Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Dont Have A Pity Party At Me Wake

"What do you mean the ghost of Frank McCourt is inhabiting you now? Are you talking about channelling Sinead?" Bridget hardly felt a ping of remorse, her new codex program would always default on the side of proper truthful morals. Her new machine would over-ride all the derisive, monopolizers and benders of Truth and Innocence. This brand of knowledge, a precision mechanism of truth. The rich and greedy could buy and sell souls, manipulate events create a world which would operate their operative, their hidden agenda, their sold soul sign. "We are not talking the mom and pop retail, but rather the multiconglomerate lack of concern for the individual. We are talking that soul-sucking, store-feed monopolizers of all things light-filled, gravity-defying Soul Source Light.We are talking the path to wisdow and the God-head. Does it still exist?" Margaret wiped away a tear.

"It can't be..." Nellie replied "this is all I get? The shit-kicking, the demoralizing, the put on the back-burner so she can go burn in hell for eternity? My thoughts, exactly! How this controlled "shunning process works". How one day a woman is sitting on top of the world and the next moment she's 'the whore of Babylon'. You know it isnt much fun to uproot these ancient prejudices, ripe with the poisoned fruit imaging of woman as satan concept. "It may not be easy Margaret, but is essential to understanding our place in society and how that 'placement' is being made , manipulated and made to work like clockwork, so connivingly, precisely and continually. We must uproot this scourge, this basement of hidden secrets and butterboxes. When the truth is revealed, certainly then, something will be done about it!" "No I dont think so Margarent, Sinead was saying to her best friend since Grade One, "no, I dont believe we will be able to change it, but at least, we may be able to describe the many vile processes at work that make things so anti-democratic boardering on Draculaian global village".

It was 8:25 am and Margaret did not feel very well. She was beginning to feel her right arm, in fact her entire right part of her face were paralyzed to some extent. Her huge dog Buster was probably responsible for the popeye elbow or tennis elbow that happened a few years back. Although the young female doctor at the Emergency room believed in to be a structural deficit or malformation of the ligaments of the arm, Margaret believed it was much more than that. Her symptoms were being ignored for some reason or other. Lately her arm had been hurting her from her shoulder to her hand. It felt numb and where there wasnt numb there was pain. Margaret's newly crafted middle age writing career could have been the stepping stone to great things. It was, however, bringing on a horrible case of carpel tunnel syndrome from her excess on the keyboard, but there something much more dasterdly happening to dear Margaret. Margaret's fatal disease was beginning to take hold, her dizzing spells, her low blood pressure, all gave Margaret indication she did not have long to live. She would be dead before she could help other women in her position. She would be dead before she would figure out the true culprit to her demise. The evil lurching behind her tumoured and diseased brain, the ones who poisoned her so subtly like vultures picking out Margaret's eyesocket. She felt victimized and Margaret never ever wanted to play the victim.

Margaret felt an urgency to her work today, to tell her story before she forgot what she would say, before she could no longer write, or make sense of anything. As she had always awoken at 6 am to write, she felt today to take it much more slowly, to enjoy the morning, take in the deep yoga breaths heard on her entrainment relaxation tapes. Today Margaret would consciously tell her body to go slower as it was not operating at all correctly, she had been very dizzy lately, her right arm acting mysteriously painful, with numbness on the right side of her body.

It was difficult to do,to write these short stories as Margaret had felt this emptiness invading her life lately. Like a call to arms she would awaken in the middle of the night, look around her and remember her dreams of youth. She would recall her old friends from the mid 70's and wonder where are they now, what are they doing, do they have a good life. Margaret felt she did not have a good life, like it was incomplete with much unfinished business. Margaret kept getting the unsettling feeling that soon the lights of her life would be going out and she would not have said her piece.

Before that happened, Margaret had a ton of things she wanted to get off her chest. Things that she felt had impeded her life and her development. She knew she was brilliant, she had the talent, and the looks if she wanted them. Margaret did not take the best of care of her personal appearance lately. As she felt the "urge" to write, as Marg called her need to tell all about what happened to her in her life and to make sense of it. Her life had not made any sense whatsoever. There were so many missing pieces. She wanted to understand her life, to close the door on the misunderstanding, the confusion, and all the bad feelings she had been keeping stored up inside. Margaret felt it her duty to other women and possibly all humanity to describe her human experience as it had been for her, without makeup without coverstick.

Maybe others would not fall into the same categorical trap, maybe she would get her slice of heaven too. All these feelings came flooding back over the middle aged Margaret. As soulfully destitute as Margaret had been feeling lately; she was determined to describe in detail the many intangibles these intelligible processes hidden under the surface of life. These processes which had everything to do with her life, her times, her ability to say "this is what I am - this is how you made me". It was a heart wrenching journey for Margaret and her mission was putting some strain on other aspects of her life; especially her family. These strains were manageable, however, but her health were a real issue of late. Soon Margaret would not be able to write anymore, her body weakened and ultimately succumbed to ALS.

With all the stings from nettles from many failings and fallings Margaret not only felt like she was the "walking wounded" but lately, Margaret became "the walking hemmoraging" as she was bringing forth all the old hurtful memories she had repressed for so long. Margaret had been through so much pain, so much angst and unrequitted love in her life, it was amazing she had lived through so much emotional pain. Margaret felt the victor over the pain, over the way life can mette out punishment in huge doses. Maybe she "didnt do something good" in a past life, maybe God was punishing her for some horrible thing she never could figure out. 'How fair is this to punish a child in this horrible way, an innocent child? No one deserves this! This isn't fair, this isn't my world, no way! I am going to make it better if it kills me trying" Margaret would cry out to God.

Margaret thought she could easily fill many volumes at the librar with her life story. Her life, although not jet-set top of the game interesting was interesting enough, as Margaret had always thought all lives were fascinating. "We are alive aren't we?" isn't that enough of a wonder, enough of a miracle in itself?".

As Margaret began opening up a lot of old wounds, along with a few dozen cases of beer she felt a smooth flow when sitting at the computer keyboard and striking the keys as if she was slapping the covered and anonymous faces of the hidden agendists. As Margaret uncovering the rapturous and horrible sordid tales, she sat back on her rocking chair by the monitor and took a few good long rocks and deep oxygen-filled breaths as she smiled knowingly bobbing her head up and down. "This is it! I'm on to you now you know" Margaret knew instinctively her means to her own retributive justice would be the typewriter, her choice of weapon; the pen. The pen being Margaret's sword stuck in the stone so far, but nonetheless her Excalibur of choice.

Shocked and awed and wholly stunned by what was being read, Margaret's closest friends and relatives throughly loved Margaret's writing. Most were trepedatious that some hidden truth about themselves would be revealed. With Margaret's blantant "tell it like it is" writerly style no one ever knew what secrets would be revealed this week, made public domain. Nobody really knew exactly which lid would be opened,which can kicked over, which wound salted. Margaret almost always denuded those nearest and dearest to her. They were, so far, her biggest fans, and Margaret would never intend to hurt the ones she loved unless it meant finding the truth, no matter how much digging and unearthing let loose the skeletons in the closet, the indians in the cupboards.

And with bated breath all her fans waiting patiently by the glare of the computer monitor for signs of Margaret's short story a week usually published on her blog on Wednesdays, Margaret's favourite writing day. What new truths would be unveiled, which targets would be attacked today, who would walk away insulted, frustrated or sheepishly chagrinned. And then after all the flotsam and jetsam who amongst her friends would have the biggest grin of silent satisfaction saying "You got em Margaret, way to go girl".

Certainly, Margaret knew how to push all the right buttons at the right moment. She had that gift, the writer's cutting edge and Margaret could, like a skilled surgeon cut right through the crap to get to the truth, no questions asked. Margaret languished in the morning's crisp breezes blowing through her red and white ginghamed kitchen curtains. Margaret never felt more alive as when she was writing, whether or not that was a conscious action or a left over sublimation of precursor thought Margaret knew, she just knew...intuitively, and she was always correct.

Many of Margaret's fans thought it sensible to "leave well enough alone" don't disturb the hornet's nest. All sage advice and old ways of doing things were odd to Margaret. She felt herself at odds with the world, like a misfit. She never really knew why or how that happened all though it did figure in prominently in her approach to life. She could be simulateously demure and cutting edge, she had this wide range of style. The interesting thing about Margaret was her incongruities, her inconsistencies, her humanity. Margaret knew instinctively in her writing when to embellish and when to leave off enough space on the page to make the reader fill in their own conclusions. Margaret gave that option to the reader and it made for an artistic rendering of her subject matter and writer's style.

As if in another time and space, Margaret felt like she did not belong here, that the earth did not meet her feet. She had a gut-instinct and felt that her stay here would soon to be recalled, and so this insatiable urgency to write. Since she was not of the world she felt obligated to correct the way humans took for granted the very things that made themselves real. "Get real" her famous Dr. Wayne Dyer quote. margaret wanted more, she had a dream, her dream came crashing to the ground. Now she had to pick up the pieces of her changeable life and move on, with encouragement and focus on the future, looking back brought back a host of sad emotions. More than the happy times, the unhappy times seemed to Margaret to outweigh the good times. Margaret felt it her duty to correct this imbalance in life. If she could help others earlier, in a similar circumstance, she would be able to give these people a lasting dream, one that would not be crushed by earth's unseeming weighted mass

Her early childhood was by no means tragic, however being wholly ignored by her parents did produce the same results eventually. Her parents were always disinterested in Margaret. As jetsetters they had other interests much more fascinating than bringing up Margaret in the way she should go. Margaret may have had a hidden handicap that the parents could not face, or there was something that happened to Margaret that the parents felt guilty about, like the time Margaret fell down the extremely high stairs. Margaret sensed her delays and her disdain from her parents, she could not live up to their standards, she was not "good" enough for her parents she thought.

Margaret knew something was wrong with her from the Kodak brownie movie camera her father loved taking all those many years ago. These home movies were Margaret's only evidence of those years before the actual "fall". She remembered those movies, seeing herself scooting along the hardwood floors for months. It was only recently she began wondering why she never walked at 18 months. That fall must have created brain damage; her skull still bearing that odd dent. There were other things about being treated less than molly coddled, primped and pampered child. Margaret felt as if she were treated like a child of a lesser god. It was the memories which recalled the time that mercurochrome was placed on her thumb to stop thumbsucking, all to no avail, Margaret sucked it off although it tasted horribly bitter and was horribly toxic to promote death. The heavy metal toxicity of Margaret made her slow for her entire life. Margaret gave much preponderance to this mistake of her mother. Or was it a mistake. The soap in the mouth wasnt a mistake either. Could it be a possible insurance premium the parents needed for their up up and away lifestyle of the rich and famous? "Could I have been a tax write off?"? Margaret was wholly confused and did not want to believe what she was thinking. It would certainly be a way of making Marg pay for her sins, sins put upon her for the sake of the Family Compact survival. Was it really Margaret's bad behaviour, her evil, which would lead ultimately to her demise many years later. Margaret's revelation and realization that her own recent paralyzms being caused from those many years ago. All that toxicity, all that brain damage, would chelation be too late? Margaret heard that would be a very risky procedure, some having had died from Chelation Therapy.

Margaret was not only ignored as a child, she became the parent's own bitter-pill scapegoat for all their supposed misgivings. Margaret was not as pretty, as talented or as gifted as the others, or so she was made to believe. She had her mouth washed out with soap in Grade two for saying the "F" word, but Margaret did not know what the word meant or sin she committed. She heard her sister dare her to say this word. From that day forward Margaret was considered a sinner, Satan's seed and worthy of all punishment deemed necessary. The biggest punishment for Margaret became the way her parents ignored her and disowned her, and only talked to her in disconcerting ways, only ever talked to her in mean tones, and to get her to do something, like the dishes or other household chores. This disconnect from her parents made Margaret feel like a lesser person, a sinner not worthy of real love from a man. She felt desperate therefore to find a man and to keep him as she felt so wholly inadequate and unloved.

The realization of being completely ignored by her parents made her dizzy and almost fall over. As she vied endlessly for their remote attention, she usually only received any love from them when she was being punished, yelled at constantly, told to clean the house endlessly, no conversation about anything other than "do this, or do that". There was no love for Margaret, it was given to the other older children, who were fawned over and respected and treated as actual persons, something Margaret never understood from her parents. Margaret would be used for the insurance. A sudden accident no one would question. "At least I would enable the parent's parties in absentia for many years to come once dead and buried via the insurance on my life." It was not the first time Margaret remembered the many other times she and her new family had been targetted. Margaret really wanted to understand the indepth mechanisms behind her fall from grace. and her thrown to the wolves life she had to live.

As Margaret's siblings apparently only new success in life, Margaret felt vaguely jealous. Life had always seemed to bend over backwards to them, bowing to them, making them a star in their fairy princess lives. Margaret felt she had not received anything to give her the launch she needed in life, never giving the foot up, or the keys to the executive bathroom like her sister had been given. In a way, Margaret felt like Cinderella in reverse. Margaret wasnt the prettiest one, or the one with the smallest feet. Her size 9 clementines were certainly not the stuff to barter with princes in waiting. Margaret could not compete and so gave up her no hold on any reign to the queens of the game, her sisters. They had it all and would always have it all, it was predestined from the maker, it was divine destiny. Who was Margaret to argue, although she did. Her response was never favourable so she gave up. She succeeded to the back row of life, the seat at the back of the bus, the less favoured position. Margaret new her place and she did not like it, not one little bit!

As for Margaret, the right training, attention and consideration were wholly removed from her life. If Margaret wanted any life at all she must abandon these old "non-working" things from her existence. She would run away and live with someone. They wouldnt care. When the closest sister to Marg got married she didnt invite her to her wedding, no role to play at all in her sister's new life. Margaret came anyway and took pictures. She wasnt going to play their game, she would show them for what they were; fake people, cut outs, cardboard at that.

Of all things collected and remembered Margaret did have good memories of her first family before her grandfather died when she was eleven or so. For Margaret there were so many missing moments in time, unwrapped fragments, incomplete formatting, vacant stares, stairs that led up to nowhere. Within Margaret's world there was an emptiness, more tragic than tragedy, a deep vaccumous space where no light shines. Where nothing ever happens nothing growns, there is no light, no food, no energy to make things work. Abandonment does this to people, and Margaret was not immune. Things are always held in "lieu" there is always a feeling of regret, like what did I do wrong to deserve this non-life, this I am less than I should be, and I am ignored for what reason? I am not good enough? I am good enough" Margaret said fighting back the flood of tears.

For Margaret the right time to make all things flow in a non-abrasive way would happen with her first memories and healings of those bitter memories. Margaret felt like she was a big ball of steelwool walking around, she felt abrasive, like she rubbed people the wrong way even when she tried to be nice. It may have been due to various situations in her life where she had to overcome emotional hurt from others who really were not considerate of her best interests. Margaret became a fighter first and a lover second. She could only love when she felt safe to love and that was not very often. She did not trust anyone with her heart. She had been broken by an early love affair and felt she could take love or leave it. What she was interest was surviving and her mission to change around the tide of time that put her on the back burner, this position which made her feel obligated to correct the injustices done.

For Margaret the hollowman or hollow woman syndrome, where the emptiness evades the surrounding space and makes everything empty and without substance. Bascially a hell on earth. For Margaret felt that she not only should help herself but help others in the same hollowperson boat. Margaret remained unmarried, living with a cranky old man for thirty some odd years. Shawn was often scorned for his illnesses, having had polio at age 5 and being the only living survival of an epidemic from early 50's.. It was all his bitter transgressions, his 39 operations, life in an iron lung for years, being wholly paralized, coming back from the dead. Margaret could only sense their awkward similarities, they were rooted and grounded in grief. This held themtogether like glue for so long. As Margaret always thought she was the living dead too, as her birth certificate had said "Spon Abo", what was she an abortion that just happened to live? Did her twin brother, the boy the parents always wanted die, on the delivery table, all dreams dashed for the parents and thus for Margaret too? Things would make sense now. If only the parents would open up before they died to tell Margaret the bitter truth of her being. Even though Shawn and Margaret were an odd mix somehow this fringe of rejection from society had a dwelling in their heart and soul no man could rip out.

Margaret and Shawn's angst and anger came from their religation to the backroom of life by the powers that be, who ever they were. This was Margaret's mission, to find out who had been controlling her life for so long, steering it in the drowning, shipwreck direction. For Margaret it was all beginning to make sense. This unhappy couple were, in a sense, made for each other. With their children grown up and away, Margaret and Shawn were two of a kind alone to say how bitter life was, arguements, lack of fufillment, pity parties, all were the reason Margaret so often threatened to leave. It was all too much to bear. She could not stand his personality, he was so bitter, so hurt by life. When Margaret could coak a smile from him, he could laugh, but then the pain of life which was so great for Shawn slowing invaded her distancing space she had used in the past as a survival mechanism. Often she could not stand to hear the bitching anymore, she had to leave the room, at least for awhile, until the next job.

"Hah!" Margaret caught on quickly. Thus determined Margaret became a machine with purposes, pounding out ten thousand words every few days. The fevered pitch became derailed when she noticed an inability to move her right side. which made her into to this less than highly regarded person of worth.

"That is probably it.., I dont feel valueable." Margaret told Sinead. "All these years of working and slaving away, all are for naught if I do not understand how I got here". Sinead "That's funny Margaret, I dont understand how I got here either, but I am still doing just fine, thank-you very much". "Oh Sinead, you really know how to hurt a gal, don't you?" Sinead smiled one of her cat grins and said "You know it Margy!".


  1. T'is very difficult to write like Frank McCourt. His gritty life history could not get much worse, his childhood being a horror film rather than a reality. Yet I see how this suffering occurred and why it occurred. It NEVER should have occurred. Frank McCourt having died this day. Mike's Writing Workshop had a piece about his death, and I immediately had to write "in the style of" Frank McCourt. I may stay in this genre for a while, t'is a good thing to get in touch with one's roots if they arent buried in some butterbox in the backyard! May Frank McCourt's creative spirit live on forever in his honest and compelling writing and unforgettable stories.

  2. Frank McCourt died on either Jul 20 or Jul 21 09 78 years old suffered from melanoma and meningitis at hospice in NY. He will be remembered.