Now I know why I used to say that, and what it hid.
I keep thinking I shall. It physically hurts to do so. Fortunately, I’m writing for myself, which means keeping some sort of documentation of progress such as it is. I am getting adjusted to new braces and have learned to wear the ones I had; two sets of knee and ankle braces, that is. The accident was hard on me in more than one way. Maybe I’ll be able to write a bit. I have attempted two poems. I was so afraid they were garbage I immediately turned them face-down and haven’t looked at them.
That was merely the release of pent-up frustration, built over nearly six decades. There were moments when I was “one of them”. Unfortunately early something else also intervened, that of consciousness, enlightened or (probably) not. When I mentioned “my genius” yesterday I did so in light of a couple of government tests based on the Stanford-Benet (version 1970s) [skipping similar whatevers on whatever; I detest bragging simply because most of my (known) family so delighted in it, and I know I overdo it in my detestation, c’est le whatever once again; You Can’t Go Home Again most particularly if you find you weren’t there in the first place a depressing number of times]. My Aunt Marie had a high I.Q., periodic depression and self-loathing (leading to sadism, and, I suspect masochism) and even the records of her flights toward and acquisition of knowledge. My Aunt Marie. My Mom. Or then again there’s Barbara. My Mom. The second, however, occurred legally when I was 7, seconds (days; it was the…never mind; six days) before I was 8 and enraging my now (half) sister and brother soon because that meant a whole lot of presents for me, what with Christmas and then all that…
Before that, there had been three years with Mom. The first one, Barbara. The one who immediately tried to have me aborted but I did the miscourtesy of birthing early–a month early, according to my steely-minded biological mother. No, I never use sarcasm. There were good parts. On her side she simply had to get fucked. I’m sorry, but bush-beating isn’t in the cards just now. Or banging heads against walls in the vain attempt to avoid the brutal onset of the realization of the truth. One does it, or rather the crowd does; it’s even contagious, you know, like the rebirthed dance from side to side of the nimble-footed and dull-witted pedestrians, in memory of my youth (presumably there are even old textbooks around still recording it), the one I personally solved by stopping and waiting. I have weak ankles, you see. Doing the Dance wasn’t in. Doing all sorts of things to shy away from the Truth, the Whole Truth…wait a minute, I’ve gone off course here; no, I don’t mean to imply that there is such a thing. Most of history is about nimble dances around perceived holes in the ground, said ‘holes’ consisting of, well, Truth, in minor manifestations. I mean, it can happen. Really. Sort of. She would get a few nights off and come back bathed in the fumes of nicotine and alcohol and fat and happy. I’m going to leave the old phrase alone there because it’s so fitting. By the end of a week or two she would be sagging and consumed with nothing but Truth in various manifestations. I was the fart at the brunch, being a bastard. No, I’m not pointing out my abominable behavior; I’m a bastard. By birth. I have no proper last name. Whereas that’s no big thing now it was in the late 1950s in Jackson County. They had Sundowner laws here until relatively recently; one city may still have them on the books. There was pressure for me to vanish or find a father, preferably the former. I was an embarrassment, and also to the family.
The 3 years, you see, was a trial, even to an infant. Or perhaps not just any baby, I wouldn’t know.
Then there was Jay, who was an abuser. He did bruise me a bit, but I did some unbelievable things for play by myself as well. No, there’s no reason to report that without being asked. The things I did weren’t sexual [in my world they couldn’t be, since I was 5]. And nearly 3 years later I was adopted.
That’s my life. That’s the real world. The very idea of being able to assign any importance to the nature of my biological father is somewhere between laughable and infuriating–and I have verified PTSD. No more turning in circles because at a crucial point I’m very likely to snap and try to kill. No one is going to try to entice me into it now, even if the possibility ever existed. ::the sound of that tree in that unpeopled forest::
as it were, was quite simply a non-event, as I anticipated many years ago. I’m not even saying I had a sense of deja vu, it occurred as I ‘foresaw’ it; the odd echoing ‘notness’ of the scene explained by the internet, which has some aspects of the tree falling in an unpeopled forest and the sort of sound (the implication that sound requires hearers, and thus definition of many things; names say more about the namer than the named) that transpires…and it was quite a fitting backdrop. There was a tiny cascade of questions from one person, without even a shard of offered information about [that person’s] self. I could tell you a great deal, mind, about likes and dislikes; but then my genius is about being able to see patterns. Perceive, more like, particularly with today’s days’ blurred visions.
There were I think five messages from there, seven responses from mine. I still am not accustomed to being the eternal outsider. Mark me well; those are not the words of self-pity or delusion. My earliest judgement was that most others are stupid. I stand silent about my current thoughts save to observe that then and now my attitudes have led me when I managed any sort of sanity to stand alone.
To the Muhlheisens as were and may be, I bid you well. I am rather sure we shall never speak nor meet again. Eugene it seems doubtless that we would have enjoyed one another’s company a few years back, but it was not so. There is no timefold here, no master to undo the knots of timely threads and weaves.
I find myself changing to just that; a diary rather than anything centered around a GRAND PURPOSE of (one presumes) imparting knowledge. In fact, for one thing, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m if anything an idiot; born and years of practice and all that, you know. This is variously inspired. My wife engineered my meeting my erstwhile and presumable family, by which I mean the bastard–me–‘met’ [in Internet terms, no quotidian clasping of sweaty palms but rather the notional replacements for ‘RL’] was able to “meet” one, actually of my (presumable) half-siblings. Whom I would guess I immediately and then variously disgusted. I was a sailor and did what sailors did, yes; I was half or more than a spy and…yes, part of my life sounds like a rather bad novel. When I said diary I didn’t mean easily penetrable by all, at least from what I’ve been repetitively told.
The meeting lasted a few days and then dwindled to silence, at first unendurable and then quite comfortable. The parents I knew ensured variously that I couldn’t know or trust them, and when they professed love were about to perform cruelty. My true mother’s last words to me were “Oh, Glenn, I’m so glad I couldn’t have you aborted,” repeating what she’d said just before being carted off to Montana. My actual reactions were somewhere between “Oh, Mom, too bad you couldn’t have” and “Oh, Mom, how nice and how lovely that you’re leaving!” Then about 4 years later the military decided I really did have the job I’d claimed, was a Vietnam (war, not era–it mattered very much to them, you see) veteran, really did see the sorts of [censored, so that I don’t pay for this later] I claimed because of the security clearance I so boringly babbled about–I was obviously narcissistic–but then again they weren’t quite sure about what I knew, they had to admit. Which was sort of a hint to not babble too much more; in light of just that I won’t detail why. Ask Snowden or someone knowledgeable.
I don’t know what the point of her–my notional half-sister–meeting me was. I’m going to give an approximation of what we have in common besides some genes. Nothing. I’ve spent my entire life thinking about something relatively complicated which would be utterly meaningless to her. That’s all.
Meta is or was my sister’s name. For some reason I feel utterly sure I’ll never communicate with her again. Oddly enough I regret having even wasted the time trying to communicate with her. But then it was at my wife’s behest. I’m not angry with her. I have achieved forming a sort of necessary pattern. That pattern is, by the way, absolutely not closure, whatever that is. Whatever ‘it’ is, is open. I have never made a pattern of this sort and had anyone else even give me the impression that they perceived it.
I got my precious damned Suburban back (the one that saved my life by being what I drove) and part of the body is loose. I’m less than happy. I am positive I have to take it back and let them fix it and that it will take a while to fix.
I am receiving steadily more braces which are steadily more constricting and also affect my balance (not my sense of balance) more and more, because managing one’s balance naturally involves the ankle muscles[/tendons] and the braces will obviate being able to use those muscles. I am losing the struggle and it’s affecting me badly. There is no escape from this. That I can’t manage to stop fighting is either very good or ridiculous. Go ahead and judge, for I cannot.
I have, since my last entry:
most tellingly, not written in a blog for which I pay.
Met my father’s daughter. That doesn’t sound like much, but then I’m illegitimate and from a somewhat horrible family on my mother’s side. I grew up with…a great deal centered around that, by other people.
My Suburban was so violently rear-ended by a Honda Acura that it did around $10k worth of damage. Yes, of course the Suburban was drivable. (That’s actually complete false in its assumptions and premises, by the way.) It was nearly perfect before. There were scratches on the plastic, before. Now it’s a bit surprising the rear door still lifts.
Had the Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome VII confirmed. Had the rarity of my severity confirmed. Had the rarity of my ‘condition’ confirmed. An epileptic with EDS and PTSD (and narcissism by the at least preliminary reports of their psychiatrists and mental or Mentat specialists). “Oh, no, that is very, very rare” she (“they”) said when I mentioned the timeline of around 70. Mind you, they’d been telling me how rare my case was from the moment I walked in. Throw in whatever the Navy saw (and I was at least the most ____ man in the Fleet, but according to the bloody testers one of the most _____ people in the world; I think ______ translates to “destructive” in real terms).
All the signs of it. And on the way back so violently rear-ended I’m still suffering the after-effects; that was Monday, this is Saturday, and the first time I’ve been able to write at all. I don’t mean from shock over the Suburban I do mean from Blunt Force Trauma.
Tried to drink and threw the bottle away unopened. Now that’s bad. I simply don’t drink.
Attempted to start moving toward publication again and was stopped but I think I’ll be able to do it soon.
And the pain in my neck (which has led to a headache ever since the accident) has prevented me from doing nearly anything except weak physical labor. I move my neck or head or something and it becomes so painful I can’t think. And I was driving a fucking Suburban and I’d just been given a damned death sentence. Soon. Yes, I have luck.
Certainly I was at fault. I was driving in one direction in one lane following at the proper distance and paying attention to absolutely nothing else. I have his name and address. I’m half-tempted to drive up there and kill him. Writing this down and putting it on the Net ensures I won’t. Mind you, I haven’t put name and such down, either.
“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear, is there a sound?”
All deathcries are but one, and all are somehow heard.
Many more hear than merely humans, and few humans hear.
I should think the forest hears, for it is a being made of trees.
What is a sound?
If we do not name a thing, does it exist? That is (to my ignorant mind) the meaning of the first question.
Can you describe a being whose sole orientation is task-oriented, which means a general inability to perceive the future and thus results of immediate tasks, which means results up to and including that being’s own demise–as intelligent?
That is far too wordy to be zen [but then, you see, I lack the words, which is why I have been so long silent, I was going to die in silence] but the attitude is precisely zen.
In pursuing ourselves we have forgotten our selves, and most will not be able to understand that. I read long and involved arguments about how thought cannot occur without language, without words, without, that is, the net of values, concepts, precepts and protocols which is our society. An implication which is as much pr0ven as is possible to be is that then that which can’t be expressed can’t exist (which has lead to things like conducting someone with the wrong notions off to the mental ward, to be let out when in the opinion of [someone] the patient is not a danger to himself or society [yes, last I checked the specification was that sexist], which means that one might just not ever be led out again. It means that those naked African savages on the riverside are subhuman (that was a British expedition), that those of a different belief should often be killed (should I bother enumerating? Coptic Christians are one of my favorites, as an absolutely unforgivable example of atrocity). If thought cannot occur without language completely new theories tend to be hard to come by especially since a great deal of it, unless it’s mathematical, involves finding the fucking words for it. I have a volume of poetry written forty years ago to prove that, by the way, should anyone be interested. The whole volume is about a theory of philosophy, theory because it’s backed by research (mainly historical; if there were research of other sorts involved in realtime it would be massive, unethical and absolutely impossible by any known, named or stated means*). It’s about how society forms, changes and dies (Dhalgren did have a massive, perhaps too massive an affect on it). It’s about mini-societies that are its basis. The problem is that I could only do that by violating all the rules I knew of English, essentially. I became ‘i’ because English is the only language to capitalize the personal pronoun. That’s the very basic start.
Unfortunately, “no one reads poetry” and things that are just exactly as they’re stated are missed because of our society and its assumptions. I can get them published one by one, and I’m starting work on it. The few I published at the end of the 70s apparently actually had some effect. It would have been under another name and security forbids me to state it except in reply to a contact established by a comment or through Twitter or perhaps Facebook although I understand I’m a trifle hard to find there. LinkdIn or whatever is worthless for contacting me. oregonnerd at gmail dot com works too, since I’m bad at keeping up on anything other than that and Twitter. Where I would once have given away the volume of Voices, I’m actually separating the ms. right now and preparing it for publication. I have notionally started, once I actually do, which is going to be this week, I’ll just do it, making each poem into its own separate file in a folder to avoid duplication. I initially stopped publishing because I thought I saw an effect on my poetry, which no longer is relevant.
[Truly gory signs of internal bleeding are a real memento mori–the results of the necessary overdose on anti-seizure medications, Leveteracetem, Carbamazepine, Divalproex…1500 mg, 800 mg, 4000 mg (with extreme amounts of acetaminophen for any excuse you might want to use). Daily, split amounts into two for that. 4000 mg=4 gm.
Then there’s the EDS and the likelihood of a blood vessel popping. I tend to have very low blood pressure but rather high cholestorol. I also have varicose veins from my braces, sort of a sign of the same thing; it has to do with the elasticity of the blood vessels. Even I can get squeamish occasionally. So I’m going to start trying to spurt out a theory that doesn’t even fit into the conventional mode.
The true beginning is undoubtedly that a two-valued logic is visibly intrinsically false. We now have actual ‘proof’ [anything can be faked, see Lucy] that this takes place in the animal world, with the bird attacking the bear and succeeding with its bluff. Generally the third choice historically is “submit” and it’s visibly a common option in the animal world; the animal rolls on its back presenting its belly. I have seen this inter-species in domesticated ‘animals’. However, even my view of language differs from the norm considerably from what I can gather. That is for another time.
and few words will lead, I think, to more. This region is due for heavy earthquakes and I live on a semi-dormant volcano, however, and I am not only mortal I’m taking a (prescribed) heavy overdose of prescription drugs (anti-convulsive, internal bleeding and the destruction of joints–in combination with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome Type VII [old nomenclature] destruction of ligaments, cartilage and tendons–in combination with heavy calcification including innumerable spikes.
I’m better at controlling pain and at the end of fifty years of thinking about something which no one except (other) zen Buddhists accept as real. Since I’ve rarely even encountered someone formally in zen I don’t suppose I qualify as a ‘real’ worshipper. Most of my life I’ve merely been a laborer, although I’ve drawn and carried little water; I have hewed and carried a great deal of wood. I have no calluses though I have corns, due to EDS.
As far as what I thought about let me say this and only this right now;
On Names and Truth
What we name
we rarely see, thereafter.
It is as if
language were, itself, a lie.
Although that looks like a poem it actually isn’t, methinks.