Trauma and Memories

By Hook Or By Book

Today, much of the United States have been glued to their tv screens, computers, tablets, and smartphones, watching the sickening spectacle of Dr. Christine Blasey Ford and Judge Brett Kavanaugh as they gave emotional testimonies before the Judiciary Committee. After watching Dr. Ford being questioned over 3 hours, I have to say that she was sympathetic and credible. There’s one thing that I wanted to address that the Republicans and Rachel Mitchell, the Republican sex crimes prosecutor who was hired to question both Dr. Ford and Judge Kavanaugh seem to be obsessed with. How is that Dr. Ford can remember in such detail the actual assault, but not other things like the exact date and time of the party, how she got there, and whose house it was. I’m going to share something that I’ve only shared with my husband, that may not provide a full explanation, but maybe put…

View original post 382 more words

Advertisements

I BELIEVE, ANITA, CHRISTINE, DEBORAH and too many more…

“We must send a message across the world that there is no disgrace in being a survivor of sexual violence – the shame is on the aggressor.”  – Angelina Jolie

 

Survivor “I still wake up with your name stuck in my throat, sometimes where it caught between your hands when you squeezed, I still wake up in fear, most nights, your eyes follow me from every shadow, every loud noise crowding the edges of my memory. I still wake up.”  – Amber Koneval

 

 

Florence – by any other name

 

A double-edged irony

Dredged up shards from childhood.

A hurricane bearing grandma’s name

Following it, via internet

Feeling every blow, just as I did then

Even infancy wasn’t spared

Ask those in her path

 

Gone, neighborhoods,

Businesses, homes,

Evidence of life,

Gone like childhood

A survivor clings to shadows

Knowing the perpetrator

Knowing he, now dead

 

Grandmothers are supposed

To love their grandchildren

Not to offer them up to a friend

Send her in a dress, then

Leave as he arrives

All above board, a deacon

Of the church, above reproach

 

Earliest memories, not yet three

Rituals continued until age five

must arrive in dresses

Lay on a white papered altar

Bitter liquid gagging and choking me

Bathed after, sans evidence

Large, rough hands

So many years ago, yet crystal clear

 

 

Me too brings it back

But with resistance to perpetrators

Christine brings it back

But with the chutzpah to

Name the perpetrator, for herself

For all of us, even those still mute

 

Grandma Florence, I shall

Never forget, how you used me

To keep that friend coming back

No drugs, no alcohol, no consent

Nor, mother dearest, how you conspired

No words

Then beat me for being evil

Decades later, I shall never forget

 

You were all violent storms

That plowed through infancy

Leaving scars, deep furrows

 that will never go away

I grew stronger, put miles, then countries

Between disasters, despite this

I was one of the lucky ones

I’ve worked with many

And watched some perish

 

But unlike Anita, Christine, Deborah

And the others that will come

I didn’t have to do it on television

Ladies, you are heroes

I doff my chapeau

 

At first, the storm approached

In fumbling verse

On pages in my script

Armed with keys to the assaults

Words from my lips, another matter

Finding a career path, finding others

Holding the light, leading the way

They find the path, or they don’t

Often tripped by the righteous indignation

Of abusers and their supporters.

Ignorance and misogyny could soon

Be the law of the land

                            –

How long will America fuel this war on Women, are they incapable of justice? The usual M.O. sweeping their crimes under the carpet and hiding behind a woman’s skirt as they do it. Senate Judiciary Committee will hide, hide from their dirty hands, and the repercussions. 

 

 

 With gratitude for those who have made a stand and in solidarity,

 

Me too, Léa

L’amour – Creed of Greed

Once again, a challenge from friends at fandango: https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/79388113/posts/1958222579  This may not have been the intended response but where the muse directed. 

“It is the logic of consumerism that undermines the values of loyalty and permanence and promotes a different set of values that is destructive of family life.” – Christopher Lasch

“If we understand the mechanism and motives of the group mind, it is now possible to control and regiment the masses according to our will without them knowing it.”                                                             – Edward Bernays

 

 

L’amour – Creed of greed (Love for sale)

A fortunate few
Born to this estate
Others spend their lives
On the quest

Many will promise it
If you wear their clothes
Buy their perfume, make-up
Nothing to do with who you are
That inadequate lump of clay

Corporations take you to the fountain
Where love is hidden
Yet I warn you
It is beyond their reach
Cannot find what they don’t comprehend

Consumerism is a lethal cliff
Closer and closer to the edge
You buy, buy, buy
The next item will complete you
Financing the creed of greed
It will bring you down.

Bisous,
Léa

EFFERVESCENT INGREDIENTS – Marilyn Armstrong

Serendipity - Seeking Intelligent Life on Earth

I should be peppy and lively. I should be able to find the ingredients to get the laundry done, to go take a few pictures. Something.

I’m too beat up to find anything remotely effervescent in me right now. It has been a grueling few months. Not always in a bad way, but still exhausting and the crazy humid heat has not helped. I also suspect that my tolerance for extremes of weather is diminishing with the years because I’m far less energetic now than I was even a few months ago.

The combination of personal crises, national calamities, climate change, and a general sense that everything I worked for and cared about is being undone in such a short time, my head is spinning. The best part of the summer has been our winning baseball team. You know life has gotten awfully rough when you cling to sports as…

View original post 625 more words

#writephoto — Zero Tolerance: A Parable — This, That, and The Other

Dorothy and her dog, along with her three traveling companions, were making the hazardous journey through the land of Oz heading toward the legendary Emerald City, which they were told was a welcoming land of opportunity just on the other side of the river. Their journey had been an arduous one so far. They had […]

via #writephoto — Zero Tolerance: A Parable — This, That, and The Other

Open letter to all Leaders – Time’s up

Incorrectly reblogged from another source, I stand corrected and bring you to Anna’s own blog. If you haven’t been here before, it is time! It is truly a favorite.

Annas Art - FärgaregårdsAnna


If you wanna spread this letter, you are welcome to share it worldwide. Tag it with #timesup if you want. If you want to make a translation of the text to other languages and share it, do it. We all have to help out saving our planet. This is one way among millions to help.

The image is free to share.

Anna

View original post

I talk to myself. Who doesn’t!

Thanks Jack. If we are honest, many of us talk to ourselves. Writing is another form of talking to oneself. It is also a sign of intelligence. Some do so that is audible to others, some of us are quiet so even the cats can barely hear us… 

Have We Had Help?

strange-old-man-talking-himself-footage-037374619_iconm

Years ago when I was a small boy I witnessed something which might explain a few things about me, if you are at all interested…

My mother and I were walking into Beccles where I still live today from the farm we lived on in the village of Barsham. Armed with our ration books in mum’s purse we were going for the weekly ration pickup (two real eggs, two ounces of marg, either four paper-thin slices of bacon or what used to pass for a half-dozen sausages, mainly containing gristle and suet). From memory the latter were bloody awful! So much so that it was years before I could face a proper sausage. This weekly ritual was a hangover from the Second World War still in operation.

But I digress…

We passed an old man on the road walking the other way towards Bungay who was talking to himself. I…

View original post 270 more words