My Thoreau Moment

cx6-150x150So I am naming this blog after him in my strange journey to escape reality, and I cannot remember his name, a name that roles off the tongue like my own, a name that has been a part of the lives of everyone in my generation and beyond and before. A poet who moved to the woods and built his own home, sculpted an entire existence from nature and left overs, lived off the land in peace and tranquility…still, utilizing all of my bag of tricks, descriptive narration, the letters of the alphabet, word association and my trusty thesaurus, I am unable to bring him to mind. Oh, Him, yes, his name, sadly, no. Will it come to me in the near future? I am no longer certain of anything…uh oh, Walden. Waldens pond. Maybe.

Thoreau…

There, I’ve got it…

Henry David Thoreau…Yes? Yes.
So here’s the thing…I have determined to find and purchase a property, it doesn’t matter where, as long as in is huge and is located on the top of a mountain, surrounded in the back by forest primeval and in the front by rolling hills and valleys, field and wood and stream. And it must have a lake, or a pond, or a place where I may build one. A giant barn, or a spot to construct one. A cozy cottage. A parcel all around to plant into a vast garden. It may need renovation that; will be my joy.

I will soon begin the immense chore of packing my untenable belongings, organizing and listing and labeling clothing, dishes, artwork, collections…something that somehow at this moment I am yet unable to do, without the promise of new surroundings and building and planning to tantalize my unwilling limbs and brain. I will take it all and relocate as far away from here as I am able to move, and leave no forwarding address.

Family and friends, you ask? NO. There are no longer many friends, and of family there is no one. I have been cast out, left to rot, been told in no certain terms that I am no longer part of that group. My efforts to explain have been taken with the same intolerance and disinterest as they have ever been. I am the enemy, the Goth and Visigoth barricaded from the gates of the castle, I am the Golem. I am that awful creature, lacking any possibility of redemption, Toxic Mom.

Tracy B Heffner-Jones- “I realize, for me, my favorite moments are really those I SHARE with the people that know and LOVE me, I AM SO THANKFUL for the wonderful opportunity to see my family!”

Loving and benign, you say? Maybe yes. Isn’t it wonderful that this child has a family to love? And that she is thankful for the people she knows that love her? Yes. Wonderful.

Let me tell you, though, it is a chimera, a fantasy built on lies and evil intentions, a true golem constructed of ugly mud falsehood and conspiracy and vengeance. Where does one go with that and be left with anything good? What happens when the mud stagnates and crumbles, when the illusion blows away in a breeze of reality. What will she, will they all, be left with then?

Here’s the thing. I am not waiting any longer for the truth to emerge; the victims have become one with the conspiracy. And I am done.

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