It KNOWS when you remember.

I am vague on why I'm writing this. To whom I'm writing this. What I hope to accomplish by it,with it. I think mostly it's reflex,and a way of remembering,of holding what's remembered in a place outside my all too unreliable brain. But this is true. every word is true. Any conjecture any suppostion will be indicated as such.

'77 or '78,or even I guess '76. Right there I get a block. Who's reading this? If you know nothing about me,none of my history I need to build at least a minimal foundation. But it's a waste of time if you already know. So compromise and sketch a few details. From 1971 to 1975,the prime emotional relationship of my life was with a woman named Margaret. her sister,Vivian figures in this particular episode. What I'm working with is that her(M's) place in my life in my consciousness was used by something some group or I don't know what,to influence my behavior to gain access to what would have been a highly resistant part of my psyche. A ringer. Or ringers. Someone who looked enough like her that I would accept it. And evade the deeper knowledge because of what it led to,that someone had that much control,that I was that helpless. So going along with it was much easier. I remember vividly going to her basement room in Corvallis(this is after we had been broken up for almost a year,I had been on the road for months,with many bizarre and disorienting things occurring during that time,I went to see her as I passed thru Oregon from the north,only her hair was brilliantly different close but not the same color,her body was much sexier,her face more symmetrical,and her vibe far more sensual,I remember being in "her" bed and looking at this little window there that was right under grade on the outside a little pocket in the foundation,later on The Quay brothers did some video work that intensely brought back that moment,because there had been something there I cant remember what but some personal touch,we had talked about it,I mentioned it this time,and the woman in my arms had to back and fill it became obvious she was faking and the rage exploded thru me the reaction and I know I'd had it many times before
that feeling of animal rage,that was beyond any calculation,that the intrusion was as deep and violating as it's possible for it to get,I would have killed her I'm sure,she jumped out of bed running and yelling I can't remember what she said and suddenly there was a door at the back of the apartment that hadn't been there when the real Margaret had lived there,I can dimly remember the setup,some voice at the edge of my consciousness,because the real Margaret had moved already by then,I had known that,but somehow she was back in the old apartment,there was a door where there hadn't been one before,it opened violently inward and there were at least two or maybe three or four men coming thru it,and I knew I was going "under" that I was completely helpless could only struggle and I made it thru them,I remember realizing it was the only time I'd ever done that,got away,that it had happened before,there was a moment of realization before going under,(rohypnol?) I was out in the yard,past the men,running, but that's where the memory fades,I remember the deep satisfaction of scaring them,the leader was a bald man wiry,maybe ten or twenty years older than me I was 26. That day hasn't vanished and I'm grateful to the Quay brothers for the unintentional support.
Graton. Later that year or the next. I had gone to see vivian,at her dorm at Sonoma State,but she had moved to Graton. I either called or went there I can't remember,I do remember this,this is accurate with no embellishment,We were in her living room,there was a book a picture in it of Dali's,the one about the New World emerging,a man's half torso coming out of an egg,of course I saw myself there,with my new scar right up the middle of my body,I remember later being really logged out and stoned,close to some attainment I don't know what exactly suddenly there's a mass of movement intrusion a bunch of thick-bodied little people,negativity. There was a poem I was forced to read,I'm not making this up,it was called "Stud" exactly the kind of garbage some jerk thug would respond with to a poem I had written back in Portland before the "suicide" attempt. It was called "Cunt". It was about me,to me,a merciless accusation of selling out,one of the lines went...."you ran to the newspapers with a picture of your hands/when the streets were littlered with bleeding fingers" there was a bunch of that,not what I would write today but at the time it was cathartic and strengthening. But of course some dimwitted fool wouldn't see the self-reproach,would see the word cunt as violent attack,not selfdirected insult,and they had access to me. Still do I think,how would I know if it stopped? Would they announce it? Hey Mike we've been stalking you dogging you for thirty years but we decided to stop now.? Anyway after that,I guess the next day,I can't get that part of the timeline,I was leaving,there was a back way out of Graton,toward Sebastopol,through a field by the school,the details aren't that clear but I remember the thick air, the green thick air,and a woman calling me,desperate and so relieved,she had faith in me,you could hear it in her voice,and she was so glad to see me,she was running toward me,calling my name,there was that bee-like drone of bullets in the air,no real loud pop of gunfire,she went down,and there I have no further valid memory,of standing,or of running,of walking away,a bitterness deeper than life itself I remember that,a hatred of God almost to allow this to happen and to me not to her that it was happening to me,I hated her for her weakness,I remember that,that bitter evil comfort of rejecting her,and the sickness,in my body in my soul in my mind. And the green thick air. In Graton. She was another ringer. I know that now. Know it with all that's left of my higher mind. But why? How many were there? Who was doing it? Were there more than one of them whoever they were? I wrote this I guess with the feeble hope that there were,that I've managed over the years to generate enough uncommitted attention,that I've made myself enough of an object of suspicion that whoever that was whoever they were can't operate as silently,that they have to be further from me than in those days,that someone can see this read it understand it. Someone besides what that was/what that is,who they were or are. Sometimes when I get this close to all that I think to myself that at least I never gave in all the way,they have had to break me to get any use out of me,but I don't think that's really true.in my blindness all these years much damage has been done,by me or by my not speaking,by my intentionally blinding myself,turning away. One of my greatest fears is that consciousness will return only when it's too late,that I'll be allowed to understand after it's become impossible to do anything about it. It's in the hope that it's not that late yet that I have written this today,September 30,2001
Michael Sean Griffin

posted by Juke at 4:55 PM [edit]