I’ve figured out why, now, why can’t I be happy with where I am?
Dear dad, why didn’t I get the same chance my brother got?
Mom, it sucks that my step-brother got a car for being such an asshole.
Because of them, who took my self esteem, I couldn’t be enough of an asshole.
I got ripped off. . . why can’t you guys hear me? My brother was such a jerk to me. I got treated like shit by him so I always stuck myself to guys that treated me the same. . . Until now.
My husband takes me seriously. Sometimes.

Because of my family, I’m afraid of people. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be more outgoing and I wouldn’t have hated myself so much. I wouldn’t have let myself be put down by folks at school, I wouldn’t have let myself slide into oblivion. Because they made me afraid of people.

I was scared of showing people what I really felt. I was tired of being told "you’re weird". It’s not fair that on top of being told shit by my brother I was called weird by everyone else. If I was a boy, I would have been taken seriously.

But I was just a worthless girl. I was to grow up and get the hell out of their lives. At least I don’t cry when I think of this stuff.

I only cry because I’m not right for the way society is set up. I cry because I can’t get a job. I cry because I have no place to call my own. A lot of times I’d rather sit and meditate or sit and not think of anything.
It’s so easy.

I hate my family. My old family, that is. The only reason why I don’t kill myself is because it’s selfish. I guess I still don’t really like myself.

Hello I’m sitting right on this spot and I’m writing this and I don’t what else to write except that I just wrote this. Isn’t there a type of philosophy that takes care of the immediate past? The past that just now went by . . . that one went by . . . that one too . . . so on and so forth.

"How’s that?"
"That’s good, just take that . . . "
"Just one of these?"
"Stand by . . . "

And blast off. Boom. Let’s see, what else can I write. I should get a sketch book for my kid and it looks like I just scored a notebook. Ha, thank yew, movie crew! Holy moly, my shirt stinks. The teacher is an actor. Really. No shit. Well, enough of this writing because I don’t know what to write. Look, there’s nothing on this page. Know why? ‘Cause I don’t know what to draw. If only I had a job with one of those movie companies. I’m talented enough but I have no practical experience. If I knew someone (you know how it’s not how you get it, it’s who you know that gets you the job.) So if I do know someone that’s already in there, well, I’m still guessing. I’d be stylin’ by now if I wasn’t so down on myself all these years. 36+18y-36=0 what the hell is the Y for? Well, for someone who has nothing to write, this page is pretty full. And you know what? I’m just gonna keep on filling it as long as I sit here. I wonder how long it’ll be?

Will you look at that, he’s reading a comic in class. How studentish. Ha ha. It looks like I’m taking notes for this pseudo lecture but I’m just writing a bunch of automatic stuff. Ha ha ha. What a scream! Actually, it’s not that funny. Really now, I want to write something really profound. How do I get my partner to quit wanting to eat such crappy food? Candy bars are just not good at all. Ordering pizza has got to stop. That makes too much garbage. It’s a waste and not only that but it’s embarrassing to throw out that much garbage.

Look at all the people in here. It’s kind of neat to see a person you’ve seen on tv since you were a kid in real life. It’s like you already know them but you don’t. You only recognize their face. I’d hate to be stared at wherever I go. Goddam that would surely suck. Know why? ‘Cause I’m antisocial. Well, I think I’m antisocial, so I am. I guess I can untrain myself. I’m big enough to do that by myself. I just have to deprogram all the self consciousness that was instilled in me. I wish I could . . . I don’t remember what I was going to write. Anyway, now what, cat? Now what? It’s funny how a good job would boost my self esteem right up but I need that high sense of worth to get a good job. That positive thinking stuff. I expected myself to learn that when I still had all the negative baggage from years past. But now I’ve figured out why I couldn’t do what I wanted as a teen; it’s because I felt that I wasn’t worth it, that I didn’t deserve because I was just a weirdo.

My dad didn’t seem to notice that his son was hurting his daughter and my mom probably tried to tell him but they’d end up arguing so she gave up because a fight just wasn’t worth it to keep a couple of brats quiet.

I need to join a healing circle, so I could talk about this without being told to shut up. My step brother was pretty much the same crap as my brother only more blatant. He didn’t have the head games finesse of a Nazi psychiatrist that my brother had, it was just brutish put downs of the bigoted sexist variety. I want to punch them both out. Wotta coupl’a joiks. I feel sorry for my step brother’s kid. I see their cycle of disfunction in technicolor and it’s really sad.

I don’t know how to fix a broken wing on a bird. I kept finding injured or premature birds every summer when I was a kid but no one tried to show me how to care for them properly. I always put them in a bird cage where they lay on toilet paper at the bottom with a dish of water and bits of milk-soaked bread. I can’t remember if I ever managed to save one.

Everyone knew my affinity with animals and I thought that everyone knew that I wanted to be like Dr. Doolittle. I thought it was obvious where my vocation lay but I think they’re not supposed to teach children serious knowledge until college. I was able and very willing but I never demanded. I’ve asked my parents, I think, but it was probably received with an "aw that’s cute. She wants to be an animal doctor when she grows up" and I didn’t feel worthy enough to demand and of course I thought I was wrong because no one told me I was right.

My husband really doesn’t understand why I get mad because I don’t want to think about supper when I want to work on something. In this instance it’s the bird sling I was wanting to make out of a sock because a young crow fell by our kitchen window and twisted its shoulder. Other times, maybe I want to continue drawing or study a book or just plain arranging my thoughts.

Here’s an oximoron: I don’t understand why he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t understand why I’m so stressed out. He doesn’t understand why I want to be told I’m right about something. Why doesn’t he understand that I think I’m wrong otherwise? Why does a casual friend like Elijah understand all this but my own husband can’t fathom it? I told him that he better understand his kid because it’s really shitty to grow up never being understood. I think that was a really good point but it’s a hollow feeling because he didn’t show me any hint of acceptance. I guess I need others’ approval before I trust my judgement.

I never felt that I knew who I was. I remember when I was 15, my best friend asked me what my values were while we sat outside her window smoking. I wasn’t even sure what values were. She tried to explain but for some reason I couldn’t think of anything. I miss her. She made my teen years so much more bearable.

I hope my son can talk to me when he’s a teen. He probably won’t though because he’s a boy and it’s usually embarrassing to talk about sex with your mom. But maybe he won’t be scared to talk because noone ever makes fun of him right now, which means that he might not get picked on at school and if someone does pick on him, he’ll have the mental backup to find the right thing to say, and if words don’t work, he’ll be strong enough with martial arts knowledge to defend himself from the pesky bully.

He’s gonna be really cool.

I’m glad I can see enough not to let what happened to my parents happen to me or my son. Break the cycle of violence. I still yell at my partner though, the same way my mom yelled at my dad.

Learned behavior.

I hope I can unlearn that. I need help to do that.

I need a mind-coach. A benefactor, like Juan Matus in those Castaneda books. Juan said that when you die, your energy squishes out the back of the head where the "assemblage point" is and assimilates with the energies at large. Some beliefs hold that the back or top of the head is the point of the "umbilical cord" when astral travelling.

When I was 11 my budgy got sick and died in my hands. I felt its little death but could not put it in words until now, because a week ago I was downtown with a couple friends, looking for a speak-easy they’d heard about when we saw a pigeon spazzing out on the sidewalk. It kept fluttering out into the street and back to the sidewalk just before a car went by, so I grabbed it without much difficulty and held it safely in my hands while it had more seizures. It had one more seizure before it looked like it decided that it was a good time to go; it craned its head back, its mouth opened at the same time its pupils dilated rapidly. I felt that "popping through a funnel" feeling that I had felt with my budgy. We found a secluded spot of overgrown grass in the corner of the parking lot and laid the poor poisoned pigeon to rest.

I washed my hands promptly when we finally got to the place!

Why am I never happy? Why do I feel like the world owes me? Why do I feel ripped off?

I’d like to choke Floyd (my mom’s second husband). I’d like to choke my brother.

No wonder I feel women have it harder than guys. . . It’s not fair, I’m still mad. Why couldn’t I have been mad when it counted? Why couldn’t I speak out?

My brother raped me and his bitch girlfriend bossed me around and yelled at me. I always seemed to get the shit end of the stick:

- the divorce of my parents - my mom’s second marriage - the living arrangements: my choices were either my dad, my brother & his girlfriend or Mom n’ her boyfriend with his son/my ex-boyfriend. Oh boy! Where to live?

I mentioned to my Dad about the group home and he yelled and told me never to hang out with those . . . those riff raffs!

My parents are snobs without a cause. My Dad is still a snob. He won’t come over for a visit. He’s "too busy". My Mom’s a snob too, but only to my friends. Always to my friends.

Oh, remember this?
"You have to phone Michelle and tell her to ‘piss up the road’". They (mom & step-dad) made me phone my best friend and tell her to go away. They actually made me tell her "I can’t hang out with you any more".

I could never speak up my mind. For some reason I had to live up to some standard, I don’t know what.

After my brother busted my "cherry" I stopped caring; I fckd any guy who wanted. "So what? It’s busted anyway" was my excuse.

I never came. . . From 12 years old to 18 years old; that’s 6 years of fckng without ever being gratified.

6 years of basically being used. . . I want to punch my brother.

I caused the least problems in that family and got the worst deal. They always looked at my faults.

I should have been an asshole like my step-brother - I might have gotten a car. I never got the credit I deserved.

Know what? When I was upset my mom would blame the pot I smoked. "If you didn’t smoke pot you wouldn’t be upset" Fck you Mom. You’re part of the problem.

All thru my teen years I almost always had a boyfriend. I always had to have a steady.
Why?
Was I scared of being raped? Maybe I just wanted to be normal. It was normal to have a boyfriend.
It was safer to be a couple.
I just read my teen diary. Boy, was I sad. I put up with John way too long. I sounded so wishy washy when I was 14. . .I love him. . .I hate him. . .

plea to my husband

"I love you" is not enough. I want to say more than that. Help me love. I need you. I feel like thousands of others who have written those same words.
How can I learn without a teacher?
How can you see what I mean when everything I say comes out disjointed?
I’m always the one that looks bad when it comes to our son.
Nobody sees how I feel but everyone can see how angry I get at him. Everyone can see how I lose my temper.
I can’t take this family bullshit anymore.
Our son gets on my nerves. He’s a great kid but I’ve been with him for too many days straight. You get mad at me because I’m mad. . .I never understand that logic.
I’m starting to resent our baby and that’s not fair to him. But do I get equal treatment? No. I have to . . .what. . .endure?
Must I suffer this indignity because I’m female?
I’m trying to get you to understand that staying home alone and breast-feed for a year straight will drive anyone batty.
So FCK OFF!
Quit making me feel worse when I already feel bad. Maybe you n’ the kid should go visit your parents. I need to aerate myself of baby. I O.D.’d on him. I’m sorry.
I love you both.

I was held hostage by "Krang" (one of my son's toys) in a big square pink house. I somehow escaped and phoned the cops.
(Obvious message in that dream, huh? Being held hostage by the toy . . .

It’s harder when you don’t know what people are thinking.
Why do I always have to go on these intense trips about everything?
Why do I always have to figure this stuff out by myself?

Unfinished letter to a communal farm

Dear folks at Zendik,
a friend gave me a copy of one of your magazines. Your philosophies and the way you want to live and are living is just what I’ve been trying to tell my parents as a child. Unfortunately they didn’t understand the symbolic language of an artistic child. I often didn’t know how to verbalize how I felt or what I wanted.
I am very unhappy at what I see around me. Our roomate’s getting cable so I’ll get to watch nature shows but I’ll also have to deal with incessantly repetitious commercials. It saddens me that I have to watch nature on tv instead of experiencing it on a daily basis. There is no nature where I live. Sure, there’s parks but they’re all planted in an orderly fashion. . . I am ashamed of my culture.
I really hate cars because my culture abuses the use of a car, but we need one so we can travel a ways in safety, to go find a better place to live. It’s definitely not my desire to live in the city.
I’d love to drive down and visit your farm. It sounds like a community of folks helping each other. You’re also pretty much self sufficient.
Nobody tells anybody about anything in the city.
They waste your time in high school then expect you to have a career. If you want a good job then you have to get a student loan and owe the government that "educated" your teen years thousands of dollars and you still might not get that job. I’m really depressed about that. Everyone I know says I can get big bucks for my art. But I don’t have big bucks. My talents are useless in my society. Of course if I knew who to talk to and what to say it might be a little easier to pursue a career in fine art.
You guys probably get a lot of mail from unhappy and dissatisfied folks like me.

I feel ripped off by society. No one taught me how to survive. No one teaches anybody how to do real things. I wanted to be taught how to plant, when and how to garden, take care of animals and repair cars and computers. . . Zendik Farm’s like that but they’re in Texas.
In high school they teach us how to be obedient workers. They teach names and places and dates. They teach McBeth. They show you how to analyze the shit out of a story, not how to understand what the author was talking about.
No one showed me how to fix things around a house or a tv.
People in this "civilized" society do not know how to support themselves. If there’s no jobs to be had then they have to go on welfare.
Welfare check goes to Safeway - Local farmers get ripped off because most produce comes from California and poultry is maltreated and mass produced.
The govt. should keep it’s yukky money - poor people should be allowed to keep a few chickens and local farmers should be subsidized and community gardens should be a part of daily culture.
I want to thank Mom and Dad and any other parents and their parents and theirs and so on until the beginning of this corruptness we call "modern society" for leaving the mess for me, my friends, everyone and their kids and their kids to clean up.
This corrupt govt. is so tightly woven it might take as many generations to destroy it as it did to build it.
And I cry because it feels like we’re at the grass roots of this slow evolution.

I met Simon, talked to him. I was really glad to see him. I even showed him my saggy boobs and wrinkled belly. We were traveling, me n’ my husband. I think other people were with us. Me n’ Simon went flying and saw the surface of Venus or Jupiter or the Sun I’m not sure which. It was roiling boiling red and orange.

Teen diary retrospecticus

Reading my diary makes me realize how desperate I was. I kept writing about guys treating me like shit. This guy did this to me, that guy was an asshole. The John part was insane. What a sorry kid I was. It’s like I craved love; I kept writing about romantic dinners by candlelight, but in reality I just kept going out with guys that treated me like shit. And then Kelvin; he took me out for dinner and did lots of neat stuff. That’s probably why I liked him, I knew he was alcoholic but I didn’t care because he treated me really nice. But of course it didn’t last. He got back to beer and I decided to not get married to that life.
I ended up getting a black eye when we broke up.
All through my diary one thing is consistent: I kept getting the shit end of the stick.
I kept getting a lousy deal.

Automatic writing - introspection

I don’t know why I’m upset; I just know I’m upset.
I don’t like myself. I look at my self and I don’t like it.
I feel like shit.
Whenever I try to assert myself, it backfires. I end up looking foolish.
Now my husband hates me because he’s the only one there when I feel shitty. I never said much long ago. All the bullshit and mindgames when I was little; it’s all come back and I want to fight back but he’s the only one there. So instead of pissing him off even more, I’ll just sit here and think around in circles.
I feel like I died giving birth except that I didn’t feel upset then. I thought I was ok. I thought I wasn’t mad when my husband went snowboarding with our friends. No. That’s not it. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I should just shut up. Just shut the hell up. Nobody cares about your stupid selfish problems.
Why am I crying all the time? Do I really want someone to go, "there, there. It’s ok now. You have a right to be upset. It’s not in your head, you just kept it inside without knowing it." Does he really expect me to just go on without feeling shitty once in a while? It’s often now, because I’ve had it. I really wish he could go through what having a baby does especially when I used to have a smooth flat belly. When I have to clean up after son and father, and, for a while, even roomate.
But noone listened.
They figured since they get to go to work, they don’t have to clean up after themselves.
That translates into: fck you girl, you don’t count.
"Just stuff a tit in his mouth"
"I don’t like him"
"don’t have kids"
"don't get married"
I didn’t like having to hear those things.

Dear Dad
In your fifth decade how different do you feel? Did you learn anything?
Have you realized yet that your world is not the only world? Your world, to me, seems to consist of office paperwork daily, paperwork at home in the evenings, paying for a number of houses and cars. . .I guess it’s that I wonder why you’d rather work on office paperwork rather than do what you really want to do.
My difference is that I’d rather be poor and draw to my heart’s content than work at minimum wage waitressing for rude people or phone soliciting at unwilling recipients.
There’s not many jobs that require my talent.
My other difference is that it’s not money I want, it’s a home to call my own and land to support ourselves. . . I want a community to live in that cooperates with everyone.
Anyway, what I’m trying to tell you is, in all your 50 years, (you have 25 more years experience than me) you still believe that you have to make money. I’m not saying that’s wrong, the need to make lots of money is your lifestyle and you chose it to be so. I, on the other hand, want to travel and experience other places. Why do you object so much to my wanting to travel in a camper? You think it’s too dangerous. . . Think of how dangerous it is to live in the city. Your house would stand more of a chance of being robbed than my stinky old camper. Not many robbers would look at my camper, there’d be nothing expensive to steal. Your house though is a burglar attractant, along with all the other houses full of nice junk.
I don’t want a bunch of nice things, I want freedom.
You say you’re trying to help by giving me 200 bucks here, a hundred bucks there, good god dad!
Try giving me the same deal you gave my brother! Do you really not understand why I feel so ripped off?!
And because my brother screwed it up, you automatically think that we’ll do the same thing. It insults me. I’m insulted that you never took the time to think that I’m not that bad. The worst thing I did as a teen was being angry in my room and running away for a week. Both you and mom never let me feel justified. I was angry for a reason for your information, for a lot of reasons. And I had a right to be angry.
To tell you the truth dad, you don’t feel like much of a dad anymore; inviting us for leftovers three days after your "official" christmas dinner was insulting. The way you dropped off an unwanted microwave when we weren’t even home without waiting to see us or phoning in advance. . . Merry fckn’ christmas!
That’s not what it’s about.
Have you forgotten the human element? Do you really have no time to see us? Are you really that busy to see us?
Instead of lecturing me on how to conduct business, try listening to what I’m saying, try to understand what I believe in.
In closing, here’s a little food for thought, as big as your family is, how come no one is handing family trees down to the kids? How are we supposed to know where we’re from? You probably don’t care but I need to know my cultural roots or genetic culture. It’s bad enough to not ever know mom’s genetic side, but your family is intact.
Well, happy birthday Dad
Maybe someday we’ll actually talk like friends.

I feel like I think too much. Maybe it’s because I’m stuck with a baby all day and we’re poor. Not much to do except. . . Think. About how people won’t stop driving their stinky cars; will my son grow up having to hide from the sun? Will skin cancer run rampant? I think about how people seem to need any ol’ politician to tell them what they’ll do, then they hate the one they elected. I think about how people get killed or whose lives get ruined because someone (corporations) decided that marijuana is bad for society (corporations). How ashamed I am of my race. I don’t want to be a part of their game. I don’t even want to watch it. I want to secede from society but I can’t because I’m a nobody and I’m on welfare. So I just cry. I do not attribute my melancholy to post partum depression. No. It’s the world around me. They are violating that which is the base of everyone’s soul.
I cannot breathe clean air because everyone is too piggish with their cars. I ride a bike. Do these office workers that drive all the time realize why they’re fat? Those paper pushers support wasteful industries.
If I had pyrokinetic powers, I’d burn burn every car that crosses my path. If I had the leadership powers that hitler had I’d turn the entire nation’s philosophy towards nature and health. But I don’t.
I don’t feel like I belong in this society. Never did.
I’m an artist. It’s not my occupation but I wish it were. I’ve sold airbrush T-shirts, mostly at sci-fi conventions in Vancouver and once in Victoria because my mom drove us there. That’s the reason why I want a car, to go to other conventions across the country. I’d much rather have a horse and wagon but until the rest of the world slows down, it’s impossible. I admire the Amish. They live the ideal life except for the monotheism.
I need advertising for my talent. But I don’t have any money. I can’t afford to even frame what art work I’ve got. I can’t put them in a show unframed. I’ve got talent but no money. I’m not a people person. I couldn’t sell water to a Dune resident.

I was woken up this morning after a measly 4 hour sleep by the doorbell, which also woke up the baby, which means my sleep time was officially over. The person who rang the bell was a courier guy with a returned shirt that I had sent to the Home Business Show people. They sent it back COD with a note saying thanks but no thanks; my shirt apparently wasn’t upper class looking enough. I had to pay the courier $6. I had originally spent $3.50 to send it , plus the $27 jurying fee. Once again I get rooked by Megabucks Corporation.
We’re poor and we’re broke.
A half an hour after that Jehovah’s Witnesses tried to persuade me to think like them; I told them I already have a philosophy. That usually satisfies them enough to go on their way. At least they weren’t asking for money. . . just our souls!
A few minutes later the bill collector called. I wasn’t home.
"Yes, I’ll be sure to tell her you called."
And finally, in the mail I got a medical bill for $744.
I’m so tired. I just want to paint or draw or airbrush for a living. It’s all that I’m good at. But I’m too broke to produce artwork.
I’m capable of supporting myself in the country with a garden, a few chickens and horses and a cow.
But we can’t even eat without money.

I can’t afford to paint my blank shirts unless someone has a specific order. I can’t get any orders because noone knows about me. Noone knows about me because I haven’t had the opportunity to display in art shows. I never have enough resources to frame or properly package my work. I feel like I don’t have much to show anymore because I was too damn nice in high school giving away all my drawings and paintings. The good shirts I airbrush are always sold at conventions, which was only once a year. They’re cancelled because they’re broke too. I can’t sell worth shit. I need someone to take care of money matters, to tell or show me exactly what to do, to get orders for me. I’m tired of being poor and powerless.
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