couldn´t stop laughing.
http://www.amigoshostel.com/travelinfo/tikal.htm
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Happy Birthday
Happy birthday, Micah! I love you so much. You're getting to be so old! Six years old! Wow!
Your Auntie Meesha LOVES you. I'm so happy for you.
May you have a hundred more August 2's in your life.
(I got him a gift certificate so he could pick out a lightsaber at Toys R Us! My sister promised to send me pictures of him playing Yoda and Darth Vader. It makes me deliriously happy to see him happy. My little nephew, HOW I love him.)
Your Auntie Meesha LOVES you. I'm so happy for you.
May you have a hundred more August 2's in your life.
(I got him a gift certificate so he could pick out a lightsaber at Toys R Us! My sister promised to send me pictures of him playing Yoda and Darth Vader. It makes me deliriously happy to see him happy. My little nephew, HOW I love him.)
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Poetry.
I'm post-happy today, sitting, playing about on my computer, thinking, and reading poetry.
When one of my friends died, I went back to my childhood church for the funeral. I couldn't put my grief into anything--it was a big, black sky in my belly, all thundery and rumbly. Add to that nausea my post-traumatic reactions that I had from being so close to where I was raped and nearby a pastor who hurt me by belittling myself and my experiences when I went to him for help...I was a mess.
I tried so hard that day to go out of myself and to not be so self-centered when I was in the church for my childhood friend and his family. I'm not sure I succeeded. I spent half the time in my basement hidey-hole, clutching my old cove of stale candy for comfort, my red top stuffed in my mouth to cork the screaming. Whatever sanity I exhibited that day was divine, not handmade.
And the poetry I was reading: Jan Kochanowski, a Polish renaissance man, who wrote "Treny" or Laments in a keen for his dead daughter. I placed my forehead on the hard wood of the pew in front of me, back arched forward as if in kneeling, but still sitting, refusing to kneel in protest to the horrid spot to the right of the coffin, in protest to the closed coffin. All respect, but I wanted to scream that sermon out of my head (which, truly, was beautifully and with heart given, it was just where I was and am).
There is an incredible translation of Laments by Czeslaw Milosz and Seamus Heaney, but that has piles of copyrights on it by the two inimitable translators, so we internet English-readers are left with the coded Polish verse, centuries old, to hack at with our Polish-English dictionaries.
Wszytki płacze, wszytki łzy Heraklitowe
I lamenty, i skargi Symonidowe,
Wszytki troski na świecie, wszytki wzdychania
I żale, i frasunki, i rąk łamania,
Wszytki a wszytki za raz w dom się mój noście,
A mnie płakać mej wdzięcznej dziewki pomożcie,
Z którą mię niebożna śmierć rozdzieliła
I wszytkich moich pociech nagle zbawiła.
Tak więc smok, upatrzywszy gniazdko kryjome,
Słowiczki liche zbiera, a swe łakome
Gardło pasie; tymczasem matka szczebiece
Uboga, a na zbójcę coraz się miece,
Próżno! bo i na samę okrutnik zmierza,
A ta nieboga ledwe umyka pierza.
“Prózno płakać" - podobno drudzy rzeczecie.
Cóż, prze Bóg żywy, nie jest prózno na świecie ?
Wszytko prózno! Macamy gdzie miękcej w rzeczy,
A ono wszędy ciśnie ! Błąd - wiek człowieczy !
Nie wiem, co lżej: czy w smutku jawnie żałować,
Czyli się z przyrodzeniem gwałtem mocować?
It gives comfort, it does.
When one of my friends died, I went back to my childhood church for the funeral. I couldn't put my grief into anything--it was a big, black sky in my belly, all thundery and rumbly. Add to that nausea my post-traumatic reactions that I had from being so close to where I was raped and nearby a pastor who hurt me by belittling myself and my experiences when I went to him for help...I was a mess.
I tried so hard that day to go out of myself and to not be so self-centered when I was in the church for my childhood friend and his family. I'm not sure I succeeded. I spent half the time in my basement hidey-hole, clutching my old cove of stale candy for comfort, my red top stuffed in my mouth to cork the screaming. Whatever sanity I exhibited that day was divine, not handmade.
And the poetry I was reading: Jan Kochanowski, a Polish renaissance man, who wrote "Treny" or Laments in a keen for his dead daughter. I placed my forehead on the hard wood of the pew in front of me, back arched forward as if in kneeling, but still sitting, refusing to kneel in protest to the horrid spot to the right of the coffin, in protest to the closed coffin. All respect, but I wanted to scream that sermon out of my head (which, truly, was beautifully and with heart given, it was just where I was and am).
There is an incredible translation of Laments by Czeslaw Milosz and Seamus Heaney, but that has piles of copyrights on it by the two inimitable translators, so we internet English-readers are left with the coded Polish verse, centuries old, to hack at with our Polish-English dictionaries.
Wszytki płacze, wszytki łzy Heraklitowe
I lamenty, i skargi Symonidowe,
Wszytki troski na świecie, wszytki wzdychania
I żale, i frasunki, i rąk łamania,
Wszytki a wszytki za raz w dom się mój noście,
A mnie płakać mej wdzięcznej dziewki pomożcie,
Z którą mię niebożna śmierć rozdzieliła
I wszytkich moich pociech nagle zbawiła.
Tak więc smok, upatrzywszy gniazdko kryjome,
Słowiczki liche zbiera, a swe łakome
Gardło pasie; tymczasem matka szczebiece
Uboga, a na zbójcę coraz się miece,
Próżno! bo i na samę okrutnik zmierza,
A ta nieboga ledwe umyka pierza.
“Prózno płakać" - podobno drudzy rzeczecie.
Cóż, prze Bóg żywy, nie jest prózno na świecie ?
Wszytko prózno! Macamy gdzie miękcej w rzeczy,
A ono wszędy ciśnie ! Błąd - wiek człowieczy !
Nie wiem, co lżej: czy w smutku jawnie żałować,
Czyli się z przyrodzeniem gwałtem mocować?
It gives comfort, it does.
When I Was Six: A Sestina or Falling Down
Thrice, when I was small I tripped and fell to the floor.
First it was an ouch, a burn, a bleed; a hole
in the knee of my oldest pants.
They were the never the same again, even with patches
ironed on with my mother pressing hard, steam
dripping to the corners of the board until the patch was glued.
After, they wore funny on the crotch and legs as I glued
Valentine's Day cards (the shaking glitter fluttering to the floor).
It was winter with the outside cold and the inside hot, the confused glass between filmed in steam,
and watching that I'd rip, rip, rip wide in the paper card, a paper hole
which I'd stab my finger through and wiggle, then with glitter I'd patch
it up. Then I'd wiggle my bored bum--I wore funny, uncomfortable hanging pants.
I'd walk bow-legged when I wore them: my funny hanging pants.
I'd walk as if the inside of my knees were glued,
or hurt. I'd wobble and pither and patch
until I'd fall again, thudding and punting to the floor.
Sometimes my mother wouldn't be there to iron the hole,
she wouldn't be there to straighten and seam and steam.
In the summer season, when the cement steamed
I'd wear my knobby-knees bare and open with no funny hanging pants
and I'd run, run, run twist and this time I'd sink from a hole,
watch my blood melt, drip from my hands, so sticky, like glue,
spread out on the grassy, suburban sunshine floor,
I'd lay there twisted and watching myself spill into a pretty plotted patch.
It was that fall that I watched the weird off-colour patch
on the wall in my bedroom as if it were sick, and ignored the psychotic steam
rising, the feel of rug burn with my face to the flabbergasted floor
and the wishing for and then the washing of my funny-hanging pants.
I'd heard Johnny Jewkes say that you could get high from glue,
maybe because it had dead horse bits (but he ate worms, and) all the glue just fell right through the hole.
Nothing filled that gawping, yawning, stretching, awful hole.
My mother didn't know what to do and applied her useless patches
she glittered, she glued
she stewed and steamed
to no avail but a silent girl with listless red-stained pants
sitting a cross-legged anticipating silent on the floor.
On and on the years went, my face to the floor, and my heart a gaping hole
'Till one day I outgrew those pants and the awkward butterfly patch.
I traded in for a new pair: starched and steamed. I learned to skip and not trip and I wrapped my heart in rubber glue
Note: This poem takes license and veers from what really happened. I was never raped in my bedroom. I did have a pair of jeans with a butterfly patch but that was in junior high and meant to be "cool". I did, as all kids with cerebral palsy, trip an awful lot. All the limping from getting raped was attributed to the already present limp from my cerebral palsy.
First it was an ouch, a burn, a bleed; a hole
in the knee of my oldest pants.
They were the never the same again, even with patches
ironed on with my mother pressing hard, steam
dripping to the corners of the board until the patch was glued.
After, they wore funny on the crotch and legs as I glued
Valentine's Day cards (the shaking glitter fluttering to the floor).
It was winter with the outside cold and the inside hot, the confused glass between filmed in steam,
and watching that I'd rip, rip, rip wide in the paper card, a paper hole
which I'd stab my finger through and wiggle, then with glitter I'd patch
it up. Then I'd wiggle my bored bum--I wore funny, uncomfortable hanging pants.
I'd walk bow-legged when I wore them: my funny hanging pants.
I'd walk as if the inside of my knees were glued,
or hurt. I'd wobble and pither and patch
until I'd fall again, thudding and punting to the floor.
Sometimes my mother wouldn't be there to iron the hole,
she wouldn't be there to straighten and seam and steam.
In the summer season, when the cement steamed
I'd wear my knobby-knees bare and open with no funny hanging pants
and I'd run, run, run twist and this time I'd sink from a hole,
watch my blood melt, drip from my hands, so sticky, like glue,
spread out on the grassy, suburban sunshine floor,
I'd lay there twisted and watching myself spill into a pretty plotted patch.
It was that fall that I watched the weird off-colour patch
on the wall in my bedroom as if it were sick, and ignored the psychotic steam
rising, the feel of rug burn with my face to the flabbergasted floor
and the wishing for and then the washing of my funny-hanging pants.
I'd heard Johnny Jewkes say that you could get high from glue,
maybe because it had dead horse bits (but he ate worms, and) all the glue just fell right through the hole.
Nothing filled that gawping, yawning, stretching, awful hole.
My mother didn't know what to do and applied her useless patches
she glittered, she glued
she stewed and steamed
to no avail but a silent girl with listless red-stained pants
sitting a cross-legged anticipating silent on the floor.
On and on the years went, my face to the floor, and my heart a gaping hole
'Till one day I outgrew those pants and the awkward butterfly patch.
I traded in for a new pair: starched and steamed. I learned to skip and not trip and I wrapped my heart in rubber glue
Note: This poem takes license and veers from what really happened. I was never raped in my bedroom. I did have a pair of jeans with a butterfly patch but that was in junior high and meant to be "cool". I did, as all kids with cerebral palsy, trip an awful lot. All the limping from getting raped was attributed to the already present limp from my cerebral palsy.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Funny Thing About Banks
In the past few months I've recieved at least five offers from various banks that say "Open an account with us and we'll give you $100.00."
Now there are restrictions to that offer, for instance I usually have to make a purchase every now and then and have to keep the account open for 6 months. But I could do that. I have 600 to put in limbo for 6 months.
I think I'm going to do it. That's a month's rent, after all! A doubling of profit is NOT a bad return.
This reminds me when I was incredibly poor in Portland, Oregon. US Bank had an offer that if a customer waited in line for longer than 5 minutes they would be given $5.00 if they asked. The MLK branch, nearest my old home, ALWAYS had a wait period of at least ten minutes at lunch time. So I'd race down there when I was hungry for some lunch and wait in line, add a few dollars to my account or take a few dollars out, and get the $5.00. I did it so many times I think the branch stoppped doing it. Maybe there were some others doing it, but they must have lost nearly $200.00 on me in the space of six months. I did it about once or twice a week.
Sometimes I don't know how banks turn a profit, and then I remember that too many people use credit like alcoholics use the drink. And then it all makes a terrific amount of sense.
PS This also reminds me of my friend who'd sell blood every week for $20.00 per draw. I tried to do it but I had anemia so that didn't work.
Now there are restrictions to that offer, for instance I usually have to make a purchase every now and then and have to keep the account open for 6 months. But I could do that. I have 600 to put in limbo for 6 months.
I think I'm going to do it. That's a month's rent, after all! A doubling of profit is NOT a bad return.
This reminds me when I was incredibly poor in Portland, Oregon. US Bank had an offer that if a customer waited in line for longer than 5 minutes they would be given $5.00 if they asked. The MLK branch, nearest my old home, ALWAYS had a wait period of at least ten minutes at lunch time. So I'd race down there when I was hungry for some lunch and wait in line, add a few dollars to my account or take a few dollars out, and get the $5.00. I did it so many times I think the branch stoppped doing it. Maybe there were some others doing it, but they must have lost nearly $200.00 on me in the space of six months. I did it about once or twice a week.
Sometimes I don't know how banks turn a profit, and then I remember that too many people use credit like alcoholics use the drink. And then it all makes a terrific amount of sense.
PS This also reminds me of my friend who'd sell blood every week for $20.00 per draw. I tried to do it but I had anemia so that didn't work.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Two things to Add:
One, I’ve not knowingly told a single lie here. The Adventist church needs to look deeply at itself and put the protection of children first and foremost. They need to start reaching out to rape victims within their own communities, not just the victims in Africa.
Two, in my concrete opinion, the Adventist church is absolutely 100% NOT an evil entity. They do not deserve to be treated like a cult. When anyone encourages cruelty towards Adventist people, they’re encouraging cruelty towards people. People I love and am fighting for. It’s not right to be mean to them, and it isn’t what the majority of us victims want. Many victims are STILL Adventist. To prey on specifically eschatological Adventist fears would not be something I condone in any way, shape, or form. This is not a fear fest or witch hunt. My ends do not morally support all means. I’ll follow that old canon-thumper Paul here, when he said, “Be angry, but do not sin.” I want closure, I want these things to stop. I don’t want to destroy the Adventist church. I’m VERY angry and prejudiced, I’ve made that extremely clear. Now I’d like to make more clear the dichotomy of belief and emotion within myself.
Finally, I want to reiterate to the Adventist church, its lawyers, and insurers, that however much I may or may want to get fear in my heart and shut up, clearly, constitutionally, that’s not going to work. I don’t even think I’m capable of shutting up unless I think everyone is safe. I’m autistic like that. It’d work for maybe a year, and then I’d start jabbering truth again.
It isn’t very good or kind to threaten young raped autistic women with libel lawsuits. Bear with me, talk with me, or at least talk through letters screened through yours and my lawyer, help me to understand your side in ethical kind ways and I will listen.
To my Adventist friends and relatives who may have stumbled onto this in horror: It’s a lot to digest. I love you, and I’m pretty darn confused, too. There are no easy answers.
Finally: I’m in a tremendous amount of pain. I’m working on a book right now and throwing myself into it body and soul. It’s fantasy, silly, really, along the lines of the books I used to clutch as a little girl when Scott raped me. I’d dive into them as escape. That’s me. I’m an escape artist, but maybe out where I am, I’ll find a bridge back to all of you whom I love, I’ll find a bridge to my voice. I’ll escape out of wherever I am and back to you.
Two, in my concrete opinion, the Adventist church is absolutely 100% NOT an evil entity. They do not deserve to be treated like a cult. When anyone encourages cruelty towards Adventist people, they’re encouraging cruelty towards people. People I love and am fighting for. It’s not right to be mean to them, and it isn’t what the majority of us victims want. Many victims are STILL Adventist. To prey on specifically eschatological Adventist fears would not be something I condone in any way, shape, or form. This is not a fear fest or witch hunt. My ends do not morally support all means. I’ll follow that old canon-thumper Paul here, when he said, “Be angry, but do not sin.” I want closure, I want these things to stop. I don’t want to destroy the Adventist church. I’m VERY angry and prejudiced, I’ve made that extremely clear. Now I’d like to make more clear the dichotomy of belief and emotion within myself.
Finally, I want to reiterate to the Adventist church, its lawyers, and insurers, that however much I may or may want to get fear in my heart and shut up, clearly, constitutionally, that’s not going to work. I don’t even think I’m capable of shutting up unless I think everyone is safe. I’m autistic like that. It’d work for maybe a year, and then I’d start jabbering truth again.
It isn’t very good or kind to threaten young raped autistic women with libel lawsuits. Bear with me, talk with me, or at least talk through letters screened through yours and my lawyer, help me to understand your side in ethical kind ways and I will listen.
To my Adventist friends and relatives who may have stumbled onto this in horror: It’s a lot to digest. I love you, and I’m pretty darn confused, too. There are no easy answers.
Finally: I’m in a tremendous amount of pain. I’m working on a book right now and throwing myself into it body and soul. It’s fantasy, silly, really, along the lines of the books I used to clutch as a little girl when Scott raped me. I’d dive into them as escape. That’s me. I’m an escape artist, but maybe out where I am, I’ll find a bridge back to all of you whom I love, I’ll find a bridge to my voice. I’ll escape out of wherever I am and back to you.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A change in Blogging.
It has come to my attention that the church's lawyers are watching my blog as well as watching me in every other way that they can. Apparently they are upset that I'm speaking out, along with some other things which they aren't at fault for but has to do with misunderstandings on my part.
It has also become glaringly evident that love is simply not in the picture where they are concerned, or if it is, it's buried under layers and layers of beauracracy. My hope is that they change. But that hope is rooted in between two rocks I hope it will one day spurt free of: knowledge that "I" can't change anyone, and that attempts to live my life based on what others "should" do is simply not smart. I need to live my life right now based on what "I" can do and should do.
This blog was never meant as a medium to argue with the church or point out their wrongs, and I'm not in any way ready to become a public face for sexual abuse in the SDA church. However, this is a role both my blog and I have fallen into. I'm still grappling with that. I don't expect to morph like worm to butterfly, and suddenly be wise and smart, and as a struggling young woman, know exactly what to say and when to say it, so I'll continue, in perfect NLD/autistic comportment, to put my foot in my mouth and piss powerful, well-paid people off. I'm afraid that's constitutional, guys.
My genuine way of life, whether naivete or stupidity or whatever is non-violent. I believe in conflict-resolution as a spiritual, non-violent path. Gandhi is my hero, although I disagree with him on a multitude of issues. I have struggled in many ways with how to apply non-violent (does that mean no lawsuits, no bouts of anger, no yelling? Is it silence or is speech? If I hurt the "other side" have I transgressed or simply done what is necessary?) belief in this situation, and still struggle with it. I am young, still forming in many ways, and don't know much of anything.
But I still think love is possible here, I think it can win out. But one of the things I've been taught (by an incredible and giving mentor who spent so much time writing me and reassuring and encouraging me and telling me I was a talented writer while I was going through the lawsuit) is that different people do different things in the name of love, just as they do with the Bible and the Qu'uran and various ideas of God.
I have no idea what to do next, but I know I can't remain silent. So I'm slowly coming out again after being threatened, etc. This hurts beyond words, but I HAVE to give it words, if only out of love, because it is truly my one guiding light here. I am here to stay.
Some of my best friends were also raped by Scott. You CANNOT shut me up, I would rather die.
A warning to those who have friended me: The SDA church is extremely unhappy with me and have a history of picking on my friends when I turn the heat up. If you are on my list there is a chance that you will be harangued and subpoenaed. They are watching this blog, and anyone connected to it. I won't be insulted if you ask that I stay away from you in this medium. Essentially, if you comment here, you're putting a bullseye on your forehead.
I have alot of things to change in myself and on this blog to prepare for the difficulties inherent in speaking out. I feel unprepared for this. I landed here in a way that pisses me off. But I'm here, I won't be quiet. I can't live with myself if I don't do the right thing here, and I'll do the right thing as best as I know how. I'll make mistakes, surely, but I'll keep on plugging along.
In my wedding vows I promised Robert to always try, to not go the suicide route, as I also promised my lawyers, Kelly Clark, Steve Crew, and Kristian Roggendorf. Further, I promise here to keep talking, to not just "survive" but survive and live life to the best of my ability. I'm also promising that to the SDA church and those that represent the church. I won't lay in front of the East Salem church, feet from where I was sodomized, dead in a red and gold coffin with a bullet in my head like some beautiful souls have. I promise you.
It has also become glaringly evident that love is simply not in the picture where they are concerned, or if it is, it's buried under layers and layers of beauracracy. My hope is that they change. But that hope is rooted in between two rocks I hope it will one day spurt free of: knowledge that "I" can't change anyone, and that attempts to live my life based on what others "should" do is simply not smart. I need to live my life right now based on what "I" can do and should do.
This blog was never meant as a medium to argue with the church or point out their wrongs, and I'm not in any way ready to become a public face for sexual abuse in the SDA church. However, this is a role both my blog and I have fallen into. I'm still grappling with that. I don't expect to morph like worm to butterfly, and suddenly be wise and smart, and as a struggling young woman, know exactly what to say and when to say it, so I'll continue, in perfect NLD/autistic comportment, to put my foot in my mouth and piss powerful, well-paid people off. I'm afraid that's constitutional, guys.
My genuine way of life, whether naivete or stupidity or whatever is non-violent. I believe in conflict-resolution as a spiritual, non-violent path. Gandhi is my hero, although I disagree with him on a multitude of issues. I have struggled in many ways with how to apply non-violent (does that mean no lawsuits, no bouts of anger, no yelling? Is it silence or is speech? If I hurt the "other side" have I transgressed or simply done what is necessary?) belief in this situation, and still struggle with it. I am young, still forming in many ways, and don't know much of anything.
But I still think love is possible here, I think it can win out. But one of the things I've been taught (by an incredible and giving mentor who spent so much time writing me and reassuring and encouraging me and telling me I was a talented writer while I was going through the lawsuit) is that different people do different things in the name of love, just as they do with the Bible and the Qu'uran and various ideas of God.
I have no idea what to do next, but I know I can't remain silent. So I'm slowly coming out again after being threatened, etc. This hurts beyond words, but I HAVE to give it words, if only out of love, because it is truly my one guiding light here. I am here to stay.
Some of my best friends were also raped by Scott. You CANNOT shut me up, I would rather die.
A warning to those who have friended me: The SDA church is extremely unhappy with me and have a history of picking on my friends when I turn the heat up. If you are on my list there is a chance that you will be harangued and subpoenaed. They are watching this blog, and anyone connected to it. I won't be insulted if you ask that I stay away from you in this medium. Essentially, if you comment here, you're putting a bullseye on your forehead.
I have alot of things to change in myself and on this blog to prepare for the difficulties inherent in speaking out. I feel unprepared for this. I landed here in a way that pisses me off. But I'm here, I won't be quiet. I can't live with myself if I don't do the right thing here, and I'll do the right thing as best as I know how. I'll make mistakes, surely, but I'll keep on plugging along.
In my wedding vows I promised Robert to always try, to not go the suicide route, as I also promised my lawyers, Kelly Clark, Steve Crew, and Kristian Roggendorf. Further, I promise here to keep talking, to not just "survive" but survive and live life to the best of my ability. I'm also promising that to the SDA church and those that represent the church. I won't lay in front of the East Salem church, feet from where I was sodomized, dead in a red and gold coffin with a bullet in my head like some beautiful souls have. I promise you.
Friday, May 1, 2009
To God
I lied, I'll write here before going to Guatemala.
This is a poem I wrote when I was at my worst. I am generally against sharing my personal belief system, but find it tolerable when in poetic form. As that great poet Sherman Alexie says, Iambic pentameter, the sound of a heartbeat.
To God
How you lighted faces then and when you
smiled half the world, she swooned heavy-
hard. You fell them, bruising at the jointed
knobs of flesh till stiff-treed all axe entrance
to the mold--you then from dead drag wonder.
This is a poem I wrote when I was at my worst. I am generally against sharing my personal belief system, but find it tolerable when in poetic form. As that great poet Sherman Alexie says, Iambic pentameter, the sound of a heartbeat.
To God
How you lighted faces then and when you
smiled half the world, she swooned heavy-
hard. You fell them, bruising at the jointed
knobs of flesh till stiff-treed all axe entrance
to the mold--you then from dead drag wonder.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Yellowstone Pics.
Finally. Pictures from Yellowstone.
I married this guy. Did you know that cigar smoke makes great bug repellent? It’s better than OFF.
Yah. It’s me, hiding behind the mongo smile and even mongo-er nose.
Coyote Creek. It was murder trying to wash in it, the rate it was flowing, and the temperature!
My honeybun husband, on his way to a morning poo. Doesn’t he look like a puppy dog? He’s great cuddling material, I just want to nuzzle up onto his chest and purr when I see this picture.
Our first home. Cozy, huh?
And warm. It took us forever to get out of bed that day. We didn’t start out until about 2 in the afternoon, then got caught in a hailstorm. We were cranky when we got back to the bunkhouse--and HUNGRY! It was the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, and it was pretty darn steep on the way back. Altogether we went about 8 miles straight up with 50 pounds on our backs, mosquitoes eating at us, etc, etc.
I married this guy. Did you know that cigar smoke makes great bug repellent? It’s better than OFF.
Yah. It’s me, hiding behind the mongo smile and even mongo-er nose.
Coyote Creek. It was murder trying to wash in it, the rate it was flowing, and the temperature!
My honeybun husband, on his way to a morning poo. Doesn’t he look like a puppy dog? He’s great cuddling material, I just want to nuzzle up onto his chest and purr when I see this picture.
Our first home. Cozy, huh?
And warm. It took us forever to get out of bed that day. We didn’t start out until about 2 in the afternoon, then got caught in a hailstorm. We were cranky when we got back to the bunkhouse--and HUNGRY! It was the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, and it was pretty darn steep on the way back. Altogether we went about 8 miles straight up with 50 pounds on our backs, mosquitoes eating at us, etc, etc.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Guatemala
I need a break, it's true. I've been planning a vacation to Guatemala for several years. It's finally time to head out. I need some time to "get away." Brunswick is getting on my nerves. It is small suburbia, with all the middle-class woes suburbia comes with. I guess that's a pretentious dislike. Less pretentious is the fact that I'm going crazy, I end the day by snuggling with Robert and crying. That's not good.
I haven't left for Guatemala yet because Robert is determined to stay in one place and grow deep roots in community. That's a good thing, but someone with my travel-lust, I just need to get out of the US every now and then or at least hop my way to the nearest adventure. Robert and I talked a long time last night and we decided it would be good for me to go alone, to get out of the house and do what I want. I'm only going for a month, and I'll hole up in Xela, with a few side-trips to Tikal. I want to do some heavy writing and learning of Spanish. I also want to work at an orphanage in Xela--do some true good with this blood-money I have. I want to learn. Immerse myself not solely in the knowlege of books, but also in the wisdom of living.
I need, for my own well-being, to back away from my pain about the church, and come back to it, ready to work towards love with new tools and rejuvenation. I don't think Guatemala will give me all these things, but I think it'll help. I've also started back up in counseling and medication.
I leave mid-May and I'm going to try to be several weeks ahead in school (I've ended up taking/working on 29 credits this term, which was stupid) before I buy the tickets. I'll come back around the end of June.
Also, I'm enabling comments. I had them disabled before because my blogs had been subpoenaed during discovery and anyone who commented in the blog was subject to being subpoenaed as well. Now it's no longer a problem.
I haven't left for Guatemala yet because Robert is determined to stay in one place and grow deep roots in community. That's a good thing, but someone with my travel-lust, I just need to get out of the US every now and then or at least hop my way to the nearest adventure. Robert and I talked a long time last night and we decided it would be good for me to go alone, to get out of the house and do what I want. I'm only going for a month, and I'll hole up in Xela, with a few side-trips to Tikal. I want to do some heavy writing and learning of Spanish. I also want to work at an orphanage in Xela--do some true good with this blood-money I have. I want to learn. Immerse myself not solely in the knowlege of books, but also in the wisdom of living.
I need, for my own well-being, to back away from my pain about the church, and come back to it, ready to work towards love with new tools and rejuvenation. I don't think Guatemala will give me all these things, but I think it'll help. I've also started back up in counseling and medication.
I leave mid-May and I'm going to try to be several weeks ahead in school (I've ended up taking/working on 29 credits this term, which was stupid) before I buy the tickets. I'll come back around the end of June.
Also, I'm enabling comments. I had them disabled before because my blogs had been subpoenaed during discovery and anyone who commented in the blog was subject to being subpoenaed as well. Now it's no longer a problem.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Naive
When I first went to my lawyer, Kelly Clark, we sat in a large room with windows. I shimmied past describing what had happened to me, and he said I had plenty of proof for him to take the case.
And then he said he expected me to go to counseling and that if I didn't, he'd hand me a big check a few years down the road and I'd be the same girl, except rich. I'd have the same problems and it would be just as bad.
When I got the money he sat me down in a much smaller room and instructed me on how to spend it. He said that one of his first cases won several hundred thousand dollars and in the space of 14 months he was back to Kelly, asking for money. Both Kelly and the client went away from that with bad feelings.
Money doesn't change much in my heart, just in the physical trappings. I can afford counseling now, I can afford rent and food. I have the means to stay home and cry and shake and fall to pieces (whereas before, I was doing that at work). It IS better.
I just don't understand the church. Robert and I were snuggling last night and I asked him, "Am I just so stupid for my naivete?"
He said no. No, you just live as if the world were the way it ought to be.
"Do you think they love me?"
"You're probably not on their Christmas list."
"I sued them."
"Yeah."
"I can't believe I sued them."
"I know."
I wish I were smarter at things like this. I'm so fucking autistic and truthful, at the wrong times. But maybe there is some goodness in someone like me coming along and telling it, not just the way it is in my heart, where the damage is, but how it ought to be.
It is naive. But it's not necessarily a bad thing.
And then he said he expected me to go to counseling and that if I didn't, he'd hand me a big check a few years down the road and I'd be the same girl, except rich. I'd have the same problems and it would be just as bad.
When I got the money he sat me down in a much smaller room and instructed me on how to spend it. He said that one of his first cases won several hundred thousand dollars and in the space of 14 months he was back to Kelly, asking for money. Both Kelly and the client went away from that with bad feelings.
Money doesn't change much in my heart, just in the physical trappings. I can afford counseling now, I can afford rent and food. I have the means to stay home and cry and shake and fall to pieces (whereas before, I was doing that at work). It IS better.
I just don't understand the church. Robert and I were snuggling last night and I asked him, "Am I just so stupid for my naivete?"
He said no. No, you just live as if the world were the way it ought to be.
"Do you think they love me?"
"You're probably not on their Christmas list."
"I sued them."
"Yeah."
"I can't believe I sued them."
"I know."
I wish I were smarter at things like this. I'm so fucking autistic and truthful, at the wrong times. But maybe there is some goodness in someone like me coming along and telling it, not just the way it is in my heart, where the damage is, but how it ought to be.
It is naive. But it's not necessarily a bad thing.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Tough Days.
The pain of betrayal never quite fades. In my type of situation something always rips the wound open.
I wonder how "people in power" decide to turn from me. Do they think about it before they do it, or do they purse their lips and flippantly toss me to the garbage?
They aren't cowards, at least I don't think so. Maybe they're just people that love an idea more than they love people. In many cases their own ideas of powerlessness makes them powerless.
Actually I haven't a clue. It all makes me very sad and very tired.
People are sheep. Fucking sheep. They bleet and cower, haven't the sense to be afraid of the things they ought to be frightened of. Their own idiocies make them mutton. How I despise what they do! How I love them!
How I wish I could be saved from my own feelings. I could purge myself and make myself stone, pull a Jeffers. It's rock and Hawk, not a soft mop. But there I am, whispering to the floor where quiet feet patter. I'm soft like butter, rushing to mop up messes. It makes me very, very tired. Damn this situation.
I feel defeated, sick at heart. I do. Why are people so awful? So apathetic, bleary eyed? Oh. Just fuck them. I want to turn from it all.
This is why love is the ultimate killer. It is love, not hate, that has the power to rip a heart out.
If some dude with horns and fireballs erupting from his eyeballs hurt me, I'd laugh and fight back. But how do you begin to fight someone you love? HOW?!?!
Somebody please tell me. I'm open to suggestions.
I wonder how "people in power" decide to turn from me. Do they think about it before they do it, or do they purse their lips and flippantly toss me to the garbage?
They aren't cowards, at least I don't think so. Maybe they're just people that love an idea more than they love people. In many cases their own ideas of powerlessness makes them powerless.
Actually I haven't a clue. It all makes me very sad and very tired.
People are sheep. Fucking sheep. They bleet and cower, haven't the sense to be afraid of the things they ought to be frightened of. Their own idiocies make them mutton. How I despise what they do! How I love them!
How I wish I could be saved from my own feelings. I could purge myself and make myself stone, pull a Jeffers. It's rock and Hawk, not a soft mop. But there I am, whispering to the floor where quiet feet patter. I'm soft like butter, rushing to mop up messes. It makes me very, very tired. Damn this situation.
I feel defeated, sick at heart. I do. Why are people so awful? So apathetic, bleary eyed? Oh. Just fuck them. I want to turn from it all.
This is why love is the ultimate killer. It is love, not hate, that has the power to rip a heart out.
If some dude with horns and fireballs erupting from his eyeballs hurt me, I'd laugh and fight back. But how do you begin to fight someone you love? HOW?!?!
Somebody please tell me. I'm open to suggestions.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Open Letter to the East Salem SDA Church
With names of the victims and perpetrator x'ed out in respect and deference.
To: Pastors at East Salem SDA Church,
My suggestion is that you not allow sadistic child-rapists free rein in your church, and to kindly, efficiently, and as Christians, deal with those who come to clergy and leaders with worries and experience with having been raped in the church. I certainly hope you will take my suggestion into consideration. Perhaps you'll consider it before you call Richard Whittemore and forward this email? It's nice to know you find safety and comfort in the combination of Jesus Christ and a really, really expensive lawyer who promises to "aggressively investigate and try in court" cases with confirmed victims like *********** and perpetrators like *************. You guys need a lesson in compassion. I am thoroughly disgusted by your actions thus far. And to say you are doing it in forgiveness! You seem to have a much easier time forgiving the perpetrators for hurting people, than the victims who bear the sin of hurting. I'm so sorry I couldn't be perfect for you and forget that I was sodomized in your holy sanctuary.
Please respond, Or is it legally a bad idea? By the way, Hi Mr. Whittemore.
And Parks, I believe your words to my uncle were "I'm sorry if I hurt her." Let me clear that if up for you right now. You hurt me. Lots. Looks like somebody else is complaining to you now! Maybe they'll take your advice to talk in front of the board meeting?
- Michelle Stevenson-Durham
Note: Clearly the SDA church's lawyers need a new hobby-looking at a 25-year old woman's whimsical stream of thought blog looking for ways to sue said woman is all they can think to do in their work-a-day.
Ideas: Golf, maybe? A Caribbean cruise? How about some opera?
To: Pastors at East Salem SDA Church,
My suggestion is that you not allow sadistic child-rapists free rein in your church, and to kindly, efficiently, and as Christians, deal with those who come to clergy and leaders with worries and experience with having been raped in the church. I certainly hope you will take my suggestion into consideration. Perhaps you'll consider it before you call Richard Whittemore and forward this email? It's nice to know you find safety and comfort in the combination of Jesus Christ and a really, really expensive lawyer who promises to "aggressively investigate and try in court" cases with confirmed victims like *********** and perpetrators like *************. You guys need a lesson in compassion. I am thoroughly disgusted by your actions thus far. And to say you are doing it in forgiveness! You seem to have a much easier time forgiving the perpetrators for hurting people, than the victims who bear the sin of hurting. I'm so sorry I couldn't be perfect for you and forget that I was sodomized in your holy sanctuary.
Please respond, Or is it legally a bad idea? By the way, Hi Mr. Whittemore.
And Parks, I believe your words to my uncle were "I'm sorry if I hurt her." Let me clear that if up for you right now. You hurt me. Lots. Looks like somebody else is complaining to you now! Maybe they'll take your advice to talk in front of the board meeting?
- Michelle Stevenson-Durham
Note: Clearly the SDA church's lawyers need a new hobby-looking at a 25-year old woman's whimsical stream of thought blog looking for ways to sue said woman is all they can think to do in their work-a-day.
Ideas: Golf, maybe? A Caribbean cruise? How about some opera?
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Blindness of Love.
Well. It is another day. It's beautiful outside, it makes my heart ache.
I subscribe to the belief that humans are not physiologically capable of taking in as much beauty and love as is given us. It seems to me less likely to die of pain than to die of love. We don't know how to direct that yearning in our gaping hearts. We will make a shamble of our lives with that very gift that will kill us eventually. I know I have.
I've been working on a story about that, humans feeling so much that we die.
Two of my classes this term are about drugs and alcohol, the prevention of and the problems of. It strikes me that love is alot like a drug. It changes our every perspective, the way we see everything.
It would be interesting to try and write a parable about love as a physical matter, that we could imbibe upon wish.
I subscribe to the belief that humans are not physiologically capable of taking in as much beauty and love as is given us. It seems to me less likely to die of pain than to die of love. We don't know how to direct that yearning in our gaping hearts. We will make a shamble of our lives with that very gift that will kill us eventually. I know I have.
I've been working on a story about that, humans feeling so much that we die.
Two of my classes this term are about drugs and alcohol, the prevention of and the problems of. It strikes me that love is alot like a drug. It changes our every perspective, the way we see everything.
It would be interesting to try and write a parable about love as a physical matter, that we could imbibe upon wish.
Monday, April 13, 2009
On cultural, familial Adventism.
I could never leave the church completely. That's obvious. While I'll never go back, they'll always have a piece of me. I'm sure they're celebrating when I say that, though they needn't. It's only been a source of pain for me, much the same way it is painful how I love those who raped me. Love is rarely, if ever, comfortable. And some ties just bind, they don't love.
Every night I sit down with my laptop and literally go to every Adventist site I can think of that might have changed their hearts in regards to child rape (and rape in general!). None of them. None of them. It's always the same. Each night I grieve anew. Each night Robert pulls me away, swearing, saying "fuck that, you're hurting yourself, just like you do when you use a razor blade except it's in your head."
Last night we argued over it. "You don't understand!" I screamed. "You've never been raped, you've never had a family like I did!" And last night he got drunk, some very interesting interaction/continued argument followed, and he ended up frolicking naked in the kitchen while eating huge hunks of pork, trying to make me smile.
There are new families, even new cultures. It's a process to look forward, but little by little I'm putting my head in the right direction.
Every night I sit down with my laptop and literally go to every Adventist site I can think of that might have changed their hearts in regards to child rape (and rape in general!). None of them. None of them. It's always the same. Each night I grieve anew. Each night Robert pulls me away, swearing, saying "fuck that, you're hurting yourself, just like you do when you use a razor blade except it's in your head."
Last night we argued over it. "You don't understand!" I screamed. "You've never been raped, you've never had a family like I did!" And last night he got drunk, some very interesting interaction/continued argument followed, and he ended up frolicking naked in the kitchen while eating huge hunks of pork, trying to make me smile.
There are new families, even new cultures. It's a process to look forward, but little by little I'm putting my head in the right direction.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
So my husband is writing a book. All in a plastic notebook. While I work hard on procrastinating on the latest school paper he pesters me with ideas on his book.
The premise is sort of like "Planet of the Apes" except with male and female roles reversed. In the final battle he has the hero (Dick Manly) screaming out like in Braveheart: "They can take our lives....but they can never take....OUR PENISES!!!"
He is threatening to become famous enough to have an interview with Oprah. He promises to tell everyone I desperately wanted to come, but had to stay home to bake a pie and have babies.
I LOVE my husband. Unfortunately, I now must plan ways to sufficiently emasculate him so that he knows his place. (Hey, it's HIS dream world, not mine.)
The premise is sort of like "Planet of the Apes" except with male and female roles reversed. In the final battle he has the hero (Dick Manly) screaming out like in Braveheart: "They can take our lives....but they can never take....OUR PENISES!!!"
He is threatening to become famous enough to have an interview with Oprah. He promises to tell everyone I desperately wanted to come, but had to stay home to bake a pie and have babies.
I LOVE my husband. Unfortunately, I now must plan ways to sufficiently emasculate him so that he knows his place. (Hey, it's HIS dream world, not mine.)
Monday, April 6, 2009
Mediation.
In all the ruckus and finger-pointing of the lawsuit there were some funny moments. Going through my old emails I found a series of emails from a gentle, good friend that we wrote to each other while I was in mediation for a settlement. Unfortunately on that fine, sunny day, the Adventist church and its insurer had their heads up their respective asses.
I remember a few days before mediation, in a tizzy at the museum, scribbling unsent notes to the church about how much I loved them, how I'd be happy to drop the lawsuit if they'd just apologize, pay for my counseling, and, yeah, at that point pay my lawyer. I wanted an apology! God, I still want one.
I didn't get one. A measly "I'm sorry." They will never give it. They're only sorry they got sued, they're not sorry I got raped. And they certainly don't take the responsibility that is theirs.
So while the lawyers were talking, I wrote letters to a good, kind editor who reads bad poetry from the latest 24-year old whippersnapper who takes it in her mind she'll be published or else! And then befriends that same whippersnapper when she half-way accuses him of witholding key pieces of survivor literature from the Catholic public. I'd take my hat off to this gentleman, if I were wearing one.
Date: Tuesday, September 16, 2008 7:29 am
Subject:
To: michelle.stevenson1@pcc.edu
> Ah, now, prayers on you. And what I mean by prayers had nothing
> to do
> with religion and everything to do with the honey and salt of human
> beans. Brian
Brian,
My stomach is churning. I'm sitting in the middle of a lawfirm, twiddling my thumbs, listening to lawyers talk.
Argh. This is hard. Five more hours. Settle or no, I get out of here in five more hours. And 19 minutes.
-Michelle
Do not grind your teeth. Think about honey, sparrows, swallows, toothpaste, lilies, and why crawdads have one clipper bigger than the other. Steroids?
I remember a few days before mediation, in a tizzy at the museum, scribbling unsent notes to the church about how much I loved them, how I'd be happy to drop the lawsuit if they'd just apologize, pay for my counseling, and, yeah, at that point pay my lawyer. I wanted an apology! God, I still want one.
I didn't get one. A measly "I'm sorry." They will never give it. They're only sorry they got sued, they're not sorry I got raped. And they certainly don't take the responsibility that is theirs.
So while the lawyers were talking, I wrote letters to a good, kind editor who reads bad poetry from the latest 24-year old whippersnapper who takes it in her mind she'll be published or else! And then befriends that same whippersnapper when she half-way accuses him of witholding key pieces of survivor literature from the Catholic public. I'd take my hat off to this gentleman, if I were wearing one.
Date: Tuesday, September 16, 2008 7:29 am
Subject:
To: michelle.stevenson1@pcc.edu
> Ah, now, prayers on you. And what I mean by prayers had nothing
> to do
> with religion and everything to do with the honey and salt of human
> beans. Brian
Brian,
My stomach is churning. I'm sitting in the middle of a lawfirm, twiddling my thumbs, listening to lawyers talk.
Argh. This is hard. Five more hours. Settle or no, I get out of here in five more hours. And 19 minutes.
-Michelle
Do not grind your teeth. Think about honey, sparrows, swallows, toothpaste, lilies, and why crawdads have one clipper bigger than the other. Steroids?
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Small Beauties.
I woke up this morning to the daily news on www.msn.com. Specifically this article http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/30046195 about mass shootings, crisis, the downturn of the economy, and American response to said crises. The name of the article is: Are Americans becoming numb to tragedy?
Of course we are! The more tragedy one endures, the more likelihood we will "get used to it" as if it were the norm. Sadly, tragedy is the norm.
But I take issue with such pessimism. No, you don't have to look far to find evil. Before the terrorism crisis and recession and Iraq war there were the silent battles, perhaps all the more insiduous for the way good people turned from these situations, ignoring cries of help. (This is not to poo-poo the very real, very undeniable crises facing our nation and our world. I always hated the argument "But evil is always around" as if its very normalcy creates a morality--a "but she's doing it" toddler-esque argument to make evil seem benign. Anything that puts to question the inherent value and preciousness of human beings is serious. Anything that causes somebody to be hurt, stumble, limp, that's serious.)
So all of this...information...creates a mountain of dump, and I just want to scream out and say, hello! People! Turn around! Behind the dump is a candyland. Go indulge yourselves.
Today I indulged myself. The softness of Iyla, a little 4-month old girl as she suckled at her formula, snug in grandma's arms. It brought me to tears! Such beauty!
Birds singing outside my apartment. The swoosh and bite of wind against my feet as I walked onto the balcony to watch children play on the grass hill outside. The hilarious, pretentious world of literary criticism and intellectually preening for my professor, so that he thinks I'm passing intelligent.
This is as much our lives as the dump. To deny one is to be lost.
Of course we are! The more tragedy one endures, the more likelihood we will "get used to it" as if it were the norm. Sadly, tragedy is the norm.
But I take issue with such pessimism. No, you don't have to look far to find evil. Before the terrorism crisis and recession and Iraq war there were the silent battles, perhaps all the more insiduous for the way good people turned from these situations, ignoring cries of help. (This is not to poo-poo the very real, very undeniable crises facing our nation and our world. I always hated the argument "But evil is always around" as if its very normalcy creates a morality--a "but she's doing it" toddler-esque argument to make evil seem benign. Anything that puts to question the inherent value and preciousness of human beings is serious. Anything that causes somebody to be hurt, stumble, limp, that's serious.)
So all of this...information...creates a mountain of dump, and I just want to scream out and say, hello! People! Turn around! Behind the dump is a candyland. Go indulge yourselves.
Today I indulged myself. The softness of Iyla, a little 4-month old girl as she suckled at her formula, snug in grandma's arms. It brought me to tears! Such beauty!
Birds singing outside my apartment. The swoosh and bite of wind against my feet as I walked onto the balcony to watch children play on the grass hill outside. The hilarious, pretentious world of literary criticism and intellectually preening for my professor, so that he thinks I'm passing intelligent.
This is as much our lives as the dump. To deny one is to be lost.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Yellowstone Memories
Robert and I were remembering Yellowstone today. It already seems a lifetime ago. The butt-end sharpness of that horrible lawsuit stands between this time and that time. I could hardly remember anything, and the things I did remember had to do with us and our togetherness. (To be honest, we did spend most of our time together.)
I think when we're both graduated we're going to spend a summer there again. I never thought I'd say that--the company that we worked for was quite awful. But Yellowstone was beyond words. It'll pull us back. You just wait and see.
Both of us want to settle down in Montana someday. It's such a beautiful country.
I remember the day Scott Harrison (the pedophile who raped me in the church) was deposed for that lawsuit Robert rolled his windows down on his Grand Marquis, stuffed another three friends in the backseat, force-fed me xanax, and took us all on a dirt-road to Bozeman. I even remember what I was wearing: Robert's long johns, a high-slit black slinky skirt, and some Romanian top, my head crowned with daisies that made me sneeze. We stopped off at a house where one of our friends lived. They moved a bunch of stuff around while I entertained a little blonde-haired boy with daisy chains and play tractors and reminded myself why I was going through with everything. When I left this little boy clung to my skirt and wept. I wanted to do the same, pick the little guy up and squeeze him, protect him, make sure Scott never got to this precious sweetheart.
Our goal was to get to Bozeman and watch the Dark Knight. When we got to Bozeman the whole sky exploded in hail, lightning, water. I've never seen a storm quite like this one--so bad that it made the front page the next day. Bozeman lost power, all the theatres closed down. Robert and everyone else stood in the theatre overhang and pouted, while I ran into the middle of the parking lot, mud-slush to my knees, and twirled, twirled, twirled. I just stood in the middle of this rain river, tears running down my cheeks, laughing at the same time, shaking in fear at what Scott might do to me now that he knew who was naming him, shaking with sheer exhaustion, but also shaking with love and hope and that cleansing rain.
If ever there were a rain just for one person, that storm was for me.
I think when we're both graduated we're going to spend a summer there again. I never thought I'd say that--the company that we worked for was quite awful. But Yellowstone was beyond words. It'll pull us back. You just wait and see.
Both of us want to settle down in Montana someday. It's such a beautiful country.
I remember the day Scott Harrison (the pedophile who raped me in the church) was deposed for that lawsuit Robert rolled his windows down on his Grand Marquis, stuffed another three friends in the backseat, force-fed me xanax, and took us all on a dirt-road to Bozeman. I even remember what I was wearing: Robert's long johns, a high-slit black slinky skirt, and some Romanian top, my head crowned with daisies that made me sneeze. We stopped off at a house where one of our friends lived. They moved a bunch of stuff around while I entertained a little blonde-haired boy with daisy chains and play tractors and reminded myself why I was going through with everything. When I left this little boy clung to my skirt and wept. I wanted to do the same, pick the little guy up and squeeze him, protect him, make sure Scott never got to this precious sweetheart.
Our goal was to get to Bozeman and watch the Dark Knight. When we got to Bozeman the whole sky exploded in hail, lightning, water. I've never seen a storm quite like this one--so bad that it made the front page the next day. Bozeman lost power, all the theatres closed down. Robert and everyone else stood in the theatre overhang and pouted, while I ran into the middle of the parking lot, mud-slush to my knees, and twirled, twirled, twirled. I just stood in the middle of this rain river, tears running down my cheeks, laughing at the same time, shaking in fear at what Scott might do to me now that he knew who was naming him, shaking with sheer exhaustion, but also shaking with love and hope and that cleansing rain.
If ever there were a rain just for one person, that storm was for me.
Kanal by Wajda
Okay. Not quite as tragic as Kanal (an excellent historical dramatization by Anrzej Wajda in which the entire Freedom Army in Warsaw is routed in the sewer tunnels).
But still.
I wake up. I throw a towel around me for a nice hot morning shower. I stretch and yawn, then sit on the pot for a nice morning pee. I flush the toilet aaaannnnddd...
It's a geyser, even smellier than the Yellowstone type. I start plunging like a banshee, screams included, and several cuss words. (Who needs coffee? I've got a malfunctioning toilet.)
I scream, "Robert, help me!"
He cries out, "Michelle, I'm coming!"
Whew. Thank God. I plunge with less vigor.
Robert shows up in his plaid pj bottoms, carrying my glasses. "Here you go honey. I love you." And he goes back to bed.
Now that I've yelled at him for the past five minutes and recorded the incident in my largely depressing blog I feel tons better. I love married life. I love Robert. I only want to smack him half the time. The rest of the time I just want to be his snuggle-bug.
But still.
I wake up. I throw a towel around me for a nice hot morning shower. I stretch and yawn, then sit on the pot for a nice morning pee. I flush the toilet aaaannnnddd...
It's a geyser, even smellier than the Yellowstone type. I start plunging like a banshee, screams included, and several cuss words. (Who needs coffee? I've got a malfunctioning toilet.)
I scream, "Robert, help me!"
He cries out, "Michelle, I'm coming!"
Whew. Thank God. I plunge with less vigor.
Robert shows up in his plaid pj bottoms, carrying my glasses. "Here you go honey. I love you." And he goes back to bed.
Now that I've yelled at him for the past five minutes and recorded the incident in my largely depressing blog I feel tons better. I love married life. I love Robert. I only want to smack him half the time. The rest of the time I just want to be his snuggle-bug.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Pedo Priest Video Game
The pedo priest game. I found it on SNAP (Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests) and it has done it's job making me laugh 'till i cry ever since. Play it!
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/games/play/359216/#
http://www.ebaumsworld.com/games/play/359216/#
To Jeffers, who lets me weep freely.
I woke up with Robert, and we cuddled in front of the morning news like a couple of yawning kitty-cats, all wrapped up in a snuggle hug. It is the first day of spring. The sunrise shot up like a vivacious, red finger grasping at sky. Yum.
It's nice to get up in the morning and have a cup of coffee with the person I love most in the whole world. I feel very blessed.
Each day I learn to live again. It's like I forget how to live while I'm sleeping, and I've got to relearn all the basics, the toddler walk out of bed, blinking in the bathroom light, breathing the present into myself and the past out.
Each day I relearn my own limits, that I can't help my childhood friends anymore than I already have, at least not at the moment. I've given all I have. There's nothing more I can do. I have to live my life, bask in the love that's been given me, mourning quietly all that's been lost. Now I've got an arm around me. I often wake up nights, calling for Robert to hold me, in tears. Last night I woke up, taking swings at the air that in my dreams was the glass between the nursery and the sanctuary. All the children were crying and I kept screaming out that they oughtn't leave Scott with us, that he did bad things. Nobody listened until my swinging at sky and calling out to people who don't listen woke me up and Robert was there beside me, kissing my hair as I wept.
You know the bit in the Return of the King? When Frodo cries out to Sam Gamgee, "I am wounded, wounded. It will never really heal."
But then he got up, and the turn seemed to pass, and he was quite himself the next day. It was not until afterwards that Sam recalled that the date was October the sixth. Two years before on that day it was dark in the dell under Weathertop.
Ahhhh. The day goes on, and it's so beautiful.
Civilized, crying: how to be human again; this will tell you how.
Turn outward, love things, not men, turn right away from humanity,
Let that doll lie. Consider if you like how the lilies grow,
Lean on the silent rock until you feel its divinity
Make your veins cold; look at the silent stars, let your eyes
Climb the great ladder out of the pit of yourself and man.
Things are so beautiful, your love will follow your eyes;
Things are the God; you will love God and not in vain,
For what we love, we grow to it, we share its nature. At length
You will look back along the star's rays and see that even
The poor doll humanity has a place under heaven.
Its qualities repair their mosaic around you, the chips of strength
And sickness; but now you are free, even to be human,
But born of the rock and the air, not of a woman.
-Robinson Jeffers
It's nice to get up in the morning and have a cup of coffee with the person I love most in the whole world. I feel very blessed.
Each day I learn to live again. It's like I forget how to live while I'm sleeping, and I've got to relearn all the basics, the toddler walk out of bed, blinking in the bathroom light, breathing the present into myself and the past out.
Each day I relearn my own limits, that I can't help my childhood friends anymore than I already have, at least not at the moment. I've given all I have. There's nothing more I can do. I have to live my life, bask in the love that's been given me, mourning quietly all that's been lost. Now I've got an arm around me. I often wake up nights, calling for Robert to hold me, in tears. Last night I woke up, taking swings at the air that in my dreams was the glass between the nursery and the sanctuary. All the children were crying and I kept screaming out that they oughtn't leave Scott with us, that he did bad things. Nobody listened until my swinging at sky and calling out to people who don't listen woke me up and Robert was there beside me, kissing my hair as I wept.
You know the bit in the Return of the King? When Frodo cries out to Sam Gamgee, "I am wounded, wounded. It will never really heal."
But then he got up, and the turn seemed to pass, and he was quite himself the next day. It was not until afterwards that Sam recalled that the date was October the sixth. Two years before on that day it was dark in the dell under Weathertop.
Ahhhh. The day goes on, and it's so beautiful.
Civilized, crying: how to be human again; this will tell you how.
Turn outward, love things, not men, turn right away from humanity,
Let that doll lie. Consider if you like how the lilies grow,
Lean on the silent rock until you feel its divinity
Make your veins cold; look at the silent stars, let your eyes
Climb the great ladder out of the pit of yourself and man.
Things are so beautiful, your love will follow your eyes;
Things are the God; you will love God and not in vain,
For what we love, we grow to it, we share its nature. At length
You will look back along the star's rays and see that even
The poor doll humanity has a place under heaven.
Its qualities repair their mosaic around you, the chips of strength
And sickness; but now you are free, even to be human,
But born of the rock and the air, not of a woman.
-Robinson Jeffers
Thursday, March 19, 2009
NoPo NoMo
That's right. I live in suburbia now. Cleveland suburbia. And I have to sigh a HUGE sigh of relief. I love North Portland but it got hairy there for awhile.
-Like the time I came home, saw a man with a gun run across the street, opened the door to my house and saw my housemate cowering under the table from a gang shootout.
-Like the time my neighbor was shot to death on her porch.
-Like the time I rode the bus to teen rappers rapping how "I gonna rape the only white girl on the bus, uh huh, uh huh." Guess who was the only white girl on the bus?
-Like the time the homeless man stole my $25.00 pair of black, silky, new Victoria's Secret underwear I bought with my Chanukah money. And then proceeded to piss in the washers.
-Like the time a teen shook shocked in the middle of the street, his red blood decorating a Tri-Met bus. I was walking home from work, down Killingsworth. A woman screeched up, ran frantic to the boy, screaming that she was a nurse. I still wonder what happened to that guy. Dear God. I wept all the way home. There wasn't much I could do, standing around in tears, mouth wide.
And now...I love suburbia! I love cookie cutter houses! I love normalcy!
This trip down memory lane was brought to you by a shooting just outside my old home...ahem...that I wasn't present for and wouldn't even know about if I hadn't checked my Portland Community College email.
-Like the time I came home, saw a man with a gun run across the street, opened the door to my house and saw my housemate cowering under the table from a gang shootout.
-Like the time my neighbor was shot to death on her porch.
-Like the time I rode the bus to teen rappers rapping how "I gonna rape the only white girl on the bus, uh huh, uh huh." Guess who was the only white girl on the bus?
-Like the time the homeless man stole my $25.00 pair of black, silky, new Victoria's Secret underwear I bought with my Chanukah money. And then proceeded to piss in the washers.
-Like the time a teen shook shocked in the middle of the street, his red blood decorating a Tri-Met bus. I was walking home from work, down Killingsworth. A woman screeched up, ran frantic to the boy, screaming that she was a nurse. I still wonder what happened to that guy. Dear God. I wept all the way home. There wasn't much I could do, standing around in tears, mouth wide.
And now...I love suburbia! I love cookie cutter houses! I love normalcy!
This trip down memory lane was brought to you by a shooting just outside my old home...ahem...that I wasn't present for and wouldn't even know about if I hadn't checked my Portland Community College email.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Argh-worthy
On Tuesday a tenant called the fire department. She mistook the smell of my Pine-Sol for a real emergency. Hmmmm. Is somebody cleaning the floor, or burning down the building?
On Wednesday: my birthday. I baked a cake for myself and made homemade pierogi for everyone. Robert bought me Barbarella (with Jane Fonda) and the book "Cunt." He said he was standing in the bookstore trying to decide if the book was too feminist for his feminist wife. I said yes, but I read it through a few years ago anyway. He laughed and we kissed. Tonight we watch Barbarella and eat leftover cake and pierogi.
Another birthday treat... I got to talk to Micah. He sounds so little over the phone, his voice so high. Such a good little guy. He starts school next year. He misses his St. Helena home. "It's hard to leave your home," he told me seriously. Awww. I want to hug him. I'm saving up for my parents and Micah to come for a couple weeks in November, when Robert and I move into our own apartment. It certainly isn't ideal to live with anyone in the first year of blissful marriage, but it saves us a good chunk of money and means I have more money when my family comes and money saved up for school/future house/vacations.
I have a job as a cleaning lady at my apartments. My hands are peeling and hardening into callouses. There is a blister where my wedding ring slides on. It's a good feeling.
I'm signed up for 15 credits at EOU. I'm trying to polish them off and get ahead in school now. Just as it's difficult to catch up once you've fallen behind it's easy to get ahead if you work at it. I'm really working at it. I'm terrified of getting horribly depressed and falling into academic disarray. Again.
Not again!
On Wednesday: my birthday. I baked a cake for myself and made homemade pierogi for everyone. Robert bought me Barbarella (with Jane Fonda) and the book "Cunt." He said he was standing in the bookstore trying to decide if the book was too feminist for his feminist wife. I said yes, but I read it through a few years ago anyway. He laughed and we kissed. Tonight we watch Barbarella and eat leftover cake and pierogi.
Another birthday treat... I got to talk to Micah. He sounds so little over the phone, his voice so high. Such a good little guy. He starts school next year. He misses his St. Helena home. "It's hard to leave your home," he told me seriously. Awww. I want to hug him. I'm saving up for my parents and Micah to come for a couple weeks in November, when Robert and I move into our own apartment. It certainly isn't ideal to live with anyone in the first year of blissful marriage, but it saves us a good chunk of money and means I have more money when my family comes and money saved up for school/future house/vacations.
I have a job as a cleaning lady at my apartments. My hands are peeling and hardening into callouses. There is a blister where my wedding ring slides on. It's a good feeling.
I'm signed up for 15 credits at EOU. I'm trying to polish them off and get ahead in school now. Just as it's difficult to catch up once you've fallen behind it's easy to get ahead if you work at it. I'm really working at it. I'm terrified of getting horribly depressed and falling into academic disarray. Again.
Not again!
Friday, January 9, 2009
A new year.
I am sitting at the kitchen table with wild-woman hair, pajama clad, drinking a lemon-lime slushie and having a late lunch of potato pierogi (that I made myself!!! Mrs. Hudak gave me the recipe).
It is blizzarding outside. Robert is playing computer games. I am ready to poke my head out of my funk, get back to work.
First, a shower. Then...applications.
I start school towards the end of March. I'm hoping to have a job, be completely moved to Ohio, and have a support system set up here by that time. It's a little worrying, I don't want to be so financially secure that I become a lazy body. NEVER!!! I'll definitely keep working, and working as hard as before.
It is blizzarding outside. Robert is playing computer games. I am ready to poke my head out of my funk, get back to work.
First, a shower. Then...applications.
I start school towards the end of March. I'm hoping to have a job, be completely moved to Ohio, and have a support system set up here by that time. It's a little worrying, I don't want to be so financially secure that I become a lazy body. NEVER!!! I'll definitely keep working, and working as hard as before.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Overs.
There is so much that has happened in my life during the past six months. I know some relatives read this blog so I'll be blunt here about what my life has been.
Everyone in my old life knows I sued the Seventh-day Adventist church thanks to some heavyhanded investigators that called up nearly all my old friends and informed them. (And in some cases proceeded to harass and otherwise make miserable other individuals hurt by this subject matter.) Well, it's over. I'm saying that with a sigh of relief. It is. It's over.
My lawyer recommended I keep the amount and terms I settled for private, as I tend to be quite naive and hand out money left and right to whoever asks for it.
I won't ever go back to the East Salem SDA church. I was hurt there, badly. This part of my life is over and it needs to be.
Alot of my life is toppled, but from this lawsuit my parents and I are friends again. The things that were firm, those stood. Not to say the wobbly, toppled parts are all bad, but irrefutably they are toppled and out of my life for good reason: they hurt me.
I moved to Yellowstone in March to get away from the situation. I met a boy. His name is Robert. He has crooked teeth, a moustache, curly reddish, blonde hair and the nicest smile in the whole wide wild world. Robert and I had a whirlwind romance. I settled the case on December 5th, ten days before the trial was scheduled. Robert and I were married on the 19th. I wore my dream dress by Lena Medoyeff. It is embroidered and has a cowl neck. I wore daisies in my hair. I didn't cry. My mother and father were there and they cried. My little nephew gave Robert and I the rings. I kept hugging everyone. I smiled lots.
I bought my white dress with settlement money. It's my one splurge, and hugely ironic. I get the giggles every time I wear it, twirl, and kiss my husband while I'm in it. It makes me feel very clean and pretty.
Now I am in Ohio. I'll live here while going to Eastern Oregon University online. I also have a few wonderful friends who will look at my manuscripts and give me good advice on writing. I feel really blessed. I don't know where I'm going from here. I don't know. But I am financially secure and am married to the love of my life.
I know many in my religious family (and old group of friends) are concerned that I am no longer "with Jesus." I haven't left the church to prove anything or because of God or whatever. I left because I could no longer stay. As I said in my deposition, "You don't stay with an abuser, Mr. Whittemore."
Because I have been so badly hurt by religion I ask my deeply religious, amazing, loving, sweet family and incredible friends to understand that this is something private. It's something in my life that's been fucked with, and I ask that those who love me keep their distance regarding my religion or lack of it.
I don't know how much I'll write in this, but I wanted to wave hello.
Hello, hello to those I love.
Everyone in my old life knows I sued the Seventh-day Adventist church thanks to some heavyhanded investigators that called up nearly all my old friends and informed them. (And in some cases proceeded to harass and otherwise make miserable other individuals hurt by this subject matter.) Well, it's over. I'm saying that with a sigh of relief. It is. It's over.
My lawyer recommended I keep the amount and terms I settled for private, as I tend to be quite naive and hand out money left and right to whoever asks for it.
I won't ever go back to the East Salem SDA church. I was hurt there, badly. This part of my life is over and it needs to be.
Alot of my life is toppled, but from this lawsuit my parents and I are friends again. The things that were firm, those stood. Not to say the wobbly, toppled parts are all bad, but irrefutably they are toppled and out of my life for good reason: they hurt me.
I moved to Yellowstone in March to get away from the situation. I met a boy. His name is Robert. He has crooked teeth, a moustache, curly reddish, blonde hair and the nicest smile in the whole wide wild world. Robert and I had a whirlwind romance. I settled the case on December 5th, ten days before the trial was scheduled. Robert and I were married on the 19th. I wore my dream dress by Lena Medoyeff. It is embroidered and has a cowl neck. I wore daisies in my hair. I didn't cry. My mother and father were there and they cried. My little nephew gave Robert and I the rings. I kept hugging everyone. I smiled lots.
I bought my white dress with settlement money. It's my one splurge, and hugely ironic. I get the giggles every time I wear it, twirl, and kiss my husband while I'm in it. It makes me feel very clean and pretty.
Now I am in Ohio. I'll live here while going to Eastern Oregon University online. I also have a few wonderful friends who will look at my manuscripts and give me good advice on writing. I feel really blessed. I don't know where I'm going from here. I don't know. But I am financially secure and am married to the love of my life.
I know many in my religious family (and old group of friends) are concerned that I am no longer "with Jesus." I haven't left the church to prove anything or because of God or whatever. I left because I could no longer stay. As I said in my deposition, "You don't stay with an abuser, Mr. Whittemore."
Because I have been so badly hurt by religion I ask my deeply religious, amazing, loving, sweet family and incredible friends to understand that this is something private. It's something in my life that's been fucked with, and I ask that those who love me keep their distance regarding my religion or lack of it.
I don't know how much I'll write in this, but I wanted to wave hello.
Hello, hello to those I love.
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