“Your granddaddy don’t dance, and your grandma don’t rock n’ roll like mine…”
What would it take me to speak up, to hoot and holler and say “hey, y’all I have a story to tell”?
They killed my clown. Oh, it’s just this fantasy in my head. They didn’t really kill my clown, there’s not even really a ‘they’. My grandpa died is all. He was a clown, and he died, and that damn near killed me.
And the curious thing is, I have no idea if he believed himself. I mean, I know grandma does?—?she’s that whole evangelical pentecostal holy spirit healing and hoopla kind of religiousity, something that I saw plenty more of being raised in the South.
… but that’s not the point either, the point is simply, you died.
Grandpa died. Grandma Hilton is all I have left.
It’s time to start telling stories.
— I’m testing my voice. I’m testing with a tease. Please offer critique, I get by with a little help of my friends. My friends have always been on the internet.
I was on some kind of a never ending silent treatment as if somehow God would actually read my blog and somehow respond to me—among everything else going on in this mad, mad world, including and not limited what seemed like the near blanket agreement that if one was to believe in God then it was merely a delusion which at best should be considered a form of mental illness…
“Got some attachments and baggage I’m working on leaving.”
“Sounds of the city on Capital Hill,
I wore cowboy boots
and did line dances on the bar
where the time went slow
while I learned to drink PBR.”
Here’s looking at you, Rosie.
You thought you could distract me from my homework? I’m going after the belly of the beast, and I couldn’t be more hungry. You carry the blood of my brothers, sisters, prophets and prophetesses.
Following this I saw another Angel descend from Heaven:
His authority was immense,
his glory flooded earth with brightness,
his voice thunderous:
“Ruined, ruined, Great Babylon, ruined!
A ghost town for demons is all that’s left!
A garrison of carrion spirits,
garrison of loathsome, carrion birds.
All nations drank the wild wine of her whoring;
kings of the earth went whoring with her;
entrepreneurs made millions exploiting her.”
Just then I heard another shout out of Heaven:
Get out, my people, as fast as you can,
so you don’t get mixed up in her sins,
so you don’t get caught in her doom.
Her sins stink to high Heaven;
God has remembered every evil she’s done.
Give her back what she’s given,
double what she’s doubled in her works,
double the recipe in the cup she mixed;
Bring her flaunting and wild ways
to torment and tears.
Because she gloated,
“I’m queen over all, and no widow,
never a tear on my face,”
In one day, disasters will crush her—
death, heartbreak, and famine—
Then she’ll be burned by fire,
because God, the Strong God
who judges her, has had enough.
I am strengthened by fortified wine, I nibble on dry bread and think of the dust which composes my flesh, upon which you tread with scaled measure.
A girl and her kite, following the lead of a boy who decided to fly his and brought her holy spirit while she bathed thinking she was alone in the world.
Time to fly guys.
I am Christian.
I’ve been here before this ain’t a battle, this is war
Word to Boonie, I make salat like a Sunni
You won’t find me in the “Kingdom Hall” on Sunday, as I no longer confuse being a Christian with choosing a Religion.
I want you to know, I am a person who is seeking information, then I act some times “spontaneously” but it’s always grounded on far more than people think. Continue reading
I have the feeling I’m more like my father than my mother—and that scares her.
The thing is, but I believe there is no way I would ever believe anything less than he would do everything for us. A sad thought when you realize the norm has challenged that perspective to the desire for that of man over god; reality over hope; fear over faith.
Afraid of having fun anymore lest it means I’ve fallen off the watch.
I bet it’s been a long since while that they’d heard such a Romantic concept.
Do you believe in strings of invisible love and faith?
‘Cause I do.
That’s the story of life—the difference between do everything and do anything.
You might reach Ken Kesey.
Cathy, I need help. Please call (619)692-8445. (Tweeted via friend over the phone)
— Angela Baxley Glass (@Ang) July 18, 2011
Which will they prove true?—that I plotted and scripted the scenes, and thus am crazy, or that they are guilty.
Hint: why not both?
Good thing I don’t believe in an eye for an eye. It’s not like anyone is going to see this anyway. 😉
Conversation started July 13, 2013
come up to 10. we’re getting ready for the ‘prom’. would love to see if we can include you in as much as possible, including introducing you to the organizers of the event
regardless, you know where i lay my head, we’ll be up here until we come down again.
July 14, 2013, 7:22pm
What’s the name of the creative center in SF u were telling me about? Where is it?
Hey!!!! My phone died right away. I have the room still!!! Can I overnight it. I was lovingly distracted by saying goodbye and by the wood whose name I still can’t recall! Can I overnight it? Did Eris ever show up (bag in lobby I left key on top).
July 15, 2013, 4:13am
Palo Santo is the wood. Just drop it in the mail if u would: 424 E Palm Canyon Dr. 92264. No still have @Eris stuff here. Will she come back for it? I got the key on top
July 15, 2013, 12:41pm
Key will come from apple overnight. Hilarious. You get to see my sisters more than me. Guess you’re in.
Oh. We have to install a — well, you know, if you want — an electric keypad lock on room 10. The key killed the weekend so I could be resurrected. Have to be low to stand. Research the word resurrection? I thought it meant something totally diff than I thought before I was given the epiphany.
July 19, 2013, 10:07am
are you around? haven’t heard from you since the fires.
I am around! Had friends in town from SF since last Sunday….and then of course the fires have distracted me. Still reading the Message. Loving it!
In work related news, our account manager asked about your reservation. I never ran charges on your card. Did you collect from Tikva? Is it okay if she runs your card? Didn’t want her doing it without checking with you first.
July 21, 2013, 1:25pm
Wow! I have been so deceived by the New Age Movement. I am so happy that you led me back to Jesus. I’m still in shock of how “enlightened” I thought I was and how blindly I was following Lucifer. Yikes! I am so grateful for you encouraging me to read the bible. Thank God! Do you go to Church or where do you find community?
July 22, 2013, 5:56am
At Hotel California. Just serve grapes and grain. Or wine and bread…
Kick it and be kind.
Just call my name, and baby, I’ll be there.
So how’s the Walker?
November 19, 2013, 6:48pm
your brother still interested in helping save La Jolla surf culture and hotels and hostile takeovers and such?
momma, you’ve been on my mind. wine and bread and cheese and sea salt crushed in virgin oil, with you my beauty, please?
otherwise, let’s get http://shorecolony.com/ figuerd out
The Shore Colony | The Creatives’ Center and Surf Colony on Windansea Beach, La Jolla
I love Windansea Posted on 2011.02.07 by Gidget I love living here. It’s smack dab in the middle of art, history and culture, and it sits pretty close to a free society. For months I’ve daydreamed about what it would take to preserve the building. You see, I had moved away from San Diego. Packed ever…
then i want the old cottages next to the dying man’s hotel
old chicken roost next to the Brockton Villa
Let’s take over—Christ is on his way. Paradise to come, and 1,000 years of humans reigning from heaven.
You and me, babe?
November 28, 5:53pm
Just thinking of you, again. Love you long distance and long time—who is minding the old inn? Have a girl friend, Diana, in from Dubai who was asking about the real one. I was talking about mine in La Jolla. Have spare room ready—come visit me Love!!!
Angela! So good to hear from you, darlin’. I am working at the HC in the mornings. Just about 2 weeks from delivering our baby. Holy Cow! Would love to visit. When will you be back to visit California? Was thinking of you the other day and our wonderful talks. So cool!
All my bags are packed I’m ready to go
I’m standin’ here outside your door
I hate to wake you up to say goodbye
But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn
The taxi’s waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn
Already I’m so lonesome I could die
So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll wait for me
Hold me like you’ll never let me go
Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh baby, I hate to go
Every place I go, I’ll think of you
Every song I sing, I’ll sing for you
When I come back, I’ll wear your wedding ring
So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll wait for me
Hold me like you’ll never let me go
Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go
Now the time has come to leave you
One more time let me kiss you
Close your eyes I’ll be on my way
Dream about the days to come
When I won’t have to leave alone
About the times, I won’t have to say
So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you’ll wait for me
Hold me like you’ll never let me go
Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh baby, I hate to go
Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane
Don’t know when I’ll be back again
Oh baby, I hate to go…
…I’m coming home.
With a fondness for the 50’s we invite our guests to join us in vintage style.
Whether you think of Pleasantville, Grease, or Gidget, you’re on the right track. Visit our Pinterest board for more ideas.
Staying for the Walker World Summer Camp after the reception? Here’s fodder for inspiration.
See you at the beach, y’all!
Did you ever get the feeling your friends created a video game just for you? 🙂 I love @mccorkle.
I went back to do the dishes and thought to myself, ‘this isn’t the life I want’. Did I tell you? I had even tried to convince myself that I just had to get things all in order so that everything in life would be ‘ready’. See how that worked out? Needless to say these hands have yet to hit dishwater. So much for Southern.
But is there really anything wrong with that?
If someone would give me just one cup, plate, bowl, spoon, fork, mug and what else do I need?
I’ll tell you what, just a really cool place to put them!
I need to figure out how to be happy, or this is going to suddenly feel like a very long life, I get the feeling, from here on out…
Today is the day that my daddy died, 30 years ago today, or some time within 12 hours or so either way, because I can never quite remember if the accident happened the night before, or if it was already considered the next day, and when it was that he died, or rather, how long it took him to die. And since I move so damn often, the paper which answers this question every year when I inevitably go searching for it to determine once again, for another year, just it was ‘when’ that ‘what’ happened, is buried in boxes which are worn and disheveled from the packing, repacking, and moving again, again, and again.
Any way, I’m listening to Yo-Yo Ma do Johan Sebastian Bach while considering doing my dishes, or just throwing out all my clothes, …or just moving to a life I’d prefer to be living?
It wouldn’t take a psychiatrist to be able to tell you that if I could have anyone with me here tonight to have a glass of single girl microwaved a few seconds to knock the chill off red refrigerated wine it would be my dad. No, not the one who called yesterday to make sure that I was okay, I think because he knows even if only from the signs from my mother’s odder than usual behavior triggered by it nearing that day again… No, I mean my father, the one who gave me life. He was an artist and a lover, a singer and a movie maker, although I have to tell you his song in the band is pretty much dreadful.
Here’s Dog Sweat, by Matthew Raymond Morris Michael Niblick. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, you’ll want to cover your ears. But to me, it’s music. That’s my daddy’s voice. When I heard this ‘song’ this past year, it was the first I’d heard my daddy’s voice, since he died thirty years ago. Still, Dad! What were you thinking?!
He was my father's "Father" until he found God for himself.
— Angela Marié Glass (@Ang) December 9, 2015
Years ago my aunt, the nun, apparently worked in the same parish as Father Alfred Kunz, a rebel Roman Catholic priest who performed exorcisms. They became friends, and like all friends of the Niblick’s at some point he was at the house with the family. Father Al admired my father’s art and invited Matthew out to work on his church in Dane, Wisconsin. What artist would deny the Church as a patron, not even Da Vinci?
Just a few years later, my father dies in a tragic accident in the lonely hours of that pre-light March morning.
Nobody foresaw it on that cold, gray March morning, but the aftermath of Kunz’s death would get strange, and then even stranger. There would be stories of exorcism referrals, a satanic assassination and, eventually, innuendos of sexual impropriety by Kunz, who was known at St. Michael simply as “Father Al.”
Later, there would even be allegations that his murder could somehow be linked to evil in the most unthinkable of places: the vast Catholic hierarchy that Kunz was tied to as a diocesan priest. Some even blame the Vatican in Rome.
In the absence of an arrest, the Kunz case also has developed into a religious Rorschach for many — certainly among those close to the case who consider themselves traditionalists within the troubled Roman Catholic Church, which all but invented the Easter holiday as Western civilization knows it today.
Fifteen years later—March 4, MCMXCVIII—fifteen years ago today, Father Al was found murdered.
“Fifteen years later, someone could still be haunted…
The all-consuming rage at the cockeyed old priest; the uncontainable hatred, day after freezing winter day. The wee-hours confrontation in a dim school hallway outside the priest’s office, where he’d slept like a castaway for the past 31 years.
The attack, the frantic struggle: It all ended in a heartbeat, when the killer plunged a razor-sharp blade into Father Alfred Kunz’s neck, slicing the major artery below his jaw.
And then came all the blood — warm, slippery torrents of it, coating the painted cinderblock walls and the worn, gritty floor tiles. Almost instantly, Kunz fainted into a lifeless heap, his white T-shirt and black slacks soaked from the gaping wound. According to emergency room medical experts, he would have lived for about another minute, probably in a deep, dreamlike haze.
Asperges me domine… Thou shalt sprinkle me, O Lord…
… et mundabo. …and I shall be cleansed.”
Pedophilic Satanism in the bed of Roman Catholicism—the Vatican, otherwise known as the house of Babylon the Great—exorcisms, animal sacrifice, Luciferians; it’s a terrifyingly truthful tale entitled “The Devil and Father Kunz: An Easter tale about murder, the Catholic Church and the strange paths of good and evil“.
Kunz had also traveled to Rome and met Pope John Paul II as the pontiff prayed alone one morning at a secluded Vatican chapel.
One of Kunz’s closest associates was best-selling novelist Malachi Martin, a one-time Vatican insider under Pope John XXIII, who convened Vatican II. Martin would later leave the Vatican circle and become an exorcist, as well as the author of six religious novels, one of which, “Windswept House,” was compared to “Dr. Zhivago” by the Washington Post in 1996…
“What Luciferians resent is interference with someone they regard as theirs,” Martin told me in that interview, adding that his friend believed his life was in danger in the weeks before his death. “We are all convinced beyond anything that Father Kunz was killed in hatred of the faith as punishment — and as an example for the rest of us.”
Martin also repeated his belief that the aftermath of Vatican II was nothing less than a coup by Satanic forces – that, he said, was why he eventually broke with the church’s new mainstream after Vatican II. Martin wrote about the alleged dark influence often in his novels. In “Windswept House,” for instance, he described a satanic animal sacrifice linked by telephone to the Vatican’s Chapel of St. Paul – and the account does bear eerie similarities to a calf mutilation that occurred near Dane almost exactly 24 hours before Kunz was last seen alive.
It’s been thirty years later now, and I wonder more than ever of the short days of my father on this earth. I find 33 a little young to feel so world weary, just look at all my father got in by 23.
I had wondered about whether or not my dad had ever made it to San Francisco the year he hitch hiked across the United States to California for his summer vacation when he was 15. As I realize that he escaped from a Moonie camp, whose home base was in Boonville north of San Francisco out past wine country, it dawns on me, of course he did.
And maybe one day I’ll make it out to Father Al’s church in Dane, Wisconsin, to see my father’s art, though I doubt it… I imagine it would be hard to concentrate with the image of the slain Father Al, hanging before me, throat cut from ear-to-ear, beheaded and bled.
I adore men with guitars and old cars, be it Woody or Dylan, Jack or Jason,
Dave or Love, it all comes back to Johnny Cash, Elvis, the Beatles and
rhythm and blues.
a repost from the ChannelC forum
I realize that I tease you and that in writing perhaps it doesn’t come off as such. I imagine myself to be your little sister. You might not be in need of a little sister, and I can stop treating you as such. I just loved the image of the folks in the neighborhood and popcorn and such.
Anyway, since JVB opened up, I will too.
I don’t think that I’ve ever been an agnostic truly, I imagine I more simply lost my faith, and drew close to it as it goes hand-in-hand. I’ve mentioned previously having used the phrase “if, given god, then…” in my conversations.
Here’s my story… Continue reading
What persuaded me?—It was the Word, alone…
There was a summer,
not the last,
the one before,
where it was decided
that my ignorance
should be no longer.
Fade out on scene.
“I’m writing this down because … I’d sure be the most miserable woman in this world if ever forgot what happened… pic.twitter.com/jbutt1HO6G
— Angela Glass (@spunkygidget) September 13, 2014
More accurately, I was carried away in handcuffs to the San Diego Psychiatric Hospital because someone I had known less than seven days had thought I was “strange”.
I was abused, and I was amused—they were not.
It was fear, not faith that they sought in my face.
I had no fear: “What can man do to me?” (Psalm 118:6, Hebrews 13:6)
Fickle fuddled words couldn’t confuse me.
“Do you hear voices”, she asked?
“I hear them calling my name“, I sang.
Wasn’t this all a scene to amuse me,
to carry me from the boredom of insanity?
Indeed it did.
Man can cuff you,
rough you, drug you
and count the hours you lay wake.
Still I thought they did it somehow for my sake.
They couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t cower and quake.
I couldn’t understand why they thought I would break?
I felt my mind pull away from sanity
as the days lithium laden drew longer.
They wondered, ‘why won’t she sleep?’
There is no man
but the one
who came from above
who knows what it is
that is best for me.
only a dose of two
or three keep me awake
for more than a week.
What is meant to cause sleepiness,
sedation, to make the violent meek,
made me lose my mind
and left me with only my eyes
with which the truth I might seek.
Have you ever looked into your own eyes
knowing therein alone is the truth?
They’d sought to convince me
I’d never been there before.
You see, it takes quite a journey
to bring me to my knees.
The day I went in in handcuffs,
taken from the garden where I’d sleep,
three needles and they lay me asunder
in the authority of their keep.
I awoke to see a vision,
a woman whose eyes I needn’t seek.
What a beautiful moment of awakening—
Her eyes looked back at me.
I knew that she was Angela,
beautiful skin the color of
the nature of Peru.
I’m not crazy
Her name was, of course, Angela.
And Angela, yes, is also me…
But there is another,
as I am Angela Marié…
The other is Maria Angela,
or Angela Maria, as I knew her,
she explained once to me sixteen
or as many years before.
with the moment of sight eye-to-eye
she lay before me.
Only you must know that I am sane—you see?
With what it is that I knew,
I also knew it could not also be true.
Another moment of reality:
Sanity holds true.
Her name was Angela.
I’ll tell you her story.
I do not worry for her,
for in her I saw me.
Our brief moments,
or at least those brief moments
where consciousness was once again mine,
were interrupted by the authority
which told me I should no longer “be”.
They brought me in, condemned,
to 72 hours of detention
but now they didn’t want me.
I believe there was something
in all I had said the night before,
when they laid me to sleep
from which I wasn’t certain to awake,
that made their soul wonder, worry and shake.
“If you can call someone to pick you up, you’re free.”
Drugged, bruised. I had no family.
I called someone, and he came, and we’d leave in a hurry.
He didn’t ask about what it was that he’d seen.
Some people know you,
though they’ve known you not long,
I imagine you’d believe.
He drove me home,
and I asked
if we could not stop
at the coffee shop
on the way?
I tasted the elixir which became my sanities keep,
little did I know my body knew what it was I did need
—caffeine is the remedy when lithium dost thus leak.
Back home he left me, returning quickly to his life which he could only leave briefly.
My roommate, the Trojan, was surprised to see me. I looked into his Greek eyes and told him it’d no longer be.
At once he got out, and I had the day to open the doors wide and see what might come inside.
I swept his room clean, nice and empty, and there I prepared it for what I’d long since wanted it to be to arrive.
Girls came to help, friends like arriving like angels, children who’d come to play with me.
That night in my delight, I entered and slept on the hardwood floor.
As I closed the tent folds behind me, I had only that which I adore. I had carried in my bible, that one which I had before the day I was baptized, in it is still taped a hair, the one he taped the first time I considered sharing my life. I had my violin, it is a mere symbol, that it be that one or an earlier of mine, it was simply my red violin.
I suppose here I must stop to introduce the tall lanky weed with blonde hair, the child I knew was my grandfather before time thus upon him grew.
You see the night before after the free had been freed, I decided to take the light out which bothered my sleep.
It was three in the morn when out of my room and into the street I’d sneak. I stood there midway in bright as day, equipped with a step stool and coffee mitt in either hand prepared, there’s no wonder why it is that they’d stare. The lost then wandered around the corner, and they looked on at I, as I at they and we neither much mattered if the other so much cared. I asked if they’d see anyone rustling bikes in the night, they countered—”why?”—stiffening as if I was prompting a fight. Oh, I told them, some have gone—disappeared. Since they wander in the night, perhaps they’d look out from now on? What is it that you’re doing, not so innocent yourself? I told them what it was I was up to, with night as my only stealth. The one offered to take that mitt off my hands, and the stool he’d too take, and he promised tomorrow, from sleep I would awake. I offered my home for their slumber, they walked it off waiting to drive to their sleep. While one would humbly accept the offer, the other not accustomed to the kindness of strangers, would slink away after the good deed while I slept in his promised sleep.
I woke in the morning. The cat in hat on my couch did sleep! Oh, momma, oh my! How is it that wonder did not pass by-and-by?! Is this really, could it, would it truly be!? Did he hear the prayer that my soul groaned though my knees had never relented, never ever before meek or weak?
Truth I do tell, my heart did swell as the child like golden death did sleep. I slipped out the day for my plunder, and my routines to return to upkeep. I went to Harry’s, the 1960’s family diner that I adore, and Harry’s adored me as ever before. I stopped in Bird Rock for coffee, cappuccino in hand, I pressed on further beyond the border of my imaginary land. I met the mechanic, a good hearted man, he promised he fix it, “if he can”.
I set off determined to venture further, into the Pacific I’d determined to be, there was a bike for sale I’d ride back along the beach. But mere blocks later—who knows if it were the woman or the dog that I’d first meet?—there walked love, three Cavalier King Charles Spaniels and their mommy who they lead. I asked her, who are they? A doggy I’m in need. She said, well here have one, I have one more than I can keep. She handed me the leash to the mommy, opening her heart to love to lose later and for love lost later to bleed. I said why don’t we walk the block or two towards the ocean, and when it we meet, you go the one way, and I the other—when she thus notices, she’ll turn back and toward my home we’ll walk whilst it is you she seeks? Thus it in my life full of wonder, that she did give me her child, in mere moments of meeting, and in mere moments later of meeting did part, her with love and me with her heart. Rosie was her name, a saucy red head more beautiful than anything I’ve ever loved. A red headed daughter of a black Irish man. Pure breed and with papers, she and I could ignore, we were a pair made in heaven, and heaven we’d explore.
We weaved and wove, wandering where the street drove, making our way back home. Along the way, as life would stray, Rosie became Roxie, and thus began what felt like the dawn of new day. She and I tired as we made our way, and eventually came upon a man who had decided he was too. He stopped jogging to walk aside us, and for a moment my heart arose. In childlike wonder, my mind did ponder, would I recognize my father if my father had aged and appeared before my eyes? He was a physicist, he taught Alice in Wonderland, and at night he wrote. He had a screenplay, of which apparently I was already the star. He stumbled and nearly fell, in a few blocks learning what was relatively little, but recognizing what it was in only dreams he had previously he’d saw. The only difference between her and me were the dreads upon her head, he said, and as he faltered it seems the sight of me nearly brought him to his knees.
I explained that he were going home, and she was going home with me. He marveled and stuttered, my life is unimaginable, or imagined by most to be a dream. He said he has a puppy, and he could go home and fetch food for her to eat. He left us at my corner, the wrong-way one-way dead end at the ocean where sky meets dreams, as he headed up the other way, climbing up the street towards the peek.
So it is that later that night as I climb into my tent content that my life is nothing like others, that which seems so bleak, there remained a child of flaxen hair, an abused spirit with a bored debonair stare, and with him in tow, suddenly, his only baggage—a guitar, and a suitcase bearing the cross marked for the Hell’s Angels, upon which a book of words to sound smart with worn edges darkened by frequent thumbing did lay. He kept Roxie, and made me a milkshake to end my day. I ate from the box, it made by some combination of who knows what but I’ll never forget; luscious, delicious and creamy with berries! I laid my head down to sleep.
It seemed he’d slumber pulled asunder, an escaped angel of death, I marveled at what length he dozed. Only on the third day from this arrest was it he rose. He wore my socks, Dr. Seuss striped woven warmers of toes. So happy was me, to finally be free, the Trojan having been disposed. Alas my mind’s sass should have held back for fast it was that the next wave thus goes.
As he sat at the table which sat by the window, the writers seat looking out at sea, he gazed aimlessly at the book which lay before him his eyes suddenly I worried would be deceived. Buddha sat fat and lifeless one of those epic idols of stone before the lost child who sat listless, lonely, dejected and alone. He drank a coca-cola, and I asked he leave it alone. He wondered what was wrong with it, and to reason at that moment I was not prone. Exchange exchanged in a toss and a throw its with shame I admit, first the coke soaked the cover, before out the door, um, well you know.
Anyone would be angered by the arrogant dismissal, oh you know, there’s no excuse for anyone to take someone’s possession and even out one’s own door take aim and throw. It seems somehow not much later with things much sedater that I sat on the couch, my lap Roxie’s throne. My feet up and resting, my sleep not yet recovered from drug’s dressing. Behind me a rustle, the police they entered in a bustle, no privacy no concept of domain or that it was my home.
They entered and stood over me, and their eyes I did meet, no wilting flower, what ever did they want to thus dare to interrupt my dear darling Roxie’s sleep and stand before and above and behind me?
Oh rile me Satan and I thus shall scorn, your work at which you weary is thus on my nerves thus worn. I say get behind me, and the serpent does seethe. Reject the devil and he will flee, but it isn’t immediately he’d leave me. They picked and they lingered, loitering and looking, until finally I was peeved.
What is it, I ask, that you seek? Do you have an address book? (For what should they need an address book, indeed?) I sent them with detailed instruction to where three lay precisely, though each would give them nothing but that which they said they’d seek.
Have you noticed, my nature, gone sour from sweet? Three days after my freedom would bleed, drugged into stupor and stupidity with an edge of a nicotine fiend, they ask will you go willingly or, proverbially, shall we put you on your knees?
I noted that that was no choice at all, and with a sigh I rose in dignity the last moment of peace I recall.
They had asked a myriad of questions, each one asked I answered as fast, precise and accurately as the last. Their questions amused me, how little it showed they’d know. For instance, who asks a girl geek for an address book, not asking instead to see her iPhone? Did I drug my dog, um no? Was it out the door his book I’d thrown? Yes, I didn’t want it in my home. Did you let this man stay here, yes? Does it matter if he had no place to stay? I offered him a place for his head to lay. “A homeless vagrant” though I told them his name and his licensed address no shamed claim to fame. Thus Roxie got fleas, Daniel Zechariah Rhodes took leave, and I’d lose my home.
My angel Torres pic.twitter.com/t9xUG0S7GQ
— Angela Glass (@Ang) November 28, 2013
There’s nine days in between, but at twenty-fours of persistent wakeful sleep speed, thats more than a chapter, and less than a dream.
Suffice to say its somewhere between Angela’s eyes and a tent wander’s dreams.
Though I took the Word into my tent and slept in a wilderness of my own, it was months later I read the book which told me my heart knew I had a home.
So either it’s something in that story, which is long from being done and told, or it is simply the answer.
“I was hungry and you fed me,
I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,
I was homeless and you gave me a room,
I was shivering and you gave me clothes,
I was sick and you stopped to visit,
I was in prison and you came to me.”
It was the Word and the Word alone.
I am emotional. I feel betrayed. I was raised in faith that the Watchtower was God’s organization. I believed that my mom and dad knew the answers that one day I’d come to learn. I just felt slow and stupid and that eventually I’d get it. I trusted. I had faith. I believed. I knew my parents were smarter than me. I had read it in the poem that hang on his bedroom wall.
I now learn that while they can’t answer me from the scriptures when will my father live again they will deny the scriptures as they are written as truth.
“And the rest of the dead do not come to life until the end of the thousand years.” — Revelation 20:5
Despite that verse, and the one which precedes it which clearly defines who will partake in the first resurrection (which is immediately followed by this verse—”And the rest of the dead do not come to life until the end of the thousand years.”) she’d say that “apparently” my father, and all other loved ones, such as my uncles and my best friend, will come to life again during the thousand year reign.
“But who will they rule over?”, she asked.
I attempt to offer the answer, it lies therein, in the next verse—
“the nations which are in the four corners of the earth, Gog and Magog” the ones who Satan’d deceive, let alone the man on earth who would yet thus believe and come to reside, as the scriptures say, in the holy city.
My parents tell me there will be only 144,000 in heaven, you see.
And thus on the earth the great crowd should be.
I wonder and am confused, what mystery she believes? (Revelation 17:5)
The 144,000 are in heaven, yes, we agree.
The great crowd, regardless—where is it?!—where will Gog and Magog be?
My parents won’t answer, and a answer will not be.
They offer confusing theories, the efforts or effects of their personal theology.
“The dead are not dead”, he says, “don’t you see?”
Or is it that he says that they are dead, but only spiritually?
And ‘the Son of Man which every man will see’, well not, every man will “see” he’d have me believe?
The man who says he was the Son of God would ask me to believe, and he asked in the first century, “what if you would see the Son of Man ascending to where he was before?” apparently now the truth that we should seek is “what if you would see the Son of Man descending to where he was before he was where it is that he still is or would still be?”
Oh, I sigh, I ask and cry, “You men of Galilee, why do you stand looking into the sky?”
My parents would say that though they dropped their jaws, and gave good pause so the Lord would sent his angels to mark the day, that it not matter, despite the manner, they not believe “This man, who was received up into the sky will come back in the same way as he was seen going into the sky.”
No, we’d not see, it’d be seen, no not all all.
It is not green eggs, no, it is not green eggs and ham, at all.
It was not for us but for the few he’d call, those men that they’d say of that long since past long ago day, some day once before no, never, not seen, it was one day when some one said he say him, somewhere near 1919. He came invisibly, known only once he came though their inner chamber doors; yet we shouldn’t worry, as though it were a desert, no not in desert no wilderness, nor should we go seek him, no it was in Brooklyn that as a thief he broke in.
My heart is like a child’s, like a king’s it’s been broken.
I have no throne, my crown is sore and of my ego there’s not much left to be worn,
But a princess I’d be—in the kingdom of heaven—my heart still plays make believe.
I give it all, I swear I would. I understand, I’d dare I could, Paul he’d be a man after that which is me—My Dad, my mother, my sisters and my brother, my family—please take them, take them before me?! My life, my life, I’ll give it, pray, I pray, please, oh please, not them but me! My body you’ve beaten, battered and abused, my mouth you smote and my faith you moved. My fear was shattered and my soul I cared not, who knows what I know, and who needs what I’ve got?
My father, my Father, before both I bend my knee. I beseech you I pray in my scattered soul, that thing which I not know if man need, my heart has been thrashed, and my heart thus does beat. Take my shame, give me blame, or lift from below?—I can’t breath. My eyes lay but for a moment on your son, and my heart stirred, ashamed I chastised myself, for your son I am beneath.
Why make me wonder I already know. You know my mother told you so. I look good in red, that’s what she said. And you know I’ve always wished to be worthy of wearing white. Your woman of revelation, adorned in skies diamonds, my mother think I’d be better off in colored jewels. You both tease thus, it seems I must, admit the scriptures are my muse?
But in seriousness, somberness, in undertone day and night. You know it is, from child’s breath, to adult fright, I’ve read you in delight. I had faith though life not make me believe. My spirit broke, then I found myself on bended knees. I lay my head to the ground, where once long ago I was found. It against that flesh that I find myself, the dust of which I am, the dust which I deserve.
Why make me dream, drowning me in stars? Why test my heart, and send my mind so far? I have no family in heaven, my father beneath my feet sleeps. My mother’d not believe me if I told her it’s me you’d seek. She thinks its the devil, and thus shame has won, how it is that I’d tell her, it is the best that I’ve done?
What shall you do to make them believe? What is it that shall come to make the world see? I care not for my life, but he that gave his for me. How is it that you lived without him? A perfect man, your child, your seed? My father knows not of the pain of which we call my life, he never came to know that a man called me his wife. As I stood before that man, for your mother and father you must leave, that man told me that I must forget—for him you must not grieve. How jarring it is this moment to try to say where all the other words thus in poetry lay—he said it he said it he said it callously, he said ‘get over it’, and that he said it I still can’t believe.
I’m done. I’m done. I’ve said all I can say. You’ve empty my heart, and I’ll hit send and pray.
I think of my father, and then you sent Muppets and clowns my way. I adore my childhood, and my life I wouldn’t trade.
I imagine another live would be one less boring than mine. I still can’t said I would trade it to live next to the divine. The roses smell sweet when not genetically altered, and you know it is not less than often that before earth’s herbs I’ve faltered. Rosemary I rub in my palms to breath its fragrance given next to the busy street, basil I adore and roses maybe more, though my scent I still seek. Do you have smells where you dwell, or could I have herbal retreats? Is it true, I heard once you drew a vision a man knew not to seek… upon a stone he struck his head and in slumber he did sleep. Though his eyes were closed his spirit rose, in wonder it did peak. He saw the stairs, or a ladder who cares, it was heaven it did seek. Angels came and went and the night was spent and of it the scriptures do speak. I laugh and wonder, could it be a man should go asunder so he might find on the other side an elevator ride, one like no other? (Genesis 28:10-19) I know, I know, in case she should read, yes the man who first before him must proceed. That death he gave and wine we drink, in life will live and death in we will breath.
In anguish, Solomon says in his heart,
“Who knows the spirit of man,
whether it goes upward,
and the spirit of the animal,
whether it goes downward to the earth?”
Why? Why had it entered Solomon’s heart that might might “go upward” as opposed to the “downward to the earth” that he knew of the death of animals?
Why is the prayer of Moses in the psalm referring to “flying away“?
Lord, you have been our dwelling place for all generations.
Before the mountains were born,
before you had formed the earth and the world,
even from everlasting to everlasting, you are God.
You turn man to destruction, saying,
“Return, you children of men.”
For a thousand years in your sight
are just like yesterday when it is past,
like a watch in the night.
You sweep them away as they sleep.
In the morning they sprout like new grass.
In the morning it sprouts and springs up.
By evening, it is withered and dry.
For we are consumed in your anger.
We are troubled in your wrath.
You have set our iniquities before you,
our secret sins in the light of your presence.
For all our days have passed away in your wrath.
We bring our years to an end as a sigh.
The days of our years are seventy,
or even by reason of strength eighty years;
yet their pride is but labor and sorrow,
for it passes quickly, and we fly away.
Why is it, by the way, that you’d believe that a generation can be anything other than what the scriptures define? There are so many little studies I did in child like curiosity and learned so many little things. Check every single reference to lifetime and you’ll see, a generation is forty if a life for the mighty would eighty be. Christ died and prophesied that a generation would see, and then thus it was that less than that it came to pass and thus they came to see. Why should I though all I know who believed have thus died believed what was not taught? Is it not man who over whom man it is that injury is wrought?
I apologize. While there might be some meter or rhyme, I haven’t the slight clue how to communicate it in writ. I offer you thus what you might imagine is puss, but I hope instead you see wit.
I am a gift from God, think no more of myself from sod, of where a seed dost thus lay. However this wheat should be no more neat than in thus death it stray. For in that if it be true then thus it is that I do a seed a harvest display. I long ago since died, and each time I think it the last that I’ve cried, but as your child I’d lied, and thus I lay my heart humbly before you this day.
I, Angela Marie Niblick Benson Baxley, and of all other aliases both present and formerly, am of sound mind and judgement of body.
“For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.” — 2 Timothy 1:7
I seek love and self-discipline, and the power to overcome weakness in speech.
But first, I shower.
The Jews & The Joes presented by angela marie baxley
The Patriarch of the Family God promised Abraham a seed, and that his descendants would become like the sand of the sea and the stars of the sky. Sarah worried that she was barren even though God promised.
She gave Hagar to Abraham and Ishma’el was born.
———- Forwarded message ———-
From: Angela M. Baxley <email@example.com>
Date: Fri, Sep 13, 2013 at 5:10 PM
Subject: Re: Beautiful album, love the lyrics, and the website. Thank you!
To: A Boy and His Kite <firstname.lastname@example.org>
thanks for the music recommendations. i didn’t even know about that site “come and live”. very cool.You’re still top of the list on Rdio for Heavy Rotation (based on my friends). Here’s the list of my pals who have your album on rotation. Again, stunning—all very influential in my world of designers on who tweet and love to rock. 🙂On Nov 28, 2012, at 11:57 AM, A Boy and His Kite <email@example.com> wrote:For sure! =) I have lots of atheist and spiritist friends in Boulder that have had their opinions and perspectives shaken up a bit knowing me and my faith in Jesus. I don’t exactly match their stereotypes. Like you I don’t really listen to much “Christian” music. I occasionally will turn the radio on to see what it’s sounding like and I’m sadly always disappointed. My little kids don’t even like it =)Here are a few of my friends with a similar heart that I really enjoy listening to: Josh Garrels, Sleeping At Last, Andrew Belle, Son Lux, Matthew Perryman Jones, Karla Adolphe, Page CXVI and Loud Harp (my other band. you can download the record for free www.comeandlive.com).Thanks again!DaveOn Nov 28, 2012, at 12:04 PM, Angela M. Baxley wrote:
Wow, a really live email back! 🙂 Super cool!Do you have recommendations on other artists with similar style minded lyrics and music? I don’t really like the stuff that is more typically labeled “Christian”. I can’t help but smile as I see your record, and Mumford & Sons top the “heavy rotation” on Rdio among my SF friends, who for the most part are both (a) atheists, and (b) incredibly influential to the culture of America. Apparently they don’t pay attention to the lyrics, but maybe it’ll get into their hearts all the same? 🙂Agape,Angela@ang @baxleyOn Wed, Nov 28, 2012 at 10:58 AM, A Boy and His Kite <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:Hi Angela,Thank you so much for your email! I’m sorry it took me awhile to get back to you.I’m grateful that you are enjoying the music and also listened to the words. Also, a big thanks passing on those typos =) I just fixed them.It’s fun to hear that my music struck a chord with where you’re at and what you’ve been thinking. That’s really exciting for me to hear! My songs are my experiences and stories of the goodness and love of God that I’ve received in my life. I don’t know how to sing about anything else =)Thanks again for taking the time to write me. I appreciate it. I hope you have a wonderful holiday season!Peace.Dave Wilton – A Boy and His KiteOn Nov 26, 2012, at 9:08 PM, Angela M. Baxley wrote:
I’ve been looking for music that would fit what’s been on my mind lately, I put on your album (top of the new ones from the last week on Rdio) and jumped in the shower.I came out to disbelief. Was I really hearing my ears correctly?I had silently asked for something that I would find upbuilding, spiritual, just not disappointing as my mind seems so much more aware of late…Thank you!I wanted to reach out also, because I believe there’s two typos in the lyrics—”to deep” should be “too”? And “burry” is written instead of “bury”?I found the album by Mumford & Sons, Babel intriguing. Seems many are awakening.Angela from San Francisco
My momma always used to sing me this song.
“Thanks for the platform Angela. Sorry you had the unfortunate experience of getting molested by my old room mate Curtiss Parker. Hope you get over it some day but I know that’s easier said than done. Allowing me to post this article should at least give you some satisfaction. Too bad it won’t bring you redemption. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will do something about these two con men. As always, Your Friend and former neighbor, John Harter”
4 messages with John Harter regarding Curtiss Parker
|Angela Baxley||Wed, Aug 15, 2012 at 11:51 AM|
Hey John. Last summer he came downstairs and slept in my bed. I arrived home to find my roommate on the couch, and Curtis in my bed. I believe that was about the same day I decided to kick my roommate out (reasoning, of what use is it to have “a man in the house” when he allows the drunk neighbor to waltz through the living room and into my bedroom to sleep in my bed, when his is upstairs?!).
Later when I was dealing with the cops and they wanted to know why I didn’t feel safe at home, I responded “the devil slept in my bed”. Of course cops are far less imaginative than I am, and they took that to mean I was crazy. Thus I was taken away and locked up—and Curtis still runs free. Irony of life.
I’m not sure what I would suggest you’d do. Curtis told the landlord malicious lies about me, apparently also spreading rumors in the complex about me as well. I heard from neighbors about his saying I was lesbian and other sexually oriented lies. Eventually Karen, the landlord, decided to get rid of me. Why she’s kept Curtis so long, and why she chose him over me, I have no idea. That however doesn’t fair well for you.
You should look into your legal rights—are you on the lease? Is he? Is it a joint lease?
Much like Carrie of Sex-and-the-City fame had her Mr. Big, we’ll leave the cousin-in-law known as the “Cabbage Patch Cousin-in-Law” and otherwise nameless. You know, to protect me from lawsuit, and not so much as protecting the not-so-innocent.
She’s been in the picture for nearly half my life. When we were all young, back when everyone used to get together on the holidays at Grandma’s house, she first entered the picture. My cousin’s previous girlfriend was really sweet, but had been given to awkward loud belches which seemed hardly possible from her petite frame, but alas, that’s how she’ll be remembered. The next girlfriend was Cabbage Patch. She too had been aware of the previous girlfriend and made fun of her belching. That’s all I remember of that.
It seems a year later they were getting married. She really wanted me to come out for the wedding, but my cousin had met her in college and they were way out in the middle of America land. She told me all about her best friend she wanted me to meet—he was going to sing at her wedding. She got married. He got married. I got married. Years pass.
I’m divorced and the scene is back at Grandma’s house. I had gotten it into my mind to take my Orange County born-and-bred southern California Jewish boyfriend to Indiana in February—his first time meeting the family. What isn’t hilarious about that idea?
The Cabbage Patch cousin-in-law and my cousin drove from middle of America to meet us in Indiana for the mini cousin reunion. Growing up in different parts of the country, we really hadn’t gotten to spend too much time together besides holidays. Now here we all were drinking—grown ups!
Cabbage Patch took to my SoCal boyfriend like white on rice. I think she dug that he was totally squeezable in that she’s got a few more pounds than extra herself kind of way. Another night later though and she comes diving in at me—he doesn’t believe in Jesus?!
I’m not sure what part of obvious she had missed.
The next night as he and I were literally standing by the door leaving to head back to California, she brings it up—she wants me to meet her best friend—who is just split up from his wife. (You remember, that one from years before that sang at her wedding.)
I was aghast. Honestly, I don’t remember what I said, if anything at all. I just remember Brian and I looking at each other. We were outta there.
Cut to years later. After four years of dating, I moved to San Francisco leaving my SoCal Jews-don’t-believe-in-Jesus boyfriend behind. (We’re still friends to this day.) Cabbage Patch cousin-in-law is visiting her best friend—you remember the one: the one I’ve been hearing about for the past FOURTEEN YEARS—in San Diego for Memorial Day, and I should come visit her! Um, yeah. Not happening…
We can meet half-way! She pestered me via email (oh, how I missed the days of snail mail) telling me all about her best friend who gets a little frisky when he drinks and how much fun we’d all have. Um, no. Besides, she has no idea that there is no half-way between San Francisco and San Diego.
Then I realize that I’m going to be in LA that weekend anyway. I give in, and agree to drive down to meet up with her and stay.
To be honest, it was more about the fact that I had met an adorable guy that weekend at a vineyard in Napa who also happened to be from San Diego, and we’d been texting back-and-forth.
I drive down from LA, and meet cute-vineyard boy (a blonde haired blue eyed Jewish boy) for sushi and hang with him and his friends that night. We danced and had a blast. The next morning “breakfast” is burgers and eventually I finally head over to see her and her best friend she’s been nagging me about for the last half of my life.
… to be continued.
— Seek Yehowah (@SeekYehowah) November 23, 2014
Baptized at 12 years old coming from multiple generations on my [step] dad’s side—Melvin George Baxley—and my mom and [deceased] father came in [to the truth] together, baptized at the same time arm-in-arm, literally.
Family all still are “JW”, but I’ve been disfellowshipped twice.
I got back “in” this year to be able to speak with family but my parents pretty much shun me because my intent was to share and research the information I had learned of late about the religion.
I’ve faded, immediately after reinstatement.
I live on the west coast and the timing went well as I moved for a job right after reinstatement.
So I am a ghost now. My family is east coast.
I believe in God—even more so than before when it was a religious thing.
I am trying to learn what the bible really says.
Nothing makes you crazier than being ignored and feeling as though you don’t belong.
My family wasn’t strict about it near the end this time around, but our relationships will never be the same after more than 5 years of shunning.
To find association among like-minded people.
Somewhat more private and probably more intellectual than the posts I’ve read on the other public forums.
I’m not into bashing as a past time—Looking for a place that’s more mature [than www.jehovahs-witness.net].
I recently started a site (I’m in technology as a profession) : seekjehovah.org.
It’s a work in progress with the intent to be found by witnesses, not immediately repel them, and instead perhaps reach people with information I wish I would have had sooner in life.
On Aug 12, 2012, from “email@example.com”
Based on your responses and candor (below), I think you would be an excellent contributor to the Channel C forum.
I looked at your seekjehovah.org Website and it appears excellent as well. What a genuinely Christian endeavor, appropriate for Jehovah’s Witnesses.
What would you like for a user name and a password? I will register you and look forward to your participation in the discussions.Thanks for your interest in Channel C.
Channel C Admin
Angela M. Baxley <firstname.lastname@example.org> 8/12/12 to cc-questions
thank you. How about “oneapart”.
Rosalie the Channel C admin, and friend of Franz.
Mom, I know that I’m scaring you. And I’m sorry for that.
I don’t know how to explain with words what I’m going through.
I can however share with you what I’m fascinated by, and perhaps you can judge whether or not I’m “okay”.
I’ve been studying the Bible for months now, and I’ve perservered despite the fear that what I would learn might mean that I would separated from my family. I miss you guys so much. You seem nearly as a conceptual thing to me as “daddy” is. I understand what that relationship is supposed to mean, but it’s not something I’ve experienced. Likewise, I don’t really know how to be a sister or to be a daughter, it seems so long ago that I was a part of a family. I’m not sure I ever knew how to interact like I belonged.
Here’s a night in the most recent nights of Angela:
I’m an experience designer, so know that it’s an “experience”. I’m giving you my recipe as it were. I could send you the “Notability” file for instance which recorded me and the background (music in this case) while I studied the Watchtower. You can go along as I highlight and respond, and can hear the music that I was listening to and how I interacted in my study with God.
So. First, it starts with Faith. Continue reading
There is something really very freeing about being interned at a mental institution, the come-what-may, they won’t believe me anyway kind of reality that seeps into your every day, day-to-day, life. This is due, I’m certain to the reality of it all, ironically, that there’s really nothing you can do to defend the honor of your psyche as a virgin who is under suspicion is never quite the same.
It it was this premise that I returned to the land of my forefathers, and yours too, in an American cultural kind of sense, to attend my grandfather’s funeral. Armed with the realization that here it was that I was safe, among my uncles and three aunts, that I could be myself what ever that may truly be. Safe. Something that I’m not sure I could have told you I’d ever feel again, and something that seems certain to forever more remain an uncertainty.
There’s another side effect from being committed to the looney bin… that of the fear of paranoia. A true break with reality. Am I real? Is my life real? Did that just really happen?
You’re driven to introspection, a timid maneuver to navigate your own mind in hopes of validating what you are certain is true, and with a fascination of what you may not really know about yourself. It is in this manner I broke inside. Inside my mind that is.
They say what doesn’t break us makes us stronger, and now I spend but a brief moment wondering at that vague statement with some cynicism that the person to whom it was attributed quite possibly never really experienced anything at all, let alone the experience of what it is like to be broken. Otherwise how is it that one would leave such a judgement so broad and open to interpretation?
No, I think that trite little smarty pants party pleasing sayings are a little too juvenile for me, but perhaps I’ll have to practice some restraint in my own audacity as it’s not like I have much of a concept to present in it’s stead.
It was only just over a month ago that they put me in. They. Pronouns. Licenses for absence. Excuses for accepting responsibility. They. It’s not like I could blame him, but it’s her that really feels like an untouched betrayal. She would be the second person in my life that I would never speak to again… just to walk away, and in this case, without another look.
It’s not that she put me in really. I can’t fault someone for trying to do what they think was best for me, with limited knowledge and from across the entire country. No, it’s more about the fact that she was so careless her recounting of her perspective. They. They apparently believed her, and I was never to hear from her again. Well, not really. I called her from the emergency room when I still had access to long distance. She answered the phone in the same manner, “Hello, this is Barbara, Angela’s mom”. Somehow that was both comforting and uncomfortable at the same time.
She told them that she thought I was bi-polar. She, this, my pseudo-mom, or as the report has it, surrogate mother. Surrogate. Does that have legal connotation, or is it just an idle adjective with lasting repercussions through out this experience? I don’t know, and maybe I never will. All I know is that I knew better when I read that my mother (listed by name) had said that I had not sleep in six days, was highly erratic and hyperverbal. You see, regardless of truth as a defense, my mother would never be so careless. My mother had already busted me out of a mental institution once already in life, though I’d be amiss if not to immediately address that she had taken me there in the first place as she had always had concern about my ability to handle stress. In reality, I believe I’d had undiagnosed childhood epileptic seizures, just like my cousin—her twin’s daughter.
Yes, so while they were the ones to start this break from reality, or this disconnection from real life, I can’t really fault them. No, I don’t imagine he’ll ever be the same, but it’s her that I imagine I’ll never quite be able to address again.
It took weeks to finally get the reports, the documentation, of what they gave me. Just how many drugs they put into my tiny prescription-ally near virginal body. All told, I believe that it was six different drugs, if you count the Clonzepam that started it all, and Haldol, Atavan, Benadryl, and Lithium, and the THC I had put there myself. But I don’t count the THC, after all drugs are drugs and herbs are herbs.
Lithium. Well that’s a story in and of itself. Apparently there was this town somewhere in the Southern United States where, while none were the wiser, lithium leaked into the entire town’s water source. For near a decade or more the entire town was known as being docile, peaceful with such low crime and violence rate. Joke’s on me, as the lithium they gave me just made acutely aware of every sound that echoed, squeaked, screeched, slammed or plodded it’s way through the hallways, sleepless, and viciously angry.
[Insert “Did I do that?” posted elsewhere.]
Also of particular interest to me is the way that the newest man, in the romantic sense, in my life informed me that I had seemingly employed the same strategies that POW John McCain had during his Vietnam War internment. Maybe it’s just another factor in my seemingly healthy, strong, and impenetrable ego, post-lithium. I also came to believe that I have a photographic memory, and I’m not certain I’d ever have come to that concept if not for the first dose. Maybe just one dose would have done it. I don’t know, all I really wonder is which night was it that I slept 3.75 hours? Perhaps its telling as every other night, on average would have to be just over one hour of cumulative calculated sleep as they report my having a mere 9 hours in 7 days.
All in all the part the maybe gets me the most is that I had to leave the hospital against medical advisement (AMA), and as they advised I should have stayed, and taken the lithium for at least two weeks longer to see it’s true help.
I just wondered, could I survive going without sleep that long?
tomorrow i meet with the convened committee to determine whether or not i am fit to enter the congregation again. my third time. first baptized, second reinstated, now a third. i said that i would never return if ever i would be cast out again, and its interesting because now i know that my commitment is so very different from the way i viewed it before. it’s not about being in or out, but rather the ultimate answer to life the universe and everything. no, not 42, unless you jest and yes, i think that’s okay as long as we’re talking the same language. meanwhile i see that the world is just one big universe of those who mostly have no clue, and a few people who are in the know. i finished battlestar galatica and wonder how different my life would have been to have watched it so many years ago with my friends. at the very same time i was losing myself to apathy. i am kara thrace. the stories i could tell could fill another series. alas, i’m happy to live for tonight and move into tomorrow and see what shall be. for none of these worldly, fleshly things matter. i’m a girl who isn’t scared to die, and hopes to do so for the honor of her god. let your kingdom come…