WHAT SHOULD I MAKE OF THIS?

I’ll be “cleaning out stuff” until I die, so hang on.  Last night I came across an old journal entry from about 1973:

“At Nikki’s I enjoyed talking with Bob’s parents. M.E. told about a time that they stayed in a haunted house. They stayed with her brother who had temporarily changed houses with an Episcopalian minister. The house was at the beach. They didn’t know it was haunted until they started hearing a baby crying–it came from all around them. Jeffrey was so frightened he kept saying, “In the name of Jesus be gone!” over and over and finally it quit til just before they left. Then they learned that the Episcopal minister had wanted a respite from the haunting. Once while they were there two priests visited and one said, “I can tell this house is haunted, isn’t it?”  The house was next to a church and old graveyard and a child’s grave was near the house. M.E. worried for a long time at the idea that a baby could be trapped as a ghost. Nikki mentioned the legend of putting a stake through the heart to let out the spirit. “

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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2 Responses to WHAT SHOULD I MAKE OF THIS?

  1. joey says:

    Wow, I don’t know — but it made for a fascinating read!

    Like

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