Agnes Darling,

A Semi-open letter to Garron Edmund founder of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence

A Semi-open letter to the founder of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence

I interrupted a trio that became a quartet and sustained their vibrato with and without for nearly two decades. “Alas, I find myself a kitchen slut…” (if only) here in LALALand if I am to be, or should I ever hope for, should I finally get in, get it on, and move past my best to accomplish what I only can, with your distressing blessing that I myself might transcend this lowly state of a nun-in-waiting.

I do, desperately, and I am in the weirdest of troubles. Which is why only the weirdest of help will do. If I should fall off the face of the earth tonight, scream this to the world (and I tell you this because I know the sisterhood remains uncomfortable, for how can perpetual indifference NOT be such?). And you know me well enough to ground me as a real person, in other words, collateral…

---

Once upon a time…

…my earliest childhood memory of any significant worth involving the “T” and the “M” words (Trauma and Mother (the David Lynch cult/TM charity-Lynch thing is a horse of a different color (possibly a chapter for AI to write once the contents of my noodle are adaptable to Wi-Fi) used together in the same sentence, as it were. Like most memories suppressed, there are a lot of associative imageries attached and important to express. Mainly because, and yes, this is for total propagation (and even a desperate attempt or two to gain the attention of one Mr. Michael J. Fox with the variation of the Parkinson’s journey I myself have been on)). Can someone make sure the parentheses are all aligned here?)) I don’t want to go out looking like a babbling idiot) if I have to go out, if one gets my drift). Where was I? OK. Yes, associated memories. They call this continental drift.

Continental drift itself, as a byproduct of trauma, can be witnessed at the Academy Awards, always and without fail. However, this time not backstage. Full frontal, the cameras a-blazing. Will Smith, Chris Rock. Did you prepare that punchline in advance (pay attention, proofreaders, didn’t I say punch line)? I hope so, because there’s only one audience member who didn’t get it, but who does illustrates for the rest of the world the effects of trauma on cognitive functions in a real demonstrable manner.

The devil is in the details always, so when the slight discrepancies between syntax and meaning are not given their proper “tense,” huge discrepancies emerge and, over time, become nothing less than a Palestinian and Israel conflict… right here in Hollywood, and as easily resolvable. Unless there’s a writer strike, bitches. Just call me Gabby Scabby, and Indy Inky has the next hit TV show, Bosomless Buddies. Anyways, back to last night and the nominees for Best Actress.

The clothesline was by the garage. I was wearing high heels that fit a six-year-old foot and wrapped in a loosely knitted crochet orange-and-brown rusted blanket, hand-crocheted by poor Mom’s new constructive matronly in-law. Opening the box to that wedding gift must have been a big WTF. Anyways, I had marched around back the garage sashaying and grabbed a broom and flew off like Witchy-Poo, singing my made-up song of the day, whatever that may be. Likely spinning around, looking at the ant piles on the ground, maybe even with remorse at having massacred recently a colony or two, and remorse putting a quick end to that.

I remember the glare of the sun and the shimmer of what might not, in another lifetime, but in another hearing now past tense yet future perfect present then. Is it blue or gold? What was the color of the dress that was my memory in the sun looking up at what I saw? I couldn’t tell either. But when I came to, there’s Mother on the porch and her puffy little pregnancy, maternal wear and the glass windows and the ugly asbestos-laden patched, poor-people’s cobblestone I’d pick at and scratch, sucking on my baby fingernails.

And to this day, don’t show me a tiger lily. That’s another memo. Outlets, Colette, August bleeds, and Daddy’s day at the Ladies Auxiliary trying to pass off as a good meaningful Christian woman, having just robbed the local Chamber of Commerce. Alarms going off everywhere at the local bank. Wonder what that’s all about?

“Marky,” Mama yells, and I look up startled and falling out of my skin as the jet breaks the sound barrier above my little head. What in God’s name are you doing? Indeed, what the hell was I doing, the broom in my hand critically guilty? Why are you beating my dress? And there was no doubt I had been beating it with the broom quite surreptitiously. And then, for whatever reason, hardwired connections reattach. My little mind concluded it must have been the ant massacre, and hence the cycle of violence was to continue. However, years later, the recovery is far, far, far more interesting, demonstrable, even, as say tapes are to Watergate…

…as a crock of shit that keeps on NOT giving is to a poser 13-Step, “let’s see how far we can use the poor slob until it breaks”.

Go put that in your gratitude, you motherfuckers.

Blessed Bee, from the one they call,

Bitch Baby

May 23, 2024