Musings for my minions…


‘high-maintenance’ girl shit…

Was just perusing a decent little article about the splendidness of our misogynistic culture and realized with a perfunctory slap to the forehead that I might be missing something important in my interactions with men… are they really looking at my nails? I mean, they’re generally tidy… clean and filed, but never polished or quite ‘done’… does this make me less sexy?

I don’t hate a nice manicure, I have nothing against gel nails or shellac or any of that super-fun chick crap. I just think it’s expensive and time consuming and I really hate making awkward small-talk with ‘salon-person’.

Plus, am I delusional or wouldn’t men everywhere prefer I utilize every extra second of my existence cultivating my blow-job skills?

In The Right

right 3

I read a great post here on WordPress by Clotildajamcracker recently that got me thinking about  conflict and communication, specifically – what is it that possesses us to be rightrightright all the time.

Maybe this is not an issue for everyone?  I personally struggle with this problem every minute of every day.  I am seeking treatment.  I am getting better.  Some in my life might disagree, but I AM RIGHT.

If, as posited by some, our memory – our personal truth – is only an interpretation created by our brain that shapes and re-shapes events into a palatable “memory” that we can accept as real based upon our personal chemistry, environmental factors, culture, beliefs, mores, etc. etc. , then how do we tunnel down into the real kernel of truth in a situation ever?  If each experience of an event can only be understood by the individual and each individual experiences the event (and thus remembers the event) in only their interpretation, then it stands to reason that there is no truth.  (Idolanuel has a great post about this titled “The Disastrous Behavior Of The Memory”. )

If there is no truth, then what are we all arguing about?

How can you be right if there is no truth?

For me, it is the deep down organ hardening wrench that tells me that I am right.  That tightening from just below your clavicle running down to your intestines, thrumming right right right right.  This is how you know.  When this feeling overtakes me, there is little that can be said to dissuade me from my certainty.  I may capitulate to save myself from a tedious argument with someone who obviously has some amnesiac tendencies, but in my mind and heart, I still feel right.  I know it as surely as I know my own face.  If I begin to consider that perhaps my truth is not the truth, I experience terror.  If nothing we “know” is really what happened, then what actually did happen?  And why can’t I remember it?

right 1

Yet I must consider the prospect.  It is only fair and sensible to allow for the possibility that another’s truth might be more accurate than my own.  Perhaps my husband was right in all those arguments? Perhaps I simply “misremembered”?  Perhaps my sister’s interpretation of a childhood event is, in fact, more exact than the one I hold on to?  If we open ourselves to these possibilities, will we get along better?  Lose our desire to be right?  Make those in our life feel validated?  Or is this just another illusion?  How can we believe that another’s memory is any more reliable than ours?  In that case we are now simply arguing with another who may not be wise to the fact that our memories are such betrayers!  We are arguing against their instinctive desire to be right, their lack of understanding about the weakness of their own mind.  So why bother? Because we still want to be right!  Our memory doesn’t have to be right, so long as theirs is also incorrect, we can maintain the illusion that we are kind of right.

If we have our truth, and they have their truth, and somewhere in between lies the real truth, how do we ever decipher it?  Is it simply beyond our reach? It seems nothing more than a guessing game.

If we can never agree about an event, how can we come to terms with its consequences?  How can we continue to exist together when we seem to exist in different worlds?

How can there be anything but chaos?

This is a feeble and tepid description of my current state of terrified psychosis.  I cannot accept that I may be fooling myself with my memories nor can I trust the memories of others if they are as faulty and indulgent as my own. This leaves me in a constant state of paranoia and distress.  I cannot accept that there is no truth, verily, without one we would lose our desire, our passion, our very fragile but imperative sense of purpose.  We would be left without direction, aimless and overwhelmed.  And still not right.

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This is not intended to be maudlin.  If you struggle with the concept of contemplation, you are in the wrong place.  You are probably in a lot of the wrong places, figuratively and literally.  Knock again when you are ready.

I find it funny that if we are uncomfortable with a concept we get so pathological.  “We” are uncomfortable with suicide so reflecting on it becomes terrifying and dangerous.  Talking or writing about it, even more so.  I can hear them now, “her mind is broken” “something is wrong with her” “oh, dear god what will we do?”  It’s silly. Really.

Think of it like this, I am as hideously uncomfortable talking about new-agey spiritual “crap” as some are about suicide.  It’s all perspective.

I have pondered the concept, if not the act, throughout my life.  In the whirling sensory overload of dramatic instances, in the everyday horror rut of nothing special, and often, in transit.

I have contemplated death in transit as far back as I can remember having memories.  As a child, a teen, a young “adult”, and as whatever the hell it is I am now.  It occurs to me while writing this that I contemplate suicide while driving and death while riding.  It never occurs to me that un-calculated death will occur when I am in control. I wonder what this means.

I often visualize just driving off the path.  Steering outside the lines they have forced me inside. This is a common theme in my life; that my existence doesn’t seem to fit inside.  I am restless and uncomfortable and nothing feels as though it fits quite right.  It’s as though I am wearing a rubber bubble of a suit that is at once too tight and too appallingly large, too abrasive and too annoyingly soft.  No buttons or zippers or ties or clasps of any kind.  Airless and watertight. Trapped.  I am.

As I reflect on the concept of death, I wonder if perpetrators of suicide are simply seeking a metamorphosis rather than an end.

Perhaps I can die a metaphorical death…

In that vein, I decided a suicide note would be an interesting writing exercise.  Here is draft one.

To my darlings…

May you live surrounded by love, floating weightlessly in the dream but with your eyes wide open.  Not simply awaiting possibility, but fighting for it to your last breath.

Don’t be quick to judge, weigh things. Don’t bear impulsiveness as your cross, but leave space for spontaneity to flourish, it will be worth it.  Find a place to reside between these two things, be careful, they are not mutually exclusive and that devil impulsiveness mastered disguise long ago.

Remember, a little vacillation never killed anybody.

Have an inquisitive and independent mind, an empathetic and sincere heart, and a generous and enlightened spirit.  These are the things that I believe will bring balance, these are the things I would have liked to have.

Don’t believe the unbelievable.  Think with your whole being.  If it feels wrong, it is probably wrong, if it feels right, it is probably right.  The key is not to fool yourself.  Your truth is yours alone, but don’t let it blind you.  There is no one truth, no matter what they tell you.  We are each of us living a life that only we are living.  Accept this and you will have shattered the glass.  I wish I had.

Don’t fecklessly accept the fishheads thrown your way, nor discount them on their seeming manifestation.  In most things you will find merit, at least a little.  Look for it, ponder it… then decide on acceptance or rejection. Don’t confuse acceptance with tolerance.  They both have their place, but they are not the same thing.

Strife is inevitable, but don’t just accept it as your due. They will tell you that it is, but they will be wrong.  Accept the complexity of all existence.  Fear mongers will attempt to dissuade you, distract you, detain you.  Accepting complexity is their worst fear.  Simplicity is their weapon, their staff of righteousness.  Snap it in half.

Be daring and brave and capricious and unmanageable and crazy and frightening and devil may care and wild and generous and don’t take yourself too seriously… at least for one day, in memory of me.

Be happy because, seriously, what if this is all there is?  What if you spend your whole and only conscious existence living restless and cramped inside the box society built for you because you were too afraid to punch through the plywood and take a gulp of the outside air that they have sold you is un-breathable? I refuse to believe that it is. If I would have figured that out sooner, I may have had a chance.

Remember that just because I lost this battle doesn’t mean I was not a brilliant strategist.  It was only my execution that sucked.

“I’d rather kick myself”  – Finn Dodd


To my last love, thank you for that final glimpse of happiness,

I will reside forever beside the water with you.



For CFrantastic

My lovely and sensitive 9 year old is experiencing some “girl bullying” at school. She is confused and sad and I am disheartened and angry for my beautiful, kind, sometimes awkward girl.
Tonight she is at her Dad’s and we are texting about her feelings and I feel impotent and broken.
I wrote this to cheer her so don’t judge it on literary merit or as poetry of any sort as I certainly am no poet.
And, YES, I am that parent who doesn’t shield their child from foul language as I have always had a spectacular and wondrous case of trucker-mouth.
I also have a 9 year old who never swears, never has, and if she chooses to at some point in her life, well, I can think of things I would be much more disappointed in.
I decided to share it simply with the hope that it could touch even one other person out there suffering, child or no.
Maybe this will cheer the darling being bullied in your life – I assure you, there is one.
On a day like any other day
You think things just might go your way
Finally today will go your way
Today will finally be the day
You’ll finally get invited to play
Today they’ll see you and they’ll say
Hey! Come on! Please come to play!

You stand, hands clasped, so patient now
Just sure they’ll notice you somehow
Smiling shyly, peeking round
Scuffing the toe of your shoe on the ground
Minutes tick by and you start to worry
If its going to happen they really must hurry
The bell will soon ring, the teachers will call
Some will start running, others will stall
Hurried or reluctant, it really won’t matter
For once the bell sounds, all hope will just shatter
So, eyeing the others all laughing at play
You think, no! Today, today is the day!
An idea begins to form in your head
Slowly it tickles like bugs in your bed
You turn the notion around and around
Inspecting and wondering, can it be sound?
Suddenly time is up and you hear
The ringing of bells so sharp in your ear
No! No! It’s too soon, you had almost decided
To march right on up to the kids, uninvited
To tell them you’re ready and willing to play and if they don’t want you then you’d simply say
Fuck off … I’m smarter than you anyway
Oh, no that’s not it, you decided to try
The road travelled less than the good old stand by
Of defensive and prickly walls meant to shroud
Your feelings and ego, why are we so proud?
Surely some out there are mean, dumb, or vain
But mostly it’s clear they all suffer in pain
Fear of rejection and lack of strong will
Confusion, frustration, and yet even still
Basically good and caring at heart
Maybe your actions will trigger the start
Of kinder behavior and empathy here
Banishing bullies and conquering fear
With wisdom and kindness a great man once led
A revolution of nonviolence & notably said
A bevy of thoughtful and powerful things
Profound and sagacious and lifting like wings
The spirits of people and kindness unfurled
when he said be the change you would see in the world


Remember Our Veterans Today!

In honor of Veteran’s Day, I would like to take a moment to shine a light on a special person in my life.  While we don’t have the opportunity to see each other often, this friend has been there for me through some very difficult things (I hope I have provided the same type of kind comfort in return) and is the kind of soul who is a bright light if you bother to take a look.  He is a proud veteran of the Naval Forces and served for us all in Vietnam when he was a young man.  Now in his 60’s, he has deep and resonating insight about that time in his life and how it shaped things, not just for him, but for our country.  I love to sit with him and visit because he not only has a wealth of valuable knowledge about times and events that I was not around to witness; he is a brilliant artist, a blue-collar construction worker, and a loving father.  He has much to offer. 

                Though we may drift in a vast sea where swells fling us apart as much as they toss us together, your friendship has been a balm, a joy, a gift.  I am thankful for you and I am thinking of you today, Don, and wishing you every blessing.  I hope I see you soon…

One example of his artistry…

Reasons to reach out and enjoy blogs daily …

I randomly came across this post while perusing some fantastic blogs in my bathtub this morning. I’ve not had the urge to ‘reblog’ often but this is magnificent. What else can I say but what I’ve said to the author of this gem?
“Stunning. Absolutely stunning. This is a timeless piece that immortalizes not only your loss and your beloved friend’s life, but grief and uncertainty as it exists for us all. Thank you for sharing this.”

The aimless wanderings of my mind...

“We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast. But when we say this, we imagine that the hour is placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun, or that death could arrive this same afternoon – this afternoon which is so certain, and which has every hour filled in advance.” – Final Destination

We all need reminders that life is precious…

Let’s flashback to my very first day of Second Grade.

I entered the classroom nervously. It also happened to be my first day at the new school. I clutched my sister’s hand tightly and eyed my would-be classmates disdainfully.

The teacher was beckoning to me to take a seat. I remember shaking my little head vigorously from side to side, swallowing the massive lump in my throat and blinking away a pool of tears.  The…

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Living the Dream…

While watching a movie with my bbf, I heard one character tell another…

“I was just thinking… your life is ass”.

This is a statement of such utterly cryptic beauty.
It resonated with me in such an exquisite agony of clarity that
I had to swallow my tears. Then my two year old climbed into my lap, put her sweet chubby little hands on either side of my face, smiled lovingly into my eyes, and released tiny bubbly fartlets all over my leg.


My life is ass. Literally.