Semiotic Ghost

It was like he was plugged into an electrical current,
twitching, jerking, tranced out in a shaken frenzy,
receiving magnetic transmissions of mimetic themes,

Sound wave patterns on the scanner–

Darkly melodic to the rhythm of white fists,
flashing out of his black overcoat,
a new stage trance, seizing out of the car onto the ground–

“We didn’t know what to do. We held him down.”

Love tore him apart.

Filed under: Lineage,Neighbor,Nerdy,Patterns,Prosaic Posts,Transmissions
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When I was little, I was convinced that squirrels struggled with opening acorns and getting to the tender yellow insides. So, I would spend entire days gathering up acorns and removing the shells. I would then group them into little piles on the deck railing, leaving adequate space in between the piles in case some of the squirrels didn’t get along with each other. As a child all of this made perfect sense to me, but now I wonder what people thought when they looked out on the deck and saw tons of tiny piles of shelled acorns.

Filed under: Lineage,Patterns
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I’m from California, New Jersey, Ohio, Missouri, Florida. I lack a creation myth. I write here to document, recreate, and ellaborate myself. I know as little as you do.

Looking back, I can see patterns, pieces being added on, but where did this start? Should I work backwards or forwards or randomly? How can anyone know me when I don’t know me?

Someday I’ll get the story.

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There’s nothing like a holiday spent with family to remember why I’m so crazy. I feel like Frankenstein, a genderless conglomeration of obsessive compulsive manic depression. In a manic fit I’ll color code and organize everything in sight, then tear it all apart and leave it in a depressing heap.

Despite the even split (three sons and three daughters) my maternal family is quite imbalanced. Each one has their own manifestation of obsessive compulsive and bipolar disorders. The family all together is a fantastic site. They all feed and goad each other, toying with the seesaw of sanity. My grandma was the family fulcrum. Somehow she held everyone together.

I just lean back in my chair and finish another glass of wine. I barely notice that the potatoes need more salt.

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I see the world with two minds. I am a dichotomy. I’m torn between male and female, surrounded and alone, rational and crazy. I see the patterns all around me and I can assemble them into equations, break them into logical chunks that can balance across the equal sign. I watch the flux and influx from traffic and work to conversations and emotions. Everything follows a sign wave, moving in and out along a predetermined graph. Solve the equation and follow the patterns and you know where everything is going. Extrapolated futurisms.

At times too many variables come in and tangents form. I try to follow them while keeping the main path in site, but I get overwhelmed and lost. Then, the logical side of me breaks down and exposes raw emotions. These emotions corse through me like fire burning complex carbon chains and explode in boughts of insanity. My family lacks mental health, so I’m predisposed. Must I imbibe these neuroses? Is there a Psychotics Anonymous?

If I appear cold and detached it’s because ice is the only way I’ve found to hold in the burning inside.

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The orange carpet had grown onto the couch, creating an orange and brown plaid that rested like dead vines on an ancient tree. At the far end of the couch, closest to the television and the closeted wet bar, sat Pop, a giant German of a man, in a self-made crater of broken springs and worn-out foam. At the opposite end of the couch, closest to the kitchen and the closeted laundry room, sat Mom, a frail shrunken beauty, in a well-worn soft spot of the cushion. I would sit between them, the first grandson, always in the middle. My cushion made an excellent fort.

An excellent fort by definition requires: every cushion in the room, several blankets, a small and concealed entrance, lookouts, and an important object to center the fort around such as the television, a stash of Pringles and basketball cards, or a hot air vent in the winter. Fort building has only one rule: everything must be put back in place before Pop comes home in the evening.

With Pop home my forts became more compact and concealed: behind the chair, inside the end table, underneath the bed. From my hiding place I would watch and listen in safety.

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My family operates as a cell, a single unit made of several parts designed to function as a whole, yet mandated to divide. The cell reproduces by mitosis, splitting itself in half and in half and in half and in half and in half again. The process results in the production of thousands of cells.

My family got stuck in mid-mitosis, a perpetual state of pulling together and apart. A few partially-formed families have spun off from the spriraling, ripping bundle of cells, but none have left with enough structure to stay whole.

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