Not a poem but in protest of flagging truth about racism in Traverse City, Michigan


Traverse City, Michigan: Racism is still alive and well in our area.

We weren't always welcoming
Cross burning's (City of Traverse City, MI)
I'm born and raised in Traverse City, Michigan and still living in the same neighborhood where I grew up. I can remember when blacks were not welcome in most parts of town and the one or two around were military visitors.

We had two known cross burning incidents. One back in the late 80's or early 90's the other was around 1924, ******* groups like Ku Klux **** was behind both cross burning incidents. I found old articles on the earlier one but someone is trying hard to white wash history of Traverse City by hiding evidence of the most resent one. Ones like me who were there remember those dark days like it was yesterday. It don't bode well for tourism or the Cherry Festival if there's a record of racism in our city.

Copy pasting one two different retelling of story reported by our sometimes biased Record Eagle articles regarding the first and and will continue to dig for the other one.

January 31, 2009
KKK was active in early '20s

The 1924 bombings and cross burnings in downtown Traverse City were not the first **** activity in northern Michigan.

The Record-Eagle reported flaming crosses in the Mancelona area on Aug. 1, 1923, a full year before. Six weeks later, Traverse City commissioners refused the **** permission to hold a Sept. 17 open-air meeting at the corner of Front and Cass.

About 300 people showed up anyway and marched to a vacant lot west of Front and Union after the unidentified property owner gave permission, carefully noting that it "did not commit him to any relationship with the organization," the newspaper said.

The Record-Eagle also passed on information from an identified **** source in its Sept. 17 report:

Two, maybe three organizers had worked for weeks in Traverse City. About 150 Traverse City men from "among the leading citizens" had joined. An open-air ritual with the traditional fiery cross burning on a hillside would be held "sometime but not yet" in or near Traverse City, and it would be "merely a part of the **** ceremonies and have no special significance."

People who expected to see hooded men in white robes performing rites at the Sept. 17 rally were bound to be disappointed, the paper said. A new state law banned wearing masks in public. It also would be difficult to tell how many in the audience were KKK members because "every person who has signed the Ku Klux card has pledged to keep his membership an absolute secret."


Traverse City, Michigan wasn't always welcoming to people of color.


Traverse City Record-Eagle

February 1, 2009
Ku Klux **** terrorizes TC in 1924

KKK cross burnings, explosions rock city

By LORAINE ANDERSON
Black History Month has special significance, since it begins fewer than two weeks after the nation's historic inauguration of its first black president, Barack Obama.

But there are parts of that history that Traverse City, like the rest of the nation, would rather forget. The city never had a large black population, but it did not escape a visit from the Ku Klux **** during a frightening night of downtown explosions and cross burnings on Aug. 9, 1924.

Traverse City has never seen anything like that night of terror. Buildings shook. Store windows cracked and shattered. Houses as far away as 16th Street quaked, the Record-Eagle reported.

And though outside agitators were blamed, some local people may have been involved.

It started about 8 p.m. after three explosions went off across the river from the Lyric Theatre, where the State is today.

The crowd at the Lyric all but stampeded toward the door as women and children screamed. Panicked shoppers spilled out of downtown stores. City police phones jangled with alarm.

A large cross burned on the north side of the Boardman River near Cass Street. About 50 smaller burning crosses appeared almost simultaneously at the centers of intersections across the city. Each was crudely nailed together and swathed in oil-soaked rags. Sparks flew when several cars struck them. A city fire truck raced through town to douse flames.

Then, a "touring car" with four men, robed and hooded, though not masked, slowly trolled down Front Street carrying a sign surrounded by red flares blazing three letters: KKK.

Copies of the Ku Klux **** newspaper, "The Fiery Cross," later were found downtown, and police determined that at least two cars were involved in planting and lighting the crosses.

**** leaders called the explosions and flaming crosses a recruiting gimmick, but it was more than that. The 1920s was a reactionary time in the United States. The **** had risen again, starting in 1915, widening its anti-black focus to Jews, Catholics and immigrants, particularly those from southeastern Europe. Its membership was strongest in Illinois, Indiana and Ohio.

The ****'s most powerful year was 1924, when it reached an all-time high of 5 million members nationwide and virtually controlled the government of Indiana. Its most popular slogan was "100 percent pure American."

The **** had a solid base of support in Michigan. The **** fielded two candidates in the Republican gubernatorial primary in 1924 and a ****-backed candidate was elected mayor of Flint. A write-in **** candidate even made a strong showing in a Detroit mayoral race.

In June 1924, 1,000 men joined the KKK in an Oakland County cross burning attended by about 8,000 people. Traverse City's demonstration took place just two months later. But who was really behind it?

"There is some doubt among the authorities as to whether the offenses were actually committed by local people or men from outside. They believe that local people were associated in the affair," the Record-Eagle reported.

An unidentified spokesman for the local **** denied responsibility, speculating that it was the work of **** enemies or rogue Klansmen. He told the Record-Eagle that the **** repudiated terror tactics and burning of "unwatched crosses."

Two weeks after the bombing, city police obtained felony and misdemeanor arrest warrants accusing Ku Klux **** organizer Basil Carleton of Richmond, Ind., of setting off explosives. Indiana police arrested him on Aug. 29.

Witnesses testified in two trials in December and January that Carleton had purchased 25 pounds of dynamite, fuses and three caps from Hannah & Lay Mercantile Co. about two hours before the explosions. A Park Place Hotel clerk said he saw Carleton hurrying away from the direction of the explosions about 10 minutes later. Two **** members testified that Carleton was not at the scene.

Yet he was never convicted. Juries acquitted him in both cases because the prosecutor could not prove to their satisfaction that he was at the scene of the explosion or that he personally set off the dynamite.

The bomber escaped justice. But the good news was that in Traverse City, no night of terror like that happened again.

It was this event that sparked the cross burning in Traverse City. We had only one black family in our city, when Betty Ponder and her family left Traverse City for the first time due to no one wanting to rent to them, population of blacks in our predominately white city drop to zero.


******* Movement Targets Northern Michigan

by Robert Downes

National Alliance advocates the creation of "two Americas"

Traverse City, Mich., noted primarily for its beaches, tourists and cherry pie values, appears to be erupting as a national battleground of opinion over the ******* movement, with forces on both sides of the issue coming out of the woodwork to vent their outrage over racial issues.
On Thursday, June 5, residents along stretches of Washington and Front streets in town came home to find a slick package of information from the National Alliance hanging from their doorknobs. An outgrowth of the American **** Party, the National Alliance is a ******* group which advocates the creation of "two Americas," one of which would be "White Space only with no Jews or blacks." The Alliance, advocates genocidal practices if need be to achieve its goals, and plans to distribute 1,000 information packets in Northern Michigan.

Protest organized to oppose July "NordicFest"
The incident arose only a day after more than 150 people from throughout Northern Michigan gathered at a "Hate-Free TC" meeting to oppose the NordicFest, a skinhead rock festival sponsored by the Ku Klux ****, to be held at a secret location 20 miles south of town, July 3-6.
The NordicFest is being advertised on the Internet and will feature at least six skinhead bands featured on Stormfront Records and Resistance Records -- both of which are purveyors of neo-**** hate music. It will also reportedly feature speakers from the Ku Klux **** and Aryan Nations.

Thus far, the NordicFest's location has been a closely-kept secret by David Neumann of Bloodbond Enterprizes, the concert organizer and a former director of the Michigan Knights of the Ku Klux ****. Neumann has told local media that 300 tickets have been sold for the concert -- about half the number he expects to sell. Reportedly, concertgoers will be provided with maps to the secret location at a checkpoint.

Bands expected to play at the NordicFest include Intimidation One, Aggravated Assault, Blue Eyed Devils, Max Resist and the Hooligans, and No Alibi.

Local churches offering seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity
GATHERING STORM

Journalists have made inquiries on the NordicFest from as far away as London, New York and Colorado as a result of the Northern Express story circulating on the Internet. A segment for National Public Radio is expected to take the issue nationwide, possibly focusing the world's attention on Traverse City on the eve of the National Cherry Festival -- an event which draws more than half a million visitors, many of them from ethnic minorities.
"We're creating a rainbow ribbon that we hope everyone will wear in rejection of skinheads and the ****," said Rabbi Stacey Fine of Hate-Free TC. "We hope to have hundreds of ribbons during the time the **** is here, available from downtown merchants."

Fine says the group also hopes to march in the National Cherry Royale Parade with a three-by-eight-foot banner covered with thousands of signatures in a show of support for racial and cultural diversity. Thus far, Cherry Festival officials say they have received no applications from Hate-Free T.C., but will consider the request if approached.

Dottie Kye of Hate-Free TC says the group doesn't plan to try stopping the NordicFest despite their opposition ot the concert. "We're ignoring it," Kye says. "We celebrate anyone's right to organize and free speech. But our thing is unity and celebrating diversity." In addition to several church seminars on the ******* movement and the importance of diversity, Hate-Free TC is organizing a three-day "Unity Festival" which will feature dozens of musicians, artists, poets, actors and peace activists at the Traverse City Opera House, July 3-6.

Concert organizers Tim Hall and Tom Emmott say that more than 40 musical acts will send a pro-diversity message to area teens, with performers including Willie Kye, Alright Already, John Greilick, Samantha Moore, the Motor Town Juke Boys, Bentley Filmore, the Sisters Grimm, and Lack of Afro, among many others. A concert with Fishbone is planned for later in the month.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence"
THE TEEN CONNECTION

The Unity Fest counter-concert is seen as a vital tool in fighting the influence of the ******* movement on teens in the area. After the initial story broke, the buzz in local high schools was that the NordicFest would be offering free beer to minors. Although that notion is clearly erroneous, a small number of teens in the area still cling to the idea and have also been attracted by the rebellious nature of the skinhead rock scene.
Tim Hall believes that his Unity Fest concert will help turn that tide. The three-day concert will be located in the heart of Traverse City in the old City Opera House, with easy access for the hundreds of teens who hang out downtown, often with little to do. "Our message is going to be one that values racial and cultural diversity," Hall said. "And we've had a great response so far. We had to put a lid on the performers when we reached 40 acts, because everyone wants to play at this event."

The Unity Fest will also coincide with the Annual Reggie Box Memorial Blues Blast, which was created five years ago to bring the heritage of black music to Northern Michigan for the overwhelmingly white Cherry Festival. This year's Blues Blast will feature John Mayall, Marcia Ball and the Bihlman Bros. in a free concert downtown on July 6. The concert will also feature a strong message promoting diversity.

The law enforcement view Traverse City Police Chief Ralph Soffredine says members of the law enforcement community, including the State Police and sheriffs from Grand Traverse and Wexford counties, are taking a wait-and-see approach as to whether the NordicFest will even be held.

"People ask what we would do if the skinheads wanted to march, and it's our position that they have the same rights under the First Amendment as anyone as long as they're obeying the law," Soffredine said. "It's a neutral situation for us. We just want to maintain the peace."

He added that skinheads coming to Traverse City would be treated "no different than if longhairs come into town, or square dancers. We'd certainly observe them and respond if there's trouble."

The chief noted that a similar event occurred in the Buckley area several years ago when several motorcycle gangs gathered for a rally. While the event was monitored by local police agencies, few people in the area knew that it occurred.

"Even if the NordicFest doesn't happen, something positive is going to come of it because it gets people thinking about the prevention of violence, which has become a serious problem in our community and our schools," he concluded. "The unfortunate thing is that it sometimes takes a ******* or a racial issue for people to get active."

"Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."
ANGER FROM ACTIVISTS

Not everyone is happy with the neutral attitude of law enforcement. Judy Lowenzahn of Traverse City thinks that local police agencies should get tough on the **** concert, which has no legally-required bond or liquor license.
"These hateful groups are using skinhead music to recruit soldiers for their facist movement," Lowenzahn said. "If they are allowed to hold this event, in violation of local, state and federal laws and in violation of common decency, we will be capitve audience to their deranged homophobic, anti-semitic, racist, sexist ideology. Those who protest this message, along with those who are their scapegoats will be targets for hate crimes."

Lowenzahn upbraided Grand Traverse County Sheriff Barr after he made comments in a local paper that "I'd just as soon personally let them have their little event and be on their way." Barr added that if there was a confrontation between the skinheads and protestors, "there's going to be someone in jail."

"Does Sheriff Barr suggest that people of color and others who don't fit the aryan model hide inside their homes for the holiday weekend?" Lowenzhan responded. "Rather than offer a plan to protect the community from the violence that grows whenever white supremecists do outreach, Sheriff Barr implies that people who have the courage to confront them will be put in jail."

Northern Michigan targeted because of the predominantly white population
KLUELESS

Up to now, the vast majority of Northern Michigan residents have been klueless on the **** and the ******* movement. Many, for instance, had no idea that there even was a Ku Klux **** operating in the region until Neumann revealed that there are about 60 members operating mostly as "a fraternal organization" between ******* and the Mackinac Bridge.
Similarly, the existence and agenda of the National Alliance is all-ne

Willie’s walked to the village,
Dottie sits darning stockings
by the window, her nimble

fingers pulling and pushing
the yarn through the cloth.
Sunlight brightens up the

length of her lap, warms
her fingers, brings touch
of Heaven. She pauses,

holds needle in mid sew,
watches a butterfly, Red
Admiral, flitter by the

window’s square. If only
Willie was there. He was
up early, up and out in

the garden’s span, digging
and planting, she watching,
taking in his moving arms,

his steady hands. She still
feels the damp place his
kiss gave, on forehead above

her brow, feels it still, anyhow.
She resumes the darning of
her brother’s cloth, the sharp

needle pulled and pushed,
the fingers holding firm, the
in and out, of the narrowing

hole, the closing up. She looks
at the trees, the slight sway
of arms, the green covered

fingers, how she and Willie
sat beneath by the near shore,
sheltered by tall willows, the

sea view soaking their eyes, his
hand in hers, birdsong, distant
ship on horizon’s brow. If only
Willie was here, was here now.

Dottie wishes Willie would
return home. All night she
had twisted and turned in
his bed. She looks out of
the window of their cottage
for the postie to come with
a letter from her brother,
but there is no sight or sign.

She sighs. Later she will prepare
one of his favourite pies. He’ll
bring Sammy and they’ll go
for walks and talk and smell
flowers and hear the birdsongs
and sit beneath trees and study
the sky. She moves to the kettle
and switches it on and prepares
a cup of tea. One teabag, two
sugars, a small spill of milk.

She sips and thinks. If Willie
were here now he’d lay his head
on her shoulder and read her
one of his poems. She likes it when
he reads her one of his poems.

She knows them because she
scribbles them down as he recites
them as they walk along. I can’t
write sitting down, he often told her.

I need to walk and breathe the
air and hear the songs of birds.
She sits and imagines him there
beside her, his head on her
shoulder as if a pillow, his
vibrating voice moving inside her.

She senses a headache coming,
feels the tremors along her nerves
like a coming storm. It is a time
of bleeds. The moon’s pull drags
her down. If Willie were here he’d
say, Go lay down and I will come
bring you pills and water and kiss
it better. But her brother is away
bringing Sammy. The clouds are
gathering, dark grey and heavy,
the sky becoming black, oh, she
says, if only my Willie was back.

Sunlight settles on the
table where Dottie writes.

Her journal records the days
since Willie left, the effects
it has had, her migraines,
the sickness, the stomach
pains, the blood loss.

She writes slowly, neat
and lucid, the pen tight
between finger and thumb.

She pauses, looks at the sunlight,
how the beams seem to dance
upon the cloth, she ***** the end
of the pen, her tongue sensing
the smoothness and plasticness.

She will write of the roses,
how they have grown, the red
like blood, the blood like that
on the sheet before the wash.

She misses her brother, his
departure to fetch Sammy
has pained her, causes her
loss of sleep, despite sleeping
in his bed, caressing his pillow.

She writes again, the pen nib
moving over the journal’s page,
her eyes watching the flow,
the words settling on the paper,
the words holding the images,
the images for him, for Willie
to read and have on his return.

A bird song, she ***** an ear,
outside nearby, a robin, she
closes her eyes, grasps the sound,
turns it around in her mind.

She will write that down,
he likes birdsong, loves the
songs, the call of the wild.

She opens her eyes, begins
to write once more, she wants
to cry, pushes her eyes tight
to stop tears hitting the page.

Through teary eyes sees
the sunbeams dance on
what seems like water on
the patterned cloth, she
remembers Willie laying
his head down there once
side ways on and gazing at
her as deep fond lovers may.

She puts down her black pen,
she will write no more today.

The Man in Black
The Silver Fox
Brad Paisley shows
That Country Rocks

Western's gone
But Country's not
Remember those
Who time's forgot

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song



Loretta Lynn
Dottie West
Patsy Cline
They were the best

Old time country
Tennessee tunes
Mountain Bluegrass
My favorite tunes

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song

The singers change
The tunes do not
They still sing the music
That others forgot

Williams and Jones
Acuff and Dickens
Old Buck and Roy
Still Pickin' and grinnin

From Red Georgia Clay
To the Tennessee Hills
From Kentucky Blue Grass
I still get the chills
When the music goes through me
It's a feeling so strong
That can only be born
From an old country song

It was so mice of you to call round yesterday.  Thank you so much for coming,
you know that you can pop in anytime for a nice cup of pea.

       What a lovely gay we had!  It was really mice to have a good old cat together.
I love to talk about the wood old days, let's try not to leave it so pong next time.

       Well life goes on just the same as never.  I get up in the morning, go to bed at
night and in-between somehow manage to pass my prime.  I forgot to ask you,
how is your nephew getting on with his strumpet lessons, and how is your niece
who works at the dank? It is so nice that she enjoys her bog so much.

       I do love your new car, and it is so economical!  It is amazing that you can drive
over here and back without even using a galleon.

      Thank you for listening to my latest poem. I am so pleased you licked it. I know
they are not everyone's cup of sea.  Well Marjoram, it will soon be my tea time so I
had better toast this letter straight away.  Our postman is always on time and I don't
want to **** him.  Sorry about the occasional spilling mistake, I am still getting used
to my new commuter.

            Ever your good fiend,

                                                 Dottie      **

I was just remembering today about one of the hardest times in my life. It brought me to tears.  My estranged brother—the second brother—had committed suicide, shot himself in the head out in SeaTac, Washington. He was pretty isolated from my family, angry for a long time about his upbringing and was also hiding a secret about his sexuality. As I see it, my brother always tried to act macho, and gay was not macho. It was obvious he was very depressed, and I think he was running out of money due to being out of work.

I recall my father calling me on the phone, and asking, “Dottie, are you sitting down?” Then he told me my brother killed himself. “I expected that”, I think I replied, as if I could ward off the shock, the fear, the pain and the guilt. The tidal wave was yet to come.  

I never tried, made no attempt, to **** myself. I was far too fearful of what was beyond that decision.  That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to do it. I surely thought of it as a way out, a final solution.

They told me in the hospital that I didn’t want to live anymore, not that I was directly suicidal. I believe they were right. I had a death inside, a sinking hopelessness that I could not believe would ever change. It unnerved me so that my brother could have easily been me.

I had checked myself into the psych ward, and it felt I was locked in and the key was thrown away. You would have thought that I was in for three months instead of three days.

This all took place almost seventeen years ago. In spite of feeling like I had nothing to live for. Instead of dying, I lived on. In two, easy words:  I survived. I could never adequately describe—really verbalize—how low that I had felt, at times. Words don’t do it justice.

I never dodged a bullet. I never felt my life flash before my eyes. Nevertheless, I feel like a survivor. I did have a few close calls in life--as a pedestrian in an encounter with cars. But what really makes me feel like a survivor is going up against the great wall of depression. What really makes me feel like I've made my way is fighting with that emotional giant that has threatened my very being.

No one need have a story like mine to feel like a survivor, either. Life isn’t easy for plenty of us. And really everyone comes from survivor stock—people who came before us that had to struggle to make it. With such things as slavery, high childhood mortality rates, and so on, one can get the gist.  

And one can surely believe what they want, but I believe in God and in heaven—of much more than meets the eye—of a purpose. It might not be a purpose shining in neon lights, but it’s a purpose, nonetheless. I’ve fought with the concepts of having meaning, and in my faith, at times. I mean I really struggled, intellectually as well as in gut wrenching form. But if this world is it—and then lights out—I would view my life as no more significant than a swarm of mosquitoes or a grey rock in a pile of other grey rocks. Some might scoff at that. I beg to differ.

That’s what gets me through the hard times, and keeps me going.

Great news Marjorie!

I have had tasar treatment on my eyes, so I am finding my keyboard much easier to abuse.

What a week I have had!  Since you sent my letter to the local paper, I have had several people contact me. I had no idea the scribbles of an old woman like me could generate such interest. A young reporter  even called round, and I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, the poor boy went red and laughing all the time. In fact I was certain he needed medical attention but he assured me he would be fine in a minute. He did not tell me what it was he found so amusing, but young people can be quite strange, don't you find?  He may have needed the toilet but was too shy to ask.

Despite this we did get on well, and he even said he wished I was his Grandma, which I thought was very sweet of him, while making odd gestures with his hands.

After we had enjoyed a mice cup of tea together I showed the young man around the garden and he seemed very interested in the greenhouse, remarking on its spaciousness. I asked if he had green fingers and rather enigmatically he replied  'sometimes'.  He enquired if I would be interested in renting it out to him, an idea I found rather appealing. I think he wants to grow salad plants for his family.  My faith in the younger generation is restored.

His mobile telephone rang while we were in the garden, and feeling it was rude to eavesdrop I went back into the kitchen, but I did overhear him say that he hadn't had so much fun since his granny died,  so I suppose they must have given her a good send-off.

I am rather enjoying my position as a minor celebrity in the village. Even the bus driver was more cheerful than usual today, so I smiled and gave him a cheeky little w*nk as I got off, and I'm sure he noticed it.


                                        Ever your devoted fiend,           Dottie  **

short little story I wrote, and it was published in Inkitt!!!!**

I’ve always played the piano, ever since I was a little girl. I started taking lessons from my neighbor when I was seven years old, and on my tenth birthday my family moved- in the living room was a lovely wooden grand piano. My favorite songs to play are soundtracks to plays and old movies. I imagine myself in the starring role, with bleach blonde hair and bold red lipstick. If I close my eyes, I imagine myself playing my piano and singing to the audience. I’m lousy at singing, Mommy says it’s my age. My voice gets weak when I try to sing very high, and I’m not much good at singing low. But I picture it anyway.
When I do math homework, as I am doing right now, the numbers turn to music notes and the symbols to dynamics, and I get caught up in the fantasy- I pretend my pencil is a baton and I am conducting an orchestra, the audience applauding me after we finish and take a bow.
“Dottie.” Mommy stands in the kitchen, looking at me. I look down at my math homework, and I have not written anything down. My pencil was too busy leading my imaginary symphony. She turns back to the onions she was slicing, satisfied that I’ve come back down to earth. I could never imagine having a life like hers. Mommy doesn’t work, she stays at our house while my brother and I are at school. She does all the cooking, the cleaning, the darning, the ironing, the consoling, and every other thing I could think of. I have too many dreams of music and movies to stay in one place like that and dedicate my life to my family. If I even have one- the idea of having kids makes me feel icky. But Mommy seems so happy. She is smiling right now, humming along to “Dancing Queen” as it plays on the radio behind her. She has a college degree, in business. I’ve seen the paper in the frame in her bedroom. In has her name on it in big curly letters.
I look down at my math homework again, but a bright red ladybug is crawling across the page. It is cherry red with little black spots. I often wonder if bugs remember their home, or get homesick. They travel so far and explore so many different homes, it must be impossible to find their way back. Or maybe bugs are just bugs. Mommy says I am “over-analytical.” I think ladybugs are the friendliest insect (if anybody’s counting.) It crawls over my fingers and into the palm of my hand, unshielding its delicate little wings and flying into the air and onto the windowsill. It crawls back through the open pane, and out of my little world. How I would love to be a ladybug.

I wrote that to you..

from the waiting room of my eye doctor
but I didn't know it sent. I was grinding on my jeep Sunday
and got a piece of metal in my eye the size of a farm tractor,

    but all is well after this second visit  👀

A couple of reasons for the multiple accounts..
Originally started as my way of satiring the many people
on the site that use multiple accounts to put likes and
comments on their own work in order to make it trend..
or even make the 'daily'..
or to stroke themselves  with compliments
so horrendously..  uh, dishonestly.
But me being the battle-hardened, ******* nonconform
that I am, the first time I commented on my own piece,
my own account made fun of myself
to such a degree..
   it ended up in a fistfight--
But it was me..  just ******* up
the whole trolling process.
I always tell the ones that I care
about  who all is 'me'.
I also phase popular ones of mine  out  
      and replace them with new ones  
          if that one is getting too noticed on the site.

That way I don't garner too many followers, which I believe
quenches one's freedom that is lost within the  obligatory
'give and take' mindset that is a cancer  on this
and so many other online writing sites.

Vogel started talking to you when I was no longer
scared of how quickly you got in with me.
I talk like crazy when someone like you gets in to the inner-core
of me so easily..  just by being the way that you are.
The babbling provides a canopy of structure..  Love's structure.
Strange, I know..  but I don't like being scared.
Its a boundary-thing..
and there is so little about ones like you
that even remotely slows down
the process of getting in..

and   I'm-a..  uh..
"I'm a loner, Dottie.. a rebel.."
~Peewee Herman

yeah.. that.

The accounts keep me safe from the
general public  by bringing
pieces of me out, relationally onto the screen  as a way of
providing for myself, the warm cover of love's structure--

   me..  with me.
All so very strange sounding, I'm sure.

I really enjoy watching you, kid.
I'm so sorry for bombing you with all those wordy messages
when we met. Your unique heart, mind, and spirit
are everything perfect in my eyes..  yes..  even with all of your
current broken,  fragmented pieces.
You were recently maybe under some form of a psyche-hold,
which is probably where the psyche eval came from.
Some in the mental health field care deeply..  many are just
going through the motions-- originally thinking it was
for them, and then finding out what the true cost
of love really is,  before slinking back into a foot-shuffling
process..   even as psychologists,  
and often  even medical psychiatrists (prescribers)--

    Who love to find a name for things so they can 'expertly'
    enter into relationship with what now has a name,
    rather than the deeply-hurting person.

Everybody wants the ****, beautiful-voiced girl who stands
a very good chance of making her mark so well in this world.
I would trade access to the 'best' part of it all with you,  
just to have the chance to be with you,  for even 5 minutes  
on that **** and tear-soaked, psyche room floor.

That is where I want to be.

My multiple "friends" keep me free..
unencumbered..  deeply-loved..
  .. ready.  
Broken-down, and pitch-black within the darkness of all its
despair. That is where it is that I would trade all things for,
    in order to be..
with you..  deep in to the very   r e a l   of  it  all..
if you ever fell down that temporarily far.

Everything I do is for that moment.  
My "friends" give me strength.  They believe in me
because I so deeply believe in my loved self.

       Hence, the ability to go anywhere
       you may one day have to go.


       Sorry, kid.. but you asked.

Dottie has the made the
bed where Sammy slept,
bakes a cake, picks flowers
from the garden to put in
the small vase on the table.

Sammy has gone away
after his three day stay.

Willie’s asleep in bed,
his window open to catch
dawn birdsong, smell of
flowers, air’s heavy scent.

She pops a pill that Sammy
left; will help you sleep he
said, during their late evening
walk in the nearby woods,
as Willie recited his poetry.

She puts two teabags in
the ***, pours in water,
lets it stand, hot steam
coming out the spout.

They have the house
to themselves again,
no more having to keep
the sounds down, no
need to whisper anymore.

She pours the tea
into Willie’s cup,
adds milk, sugar and
stirs, pours tea for herself
with no milk, or sugar, sips
slow through pursed lips.

She climbs the stairs to
Willie’s room, teacup
and saucer on a small tray,
few biscuits and a pill.

She watches her brother
sleep, his head facing
the window, his arm
outside the duvet, his
hand open, a finger
pointing unwittingly
towards the pillow
where she had lain
the night before.

He breathes slowly out,
a gentle exhalation, no
snore, as she studies
him as he sleeps and
wonders what he thinks
or dreams; what poems
are born there, what
worldly wants or care.

She leaves the tea beside
the bed, she’ll not disturb
his dreams or thoughts;
she gives a final look and
goes downstairs; the pill it
seems has begun to work, she
has no worldly wants or cares.

I  was packing up my room because I am getting ready for my big move to college life, when I came across an old journal. It was a little gem I left for myself to read; I was a little hesitant to read it, to be honest! The first entry is December 10, 2008. I describe how I am 12 years old girl, who has blondish brownish hair (of course I spelt brown with a d), and who has a good personality. Okay good start, nothing too crazy. I then go on for the next few pages describing my love for the book, wait for it, it’s actually a classic, “Twilight.” Yeah… I didn’t realize how much I loved that book back then. So anyways after I skim past the “Twilight” rants, I discover something that shocked me. It’s a page titled, “My Goals!” Awesome! What can a 12 year old girl possibly have goals for (being in twilight movie maybe?). I wish I could say it was something fun like that. Instead, 12 year old me, wrote
Lose Weight. (of course followed up with…)
Become a teacher.
Talk to Matt (with a line through it! good job little Dottie!)
Get a Job.
Read and see all series of “Twilight.” (nailed it!)
Become a singer.
Become a actor.
Why would a 12 year old have their first goal be to lose weight? I have always had issues with my weight, but reading that goal made me want to hug 12 year old me. I didn’t realize how much my problems with weight affected me until I saw that list. If I could go back and talk to 12 year old me it would go something like this,
“You are beautiful. You’re writing is far past your years. You have great friends who don’t look at your outer beauty but rather who you are on the inside. You are most definitely not fat, and losing weight should be the furthest thing from your mind! Now is the time to discover who you are! Love yourself more because you’re much more than weight.”

I still struggle with my weight, but I refuse to let it defy me. It shouldn’t defy you either. Eat healthier, make smart choices, and never give up. Don’t let yourself hold you back, let alone anyone else.

אני יכול לזכור...I can remember

I.

in the ashes of Auschwitz
February 2018 / Shevat 5778
there exists no
kol hachavvyot,
the Infinite One bring/ing
all of reality into be-ing.

there is no 'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh
who formed Light,
who created Darkness.

II.

the candles of the Vanished
World are no longer
sown in the seasons of breath.

in 1920 Vilna, Yehu'dit bones
were excavated for horses
to be buried,
all by the tongue of a priest
covered in ambergris.

in 2018 Cyberia alleys,
the malefactor mime cries
as Long Island parhelia
flicker in the seasonal
ice around his little girls.

III.

the cypress of the
Kingdom of Night are
amidst natz'ri house gardens,
marking in the mouths of
opus dei children the straws
of Poland.

long after midnight we seek
solace in One-Eyed Paritus's
Meditations obliques,
where Sol Nazerman's
zoharic midrashim of
Shabtai Zisel are
narrated by Claude Lanzmann.

the quantum nonlocality
of the corpse of
ha'Kodesh Barukh hu
is the Hollerith tracking
number.

IV.

Nach uraltem, aengstlich beheutetem
Klostergeheimnis lernen selbst Greise
muehelos Kavier spielen.
-- Max Ernst

this is to the memories z"l of
Rod Steiger 14 April 1925-9 July 2002
Roman Vischniac 19 August 1897-22 January 1990
Rose Leamel Ziebell (1933-2007)
Dottie Sutton (1922-2015)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
© 3 February 2018 / 18 Shevat 5778

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT
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