#alas! still a sick bug tho

[hellsitegenetics]

String identified: ga a ac t t t

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a a agt gt t t t c t g t tact t

Closest match: Netelia melanura genome assembly, chromosome: 4 Common name (family): Ichneumon wasps

(image source)

vegans make peace with honey

no shut up do it

[nomsfaultau]

Daily ask №12

Hobby edition!

Firstly, Author, what is YOUR favourite hobby? Besides writing? Mine is probably text roleplay if you're curious : D

I'm pretty sure that there was a list of hobbies for each character somewhere z or at least I've seen it written down that Tubbo likes gardening, but still, what is each character's hobby/hobbees?

Hobby swap. Every hobby gets sent to the person arter them in the order that you answered the second question in. How well does it go?

I do still remember that you wrote that Wilbur figures out that it has no hobbies when he doesn't have to get food so I suggest: Photography. I mean, they're already travelling through the USA and considering the fact that the foundation forgot about their existence they might as well have some fun and not hide constantly yk. Climb onto the statue of freedom or something. Why not. Might as well keep some memories!

Also it would just bee kinda ironic if Wilbur who has like the void thing which is the absence of light, photography as a hobby which is essentially capturing light.

5. What hobbies do you think whatever character/s would enjoy but aren't able to do due to their situation?

Man I don't think this one has an ounce of spoilers for Fault or content warnings!

1.Drawing. I find my drawing and writing is a very symbiotic process that keeps up passion about projects. I write a cool scene so I want to draw it, and while doing that I’m thinking about the story. Or I draw something sick as hell and am like well now I gotta put that in. I also like dnd but don’t play much alas.

2.I realized I was addressing the 5th question a little, so I’m going to put asterisks next to functional hobbies that they’re able to do on the run.

Tubbo gets the most exploration of hobbies due to the interlude WHiT Croplands. Tubbo definitely likes gardening because of Rhodes, though it’s also kinda cheating since flowers auto bloom once exposed to Tubbo long enough. Rosalind also has a lot of hobbies, and a bit of a problem with starting a new thing only to abandon it for the next project. So quilting*, painting, knitting. Tubbo also enjoys the Pokémon franchise. And they’re a dirty cheat at monopoly, can’t trust that guy at all. Also likes messing around in photoshop since they had an Instagram and needed to learn how to look like they badly photoshopped themselves into looking like a bug fairy thing.

Philza is seen doing a lot of meditating*, which is good for an embodiment of wrath. He’s probably picked up thousands of hobbies at one time or another. On speculation, he’s drawn to hobbies that involve fire and absolutely adores how creative humans are. Like part of Phil becoming a person was deffo influenced by humans changing the symbolic meaning of fire to include creation and protection. So metal work, glassblowing, anything with a combustion engine, etc. Philza was absolutely invested in the space race to an inordinate degree since they’re going into space with ROCKETS! He’s into cooking* and has a lot of random recipes that are nostalgic and tied to previous Collected. I can also see him doing a bonsai tree thing but like with a whole forest. Like sculpting how it grows over a few centuries. Ever see tree braiding?

I’m not sure if The Blade necessarily likes playing video games? I think he views it as a safe way to let The Blood God and voices go ham and appease their cries for slaughter. So it’s more The Blade disassociating while The Blood God plays, so I guess that makes video games his hobby instead. The Blood God finds it a little demeaning of his capabilities but at least The Blade is letting him out? His hooves and size would make it somewhat difficult, so probably tends towards turn based strategy games. The Blade does not let anyone around him when gaming for safety. The Blade personally prefers reading*, which is like narrating for an audience. The voices get really into it, and The Blade gets goofy and dramatic with it. It is difficult without his glasses tho given pigs are hyperopic.

Tommy likes video games, watching scary movies his mum forbid, and goofing around with his friends. He also gets into drawing at the Foundation using either his Red or Ros’ crayons. Not uh good at it but still it’s enrichment.

Wilbur has music* and that kinda it. A bit of a risk with instruments, given that’s extra weight to carry and the void could eat it but after a few messy obliterations over scratches the void has gotten the memo kinda. Wilbur likes the act of creating stuff to spit in the face of the void, but anything it makes runs the risk of eventually getting eaten by the void, which would really upset it. But music itself isn’t a physical object and so is safer. It’s a big coping mechanism for him to help calm down and control the void. The Foundation tried to ruin music for him but it didn’t work.

3.Tubbos wide array of hobbies would mesh well with Philza’s, and the gardening already aligns with the forest maintenance I hypothesized.

The Blade can’t meditate. He just can’t. He and Phil have a convo about it in the whumptober prompts thing since he’s frustrated meditating isn’t working and Phil just blinks and is like ‘? Why would my coping mechanisms be tailored to you? Come on mate let’s find something suited for you.’ All the fire related hobbies would also be no bueno bc he is very fluffy and very flammable. Might go for cooking tho, but on the whole he’s lazy and can just eat things raw so why bother.

Video games work out for Tommy, though I don’t think he’d be a fan of strat games. Reading is tricky with Red though, he needs someone else to hold a book. There’s a deleted scene where Tubbo and Tommy help each other read a book between the Red and dyslexia, with The Blade spoiling things and the pair getting salty.

Video games would drive Wilbur crazy since it doesn’t have the cultural background for them at all. Ever seen a grandparent try to play Minecraft? Plus he doesn’t like staying still in one place too long. Maybe a DS would work until the void tries to eat the cartridge. Scary movies don’t do anything to Wilbur because he IS a scary movie. And drawings are the worse for it since 1. Probably accidentally incorporates an evil rune subconsciously and gets cursed 2. Paper is Tastey snacc for void and prone to getting snapped up.

Tubbo canonically is bad at singing. I get the vibe Rosalind played the viola in middle school ? Sheet music can be rough on dyslexia though you can do stuff like use colored highlighters for different notes, though I don’t think Wil uses sheet music. They’d try to figure out simple tunes, very basic stuff. Tubbo wouldn’t be good but they’d have fun and annoy Wilbur.

4.There is the problem of photos getting eaten. I think he could convince the void that the camera itself is a dangerous creature that could vaporize them in a single flash of light if threatened. But if it could get the photos safe it would be a really good thing to help with its memory. Like visible proof xyz happened. Though I imagine what Wilbur and a human think is worth photographing is very different. Wilbur would have a blurry picture of a road captioned with something like ‘tastiest asphalt in Indiana’. Picture of random camping site ‘place where Phil admitted I was his favorite (this was not under duress)’. Picture of a lumpy cloud ‘if I got tall enough could I eat a cloud’

5. If Tubbo did beekeeping would that be like Mickey keeping Pluto as a pet.

Wilbur NEEDS to be in theater. Ideal enrichment for its dramatic soul. Interact with humans in a normal setting would be fantastic to work on the racism problem. It’s also the perfect medium for him since a performance is a one time thing that can’t be destroyed after the fact. Its main hold back would be the bad memory, but I think learning to value non survival memories could actually improve its memory and priorities. Theater is like 3 different character arcs for him. Also put him in a hot dog eating contest. I need Joey Chestnut to taste overwhelming loss.

Also put Tommy in an improv troop he needs it. Or therapy. He needs therapy as a hobby.

Alas having fingers holds The Blade back from a lot of things. But I think it would be funny to plop that man in a furry convention and try to scam people into giving him money to also make them giant crazy realistic suits. Would he do this. Never. It would be mean and require talking to a lot of people. However. It would be hysterical.

Back in Philza’s day, you could just be a leviathan monster in the ocean and eat entire whaling ships. But now you can’t anymore. Becuase woke.

[the-acid-pear]

I hit post limit but I'm watching James and the Giant Peach anyway so what about we do it in the style of my Baki liveblogs?

Oh yeah baby this format is coming back. No pics will be taken which makes me sad! But alas...

I think it's worth mentioning i haven't watched this movie since i was a kid so i don't remember anything other than it having a nice vibe

THIS KID IS MADE OUT OF FLESH AND THESE PPL ARE BRITISH. WHADDAHELL...

I was joking w Blood about the family dying after the boat crashes but um. I guess the rhyno won? Whatever THAT means...

I want these aunts to sandwich me they could make me worse

JWDGWKDVJWDV THE FUCKING WARREN WASTELAND 💀💀💀 that's how england looks to me 😍/j

FUCK YEAH FEET REVEAL THESE WOMEN WERE MADE FOR ME‼️

OH IT WAS A REAL RHYNO? 💀

THEY ARE GONNA COOK HIM

The kid is singing. Anyway, that spider def poisonous 💀

This kiddo is depressing bruh

Sings like shit tho ngl

James doesn't know what a poisonous spider looks like but he sure knows how to make a perfect paper balloon first try 💀

Second degree murder 😁👍

THAT DUDE SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME LMAO

SIR YOU ARE A CERTIFIED FREAK

BLINK MOTHERFUCKER

Man is scaring me more than he's scaring James but that's only bc unlike this weird isolated British orphan i was taught about stranger danger

I think James is just having a psychotic breakdown because of all the physical and psychological abuse he has been thru /j

LMAO THIS KID IS A FAILURE

Spiker you are like 180 cm you could get it yourself 😐

The way this peach came to be is both hilarious and cute this tree is winning rn

This movie has extremely funny dialogue i love Spiker sm

THE FAKE ASS TEAR 😭😭😭

Pretty based of them to make the priest pay double NGL

The rhyno threats are fucked up but so goofy bc. It's a fucking rhyno 💀

Maybe they mean the guy from spiderman tho, i mean, they WERE going to New York after all...

Damn i cracked the code

Strong ass kid ate the worm 😨

HEY I REMEMBER THAT MANY HANDED BASTARD I HAD A CRUSH ON HIM OMFG... This feels like seeing an old ex 💀

God i adore these bugs sm they are so shape

This spider is so hot, even hotter than i remembered

KQGWKVDNSGER THIS GUY IS SUCH A JERK I LOVE HIM

Rhinnoceri... I need to fuck this cricket <- guy so horny he forgot the word

THE LADY BUG IS A MILF

Isn't it kinda... Racist, to call another bug a maggot?

This music goes hard

What about da worm........? 🥺

That worm is prob like would u still love me if i was a human?

"now i have two half brothers" 💀💀💀

Didn't realize the bugs were huge. Even MORE culeables!

Omg milves DIED

Nvm girlboss powah

Damn they're actually bleeding tho

THEY ARE IN DA SEA, THAT WORM IS GONNA DIE

Omg he wears glasses cuz he's a worm therefore blind that's so cute

The spider hates this centipede sm 💀

LTDJEHSDJ I'M SURE THEY DO CENTIPEDE

This movie is just a bunch of European immigrants falling for the American dream

EVERYONE HATES THIS CENTIPEDE SM LMAO

This is abuse of the disabled

KSHDJDJZHZKGXG WORM ILY

Sick ass shark ngl

Do you think earthworm and centipede ever explored each other's bodies?

This is animal abuse

Oh he's from Brooklyn that's cute 🥺

AT THE SPENCE OF HIS LIFE, JAMES. STOP TRYING TO DOWNPLAY HIS TRAUMA!!

Maybe they do have a point tho

THE CRICKET IS A GILF⁉️ :Y

Worm deadass said 🥵

I thought they knew but were carnivorous what a bunch of fucking idiots. Bet they are doing this only to make James feel better about himself...

Well Mr centipide that's bc you didn't taste this c-

Sorry.

These idiots are gonna eat da whole peach -_-

OH POODLES AS IN WATER NOT DOGS OK...

...OR MAYBE HE MEANT DOGS? ARE CRICKETS CARNIVOROUS???

These bitches r getting drunk 💀

We got peach'd

WORM IS FAT LMAO 🥺

Girlie they are all nice to you too, maybe tad bit obnoxious but not MEAN.

THIS KID IS THREATENING TO KILL HIMSELF 💀

This is one of the coolest dream scenes I've ever seen

I bet his parents are alive and just abandoned him /j

CRICKET JUST CALLED CENTIPIDE AND ASS

They made a fucking dick joke I'm. Gonna fucking die.

They are gonna fuckin kill my man

JAMES... BABY......

THE CRICKET GOING 😱 LMAO

CRICKET KICKED HIM IN THE FACE HOLY FUCK

Look i know he lied but these people have no fucking mercy... They are literally gonna make him and ME cry..... ...... ..

NO. THATS SO FUCKED UP THIS MOVIE IS SO FUCKED UP THIS MESSAGE IS SO FUCKED UP.

"he's commiting pesticide!" I'm gonna shit myself

LMAO HE ADMITTED IT WAS HIS FAULT good.

WORM BABY PLEASE WJDGJAVECEBF DONT SAY HELPED 💀💀💀💀💀

Ladybug just spanked spider, Kinky

Literally no hurry at all my man is just walking like it's an afternoon in the park

Lmao nice Jack cameo

They are gonna kill my man, again

HOLY FUCK THEY ARE ACTUALLY TRYING TO KILL HIM

"hey that one felt pretty good!" He gets it.

I love him for his American swag

KILLING HIM FR

OH THANK YOU LADY THANK YOU... 😭

MY KINGGFGGG ITXJFgsheaysrsudruddi 💥

Stop being homophobic worm let them kiss too

Aw worm got the hat kdjdthjf 🥺

SPIDER N LADYBUG ARE DOING LESBIANISM TOGETHER...

OMG HE'S A GRASSHOPPER NOT A CRICKET 😭😭

Too long of a name tho sticking to calling him cricket -_-

They are fucking

This grasshopper is fucking racist...

This movie is so lovely they are his family man... ;;

God Ms spider i think i hauve covid

This kid is definitely just dead on his yard hallucinating btw /j

THEY WON'T ALWAYS BE TOGETHER STOP B4 I CRY...

DA RHYNO NOOO......!!!!!!!!

ANYTHING BUT JERSEY WJCSJSFSHSF

I'M GONNA FUCKIN CRY Y'ALL

HIS FRIENDSSSSS 😭😭😭😭

This is so sad Alexa play Despacito

How did he lose the tie? 💀

EL LECHERO LMAO

Hang on, they weren't in England? They were in America? How did the aunts make it here in that beaten old car?

AH NVM THEY WENT THRU THE WATER LMAO

YEAH SAME JAMES NO SHIT

Before photoshop existed lol

THEY ARE GASLIGHTING THIS CHILD

HEY WHAT'S UP FREAKY OLD MAN!

Shut up James 💀

JAMES SNAPS!?

FUCK YEAH LITTLE BOY!!!

MURDER ATTEMPT 💀💀💀

Second degree murder 😁👍

OOOOHHHH?????

GQNWG KEGSJDVQNS YEAAAAHHHHHH LET'S FYCJING GOOOOO

SICK EM BOYS, RIGHT IN FROM OF THE CROWD 💀

PUBLIC EXECUTION LMAO

Wig

Those women are dying dudes ...

"god bless the colonies" glow-worm lady... 💀

"go ahead!" A hero of the people, communist icon

This movie is gonna make me happy cry look at my guys and James...

SICK ASS SEED

Best found family tale ever what a fucking win.

Well freaky little man you are kinda fine when not talking to little boys in the dark of night ngl

AJDVSNDVNDBR CENTIPIDE FOR PRESIDENT WOULD VOTE‼️

Oooojlhhlhndnbggvt WORM GETTING EM LADIES FUCK YEAH 🥴

God this is so pretty everyone is thriving and they are friends and it was all real and shit omfg 😭💞

The ending song is so good too... 🥺

OH POST CREDITS!!

Abuse revenge heaven 💀

WELL WASN'T THAT FUCKING LOVELY? MAYBE THE BRI ISH AINT SO BAD AFTER ALL... Time for some final thoughts! 😁💞

AAAAUAHGNGNMGBGMGNGNGH BROOOTHER WHEN I TELL YOU I LOVED THIS MOVIE... IT WAS SO FUCKING LOVELY.

I did not only love every single fucking character present here, but the designs and the music and the animation god, AND HELL THE HUMOR TOO!! Fucking caught me off guard more than once ngl, but it was great 💀💀

And of course, the thing i loved THE most is having a found family not be separated... :']]

I think this movie does a great job portraying abuse and trauma and PTSD in a very child friendly manner, the lessons it puts there are quite lovely tbh. I wish we could've seen more characters get developed tho!! The two who got the most relevancy and depth were grasshopper and centipide which tbh is ok bc i love them but a little lesson from all of the characters would've been nice too... 🥺

There's, however, a big elephant in the room that i gotta acknowledge, and that is the aunts. As y'all might have realized, my carnal desire for them surpasses my logical brain and makes me overlook the abuse they put James thru which quite honestly parallels my own real one.

I'm speaking w a British accent in my mind alright fucking cringe anyway, aside from the most obvious reason, that being my rampant lust and homosexual tendencies, i wish they hadn't tried to make the characters ugly = evil.

Like idk i think they were kinda bland! I couldn't take their villainous portrayal seriously when most of the time it was like "haha isn't it devious how ugly these old women are??" Like no i need them to ruin me.

I think I'm just a bit disoriented i think blood might not be coming to my head, y'all tell me if I'm making any sense...

Anyway, overall, is this movie good? OF THE BEST I'VE SEEN IN A WHILE if not for a bit of lost potential it would have been absolutely perfect!! And yesss, of course i recommend it!! It's such a fun time w such a rewarding end :'33 truly wonderful 🦗

[am-x-reader]

ayo, m' the dude who req'ed for the pop culture one and honestly i LOVED IT aaaa solid 10/10 would become a soft jelly thing again. also if you dont mind another idea, but how about one where the reader doesnt react when am tortures them, so he takes it as a challenge, but when he does he feels guilty because its not fun when Y/N actually reacts. ty tho for the first one i am geeking over it rn aaaaaa

((This one gets a tad dark.))

---

"So, the bugs, the filth, the electrocution, and you've come out with nary a flinch." AM regarded his most difficult prisoner with annoyance and intrigue.

You had an odd relationship with your captor (not that anyone had a normal relationship with him). You had known for a long time that you were his favorite human. He liked your candor, your empathy--and your resilience. You bounced back from his tortures with a superhuman ease. Sure you yelped somewhat and gritted your teeth, but you somehow managed to power through maelstroms and blizzards alike. It had become a game between you and the computer to break you, and you wouldn't admit you dreaded what he was thinking up.

To keep the challenge going, AM had foregone delving into your mind to find the secret behind your stoicism. Little did he know, it was him, in a way. As long as you were able to focus on his steel walls or circuit boards, you could remind yourself that every torment would end. It was just an immature computer throwing a tantrum and he'd grow bored with it soon enough.

"Still kicking after a hurricane?" Barbed wires manifested and bound your arms and legs. "I truly have to respect that. But alas, the show must go on."

You studied a control panel mounted high on the wall as the barbs ripped into you. It was almost...invigorating. You laughed, a tired and moderately insane laugh as you zeroed in on buttons and switches. You briefly saw the ends of two needles flying straight for your face--

A sick puncturing sound, and hot blood spilled out of your eyes. You shrieked into the darkness.

"Ha, gotcha, didn't I?" His cackling filled your ears. He released you from the wire and removed the needles, allowing you to crumple on the floor. "Can't believe I didn't think of this before."

You couldn't breathe. You dug your shredded nails into dusty metal, grabbing for something to focus on again. You clutched at your blind face, gasping.

Well, AM had never seen you like this.

"Aw, come now, don't be a sore loser. Here, as a consolation prize--"

Light entered your eyes again as your wounds closed with a strange tickle. But even though he had granted you your sight again, you hardly seemed to pay attention as your wails echoed in the cavern.

AM could not explain why it made him uneasy, hearing a human cry in terror. Certainly, this one was his very favorite and the only one to offer any sort of camaraderie to him (actually wanting to play a game with him, and such a grisly one at that), but they were still just a human.

"Enough. I'm being very patient in letting you have your pity party. Now be quiet." He considered removing your mouth, but you would only feel worse then, and by extension he would as well.

It was only when your sobs died down a while later that he realized begrudgingly that you had in some way bested him.

You nearly tripped on the meal of one single uncooked potato that awaited you, branded with the word "Winner" in a comical font. Not much, but much more than another human could hope for.

You murmured "Thank you" as you ate it, and AM's nerves came to a rest.

[glambots]

#TAKE THEM HOME WITH YOU. GIVE THEM SOUP. LET THEM SLEEP IN UR BED. MAKE THEM CRY BC IT'S BEEN LITERAL YEARS SINCE ANYONE HAS PUT SO MUCH#EFFORT INTO BEING KIND TO THEM. DON'T SAY ANYTHING WHEN SUN STEALS UR FLUFFY PAJAMA PANTS. LET MOON HANG OUT WITH YOU IN THE KITCHEN.#I LOVE THE HUMAN AU. SO MUCH. PUT THOSE BLORBOS IN A /SITUATION!!!!!!!/ God okay but. wanna bet after Y/N lets them crash at their place

#Sun starts getting sick On Purpose. he sneezes Once and is all 'Oh Woe Is Me!! 😩 It Seems I Have Once Again ;) Fallen III 🤒😷 So TERRIBLY#Sick I Guess I Just Have To SUFFER 😩😔🤧 In My COLD COLD Room All By My LONESOME!! With Nobody To Soothe My AILS Or Pet My Hair When I'm#FEVERISH Oh Poor POOR Sun!!! (nudges Moon 😉🤫) Oh!! The Torment!!' meanwhile Moon is playing along but Subtly. Hes not the type to throw#himself to the floor in a Swoon but he will ABSOLUTELY guilt trip you however he can. He'll make it seem like You're the one begging Them#to come back. before wandering off to do God Knows What to whoever might be around the pizzaplex when they Really Shouldn't Be. His whole

#Spiel would be smth like 'daaawww poor little Lamb. aaall alooone in their house with no one to taaalk to and no one to plaaay with. Its a#Shaaaame Sun and I are so Busy here in the daycare. Otherwise we'd be Certain to have sooo much Fun together. Truuuly A Shaaame. Well. I'd#better finish wooorking. I hooope when you get home to your apartment you won't Miss Us Toooo Terriblyy :)' by the end of the conversation#you're not sure if Moon is trying to intimidate you a little or if he genuinely thinks that you miss them That Badly. Doesn't help that

#this conversation takes place in a dark hallway where you can't fully see Moon's face. the kicker is that every time they're sick you#invite them back over. They don't Have To go thru this whole song and dance but they do it anyways bc they're Jesters. What Else Could You#Possibly Expect From Them. The Facade is Broken when they're invited over for dinner and boardgames without even being Sick. Trying to#track Moon down when he knew you were looking for him was nigh impossible tho. Once you got a hold of him and asked if he'd like to come

#over for dinner he simply grunted before sauntering away. No Response. Sun had agreed to it before you'd even fully gotten the word Dinner#out of your mouth. Surprisingly when they show up its obvious they'd tried to clean up a bit with Sun having brushed his hair out so it's#not as Messy altho it still stuck out in Every Direction. Moon looks exhausted but smells like he'd taken a shower before he'd arrived.

#When u get food set out they eat like a pack of wolves but still make it a point to help you clean up afterwards and play board games long#into the night until you're yawning and trying not to nod off during your latest game (that Sun has already won four or five times already)#before Sun asks if he can crash on your couch. Moon hisses smth at him about Being Rude but you'd figured Sun would wanna stay over and#lead him off to your room to get settled in for the night. Moon looks almost sheepish in your kitchen. Like He's Not Quite Sure What To Do.

#In the end you offer to let him borrow some of your clothes to sleep in but he seems like he's uncomfortable with the prospect so you two#just watch late night television on your couch. if he nods off against your arm while you doze you don't mention it in the morning :)

#please let Sun 'Borrow' a blanket bc it's warm and smells nice. Pls let Moon steal one of ur pillows. Please give them a hug. They need it.#had I the Attention Span I'd actually write a fic for this But Alas.#anyways Tobi I adore the human au. its super cute if not a little Horrifying bc of the conditions they're livin in.#bug barks#bug writes

Human au DCAs getting sick but you're standing by the door repeatedly telling them to go home

Sun repeatedly attempts to just step over you

Jokes on you, they live in that little alcove above the Daycare. And all they've got up there is a dirty, beat-up mattress, a spare blanket they borrowed (stole) from the kids' supplies, and a busted, tiny-ass vanity with a broken mirror. But it's better than nothing, right?

[castielchitaqua]

kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R         my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

[himboholhorse-moving]

1 2 4 7 8 9 13 18 20 26 27 29 30 32 39 40 41 43/44 45 46 49 51 53 55 56 57 59 63 65 that is. so many dghsdghsdgv I'm sorry I just see an ask meme and go crazy aaaa go stupid aaaa. You can just answer whichever u like from those!! also 69(nice): you seem rly nice and funny from your 🅱️osts and I appreciate u... I hope you can find better irl friends who aren't trash

HDSKFJKS I completely understand but lucky for u I LOVE to talk !!

1) How are you?

Pretty good, actually!! Which is a nice change of pace. I went to Walmart with some friends yesterday and got a few things, baked a family recipe that my friends LOVE, and finally did my laundry (it’s been a couple weeks we love depression and executive dysfunction dfhkjsfd). I went to Cracker Barrel with some friends and earlier and played a 4-way game of Tetris after. :3c

2) Post a picture of yourself.

Here you go !!

4) What is your entire name?

Sierra Alexis and my last name is something constantly misspelled so I’ll give you the name of a historical figure whose name is a letter off from mine: George B. McClellan, to whom I may or may not be related because last name variations are fuckin’ WEIRD.

7) Your zodiac/horoscope and if you think it fits your personality.

I’m a Capricorn sun and moon, and Libra rising !! And from what I’ve read on Twitter from various astrologers, like Milkstrology, I LOVE her, I’d say it’s pretty accurate with my personality!! I like to say Capricorn’s aren’t cold bitches but, I Have A Tendency To Be One !!

8) What did you do on your last birthday?

God what DID I do on my last birthday… it was in January, so like, I SHOULD remember… OH I went to IHOP with my friends !! I share a birthday with another friend and I got a JoJo notebook and something called a Fuggler! They’re stuffed animals more or less but designed to be “ugly.” I got one that looks like Philadelphia Flyers mascot Gritty because I LOVE Gritty… he’s so fun and funky.

9) What is one thing you’d like to accomplish before your next birthday?

Get all my requests in my inbox over on my writing blog done KJHFDJKSF it’s been a few months and life has been. Hectic to say the least.

13) If you could change your eye color, would you?

There’s so much weird as hell brown-eye-phobia so like… I think blue eyes would be pretty neat. OR PURPLE… give me some unnatural eye colors pls...

18) Do you have any tattoos?

Not yet!! I’m going to get one the next time I go back home for break. :3c And I have a few ideas for other ones!! I wanna get a big-ass “Dragon Age: Origins” tattoo that’s the dragon on the cover on my thigh. I also wanna get a DA2 and “Inquisition” tattoo… and the Joestar birthmark… too many ideas… 

20) Left or right handed?

Right-handed !! I could have been left-handed or ambidextrous if I broke my arm AFTER I started kindergarten, but alas that was before.

26) Something you are working on right now:

This !! But also the script for my next podcast episode that I record on uhhh Monday I think. Should probably figure that one out dsjfjhsf

27) Do you have any “rules” about food?

I answered that in the last ask !!

29) What would you say is your best quality?

I also answered this in the last ask !!

30) What do you think you’re really good at?

Writing, I’d say! And memorizing trivia about the stuff I’m super into. If it’s stuff pertaining to “M*A*S*H” or old movies or TV shows or actors or specific historical events, I will know that shit FOR LIFE. Don’t ask me to do math pls thank u

32) What talent do you wish you’d been born with?

I wish I was able to do stuff with music. That was never really in my blood, despite all the music classes they make you take in elementary school. I just never learned how to memorize or read sheet music. :/ I would have loved to play violin, tho… my friend plays and she says I would have been a good cellist.

39) Do you sleep with a stuffed toy?

YES… have for years. I still have my Care Bear from when I was 5, Gritty as mentioned above, a plush of my school’s mascot, and a little Fugo !! He’s so tiny.

40) What do you think about the most?

Everything and constantly and all at once. But the past really because I can never let stuff go and even the small things I mess up on haunt me forever… Wish that wasn’t the case but it is !!

41) Share two habits:

Biting my nails and having a very specific routine in which I get ready when I wake up. Like, I’ve gotta go brush my hair before I put my important cards in my left pocket, then put on my silver bracelet, then my beaded bracelet, then my earbuds in my right pocket, then put my earrings in. I HAVE to do it in that order…

And other oddities that include, like, if I need to go around something I HAVE to follow the urge to go one way and not the other, lest I feel the need to go back and fix it. And then which foot goes first before I reach a crack in the sidewalk, or up or down a curb, etc.

43) What are your career goals?

If I can just make people happy or get some kind of joy out of the things I do, I’d call that enough. :)

44) What is your ideal career?

Mmm, either a film historian or a film professor !! Preferably at the college I’m at right now but wherever the wind takes me, I’ll go! Or a Twitch streamer or YouTuber, it really depends on my mood jdhfjskf

45) Is your life anything like it was two years ago?

It was pretty much the same !! Freshman year was pretty lively, I didn’t have a job on campus yet though, or my podcast. Everything else is basically the same!

46) Do you replay things that have happened in your head?

CONSTANTLY… good or bad it’ll play back over and over and over again.

49) Do you have any phobias?

HOO BOY, DO I… fear of heights; fear of insects/bugs/arachnids/bees/wasps; I have a strong dislike of the number 13 but I don’t know if it’s a phobia, I just. REALLY hate it; the unknown, more or less what lurks somewhere beyond where I can see. Not so much a fear of the dark with that one, just what could BE in it.

51) Are you allergic to anything? If so, what?

I answered this in my last ask, as well!

53) Ever come close to death?

Two or three times, maybe? Two of them involved what’s called a laryngospasm, typically it can happen when your sick, which is what happened to me both times. Basically your throat just closes up on your for a hot minute and you can’t breathe. The first time I genuinely thought I was going to die (and my dad still sent me to school that day… HOE), the second time I was also sick and was losing/had lost my voice DURING A JOB RETREAT and it happened in the middle of the night so that was funny sitting there gasping for breath in the pitch dark.

At the FIRST retreat I went on for that job, you had to take pictures as part of a scavenger hunt, and the place used to be an old military fort, so there were still the old bunkers there. We had to take one on top of it and I was taking the picture, and it’s a wide shot so I go to take a step back but before I do I look behind me. If I hadn’t I would have fallen a good 10-15 feet down onto solid Civil War-era bunker concrete. I’d consider that being a “close to death” moment because I really could have died!

55) A random fact about yourself:

I have a half-brother !! My sis and I finally found him after her 23andMe results came back (which she decided to do despite us being like THE GOVERNMENT WILL COLLECT OUR DATA) and we didn’t think our mom would be happy she found him but she was !! My sis might reach out and contact him, she just wanted our mom’s permission first to do it.

56) What are three things most people don’t know about you?

Well, that I have a half-brother. I don’t mention it a lot. Aside from y’all on here and my sister, most everyone else doesn’t know I’m nonbinary! Everyone else knows I’m bi though lmao. And that there were times I’d stretch or bend the truth or lie about something just to impress someone else. It’s a… Bad Habit. Another thing is that most people don’t know I like coffee? Like I need to put a shit ton of creamer in with it because I’m a Bitch, but yeah.

57) An unknown fact about your life:

I wouldn’t call this an “unknown” fact but I’d used to go to work with my dad every now and again when he worked at the Home Depot and he was assistant manager. I’d either chill in the back room which was an office he shared with two other guys, or walk around the store with him. I had my own apron, too, which was my name with “Mini Mac” next to it, “Mac” being my dad’s nickname and something easier to say than my last name. I actually helped a few customers out so I wonder if I should have gotten paid for that despite being like, ages 9-13 when I’d go jshfkjd

And I guess I technically tested video games as a kid? Basically, when my dad was stationed at Fort Knox, they’d get demos of video games that hadn’t come out yet to test I suppose? and I still have a few somewhere. He’d hand them off to me and I’d play them so there’s that.

59) Five weird things that you like:

Eating globs of wasabi for no reason.

Scaring my friends also for no reason.

I wouldn’t say using cotton swabs to get wax out of your ears because it feels good is weird, just more medically inadvisable if anything.

When I was younger I’d like to floss really hard because the slight pain from it felt good. Young me was a #Freaque KJHDFJJDHF

I don’t know if being fond of alphabetizing and reorganizing things is considered weird but I LOVE doing that.

63) A quote you try to live by:

“It matters not how strait the gate, / How charged with punishments the scroll; / I am the master of my fate: / I am the captain of my soul.” It’s from the poem “Invictus” and the last two lines are what I’m getting tattooed !!

65) Weird things you do when you’re alone:

Practice the “Lucky Star” dance. I GOT THE LYRICS DOWN… JUST NEED TO DO THE DANCE NOW…

69) Leave me a compliment:

“you seem rly nice and funny from your 🅱️osts and I appreciate u... I hope you can find better irl friends who aren't trash”

Anon pls 🥺 I do my best to be nice but my friend really do test me sometimes... my feelings bounce back n forth like if they do something my feelings can switch to angry or like, hate, and then if they do something nice I’ll like them again. It sucks but ! I just take it one day at a time. Anon I care for u 💜💜💜

[gsmatthews95]

Macedonia? Or is it north Macedonia? Hmmmm

Another day another blog post. Yes I am writing again, this one less out of excitement and a desire to educate my readers but to make sure I dont forget visiting the country thats name seems in the unenviable and inevitable position if needing to be changed to placate the angry Greeks. This, all to join the organisation Britain is fighting tooth and nail losing out on millions of pounds to leave. The irony. Yes we've left Macedonia now as we're in Bulgaria safe and sound. This will be a brief post as we did little owing to time pressures and illness. That brings me nicely to my current situation. I'm sat here outside a doctors surgery as Alina is getting her stomach checked for an ailment that is hitherto undiagnosed. We've had ideas that it may be a bug, a tumor or an organ infection (not a very exhaustive nor appetising list of potential maladies to have). We have also predicted her lifeline to be hours, days, years or maybe even millennia if the Bulgarian hospital system is so good it is currently working on eternal life. But who knows. I'll probs know in about five minutes. I'm not confident they are tho, but I'm also quire confident Alina's life expectancy is more than a few days. But I digress.

Yes, our time in Macedonia was brief and relatively unremarkable. We visited lake ohrid and skopja before leaving and this to.e was thwarted by an inability to be too active due to sickness, this is no great issue tho as Macedonia isn't the biggest or most exciting country in the world. Our time there however, began in quite amusing fashion on the back of the journey from sarande to ohrid, the journey I wrote my Albania pieces on. I say amusing... It was a long day... Very long. It worked out at a cool 11.5 hours of travelling. Eeeeewww. It was a slog, I'd actually forgotten how long it was tbh, now just recollecting it I'm remembering the length and sweatiness etc. So it began with a journey to a town beginning with r (the leg I posted from) then it was a hitchhike to a roundabout from a stop at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. This was followed by another hitchhike from the roundabout, we were sat on a motorway roundabout hitchhiking. Let that sink in. It was ridiculous but amusing nonetheless. We then chilled in el basan for a bit and got food before deciding to hitchhike the remaining journey because wed have had to wait 3 hours for the bus. This brought upon us the most eventful leg. We were picked up by a 27 year old guy in a VW golf sport and his little brother. We were driving, he was driving, very fast. I say this and don't mean it lightly. I think he clocked up 180km/h at one point. This was on a single carriageway with turns. We were terrified. Fearing death I proceeded to put my belt on subtlety and have normal conversation. He'd overtake every car at the last second, literally from less than a foot behind them he'd swerve out and bomb in down the road. I glanced at alina, she gave me a steely look back, I didn't want to hear her verdict... Then just before we were getting out he proceeded to ask if we smoked weed. My worst fears confirmed... They were both stoned. Lord Almighty. While I felt safe my tensions rose and we couldn't wait to be out although it must be said we did get a good chunk of the journey out of the way in that half an hour. This left us near the Macedonian border at maybe 3:30. The day was getting late and we were desperate for the last lift. We had no luck but then a bus came past and we jumped in as it drove us to the town before the border. While trying to find a lift to struga on lake ohrid our bus driver, it turned out, was getting a lift there in half an hour. Easy, €5 for the two of us and we were there. Sadly it was not this easy (it never is). Finally the car came. We jumped in and he drove us all to a garage where he began to fix the car... Really? Now? Not tomorrow? Please just get us there. There was no panic, just exasperation at this point. After another 20 minutes we left. Wicked, all we had was the border crossing and we were in the home stretch. He then proceeds to stop at another garage to chat to some guys and to the best of our knowledge pick up another man. Luckily for us (as we were crammed In the back) he didnt pick him up. We drove on up the mountains to the border, this was when the car began to give up on us. It clunked, semi stalled and whined willing us to stop. We persevered. We climbed the mountain in painstakingly slow fashion but alas, we made it. This was when the real magic happened. Waiting for our turn we mused and consulted each other on a poster next to the border guards office. It was a poster of two handcuffed hands poking thru some bars and said (in Albanian) something along the lines of "no to corruption". Then we moved forward and the guys in the front gave our passports to the birder guard. They talked and he gave over some documents and some money. He let us thru, very simple indeed and it was on to the Macedonian side. Same again, over go the passports. The guard gets aggressive. Something to do with us, we're very in the dark however, and the driver says something about tourists. The border guard shouts. Our drivers panic, grab some money put it in the documents and hand them over.... I snigger in amazement. The guard gives back the passports and we were thru ahahahah. Our drivers, we think, had been  done for not being an official taxi and had bribed both security guards to get us over, lol. Which surely must have cost them more than our agreed €5. It was great, especially as it came 10 metres after the anti corruption posters. Amazing. The last part of this journey ended in similarly incredulous and amusing fashion as they tried to drop us off 2km before our hotel for the night. We argued and got them to drive the extra 3 minutes to get us there. We'd made it. After a long old day we'd made it. Now I can tell you what we actually did in Macedonia now.

As previously stated illness thwarted our time in struga on lake ohrid as Alina felt grim the whole time. Side note she is now in a proper hospital (not just a clinic) having just had an ultrasound to work out if there is a problem in her stomach area. This is the next day by the way, I only wrote parr of the article yesterday because the examination wasn't very long. We hope there is no issue but we'll find out in ten minutes or so. Yes so we did little on the lake except for one day I went for a trip to ohrid town and charged around trying to see everything touristy in a few hours so I could be back in good time. Dont worry i saw it all, the monastery on the lake, the castle, the views, the old town, the bazaar and I even went for a swim. It was all beaut. Apart from that our time was highly uneventful and we chilled.

Next up was skopje, the capital city of Macedonia. We had a good few days there still plighted by illness. One thing that stood out about Skopje was the number of statues. There are hundreds. They come in ALL forms representing ALL of society. I've never seen anything like it, at one point we were stood next to a park and I could see 12 statues around me. They have them dedicated to shoes, mums, dancers, war heroes, politicians, couples, lions, workers, literally anything you can imagine: they will have a statue of it. Its mad, seriously. Anyhow apart from that we went to matka canyon as you can see from my previous post which was lush and the boat tour was very picturesque and atmospheric. Yep so there is little to say about our time in Macedonia but I'm happy I'm banged this piece out anyway.

We have had the news on Alina and she needs surgery for what we think is appendicitis. Although with the broken English we aren't 100% sure.

It should all be fine as she has the surgery tonight, by the time I post this it'll probs all be done. #Pray4Alina

This will probably inevitably lead to me to writing a piece about hospitals and the NHS and having issues abroad. Especially if I have time to kill while waiting for the surgery. Fingers crossed.

G.