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Every Nanny is a Spider on the Wall

I’m basically a nanny. In my care, it’s Leon. Leon is almost 22, but he usually cannot remember his age. He often says he’s 16. Leon has Autism and an Intellectual Disability. I like, love him. Not sexually, but almost romantically, I love him so much. People like this are special, and you know if you love someone who’s like this. They aren’t stupid. They aren’t dumb. They know exactly wtf is going on. Leon doesn’t use “novel speech” very often. Almost everything he says is from a script on a TV show, or a reference to a song he likes. I know all the shows and songs, so I speak “Leon.” Lately, Leon has been utterly long phrases with sounds that sound like words, and I swear, he’s gaining increased comprehension (of wtf is going on). And how to talk about it. He’s been able to make requests about where he wants to be, which room, and what he wants to do. My life is richer with Leon. He used to say I love you all the time, but then I went away for a few years to teach at schools, and when I came back, he was a little more sad, a little less likely to exclaim I love you. Something happened in the family. Someone tried to kill their self, and lost their pregnancy, the baby died. She left the country, but the mom and dad never got their groove back. Grief can be like that. What can we do, but turn on each other. Your pain mirrors and exacerbates my pain, please get over it, you depress me, etc. Do they still love each other? Maybe. There’s a new girlfriend now, though, which will complicate things. I whisper the truth about Leon’s family to him when they’re not around. Your sister is sad. Mom and Tim are fighting. Something happened. I don’t know if I could ever explain how much Leon is my friend. We hold hands for at least 4 hours per day. I do everything for him. In the way the caretaker cares for a baby. I feed him food. I play games with him. I take him on walks. I wipe his butt. I bathe him. I dry and dress him. He does some of it, but I facilitate everything— so that things like when you try to put your shirt on and it gets caught on your head— things like that don’t happen. Can’t just go into blind fury because your shirt is covering your eyes and start crying. I help you. Did you forget why you’re sitting down and even where you are? You’re going pee. Let’s help with shorts and sitting down. No illusions here, not going to stand. Sometimes, he gives me this hard stare, a challenge, muted horrific looking rage, with a little eye squint, having memories of not being understood, and he makes a gesture to strike himself in the face (it’s just a gesture), and then I get his parent and suggest the PRN. That level of anxiety is not necessary or natural. Give the PRN. He takes it. He doesn’t want to be a monster. His eyes glaze over. He can’t remember why he was mad. He agrees to do whatever was next, versus the impossible request (he doesn’t understand when or why things are impossible, or even simply not a choice). Let’s take a nap. He doesn’t take naps. He powers up for more. He has the strength and energy of a team of oxen! He could’ve sired 50 children, but he’s fixed. He’s starting to lose top of the head hair, and I know his mom will be sad. She wishes he’d stay small and cute forever. Nope.

The significator card in position one is the three of cops. Position one indicates position one reflects the situation in an outer in which one finds oneself. The three of cups shows Eros and psyche’s wedding so an initial completion or milestone related to love. The crossing card is the five of pentacles. The story in this position indicates the issues that are preventing the three of cups from being fully expressed. The five of pentacles shows Daedalus running away from home because he killed his professional rival in a fit of jealousy. The card in position for, the base of the matter, is the ace of cups. The ace of cups shows Aphrodite in the waves and represents the essence of love the core of it the beginning of it. This could mean that the raw life force of love is what’s underlying the situation or basically my life. The card and position for, the rowing card, I got the three of swords. Like the three of cups, threes represent in initial completion or achievement. Of course, in this case it’s swords and it’s sort of an initial slaying of an idea or following through and doing the damn thing. Like Clytemnestra and her lover killed Agamenone. Things have been leading up to it and now they’ve done it. That’s the atmosphere of my life. The card in position five, previous influences, I got the ace of swords. Aces represent an corruption of raw energy, like the ace of cups, but the swords represent intellect. Craft and cunning. Future influences. I also got the three of swords that’s position number six. Here I again got the three of swords with this deck shows the murder in the bath. Position seven is where one finds oneself sort of an extension of the first card. I got judgment represented by Athena judgment sort of speaks for itself. And is paired with intellect in general. For the eighth card, which is views of others, I got the four of cups where Aphrodite‘s friends fill her mind with doubts so that she stops trusting Eros. this makes me think if I should trust people even less right now. Or maybe I’m the one whispering and other people’s ears. The ninth card represents hopes and fears, and I got eight of pentacles. That’s perfect for me because I want professional success, but I might not get it because I don’t work hard enough. For the final outcome, sort of terrifying, I got the two of ones which is the immediately polarized energy of pure intellect and a newly conceived plan to retake my rightful throne. This is a pretty strange spread overall. So many aces two and threes. Only one wand card. And a lot of swords. 🗡️ it’s also unusual or significant that the base of the matter is an outpouring of love, including passion, but the three of swords how it appears or the energy surrounding the matter is devoid of emotion and moderate completion of an intellectual goal that may involve vengeance.

Odd Training Exercise, Madams!

My actual (tell us how you really feel) review of the professional development training: Type: anecdotal Reason: unknown

One of the activities our organization has us (residential, crisis line, community therapy workers) complete during our initial socialization to the program is the following.

They tell us (15-30 people) to line up in two rows about 10-15 paces apart. Then they tell us one group on one side are the “walkers” and the other side stands still. They tell you to make eye contact with your partner (across from you— they make sure it’s not someone you already know or work with) and instructed not to break the eye contact for the duration of the activity.

Then they have you, the walkers, walk toward the stander-stills, maintaining eye contact, without speaking.

It is the decidedly most intimate moment many people have ever had in their entire lives, in terms of eye contact and silence. Only while falling in love is that level of silence + eye contact comfortable. Today it felt almost too intense to bear.

This is probably the fourth time I’ve participated in this activity, because I keep having to be re-trained when I leave places and come back later, or am completing required refreshers later in the year. The actual purpose of the activity is (I think) to make you imagine how a child feels when you start focusing on them in a critical way and stare at them, walk up to them (they tell the walkers to cross their arms and put their hands on their hips), so might imagine it. But for me, it never felt like that, but a love dance, forced upon us, not entirely horrible, kind of amazing.

This last time, my fourth, was the hardest ever. For the previous one, I got paired with this large, kind, (okay, huge teddybear), guy with dred locks who kept talking about his “faith” and also sounded great with kids, very calm, very safe, strong. So I was happy to walk up to him locking eyes on him. I thought we were probably both high, and chill.

I don’t remember the first time. I think it was also someone I felt an easy connection with.

But here was a sort of blue fire or dangerously emotional water.

But this time it felt excruciatingly personal, she’s too raw, too obvious, loud with mediocre begs for attention, an obviously “hurting-person” with childish body language, a big open, moon face, freckles, tattoos, a Germanic witch-chin (like me), and when we locked eyes, I knew she knew I saw her and she wanted to cry so badly. She wanted to look away so so badly, and I did, too. We kept breaking the eye contact. I could barely hold it. I kept telling myself, “We’ll get through this… We can do this.” But she was similarly shaken after the activity, saying she now needs family therapy to recover from it (good one, from a family based therapist in training). She was so young. I’m so old. I didn’t want to tell her the things I knew she would read in my face and eyes. Or I’d have to take her at my lap by the fire, pet the kitty, stir the brew in the cauldron in the chimney stove.
Her eyes were hugely blue. Mine are blue too, but my pupils aren’t dilated like that, so wide and full of grief, while mine are full of another kind of grief, the kind that waits for you. I felt bad for her. I felt annoyed that we had to do this. But I also felt grateful because who else am I going to look at like that, enter the pools of their eternal souls, tell them, we can do this, we’ll get through this.

The other thing the exercise requires is for the standing-in-place person to hold up a hand when the walker has approached their comfortable space boundary. My girl said, Oh no, I don’t have a boundary, I might not know! I smiled at her and said, You’ll know. And she did. She held up her hand at about 1.25 arms lengths. When we switched roles (required) and she walked toward me, I stopped her at about 1.75 arms lengths. I wanted to give her more space, because I knew she she was fucked up after feeling my laser beams.

Throughout the whole exercise I was taking huge, slow breaths. It’s the only way I could get through it.
My girl was like my mom when she was young. ADHD cute, impulsive, performing bits, baiting conversation, flirting indiscriminately, wearing emotion on sleeve, being fun and exciting, fidgeting, doodling, bouncing leg. And she had to stare with me for almost 5 total minutes. I hope I healed her, because it wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to be there. And I didn’t want to look at her, into her soul. I could already see it from far away. And I don’t want people to really see me, either. I’m already dodging eye contact and keeping my face averted until I’m listening. God bless the freckled faces, for crying out loud, their eyebrows look sad before they even get sad. I didn’t really want her sad.

Apples are Free for Renee Good

First, loosely connected thesis point: Religion is not the opiate of the masses because it never provides euphoria. Give me even some weak ass, generic Vics over a 30 minute sermon, any day. Religion never easies pain.

Religion categorizes sin as innate, as primal, as if there were never mothers (human and animal) who loved their babies unconditionally, forgave them for times the babies hurt them, and raised them to love themselves, and be happy, and not hold grudges, and be flexible and tenacious with problem solving, and able to securely attach to others and their environment. People who were respectful and fair, who listened, who planted, who reaped, who wept, who hoped, who forgave, who rejoiced, who praised the rising of the sun and moon, who cared for elders, who healed the sick, and tended to the cries and loneliness of those who were on the path of dying, the path to beyond, and who prayed for them here and there. There was love before there was religion. Jesus wasn’t the first human to love and forgive.

The church constructed the idea of native sin, and they forced upon people the idea that self-forgiveness and love is a prize you win by overtly agreeing with obviously myth-based narratives and culturally irrelevant dogma, using the message of female shame, the detailing of physical, sexual aberrations, the priest hungering for confession, witches burning (all she said was, No New Taxes), heretics tortured, and the thorough brainwashing of people into believing Christianity offered something they didn’t originally have already. The apple is the fruit of life, not the fruit of the knowledge of shame. Disobedience is the yang to the yin of obedience. In fact, say the love and abolition that Jesus preached about was an apple. The apples were already in our world. He didn’t invent apples! He focused on them. Look what you have that’s solid and sweet. We don’t need the church or God to forgive us. We need to forgive ourselves and each other. We could always do that. We could always repent, realize how our actions have caused harm, and attempt reparations. That behavior, the reparations, leads to the kingdom of heaven. The way they twisted up into down, female into male, night into day, day into night, and in to out, works perfectly for them. Since they agree to the doctrine and dogma, they consider themselves in good shape for heaven, and think no further of their own behavior.

Blood sacrifice is NOT NECESSARY AND NEVER WAS. You fucking sickos. Loving (or flattered by? or in denial about?) how the colonial state killed him (like a common beggar).

So twisted. No. Nobody wiped your slate clean, your list of fuck-ups is still there and always will be until you decide to admit it and make amends.

Not to mention, the execution of Jesus has nothing in common with kosher blood sacrifice. Blood sacrifice, as practiced by pagan and ancient Hebrew people, was supposed to be done a certain way, if you believe in it. If you believe in it, then you know that there are requirements to the ritual and components thereof. The lamb should be calm. The person making the sacrifice should in a meditative or spiritual frame of mind and fairly sure that the sacrifice will please the god(s) they intend it for pleasing or reaching. The person or people making the sacrifice sing songs or chant, there are prayers and dedications. The sacrifice (lamb) should not be afraid much less terrorized or brutalized (as was Jesus). The lamb should be sedated, calm, and comfortable. You can’t just brutalize, humiliate, and suffocate somebody and then call it a sacrifice. Christians don’t care.

The way Christians accept(ed) the idea of a blood sacrifice made to atone for their sins is actually cringe. Didn’t they ever think a deal like that (guilty as charged with no time or labor as a consequence) that might be too good to be true? But they’re all going to heaven, right, the prime real estate for church goers!

To BELIEVE in heaven and hell, as a place that creates a truly just narrative and final solution to HARM, is irresponsible, finally. Heaven and hell doesn’t stand up to any scrutiny. Yin/yang alone destroys its foundation. You can’t separate two elements that complete and require interaction with each other or comparison to exist at all.

Christianity was never good news for us. We had everything it offered already.

The blood of an ancient Hebrew hippie could never compensate for the necessary REPARATIONS that sin creates.

Causing harm is sin. It’s here and now. Be here and now. Fuck your scriptures. Quoting weird poems at this day and age. Take it to a poetry class. It doesn’t pass a logic test by any logician’s standards. Don’t say “faith” to me. “Faith” is your excuse for not thinking things through because the potential results are discomfiting. What you’d have to do if you realized it’s on you to made reparations. Tiny sins, huge sins. Sin suggests shame. Shame isn’t necessary. The church CREATED shame while overtly offering relief from shame. Shame didn’t exist before the church started shaming everyone outside the CIS/HET box. Facts they invented sexual sin. Before the church, people respectful each other more, accepted each other, made fewer attempts to control others’ gender or sexual expression and behavior. The church and state used violence and terror to silence the community leaders advocating for material equality, (or even just) relief/survival, and abolition, who were OFTEN women and nonbinary figures. Protesting taxes? Witch— drown her while everyone records it with their cell phone. Renee Good joined millions of sisters who’ve been silenced when the ICE cop executed her in her car. Every day I hope it aint the day they come for me.

They Do Love Me

This week, I took my dad out for breakfast for his June birthday/ Father’s Day. It was one for all-time. He took me, actually, to Don’s Diner in Marshall-Shadeland, under the old bridge that’s black and sooty, a secret haven for breakfast lovers, functional alcoholics, folks going to work, who want to eat real bread, real butter, and sit among real grimy booths, walls, stools. My dad said, they filmed two movies here. and he said, Don learned to cook in a hotel, so the story goes. I said, Hm, I’m not sure about that because hotel breakfast is usually gross. I think he learned to cook in prison. I was watching our waitress, thinking, she is an meth or crack addict. She’s fluid, she’s fast on her feet, but her eyes are dead, and her face looks frozen, immobile. It’s a wall. Waitressing here’s not a bad deal, though. She’s got serious track marks, but she’s earning her shots legally, ain't she? Don looked back away from his grill a couple times, and saw me looking around. What is it? he asked me, wearing an old-man's mask and a white apron.
I blinked, (or maybe I winked). I think I see YOU, killer. We ordered a breakfast sandwich with Mancini’s bread, with an egg and Swiss cheese, one omelette, and with one blueberry pancake. Dad shared his pancake, and his omelette with peppers and sausage, with me All the food was perfect! That’s how sausage should be, I said, Crispy on the outside, hot and peppery on the inside, never rubbery or fatty.
The food was the shit. Note to self: this secret drop of heaven in the vicinity of (drug) hell, Woods Run and Brighton.

Afterwards, when I dropped my dad off at their house, he asked, Can you come in for a few minutes?
I asked, why, thinking, oh shit, damn. Should I say, hell no!? We had a grudge with each other over all these years.
I mean, I had a grudge. But so did they. Last week, I said to myself, I don’t even care, anymore. I don’t care if they apologize. They don’t need to. I don’t need it. I’m good. It’s really water under the bridge.

But I was nervous, sensing the potential for emotional ambush. I said, it sounds serious.
Dad said, Well it is serious, but it’s a good thing. So I agreed to go in for the talk. Mom came out to the living room. We all sat down.

Dad talked. Mom kept interrupting, Can I just say one thing here? It wasn’t a confrontation about the past (1991). It wasn’t an awkward apology. It was nothing like that. It was about their house.

Dad said, be THE STATE as it may be, if you can keep us out of nursing homes, we’re leaving our house to you. You’ll own it, you’re about to own it, and you’ll care for us if we need it, and then live here. I said, Oh, God! It’s the last thing anyone wants to think about.

I don’t want to think about 10-20 years, and I might not even want to be here, when my pets die, my parents die, and friends start to die. What if even one of my sisters die? That can’t be. We haven’t lost anyone who wasn’t nearing 100 years old, so far.

Dad made a joke to tease mom about her beloved garden in the back, He said, when you live here, you can remove the deer fence, if you want to! Mom said, Oh god, please, no! I said, Mom, don’t worry. If you want, I’ll build the wall higher and thicker for you. I’ll make it like between the US and Mexico! Your raspberries, tomatoes, herbs, cucumbers, everything will keep growing. I’ll get help. And I think this was how we made things right forever.

My dad got teary when he said, I hope we’ve done enough for you. He said, Your sisters all have houses and partners. They’re smart. They’ll be okay. At least this way, you don’t have to worry about where you’ll live. I won’t get homeless, I said.

It did help, it did provide peace, it DOES, even though I’m not sure if I can trust that things will work out right, like the vultures could sweep in and take it away.

It makes it better, more imaginable, if then, I’ll live in my parents’ house, like I imagined. I might have to nurse one of them first, and I do have skills. So that’s what I kind of expected or imagined.

I said to them, I made so many impractical, dreamy choices. I never should’ve left home. I never should’ve went to Smith. I should’ve lived at home and joined a band. OMG IF ONLY I DID THAT. It’s actually a viable alternate ending or path.
I’ll take it next time, if given that choice. Not leave my people. Stay home.
(even now, I know I can’t)

About Smith, mom and dad said, But we never could’ve talked you out of it. Me: I know, I’m not blaming you. It’s just so obvious how my choices were always most likely to create romance and accrue all kinds of debt.

Mom said, I think the same thing for us, with my choices. What if I had stayed a nurse, not gone to graduate school? The schools are goddamn vultures, aren't they?

But we learned stuff. We walked a road. We went somewhere and came back. One never regrets learning.

The Burden of That Love

If you have a lot of money and a child with “low-functioning Autism then you can buy care for them in your own home (most people cannot)

You can hire someone like me with graduate degrees to sing nursery rhymes, watch TV on repeat, play with their ipad, practice reading, counting, months, days, and dates, and feed by hand like a baby, and wipe off every little drip.

Your child’s personal teacher can wash them, scrub their butt, scrub their hair, towel them dry, dress them (nicely) and then take a walk with them, or use the exercise equipment in the basement together, tour the house together, complete rituals, and the teacher won’t mind the stimming, knowing that it helps to manage stress, among other things we don’t understand

If you cannot afford this, and cannot care for this person who is like a baby in a big man or woman body, then they’ll probably have to go live at an orphanage. If you don’t get some full time care one way or the other, the kid will probably end up in the hospital anyway, or you will, or the younger sibling, or the pet, because for at least 2 decades they will be like a tornado until they “figure out” the medications, which are so many bandaids, with so many side effects, but it’s that, or — let them destroy yourself and knock you over the head with a frying pan one day for no reason when you’re distracted by something. If you see it coming, and watch the kid’s face, how much he enjoys the sound of metal meeting skull, then you might hire help faster, or drive to the orphanage faster. They’re never going to sleep. They’re never going to chill out. No amount of exercise burns it off. They’re in the wrong world, or wrong timeline, and they know it.

Nap Full of Dreams

We decided on, faith and mark, because it was our names. It’s not my name anymore, but he’s still Mark. God, if I could do back and re-do things I decided, how fear and stress were driving everything, I would have known, You’re almost there. I gave up on a race that I was about to win. Maybe if my girlfriend didn’t dump me, and maybe if becoming a teacher hadn’t been so awful, I’d still be writing. I mean, here or there, this city or that one, I can write, I could write. Like, I could get healthier in all ways, and make another album. But I wish I’d never gone to graduate school in some ways. Michelle was wrong, when she said I could do that. That fucked up my band trajectory. That gave me an idea of normality that could be had. I had already not chosen that, several times. But I quit band number 1, and I quit faith and mark, and I ran to take a long ass nap.

But I knew it was sad, and a shame, and there might have been another way to chose differently and preserve the things I took decades to set into motion, rather than retiring so early. Trying to have the job I’m supposed to have: the profession I was educated to do: teaching. But I am like the kid in the book Stargirl, they’re just going to hate me either way, I should’ve said fuck it to fitting in all along. Aint no 401k out there for me. I’m supposed to shine til I burn out, properly. And I could still do it. My voice isn’t good anymore, but I could cut down on smoking more, enough to sing a few things, certainly. But if I don’t, that’s okay, too. I mean the creation or non-creation of music or isn’t something one should get hung up on. I hope I really get it in the next life. I went at least 70% of the way. But then my girlfriend kicked me out, I bounced living situations, married Jason, rock bottoms, moved here, Jason died, then time flew like a hungry hawk.

Nap Full of Dreams

We decided on, faith and mark, because it was our names. It’s not my name anymore, but he’s still Mark. God, if I could do back and re-do things I decided, how fear and stress were driving everything, I would have known, You’re almost there. I gave up on a race that I was about to win. Maybe if my girlfriend didn’t dump me, and maybe if becoming a teacher hadn’t been so awful, I’d still be writing. I mean, here or there, this city or that one, I can write, I could write. Like, I could get healthier in all ways, and make another album. But I wish I’d never gone to graduate school in some ways. Michelle was wrong, when she said I could do that. That fucked up my band trajectory. That gave me an idea of normality that could be had. I had already not chosen that, several times. But I quit band number 1, and I quit faith and mark, and I ran to take a long ass nap.

But I knew it was sad, and a shame, and there might have been another way to chose differently and preserve the things I took decades to set into motion, rather than retiring so early. Trying to have the job I’m supposed to have: the profession I was educated to do: teaching. But I am like the kid in the book Stargirl, they’re just going to hate me either way, I should’ve said fuck it to fitting in all along. Aint no 401k out there for me. I’m supposed to shine til I burn out, properly. And I could still do it. My voice isn’t good anymore, but I could cut down on smoking more, enough to sing a few things, certainly. But if I don’t, that’s okay to. I hope I really get it in the next life. I went at least 70% of the way. But then my girlfriend kicked me out, I bounced living situations, married Jason, rock bottoms, moved here, Jason died, then time flew like a hungry hawk.

grammar of poetry: actual, not showing off when i write poetry, i use “wrong” tenses because i’m channeling a certain voice or voices and that’s how they talked/talk

Happy Fuck you of July

Last night a couple folks came over, and we grilled on our ghetto balcony, for the first time. I did it to make Hopey happy, and even ate a hamburger. Hopey is my flatmate for a long time.
Somehow we made it work. Partly by being willing to let each other pursue our own addictions and happiness. For me, drinking, smoking, and writing shit online. For her, watching tik-tok, eating processed food, and drinking fountains of mountains of Mountain Dew. She walks my dog sometimes so I do (all) the cleaning for us. Sometimes she disgusts me by how much red meat, bacon, fat she consumes, and yet, I ate one of the burgers she made last night. I also ate my chicken, and drank 3-4 chocolate beers. Then I threw up, just kidding, I didn’t. I put a pillow over my head to drown out the fireworks and passed out at 9 PM. Hopey and her friends stayed up to “watch the fireworks” out the window, which is so dirty you can barely even see the neighborhood outside of it. But I don’t argue with everything. This morning, she said, We were able to hear the fireworks, but not really see them. like, no shit, Sherlock. you do the craziest things.

Would I know Hopey at all if we didn’t live together? No. Even if we worked at the same job (which, we do, as caretakers), I wouldn’t hang around her because she’s loud and never stops talking.