Trading Time for Light

Aug 10, 2005 at 00:08 o\clock

Crucifixion or Freedom?

Mood: painfully plodding


July 28, 2004.

Time to bury the ashes of my sweetheart.

My father, his wife, and I arrive at the cemetary.

We are met there by the funeral director.

A statuesque, leggy, well appointed throw back from the nazi party stood ready to brutalize us into submission.

At 6'2, she towered over my paltry 5'6".

For my beloved husband, I purchased a beautiful vault.

Within, I had planned to lovingly place his ashes, before lowering him into the ground.

Suddenly I was seized by panic.

It didn't feel right.

He didn't want to be buried.

His family had coerced me into compliance with their wishes, that he remain here, in the cemetary of their choice.

That moment I knew.

It wasn't going to happen.

He was coming home with me.

The solid marble vault, for which I had paid $750.00 was now a write off, but I didn't care.

I advised Funeral Mistress of my sudden change of heart.

She screeched her indignation.


I asked if it was possible for her to give it to a needy family that couldn't afford something like that.

"NO" she huffed.

I then suggested more alternatives, which only fueled her rage.

My father rushed to her defense.

His wife went along for the ride.

With my father safely tucked away into her back pocket, she begins jockeying for dominance over me.

At first, her agression is masked in cloying codescention, as she fumbles for leverage. 

I resist.

She throws off mask and gloves, bearing nashing, carnivorous fangs for me to point at, and ridicule.

The gautlet of confrontation crashes to the ground.

An explosive exchange poisons the subdued air.

She steps into my face.

I'm forced to look up at her.

I step even closer to her .

She glares in disbelief, and raises her hand to stike me.

I smirk defiantly, as her hand is caught in mid air.

She spins her heel in huffy retreat.

The ashes are mine.

Her ears are filled with the echos of my mocking refrain as she beats a path to her car.

With funeral nazi on the run, my spineless wiener of a  father takes another look at his powerful daughter.

I feel a deep, burning hatred toward him for abandonning me all over again.

Through this lens of this re-visited trauma, I get a good look at what's yanking the ancestoral rod.

Father now unconsciously transfers his frustrated libidinal cathexis to me, in the hope of obtaining mothering,

When I was five, the leggy blonde was an ex-model from Paris.

His new queen. 

It's appropo, I suppose, because she was always in 'drag'.

A state of massive shock rendered me completely unconscious of the poison that filled my psychic landscape.

The repressed, and unidentified pathenogenic affect generated by the trauma, finds another outlet for expression.

The result is disasterous outcomes in business and personal affairs. 

An overall failure to adjust to the a culture in which I'm expected to heal my broken soul.

Re-construct the fusilage into a shiny new airplane.

Gather the pieces of my shattered mind.

If I am the ultimate master of my agency,  then I am the author of all the misfortune that befalls me.

If I am not the ultimate master of my agency , then outside forces really kicked my ass when I was down.

Freud proposes that we are not aware of the lion's share of our agency.

Our libido

It is a plaything,  to myriad unconscious forces in search of gratification.

His ego structure theory gives an introdctory look at some of the forces vying for a bit of that pimp juice.

The Id, the ego, and the superego.

In my case, a Freudian would postulate, that an unconscious, masochistic wish for rejection plays into the avenging forces that left me bruised and broken on the outskirts of humanity

This point may be debatable.

I propose that Post Tramatic Stress Disorder is the cause of my failure to navigate the stormy waters generated by the sins of my father.

It would be a least a year before I uncovered my true, unfufilled wishes.

Did I really wish for a command performance of the original terror that paralized my five year old sensibilities? 

The day social services whisked us away to foster care...

To the dog pound.

I should count my blessings.

Had it not been for them, we probably would have been shot behind the barn.

And now, he conferrs upon me the gift of his unresolved odeipal complex after handing my ass to that twitchy funeral bitch. 

No amount of crying, whaling or lamenting is going to resolve the the logistical problems of staying alive in a world of dogs, without becoming a dog myself.

Although, I may be a dog already, and not know it yet.

There is a powerful constellation of stars in the firmement of my world, that has set the wheels of fate in motion.

I am carried aloft on a runaway train careening into the gates of the underworld.

I've repeatedly re-dedicated my effort towards a satisfactory outcome in my wordly enterprises.

I continue to fail in that endeavor.

Can I change old stars for new ones?

 Psychoanalysis would advise us to de-toxify, and sublimate the psychic affects of getting our asses kicked by fate.

Successful sublimation had better guarantee a new look for my dark horizon, or I want my money back..


Aug 8, 2005 at 00:08 o\clock

Adrift in a Lullaby

Mood: sober recognition

I lived in a land of nightmares

escaped to a land of dreams

but they were different roads

to the same dead end.

Aug 7, 2005 at 02:21 o\clock

The Dead Are Ever With Us

Mood: Into the Looking Glass

It was June 26, 2004, a cold day, and the coldest summer I had ever known.

He had been missing a full 24 hours, and I was running on panic, adrenaline, and nerves.

There were frantic phone calls to police, hospitals, banks, credit card companies, friends, family, and collegues.

In the futile hope that I would catch a glimpse of his car, there were numerous desperate trips to his apartment.

We lived apart as we contended with the ruins of our disintegrated marriage.

As the day wore on, a terrible chill gripped my heart.

That night, he came to me in a dream.

The doorbell rang.

I answered it, and he was standing there, his face frozen in agony.

I said "Arn't you coming in?" at which point he was pulled into the darkness.

I bolted awake, and I knew.

The following morning I couldn't face the coffee maker, and decided to head to Starbucks - something I didn't normally do.

After driving for about five minutes, a huge moth started swooping my face, from out of nowhere.

I stopped the car.

I was overcome by horror, pain and grief.

When I got to Starbucks, my eye was caught by the headline of the the local entertainment rag:

The Dead Are Ever With Us

I was not to recieve confirmation of his death for nearly a month afterward.

And while one part of me knew he was gone, I prayed, and paced, and kept up the search.

So many times my heart leapt, when I thought I heard a car pull into the driveway.

So many questions, and no courage to ask them.

Did he leave a message on the cell phone?

Can I bear to finally read the autopsy report?

Can I ever find the courage to face his death?

Can I ever find the courage to face my life?


Aug 6, 2005 at 05:30 o\clock

Trading Time for Light

Mood: Dark Horizons

I tried to start this blog four months ago, but I've had severe writer's block.

Paralyzed with fear is more like it.

I told myself, that if all these wonderful concepts incubate long enough, well the story would just write itself.

And write itself beautifully.

How could it be otherwise?

I mean, if you're going to showcase your life, then, give 'em a show!

I'm still waiting for that golden moment of mystical synergy, where my musings and dreams converge into the elegant tapestry of this tragic tale.

Like Saliary said of Mozart, write poetic prose, as if I were 'taking dictation'!

So, I could keep dreamin, OR take a foolhardy plunge into the vast chasm of cyberspace.

Maybe I'll bump into other bodies floating around out here.

Asphodel Cafe hasn't seen much action lately.

For awhile I thought I'd have to shut it down altogether.

But this is the place where shadows go, and I have become a shadow of myself.

It's been just over a year since my husband's funeral.

I've spent just over a year waiting desperately, for the cosmic paddles to zap me back into the land of the living.

Or at least transport me to Elysian Fields - where I can bask in the glory of god's, heroes, and Hollywood stars.

Day by day, I can watch my life force evaporate, along with the impossible dreams, on which I keep blowing my wad.

My life is tooooo humble. So its important to me to make it somehow shiny, with clever words and fancy foot work.

Take this train wreck out in style.

Today marks the turning point, between stepping away, and stepping up.

Today I can say I acted in defiance of inertia.

Tomorrow is another day.