Of Ruins & Resurrections


 My angels wring no hands together…

No palms clasp in prayer, no eyes downcast,

My angels do not wear robes of saffron & rainbow

Or tilt their heads, listening to prayers

My angels are bare-breasted,

Afire, ululating atop mountains

My angels are ridge runners

Light-footed & glowing.

My angels are powerful,

They carry spears.

They have no time for the puny wants of men

The small prayers of old women…

They carry orders from God!

They drive us on with buffeting wings

Like northern winds, they bite & tear our only flesh

With unholy voices they demand & command that we also

Become angels, they

Cry out to us in terrible thunder, rumbling

“Get there & do this & DON’T YOU DARE GIVE UP!”

Don’t you even THINK about that

I am behind you, these are my teeth & claws,

Don’t you dare but that you dare all for love!



I do not go gently into this dark night

I plant my feet & my hands against the doorframe

& I scream for the devils of hell to surround me

To give me strength to fight!

Even though the angels have not yet given up on me

I need the kind of raw power used when devil fights devil

I need the kind of atomic strength

And nuclear decision-making ability

That blows apart unaltering planets &

the worlds where small-minded people dwell

for this is not me,

I am Eternal Survivor,

I am the basket weave trunk of the royal palm

Dancing in the Category Five hurricane of now.


The morning breaks open

Like a dozen eggs dropped on the floor

As my conjurings arise from their yolky mess

Of raw & yellow ooze,

I will derive a sunshine of words such as has never lived before,

From ruin to resurrection,

Back to the light from which my soul began.

I know now I did not arrive on a sunny day,

Sequestered in a sweaty room while my mother dreamed of the beach,

I rode in on a storm that breathed darkness

Into blankets of rain

Shadows threatening all alive.

I know this, how?

Storms create days that enliven my soul

I speak poetry as though reciting nursery rhymes

Every stick a sign, a message,

Every hope a dream of worlds

Daring to be spoken aloud.


I walked to the beach to cast myself upon the water:

A crust of bread for fishes to devour

For gulls to scrap over

For salt to consume.

I walked to the water & I walked in

And the water spoke thusly:

Get out of here, leave me now!

I am not your sin-eater,

You have nothing to do with me

You are here to partake of me as friend? Lover? Confidante?

A sequestered cloud upon which you walk at will?

I wish none of your molecules dissolved in me,

I want no DNA from you, no “sharing”

None of your mud-thoughts to cloud my pure waters


I want none of your shit-ass perspicacity

I am pure, as you were before you took all this upon yourself

& decided to carry it as a life.


Now, if you want to come in here, get clean

Go out & fix up the world,

That’s a diff’rent story:

Then I’m all yours, Baby.

Enter at will.


I don’t know anyone else will ever hear these as I’ve said them

I do know that when they went through me

They were filings roughening a smooth surface

Acid drippings across my soul, ripping shreds of my life to raw,

Rendering me impossible to live with

Untenable to remain with

Beautiful only in the way of a volcano is…

Lava scraping away a mountain is…

In a way all terrible & delicate & tender, a rendering to ash.

I know I will never be forgotten for the world herself has heard these words

I’ve cried them all aloud today, bowing to the rain

I watched her take them in, smeared across her face,

like runnels of tears, a striped tattoo

Or the scars of strip-mining

And I knew these words were never mine,

Nor belonged to me,

But only sliding across the furrows of my brain

To elide from my face, finding their way

A blind man headed downhill

Surrounded by mischievous goats.

They were only a blessing for I could not bring them to be a curse

To use these to destroy would implode the world.

would destroy civilization

But then, we have never been civilized to our memories…

(For Christ’s sake, we have not ever had civilization

Tho we pretended, pulling & tugging on just the one string

Till the whole thing unraveled

As we hung onto each other’s throats

Ignoring the scrape & itch of the hunting knife

Sliding between our ribs.)

We have always shaved our dreams to blood

Too closely down, pushing into places they should never go

Where others come upon them unaware

& leaning in to see them, all are burned.


My broken halo is scattered at my feet.

I tore it off my head this morning, I stomped it but good

I will no longer be the representative of God’s grace

Having turned into her most terrible wrath

In a day when my beauty no longer sustains who I am

My face a roadmap to new lands & languages,

When my breasts stand no more, but flat

Against my chest like twin sacks of rice

I know that I am old. I have accepted this

Because old is only on the surface, never reaching the inside

Where the bright of me lives

And the soul of me dwells

And the answers to every question I ever asked

Glow like sparks in a fire of my own making.

I will not give up.

 I will always be here, doing this

And I will have done forever.

As You bring me forth each day,

Awakening again to earth,

It will be to dwell in the past I have created,

Through the future I have not.

I am a ravine down a sharp shale hill

You can ride me to the bottom – woohoo!

Or you can scale me to the heights – Aha!

So here you are, God, here y’are,

I don’t want it anymore!

Just can’t handle it.

Just don’t want it.

Here’s the soul – take it back

Do whatever You want with it.

I don’t care

Give it away, bury it

Stick it with the stars & make it shine

I really don’t care.

The life you gave me

Has been too beautiful for words

And the life I claimed to live

Has at times not lived up to this

And the world around me that was fine

Has turned to bargains in thriftshop windows.

But you know I wore them out my own damned self.

I put them there,

Here you go, God. I am but Your face in this world…

I have moved oceans & torn down heavens,

I have grown trees & plowed meadows,

Digging up Your holiness & scattering it about

For others to find.

I’m done now.

I’m done.

(To be blinded with blessing is not the worst of a life

It is a one more in a world of one mores.)


For the price of a tank of gas, America lives

Lives in its cars & campers & broke-down trailers

Still now, with not a round tire among them.

And who has done this to us?

What heinous crimes are committed against us

That we are washed up on our glorious beaches?

Bent & twisted, medically unsound, mentally unfit

From wars not of our making

From meds not of our shaping

Whitened by the salt of our tears

Twisted by fear & lack…

How do we overcome this?

O come, God! Bring us into our living aloft as angels.

We will bend the light no more, pour it out upon us as love!




Were runes the first secret alphabet of mankind? I associate runes with Vikings & what with Norse being a difficult language, they likely kept secrets in runes quite well.

If we think of runes as letters carved on tiny, flat rocks, it must’ve taken a Viking shipload to put together a note. Not to mention trying to glue these to the fridge.

Therefore, runes became symbolic – like using a heart icon to say like/love/dearie, etc. Runic shorthand is quite fun & was revolutionary in language learning, jumping the Norse ahead of the Chinese who scribed long before their northlander cousins, but used up much ink & wore down brushes, necessitating frequent trips to the pig bristle hut.

Runic tools lasted. Hammers & chisels hardly fit into pencil cases & must have been difficult for the children to carry to school.  While the Norse might stop along a coastline, it was mostly to steal sheep & hardly ever to replenish rune-writing supplies.

Many aboriginal cultures never codified words in writing. They used clicking & guttural sounds to speak. These conveyed meaning, carried through jungle undergrowth & cut tribal noise barriers in the villages. It must have been hard to whisper, though.

Runes & other symbols have gone through a difficult time lately. Witness the evolution of the dire warning of skull & crossbones indicating “poison!” into Halloween candy. Since runes dropped from favor & parchment plus bird-feather nibs have also eroded their market share, we have wound up with computers and spell-check. It is obvious that spell-check cannot spell, yet we continue to use it to mix homonyms into a language evocative of illiteracy plus one. This, plus people’s advanced inability to spell on their own has rendered written language somewhat comedic. Mixing words like “there” & “their” obscures meanings effectively. Is AI trying to divide & conquer or are we all so lacking in English skills now?

As to the spoken word, there are far too many verbal Tourette’s tics in conversation, like “y’know?” “got that?” [the ubiquitous] “like” & the ever-present, “um.”

Not me! I learned English at the end of a bladed 12” ruler wielded by a woman who wore rosary beads as ornamentation, probably had headphones blasting AC/DC under her wimple, purchased on my Catholic School March of Dimes money. The nuns I knew collected teeth for misspellings, cut off ears for talking in class & used arcane ritual in curing them to string under the habits. It’s been recently revealed on the Internet that they maintained the purity of the language through threat & the all-effective follow-through of nightly detention. The only thing worse than school all day was school all night, too. In all, what they DID achieve was a kind of immortality of race memory in a group of kids already burdened with confession, confirmation, & breathing chalk dust from clapping erasers.

So, while Vikings used rocks as language – cairns meaning, take a left at the fir tree forest to find more sheep, the Chinese rolled their Gone With Mist Wind manuscripts into thick scrolls & tied them with facial hair. Americans used to be fancy, but now we scribble/scrawl with the best of them. We use language carelessly, ignoring actual definitions, making up more words to misspell & randomizing spelling in general. I won’t even approach gratuitous besmirching of rules of grammar here.

Even as we attempt to simplify language, it becomes more complex. Imagine your average Norseman disembarking his elaborately carven boat to order a pumpkin mocha with turmeric… It was a different time to communicate for sure.

Now I must pull my tongue out of my cheek & I hope you will do so as well. I had to get this off my, um, chest.

Thank you.

The Great Tag-Cutting Caper (Or, What Has It Got In Its Toolbox?)

Ok. I confess: I did it. I deliberately brought scissors into the bed & bathrooms & cut the tags off the new bedspread, pillow shams and towels. Not stopping there, I also carefully trimmed off the tags wrapped around the electrical wires, you know, the ones that say “URGENT! Do not run this appliance under water!” I don’t want to say the word “stoopid,” but hey now! How often do you run your wires through the shower when plugging things in? Do we really need a reminder?

Firstly, why are all the tags 4×6 inches? The instruction books are printed in .2 font – what I call “insurance font,” fitting 47 annotated pages onto four five-inch sheets stapled in the middle. The print looks rather like an insect walked through an ink jar, then across the itty-bitty booklet, turning around a couple of times to get comfortable. Don’t you love instruction manuals with one page in English, one in Hindi, one in French? You’ll never see one in Chinese because they made the thing there & don’t need instructions.

I am not one to take chances on doing repairs much, other than replacing the occasional lightbulb. My idea of a power tool is a long lighter. I’ve taken a picture of my “Hello Kitty” toolbox above. Look carefully. In the front are all the doodads (Latin term) I have no idea what they came with, but they were in little plastic bags, so they might be important. One never knows when a man will come into the house, notice something out of whack & ask, ‘where’s the doodad in the plastic bag that came with this?’ Momentarily, however, I keep them sealed in the original plastic & fully anticipate they will remain tidily so for eternity.

There are a couple of flat metal things. Ditto on the having absolutely no clue what they are from, but may be plumbing, so better keep ‘em. The day I moved into this apartment, a spigot-thingie fell right off whatever it was attached to under the bathroom sink. I saved it under the cabinet for when the landlord cometh, because I could lie on my back under the sink for three hours & now know from whence it unscrewed itself. And why on MY watch?

Then there’s a layer of unknown wires – plugs to nowhere – like that Bridge to Nowhere in Alaska. Don’t you hate to throw away a good wire? It can’t be just me. I know when I worked in the thrift store in Delaware, bags of wires came thru the slot daily. We simply tagged them 50 cents & put them onto the special rack with Useless Unknowns. Once in a while, someone would come in & say, “Hey! Don’t you realize this wire plugs in the Christmas Tree on the White House lawn? And you have it marked fifty cents?” All the ladies nearby this person would round on him (always a guy) with fingers across lips. We marked it that to get rid of it. If you want to buy it & use the rest of your dollar on postage to DC, be our guest, but shut up already because if the manager hears you, he’ll make us mark it up & it will be in the store until death do us part.

Ok, Hello Kitty. There’s three elastic bands for fastening down tablecloths on outside tables or, what I bought them for, to hold down flat sheets on a massage table so they won’t roll over with the client. However, immediately after purchasing them, I realized I should just buy fitted sheets. See? Not totally stupid, merely unskilled in the arcane.

There are two packages of picture hooks, the little gold ones. I need two packages because most of the nails fall down behind the floor heating units, or into the carpet, upon which they immediately & mysteriously become invisible to the human eye. For every hook I get into the wall, four nails have gone stealth in the universe. I could no more drive a straight nail than I could build a house with plumbing that worked…but you may have garnered this from the sparse collection of functional items in the toolkit. But if the occasion ever does arise, I have a little spigot thingie to start the ball rolling.

Make sure you gaze with envy at the $17 tape measure which is too heavy to hold in one hand while using it to measure. A boyfriend of long ago remarked disdainfully on my using cloth sewing tapes. Hell, I can’t measure anything without closing my eyes & doing it six times, so what use to have a real tape measure? But, stung by his mockery, I made it a point to buy the most expensive one at the hardware store, made for manly men with the pecs & biceps to hold it over their heads while they use their monkey arms to pull it out to five feet so they can say, “Take this down, honey, I think it’s 5 & ¾ across & 67 down. Well, dude, I know from my own experience things don’t come in 67 down. The world has standard weights & measures & no amount of influence of the European Union is going to introduce meters & litres into America. Uh uh, no way. 67 down indeed. Is this guy doing a crossword puzzle?

I have an Exacto which I use VERY carefully & always facing away from me, with visions of slicing clear through 6” of skin & bleeding out over the cardboard box from Amazon (that clearly says, DO NOT CUT.).

There’s a car adapter for plugging in the computer which the boyfriend mentioned above used once on a long trip. That cost $25 & I am not parting with it. Note it is in original packaging. The thrift store that winds up with that upon my passing will definitely get fifty cents for it.

I have a couple of packages of the Command magic tape sticks because these are my go-to hanging hardware. It is a miracle to have the option to rip something right off the wall to straighten it when it’s hanging crooked because my one eye is near-sighted & the other far-sighted which renders properties like depth perception uncertain in real-time & impossible otherwise. My goal in hanging stuff is to keep the margin at that ¾” minimum tilt I mentioned…the eye perceives it, but it’s not enough for most people to actually say something about. Look, this is not my lifetime to be handy; I was meant for other duties of a more intellectual bent. This means that I am helpless in fixing anything unless I can sell enough words to pay someone else to come in & DO.

I once had a friend who wore a toolbelt made of leather & a painter’s hat. She’d strut around nailing this & bulletproofing that. She once planted 100 trees in the desert which her husband let die right after she left him. Oh, not right away, it took a little time, but not watering 100 baby trees in the desert usually kills ’em. I remember that when she walked by in full gear, I almost fell to my knees. I liked her up until the time she told me the best way to discipline my panting dog was to stick her finger down his throat.

My toolkit is colorful, mysterious, decorative & seldom of use. If repair guys don’t bring their own tools (and be assured I watch to see what they pull out of their trucks. If they’re empty-handed, I run old excuses, trying to remember which ones worked with the last handyman.) Recently a fix-it guy who here to hang pictures assumed I’d have a hammer. In this we both were lucky. I do have a hammer & it works. How about it? (When he asked if I had one, he looked a bit quizzical when I replied under my breath, “barely.”)

I don’t expect anyone in the general population to dig up my little plastic bin of gadgetry & rebuild a town after an earthquake. I probably should tape a couple of prayers on the lid, since these would be more useful – like praying for someone to come by with real tools.

And I fully intend to cut the tags off whatever & wherever I find them. If you want to report me to the Tag Police, have at it. If they don’t come in with a toolkit, they can’t take me to jail.

So there!


The Motherless Child

I had no mothering of an affectionate nature. Oh, I had Buster Brown shoes, starched crinolines, squeaky clean hair drawn back in taut braids. I had all that a mother could provide so long as it didn’t include loving affection. I have always regarded with wonder women who genuinely love their children, to the effect of their wanting to be with them: to wanting to hold them, hug them, comfort them, to look upon them adoringly & with genuine warmth. This was not my experience. I did not learn it from anyone, let alone from my Mother.

Mom was a physical person. She was tireless in pursuit of a better life for her children. She managed to send us to Catholic school on a dire salary, paying for uniforms, white blouses with stiff collars & cuffs, regulation socks, ill-fitting slips.

She put incredibly good food on our table, homemade, hand-made pasta of all sorts, blended sauce of such aroma as to cause visitors to grow dizzy with hunger. She pushed upon us good flesh, thick porkchops, Philly cheesesteak sandwiches served on Italian rolls with the breading pulled out of them to fit more steak, the best meatballs in New Jersey. She served vegetables perfectly prepared (which I would seldom eat, just because).

My mother never drove me to dancing class or judo; these were not readily available options in our small summer town which came alive only in that season. But it was always the beach & therein my refuge, my penchant for sand & big skies with mysterious clouds. It seemed she was forever at work. But it was just that she chose to labor in the hours we were home as less complicated shifts to do nursing (which she came to late in life after a long career as the only cook & owner of an Italian restaurant on the Boardwalk.) When my brother & I were home, she was at work. Simple. From an early age, babysitting fell upon him. When he found friends to hang out with, I cared for myself, rolling around the house like a loose marble. I don’t remember raiding the kitchen for snacks, there were never potato chips, but probably cookies of some kind, and always fruit, boring, boring fruit, which I still choose last.

She raised two daughters ahead of us, sixteen & ten years ahead respectively. She was, well, the best word I can use to describe her … stern. She brooked no backtalk, no crying, no whining. Her feet were unendingly sore; her response to any cough or sneeze was an enema. Her nursing uniforms were severe, raspy, over the knee. Her white shoes were always freshly polished using a brown bottle with a narrow neck, from which she drew a wire with a furry white ball on its end. Her smiles were tired. Dinner was always in the refrigerator for Joe to warm up for me. We were otherwise not permitted in the kitchen during prep time, unless it was to roll the handle of the bread crumb grinder, the same one used to crumble the hard Locatelli cheese she favored above all else. Or to clean the dishes. I escaped these chores as much as I could, incurring resentment & glares from put-upon brother Joe.

Years later, I was told by a healing woman working on me that my mother worked too much. I said, “How do you know that?” She, (Mormon mother of ten), replied darkly, “There are many ways to find excuses not to be with your children.” I just smiled. I knew who Mom had been by that time.

I cannot remember holding Mom’s hand except when we went into the city to buy school uniforms. I cannot remember ever getting my choice of clothing or shoes or anything in my exact size as she relied on growth to happen & always “left room.” When I stayed a shrimp, it just meant all my clothing hung off me as though I was dressed from a third world closet – a comparison I’m sure she is bristling at in her grave as I type.

I was in my 50’s when my husband took my face gently in his hands & kissed my forehead. I burst into uncontrollable tears.

But the reality is, Mom DIDN’T avoid us, she accepted us with all the responsibility she could wrap us in. She saw to the everything of our lives without any mush/gush of overt loving. I think she just didn’t have the energy for love. We lacked for nothing, got hollered at a great lot, were expected to make First Honors every report card cycle. We were expected to never do wrong, to sing in the choir, to serve on the altar, to not bring home friends as they made more work for her.

I grew into who I am, wary of relationships, a loner with no real abilities except reading, no talent except writing, (which she despised – I often say her only words to me, ever, were “Go outside! You live at the beach! Just GO!”) I never remember being tickled on the belly. But I was never slapped either, or smacked, or punished except by voice & disapproval. But these can be crushing in their own ways.

Once I discussed my lack of understanding how to be a mother because of my own experiences with my daughter & she, far wiser than I with her Masters in Special Ed (itself a telling education), said, “You hit the nail on the head, Mom!” I hardly remember opening my arms to her during our time together before she elected to live with her father instead. I do remember frequently saying, “Will you just go outside!?”

A father…my father disgraced himself in Mom’s eyes with another woman. We saw Daddy once a year when he came to paint the house. He had five more children after his four with Mom. There was neither time nor funding for us, his last two with her. I understand that now.

Without this upbringing, I would not be the person I am. I don’t regret a bit of it, all these years later. I just comprehend it better. There was never a moment when either of them did not do what they perceived to be their very best for us.

In a reading once, I asked what the karmic connection with my mother & my family was. I was told there was none, that we had elected to incarnate together as a family to resolve more of concepts than karma. Concepts like patience, tolerance and the like. I could not have had a better environment in which to spend my childhood than the five-mile island where I biked & walked & goggled at the Sisters of St. Joseph who enacted my discipline & taught me discretion.

I have inherited an enlarged heart from Mother. But when the physician looked to induce fear in me by telling me this, I only said, “More room to love.” This, I know, I learned from Mom.

So, I’d say in the farther reaches of time where I now dwell, close to the age where my mother made her Crossover, alone & asleep in her own bed at the beach while I dwelled inland. I think about mortality, but don’t believe in it for me, not really. (This is a common belief, you know. Few really plan for their own demise. Mother did, though.)

Were I to die in my bed tonight, I would not be disaffected of her. I would expect her to be waiting under the “Exit” sign with open arms, saying, “It was all a dream, Carol. Let’s wake up together.”

You’ll have to pardon any errors in this post, my eyes are filled with tears.


Christmas 2017

No decorated tree, no wreaths, no gifts to share (no money to purchase any b/c half the house taxes came due in November). My simple string of color lights are already off the windows in preparation to the move to another town. No snow, no Santa hats, a red turtleneck in deference to the season, but no shower today since the electrical outlet in the bathroom doesn’t work & I simply don’t feel like braving the icebox room for other than quick bathroom functions.

Our Christmas menu is turkey tenders from Schwan’s; we hope for gravy in the package. Also a bag of their mashed potatoes. No hot rolls or stuffing. But we do have a cheesecake defrosting!

This adobe house has reached its heat peak today – low 50’s with electric heaters valiantly chugging in three of the huge rooms. Its heater has not worked for two years. I wear a hoodie as I prepare pizza slices for lunch – which I don’t want, but nothing is defrosted & not much will defrost in the cold. I have taken out some hamburger for dinner later…will have to shave the brick to try & cook it. By then the heater will have rendered cooking tenable.

My roommate sits in her room watching musicals on Turner TV. The cat is the only spirit here who’s independent of the cold, going in & out on his own.  I hold the computer in my lap for its heat value & watch videos, or read books, or maybe will rent an Amazon movie later. (Have my eye on “Priceless,” a hero story.) I watch the alternative blogs, all alight with Trump’s Executive Order & I offer gratitude each time I see another aspect of the story. The Khazarian mob is deadlocked. They’ve arrived in their corner & will not be permitted an exit. Will forgiveness follow? Will we advance enough along the Holy Way to find how to do this, after all the whack-a-mole hammering we’ve received? Centuries of abusive taxes, explosive wars, damage to humanity – women & children destroyed, men broken…take this as far as you dare.

My room is a cardboard paradise. My possessions reboxed & stacked, awaiting the strength of my spine to move into a borrowed vehicle for transport; the bank accounts emptied into pockets of a new landlord & Visa. The comfy, lighted massage studio is empty except for one chair, the dragonfly curtain replaced with dark brown, no light now, no warmth, no hot towels or soft music. The perfect meditation space if you seek focus in darkness & tolerate cold well.

If I have made this sound sad or anything other than practical (a what-it-is scenario), this is your emotion offsetting the situation here. There is a wondrous, tangible gift to me on the eve of the newest of years. My Christmases have for a decade been sere as old leaves. A student sent me a scarf last week, a new hanging for my new space. I missed the Christmas decoration exchange in town and the hen party Chinese Exchange…tho our fiestas (one commercial, one for our residents) were lovely. I read a poem at the latter & helped to hand out maps & sell posters at the former. I am complete with the town.

I invest no sentiment in holidays. To me, they are liquidly transparent days because love doesn’t need a special day or time to be shown. Seeing them as fixed calendar dates only, allows the celebration of their truth to express in my life all the time. My morning walks are filled with gratitudes spoken aloud, my evening climbing-under-the-covers times are filled with prayers of thanks that the day has passed & another awaits, a tomorrow to express lovingkindness once again. In between, I watch the sunlight rediscover the world & the moonlight bestow its blessings in its unceasing ritual, full to none, each month.

This lack of sentiment has freed me from “schmaltz” & heretic empathy. It delights me instead to find miracle & blessing in every stalk of grass, every sighting of a deer in a yard, every wave rising from the ocean to meet my eyes in joyous, frivolous bubbling.

I believe in a wordy kind of love, one which expresses along my right arm, the one skilled in writing. I believe I, among all in the world, am blessed with this altered view & the ability to experience it in such a way that it is shared with you now.

My life is at another pivot point. My meridians stretch from here to wherever I may extend them outward. My hopes are realized in the new-future Politik which will emblazon the Light on Earth so symbolically reborn. I am freed from this dark, cold, sad place. I did all I could to help change up its energy, but six months later, there is no appreciable change of manner or idea. Even with cleaning, this house is unclean. I can straighten every surface, but this adds no comfort & no heat. I no longer serve here as it is of no worth.

Instead, I have been gifted with a clean, bright, sparkle of a home. I have an upstairs/downstairs, layers & levels to live upon. I have furniture coming next Friday – one chair to sit upon, one twin bed, a small table with two chairs, a desk where I can write, write, write. Another town where my talents may manifest in helping as a volunteer, in enjoying the company of familiar faces, in spending my time instead of owing it out in unfulfilled commitment.

A new place, uninhabited for a year, so cleansed of energy. I can invest mine. I can re-set my life to a new compass point. I can choose & select what surrounds me. I can make another statement about my life, rebirth my focus & consciousness.

I’m just in time for the new world to bubble up from the ancient hot springs below the crust.

A new world for me!

The best present of all!!



Note to Self:

So, I’m unsurprised to be up & writing at 2 a.m.

I spent a lot of money today. The notch in my credit card required me to blow on it so it won’t melt my wallet down.

Worth every penny! I will seek to drop all anxiety around my expenditures. Living in a stretched zone of money has consumed my energy far too long in my life. I’m simply not ready for it to take me over again.

For as much as I have had abundance, I presume upon its continuance. I am proof to Youniverse – perhaps the exception proving the rule…which reverses the rule at once.

I’ve pulled off similar stunts successfully. No stopping now,

For all my concern about being in flow, I am So. It isn’t me running dry, it is a country at large making huge suction sounds. May these be only the swamp running dry! If one cannot see just how manipulated we have been over the short generations of today, one must be wearing a patch over one eye & holding a hand up over the other.

In a generous society such as ours, where people give freely until their fear locks that flow, sadness strolls about finding hearts to roost within. This is, most emphatically, not my fate. I sit assured I am beloved by Source, spinning words like suns spin planets. Should I doubt abundance, I simply look at the varietyof colors found in the hairs on my chin.

I am in this existence, in a time of potential unmatched other than by the original primordial soup (the good swamp) from which all life sprang.

My generation has seen tech spring from tiny transistor radios & watches that miraculously show time, date, & how fast our hearts beat…to driverless cars & the approaching, powerful resource of Replicators. How can I deny abundance?

In the moment, I must redefine it for myself by asserting it is what I have acquired. I am not collecting dollar bills in second beggar position on Date Street by the stores. I’m definitely not starving in a time when so many actually are.

I may wriggle & squirm like a kid enforced in school, but it is always under the hand of knowing better to sit still, said Hand resting upon my crown to direct me to see only faith. I set guards of love & bumpers of laughter at the insanity of starving in a world where apple trees grow hundreds in a season & rain down to be gathered by squirrels.

It is that I have joined an army stocked with weapons of Mass Creation, shooting out enjoyment, creativity, delight, wealth & blessing.

Then I rise in the wee hours to detail the love in my life, the easy joys of polishing another’s hand-crafted vase. I have a chair in which to park my days, several pens to perform word surgeries, many ideas to perfect in description. I have a bed & a means to stay clean in body, I eat well, I stay strong in the physical, re-move myself from toxic situations & rediscover the beauty of life in the desert. I help me. I help others accomplish their goals. I learn, but teach just a bit more than that. I offer myself as a translator of skills to make the lives of others more productive, more accomplishing.

I Am that I Am, but I am that others are, as well.

From the Other Side:

We are all so excited for you & we wake  you to 2 a.m. alleluia ’cause 2 a.m. is a great time to grab your full attention, Little Sister, Big Master! We just had to say how much we love you & where & how you “do” your living. When one well runs dry, whether it’s the oligarchs or the faithless who have defiled it, we help you in inclination & desire to simply move to the next watering hole.

We, too, giggle that you think you are lost at sea in the driest of deserts, or cold in the land where even the water bubbles in fantastical heat just below the surface crust.

We laugh as you puzzle payments – not in cruelty that you are nervy about where it will manifest from, but in a head-shake at your silliness to doubt!

We guffaw with you as you lift your white wings to check the bottom-most feathers are still there.

We flock with you like starlings at dawn & sunset, in a dance of beauty, raucous soundings & waves across the sky. We wheel & clip & sing in your joy of independence & unfettered movement.

We will never let you fall, for we love you beyond gravity’s attempts to hold you down, far past what you think may be your “if not sold by” date, way past any human measure!

Now get this move on, girl. We’re out of the heavy lifting part, leaving that to you. But we’ve got the rest & so much more!
























Don’t Put Your Glasses Down!

Moving Day approaches. Let’s see now, I’ve moved from Nashville to Truth or Consequences (T or C), to Hillsboro, to Ruidoso, to Ocean City, to Berlin, to Fenwick Island, to Hillsboro, all since 2010, & am now returning to T or C. That’s a LOT of boxes to tape.

I’ve given away stuff I’m now re-buying. I’ve invested, divested, shared, thrifted, lost, found…countless items. I have no idea why we need so much stuff, and, believe me, I have much less stuff than most people I know.

Some basic Laws of Moving I have learned:

  • always buy the heavier duty tape – this is not a time to go for cheaper pricing
  • don’t run out of tape – more than you need is just enough
  • note where you put down your glasses every time you take them off
  • ditto on the car keys
  • keep track of friends, b/c they’re generally going out of town on move day
  • always use good body mechanics
  • don’t attempt to move without a strong back
  • tape EVERYTHING you possibly can
  • when pulling boxes out of the trash, make sure they  have bottoms
  • keep in mind Newton’s second principle: two items cannot occupy the same space at the same time
  • this is a good time to consider an investment in robot tech

I’m sure there are a bunch more I could come up with, maybe something relating to gravity, inertia, stress factors concerning cardboard, how much you really want/need an item, and more. But I’m pretty certain you’ve learned them all through moving yourself. And if you’re one of those unusual folk who’ve stayed put for anything over twenty years, I have only a large well of empathy to tap on your behalf should this time ever come to your door.

Desperation sharpens the memory, but only in the desperate individual. My landlord said call him the day before to confirm the move; my hired helper said call him the day before to confirm the time to be here which I’ve just called & told him; the fella I’m buying the replacement (of the identical computer desk I gave away three years ago) said call him pre-move to remind him I’m coming to pick it up. Do men not come equipped with memories?

Reminds me of the story about the husband who, noticing he can’t sign on, calls out to his wife in the kitchen, “Honey, did you change the password?” To which she replies in her sweetest voice, “Yes, I did! It’s our anniversary date.”

My new place is a duplex, with a second floor & two bedrooms. It’s a real WOW after living with roommates, in motel rooms, in efficiencies – all of which have sprung furniture, with at least one chair where the seat can sink into the floor, with questionable mattresses & extra-cold kitchens. Where I am now, the drier is in the garage, a chill walk from the back swinging doors (which only open if you go through them with approximately the force of a battering ram in the hands of an invading, woad-painted army.) It is always interesting to see how other people live. But for at least a year of the lease, I can live with a view of the Caballo Mountains, topped by Turtleback, with a washer/dryer off the kitchen, a bath and a half plus a small graveled yard for outdoors living when the weather brings surcease instead of subzero.

I guess it just isn’t my gift in later life to stay in one place for long. I guess I’m still searching for the spot where I can stay for twenty years, after which they can just open a hole under the living room floor & bury me. No need for ceremony. Matter of fact, this new place was built atop a lube shop, so there’s already a nice big hole under there, tho the hydraulic lift is most likely gone. But that’s okay. Far more comfy than what I’m always telling people – “just toss me down the nearest elevator shaft.”

Wish me strength & fortitude, strong hands & good eyes. While you’re at it, wish me the ability to hammer in a straight nail as most of my pictures hang at a slight angle, like an earth tremor crossed under the floor before dawn. Wish me up a lot of energy over the next week. But I usually have the place together within 48 hours because after living in a roomful of boxes with a Libra’s keen sense for disorder as pain, it will be total pleasure to have my few things arrayed just how I want them.

With all the homelessness out there (I tell people to get to the Walmart they just make a left after the second panhandler up the road.) No disrespect here, just practical directions, really. (Once, passing through Nashville, I gave a woman in a wheelchair a bill as she sat on the corner in a steady rain. She peered into my car & asked sympathetically if I was living in it.)

One thing more: I would move forever if it meant more stories like these. Life isn’t static, but rotting out is exactly that. Each place gives me gifts of light, love, laughter, the chance to meet new people & hug old friends.

Enough sitting now. The boxes are starting to whisper again…