Acronyms: Small Forms of Resistance #1

Once upon a time acronyms perhaps seemed exciting, of the future, nothing to do with stuffy formalised conversations or over-long names. I dread them. Every one I see seems dissociated from what it represents … schools and colleges whose names are reduced to admissions friendly  locator scripts; medical interventions and psychiatric conditions that do nothing to help me remember they concern lives. ADHD as like a chemical compound, a thing in itself, rather than a way of describing manic levels of activity. Acronyms take the sting out of death without even the awful dissonance of a euphemism: PAS, DAS, VE, AS, ASFRA, or EDAS. They root me to whichever institution holds the upper hand in deciding what needs to be done in response to some form of human activity. If you want to know about ADHD look in the DSM. Abandon acronyms. They’re on the side of death and tyranny.

Balloona Who Love Moona

My name is Balloona,
I rise up in the night,
And I purr near Moona,
Like me is lovely white.

I am most dreaming cat,
Who up into the sky,
And go after night-cloud,
And I fly, and I fly.

I love little Moona,
Who I have watch so long,
You silvery, you up,
I wish I could make song.

What is this why we rise?
You Moona bird and I,
What is you lovely Moona?
I love you make me cry.

Fear

or Things You Can Do With Fear.

Sometimes I find people hard to be around and it isn’t easy to work out why. Often I find a feeling that leads me to think of what’s occurring between myself and them as not quite real – that there’s something cartoonish happening, almost. The feeling is of fear, a particular feeling of fear, in the way that the bark on various kinds of tree can be so very different.
        Why am I’m thinking of fear and bark together like this?
        I thrive on this kind of question. It tends to take me to places that my thoughts don’t naturally go. So I think about how, when I was very young, my father used to have a dog that terrified me, that barked a lot, and that back then I often thought about my father as if he were a cartoon. As I got older I started seeing him as he was, but he still seemed to think about me in ways that never seemed to extend beyond something very basic, like a sketch of me he’d drawn once, at a distance. There was something very true about it and something extremely limited. I might as well have been frozen in space: easy to remember and indestructible.
        The fear that I feel around people when I start sensing something cartoonish is going on (and cartoons allow for some very disturbing thoughts to be had amusingly, harmlessly and without getting into what isn’t a cartoon: flesh and blood for example, someone or something so fragile they are real) reminds me that I, the real me, might be the last person actually on someone else’s mind. I suspect that in some way they are very scared and might prefer not to imagine me as more than a glyph.
        Who I am to them remains to be seen … but I feel a degree of confidence that I’m trying to remain open to who they could be.

Note: The dog was given away. The first time, I was told by my mother, the owners returned him because he seemed to be barking at ghosts.