AD Sullivan journal 2013

    The silent weekend doesn’t surprise me. She often doesn’t post poetry until Monday, and with her Facebook page closed to me, I can’t tell what conflicts are going on behind the scenes. Her front page only conveys what she wants outsiders to see. Her poetry suggests a shattered romance. It hard to tell how this effects daily life, since she appears capable of carrying on several existences simultaneously, two aspects of her public persona she can control, putting up or taking down messages she want to get out or retract. To my knowledge, she has removed only a few poems from her poetry blog, where as her Facebook page – the personal one --   front and interior are always a work in progress, something she edits frequently, apparently in reaction to what others have to say, sometimes simply yanking back what appears to be a much too spontaneous reaction to something someone else might have posted. Not having access to her inner sanctum, I am forced to rely ...

    RR has managed to piss off the local cops again. This time in his new role as the parking authority director, continuing a feud that has been going on with him since he was put out of the department. He apparently ordered his staff to ticket the private vehicles of local cops, which historically have used 60th street when parking for work. Since RR is connected to The Virgin Mayor, this further isolates anyone associated with the mayor, including her. This almost guarantees the police will work against the mayor if there is a recall election. I can’t tell for certain where she stands with RR. (I’m desperately hoping he’s not the married man she has been plagued with over the last few months), although the Small Man called RR her “protector,” a strong-armed thug she can rely on in a tight place. It is impossible to say for certain what her relationship is with RR, although she’s clearly sided with him in his attempt to get his job back as a cop. She’s the ...

    Glancing back at the poems I posted and she posted over the last month or so, I find almost no connection – with one exception, which I go into here shortly. This is probably because of my cyber nanny and my need not to post things that my cyber nanny thinks will get me in trouble – or worse, inspire a real conversation. My nanny refuses to believe me that there is not a snow ball’s chance in hell that she will ever talk to me again. I have kept my theory about possible poetry communication away from Cyber Nanny, who would make me stop posting entirely. While I have snuck through a few poems under my nanny’s nose or written romantic poems that seem innocuous, but had a subtle message of their own, most of these would not have qualified as “a conversation starter) though my poetry notebooks are clearly responsive to her works, which is why they are unlikely to ever see the light of day (much as this journal won’t.) Gauging from what I found in my limited researc...

    In her first poetry post in a week, she continues her sad theme of love at risk, distance and desperation.   This is a particularly painful read, depicting someone who sees the love of her life slipping through her fingers and she is helpless to stop it. Perhaps in the distant past, in poetry long removed from the web, she may have expressed such anguish. But while she has expressed pain, anger and other emotions in her poetry over the last year and a half, none rises to the level of desperation as this poem does. This despair is so poignant, I can’t help but sympathize. I’ve been where she is and reading her poem brought it all back – only in my case, I was the cause of my romantic demise, where she appears to be someone who doesn’t have control of the situation. Each of her last few poems has depicted a love affair that is moving beyond her grasp, although this latest says this literally, saying how helpless she is in this matter, and how she has to le...

      Things only get worse for her as the Virgin Mayor is expected to face additional federal charges and the court has refused to delay the trial. The legal circus starts on May 14, and according to the former mayor, the trial is expected to last ten days to two weeks, after which many believe the Virgin Mayor will be forced to resign to make way for a special election. There seems to be some dispute over whether or not the trial was delayed, but not about the additional charges. Politiker claims he was charged with conspiracy, something the feds held back, hoping to use it to get the mayor to plead guilty to the original charges. My sources claim they would not have brought the additional charges if he had cooperated. But the whole thing smells, and I suspect the feds may actually believe the mayor might get off after all. Regardless of what happens, all of this has to have rattled everybody connected with the mayor, perhaps souring the lovefest she claim...

    As a caveat to yesterday’s post, I have to wonder how much she really believes she is part of a group when most of the photos she posts are of herself. I’m not saying I mind this. I do not. From the beginning of this sorted affair, I have found myself mesmerized by images of her. Early on, I found her daily photo Facebook photos so distracting that I actually defriended her twice. She was insulted naturally, especially when I could not fully explain why I did it. I also frequently erased the photos she sent me via the phone for the same reasons. Something about the way she looked and still does compelled a reaction that I was not completely comfortable with, a loss of control, and the sense that she could command anything from me she wanted. And I hate being out of control. She does post group shots with her in their midst, and perhaps it is only my prejudice that draws my attention to her even when she is part of the crowd. While she has no elected positio...

  An off the cuff response to a comment to her latest photo posted on Facebook may supply a bit of information about her motivation, helping to fill in some of the gaps her personality profile. She cropped her picture out of a group shot in the office to use as her profile picture. When several family members commented on how pretty she looked, she responded that it’s easy to look pretty when she is surrounded by love. By implication, she is saying that the people around her are offering her protection and love. This is an odd comment considering the fact that mayor’s office is known for its internal conflicts, back biting and office politics. As savvy as she is, she is also naïve. And tends to become a true believer, much as she sounded when I spoke to her on the phone last fall about RR. Whether he current faith is a carry-over from back then or not, I can’t say. More than once over the last few months, she has made it clear that she sees herself as a good soldier i...

  The public safety director in her town is leaving. This may be both good news and bad news for her, since he’s the man to whom she gave information about her stalker from Brooklyn and possibly others, and someone who frequently commented on her Facebook postings. His leaving leaves her with one less supporter in an ever-changing political landscape. The good news – if she is still connected to RR – is that RR is rumored to possibly get the post. My sources claim the public safety director could no longer handle the pressure. He’s a nervous kind of man, who apparently struggles when it comes to making decisions. One of the freeholders, who is very close to him, claims the public safety director is a nervous wreck, but can’t explain why. “He’s in with sharks,” the freeholder said. “He’s got balls, but he’s not educated.” Others call him “nice” but not smart. “He’s gotten in over his head,” the freeholder said. “He told me he couldn’t take it anymore.” The mayor and ...

  Setting aside the analysis of her poem I already did (and believe to be an accurate interpretation), I’ll compare similarities between my poem about Tygrrr and her Tiger poem, speculating on whether or not her poem was a response to mine. Both poems have a one word title, mine is “Void” hers is “Spark.” My poem has a dedication to Tygrrr. Her poems opens with the word “Tiger” in the first line a variation on Blake’s classic. My poem opens with the question as to where or not cats (animals in general) have souls or are they somehow protected by the souls of their human masters, protected against the furies of eternity.. Her poem follows the pattern of Blake of a tiger burning in the onset of the night, which carries with her “all its might,” and the struggle leaves its “soul” enlightened. My poem asks if the creature I pray for lives on in some other fashion or is its existence what we see and feel in this world. Her poems says that after some time of darkness a spar...

  Okay, I lied. And you know things are bad when I lie in a journal that nobody is meant to read but me. Not all of what I post is unconsciously addressed at her. Some is very conscious, perhaps sending a message, perhaps just because I can’t help having real feeling when I write poetry (even the superficial and silly romantic stuff). Maybe I’m fortunate in having my west coast guardian angel (my cyber nanny) looking over my shoulder to keep me from making a bigger fool of myself than I already have. This cyber nanny has been caring for me almost from the very beginning last spring, scolding me each time I said or did something stupid, most of all when I posted anything that seemed to provoke a response. Her scolding came fast and furious last May through August, telling me which poems she believed I should not have posted, warning me against make a bad situation worse. Some poems set my angel off more than others, and few more than the poem “It doesn’t get any bett...

    I delude myself into believing what I post is innocent, when in truth, I engage in a conversation, even when she does not respond. Although my west coast poet friend (I call her my cyber nanny) yells at me each time I do, and often as not, I post things to keep her from yelling at me, burying what I intended to post in a poetry notebook (which will no more likely see the light of day than this daily journal). When I can get passed by cyber nanny censorship, I attempt to elicit a response. I got spoiled. I miss last summer when most of the poems she posted were indeed talking to me. An angry response is better than no response, I figure. And so, when all that stopped, I try to keep up my side of the one-sided conversation whenever the cyber nanny isn’t looking. Most end up in my poetry notebook when it is clear they would never get passed the censor. When I slipped one by, I had the vague hope she might secretly respond, even when it was clear the poems have n...

  Once again, the synchronicity of poetry posts pops up, feeding my illusion of a conversation where none exists. I post things and then when she posts something, I seem to read into it a response – knowing perfectly well in my conscious mind I would be the last person on earth she would be trying to communicate, even secretly, and yet I enjoy the fantasy on some very primal level. Yet there is more than a little coincidence between my posting and her posting, warranting an examination. “I never wanted to live my life as a ghost, haunting the edges of things I love to watch, unable to touch, to fell, but not felt, except as a remote presence,” I wrote in my posting, I referred to Homer singing to his muses, and like that I am inspired by the thought of connection that reaches beyond the edges of the world, defying life or death or any of the petty details we get saddled with. “To inspire and be inspired, to go on to become something greater than I could ever be alone,” I wrote. “I ...

      When re-reading her last posted poem again for the dozenth time, it occurs to me how much the concept of love figures into her otherwise short life, something she appears to want more than anything and something she doesn’t seem to be able to get, even when she gets it, and how she appreciates the unexpected presence in her life that may or may not be love, but helps her cope with her deepest fears. The other significant element in the poem is the concept of fate, and how she is locked into some particular fate – which perhaps when young she thought she was fated to greatness, but now lives with the idea that she may never get what she wants most – and over time has come to accept this, and has other things that she can rely on. Essentially, the poem says at 33 she has spent most of her life alone, and while she has company now, and appreciates it, she doesn’t trust it to last as the horrors her dreams seep into her everyday life, that she is out of step with ...

      Picking up on a theme I referred to several days ago about the synchronicity of posts she makes that seem to respond in some ways to posts I’ve made, I live with the fantasy of an imaginary conversation between us, this sad dream that somehow, we continue to communicate long after she made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with me. It is pure delusion on my part to think otherwise. If there is an unconscious element in all this, it is mine – since my posts may well seem innocent and innocuous, unrelated on the surface, while underneath, each bears the scars of the last year whether I am consciously aware of it or not – while her posts for the most part (particularly lately) have nothing to do with me. There are no secret messages hidden in the text in response to what I post, and to think otherwise is a form of madness. Early on, she once called us kindred spirits, and perhaps in some fashion we were or maybe still are. Despite the difference in our...

    What is real and unreal? Fear of losing something that is right there beside her. She is so used to trauma she clearly doesn’t trust a situation that comes off as too good It defies her negative expectations. These are some thoughts concerning her latest poem. She opens the poem talking about a dream she had had for nearly all of her life, one that wakes her in the wee hours of the morning, winding her up so tight she can’t even cry about it, leaving her disjointed, and alone. But as of late, she has company that seems to counter this fear, a breath of warmth that tampers down the dread. Perhaps too good to be true. She is unexpectedly not alone. The dreams, of course, still haunt her, warning her that she can never expect a traditional life and projecting the idea of a possibly short life as well. The dream oozes into her awaking world. Her fate is opposite of what she expected. She has never gotten what she wants or hopes for. This new situation, ...