Poetry by Victoria D. Gaines (My story and poetry can be read on the Internet at: www.crosswinds.net/~vdgaines and www.geocities.com/vdgaines) You can e-mail me at: PROUDNut@aol.com, vdgaines@yahoo.com or vdgaines@crosswinds.net ******************************************************** in recognition to run from what is to what was to run from is that not what they want of you? to run from the inevitable is for their children and for them to run from the unmistakably true is also their trait cast it back to the fish run run run give your fears to them they will know what to do to fall beneath their statues in praise to fall is that not what they want of you? to fall in recognition of their heroes their gods their sins fall fall fall give them that affliction they will without a doubt rise again with their heroes gods and sins to cry for release from that which should not be to cry is that not what they desire of you? to cry because of unbelievable pain to cry of despair to cry and still not be rid of the devil given to you to cry for is that not in their realm of things? to cause tears of frustration? cry cry cry give them your tears they are the cause crying running falling down in praise will not solve the problems but you will if you rise up and cleanse your mind of the garbage given you dry your last tears of hopelessness and run towards not away run to fall down in recognition and then cry. they have chased you from doing what you are best able to do. they have made you run from the reality you Time would have created has put to the age-old reality its web that produces runaways. upon us S T O P ! and what as fate L O O K ! sees to be & MUST be. L I S T E N ! yes SEE Time don't has thrown see. its web upon us and life has spun its curse. where to? does it make a difference, Time? 12/29/69 delusion all right. i'm ready to get to the point which is what? it leaves me bewildered for i know not what the truth of the matter is. just what is to be and just what am i to become? for some reason i do not feel that i fit in. i wish for the unknown. i hunger for the adventure belonging to those who do not belong. but i have a duty don't i? not a but many. is that all that life is? i fear so. ra tun you too exist for i say so. i now do not know where i am going. turn on the light that will show the path leading to what should be, not what is to be. i fear what is to be. please turn on my guiding light that will take me to the stars and beyond, where i am. darkness everywhere don't you know that people fear the dark? they know not what lurks behind your veil. somewhere within the depths of what is there is a light burning, showing the someone who can find it the way. where have i not looked? beneath my feet? no. the earth, the people of the earth, have stomped out the spark that once burned beneath those feet clinging to what they know to be. the caves of my mind have still to be explored. the secret still lies somewhere within the darkness of the caves. the light, the light cannot have been extinguished. the evildoers, crusaders of reality, could not, must not have captured all my mind. somewhere in the distance, somewhere there is what they believe only to be a dream, an illusion, but i know to be a mirage of my reality----- beyond that, home. they have tried, mightily hard they have tried to destroy me, what should be me, by killing my realities. but i won't let them. i shall fly beyond the moon, beyond the stars, beyond that which those of earth think to be true, and there in that infinitude of distance i will find, i know i will, what is there, somewhere, beckoning to me. i hear its call. i feel its pull. i am aware of its existence. but i know not in which direction to travel or how to loose my mind from the shackles of confined reality. i must tread lightly upon this world. one day it will not exist. how much longer will it take me to find my reality? a lifetime, maybe a lifetime. and in death they will believe, misinterpreters that they are, that i was conquered, finally confined to their reality; death is very real. but i and others will know better than they. my world may have just reclaimed me. maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe... and maybe not. some shall always win. 12/29/69 the beginning the end. beginning again. take refuge in its arrival. its sure arrival. the end beginning again always comes. don't worry. don't cry. it's not that bad. the end. beginning again. will not allow you to remain. why fear? why fear that which you do not know? which you do not yet understand? the end laughs at your ignorance. laughs at your fear. laugh back. it will be a beginning. just a beginning. how about that. time goes on and on and on and on and on and on and so the end comes. awaiting you. it's been. and that's the way it goes. all is finished. for a while. and all that is is gone. all that was is no longer. ain't that a shame? what is better than what is now? surely not what was? what was. what was it? what was it now did i say? it was it was it was nothing worth remembering. already i have forgotten. already. regret. sorrow. no no t h e e n d are you glad? are you happy in its arrival? do you now understand where you are? what you have become? we all, here for centuries know the feeling controlling you. you are, you are still unaware of what it all means. afraid a bit still. and ignorance too has not as yet left your door. but it will. are you glad? are you happy in its arrival? are you glad? we are. that you have arrived. the beginning. ending again. run from its conclusion. its sure conclusion. the beginning ending again always comes. worry. run. cry. it is that bad if you don't understand. ending again. something new must come. change will not allow you not to. the beginning ending again fears the same. why? you know. the two shall laugh together. one of joy. one of fear not to. you too must laugh. it will be an ending. just an ending. followed by the beginning. ending again. begin again. change goes on and on and on and on and on and on and so both shall never end. leave just to return. awaiting you. it's been. they both have been. l a u g h it is the beginning of the end the end of the beginning. l a u g h l a u g h l a u g h l a u g h l a u g h l a u g h l a u g h awaiting them. go on and go on and go on and go on and go on and go the end 12/30/69 Simple yesterday everyone laughed at me. everyone, even he. because i said, "all of you must now look into your soul, your insignificance, in search for that immortality you desire." Everyone laughed, even he. and i cried. knowing, but not yet able to accept. They asked me when i came to their door if i knew of worldly things, if i knew of that which was significant. and i, i thought if i had forgotten, i could force myself to remember. not knowing that their world had changed. Then they asked me the riddle of the Sphinx. and laughed at my answer. They asked me my view of the world and laughed when i asked which world. They asked me why i wanted to enter their home and i answered i must be fool to but i do. i too want not to be alone. and they laughed for they knew. but when they were through asking me all these trivial questions and i had finished with my simple answer of all is but appearances and a matter of mind; nothing is everything, They laughed and said that i could enter. "Simple" as they named me, "Simple, you may enter our home." They wanted a continual joke behind their door. and they laughed while i tried not to cry. i still thought that just being there would somehow heal the wounds of being laughed at. not knowing. yet i should have known it was all but a state of their mind. i was entering their home, and they all laughed at me, but for a while i put my thoughts aside to take up theirs. but that was not what hurt so much; the family's laughter. he laughed. he laughed too. at me. 2 wks. later by their count, using their devices of inventing time, they came and asked me what i thought of the rain that seemed as if it would not cease. they wanted to laugh, to have another joke on me. Simple they knew would say something simple. all i answered having become very tired of their insignificance, ignorance, and intolerance was "no more, tomorrow there will be no more. all of you must now look into your soul, your insignificance, in search for that immortality you desire." "Simple" They laughed, "you are always so funny, always thinking you know so much more than you do. don't you understand that we know? only we know?" and they laughed some more. but what hurt most was that he laughed too. at me. i left. in tears i would allow them no longer to see, that would no longer give them an added laugh. there was no warmth within their house. the rain would be my new shelter. simple. was that all i was? simple. now i could finally laugh. and cry at their laughter. i saw the rain falling ceaselessly about me and laughed and laughed and laughed till i cried. tomorrow, i thought, they will laugh no more, he will laugh no more finally understanding simply that this rain means no more. why was i so funny to them? why did they have to laugh at me? i had just wanted them to see my thoughts as i had for so long seen theirs. but my thoughts were too funny, too simple for them. and they laughed at them. and they laughed at me. why did they laugh at me? why did they laugh, when all the time the joke was on them? March 22, 1970 teacher. the adult. having been taught. coughs. spits out the real, to sip of the wine.(sunshine dances upon the pain.) the child. being taught. sips of his glass. feels its beauty. and then. told of gaiety giver wines in the village. goes there to sip. the child. having been taught. coughs. spits out the real, to sip of the wine.(firey air prances thru the gate.) the adult. having taught the child. well. smiles. thru the sunshine. of everyday. past the gate, where white horses feast upon the dirt. smiles. thru it all. painfully gay. in the bare meadows of the child's horses. tranquility. Blue calm seas, rage in depths unknown, yell in hues of purple and green. and bleed red truths. which cannot rise to mingle with the white of foam. They try. but fall victim to the onslaught of its armies, camouflaging their colorful fineries, then engulfing the common enemy. darkness does not stop rainbows. the troops. the beauty of blues, greens, reds, and yellows dancing before you. the dance of life. rainbows pass upon the screen. for brief moments.if you look and see. colors are not but reds and blues. but moods and tones and life and death. music and dances. rhythms and blues. sadness and laughter. (Blue skies open up to the universe of peace, serenity, tranquility. Reds close their eyes to screams of tears and pain, anger and frustration.) the sun will rise, then fall again. but rainbows will still travel. darkness does not stop rainbows from travelling. black nor white can conquer the beauty of color. black's no conquerer. it cannot enter where colors go. it can only envelope, surround. white finds itself too unable to destroy. it is weak and falls prey to the beauty of its makers. blues, greens, yellows, reds sing tribute to their infinite beauty. and black watches in sorrow. from behind walls. rainbows cannot end. rainbows will not end. if one looks and sees. what is and could be. dancing upon your screen. once white, sometimes black, and for always of beautiful colors, troupes of colors just beneath the surface. darkness does not stop rainbows. cannot stop rainbows. smoke. i see the room, its four walls, its visions and its people, with smoke before my eyes when veiled he enters, but i know it is not he that i seek. the smoke stacks itself upon itself in its many varied colors until it reaches the ceiling and escapes into the night, into the streets where other people are who do not see it, or hear or feel it, who will not seek to destroy it, for it has become part of them, part of all that they know. i return to seeing the room, smoke illumining the closed souls of those about me. i do not see faces but temperaments half-covered by smog. i do not hear voices but songs of dischord, of stilled agony and pain, almost silenced by the air. i see not people but shadows, half-formed creatures of life. these shadows, they vanish before my eyes, (to reappear i know,) but the smoke it never leaves. it always stays in hopes to conceal the whispery air of life. completely. i leave the room, its four walls, its visions and its people, when veiled he leaves too, but i know it is not he that i seek. he will return to the room, its visions, its people, having only desired a break still veiled and untouched by the wind. March 21, 1970 Lost in trying to be. Hoping to find... there are tears, tears, and more tears, first unwept, but when wept, uncontrollable. Hoping to find... there is pain, pain, and more pain, first unfelt, but when felt, inexplicable. I cried yesterday from the soul, and the tears I wept were the tears of self-pity; salty, wet, uncontrollable tears. Yet I was glad I cried. Glad that I could cry. Most of my emotions I thought had died, but realized had only been suppressed. Suppressed within the being I and society had created. So when I saw I could cry uncontrollably I realized society had lost me. Or rather I had lost society. I felt pain from the soul, and the pain I felt was the pain of arrival; deep, hurting, inexplicable pain. Yet I was glad I hurt. Glad that I could be hurt. This feeling too, of being wounded, I had attempted to cover. To cover within the being I and society had created. So when I saw I could be deeply inexplicably hurt I realized that the Social I was leaving and the truthful me was arriving. The pain I suffered was only the pain of finding. My tears I wept were of both joy and sorrow. I knew my struggle would be a hard one fighting that which I didn't believe, living that which I did. I would be disrergarding society and paying for it. My tears would be a showing of sorrow over choosing to take the hilly road rather than the level, the turbulent stream rather than the calm, and the discontent way of life rather than the complacent. But in all the sorrow I would meet I knew I would find joy with the knowledge that I had the courage at one time to abandon society and the Social I and search for the new arrival of me. The pain I felt would tell me that the arrival was inevitable and imminent. It would say persistently let the salty tears fall so the pain more easily can be released and the arrival can quicken its pace; the arrival of the new me which will end all tears of self-pity and all related pain, for my search for myself would be over. I want to look up no longer with hope of being but rather with the knowledge of being. Tears and pain, uncontrollable and inexplicable, I will arrive in your presence, but finding oneself requires so much of one and I fear this feeling of responsibility to myself. I know the Social I has not been totally lost but neither at this time has the truthful me been found. I am lost------ inexplicably, tearfully and painfully lost---- to myself. Lost between two mes, too conflicting. I am dreadfully lost and confused within myself, but for how long can I be knowing the path that I must take is right before me? And then again I'm still hoping------ Hoping that I will always have the courage to continue searching for something I have lost. Something that was once an important part of me. Searching for something--not knowing just what. But this lost part whatever it may be, I know will kill the Social I, the Untruthful I, the Scheming I, the Defensive I and the Accepted I, so that I may rejoice in being me. Taps for a lonely room. Dark lights, shutters over the heart, shudder, while soft music plays taps to old feelings, moments, being renewed. (all from within and all so real, almost too real to be relived again, but impossible to deny life.) I am here now seeing myself a thousand times in one, scared at what could be forever. Rocking in the cradle of misery self-made. Enfolded within blankets without shelter from noise, sight, experience or pain. Tenderness pricks my heart to cause profuse, uncontrollable bleeding. Hemophiliac biologically i am not but emotionally? emotionally, there is no cure for this? is this life? river of sorrow and pain, of memories not quite true which still remain too true and too poignant for bleeding flowers? white carnation, why look so sad? live live & & grow. grow. grow thorns if need be. adapt to what comes to come again. Taps flow by through pain they know too well, over beds worn down by use. it is not the end of that mournful wail that comes but the beginning. i have heard it all before. and will hear it all again. it never ends. Bugler, bugler please give my heart a rest. That song of yours tears through my walls of stone and pierces my inner makings. No thorns of mine aid in defense. Dark rooms travel through my life where i sit to weep and where music plays at the rhythms of my ups and downs. Here in closed chambers, behind concrete walls, tears lead to the bottom of my soul-- a bottomless pit, which yet still i try to fill so that the end which can't come, will come. does this all make sense to you? flesh of flesh and weathered eyes repeatedly ask for the reasons and are turned away by silence. Silence too must greet you. There is no place for understanding this. i open my door for a moment and there outside too is a fire ablaze, burning all within its grasp. flowers, thorns and all scream in pain. will it spread to me? and devour what little i have left? i close the door only to open it again and see beyond my scorched petals to others in bloom with happiness. where is mine? or is it that when it is before me, my window dirtied with age-old pain and memories reveals only that which i already know and expect? where is life? my life? is it this which is before me? dark chambers exhaling interminable songs of pain, shuttered windows and shutered hearts and taps played to taps for a lonely room of one. taps played to taps played to taps in a dark, lonely room. The smell of burning flesh, the knowledge of burnt hopes, destroyed desires and suffocating pain force me to once again retreat to my icy chambers. where is my home? where is my song of life? it is here mournfully wailing its tale of woe self-made. here i am now seeing myself suffering a thousand-fold scared at what is to be forever. misery self-made. locked chambers of the heart. burning walls of pain, and the march of life to the taps of death. lonely room of my lonely body, why can't my soul escape?--or enter? = 90% Greed Yes i cried last night. You ask me why? why? why did i cry last night of all nights? last night began as one of the most peaceful times of my life. i just sat and sat and sat and thought about myself and thought and thought and thought and then i cried. Cried because i don't own myself. i don't own my time and there is nothing i can do about it. a good percentage of me belongs to the gov't. the good ole U.S. gov't. Another percentage, the society owns. my ma and pa own a couple of shares, and if i allowed God too would have a stake in me. Yeah, right through the heart. How much do i own you ask? Maybe, Maybe that is if one stretches the imagination 10% if lucky 10% That's a lot of my time, of my life for me to own -- exclusively. After all, they (the U.S. gov't and the society, and ma and pa) might not have allowed me to own any of myself. But they graciously have been generous in allowing me 10% of my life. i should be grateful, Very grateful, that they allowed me 10% of my life. But why? why? why can't i be grateful for living 10%? i don't know. it just must be greed on my part. Hardness i came to you to lie. the truth, it is so hard to say; but, you are right, it should be easy. i am afraid and, at this moment, still too afraid to whisper aloud to you: "you are right." So far away, you are and i wonder what manner of lies i can pass off as truth. you will believe what i choose to say. it was so easy, long ago, to separate then from now and when and to know how i got here from there but now--nothing is simple to me. "You are right" is the lie as much as it is the truth but you are right. and you will believe me once i am able to tell this to you. i wait.not for snow. the snow has stopped.me. i can not travel.to the sky. i must wait.in fear of tomorrow. it will be too late.i know.too late. the snow has killed.me. stabbed thru the mind.stomped to the ground. unwinged.fearing snowless days. regrets.heaped upon regrets. the snow has laid its blanket.upon my heart. chilled it.for use.next year. comes again.chilled.unstale. the snow laughs.at me. i can not travel.unwinged. chilled at heart.frozen.with time's appearance. frozen.as glass. the snow laughs.at fools' dreams. at minds.stretching.beyond stars.life.and its music. beyond flakes of the real. the snow has stopped.me.cold. i wait.for the sky.to return.for me. one day.someday.in the unending.distance. noticing.i am gone.killed.by the snow. once.gasping for lively air. once.grasping at dangling hairs.of the sky. then.stopping.being stopped.frozen. what i then had.melted in my hands.in my mind. i wait.not for snow. it is here.always.with me. it has stopped.me.for always. i can not travel.unwinged. 2/15/70 i, i, i'm, i'm preoccupied with death or death is preoccupied with me. its search and the fascination i give it will end with the reception of my soul. no longer will i be a puzzle, an unknown. in the end the puzzle will be completed, the unknown will be found through any easy calculation. no longer will there be a reason for fascination, for a seach. the find will be found not to be worth all the trouble caused. the find, me, will be found to be just as trite, just as self-concerned, just as simple, as all other souls of all other peoples. my preoccupation with death is understood for i have died many times, but death's preoccupation with me is not. it is like the preoccupation of a child with an everyday toy. the fascination the child finds is imperceptible to the onlooker. death's fascination is the same to me, for me. I dreamed that the me I dreamed to be was best not being I wrote a long paper abt you once. Yet I think it's been ripped up since then. Anyway, it said how I dreamed you were my ideal. And you had come, at long last, to help me. In that paper I told how you disappointed me. And yet, through your disappointing me I became stronger, I said. I once agn had to stand alone on my own. And I tried in that long paper to say it was good. I should, and would, completely throw out the desire, need, for any human crutch. But I lied in that paper. I had wanted to confide in you. Get sympathy, kindness, etc., etc., too much. And when I didn't I tried to make out that I was better for it. And that was my dream: That you came, but you were not the she that I expected and demanded, and i realized what better gifts the opportunity had to give me. I would lock my better self away and be glad that you had come to make it so agn. I wrote that long paper abt me once, to lie to myself and then to rip it up: I cannot run from myself while running from wolves I dressed in sheep's clothing. Or is it sheep I have dreamed as wolves? It is no concern to me now, what I have made of sheep and wolves and bits of reality. Yet, hoping for once to be able to let go of my dreams, to lie to myself successfully, I wrote a long paper abt me, intending it to be abt you. Hoping, for once, to be the person I did not dream to be; in my peace, in my seclusion, I attempted to stuff my dreams into a hole to die, in order that this I might survive, here and now. I wrote that paper dreaming agn that my dreams were not the dreams for the me I dreamed myself to be. October 15, 1974 Myself a secret to myself. a wall within a wall. one step of a ladder leading to another... myself. Myself secret after secret uncovered, then revealing more to be discovered, more complexities to be pondered by myself. Myself when will i reach myself? when will i uncover all the secrets of myself? when will all the walls crumble and fall because of their uselessness and let me follow the path of glory to myself? when will i reach the highest step of the ladder and find myself? when will all complexities no longer be so but be taken as being as simple as walking, or talking, or smiling and reveal to me myself? It is not so simple to walk to talk at first. for others it is not so simple to smile to cry. when will i be able to do anything and everything which that within me enables me to do? when will i be able to follow my course to myself and rejoice in finding myself, and cry to express myself? when will i meet myself? when will i be myself? when will i be myself? 4/17/69 solitary times i like to do solitary things; to walk alone at night when it's dark, when all's quiet around me yet i am alive to feeling and know i am well. i like to awake early and do solitary things; to walk, dreamingly, then to lie in lush green grass to read, or think and feel, and then when satisfied to fall asleep within myself, at peace, finally. i like to do solitary things; when my feelings and thoughts come together to make me new to myself again and yet there are not so many confusing questions but more pleasant answers. i feel i am alive when i am here or there by myself contemplating myself, living myself, being and loving this self that is my self when i am alone, doing my solitary things. Do i lie? of course not. I only tell half-truths and half-lies and minor lies, which are in truth all lies, all factual lies. Every single word that comes out my mouth is a sugar-coated lie. Why? Because what is truth? Truth is what one believes. No wonder i ponder so much, so long, over that which i say and do. i do not believe in myself. I believe my life is a lie, i am a lie. There is no truth within me. How can i speak truth when there is no truth within me? Falsity begets falsity as truth begets truth. Look out! Believe it or not, I've done it again! What is my problem? Myself. None other than myself and there's no way to rid myself of myself, or is there? Simpleness, simpleness, simpleness that's all i am, mixed with a confusion of meaningless personalities, all adding up to the same nothingness that is me. i am, i am, i am nothing and always will be. REMEMBER! become use it to your advantage if i should say that it matters what would you say? that it doesn't? i expect that you would because we both know the truth as far as that goes. in this world it does not matter. neither do you neither do i neither do we. so be content in your insignificance. i am becoming. that tree. that tree. r e a c h i n g its arms out. asking for... reaching, grasping but never attaining all that it truly wants. and needs. that calls. i guess. that tree remembers better days? of no growth. of no knowledge. (with growth came a great thirst which will not be quenched. here and now. it took control.) remembers better days? of plentiful illusionary rain. not. but producing the effects of being. not. but producing the necessary? desired. rain. still there? ever there? rain? of what value was that illusion, with thirst for the real clinging to its roots, as it is? unquenchable thirst. destroy(s). that tree. still reaching out. forever. asking for... not wanting to. sometimes. remembers. birth. that tree. Miscast Hurrah! The calm I have so long pursued, at last, is here. I awaken unworried. I talk unmindful of yesterdays or tomorrows. I sleep well sometimes and not so well sometimes, as usual. I am myself so much that I am amused, appalled and more than a little apprehensive. I have accepted the end too serenely, I think. It is unlike me. I refuse to believe it's completely understood, though I must admit I've had a long time to prepare: many stage rehearsals where I tried to do the part right. Always I would flub a line, a gesture, and knowing I had failed, tearfully flee, while praying I would not be fool enough to return again. Unless, if to do so could mean the dream of a lifetime. And to me it did. So each time I returned, resolved to do better, try harder, hang in there longer. With the room before me, I would straighten my costume, reassess my demeanor-- not too serious mind you, remember this scene does not call for emotion--and walk grandly on the stage. I had to believe I could be in the happy ending, but it was not meant to be. Finally, they were forced to let me go, And I am again composed, and at ease with myself, free to be me. And I am surprised to find myself so composed. nothing more or less he had been just a man and he died just a man no statues erected in his honor. no multitudes weeping at his grave. no eulogy befitting the man he was given. in fact no words were said. none even in a whisper. just silence. the kind observed when a man has died. he had been a simple man, adoring all that his forefathers had set before him to adore. he had loved the sun, the country air, the simple, natural life. he had known nothing else to love. he had lived his life as it was to be lived. five children he'd had, four strong sturdy sons to help with that which must be done and carry on his name, and one daughter. so he had lived his life as he'd felt he should, not bowing down to the hardships. one son had died but tragedies are to be expected. and when his wife's death followed his son's he had understood for that was the way it was to be. his life had continued in the simple way. struggling while learning about it, suffering as much from ignorance as from what life had had in store for him. and he died one day while out harvesting the crop. his children in grief just said it was to be, suffering in the simple way that simple folk do. so they laid him in the cold dark earth with nothing but a wooden cross set above his grave. and when he was set down in peace a small part of each of them too was laid down to rest. they all knew at the site, at the lowering of the body and the covering of the grave, with no need of words, that he had been just a man, nothing more or less 12/29/69 uncomprehending surprised. surprised to find that what was not a year ago is today. that that which is to be today is here today. i don't understand. but like. for it is fate. and i am, we are, but victims. surprised to find that what i was is not no more. that which i saw is seen no more. i wish to understand. but can't. i am, we are, but victims of the invention of time, no more than fate following its course through an interval. surprised no more. i heard now i hear i felt now i feel i knew now i know i will... i was now i am you were now you are how long? surprised no. because that was to be. just uncomprehending. to find that again i come and you too. yesterday the sun fell.(darkness.fear.)what did i do? i didn't. i didn't. the sun fell and i just watched. in fear. in guilt. why did i not pull a string? sound a bell? so easy. to do. not a thing. i saw. i saw what was going to be. and let it be. am i to blame? too? as you? the sun fell. yesterday i saw it. and i fell too. because i knew.(fear.darkness.) Someday is No day i don't know anything about anything most of all about myself except that i lost myself a long time ago. i buried myself beneath the many blankets of facades. i hid myself from myself and this world, and i know not where i am. i am lost somewhere. i doubt that i shall be found SOMEDAY. and in SOMEDAY all things happen; all things that is except the recovery of me. No day is SOMEDAY for me. i buried myself long ago, very deep, wishing and hoping then never to be discovered or maybe at the time i didn't know i was tossing myself away from myself, burying myself to escape myself. i don't know. i don't know anything about anything most of all about myself. solitary places i go to solitary places and touch myself dream abt me in wild open spaces while chuckling rhymes off the silent breeze. is it really true? does it all begin here? and end here? me in the middle. me no where, but everywhere but here with me. when at times i see myself from outside it is sad that i don't or can't let others see the humor of my position. but i am not funny in solitary places like i am when moved by forces outside myself. Alone, i am funny and that is all. All other times i am sadly funny to myself. Did i say that? Did i say that when alone by myself sadly funny, not funnily sad? that is what i was thinking. I should laugh at myself more often when i am not alone; The only time when it is necessary to do so. The positions I strike They are ridiculous I must admit but they are me then when i am other than the me I enjoy and perceive myself essentially to be. Funny, but I can laugh at myself now, while alone. No remorse, no sadness, that I said that, did that, lied through those words and actions. It was necessary, is necessary, I always say when i am alone and truthful. I must protect this ever-changing me that is as fragile as the hardness i assume. glass discontinued fallen from a vacation, one Christmas, one New Year's Eve of 1970. A night of sport of nervous smiles, hidden clammy hands, quick movements and wondering eyes. is this the end? all these are one end disjointed. a moment of perhaps and then no the book is closed like the door with no entry no future promises just thank you for a moment of perhaps. but tomorrow music played in the air three times with a glistening hope uncalled for but springing from unwanted desires whose homes know no rest. Days go by nights too and miles of thoughts unsuppressable. and then a movement of mine alone, lonely. a response loved which fogged the situation for 7 nights sprinkled throughout three years. now i see. but tomorrow? perhaps. one lone beat of the drum and old hopes once again smile at the surface confronting no with perhaps. but this perhaps has to yield to truth. since then no. from now no. the soul is bleeding ripped apart by discontinued glass Poetry and Prose by Victoria D. Gaines Poetry and Prose by Victoria D. Gaines Am I? am i, because he tells me wrong is spelled "rong" to spell it as he does? am i supposed to go along with his game in order to achieve what i want to achieve? if i decide to be wrong and spell rong wrongly am i to suffer? Because he, at the tender age of 3 spelled tea --> te asks asks me to spell as he did or else ...? i won't. i can't i know i shouldn't do as he says just because He says. Life laughter tears laughter tears laughter tears laughter tears laughter tears laughter tears laughter tears laughter tears laughter t e a r s l a u g h t e r t e a r s laughter tears laughter tears t e a r s laughter laughter tears laughter tears LAUGHTER tears laughtertears laughter tears laughtertearslaughtertearslaughtertearslaughter tearslaughtertearslaughtertearslaughtertears laughtertearslaughterdeathtearslaughtertearslaughtertears laughtertearslaughtertearslaughterteatslaughtertears laughter T E A R S laughter tears laughter l a t u e g laughtertearslaughtertearslaaughtertears h r laughter t e a r s laughter r l ta eu ag rh st te er a r s laughtertearslaughtertearslaughtertearslaughter tearslaughtetearslaughtrteraslaughtertearslaughtertears laughtertearslaughtertearsl a u g h t e rtearslaughtertears Creation Creation - You have just been created by something called by man the omnipotent one, "God." You are his servant, his believer, his creation. You are just substance. There are no thoughts, no problems, no conflicts. 1st Day - You have walked up a step. You are a part of mankind but this you do not know yet for your thinking mechanism has just been activated and as of yet cannot live up to its potential. You open your eyes to surface society but have not not yet thought about your position within it. Thoughts come hard and fuzzy. 2nd Day - You have walked headlong into society. It tells you that you have a role to play and it's time to practice for the stage. It tells you the words you should say, the actions you should make, the thoughts you should have. 3rd Day - You're on stage. You have a mediocre role, everyone can't be a star. You wonder why. Oh, that's not one of your programmed thoughts--you suppress it. 4th Day - More "harmful" thoughts arise. Conflicts as to you wanting another role in society other than the one society designated to you. Do you dare to go against its wishes? You think about it. Remember others. 5th Day - Thoughts abaout breaking away. Afraid, but you attempt to anyway. You fail: The masses are too strong, the feelings of guilt are too strong. You begin to hate yourself for your failure. You are again one of a mass of non-thinkers, conformists. 6th Day - 7th Day - 8th Day - fau ra fau ra. this is fau's. does not belong for in this world it does not exist. Possession is not. To fau ra at birth i give new knowledge, new hopes, new dreams, new lives, new happiness. fau needs, so take. dreams fly fau so must you. fau fa is, will always be if V allows. Must return to the world of fau. fau has left behind all knowledge of the old to embrace the beauty, truth, new reality of the new. fau ra rejoice. re-re-re-rejoice for it is you. YOU ARE. No longer Reality is: 370-00-8350 Fau Something Insane Monique was sad. Undefinably sad. The hurt inside her she could not express,it was so great. But as her papa had said, "Life must go on," and it must. But for what purpose asked she. To be hurt over and over again? Her young brother had died last year of leukemia, followed by her father's sudden death from a heart attack. And now even before that pain had subsided, her mother was dying. Dying from some disease which the doctors could not diagnose but she could: Her mother was dying of sorrow. Sorrow over her mother-loss of a young, gay son, and sorrow over the loss of her beloved husband. Just how could life go on? She turned her head and down fell tears interminable. Tears held back over the previous year. The dam had finally broken, letting all that wished to be free, free. The tears came releasing great agony inside but still leaving no answer as to why Monique should want to live. To live and see her mother slowly dwindle away? "No!" Monique cried. "No, I couldn't take it!" Sobs were racking her thin but sturdy body. Her hair had gently fallen over her slightly bent head. Her words came out softly but with deep feeling. "Oh, God, let me die, let me die," she prayed fervently between the sobs. Her eyes blurred with tears saw a figure entering the room. A tall, strong, sturdy figure of a man. "Papa, oh, Papa," she cried running toward the door. "You're back Papa. "Oh, I'm so glad you're back. You don't know how much we've missed you, how much we've needed you." Her hands grasped for the shadow of a figure, and--nothing was there. Nothing! Her trembling body fell against the wall where she beat her tiny fists. Repeatedly and repeatedly she beat her fists against the wall, as if it were the wall between life and death and she wanted it to crumble and let her enter. Her tears had ceased but the hurt was still there. Hurt which was slowly draining away her youth. She was only sixteen but already she had the wisdom of one some years older. And the pain, the pain she had endured would have been too much for a person twice her age. Regaining her sanity, she walked to the kitchen and began to prepare dinner. A lonely dinner, with one plate, one cup, one fork and one person. One lonely person who would be a lonelier person once her mother died. Monique ate in silence. The kind of silence which hurts one's ears because it seems as if any second someone will burst out yelling. Yelling something insane. A Drab Life In the morning I awaken to the golden rays of the sun upon my face. My eyes, feeling the gentle pain of heat which increases as time does, slowly open. The surroundings of the room gradually come into focus. I can see the grey drab walls, the hard wooden floor, the raggedy old chest and the solitary window that make up my world. This is my world, my refuge, that reflects me. I am the drab, raggedy old man who inhabits this world of one person. Raggedy in spirit, drab in person, old in thought, my world is me and towards my world all my hatred is directed. Already I can feel my sorrow and despair weighing against my chest. The pain is beginning to make each breath I take a task. To live for me is becoming a task which I perform not out of want but out of fear. I fear facing death with no record of life behind me. All my years of solitude are beginning to add up to one life of nothing. That one life of nothing is me; a nothing. Each day I question myself as to why I live. And each night I lose myself to the dreams of romance. I drift and drift and drift until I find myself in a meadow. There I am lost among the fragrant blades of grass. All my pain of the day is soothed within this meadow and there I sleep within my sleep. I awaken to find the sun high in the sky, filling me with youth and vitality. Running wildly I race to the forest so once again I can feel the beauty of nature. This beauty I embrace tightly within my thoughts, hoping that when taken from the scene the beauty of it will linger. I look at the birds flying overhead chirping their freedom. The flowers sprout beneath my bare feet bringing tears to my eyes. All these things around me, so beautiful, so free, so natural, will soon disappear. Running in between the trees, crying my love to all that is around me, I feel that i am finally something. I feel that I am finally somebody. I, in my second life, am a lover of nature who finds joy just worshipping its beauty. I, in my second life, love all that is true, all that is simple and natural, and find no conflict with the mores of society. In my second life, society is my dream which I can wish away or ignore. The grass so green, the sky so blue, the craggy mountains, the sparkling clear water, the towering trees, the freedom-loving birds--all these things I love. All these things hold some mysterious power over me which enables me to disregard society. My second life in the beauty of dark reveals the beauty of me that is hidden by the influence of society. So what! Take pains to be what for what? So what! Take pains to see what for what? So what? Take pains to feel what for what? So what! Take pains take pains to be, to see, to feel, for what? So what the hell! Phase I: The Search A search within oneself for oneself ends as all searches end with a find which may be or may not be worth the time spent. the energy spent and the worry caused. Exhausted, well-spent, exuberant, glad, sad, weary, rejoiceful---- all these one may be at the discovery of what at first sems to be oneself but turns out only to be another conglomeration of "mes," "is" and "myselfs" all in one grand confusion. The search what a futile search it may be. it may be. Phase II: The Find and Disappointment Past the time of searching tired and confused one finds oneself at the gatewaay to oneself unable because of misuse to enter the door to oneself, to confront oneself as oneself, kneel to oneself in all recognition of oneself, to find oneself and not to run from oneself, unable to face oneself and rejoice in being oneself. Tired one lies upon the path to oneself facing onself but not seeing oneself. my hands reach beneath the covers to hold onto the dreams of midnight but they have been smothered by the snores of the dark and themselves, too, i guess, and there are no chuckles nor smiles even to cover up for the anticipated disappointment for the litle joke of seeking to never find has now run out of laughter. I stone faced i awaken to the sun and it does not smile at me, that is why i receive it so and as usual acccept its distaste of me. another day is just another day for the memories of yesternights to be sun-baked to black clay by the sun's rays then molded into whatever its desires may be. II i walk in a daze looking to neither side of me nor before me fearing what i know is there behind me buried beneath the trampled earth within myself can i dig(?) it out from within me? transplant it, give it new life, new loves, my tender care, so that it can give forth healthy life to me? not damaged by each new day's light and the forests(?) it raises and the blinds it sets upon the eyes? III i am tired of being burned by the sun all day then left to my fancies when it rests. it is not fair to shut out the light with light, to put on the lid to my hopes when they should be uplifted. IV i could strike back with shaded glasses, but with sighted(?) eyes that i already _____ still fail to reach back within myself and wrench me free of today. I cannot be free of today, i know, until yesterdays unveil themselves. What Does a Dumb Black Bitch Know? He, MB, said it would never fit, insulting my intelligence and denying my seven months' intensive work with space management. And, of course, the cop said he saw "infinite" space, as I did. But what does a Dumb Black Bitch know? They, MB & AG, thought it impulsive (or was it envy?), my buying office supplies. But I'd only spent the last eight years of my life working toward becoming my own boss. It was to be my first home office. But what does a Dumb Black Bitch know? She needs a man, any man, to tell her how to think and act and do and BE a successful (subservient) WOMAN. He, MB, said it was "madness," although it had "a method to it," my studying light, space, beauty, harmonious colors and forms, and infinite universes by moving candles around. But what does a Dumb Black Bitch know as compared to a White man--with a degree no less? He, MB, said it was "dangerous," my setting up and conducting a test on impediments to effective communication which reduced him to belligerence and ranting and raving, even when I limited myself to writing one unit of data, and followed his lead using koans in an effort to get him to see himself. But what does a Dumb Black Bitch know-- about communication or life or anything else of importance-- except sex maybe? It takes a man to teach her anything worth knowing. (Oh, how they love to pontificate!) He, MB, said I was violent, out of control and not sleeping. But I never broke a plate of glass or asaulted anyone. It was he who grabbed and bruised me when I said I was leaving. And then he said he was sorry, that wasn't him. (Doesn't that mean he was out of control?) And then he threatened to kill me or himself if "I didn't stop what I was doing." (God forbid! I was only taking care of my business and ignoring him for a change.) He scared me with his violence and intrusive, demanding behavior, not letting me sleep, yelling "Get back in this bed!" "Get back in this bed!" while I was in peace on the porch. And then, of course, he called AG, who came and put his hands on me, too, while not a word was spoken. But what does a Dumb Black Bitch know-- about insanity, self-control or self-awareness or when and how to play sane for those who define reality and normalcy? She needs a man to see her as she should be, to teach her demure feminine composure and how to die to her legitimate aims, emotions, pleasures and passions. He, MB, said I was "racially paranoid." (Oh God did I tell him too much about himself and his loved ones?) This man, who, until an ultimatum, refused to introduce me to his parents. Who still, after 23 years, would rather his extended family think he was gay than acknowledge my existence. This man who looked at me with horror and immediately said "no" when I told him I expected him to tell his relatives about me. ("To hear about me is to see me? In all my blackness?) And this man who once said "Of course White people think they're better than Blacks." But what does a Dumb Black Bitch know-- about racism or sexism or inhumanity, injustice or hypocrisy? She only lives in this world and it teaches her soon enough. Natural (man-made) law, MB said rules, with niggers and bitches consigned to the bottom forever. He used force and lies to teach me that this is a dog-eat-dog world and where my place in it is. Some benevolent despot! Oh, what does a Dumb Black Bitch know? when all her so-called loved ones and the so-called experts agree she is manic, delusional, unjustifiably angry and energetic, and incapable of insight or good judgment? Why she can't hold down a job, they say. She dares to speak up and then walk away when she has had enough or even gets fired. She must be made to slow down and to function, think and act like we do. We, the pillars of society. She must be made to become a part of sane, respectable society-- with all its lies, destructiveness, envy, hatred, abuse, violence, avarice, fears and confusion. And EGO, EGO, EGO! I, ME and MINE! What does this Dumb Black Bitch know? She knows where she has been and where she is going. She knows that she has lived her life--fully, compassionately, non-violently and thoughtfully--and not some drab, poor imitation. She knows that she has found Heaven in the midst of Hell. That she refused to worship false idols or be broken. She knows that she has heard the music of the spheres, and the thoughts of the Creator. He has led her along--in truth, courage and faith. She knows that He has blessed her with strength, passion, will, endurance, intelligence, visions and psychic energy, giving her a glimpse of what is to come. She knows that the anger which she must express (did she not feel the wrath of God?) cannot destroy her supreme happiness, for she has attained all that had meaning for her in this life. She knows that she has found the glory of the SELF, and marvels at her prophetic adolescent poetry where she first expressed her spiritual longings. She knows that "I AM," "I WAS" and "I WILL BE!" What more is there to know? This Dumb Black Bitch cares to know no more--of this world. This Dumb Black Bitch cares to be held back no more--by this world. This Dumb Black Bitch cares to be told "no" no more--in this world and this Dumb Black Bitch cares to never again be violated by this world. That's what this Dumb Black Bitch knows! 8/4/98 Only for you I see your face flicker quickly by in clouds sky high and I wonder why. (And I sigh for you) I hear your voice when I close a door to a corridor and I whisper why. (And I cry for you) I feel your hand smooth down my hair as we reach to share and I simper why. (And I die for you) Only for you could this be true: My heart's so blue. I'm missing you! August 28, 2001 NOTE: Some of these writings are incomplete and/or were partly undecipherable to me. (I have one of the worst handwritings in the world and I can barely see.) But I included them as representative of some of the work that I have done and believing that some have fairly decent imagery and/or ideas. The End