A document in madness,—
thoughts and remembrance fitted.
There’s fennel for you, and columbines:—
there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me:—
we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays:—
O, you must wear your rue with a difference.—
There’s a daisy:—I would give you some violets,
but they wither’d all when my father died:—
they say he made a good end,—
[Sings.] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,—
Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour and to prettiness.
And will he not come again?
And will he not come again?
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll:
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan:
God ha’ mercy on his soul!
And of all Christian souls, I pray God.—God b’ wi’ ye.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.
There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu’d
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Alas, then she is drown’d?
Imagine the horror involved with actually having to live with a poltergeist. The Free Dictionary defines a poltergeist as a “ghost that manifests itself by noises, rappings, and the creation of disorder.”
What an understatement. To have a poltergeist in the home is to experience pandemonium so torrential that it is certain to drive you away, and that is only after it has brought you to your knees, brought you to the brink of despair so that you are rending the strands of your hair from your head. The noise is hateful, boisterous and excruciatingly LOUD, coming at all hours of the day and night so that madness is certain to set in. There is no reckoning with the disturbance as it proceeds to obliterate anything and everything you have ever cared for in your entire life. All the worse, the chances of getting rid of the hellish din is slim to none.
I should know, I’ve been living with one for the past year.
When I first discovered the fact, it came in the form of — well — imagine the sound of a logging truck whose straps have broken, where the entire load of logs go slamming, pounding into the road with a deafening roar, the reverberation echoing for miles. That is what the sound resembled on my ceiling one unsuspecting day. I was terrified. Torn from sleep in an instance, I thought I was having a heart attack, my heart beating brutally like it might burst from my chest.
From that point the noise never came to desist. Hour after hour, week after week, month after month, the pounding, the banging, the stomping, the soul-crushing scraping and clawing, the neverending chaos. I had no idea what to do. My life teetering on the edge, I contacted the managers; and they proceeded to blow me off as though I were some sort of a loon.
I knew I was going to have to leave, knowing that I would never be able to contend with such horror, the ongoing and incessant pounding and banging, often times sounding as though bar bells of great weight were being thrust directly into the floor. In bed my anxiety levels rose to inane levels, my heart pounding as never before. And the evil of the poltergeist — it has never come to cease to this day.
Then imagine the horror when the beligerent sounds of a little boy running back and forth across the ceiling began. Over and over again so that my nightmare, the terror, became that which would induce my assured insanity. I was losing my mind, the hateful tornado-like din forever pelting my ears. Altogether it was a chorus of noise that can be described as nothing less than demonic, torturing. I crammed ear plugs deep into the canals of my ears and I prayed — voraciously — to God and his beloved savior, but it was all to no avail: I was in Hell.
My lease is almost up and I will be vacating the premises at the end of March. The people who have caused all this terror in my life will get away scot-free and I will go away a damaged person.
As I came to learn, within a tiny apartment the size of that barely measuring the length/width of a parking space, a man and a woman had moved in with their baby and their son, including a small dog. That is four people and an animal all stuffed into this minuscule area.
The man worked nights where the lady had grown accustomed to working around this kind of schedule. And while this explanation may bear the mark of the need for compassion, the truth is not so beneficent. Both parents are possessed of hostile natures, the woman being currently investigated by the Child Protective Services. When they first moved in and the horror began, so utterly intolerable as it was, I thumped on the ceiling to let them know that a person was, in fact, living beneath them. I thought this might arise within the woman that innate nature that we all have, where we realize that the expression of courtesy is what separates us from the animals.
But I received no such courtesy. The woman, upon hearing my thumping, proceeded to smash and bang her vacuum into the floor with the kind of tantrum I have only seen in the movies, where some actor is allowed to thoroughly destroy the set, the aggression something frightening to behold. Think of Kylo Ren’s moment of searing anger:
To be honest, I believe Kylo Ren would be terrified of this woman. With her foreign accent she terrorizes her son in the room that is directly above mine, and with the ceiling so low, I can hear and feel everything the poor boy is going through. (What she may or may not understand is that because I am right there, I am enduring the abuse equally.) She screams and she cusses and she throws things and, weirdly enough, she never ever never ever stops stomping throughout the apartment. She marches around like an elephant of fury, with all the intents and purposes of a person bent on inflicting emotional and psychological terror.
And I was the one lucky enough to have them move in above me. The father is just as bad only, he is very tall and behaves in ways that resemble something of an angry mob type. He stomps and bangs, yells at his son (who I believe is only around eight or nine, and is never in school), and he produces noise inside the apartment that makes me feel like I’m living within the confines of a body shop, the ongoing grinding and banging.
The real horror, if can be possible, lay with the management, who ignore me like I’m disposable. I have complained and complained and complained, and called and called, and spoke with and spoke with, and nothing ever happens. I am ignored, which means the things management tells me, are all lies!
I don’t understand what karmic aspect of my life led me to this experience, but I must’ve done something because the problem is so bad that it makes me nauseated. I have medications now because of it all and I have to borrow additional anti-anxiety meds from a friend, all of which still don’t really help in light of how the noise is ongoing. It never stops. I am jittery nervous even as I go to make this post.
Heaven help me, I think I’m going to die.
ACT I SCENE I A desert place.
[Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches]
When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.
That will be ere the set of sun.
Where the place?
Upon the heath.
There to meet with Macbeth.
I come, graymalkin!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
I moved into a historical building that is two-hundred miles away from where I used to live, because I got a new job. While I’m happy about the job, the move itself is not it’s all cracked up to be. The building is in a horrid neighborhood and there was a shooting two days after I moved in. I was desperate to get situated and so I had to take what I could get.
The truth is, I’ve lived in this area of California before, and it was after I moved away that I learned some odd things about the geography. Where I used to live, the rents are very high; here the rents are reasonable. Here, though, the crime is high. The cultural shock is stunning. The racial mix is oppressive. Drug use is high. And so it’s strange that even with an MA, I was not able to find a job back in Sonoma that could pay the ridiculously high costs of living, yet here I am making better money, and I have access to affordable living.
Even stranger is that because I couldn’t afford a real home in Sonoma, which is a beautiful place to live for the rich, I was forced to live in less-than-desirable conditions, a room with three melted windows in a parking lot for a tire-changing shop, pictured here:
How odd is it that I should have to move to a place that is crawling with crime just so that I can have what seems to be something decent. The catch is, I will have to remain indoors as much as possible if I want to live. (A poster is hanging in the laundry area which concerns the recent murder of a man who just so happens to be a white male.)
My first week and I am thus exposed to the terrors of a neighborhood shooting, posters of dead men on the wall, and to enhance the matter, I witnessed with my own eyes a crazy man who for reasons unknown, jumped atop of this vehicle and began smashing the windshield with his foot. Luckily I was with others and together we were able to see the man apprehended, but I’m sure this will not complete the line of tales that will arise from my impending experience amid the environs of my latest domestic situation.