No, Mildred, No

cows-4-1551602Like slamming into a brick wall.  I think I don’t feel good, but I am not entirely sure because I’ve spent this weekend outside of my body, floating a few inches, not feet overhead, and it’s not good, but it happened and I think I have to do something about that.  I think I was just trying to deal with the stress by not dealing whatsoever with annything – hardly eating, hardly drinking, hardly sleeping, hardly imagining, just pushing buttons to receive an outcome.  Trying to win something that on most other days on the calendar is absolutely meaningless to me.  Stupid verging on the colloquial expression of the word retarded.  Just dumb.  But the day is spent, regardless of how stupidly it went and tomorrow is a new week.  A short week apparently and all of it comes roaring and rolling back.

I’ve been admonished via text – not harshly, just being reminded that I am, more than anything like a Sim.  My autonomous thoughts are the ones that get me into trouble unless I have a cruel and unusual creator which is sometimes the case.  Admonished is a rough word, especially when you think someone arching their eyebrows at you is equivalent to death by lasers.  But it is frustrating that any time I try and help because the stress makes me feel impotent, the help is retracted and we have to send out apologies for it.  You do start to think about the old job in cases like this where being the only one who knew how to do what was needed meant just doing it.  Having to ask and ask and ask.

Still, my alternative is writing and my alternative is shit if I spend my days not reading Tom a Lincoln, not leaving my room or my bed or my seated position.  It is of no help to me in my life if I don’t partake in it.  It doesn’t make for a great quick exit if the windows still caulked shut.   Have to get to peeling now right now.

It was her, of course.  Her doing.  You don’t notice because that is exactly her power.  Mildred.  The sop.  The bore.  The exhausted, frightened bully in the basement in her stained slip, with her unibrow and shattered teeth.  Who chains you to the table leg if not the radiator and sets up her thousand-year long tea party.  There is no tea, of course, it’s all pretend, but she is not altered.  She is not frightened, she is not anxious.  This is her demesne and she rules there with an iron fist.  So when we speak of mutiny, when we get onside great powers like the Faithful Light, when we question…she does not bring out a hammer and clobber us in one go.  No.  She says she has no power.  She says she has no control.  She says she is nothing and you are fine to leave her.  Then, trusting in your atrophied strength, you climb outside and find yourself in the briar patch and beyond that the maze.  And by the time you’re through both, you’ve forgotten what her door looks like.  And here we are, gathered up under her arm, her rag doll once again.


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