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crooked eye view

i like my weird perspective; my ability to see things that aren’t things, and notice expressions that are barely there on the face of the person next to me.  i have an uncanny ability to see hidden objects in movies, or ghosts in the window of an old house.  most people just look at me with a weird look on their face when i tell them about these things.  “off to the Funny Farm with you”, they seem to be saying to me with their wild, surprised expressions.  just because i saw a face in a tree?  or claim that i have faeries in my room playing Yahtzee? 

well even the small of faith and linear of mind should be able to see that i’ve found a mummy lying right next to one of the characters from Nightmare Before Christmas!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

around town.7

I’m in love with architecture.  Quirky buildings with peeling paint.  Light fixtures that look like they belong in another era.  Ancient doors with crooked hinges.  There’s something delicious about buildings…I imagine who might have lived there, and which of them might still be there in ghost form.

I long to see these ghostly beings walking the halls and have a mini conversation with them about their day, their neighborhood then.  I wish I could travel through time and see some of these old buildings in their hey day.

But they are just as beautiful to me now that they are crumbly and old.

Accidental Happiness ~ the meaning of the Ghost Girl

Well today has been terribly interesting, and it’s only 8:30 am!

I’ve gone through a lot this morning, and I suppose I’ll start at the conclusion and work backwards:  I am a ghost.

Facebook is many things, but for me right now it has been validity.  I’ve had a number of people over the past year get in touch with me, and tell me how much I mean to them, and reach out to re-establish a friendship.  This has been wonderful and made me feel loved.

And confused.

I realize that having my situation – for those of you new to the Denelle-Experience, I have DID/MPD/aka: multiple personality disorder – might be difficult for people to deal with.  I have been very fortunate that the good majority of people I have come out to have been unphased by my declaration of insanity and have embraced me as the same old me I was yesterday, before they knew I was crazy.  But there is always that fringe element; the people who curl up their lips in distaste, the people who think I’m trying to be “special”, or the people who say “let me process that and I’ll get back to you” and then don’t get back to you.  But as I’ve said, I’ve been lucky most of the time.  And especially fortunate for these people that have come back into my life and said “I don’t care.  Have what you want, I still love you”.

And that’s the issue at hand for me;  grappling with this idea that people can love me regardless of my wonky eyebrows, or my love handles, or any of my other oddities.  Not because I think I am not lovable, but because I have trained myself to be invisible.

They say you establish your personality by the time you are five, and today my sister helped me understand why I so often feel like I’m invisble, or feel unloved even when people love me very much.   It’s because I trained myself to be a ghost.  Messages from my surroundings and actions from others bombarded me in my childhood, feeding me information that told me I was disposable, invisible, or ethereal.  Here are a few of those things:

my father left me in the mountains when i was 3 or 4.     my mother sent me away to Mexico when i was 8, without telling me why or if i would be coming back home.     i used to hear a song a lot as a kid that talked about Jesus, and how it’s too late for you, he left without you and “you’ve been left behind”.      my mother sent me to live with my godparents when i was having nervous breakdowns and was suicidal.     my uncle tried to kill me with an axe.      my mom used to leave us occassionally, when she’d had too much of our family, and i never knew if she would come back, which made me feel unimportant, and somehow invisible.     my father abandoned my family to go to another country and help them in a crises, meanwhile leaving us with no money, food or heat in the house.      i was missing in my sixth grade class picture-the year i started feeling strong and powerful and my own person-and there i was NO ONE and INVISIBLE not standing next to my best friend Mary, because i was mysteriously missing.  a ghost of a person, and it’s hard to take pictures of a ghost.        i lost my 7th grade year book full of signatures of all my friends that remembered me, had fun with me….almost as though that year never happened.

For a normal sane individual these things might not make you think you are a ghost.  You would say something like “shit, i hate it when i lose something” or “who keeps old yearbooks?”   For me, this is life.  My life.  This is how it has been for me since the dawn of my time; I seem to evaporate until no memory of me is left, and I was never there to begin with.  Sort of like the movie “The Butterfly Effect” which I won’t even link to because it upset me so much.

I have struggled with feeling like I had no particular place in life, in this world.  Detached.  Dissociated.  But my sis sort of brought that into perspective this morning, when I fretted about friends who loved or didn’t love or remember me.  We came to the conclusion that I am ghostly, and have ghostly work to do.  I have work to do between the worlds, between the realms of the living and dead, between the realities of possible and imagination, which to me are the same damn thing.  It’s become clear that all the things that happened in my formative years instructed me to be a ghost;  and so I must have been training myself in this field for some phantomly lifetime purpose. 

Either that or I’m just not very memorable.   I’ll stick with the ghost-mission.

fishing from beyond

If I were to try to do something beyond the grave, it wouldn’t be fishing.  It would be something I love, like having sex, or watching Twilight Zones, or trying to eat other people’s food even though I’m dead and I really can’t enjoy the flavors anymore.  Fishing isn’t really my thing.  But apparently there is someone on my morning walk who is still trying to get his fly on.

Last year I noticed a fishing line, draped passionately over a telephone wire.  Of course, if you are the average, boxed-in type thinker, you will just assume someone got their line caught while casting off.  I’m sure that is frustrating.  I, however, immediately thought that someone had been called away to heaven, and despite the happiness one might have when realizing you are going UP instead of the other direction, this recently vacanted being wanted to hang on to his fishing pole and get in one last catch.

It seems he was successful in convincing the authorities that he should stay around a little bit longer, and guard the waters, or continue plucking fishies from their homes, whichever he is capable of in his newly ghostly state.  I’m calling him Fisherman Bill.  Here are some shots of him I think you’ll like:

the ghost in my head

Today I am a ghost.

I’ve realized this after writing an earlier blog (see below) and also talking to my sis.

 My ghost girl first showed up when I was about five.  I guess I could have been four, or maybe even three, I don’t know for sure.  We lived in the same apartments for maybe three years when I was that age, so the exact date is uncertain. 

 When the ghost first popped out I was in the laundry room.  My mother was doing laundry, and it was a pretty good sized facility, with lots of washers and dryers, and windows at one side of the building.  And the washers and dryers were all in the center of the room, leaving plenty of room to walk about, fold your clothes, sit and read a magazine.  I was running around one day, and ran and ran around the washers.  Like I was chasing something, or trying to run from a friend or sibling.  Or maybe I’d just had to much sugary cereal. 

 But there I was, running around in the laundry room; only I was really way up in the ceiling looking down.  Something had happened and part of me split out of the body.  And this part looked down at the child running around in circles, and said, “This isn’t me”.  This part felt sort of angelic, or ethereal, and looked down at the running child and thought of her as a puppet; a dolly.  “How is it that this dolly runs around when there is no one inside her?” the ghost wondered?  “It’s like she’s just a rag flitting around, with nothing to tell her how to move or where to go”.  But the child kept running. 

 The angel person felt funny.  It seemed somehow she was connected to the running dolly, but she couldn’t see how exactly.  It didn’t feel like someone she knew; it felt like a puppet, far away and impersonal.  It didn’t feel like it was the angel’s body; the angel was way up in the ceiling, looking down at the puppet-child with curiosity, and a little disdain.  Anyway, the angel didn’t think she belonged in a body.  She was pretty sure that she was connected to the running puppet, but it didn’t seem right for her to be in the body.  It seemed like it didn’t belong to her.  The angel thought maybe she had somehow done something horrible and stolen this body that really belonged to someone else, apparently the puppet child.  Clearly it didn’t come with her in it, because angels don’t have bodies, so how was she connected to it?  Eventually the angel realized she must not really be an angel, because angels don’t do bad things like steal bodies from little children so they can inhabit them for their own selves.  So the angel de-winged herself and decided she must just be a ghost.  Because she didn’t have much in the way of emotions.  And she didn’t feel like that body fit her very well.  And she didn’t seem to feel like anyone could see her or recognize that she was there.  Plus she was way up here on the ceiling, and no one else was doing that except ghosts.

 So the ghost girl was created.

 And she is invisible, and far away, and empty. 

She hangs on to the puppet child, and won’t let go, but is kind of empty about it, in a dead, ghosty kind of way.

She likes to fly out of the body altogether, and sail over houses in search of somewhere that sells Slurpees.

And she isn’t sure what to do with herself, or why she is around. 

But she’s been there almost from the beginning,

just … there.

fantasizing…

I’m waiting for my pizza.

There is a restaurant here in my town that serves the most divine pizza.  Granted, it’s not the old world pizza that is flat, and has a small amount of fresh, delicious ingredients, like fresh tomatoes, basil and olive oil from the region.  This is straight up American, with thick, carbohydrate-rich crust, and about seven pounds of cheese.   Slices so heavy you have to have a rub down after dinner.

The atmosphere at the restaurant is almost as surprising as the low prices.  Located next to a scrap metal dump, this restaurant sits unassumingly, pulled back from the street, almost daring passersby to notice it.  Not that you could miss the delicious aroma.   Wafting through the streets, traveling the airspace to your nostrils, you would HAVE to stop and ask yourself, “am I starving to death all of a sudden?  I believe I’m going to pass out if I don’t get some delicious Italian food right this instant!”  Don’t worry.  It happens all the time.   Finding a parking space on a Friday is a rarity, though, so if the sudden hunger hits you on the weekend, best get there early or the wait is astronomical.  Coming into the restaurant you will notice that the dimly lit ambiance isn’t as much romantic as it is homey.  This is a local favorite, and families come together for laughter, the breaking of bread, maybe a little booze.  Adding to the flavor of the familial atmosphere is the ghost in the bathroom, who runs in and out of stalls, waving the doors.  Maybe no one else has noticed but me.  It’s like a customer loved the food so much, they never wanted to leave.  And who could blame her?  Perfectly proportioned toppings, with that homemade crust, so hot and delicious, and melting like perfection on your taste buds.

I’m anticipating the ranch dressing.  A trick I learned working at a pizza bar, when you have decent ranch, dip that thing in and it’s like heaven in your mouth.  I don’t always do this, because of course the pizza is perfect enough as is.  But the ranch dressing here is so good people come in just to pick up a tub.  It’s good enough to eat by itself.  By the spoonful.  My mouth is watering.  I want my pizza now.  I want my mouth full of ecstasy now, please.  NOW.

Of course, the pizza that I’m waiting for isn’t coming until Friday.  Or Saturday.  And here it’s only Thursday.  And I’m not getting DeLuca’s this weekend.  I have a frozen pizza in the freezer, waiting to ‘self-rise’ in my oven. 

Sigh.

Hey, I can still anticipate.

a falling of yellow stars…

mmm…coffee.

i don’t drink it every day.  i wonder why?  it’s so delicious smelling, and warming, and makes me feel so much like a writer, and today was the most coffee-drinking day i could have, so here i am, cup in hand.

fall has always been my favorite season; i love the colors on the trees.  colors i don’t always know the names for.  colors that capture my attention and whisk me away into a surrealistic painting trapped somewhere in my imagination.  i love the smell of fire places and burning leaves, the smell of snuggling.  i’ve always loved the coolness of the weather, and the advent of sweater wearing – though sweaters decidedly lose their novelty after several months of harsh winter.  still, with football and crunchy leaves, Halloween and cider, fall brings a bucket of joy with it.

today’s walk through the park led me to a new tree-friend.  a twinkling yellow tree, whose leaves were so happy and energetic, i had to go say hi.  millions (or lots) of little yellow leaves waved at me as i came closer, and i saw that there was a sign under the tree, declaring it to be a Gingko Biloba tree.  i had no idea my local park had a Gingko Biloba!  i gathered up a pocket full of the little flyers from the ground and thought my day to be quite magical thus far.

pockets full of treasure i journeyed on, past my little Poncho tree who is all decked out in yellow, past the squirrels digging out or putting in a stash of nuts, past the stone lions and their diligent perseverance,  and past the ghost girl who sits in her attic room practicing the flute.  my other park had a blanket of leaves waiting for me, and as it began to rain steadily, i visited the river to say good morning, and finally lay on my back under a tree.  i know i’m crazy, so don’t bother reminding me.  it’s not usually something that is far from my mind.  i know that if anyone was actually out on a day like today (the weather channel calling for severe thunderstorms) they would have wondered what the *#&! was wrong with me.  but i couldn’t resist.  i was tempted to make a leaf angel, but the whole park was so gloriously decorated i couldn’t bare to disturb the scene.  so buried under leaves was the park, i couldn’t tell where the grass met the path, and just plundered over everything until i collapsed at last, like i said, on my back.

and there i lay, looking up at the sky as the rain beat down on me and chinked off the trees, pavement and wrought iron fence.  and the leaves came tumbling down around me.  this fall, since the trees have been shedding, i’ve been telling myself that i have wonderful great fortune every time i see a leaf fall.  sometimes my great fortune is so great, i can’t keep up, and just stand in a shower of wonder.  so as i lay under a sky of wet kisses, i called off my wonderful fortune as the stars fell on me, and listened to the murder of crows gathering in a nearby tree.  and the love of the universe just fell all around me, and the peace of life just embraced me in its arms.  and i walked home finally, soaked to the skin, deliriously drenched, and supremely content.  i peeled off my wet layers of clothes, slipped my turquoise satin robe over my bare skin and set about making my cup of coffee.  for wondrous things happen when you combine coffee with a fall day…