jaspamaster

Read at your own speed; make no judgments "Let it be said" Lennon "another cup of tea" asked Hatter

Sigh I attract the oddest people.

I have had this stalker since college a strange lady whose schizophrenic a classic case, recently in the last 2 years she finally found my address again and started sending me letters.
They aren't disturbing other than that she misses me and is there for me if I ever leave my wife, well not disturbing in what way she is a stalker.
Back when I worked at Tower records in the sound track section during college she would come by.
She thought I was madly in love with her, I am a nice person not to mention it behooves me to be pleasant to people shopping in my section, if I wanted to keep my job meager as the pay may have been.
The irony at the time was she had this off, off, off, off, Broadway acting gig at a small theater near 4th on Bond Street off of Lafayette.
There was this other group that would rent the theater on Tuesday, they were according to her a nasty group of people into S/M and other stuff with a funny German name Eulensomethingorother I was a wonderful person I wouldn't be into anything like that.
And people wonder why I talk so much about serendipity and connections in my life.

The letters drift between my being the best thing since sliced bread to she tried to commit suicide because she was afraid to contact me, did she set a record at 215 pills I don't know its the minutiae she fills the pages with, factoids of failed results and rage and anger, the perfect evidence that what is wrong is not her.
She's given me tons of contact information asked for birthday presents, been angered that I have never responded to her.
It's like having a relationship and I don't even have to be there.

I know she's living somewhere on 42nd street and using the Internet cafes there.
According to her internal mythos the telepaths have done it all to her, they make her yell they made me go away "its all about the telepaths".

Each letter she has sent me varies in length from about 4 to 7 little notebook pages written in this small intense script both sides of each page filled from the top to the bottom.
Each letter is its own intense artifact full of meaning that says all about focused intensity and true insanity.
An archaic object in this day of electronic whispered letters.
No substance, no proof that they come from the physical realm.
A diorama of pinned butterfly wings and beetles in the spider scrawl of script on the page, Victorian in the iconographies of its feeling, old memento, keepsake of human reality anchor like and ephemeral output from someone who does not exist.
It says nothing to me or informs me of my life, I do not exist for this person.
My ideal does, my doppelganger of the shadows of her mind, she cannot orgasm so she's told me in her letters its one more thing the telepaths have stolen from her.
She want one, she needs one she, would like to be allowed to have one, "damn the telepaths!"

I hear inside her head how she doesn't exist, no blame, no structure, all her existence just fragmented reflections of this outside controlling force.
All things are frustration since she is not responsible for anything a brain exploded into a cometary's halo staring In on the empty void of itself, not self aware that all the voices are only itself talking and no one else.
The sound of One hand clapping, not knowing that the other hand is also part of its fragmented hole.
I think of the Gi Joe dolls I took apart as a child broken strewn about tortured in the positions and shapes I could make of them, the Barbie dolls stretched and tortured sexless all with smooth plastic unable to be sexual yet incredibly vibrant in there exagerated representation of the human form.

Broken husks.

A sexless creature begging for me to make it complete, to be my puppet on a string of my choosing my terms my desires.
I remember her a not being pretty, overweight greasy, unbeautiful, a voice that is an instant hard on if your not looking at her, opera trained classical the voice a bad joke from an old woody wood pecker episode, "matron with food looking for young man with appetite. Call this number", if you know the cartoon, you get the rest of the joke.

I do not know this person and they are nothing to me, I have a level of contempt that is cold and distant, I used to know and have enjoyed many times with people who are mine, property.

Its that feeling of clarity and purpose, that feeling you can dissect and make what you will of that which you have on the end of those strings.
Your puppet your doll, your toy, your urinal if you please, it doesn't matter if you like them or not just the level of trust and connection that's brought you to that point that moment that ownership.
I am complete and this is not mine, she does not exist for me outside of the abstractions of these penned letters, "missives in a bottle" tossed into the sea of the postal service, washed along the shoal like sorting machines, carried by the crashing waves onto the flotsam trucks and carried soiled and worn by the journey to the shore of my mailbox.

An ideal of my whim something calling out to be mine to make itself whatever I wish it to be, its purpose and feeling and life mine to use.

An abstract feeling of power and hunger!

This not mine, I do not exist for it to be mine; it belongs to a dark demon who inhabits those crabbed pages, cramped writings of the telepaths in her mind.

But I understand the feelings well, I savor them and put them away, neatly folded in the draws in my soul labeled and indexed, old wood smell of libraries and dust, the quiet place of shadows, they belong for something I truly own and another time.