All writing is a form of remembering…

All writing is a form of remembering. …

That memories are recovered — that is, that the suppressed truths do reemerge — is the basis of whatever hope one can have for justice and a modicum of sanity in the ongoing life of communities. …

That every generation fears, misunderstands, and condescends to its successor — this, too, is a function of the equivalence of history and memory (history being what it is agreed on, collectively, to remember). Each generation has distinctive memories, and the elapsing of time, which brings with it a steady accumulation of loss, confers on those memories a normativeness which cannot possibly be honored by the young, who are busy compiling their memories, their benchmarks. … The rule seems to be: each generation looks upon its successor generation as barbarians….

Sonja Sontag

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just a few little things..

I’m sitting in my office watching the rain. Watching the white fluffy clouds move past to expose patches of clear, blue sky. The Sky has been crying off and on for the past few days.  We call it our summer storm track. Heat from the valley rises against the mountains, only to cry oceans of tears.

I’m crying. I have been for three days. It’s something I rarely do. I don’t know. Maybe I need to do that more. It’s not that I’m stoic by any means, just prefer to try to turn it around and not wallow in the shit (despite my ability to be plenty cantankerous, lol).

I found out Saturday that former HS classmate suicided about 2 weeks ago. I’m shocked.Saddened. Talked to him just a few months ago about another friend’s passing, life, family, travel, jobs. Happy. He sounded happy. No, he wasn’t undiagnosed with some horrible, fatal disease.  Love and Light, Andrew. You were always one of the good guys.

Shootings, Death, Hatred. Orlando, Trump. If it wasn’t that FB was a big income source for me right now, I would delete my account.

Moved in early March. Couldn’t take the crazy anymore. Love my roommates but with 3-4 Bipolar, and all of us somewhere between clinically and occasionally depressed; it was just too much. Too much crazy, too much drama, too many people coming and going.

I have a nice 2 bedroom apartment on the ground floor in a 1950’s neighborhood instead of the brand new subdivision. The housing was originally for the old Ent Air Force when it was active here. It’s not large by any means. But it’s mine. All 800 sqft and 2 bedrooms, is mine.  I have a large office with enough room to throw the air mattress on the floor when my daughter comes to visit. Killer western view of Pikes Peak from both the back bedrooms.  It’s wonderfully quiet. The 3 other neighbors in the building are nice.

I’ve been tired. Doing too much out of frustration. I feel like a caged tiger. Pacing in my apartment. Limited. Limited activity, limited distance. Limited in what I can support right now emotionally.

It’s been learning to live with a 50′ hose connected to a machine that makes oxygen out the air and force feeds it to me through my nose. It’s learning to live dragging a 4′ high cylinder in a cart anywhere I go. Everywhere. Doctors appointments, shopping. I am limited by the 2 hours of air in each tank.  It’s learning to use the back burners on the stove so I don’t set myself on fire, and how to walk and shit and shower, and get dressed without getting tangled in the 50′ of plastic tubing that provides my breath.

It’s wondering who would want to date someone who is now classified as disabled.  Who wants to spend time investing in a relationship where sex is limited at the least. I have no breath, no stamina, and massive headaches with arousal and orgasms. It’s frightening.

Can’t do many of the things that bring me joy. A walk in the park is a chore and swinging on a swing is out until I teach Charlie (my o2 tank and chaperone) to dance with me.I’m reluctant to tell anyone. Is this life?

I met his partner almost three weeks ago. Accidently. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.This weekend she’s friended me on FB and I am honestly trying not to freak. I’m trying to shrug off how it’s always worked (badly) and just go with whatever happens.

I’m hearing signs of not wanting to be in the relationship. Of looking for its end. I’m sad for that for the both of them. She doesn’t understand his language. And what she wants she presumes everyone else wants. Observation, not judgement. We all do it.

I apologised to him, crying. For not trusting him.  He didn’t know.  Well, he knew I was in the hospital. He didn’t know I was on O2. I just couldn’t trust he wouldn’t reject me and stare in horror, or look away like most folks do.

It’s interesting, you would think it makes it easier being friends with his girlfriends or partners. It’s not because none have been poly. There’s this girl dance I don’t do very well. But I can see it unfold in body language, posturing, intonation, the deliberateness of words chosen…..It’s not pretty and I don’t play well with others this way.

At least I’m sleeping better than I have in months. Maybe even years. Small blessings….




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coming home…

As it is and always will be…

My heart coming home.

Anam Cara.

I am always awed, touched, humbled by the depth and intensity of our hearts together.

We hugged and cried and laughed and kissed and reminisced and talked and promised and bathed and ate and drank and loved and slept in our very own private, blissful bubble the entire weekend.

For the first time in a month since quitting smoking, I slept. Peaceably. All night.  It’s how I always sleep with him. Safe. Cocooned. Tucked away where nothing can hurt me. Where nothing else exists for me, but he and I.

Love you madly. Don’t let me go. Keep me safe.

Time and time again. For all time.

I am Grateful.

I am Love.

I am Loved.

I have no claim calling him boyfriend, or lover, or beloved.

I have no “right”…

But don’t you see?   I’ve never wanted to claim him.

But I do.  Whispered on the wind.  Beloved.

Because he is, and always will be…








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…and other stuff goin’ on…

When my phone blew up at 5:30 am from clients expressing their sympathy and wanting to know what happened, well I could only offer a very confused….???…in return.

Check your email and call me after you wake up, they said.

An email from the CEO of my company dated that morning at 2:34am said, I’m so sorry, but we’re done. Effective last Friday at CoB, we closed the doors. Please feel free to work with your clients. 

Well, that’s what they told employees.

We’re pausing operations is what they emailed the clients.


It took less than a few hours to contact my clients and come to an agreement where they would pay me the entire fee they were paying the company to keep my services and not have a major disruption to their businesses.  And so entrepreneurship is born out of a default.

By noon that day we had over 400 former employees gathered together on FB furiously trying to connect stranded clients with their former help, madly writing contracts, debating cost structures, finding timekeeping and invoicing software, setting up paypal accounts…you name it, we were doing it.

Between the shock, anger, wondering what to do with company equipment and if we would be paid for our last weeks of work or the unused paid vacation time and insurance questions….we pulled out collective acts together to make lemonade.

It’s been almost a month now and I’m just getting ready to invoice my clients.  It feels good. It feels even better to see a $12/hr raise. Taxes and expenses aside. I’m easily making 50% more.

It’s interesting to see how the universe conspires to give us what we need with the opportunities at exactly the right time for us to use.

The very next day, in a lighthearted text to my Anam Cara wishing him a Happy Birthday, he asked if we could catch-up later in the afternoon.  I wasn’t surprised.  We did some healing back in March. After an almost 2 hour phone conversation…..I have never, ever, in the almot 10 years we’ve know each other had much more than a 20-ish minute phone comversation….we are making plans to reconnect.  It’s a cycle with us. It’s what we need to do.

I had a bit off an ephipany later.  I’ve always maintained that I’m not a threat to anyone. Hell I don’t understand jealousy most of the time.  I don’t want the same things she wants.

We’ve been doing this for nearly 10 years now. Sometimes the time apart is longer than others, but ultimately we circle back around and pick it up again.  I’m not some woman he dated for a few months, or even a year and remained friends.  Hell, it would be easier to accept me as an ex of nearly 1o years who had an amicable split.  But that’s not it.

We rhythmically come back together time after time, after time, after time. We’re not ex’s and never will be…

Fuck…I’m the biggest threat I know……

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crazy business

She vomited her distress from the car door into the garage, thru the hall, twice around the kitchen and all over the house before she settled down to vomit on the couch.

I don’t care if she is his wife, girl friend, submissive or in this case, his slave.  Domestic violence is just that.  Domestic violence.

They got into a verbal sparring match, and he gave her a bloody nose.

She’s adamant it was all her fault. She bears the entire responsibility for him not being able to walk away.

All is forgiven.

Not my business.

But when he came over the other night and reached in to give me a hug, I pressed myself into the chair, not wanting to be touched.

He lost his hug privileges. He’s lost my respect.

She never had mine. But no one deserves being hit. No one.




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What Magic is This?


They have fireflies here in TX.

Who knew?

Check out The Firefly Experience — AMAZING!


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How much?

How much self-reflection is enough and how is too much? Could it be yet another tool we overuse from the procrastination toolbox….?

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pondering the authenticity buzzword

…genuine, real, bona fide, not fake or counterfeit, reliable, trustworthy, credible…

… being true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character, despite external pressures…

Authentic is Real. Real is, at the end of the day, when you are lying in the dark shadows of your world, being able to sleep with yourself.

Sooooo…..aren’t we “real” and “authentic” all the time?

Are we “unreal”, “fake”, and “inauthentic” when we are being a shit, as opposed to being nice?

When did being authentic mean only what we believe to be most desirable.

For me, I feel like I am being 100% authentic no matter my mood or my actions…no matter how they are perceived by myself or others….





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The “You Can’t Drive No More” talk

with your aging parents.

My Dad had a minor accident this morning in the car. *sighs*

Not sure what happened because the story varied from what he told me and what he told my Mom.

All I know is that it was him, the Subie, a motorcycle and the man who was sitting on his bike. The Subie has a scratch, the bike has a scratch and the man landed away from the bike. I think. Maybe.

Since they both drove to another location before they called the police….I will presume this isn’t a big deal.  Unless you are 83 and probably shouldn’t be driving with two pairs of reading glasses to see because he doesn’t want to be bothered to go to the eye doc for a regular Rx.

I just hope this talk isn’t mine to voice……because I think he would drive anyway….

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Hill Country, TX

Uneventful flight, thank goodness. I’m ok with flying, airport navigation and the never ending security hassles from wearing a push-up underwire bra and having piercings.  Body scanners are really a PITA.  Not my favorite way to spend the day, but it doesn’t cause any major anxiety or anything either.

Visiting my folks again this year.  At least there will be a bit of time to relax and just sit on the back porch without dogs, cats, parties, incessant chatter and a feeling like I need to hide myself away in my room for some peace and quiet.

No one here does their laundry at 3am or takes a shower in the adjoining bath at 2am.

My favorite Great Aunt and my Favoritest Cousin in the entire world will be here next week, for a week *doing the happy dance*

My brother and nephew are scheduled to drop in, too.





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35 years and counting

Glad we both made it unscathed-relatively speaking.

Tomorrow is my oldest sons 35th birthday so I went to Denver today to spend some time with him, my Darling DIL and the Grandbabies. Good day. Lots of Grandma’s treat Ice Cream. Well in this case it was frozen yogurt.

Pictures in the park since both babies have a birthday within days of each other at the end of the month, and Grandma made lasagna for supper.

If you’ve been here any length of time, you know I rarely (if ever) post pictures of myself or of my family.

Gran’ma and the Babies.  Makes me giggle, because they are both blue-eyed, redheads.












Nolan (3) on the left with Gran’ma holding Haley (1) who has had just about enough for the day.


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R.I.P King of the Blues

Fortunate to have seen such a gifted guitar master and poet so many times.  Solo, or with other bands, large or more intimate venues really didn’t matter because he had a way of speaking to the audience as if each one of us was in a room with him and only him…

Two of my favorites….



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Stepping back in here on a more permanent basis

The past few years here has taken a turn I feel is less than…changed in a way I don’t like or can’t appreciate, and don’t exactly know what to do with it because it’s different now…and I’m not at all sure how to fill the bucket or make the wind blow…

There is a Ted talk with Elizabeth Gilbert where she speaks about the creative process and an interview with poet Ruth Stone:

And she said it was like a thunderous train of air. And it would come barreling down at her over the landscape. And she felt it coming, because it would shake the earth under her feet. She knew that she had only one thing to do at that point, and that was to, in her words, “run like hell.” And she would run like hell to the house and she would be getting chased by this poem, and the whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper and a pencil fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. So, she’s running to the house and she’s looking for the paper and the poem passes through her, and she grabs a pencil just as it’s going through her, and then she said, it was like she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it.

So when I heard that I was like — that’s uncanny, that’s exactly what my creative process is like.

It’s like the wind stopped flowing across the prairie and there is nothing to grab on to…




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Where have you gone

Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio,
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

Pondering heroes of today with a national and global viewpoint.

Do we even have them? Do we need them?

Not that I think there aren’t heroes….firefighters, police, 1st responders, nurses and doctors and the like…..or those who, under some circumstance, act with bravery and perform heroic acts. It happens every hour, every day, across the globe. Even our parents/siblings/relatives/friends can fit this role on a more personal level.

There are certainly many I admire for their vision, changes which better society as a whole, spiritual guidance, or those fighting wrongs in the world.

Have our biggest heroes been a product of (past) nationalism at a time where we all needed a boost, something to look to, some hope?

Were Newton, Einstein, and Tesla ever heroes?

What about Churchill, Ford, or Earhart? Lennon, Barry Bonds, or King, Jr?

Are Malala or Pope Francis modern day heroes?

Is there some criteria we use to define a Hero on a national or global scale?

Are the heroes of today it nothing but heroic illusions and adornment of the rich and famous?

What’s that you say, Mrs. Robinson.
Jolting Joe has left and gone away,


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actually showing up is most of the issue

Not where I want to be but getting better….

Finding the world in the smallness of a grain of sand
And holding infinities in the palm of your hand
And Heaven’s realms in the seedlings of this tiny flower
And eternities in the space of a single hour

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