June 23, 2013

snippets

There has been some writing going on in the last few weeks and some ideas that would be great to develop but its extremely difficult to stay focused on anything long enough.  Have remembered why I started Daffodil Rites though and that was about taking advantage of whatever freedom of expression exists and about making some sort of public record of my actual existence.  Working with a therapist who is prepared to listen means I don't have to blurt stuff out here anymore.  The higher level of acceptance that 'I' is not one, means things are a bit of a happy mess.  How I managed to keep the body alive and functioning is by itself pretty mind boggling, how someone of us managed to fake a convincing intellectual point of view enough for a good passing grade for a secondary school essay never mind write enough of them for an 2:1 honors degree is quite frankly spectacular, even if it did take 15 years...  Have to admit that preparing coherent pieces of writing doesn't feel like it would be particularly productive at this time.  The thing is its pretty tricky trying to write when you don't really have an 'I' as most people understand.  The I here, which we use because names are a liability, only see stories.  The power to name a part of someone was a big issue in the rings as was attacking someone's sense of being alive and an individual and therefore someone entitled to any moral, social or legal rights.
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'I'm not here', was an E.P. I guess, an emotional part that doesn't get older, that is stuck in a permanent state of severe emotional and intellectual damage with very limited capability for thought and speech.  It was always a small part of everything that went on that was always growing as every sanctuary, every possible opportunity for safety and healing had been turned into the site of severe and complex trauma.  I always knew the actions of people who were around me the most were part of the process, as was much of my efforts to stop the spread, no one and no where was safe.  Anywhere there was anger, sarcasm, hope, rebellion, lust, determination, laughter, faith, heart ache, disgust, fury, spirit, regret anything that wasn't resignation 'I'm not here' seeped in and infected like an airborne disease among a population with no resistance during a famine.  We all saw it.  An awareness of what was systematically destroying us was what made many of us.  It was painted for all in the holocaust dreams where my feat where dragging themselves, along with my family and neighbors into burning, stinking ditches, 'They are going to annihilate us'.  I knew it was the final act of will that it would take to give in that would be the hardest afterwards consciousness was a luxury long gone. There was no rules, no relationships, no emotions, no flesh.  Sarky filled in the gaps between the E.Ps on the rare occasions where off the script conversation was required.  Sarky, is someone who everyone (internal and external) will be hearing from again because Sarky excludes no one.

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It feels like this might of been blogged about before but suspect it probably hasn't.  The term 'memory' is loaded enough without having spent formative years in a culture of mind control but its difficult to find an alternative expression.  Its a fragment, a fragment that has connected many of core personalities who aged and who could engage with the present, who were often not aware of each other in any meaning kind of way.   It came at them from different angles, through different senses recalling different aspects of the experience that sooner or later became recognisable as one occasion.  Sometimes it was the heat in the sand that would distract us to the point I had to look down and check by feet when someone talked to us or whenever someone internal was about to think they knew what was going on.  To different groups of parts it was the seaside sounds and the individual inflections in the languages that were being spoken that would come back when alone in the stairwell of a multistory or above the beats in a club, or though the verbal abuse from some cunt or other.  When drugs did there thing I would rerun the thought processes that led to the intention and sometimes thrill and freedom in the act and the momentum in the running away.  Sun on the skin and we felt the body as it was then and sensed how it had been cared for, tastes could take it to another level to the point I answered the questions asked back then and couldn't hear what people in the present were saying.

The full on flashback, where you completely experience something that happened without any current awareness of the body and leaves whoever has experienced it with no fucking idea about what had just happened or how long it went on for, could hit regardless of where we were or who was running us.  The moment of every previous flashback became part of the original set of experiences so that we remembered not only some very vivid specific aspects of the original moment but all the times we had remembered this moment before, thereby giving us a history, a sense of having come from somewhere and could therefore go somewhere.  Too many, especially the few that did the vast majority of the working and existing in Scotland who struggled to believe there was even the possibility of a way out, it had only really had one significance and that was that at some point when we were littler, somehow it has been possible for one of us to have gone on some sort of a summer holiday..  



1 comment:

  1. thank you for your blog, it's honestly refreshing

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