No, I Will Not Be Celebrating Christmas Here This Year – Again

December 8, 2018

 

How did that feel, world?  The absence of me here every day writing and in your life?  Fine?  Ok?  Then, end the show.

No, I will not be celebrating Christmas here this year, again.  Every week I go to work with the Chelsea and Chris combination to hear them conspire in my head while I am diligently working.  Placing my employment in jeopardy to contrive a lame and dumb script.

Chelsea last week walked over to me to tell me my number for the week saying verbal positive because I had just identified the woman responsible for a murder.  Whoever Chelsea was that day likes to be yelled at, likes to be scolded, likes to be reprimanded.  She placed her laptop on top of a stack of Amazon boxes knowing I would notice it.  She is trying to live through me, she cannot.

When my Amazon order was delivered days later the box was placed in front of my neighbor’s door and not my own.  I did not pick it up.  I would not pick it up.  It would have sent a message somewhere I was unwilling to do.  Somebody was here stateside that day while someone was in China on the same day.  I was not going to pick up the box and allow it to be in my home while I was at work.

I took off my Norway lanyard where it will stay until I receive the respect I justly deserve because someone was looking for my protection and to send a signal and message.  Didn’t she also plant bombs at the garbage’s at Target in Lakeland and Riverview?  Didn’t she send something that travelled from Canada into New York?

I am sick to death of you self-absorbed and obsessed people.

My cats Tuesday and Thursday are never going to be returned to me.  I am tired of being lied to.

I am never getting my mother back.  I am tired of being lied to.

That purple shirt is only about someone being able to hold power over me, no one will.  Regardless of the number they tell me.

If these two deaths are true, then Chelsea and Chris would have been walked out the door.  Fired.  Because they are responsible for it happening.

If that elderly Chinese man that was being taken care of by a family member in a small village, or town in what appears to be a high-rise or multiple floor of a building his murder was done because of Chelsea and Chris they were hiding behind my family member proxy.  I see two things, one falling down the stairs, and another being shoved out of a door or window up several floors.  I believe they sent him out the window to make sure he died.  He was strong although the was wheelchair bound.  It was done because no one in that building is showing me the proper respect that is the best translation I have.

No, they don’t use proxies.  They think it is absurd, cowardly.

These other two murders if they are true, the Abrams father was done, he was killed, to strike a severe blow.  It was meant to be big, it is the best translation.  What dialogue went on behind the scene, I do not know.  I know that the heavy weighted air is not from the Eel.

The heavy belly, the instant bloat of my stomach, the weight gain trying to use Force from Star Wars as a cover is such a no-no.  Bad manners.  Bad conduct.  It is a lot of things.  The heavy weight is very bad.

No, Cumberland Clerk is not Chelsea and Chris.

They want me to believe that a murder on a pregnant woman was carried out in China over the broken bottle.  If that is true it was done to show you people these teacher rules, this pregnancy storyline, this baby nonsense is criminal to them.  It is the best way to translate that.

I am seen by them as a prisoner.  An innocent being held prisoner.  Yet, they want me to work and work in that building doing the work of finding people like the Eel, reading maps, profiling all of it.

Is the Beef real at all?  Or was it made up because it would have had a connection to celebrities?

Because groupies who hang around celebrities just to be near them and get invited to places celebrities are invited are spotted in an instant by them and seen and dumb and nothings.

I had kept the names out of my writings for the family’s privacy, however it seems I might be the only one to write about it.  The Abrams father in an assistant-living facility was done to be severe.

If this is true, then Clint Eastwood has been lamed with a stroke or something similar from Chelsea and Chris.  It was meant to send a message.  It has nothing to do with the word easy.  It was a message.

However, by keeping Chelsea and Chris even just one of them tells me and other’s the murders and weakening strokes were not and are not real.

If this is not enough, I am dealing with the fact that it looks like now my mother was given a dose of something from those two Spanish girls because David could not stay away from me when he was dating Brianna.  I am not able to get over the image of these two women watching my mother after they poisoned her.

And the last stroke that took my mother away from me was also done under the watch of ceiling mounted cameras at Disney probably because of David calling me there.

I am not sure who is responsible there are so many people and there are so many investigations going on at the same time, I do not have names and faces for all of them.

Did Brianna have friends that just did not make sense?  Was she a different person around them?  Did her taste in clothes, accessories, furnishings, did they just not quite add up or make sense based on the person she was around David?

David and Cherith.  Two Hebrew, Jewish names.  The United States supports Israel.

Courtney does make a nice presentation, doesn’t she?  Yet, she has no je ne sais quoi.  Did David have a hard time when I first moved here because I was wearing make-up every day out and about having a life?  Does he do better when he sees me dumpy, no make-up, and barely making it?  Courtney it seems might be responsible for me no longer food writing or creating food while working because David liked it.

The YouTube videos Brianna and David made of Brianna dying on the kitchen floor is meant to look like me and my surgery.  It is meant to appear as though David and Brianna conspired to cut me open that I was not supposed to live through the surgery.  It is meant to look like the Bluetooth.  I was not meant to live through the car accident.

You have been over-working me just, so you can tell me how to spend my paycheck while I have nothing in my home to make it a home.

You should never have done it to begin with.  Open me up to such persons, you had no idea what you were doing.

That woman that was captured on that night whose idea was it to bring her into my workplace?  She wears nothing but black and white clothes, she is a heavy-set black woman from that same Georgia town as the former President, Jimmy Carter.  She is no solider.

Imagine a person whose whole person is nothing other than a vagina.  Taller than her own person, wider than her own person, and very heavy.  She is nothing more than a vagina, no eyes, no teeth, no hair, no arms, no legs, no body, she is nothing other than a vagina with vaginal lips that curl and scowl, matted pubic hair, tangled, twisted pubic hair it is not clean, beyond the vaginal lips is a mass of dark emptiness that slaps together making noise, causing great discomfort, extreme feelings of unpleasantness (best translation).  There is no joy, no climax, it is objects shoved within, and the personification of herself.

It is truly gross.  This is some person’s idea in how to make soldiers to fight in an undefendable war.

How does that person look to you now?  Knowing they only see themselves in such a way?

I am miles and miles and miles and miles and universes ahead of people.  I hear this out there where people, especially in the military, that were upset that I did not purchase a Virginia or USA lanyard.  However, did you know that my Norway lanyard says, Men, Women, and Children?  It is to says that it does, and I do, and people do, protect Men, Women, and Children.

Did you know that I am working on a massive project that involves agency persons working outside normal parameters to create assets and such?  Using children to create assets?  Abusing children to create assets.  It looks like someone got a hold of research that had been done in Nazi Germany during the war starting it again.  It probably happened to every child in my neighborhood and beyond.  Using brain research in Gresham, Oregon to create assets, and super soldier’s?  Norway.

Norway.  All you must do is believe.  It will cost you nothing.  Cherith meaning a geographical, biblical location.  Cherith meaning safe refuge.  Cherith meaning water.  Gjestland meaning Norway.  The top half of me is not Cherith.  The bottom half of me is not Gjestland.  I am Cherith Gjestland.  Norway.  All you must do is believe.  Free of charge.  No cost.  Believe.

Yet, if those murders are not real because Chelsea and Chris are not fired and walked out the door.  I am better off dead.

The belt is military, I’ve seen it on a tan uniform.  I think it was an Asian military uniform.  It says, neat, trim (not in that manner), efficient, reliable, proper, proportionate.

 

Helga as I saw it, got real intelligence.  However, what I am getting at work is Cherith just wrote squiggly lines.  Because Cherith wrote something, they sent people on a mission that was going to take place anyway and had her believe she did something when she didn’t.

Really, if those murders were real, then you would have fired and walked Chelsea and Chris out the door.  So, if those murders were not real, then there is no point in me writing profiles, like Helga, and there is no point for me to read the news.

I asked, Where’s the Eel?  People freaked out.  I didn’t write that on purpose.  I heard it go around my head from around the world.  People freaked.  They shut it down and turned it off.  They freaked out for days and days if not weeks.  Freaked out.

Yet, you have me placed in such a position that every week I go to work they place this script of, Is Cherith going to be employed by Amazon.  You have me in a position where I am better off dead.

I am so upset about my mother’s murder.  I don’t have the energy for patches.

I am emotionally distraught.

This is the writing I was doing before.  I wrote this after placing my mother in a nursing home in 2012.  I am no longer this person.  The writing is dramatically different.  I see where people went crazy with literal translations of meaning where there are none.

Perhaps people need to be reminded.

 

For The First Time

By, Cherith Gjestland

 

Pushing on the bar that ran the width of the glass door, which led to the outside, the door remained as I found it, unopened.  Holding onto that bar I leaned back all the way to the soles of my feet and rocked on my heels, with the momentum I gave an effusive push and opened the door wide with room to spare.  Free from the door, I walked outside.

I stood in a courtyard of squared concrete, the sun had shifted in the sky leaving long fingered shadows yet keeping the heat and swallowing me with the humidity.  A wooden pergola stood in the middle to offer shade for the concrete picnic table full of picnicker’s invisible from sight.  Hard rectangle slabs of concrete formed benches that surrounded the courtyard where no one sat.  From behind I heard, “Here she is.”  The nurse had brought my mother in her wheelchair.  I told the nurse, “She likes to be outside.”  The nurse looked me in the eyes, but said nothing, and walked away.

She sat in her wheelchair complete with a headrest to keep her head stable.  Pillows had been positioned in the seat to keep her from slumping to one side or the other.  Her PEG-tube, which for some reason was a good four feet extending from her stomach, had been coiled and neatly tucked into her elastic waist band knit pants.  The left side of her lower lip dragged down and allowed saliva to escape and form a tiny pool at the corner of her mouth not much larger than a tear drop.  I still had not gotten used to this newly altered state of my mother’s once perfectly precise and put together appearance.

My mind wandered back to the moment in the kitchen and the image now burned into my brain that replayed on a never-ending loop I couldn’t stop and caused my whole body to seize with terror, my muscles to contract and stiffen as if awaiting an expectant blow.  I knew the moment it happened; I had been at work diligently pounding out the tasks that allowed me to be employed, then something stopped, quietly and without words, I knew, yet did not know, nor did I know what to do.  A persistent pull like a child’s tug at her mother’s skirt hem never left my mind or heart until I finally left work, early and unsure.  When I arrived at my mother’s home, the window in the front porch which allowed welcome guests access into the home’s hub, the kitchen, I saw.  I dropped everything in my hands, even my keys, fumbling to recover the keys and searching for the one key that opened the front door, my heart beat wildly out of control and all I heard was the boom of my blood pumping out of my heart and filling my ears with cacophonous explosions.  I ran into the kitchen taking note of her glasses neatly folded one arm under the other lying upright on the opened oven door, not the door to the large oven that could cook a turkey but the small oven door on top that was used to cook gingersnaps and sugary snickerdoodles, I found my mother lying face down on the over-sized ceramic tile floor.

“Stroke”, the doctor told me with the grace of an East German Olympic athlete during the Cold War, with one word the doctor reduced the whole of my mother, her intelligence, her wit, her beauty, her soul, into a non-thing, a word which was to replace all other adjectives I had ever believed and known about her before.  “I can show you the CAT-Scan, “ the faceless doctor insistently urged in his cold metallic manner because he perceived my reaction as disbelief.  He tried to placate me by placing his fine un-calloused hand on my shoulder; all I felt from him were the flimsy textbook pages from which he had studied for years and the coolness with which he understood it all.  I turned my head and thinned my lips, and with everything in me I resisted the impulse to snap his arm off from his shoulder.

The stroke left one side of her body unable to remember how to work and function, how to step and walk, how to grasp and release, how to chew and swallow, but the real war lay buried deep behind countless steel doors, one shut upon the other, all different sizes, shapes, configurations, and a constant search to find the master key.  Connections in her brain were severed, blocked, malfunctioning, out-of-order, round pegs in square holes trying to find how to fit together again.  She spoke in single words, not in sentences and only sometimes, you had to be there for it to happen because she was not able to repeat it again.  Her hearing was intact, yet the device that allows us all to comprehend and perceive words out of the noise and sounds that fill our ears, was lost.

The air lay stagnant inside the courtyard, I feel the long shadow from the oak tree just beyond the courtyard slice me with its generous shade leaving my feet to be the only part of me lit in the falling sunlight.  I search my mother’s face trying to remember who she was before the metal chair she is sitting in, before her lying face down on the over-sized ceramic tile floor, when she was strong and so capable and like a superhero to me with her ability to find a solution to every single problem I encountered, and I feel myself failing, the crispness of her body has already started to fade, blurring, the edges are no longer traced with a black line.  I begin to wonder who we really were to one another.  She is my mother and I am her daughter, but we weren’t always friends or even friendly at times just like most mothers’ and daughters.  I feel a strange sensation not like nostalgia grip me in the small tidy corners of myself where I keep the stories, I never tell anyone neatly tucked away.

Parts of me covered in shadow are begging to speak, to know, to understand, to tell and share secrets, I don’t feel the desire to reminisce about how my mother would help me fall asleep when I was scared or too excited to want to lie still by taking her finger and tracing a letter on my back and I would guess the letter and eventually the word, or how she taught me to bake bread by kneading the dough with the heel of my hand, or the time she physically shoved me into the room where the Drama club was meeting and slammed the door, forcing me to overcome my irascible shyness and bring out my gregarious giggles that I barely showed anyone.  I want to share with her about the times we didn’t talk to one another.

I remember when puberty came and stole the simple and unaffected language, we used with each other.  My first love was a hard one for my mom to accept.  I fell in love with black eyeliner.  I felt the gap begin to open between us the first day I left for school with my love circled eyes.  Black eyeliner and I were soul mates finally discovering each other, and black eyeliner soon became the only friend I would speak to, confide in, and share secrets with, leaving my mother out.  Quickly followed were the years of flirting with boys trying to figure out that dance, but never really succeeding, or understanding all the dance steps and I soon became convinced that my dutiful and faithful mother’s words, I love you, were merely the words of an actor playing their role.  The rebelliousness of teenage years left a distance between my mother and I that grew into a wide ravine awaiting a flash flood.

Then the day came when he walked into a room and I smiled at him like the little girl I still was, he said he loved me, so I left home for him because I thought this is how I start my own life, and as fast as I walked out the door, I fell away from everything I had ever known.  The next two years I spent moving, always moving away.  I moved seven times because I had to move because his love was a love that hurts.  I found myself walking one day when I saw a police station.  I stopped for a moment staring at the police station on the other side of the street when I decided right then, I could not go in, I turned and went the other way, and just as the police station left my periphery I felt the white-hot metal pour its liquid lava over me, starting at my head, washing over me in waves until it reached my toes and into the ground.  I felt it cauterize every pore, every organ, and every cell to the depths of my soul, and then I kept walking because I knew that was the only way to survive.

Once I was able to walk back to my mother and try talking to her again, I could never tell her my shame and why I always, always, always looked over my shoulder.  It kept a space between use physically and emotionally, yet she was still my dutiful and faithful mother who told me she loved me.

A tiny lizard hurriedly crossed the courtyard and stopped almost dead in front of me; I squatted down to get a better look at him.  His eye tilted upward to get a better look at me.  I turned my gaze toward the interior of the courtyard studying the harsh landscape when I heard my mother say, “I love you.”  She had only spoken about a dozen words in the nearly forty days since her stroke, yet the moment she spoke I dismissed her precious words like one swats away a buzzing fly.  My mind was still concentrating and consumed with myself and what I wanted to say and how could I possibly tell or share anything with my mother anymore when I stopped just for a moment and felt something shift in the deepest part of me, an un-stumbling of blocks, of sands shifting.

My mother, the last person in the world I had left who loved me, yet I ignored and distrusted her and her words.  Then, without warning, I felt a trickle of a thought, who had my mother been before she was my mother?  I knew what she had been, a child, a daughter, a teenager, a young adult, but who had she been?  Did she have dreams that never came true, had she known disappointment, sorrow, hurt, pain, joy beyond motherhood, happiness without regret, blind passion, unbearable forgiveness, sweet satisfying sex, a tender touch that melts the world away?  Had I ever really looked at her beyond the fact of being my mother?  Had I ever loved her beyond being my mother?  Sometimes isn’t that why we say, “I love you” to fill in the gaps that we can’t yet reach?  We know those gaps and spaces exist, yet we fill the holes with those three words until we can mend our own wounded gaps, fill the spaces, or acknowledge our own tidy corners.

Suddenly, for the first time what I heard was not simply, I love you, what I heard was I see you, I believe in you, I see you.  I understood my mother for the first, I began to know my mother for the first time, I started to glimpse my mother for the first time.  I fell to my knees with tears streaming, trying to place all my emotions and hold on to my newly softened understanding, and I felt a sloughing off of all that dead skin I had held so tightly that I never realized had deformed me, the deadened tangled nerves, a labyrinth of dead ends I created to keep anyone including myself from finding, me.

I walked over to my mother, I gently brushed away the hair from her forehead, and I kissed her cheek and said, knowing even as I said these words that she could hear me, but she would not understand me, “I love you.”

I stepped behind her wheelchair, grabbed a hold of the handles and rocked back on my heels and pushed until the wheels in the wheelchair began to move as I pushed her inside.

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