— Angela Glass (@Baxley) November 23, 2013
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 met him at my favorite coffee house, Bird Rock Coffee Roasters. As I joined the line to order, I noticed him. I summed him up. Nicely dressed, but so is everyone else who lives here. Nothing striking about him. A little shorter than average height. Given to talking to people, I told myself I wasn’t going to talk to him. I needed to focus. I’ll pass.
He picked up the white cardboard container of organic oatmeal, examining it’s nutritional values and marketing.
“I’ve been wondering how that’d taste.” Oh, well… Well, I had been.
“I was wondering the same. I don’t imagine it can be that good, but I’ll try it.”
“Right? Can organic oatmeal in cardboard taste like anything but, well, cardboard?”
He smiles. Warm, dark eyes, with dark eyebrows that made him seem both deep and sincere. He buys the oatmeal and orders a coffee, and then takes the corner table against the garage style window.
The Cleanse Song, Bright Eyes
Hear the chimes, did you know that the wind when it blows
It is older than Rome and all of this sorrow
See the new pyramids down in old Manhattan
From the roof of a friend’s I watched an empire ending
Heard it loud and long the river’s Om
Time marching on to a madman’s drum
Don’t forget what you’ve learned all you give is returned
And if life seems absurd what you need is some laughter
And a season to sleep and a place to get clean
Maybe Los Angeles, somewhere no one is expecting
On a detox loft through a Glendale Park over sidewalk chalk
Someone wrote in red, “start over”
So I muffled my scream on an Oxnard beach
Full of fever dreams that scare you sober
Into saltless dinners
Take the fruit from the tree, break the skin with your teeth
Is it bitter or sweet? All depends on your timing
Like a meeting of chance with the train station glance
Many lifetimes had past in a instant reminded
Of a millstone house in a seaside town
When your heart gave out in a mission bed
So your wife gave birth to a funeral dirge
You woke up purged as a wailing infant
In Krug Thep, Thailand
Hear the chimes, did you know that the wind when it blows
It is older than Rome and our joy and our sorrow
Every weekend I go on my own personal journey fueled by my imagination, inspiration, and the dream cafe. This weekend involved elements from the usual suspects, religion, Kerouac, Chandler, and a little Rye for sassy substance, all packed into my Tumi carrying my products of the Apple and funded by my own blue jean branded personal Fidelity. Continue reading
(Taken with Instagram at Bird Rock Coffee Roasters)
One of the day dreams I’ve had is to help young artists find their audience. Mira Parfitt (@miraparfitt) was one of those people who inspired that in me.
Update January 21, 2013: Mira released New Plaid Shirt on Mira Parfitt, her own label.
The photo below was taken at my favorite San Diego Coffee shop, Bird Rock Coffee Roasters, and is nearly two years earlier.
The other morning I woke up and felt for once like myself… softest sheets on my bed, nuzzled up warm, safe, and alone in my home. The waves a deep roar as they crash ashore fifty or so yards beyond my bedroom window. I rolled over and lingered a little longer, those being my last days in the only home I’ve ever really known as my own.
I got up decided as it was gray and dreary that I’d make my own coffee, the Bird Rock Backtalker’s blend, a special blend made by the bright and brilliant Jocelyn. It’s then I check my voicemail and listen to the worst of the worst from Uncle Tom. Here’s that one, and a whole selection of other priceless Uncle Tom voicemail gems…
“Cry and whine how thirsty they are…”
Gidget, the Chism Bag
Listen to Voicemail September 14, 2011. 7:44am:
“I know you thought I was looking at your body, wishing I could lick it and juice on it and everything like that, but no I was actually looking at how thin you were. Try to eat something today, try to eat more—forget the beach niggers, forget about being sociable and feed yourself today, you know? And, uh, heck no man, I couldn’t get rid of you if I made love to you. It’d be a bummer for ya, you’d be bummed. All these guys using you as a chism bag and here’s the old Uncle Tom loving you and having respect for you and giving you multiple orgasms, shit, I’d never get rid of you… so see, it all works out for reasons. I know you were wondering all of that, Uncle Tom wants my hot little body but no I was really looking at you, try to feed yourself a little better today. I’ll check ya.”
Gidget and the Hillbilly Monster
Listen to Voicemail August 16, 2011. 9:06am:
“There are many things you can Google. One of the places that stands out the most in the memories of where you’re at is a thing or a program called Hee-Haw. Hee-Haw was originated in, I think, the 60’s or the early 70’s. It was a stereotypical program of the Bible Belt and the midwest, or the mideast or somewhere back there—nonetheless, it’s wow. I hope California hasn’t affected you enough that the, the, the, hillbilly monster’s get ya. Oh well, check ya.”
Uncle Tom Helps Poor Young Women Who Need a Second Chance
Listen to Voicemail July 31, 2011, 5:23pm:
“Boy did I get hurt last night, did I get hurt last night. All I’m trying to do is trying to help poor young girls, poor young women who need a second chance that have been caught up into the system. All I try to do is help them. And these, these, these, these bad men try to put me down, and these poor young girls don’t know what to do, what to think. And, they tell me this and I get so hurt. And you know, there’s a new phrase in town, it’s a phrase that’s been around a long time, but you’re in town and it’s new, and whoever these people who’ve talked about me, that’ve tried to stop me from helping poor innocent young girls, poor innocent young women maybe, who knows. But, you can just call them a bitch fag. Down right hard bitch fag. That’s the new phrase, first you had beach nigger, and now you have bitch fag. And they’re a bitch fag, trying to stop a simple man trying to help young women. What’s this world coming to?!”
I’d call the police, but they made me promise not to call 911 again. I refused to promise, but since the last time I called I needed help with an emergency and they could care less and instead threatened to take me away to County Mental Health, again.
They then left, I guess they were corrected by whoever they called up.
So yeah, I am left to deal with life without the civil protection afforded to normal citizens of San Diego County.
Funny thing is, I met the Chief of Police, William Lansdowne at Harry’s a few weeks ago. I know when I get around to asking to speak to him that he’ll remember—I’ve been told that no one forget’s meeting Gidget.
Too bad I don’t live closer to my Uncle’s police force in Fort Wayne. I bet he would handle a few things around here that seem to be a little broken.
More voicemails stacked below…
A man who was under the influence of pot when his car veered off a La Jolla road and into a cafe [Cass Street Bakery Cafe in Bird Rock], seriously injuring three teens and a man eating dinner last summer, was sentenced today to nearly 17 years in state prison.
Man on his 3rd DUI and license suspended 7 times plows over three teens and two restaurant patrons at Bird Rock’s Cass Street Bakery. Bird Rock Against Drunk Drivers.
via KGTV San Diego
KGTV San Diego News Story
Troyer’s arrest was his third for DUI and they believe he was under the influence of drugs in Sunday’s crash because he does not remember how he got there.
Three Teens (and two adults) Seriously Injuried in Bird Rock’s Cass Street Bakery crash
Alani suffered a broken left leg, broken left arm, broken pelvis and other injuries, her father said. “We were on our way to the hospital, and I wasn’t going to say anything to my wife, but I wasn’t planning to see my daughter alive,” said Aguerre, co-founder of the outdoor company Reef. “I thought we lost her.”
Prosecutor says driver was using marijuana when car hit Bird Rock teens
A 66-year-old man was “recklessly and dangerously under the influence” of marijuana when he crashed his car onto a La Jolla sidewalk and bakery last August, injuring three teens and two adults, a prosecutor said Thursday.
Well I spent the day bumbling through my daily Bird Rock walk. The 3am walk with random neighbors brought me a philosophy student from Oxford and his two friends. We walked the darkness towards light as I wove the stories that keep the memories bright. Ever haunted by the corner where you turn left, inevitably to miss the home of my charming Chandler and the woman he loved.
We walked to our cultural center, known to the outside as Bird Rock Coffee Roasters, or just “Bird Rock” to us. I told the story of the families memories that haunt me, the jukebox that should be and the future that seems unsought.
Back home, I slept the rest of the night, as it seems I’m on a 4 hours on, 4 hours off schedule. I think about all the Microsoftie’s who brag on the few hours they can live on. I miss my eight solid hours. It seems the culprit may be the intense bright light across the street which shines in on my bedroom… well, until last night when a stranger took to removing the bulb leaving me to sleep in peace. I think of circadian rhythms and how my sleep cycle was affected by the lack of sun living in Seattle.
The day? Well, that’s the usual stuff you know. I went to Bird Rock, met and talked to the new people, the by now old friends. A potter chose a bike for me, as it’s obvious to all that I need a bike rack. Off I went in pursuit, first leaving my car to have the convertible repaired, on foot.
That’s when I ran into Loni and her puppies, and Rosie became Roxie as our bond formed in the serendipitous sunlight of the day.
My walk home (the bike abandoned, what would I do with a bike and a dog?!) was long but a labor of love. I wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible in transition. It’s so easy to see the “humaness” of an animal. Their eyes tell all, their body language. … I think of my own body language and wonder what it is that makes some so afraid of me while others so delighted.
I met the brains behind an outfit on Bird Rock’s main drag. I’ll leave that to later, as he may wish to introduce himself.
Rosie (not yet Roxie) and I crossed paths with a jogging Physics teacher from Bishops, and the day progressed into kind of intelligent conversation on which I thrive.
Here I am, 10pm and tired. A amber colored silken Roxie by my side, and thinking of how much more of the day I’ve failed to recount. I’m sure it’ll be fine, as tomorrow begins anew with more stories.
I’m looking forward to working my crew tomorrow. Plans are exceedingly underway. Larry comes in about three weeks from LA. Ori and Tara likely sooner. I go to San Francisco (oh, how I hate to leave my little stretch of Windansea/Bird Rock) to meet the founder of Burning man on the 19th. (Heads up you SF’ers!)
Time seems so short between now and Nicaragua. I can’t wait to see Gaia though. Turns out the physicist has the same plan, long term.
Most of all, I can’t wait to introduce Roxie to Kingston.
“If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.”—Dead Poets Society
My spirit carries no bruises, though my skin tells tales.
Tonight I lay my head down in peace, and Roxie lays her next to mine in a symbol of her humane love. I wonder if she misses her babies, as I adore mine.
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more.”—Lord Byron