I dragged these boots through the mud for months

Through the beating sun

Through biting flies

Through circles of swamp and lonely cold beans in the can

Through dusty nameless plains of cactus and snakes

I fell to my knees

I stared at cool stars until the fever broke and rest came

I am, I go on, I am empty, I go crazy and try to touch the sky

I chew on solitude

It tastes like old leather

And aches of a sky so blue it snatches my breath away

Advertisements

There is no turning back from these atrocities. There is no “I was just joking” minimizing.

This is the pivot point. We either reclaim our humanity or we continue down hell’s path.

I spoke to a woman who was nonchalant. She said, I’m legal. I stared at her. She was engulfed in “I got mine.”

I shopped today, minding my place. White supremacy. It hangs on me like a spiderweb.

I don’t know how to shed it. But I can do something. I can be one among many.

I can be non-centered. This isn’t my world. I just live in it. I can speak out as a human.

I make it an awareness and a yoke.

It is. It is a sunset in the finite understanding of tarot card readers and icy cold beers drawn from a

tap.

What is inside curls like smoke to the air.

It bends in the darkness that has settled over this big, brawling country.

My tiny flame, other tiny flames will form the fateful lightning of a terrible, swift sword. And truth will march on…

When I walk out to the mailbox in my ratty shorts and the wrinkled shirt that I slept in

three days in a row

And my hair looks like I combed it with a leaf blower from the back

 

That’s when the neighborhood cop comes by and wants to chat about

just anything at all, because I look sketchy I guess

 

I don’t want to be rude, because there are times when I AM sketchy

 

I might need the goodwill, or even since I looked sketchy last week and

wasn’t, I’m not likely to be sketchy this week

 

Mental gymnastics are the most exercise this ole girl is gonna get any more

donation

keeps the kitties in kibble and me in tacos

$1.00

They say denial is not a river in Egypt.

Nope, it’s not.  It’s a cracked door that I hide behind, listening.

 

The easiest thing to do is nothing if you need to do something.

The hardest thing to do is nothing if you need to do nothing.

 

Yesterday is about as useful to me as tits on a boar hog.

A decade ago? Now, that’s a goldmine.

 

The two greatest smells are brewed coffee and fried anything.

Even liver smells like steak before it gets to the plate.

 

A cat can be a porcupine and a throw rug. At the same time.

 

donation

keeps the kitties in kibble and me in tacos

$1.00

 

Where is the middle ground between my loving altogether in the whole sense

and walking an ascetic life?

It’s no accident gurus and crones are long in the tooth

It takes decades to learn anything in this life

Anything that is worth a damn, anyway

Those of us who claim to be forever youthful and therefore excused from

learning lessons and little grievings of maturity, mortality

whistle through the day with a jaunty tip of the cap and a nod in toasting

We, the orphaned children of Pan, we winking curmudgeons,

for us, there is no middle ground for anything

and I’m fucking grateful for that

If I were to tell you that my heart was putty in your hands

would you mold it to fit yours?

Or would you mash it flat, pound it into the table

drop it on the ground to pick up all the detritus

you walked through before?

If I were to tell you that I don’t know if I can get close

would you live and let live, trusting that I  will find my way home?

Or would you get angry that you cannot possess all of me at once

On your terms?

I swear, technology is going to drive me to drink . . . heh, heh.

I have spent three hours trying to find this site on WordPress so that I could post some innocuous shit, possibly something about hearts and flowers.  It was going to be good, so good, that I would immediately gain thousands of followers within a day.

And it happened.  My site disappeared.  Well, it didn’t actually disappear, but it existed on another plane that I had no access to, for some reason.  Every time I tried to sign in, the message popped up that I didn’t have a site, would I like to create one?

What the actual hell??  I could see my site plain as day from going through another blogger, and it was just as pristine as the day it was born, but I couldn’t get to it.

It was like being in a bakery and seeing those luscious cakes and not being able to buy a damned thing.

So, I cursed.  I ranted. I raved.  I checked my server settings.  I went back through my emails.  I cursed some more.  I made guttural growling sounds that drove the kitties to hide under the chairs.  I paced.  I drank a Coke Zero (they’re actually pretty good), I chewed a nail, I sighed, I tried the community forums.

And then, it happened.  I signed in again, and there it was!  Much as I would like to blame this on the nefarious doings of Mr. Google and Madame WordPress, it was solely on me and my blithely using my other page to sign in to, which properly said, hey, you really don’t have a site–UNDER THIS NAME.

I truly hope I can remember what the hell I did to get here, because I do not want to go through this again in order to post the best blog entry of 2018.

Of course, I have another problem involving bluehost and my new website, but that is another story and another long rant somewhere in the next few days.

I never thought that my best friends would have been objects instead of people, but here we are.

I liked to smoke.  I loved to smoke.  My favorite time of the day was early morning, with cup of coffee in hand, pack of cigarettes on the table, and an hour to leisurely peruse Facebook and Twitter before my caregiving responsibilities came into play.

I cherished the twin jolts of caffeine and nicotine, and to a lesser extent, the solitude to indulge in those old friends.  Of course, at night, there was nothing better than a few beers, a lot more smokes, and hitting the hay with a pleasant buzz.

Then, the virus happened.  It started like my usual infection that happens every year at the same time:  sore throat, headache, nasty asthmatic cough.  I took my usual store meds to keep the symptoms to a dull roar and continued to do my usual, albeit with the added stress of Thanksgiving just a couple of days away.  I powered through, prepping for the big day, hacking and blowing my nose, smoking less and drinking more.  Alcohol is a disinfectant.  The logic seemed impeccable, really.

Then, my roommate started sniffling.  Started wheezing.  By Friday, she was puffing like a steam engine.  I was somewhat concerned, but not unduly so.  Although she indulged in the same habits, her smoking took a big hit.  She just couldn’t draw a deep breath.

By Saturday morning, she sounded like Darth Vader and looked like him without the helmet; grey, sickly, weak around the eyes.  Her stubbornness would not let her even touch her rescue inhaler until it was too late to do any good.  Off we go to the ER.  She spent six days in the hospital, struggling to draw a breath, taking breathing treatments and injections every two hours.  I had another day of self-recrimination and smoking, until I gave it up, too.  There was no way I could continue to smoke after what I saw her go through, even though I hadn’t planned to quit, exactly.  It just happened.

So, this Saturday, she will be two weeks smoke-free, on a strict heart-healthy diet, one drink limit, and as much walking as she can handle, which is to say, not much right now.  my drinking is down to one beer a night.  I didn’t plan that, either, but it happened.  Sunday will be two weeks smoke-free for me.

My so-called best friends ended up not being my best friends after all.  They didn’t care about my wellbeing.  They just wanted to kill me.  With friends like that, who needs enemies?  I can live without them and I have more free hours to do what I really want to do.  I thought I would be depressed, but the opposite has happened.  I feel more energetic, more positive, and I cook a whole lot more because I feel like it again.  I’ve noticed that my back no longer aches when I walk a lot.  I don’t get in a hurry to finish something so I can have a cigarette and a beer.

My roommate still has breathing treatments for the next few months, but she sounds better now breathing-wise than she has in years.

As for me, I’m still taking doctor-prescribed meds, still sniffling, still keeping a headache, and still smoke-free.  The gut-punch of wanting a cigarette happens and I let it come and go.  If I could train myself to not smoke in the car or the truck and be happy with it, I can train myself to not smoke anywhere, anytime.  I thoroughly enjoy my one beer and don’t miss the other five or six at all.

I once thought that being an adult meant doing what I want when it turns out that real maturity means doing what is necessary and liking it for the sheer joy of having the choice to make good decisions.

 a gauze of memory  wraps my day in a warm cocoon

when it gets too shitty outside to keep putting up with shit

I remember how the sun coming through the oak leaves made bright splashes

on the grass and how they would disappear like magic when clouds floated by

I remember the oozing mud at the bottom of the fill dirt backyard and the oily

sheen that seemed to be liquid rainbows at low tide

I wanted to build a little raft and float down the marsh to unknown parts

explore like DeSoto did, see things for the first time before people were around

That wanderlust grew into an unbearable sense of desperation to escape, to run,

to be in a place where nobody knew me and I could be who I was

Then I turned 9 and real life smacked me right between the eyes but the desperation

just buried itself in my intuitive sense of powerlessness to do anything just yet

The sound woke me.  Cracks and booms echoed through my bedroom.  I bolted upright, my heart pounding.  I slowly became aware of another presence and that panicked me.

I turned on the light and noticed a body standing at the foot of my bed.

“Behold.  Your creation.”

I rubbed my eyes.  Damnit there was another person in my room.  A naked, wet person.  A naked, wet, unformed female person.  I mean, she had a body with boobs, sort of, and the water dripping down her body was real enough.  She shivered, her arms crossed in a V across her chest.  Her legs ended at her torso, but she didn’t exactly look right, and her voice was flat.  I shook my head. The hair was wrong, the . . . everything was wrong.

“You formed me.”  Her voice was flat.  Creation?  Really?

I sat up and drained the last of my blue.  Thus refreshed, I looked again.  It was a female body.  Everything wasn’t exactly there.

“I formed you?  What do you mean?”

“You write.  I appear.”

I laughed.  No cowboys or rich guys had ever appeared in my bedroom.  She wasn’t real, obviously.

“Nah, characters don’t just appear.  You’re my imagination.” I lay back down and pulled up the covers.  Thunder rumbled close by.  I closed my eyes again.

“I’m your creation.”  Again that flat voice.  I sat up and looked fully at the creature.  She sure as hell looked real.  But what was wrong?  I got up and went to my desk, giving her a wide berth.

I switched on the lamp and looked over my notes.  OK, let’s see.  The main character is a lesbian, yes, tall, yes.  I looked back at the apparition.  Tall.  The notes didn’t say much more than that.  I picked up my pen and wrote down:  she is witty, acerbic, lightly muscular.  I looked back at her.  her body was smooth and looked strong.

“Ah, much better.”  Her voice was still flat.  I wrote. she sounds like Jodie Foster in bed.

“Do you really want to finish me out like that?” Her lip curled in an unholy sexy smile.  I looked back at the outline and started working like crazy.