Supplication

Diary entry, April 15, 1981

It’s been bad for me because my mom and dad are getting divorced.  We did a school play yesterday.  We were the Spanish dancers.

Notebook, 2013

Into words       into stars          into another boring discussion on who we are     who we were   who we long to be       I am still in that tree house   still hiding in the leaves                       if memory is my master then I am its beaten dog             wouldn’t I be clever it I could put it all together                      wouldn’t I be the one calling the shots             mock me with riddles         ridicule me with rhymes    you know I have no power      that I am afraid to be alive

Crisis, 2004

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

--Macbeth, Act 5, scene 5

Class journal, 1993

Entry #3

Let's move on to a more serious topic.  Last summer I knew this woman who had an extremely nasty history.  She was ritually abused, and trust me, you don't want to know the details.  As you could probably guess, even though she's a tremendous person, she still suffers major repercussions from what happened to her, and one of these is her fear of someone coming up behind her.  To accommodate for this anxiety, she always wanted to sit in the corner surrounded by walls, never with her back to the door or to anywhere else someone could creep, for that matter.  And she has these wide eyes that forever darted around the room, even though she otherwise seemed perfectly relaxed.  You had to watch her eyes to realize that she was never relaxed, since she succeeded so well at the illusion of calmness, although she did sit somewhat coiled like a snake.  She told me once that she never felt safe, never comfortable anywhere, especially since her abusers knew where she lived and probably knew that she had children.  When her grandma had caught wind of what was going on way back and temporarily rescued her from her parents, the satanic people would leave notes in the grandma's mailbox, and at night hang around the house, looking in windows, ringing doorbells...you name it.  People would say to her now, why don't you move? but she lives on a farm and you can't just pack up and take off from a farm.  Besides, she's not the type of person to complain or run away forever, and you have to wonder if she would ever feel safe anywhere.  Those of us in these types of situations have a saying when people run from place to place: they're only making geographic moves.  Your mind and your memory, unfortunately, always come with you.

Proof of Tomorrow

Tomorrow is Crying for You, Later Still

All of the followers had gone, sucked up into the girl’s funnel cloud and carried off to god knows where.  What remained lay on the ground, broken.  The restaurant would not be serving again.

I was wondering with a pang of regret where Marietta had gone when a dishevelled figure with a lopsided purple hairdo and an old face limped over to me.  The cruelty in her expression had now become mingled with resentment.  We just stood and looked at each other for a while, until she said, “You think you have won.  But the spell is broken for you, too.”

“I know,” I answered.  “But at least I can live with myself.”

“We’ll see about that,” she replied.  She then disappeared, rather against her will, I thought, into a cloud of foul-smelling smoke.