LANDLOCKED

Yes darling, it's been such the longest of times. No darling, I haven't madcap stories to share. It's been such a terribly long journey. One that nearly took me assunder. Yes, darling I'm fine, though I never got commited to the hospital of my choice to repair, but rather was thrown to the wilds of Oklahoma; which was to survive or perish. I certainly never got the opportunity I had so wished for: a luxurious hospital stay with beautiful grounds kept by the help. A staff in white that allowed me to sleep out my troubles, hold the world at bay, and only wake long enough to smell the sweet new mown grass while I lounged on its perfect lawn in a poolside chaise and had pills delivered to me on a tray for magnificent dreams till it was all over: my storm of self-doubt.

No, I hit tragedy upon travesty and no matter that I was weak, I found the strength to survive, thank God.

I cannot express all that I witnessed in Oklahoma, as it's frightening to even remember its ability to destroy a girl's joy. Oh, darling, I faced despair each time I asked for a napkin and was brought paper rather than cloth. Yes, darling, it's true. They haven't napkins crisp from starch folded just so, right. The world across one little ocean remains full of heathens using paper for grace. But, then again I suppose you can't expect them to be graceful in their table manners when they're simply mad for everything fried. Fergawdsakes, no amount of paper could soak up all that grease, ever! I refuse to accept that they know no better, as they surely must have at some point, at least, glimpsed an Emily Post book in their youth, even if it wasn't provided for them at home; there are libraries where one can find a book on good manners, you know. But, then again, I suppose you'd have to give a damn, first. And Oklahomans just seem intent on not giving a damn about anything proper.

Oklahoma is in the very center of the states of America. Landlocked. Yes, darling, that awful.

I was so fragile after praying in Ireland in my self-imposed exile that never should I ever have accepted Mr. Joe Buck's plea to help save the Indians. Well, I'll tell you straight up without hesitation that the Indians are a damn better breed than the heathens who stole their land.

You can imagine all you'd like, but you'll never come close to actually realizing how close I was to having my joy masacared in that God forsaken land, and God knows how good Oklahomans are at masacaring and scalping. And never could I figure if Route 66 for vehicles was more tragic than the Trail of Tears. It simply held nothing of pretty.

Everything was RED, a terrible shade of red, no less. It's flat land, you know; for as far as you can see, it's flat and nothing more than red. The dirt? Well, there's plenty more dirt where ever you might think there isn't. And nothing but RED. The people's anger is as red as their dirt!

It's a hard country, that's for certain, darling. Scary and wild. And I most certainly should never have gone.

The people are just as big as their cows if not bigger and look just as sad if not sadder. In line for slaughter; waiting for the end. I promise. Dreadful, and nothing more. In Oklahoma there is no where to rest upon the ocean's shore, no hope to either. It's landlocked. Misery trapped. It's one hell of a prison. Imagine the strength it took ME to put on a good show and carry on, but as you know, the survivor in me chose to laugh, even as I laughed alone. Which was always.

Oh, and they will fine you if you walk on the wrong side of the street or in the rain, or both. They'll judge you if you haven't a license to drive, as they haven't even a public transport system other than the odd city bus that goes this way and that, but nowhere you need be. A cirlce of living hell, I'm telling you, darling.

Most certainly, I understand now why they've so many country singers, as the only way to survive there is with hope that you'll get out. And so they sing for thier supper, those who have dreams. Most Oklahomans do not have a dream, but those few who do, sing till a recording label discovers them and sends money to them and they find a big bus that actually leads out of that place and gets them to Texas where they can catch a flight to Hollywood and become a big star and send money home to their mom so she can feed all her children that hope left behind, because their dad's a drunk and never had the money to feed them in the first place.

And all the while, these Oklahomans told me how they pitied the Irish, down right judged them wrong for singing their hero folk songs of defending their land; and never once turned round to look at themselves to see they sang only songs of despair.
Ironic? No.
I found it ignorant.
They are referred to as Red Necks.
Ignorant, red mad. Though they may be mad as bulls, they haven't the class of the Pamplonians of Spain who at least celebrate their charging of bulls. In Oklahoma they have a drink called Red Bull which they gulp and then go chasing Indians if they aren't one themselves.

Darling, that state nearly cost me my spirit, which is the very thing they know best how to do: steal spirits. As the Indians told me that when the Red Necks slaugheterd their people and stole all their land, they also told them, (the ones who survived the long walk on that trail)that no longer could they worship their "spirits". Well, they damn well near killed mine!

They just seem so intent on wiping out your joy, that if you aren't a survivor, you certainly better learn to be if you want to make it out of there alive. I've never met such arrogant ignorance in all my life and I'm never ever returning, ever, never. I do so hope and pray that one day the Indians will call on their "spirits" to fold the Red Necks in paper napkins before they toss them all right into their dirtiest lake of all: Eufaula

I suppose though, they, the Indians, have done something similar to that, and they're called casinos. Well, darling, that's the most brilliant scam ever created and the Indians own them all. Marvelous scalping backward, don't you think?

I don't compare. I am unfairly beautiful and have my own share of troubles that others do not.

This was not about Eloise all grown up. This was a story of survival and nothing less.

To escape the arrogant insanity of the state of Oklahoma I found my own guitar, but it was in the hands of a man, so I let him sing for the supper his way and found MY WAY.

Anyhow darling, I'm now on the shore of the Hamptons with a scotch on the rocks, and you know as well as I, that nothing can wash away a bad story like a good drink.

-Jacqueline