In The Shadow Of The Iris

The New Residence

2009-03-02T11:54:00.000-08:00

The New Residence of Rebecca Anne can be located at ...............

www.Provocationofmind.com

I hope to see you there~~
Rebecca

To All Those Who Have Started Over

2008-10-18T21:07:00.000-07:00

I have found that usually when I am faced with the end of something, I must look at the beginning to understand the journey. Maybe I'm just a sentimental sap, maybe I knew then that all good things come to an end, but the middle was my meat and for that I am satisfied.

I'll let the first words, the first entry I ever wrote in this journal speak for how I feel now..........

~~~~~~~
Written November 8th, 2004
To All Those Who Have Started Over

To Create: The art of simply writing: Honesty.

Sometimes without regard to those who could benefit, or to those who could be hurt. That's the problem with writing. That's the problem with the written word, being a relic, being concrete, tis neither black or white.
It is what it is.

To be dissected, analyzed, interpreted. Taken out of context, or to be understood or misunderstood. Delete at the touch of a button, or a burning party.

How many of us have participated in a burning party? All the concrete reminders gone, reduced as they should to ashes. But the memories, no way to delete those, no way to burn those away.

A lifetime of memories to be discussed, looked at, reflected upon. No hiding from them. No delete button there. All there inside my head where the walls are black and the roof is red.

I guess I've found myself in a "middle of the ground" area. A crossroads of sorts. Not sure which path to follow. Which direction would have the least regret. Sometimes the safety in standing still is a humble motion, but also a cowardly one. So for now, I'll just keep writing. Discovering, exploring and avoid that delete button.

~~~~~~~

I'll let AOL burn my journal, my sweet In the Shadow of The Iris. I'm not going to transfer it, or archive it's words to gather dust somewhere......I rather like the thought of a black abyss, black ashes, nothingness and finished. I'm good with that.

My journey isn't over. It simply has a new address.
The New Homestead is located at.....
Latent Thoughts

p.s. leaving your new address would be most helpful in my next quest of finding everyone...

Thank You Everyone
In the Shadow of the Iris wouldn't have been the same without you.
The reason this journal was created remains the same,
And the song this journal is named after, I still can't escape that shadow.......

Guaranteed

2008-09-26T08:59:00.000-07:00

Summers Over. I've only just returned.
Things like routine and normalcy are surrounding my senses.
In a not so pleasant way. (The created cage of Life I so resist)

I'm not sure if I'm ready to be back, but,
I have a few things to say.

To the person who sent me the book about Kevin.
I got it.
*fantastic surprise*
I thank You, very much.
I will be reading it soon and letting you know what I thought.

To the person who wrote a letter to me that they missed my writing.
I miss reading about your days and thoughts as well.
I'll be writing something just for you, soon.
Chefs surprise?
Request?

To my Patron of the Pen and fellow seeker.......
I hope you are well, I miss you and
hope your new endeavor is waxing the hell out of Texas.
I will write.

To the person who checks in once in awhile, I've only just read your words.
I thank you, understand and admire from afar.
This picture is for you, a real Pig.

To my raven friend. The crickets are still singing for you today.
Hand against your breast......beat beat.....

To everyone else.
I hope you are well and that your summer was divine.

Let the hibernation commence.

This is Ordinary

2008-05-25T15:07:00.000-07:00

With permission and encouragement, because I've never done such a thing, I'm going to address a specific email here within an entry. ....so for you my friend, I'll try this direction and I imagine the comments from others will also be a difference in perspective and opinion. I am after all just a voice of individual process, nothing more, nothing less ~ ~ ~ ~

Trust me, bad things have happened in my lifetime. Things I suppose I could allow to coil around my ankles and hamper my every move. I am human, and no where near immune to the facts of life. I can claim negative, sad, traumatic, horrid, depressing, frustrating, heartbreaking....and so on. If you are alive, you will have pain. That is truth. And the odds are on the fact, someone out there is dealing with something far worse then what you, I, see as bad.......

That is ordinary.

If I take a snapshot of just the last two months of my life, and applied it to conventional and acceptable process, I would have a "right" or "inherited" reason to be pissed, depressed, bawling, stressed and generally down. Truth in snapshot. ***after thought modesty removal***

I know sharing this much wasn't needed, but rather a perspective of my challenges. Now, you'll see that not all things are peachy keen in my world. I typically don't mention things like that because I do not desire sympathies, strokes, and dramatic infusion. It's not needed. But I can see why you may have thought I had the world in my hands. In a way I believe I do actually, but not the way you implied. Regardless of the issues I'm dealing with, I'm beyond thrilled to be alive and gifted another day to explore life. Simple, but good enough for me to feel grateful and appreciative of what I have.

So that's two months, all things I have absolutely no control over, and despite it all, I think today is a gorgeous beautiful day. Could that imply I'm rowing in a personal boat of denial? I don't believe so,I've had my sadness, my tears and allowed bad days to happen. Tis human to grieve, have a bad day, embrace a sad time. However, the bad things have happened, are still happening and I honestly believe playing victim over them is not the sort of direction growth, understanding, healing and greatness, in spite of it all, is found.

I wasn't always this way. There was a time that I basked in the glory of my past, my guilt's, and my glorious pains. Moments like that can be found in the archives of my journal. I haven't always made good choices, and have no doubt I will make more bad choices in life. I have rained hell down on my heart and mind just to sit and lick the very wounds I created. I own my choices, and I assure, I've done some terrible things in my life that I will continue to live with. But here's the thing, my past is my past, your past is your past....our historical realities...I see the difference between you and me, is the fact I no longer allow my past to define my future, whereas you let your past dictate your tomorrows mind set.

It seems only natural that one allows a yesterday to establish a tomorrow, but I encourage you to shift that mentality. We are the makeup of our history, but it's just crazy to allow such a thing as something that happened 10 years ago to effect your today. Let it go. I'm sure as you read that, your pain swelled up demanded and justified it's overbearing presence, but you can stifle that thought, I promise, by over ruling it's persistent need with a more powerful emotion called acceptance. You have to choose which you'd rather give the louder voice. It's yourself after all. Truth. No one could tell me a past issue that could warrant an entire life lived in day in, day out, pain and despair. No history is worth that self inflicted sentence. Reprogram.

You wrote that you have a hard time feeling happy for someone else who expresses happiness, greatness......that's your ego talking rather then your heart. Yes ego, because ego would rather think they are bad at something, just as you believe you are. Trying to measure your own ego against another persons successes is a fruitless maneuver that will never bring you personal joy. We are far too individual, with individual lives to play 'theJones' against our family and friends. Those that do, are participating inan empty game that never ends.

The way I see it, everyone possesses that great and powerful concept of choice. There are those who have taken the 'bad' in their past, learned from it and although it will never be erased, they apply it in a positive manner to their future. And then there are those who allow a past to shackle their thoughts, behaviors and somehow feel justified bythis mentality. If you have convinced yourself this thought process is perfectly right and earned, try unconvincing yourself that it's not. Otherwise you choose to keep rowing that boat in the middle of the desert without water. Boats don't move very far in sand.

As for your greatness, I could mention several things I think are great about you. But I won't. This might hurt, but here's the deal. Anyone that needs compliments, or others to point out what's good about them, or fill their bucket of greatness is again rowing in a desert. For me to do that, is akin to giving you a quick rain storm. You need to fill your own lake with a wave of positive thought and changes. The notion of depending on others to do it for you is an unreliable source of personal nourishment. I see a hundred reasons you could feel confident in yourself, but you see a few past histories to drag you down......shift your focus, and believe in it. Once you do that, and I do compliment you, you'll actually believe me............

Each sentence I've written should have started with I believe.....and ended with, my personal opinion. I'm no therapist, but you asked for my opinions. Everything I've written is my personal view point. It's only truth for me, and suggestion based on my history and knowledge. I imagine it's made you uncomfortable and I will say, Good. Uncomfortable should inspire a change of position to find content. You deserve content, we all do. And when the next hard thing comes along, which it will, you'll be better able to handle it's motion. I believe in you my friend.........

And that is, just a thought~

**after note, the person I was writing emails with asked me to do this entry, and encouraged me to be be bold and honest. Their questions and thoughts weren't an attack on me personally. It's all good. Friend is well meaning and I hope this entry helped, rather then offend**

~Ness~

2008-05-19T08:38:00.000-07:00

I was thinking this weekend that I wanted to start a revolution of some sort. Something swanky and worthwhile. Something that would require a theme song, a possible parade and perhaps something akin to fantastic parties. But then, I had to go and ruin it by doing some research on revolutions. Turns out, they are all rather violent and borderline revolt-ing.............

So I suppose I'll now settle for just finding a niche in life that will keep me swinging along with greatness. ((But I still want a theme song)) I've decided since we are all bound for greatness, and I really believe we all have something extraordinary to claim in life, it's about time I discovered what my greatness is all about.

Claiming I have greatness does go against the grain of what is considered socially acceptable of course, so I understand some humility is in order here...... For some reason it's considered bad manners to coast along and say to another person, "Hey, I'm full of greatness, did ya know that?"

But, it is perfectly acceptable to say to another, "Oh, I'm a complete mess, life is rough and I'm drowning on a daily basis" That dialogue is A-Ok, but owning a piece of greatness is akin to arrogance, bragging or the Mack Daddy Deadly sin, Pride.

Why Is That?? Perhaps I'm the clueless one here and am teetering on the edge of black listing my journal. Either way I'm going for it.....

I publicly claim, that I have pride in myself. Gasp. There, I'm not deleting it, I've typed it, I have pride in myself and I'm quite certain I'm full of greatness, realized and undiscovered........I know I will never be the greatest at anything, no one really is, but I will find my greatness, I (everyone) deserve as much.

Now I just need to discover something worthy of my theme song and potential one lady parade. Since greatness comes in many forms, I figure the skies the limit for opportunity. I find questioning my motivation can simplify my direction. I know my greatness is not found in money, business, politics, religion, material things, and the standard American dream theory. But I desire fireworks and a sense of Wow, I did that.........somewhere around here, my unrealized greatness, is just waiting to be claimed.

I also know, that no one can guide me to my greatness, not the sort of greatness I seek. I can't compose a personal theme song if someone else writes the lyrics~~~ So now I just need a mission to accomplish. Whether it's climbing a Mountain I would rather not, swimming to the Ocean via rivers fromIdaho, starting a humanitarian cause, baking a cake that's not from a box, etc etc....... the opportunities are limitless.

Awhile ago I wrote something for myself. I wrote, " In a world scattered with broken glass, the love and support from my family and friends always keeps me safe. In a world abundant with fears and choices, I have always felt love was bigger then any mistake I have made. In a lifetime of opportunities, I have risked often, failed with grace and succeeded with humble gratitude. But above all, I have never known a single day without a hint of extraordinary."

Now, I just need to add a touch of greatness to my journey.

Have you touched base with or more importantly, claimed YoUr gReAtneSs today?

Just (observation) curious~~

Self

2008-05-13T09:03:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile I see, so I will brush off ordinary excuses and go with, I had been stretched out on my back, hands behind my head, staring up at the underside of my Iris plant watching the world drift along waiting for some gorgeous blooms.........until life reached down, gave me a resounding bitch slap and with that smack I've had to make a choice, crawl back under my soft zone, or emerge right along with the blooms.

So here I am, at all things ignored. I don't feel so well, in fact, I'm fighting off sad and would be perfectly content remaining silent and blissfully depressed. (For the season and reason of my grief, one could, if they wished to satisfy the curiosity factor, visit my other journal at Lavender Black ) But sad and depressed are different then simply quiet and observing, so movement is in order and this residence is one I can achieve progress.

I had to read something, a paper I wrote that will probably be the hardest thing I'll ever write, this weekend in front of 120 people. Public speaking is something I wouldn't say I love, but I've never been that evasive of it either. I've given classes, pulled of speeches, la de da, not a big deal, but this weekend I experienced a sensation I doubt I'll ever forget and it quite possibly scared me for life in the public speaking arena.

When I walked up to the podium, turned to face the crowd and introduced myself, I was as steady as could be expected. I had given myself numerous pep talks, internally bitch slapped my emotions so many times they were under check, and re-read the material ahead of time so much, I almost knew all 4 pages by heart.

Then I started to read. Somewhere in that very first paragraph I felt my fingers start to tingle, and that sensation continued with every word for 4 pages, to weave it's way through my entire body. The only part of me that didn't fail was my voice. I somehow managed to keep it steady and true the entire time, but by the end my entire body was shaking numb and I had to steady myself by holding the podium before attempting to return to my seat. The shaking was so horrendous, the people in the front row could visually see my struggle.......

I've now deemed my bodies traitorous reaction an internal implosion of emotion held so tight it had no where to go but within itself. Which sounds much better then a possible anxiety attack, a meltdown of physical body control or a plain old panic of the third power. I expected near perfection from myself, and realize now how often I place unrealistic expectations on my own responsibilities, that I would never place on another soul. It was all rather surreal, but I survived and today, I'm again honored I had the privilege.

This is what I appreciate when bad things happen. People come together. Things like schedules and appointments, cleaning house and TV programs become ridiculously irrelevant. When bad things happen, focus turns from self serving to self sacrificing. People come together in ways, that one would think they would want or more importantly, need......all the time. Why is it so hard to maintain self sacrificing and holding people close during the ordinary week? It is of great mystery to me.

I took a late night walk with my Father Saturday. He said something I haven't and won't forget. He said, "This is why I can walk down this street free from guilt, should haves and could haves. I was a good son, I told her I loved her often, I visited her every single week, I offered my help even though she never asked and I never expected anything in return. She did the same for me. I can live with that."

Body betrayal aside, I can live with everything I did as well. It's all good.

Ahoy~Contrast

2008-03-16T23:19:00.000-07:00

Although my chair seems to be swaying to and fro, I thought I would try a sea worthy entry while my latest adventure is still as fresh as just landed sea food.

You see, I did what is considered, by my standards, a 'commercial vacation' something I typically avoid.....at all costs. A cruise seemed the quintessential beacon of prepackaged hoopla, but a week ago I found myself walking across the plank of an all inclusive festivities driven Mexican Riviera Cruise. <gasp>

I could make excuses for my irrational choice in escape. For example, I was cold here in Idaho and down south held promise of warm air. Or, I couldn't find anything better to do. Then again, I could say, I was curious, the travel channel and all. Of course, there's the truth, which is I got talked into it by a gang of sea loving travelers. Either direction I lean towards, I sucked it up, tucked my passport in my pocket and headed into skeptical waters.

I think I'll spare everyone my opinions of the cruising life .I fear I could go on and on about my observations on El Shipper Skipper. Except this, if you like to eat, and I mean A LOT, book a cruise, you'll be rolling in food heaven.

What fascinated me the most on this excursion was the contrasts I discovered everywhere I turned. While at sea, I couldn't find anything better to do then simply watch people. While trapped in a space that 80% of that huge mass you see on the outside is actually staterooms the size of sardine cans, that leaves 20% of space for everyone to amass in. Observation heaven.

First and foremost. People are extraordinarily different in size, and general appearance. That may not seem such an original statement or observation, but when you are in a space that's holding 200 people sauntering around in a state of undress....bikini's, Speedos, barely there poolside attire, it really can evoke a sense of amazement.....the human body is incredibly unique even though we all sport the same basic form. Contrasts and uniqueness. Body buffet style.

By the time we hit land and I could abandon ship I was extremely ready for a change of scenery. We personally choose to stay off the beaten path. No shopping needed, my gang wanted to see people, places and things.

Being in Mexico really opened my eyes to how monochromatic we live in America. We, at least the places and people I know, are a banal bunch. With our beige walls and earth tone houses. It occurred to me that unlike Americans who want to fade into the landscape and not be outright noticed in our neighborhood, the Mexican culture celebrates bold, bright and colorful. The colors of their homes contrast the landscape. Their personal adornments send signals out to notice them. A church I visited was laden, to a point that would certainly be considered tacky in America, with statues and alters.

But contrast goes both ways. While I could admire the beauty of their homes, their paintings and adornments, I couldn't ignore the bars on every single door and window. In all three ports we visited, I couldn't ignore the trash, that was practically everywhere. It was a conflict of observation. To see beauty, everywhere, pillared by immense piles of trash. Sad.

One of my greatest moments was seeing a cemetery in Mexico. Holy High Honor. That culture doesn't just bury their dead, they shroud them in alters, shiny things, flowers, tombs, kites, houses, and statues. The cemetery I saw was an entire Mecca. The bigger, the brighter, the better. A visually distracting and enchanting world I have never seen nor realized existed before. I have officially requested the most gaudy and visually delightful cemetery space for myself when I pass on. I no longer want a monotone tombstone. Hell no, I want to be the purple house on the lot, I want a shrine that says, "Here lies Rebecca, Make she sparkle in peace" ........

And Contrast of wealth. By sea at night, I was eating a 5 course dinner that I would often push to the sides of the plate because I couldn't finish it all.....and by day on Mexican soil, I would witness people sifting my discarded food out of the trash can. It was a very hard reality to absorb.

In Mazatlan we used a tour guide who spoke broken, barely understandable English. His name was Cesar, and although his English was questionable, he finished every -single -solitary -sentence with, "Okie Dokie" ..(it's funny, ha ha, for about 30 minutes, but trust me, after 2 hours, okie dokie gets a bit old) ...he explained that despite our heartstrings, we were never to give the tiny children of Mexico money. He explained to me, who already had her purse basically open to anyone who asked, that if I gave them anything, it's one more day their parents will keep them out of school. Ouch. Seeing poverty at such a high dosage, at every corner, and feeling helpless to well, help, was something I doubt anyone with an ounce of compassion could feel immune. Contrast, in it's ugly form. It hurt my heart.

I suppose I could write for another hour (or two or three) about my experience, but I'll spare anyone who's made it this far. Since my mind still thinks it's on a ship and I've been swaying around the house all day, it's probably time to get some sleep. I'm sure tomorrow I'll start catching up on the 330 email alerts I have in my box (you guys can certainly write, A LOT in a week!) tomorrow, or the next...........Okie Dokie?

Interior

2008-03-02T23:13:00.000-08:00

So, it took a few comments from well wishers, a few mental "Huh's," a bit of research and discovery...to grasp the realization that for the second week in a row I was graced on the list for a Guest Editor pick.
Which I thought both humbly and appreciative, "Wow, thank you Marc!" Who is currently residing over at Grains Of Sand (a wonderful journal I must add)
And then.........

Well~~ and then I thought, "Oh no, Holy *&*%$ (or something a bit like that) if I had known that little piece of info, would I have really tossed out a mental health admission yesterday, of the questionable variant for my second debut?"

Seriously, lets think about this. You met a person for the first time and they say "My name is Rebecca, I have a few screws loose, but pull up a chair, make yourself comfortable, randomness and zero predictability are likely to hold center stage here."

Marc, my dear friend. That was a good one. The no warning part.
*Gotcha style*
(smile)
And for those of you that come by these parts of their own free will, with full comprehension and understanding of the type of person I was before the Guest Editors picks.....well, you can't blame me!
~That's all I'm saying~
And if your new, well, I swear, it has never been proven that any harm or trauma has fallen a single visitor.
Yet.
I mean.
Ever.

Ah Oh, I'm in one of those writing moods. Sometimes I think maybe I have 'split personality writing style', if there is such a thing. I never know which I'll get when I sit down to a keyboard. As a prolific writer of the wanna-be who knows sort, this can create a problem at times. Which of course, is why I can explain the assortment of started, mid-way, finished and never gonna happen writings cluttering my hard drive. 'Nuff said.

Has anyone read any good books lately? Well, I haven't. Which I'm getting a wee bit tired of, to say the least. Why hath all the authors forsaken me... lately? If I have to skim another book out of sheer boredom I think I may just.....(complete the sentence in any way you see fit, as long as it includes fire, thank you)

Anyone? Anyone? Book recommendations always taken, embraced and savored like a fine piece of chocolate. Speak up, or forever hold your peace and good book. Please ~~
Fine print: I enjoy all genres. I am not prissy, nor chicken. Bring on the horror, the fantasy. I am not highbrow or low brow. (Although erotica sinks low enough I don't count it as actual literature, plus, I have children in the house here people) I'm not snobby or pretentious about my book picks. If Nora Roberts writes a good one, I'll read it and try to ignore the fact I think she has gremlins in her basement pounding out her 500 books per year. I'll read the Nobel prize winners, and the discount bin at Barnes and Noble. All standards have been burned with the last 10 books I've read.
P. S. I hold no recommendations personally accountable. Promise.

On the heavier side of life. I am finally justified (injustice!) in my earlier complaints about the snow. I spent the day taking a drive up to my cabin in the Mountains to get a good visual on the damage the snow pulled off this year. And let me say, Snow, is no longer my friend. We have split up, parted ways, flipped each other off rigorously and will forever be intolerable with one another. Snow, in all her merciless glory crushed in the entire roof of the garage. 4-wheelers, crushed. Camp Trailer, crushed. Should I go on?
Rebecca -10
Snow (laughing, hahaha) +20

It could have been worse. As always. And that fact, in a sad sort of way, helps. For me, it's a crushed roof and material items. But for others, who had something much worse happen today, my roof is nothing. That my friends is the truth and beauty of perspective.

It seems to me that in every single situation that has a person thinking 'why me,' a simple glance over thy shoulder provides all the perspective needed to assess reasonable reaction. I have never, ever, personally encountered a problem that I couldn't glance over my shoulder and say, "it could have been much worse."

I'm not sure if I'm ahead, or behind, or above or below, but I should probably just stop here. ( I feel that other writer in me sneaking out) Thank you Marc for several things. The element of surprise. The beautiful words you write in your own journal. The words you wrote about my journal. The writers you included me with.The gesture, from both yourself and Indigo the previous week, has not escaped my interior. Thank you..........

Daisy Day

2008-03-01T08:59:00.000-08:00

Although I once again feel devoid of respectable chitter chatter, or type-oh-worthy material, I thought I would try "throw the paint and see what materializes" theory. I got up at 5:00 a.m., which is an unnatural hour, in my humble opinion, for anyone to be awake. But today seems like a good day to start early.

The first of March marks another seasonal survival period for me. January and February are brutal to my daily peace of mind. It's a time frame that has the ability to snake bite my insides and decay my smile. I suppose conventional wisdom could say I suffer from the cliche effects of seasonal affective disorder (S A.D.), but I would prefer staying away from any sort of labels and simply understand I struggle though certain times of the year.

Each year is different, especially with my growing surface knowledge and understanding of my own interior. It took awhile, but over the last few years I've realized, put my finger on it per say, that it's 'normal' for me to tank into darkness during the first two months of the year. The yearly goal for me, now, is to keep a window cracked open and reasonable conscious perspectives close at hand. If I maintain that, I don't feel like I'm one step away from black despair of the indescribable ~~

This year I went the direction of hyper-manic, which made me a slave to my impulses, made for a lot of sleepless nights and unexplainable creations......but kept me productive in the day to day. It was a nice change from years of past. I wasn't swallowed whole by black corridors and silent landscapes.
I've kept the Lavender Black at bay...................

Permission and Patience. Those are the factors in my life that have made all the difference. I used to fight, kicking and screaming against the hooks of a bad day, a sad day, a bleak day, a black mood. I used to think something was wrong with me when those type of days rolled into my world like a fog. I used to think there was something immeasurably wrong with me when I couldn't control and maintain a daisy filled flower attitude.

It took awhile to understand I was being quite unreasonable to think everyday should be calm, beautiful and as stable as a mountain. It was rather pompous really, to think I could go through life without waves, ebbs and flows, ups and downs. Permission to feel as my mind wanders and patience to discover the next destination, tis my dose of Prozac.

Did..I just admit I have psychological issues? (I know, I know, you've all known that about me for quite some time, haven't ya) I suppose that's a reasonable admission, and better then just saying I may have a touch of whacko within me <grin> I haven't met very many people who don't have some sort of visible screw rambling around loose in their minds. Although I understand why I would like to pretend life is just peachy, it does make for a bland illusionary assumption.......
Truth threads its way through eventually, always~~~~

Wishing for Daisy Day's

And accepting the weeds as they emerge.

Rebecca Anne

Roll Call

2008-02-21T10:22:00.000-08:00

I feel almost a pang of guilt? No, not guilt, it takes a lot to self inflict the all mighty essence of guilt upon myself. More like, I feel like I better get my booty on this page, officially, since Indigo over at Raven's Lament put me up for a Guest Editors spot and I've failed miserably at revving up the writing and giving fresh material for visitors. Thank You Indigo!

So here I am. I do have a marginal reason for lacking off. A viral plague of disease and sickness has infiltrated my house and attacked the kiddoes. Fever. Hacking. Sniffling. The whole spectrum of delightfully miserable symptoms.

I for one, have not gotten it. But I feel like a walking, cursed, potential. Like at any moment the Gawds of sickness will strike me down for hugging, kissing, nursing and generally doing the Mommy thing, while they were ridden up in bed for 3 and 4 days. Unless the high content of Diet Coke deposited formaldehyde that has accumulated in my body can fend the bugs off, I'm toast~~

In other news, we had a mini-earthquake here in Idaho this morning. Evidently I missed the entire thing. Or walked through the momentary jiggle and didn't even notice. Which is sort of a bummer. Things like that rarely happen in my parts, so I suppose it's a big deal. It must be, because the news stations in my town held the TV hostage for 3 hours with "breaking news story" even though the actual earthquake happened in Nevada.

My town is still small enough to get excited, WAY excited, by the most miniscule of news. I do hope the people in Wells, Nevada are all right. As for the people in Idaho that felt a 'wave'.....I say, relax people, it didn't even really 'happen' to us. Then again, we are Idaho, we do have to get our kicks when we can.

I do wish I had something more interesting to write about. Being cooped up in the house has limited my observation and interaction thought processes. I've been left to meddle in my own mind and own devices for days on end and that isn't exactly a good thing. A good example of what happens to my mind and thoughts can be found in the video below....................................................

On a side note. If you had emailed me your address, you should have received a note in the mail from me by now. If you haven't, please let me know, because that would mean I messed up. I do appreciate all the addresses I was gifted, and after a visit to the doctor to unlock my hand from the paralysis that occurred after writing so many (smile) , I felt remarkably satisfied by the experience. Thank You everyone~~~

Ok, this booty call is borderline mundane and I can't be having that. I shall return again, and hopefully with something more interesting then quarantined plagues, jiggle waves in the dirt, my brain on letters and a sheepish goodbye~~~

Delightful

2008-02-12T08:51:00.000-08:00

I have a circuit of coffee shops I visit. Coffee shops, I've discovered, are a perfect atmosphere to read, write in ones journal, write letters to other people, scribble in my notebooks and enjoy something tasty while doing so.

Coffee shops can be a bit pretentious. Especially if you show up alone, laden with important things like a pen and paper, or worse, a laptop. Usually, and I'll give it a 90% ratio, I leave my laptop at home. I used to be able to drag my laptop to coffee shops and get a considerable amount of writing done. That is, until basically every damn safe haven added wireless Internet to their menu. I admit it, I cannot resist wireless temptation.........

I go to these places for several reasons. One, typically, there are no distractions. There is no lint on the floor I feel obligated to pick up (like my house), there are no pets there trying to bat a pen out of my hand. One should turn off thy cell phone and adhere to Library etiquette, which never happens in my own home. I don't get distracted by pretty things, shiny things, noisy things, time sucking avoidance........plus, usually I get a good cup of java to sip at my leisure. Bonus.

But yesterdays excursion to the Java Shop was different. Instead of falling into my own rabbit hole like I typically do, I was distracted by 4 woman. Delightfully distracted actually.

Now, in case your thinking about doing the coffee shop circuit, Real Estate is an important factor to consider. Never sit too close to the counter. Stay away from the front door. Avoid sitting by the sugar, creamer, napkin bar. Avoid the spot next to the bathroom. A good corner, is prime location, but you practically have to stand in line for such a dream come true, or stake it out from the middle and watch the person who's sitting there for signs of leaving. The Lap Toppers usually grab all the wall tables, because they need that energy producing plug in. Yesterday, I was stuck in the barren sea....the middle......

The 4 ladies that changed the entire dynamics of my day were older. Ok, much older then what I normally see at the coffee shop. In their 70's? Maybe a mixture of 70's and 80's? I'm not good at telling ages. Hell, I used to think 35 looked so old and here I am, 35, thinking hey, this isn't so bad. They were also clearly on a date, with each other. A coffee inspired, mid-day get together. Dressed to the nine's, sparkling with jewelry (a shiny distraction for me) attired in individual, but signature sassy outfits.

In no way did they observe the library etiquette of hushed tones and quite chit-chat. These 4 were whooping it up. I simply had no choice but to pull out a notebook, start taking notes, sketching them and all out eavesdropping.

It was all gossip. Stories. Past and Present. Current affairs and salacious rumors. I would have sworn I was listening to 4 teenagers talking it up about everyone, and everything they had heard over the past week. It was wonderful! The eavesdropper/observer that I am was entertained for over an hour by these ladies. The things they talked about..........well, it fell nothing short of unexpected, remarkable, unique and sometimes downright hilarious. They were like busy bee's, buzzing around flower top topics, never pausing for more then a moment on one petal.

The highlight for me was when, (After they had all mutually agreed that Hillary Clinton had had a facelift) they somehow got on the topic of Scientology. One of the lowest toned ladies there made a statement that produced, a blow of my cover, chuckle from me.

She said, "Well, I don't know who shoved that Scientology butt plug up Toms (Cruise) rectum, but someone needs to tell him aliens don't give a hoot about what religion we all partake in."

Classic, I tell ya. Bloody Classic.

I took over two pages of notes on these ladies. I couldn't help myself. It didn't hurt to look busy anyway <grin> I really admired the way they bantered, and laughed. They laughed and gorgeously laughed. They disrupted the entire normal coffee shop vibe and I adored them for it.

I don't always take time to physically visit with my friends. We all seem so busy, so wrapped up in our own lives, that most months the best we can achieve is late night phone calls. I aim to change that. If just sitting next to 4 beautiful woman, listening in on their conversation warmed my heart like it did.......I'm certain doing the same thing with my own friends would do wonders, for all of us. I made some calls yesterday, caught a few friends off guard and gave them a time and the place.

This week is about connection, when it really comes down to it. Forget about all that fleeting romantic commercial crap. This week is a subtle reminder to keep the people you care about in your mind, and hopefully in your arms with a good old fashioned hug. I plan to do that this Thursday with my friends~~~~

And now, I would like to thank twopeople from our little community that surprised me with the Kindness/ Nice Matters Awards. Thank you, very much ladies. I'm always rather word tied, tongue tied, when it comes to such things. (now you know how to shut me up) So I will simply say your beautiful words are cherished and you gave me a smile a mile wide....

Thank You Kath @ Secret Garden
And
Thank You Michelle @ (((Reflections)))
Both Beautiful Ladies with Beautiful Journals.

And I Treasure the Beautiful in Life~~

An Abstract Idea

2008-02-05T09:18:00.000-08:00

I would like my newest entry to resemble light and fluffy, like a marshmallow. I would have said snow, but my love of snow is dwindling amidst the clear staying power it has around my homestead.

I've decided snow is just an illusion. When it starts to fall (back in December) your overcome with a sense of peace and silent contemplation of your surroundings. Snow muffles the hustle and bustle of life and hints at the simple things like hot chocolate, cozy blankets and Christmas.

However, after the snow has landed, and stuck like Elmer's glue for well over a month, it takes on a whole new essence. Stark. Blinding. Plain. Monochromatic. Being presented with a monochromatic world conflicts with my abstract mind. It breeds a simple cliche called "Cabin Fever" of the worst kind. I want the hell outta here.

Thank you everyone, for your well wishes for my Father. He's doing as well as can be expected. I've assessed the damage and told him to blame my Mother for the amazing eye shiners he has acquired. (She didn't love that idea, but I know I detected a smile in his swollen canvas) His face is not monochromatic in the slightest. The body can produce a brilliant hue of colors when aggravated! As for his nose, only time will reveal what he ends up with. At the moment, no one is saying a word about it's appearance. It's hard to offer up an opinion on something that has what looks like a million stitches from forehead to bottom lip.

Light and Fluffy. Fluffy and Light, like a feather swirling in the wind. I don't think I can achieve fluffy and light today. I'm just not feeling the vibe of such a squishy idea. Perhaps if I had more caffeine in my system I would feel the bounce of a light and fluffy day. Hmmm, now I'm just adding fat to some filler to achieve some filled up space. Not a good idea, nope, never, because even I know that comes off as erratic and sporadic and will land firmly at the foot of whacko.

Speaking of whacko, I would like to try something. But as I put this out there, forget I ever said whacko. Just clear thy mind and thing pink posies and white daisies, the vision of pure and innocent, nice and sweet.

As for that something I would like to try, it would take a measure of trust and curiosity on your part. Oh, and an email and home address in my box would help. That's right, I'm openly stepping over the boundaries of Internet guidelines and requesting the address of anyone who would enjoy receiving a note via snail mail. In case you all forgot, that sort of mail requires an old fashioned thing called a stamp, typically purchased from a post office. Unlike email (which I know I am horrendous at) , it's something I rather enjoy doing, a hobby of mine, (mind) I suppose. And just so it's clear, nothing whatsoever, is expected in return. Nadda, nothing. I know snail mail is my thing, and would never expect one in return...I am just of the belief that sometimes, occasionally, it's nice to receive something in the mail other then a bill or tree killing junk and I like to be the one sending. Confidentiality is of course treated like a vault.

References provided if needed...... from people (actual Internet friends) I've been writing for some time... (you know, to prove I'm not a maniac whacko) So, go for it, email me, you never know....right? <grin>

~~Carry On~~~

Circling In

2008-01-29T09:36:00.000-08:00

I wonder if you guys out ( envision my hands splayed starting at the middle front of me, and then swooping out wide) thereeeeeeee.....ever write an entry that right after you've posted you become irritated with yourself (now envision me looking at you with inquiring eye gestures) by the content? Because I do, I have, and a good example is my last one.

The truth is in the pudding, my last entry for example, although my ailments are annoying, somewhat concerning and downright agitating at times, I shall live. I will continue to be me, I will adorn my battle gear every time I go outside and I will continue to flip off the sun with my middle finger in the most enduring way I know how. But my entry was simply the outer rung of a ring of concerns I carry lately. Not for myself, but for others.

Because, although I've always been vigilant about my skin care, the honest moi needs to acknowledge I had the cards of fate stacked against me to begin with. I know this because I take so much after my dear Father and he has skin cancer as well. Since I am fiercely protective, I would never blame him for my ailments, but there, that's out there as well.....Genetic Inheritance at it's finest.

His skin cancer is the most common of all, I actually have up stepped him by going straight to squamous cell cancer a level higher.....His is Highly treatable, won't kill him, and he's been dealing with it for a long time. But......in him I see a piece of my propensity filled future.

Although Basil cell skin cancer is the baby of the group, it has a nasty side and my Dad will start paying the price for it tomorrow. El Doctors Slice and Dice will be removing one whole side/half of his nose tomorrow.....(yes, the basil cells have grown fingers all up through his nose, tiny red dot on the outside, a whole party train growing on the inside)...then on Friday he goes back for more surgery to start the cosmetic reconstruction of a nose taken by a simple, highly treatable, non worrisome skin cancer. So in my female/mere human perspective, I have a moment of Holy fuck, that could be me, holy shit, I hope he's ok, holy hell, I'm worried, for a varied number of reasons.

This is probably far more detail than really warranted on my journal, but it's my party and I'll explain if I want to.......So, in order to recreate a nose, they will borrow cartilage and skin from various other body parts. Once that's installed, they will then start the long drawn out process of cutting his cheek skin and forehead skin in order to 'pull it' over the hopeful nose to be, and let it 'grow' for a bit with the help of balloons and skin stretching. Once and hopefully that comes together, they will again surgically try to create the resemblance of a nose. Brilliant.

I personally think that entire process sucks. Eloquent I know. But sucks with a capitol S. So now you know why I'm a wee bit paranoid and sensitive of my own sketchy skin future. It's akin to riding a canoe down a river, I am following my Fathers wake and he's hours away from going off a recoverable waterfall I will someday be going off. The difference is, unlike my Father, I skipped stage one skin cancer, went straight to stage two and I've had 9 (I think that's the current number) pre-melanomas (the Niagara Falls of all waterfalls) removed from my body...(my dads had one, uno)..and all of them are now swirling black and full of propensity behind my little boat.

Sigh. It is what it is. Well, now that I have that out and off my skin (pun intended) I need something else to focus on.

How about, I can't drink tea. I wish I could. I've tried, ohhh I've tried. I'm quite envious of people who can drink tea. I wish I knew how you tea drinkers can do it. I want the ritual. I want the fancy shmancy tea sets and a designated tea time to kick back and gaze out on the world.

I want to drink green tea, for all it's important health benefits. But when I've tried to gag it down I choke up, my eye's bug out and I run to the nearest sink to eradicate it's vile taste. I want to drink cinnamon tea's and orange tea's. I want to have an entire world of tea festivities and flavors at my beck and call, but alas, they all make me want to hurl.

I think it's really the ritual I covet. The, dip your little tea bag, or use those sweet strainers on a chain I see. I even want the fragile little tea set and I want to have a tea party...and I want a teapot to scream at me from my stove letting me know it's time to kick back......A forced focus of the simple things. There is little enjoyment to pulling back the aluminum ring on a diet coke. Sure, there's that moment of 'pop' a fresh soda can make, but otherwise, it's an empty ritual full of formaldehyde.

If I counted up the money I've wasted on tea over the years, searching for the elusive flavor I could learn to appreciate, well, I'm certain I could have purchased something that didn't end cold and poured (spit) in a sink. So, if you're still laboring through this long ass entry, and you're a tea drinker, I commend you, el lucky one.

I've decided to add Hospice volunteer to my little universe. I go in for 'training' later this week and believe I start next week with my first patient. I'm not sure why I decided to do this, other then I would like to believe people at the end of their lives might have something to say, and I would like to hear it.....really hear it. My understanding is I'm just a visitor, I can read to them, talk to them, and simply be someone who cares. I like that. The only piece I'm worried about, is the obvious, losing them in the end and that end is soon for any hospice patient. I'm not sure how I will contain that factor inside myself, but I'm sure I'll work it out. Has anyone else done this out there? If so, I would love to hear your perspective on what to expect.......................

Ok, that's enough rambling for one day. This entry should count as two, one for thoughts, two for sheer random space quantity................

Laser ....The Electromagnetic Sign of My Future

2008-01-25T18:57:00.000-08:00

I think I've got the entire, "For every action there is an equal reaction" ...."For every choice, there is a consequence" ...."For every white, there is an opposite black" yadayadayada concept down. Check. Point taken. I got it for the love of...............

The thing is, I always looked at that piece of reality in the foreboding light of... steal a candy bar and you'll go to jail. The... do bad, you get the direct punishment for such a choice, kind of deal. Slap me, I'll slap you concept. But recently, I'm finally realizing the choices of good things can also come back to bite you in the ass, or in my case, my head.

For example, my first case of fun filled backlash. I have epilepsy. Evidence leans directly on two possibilities of acquiring such a joyous affliction. One, was the many, many head bashing's I suffered during my growing up years. Now, those head bashing's were simple consequences to some glorious fun. Cherry drops off the high bar at school. Bucked off a few horses while galloping across beautiful fields. A few accidental slips down some rocky mountainsides. True fun, that just happened to result in several knocks to the skull. The other evidence actually resembles the first paragraphs conventional wisdom. I did drugs in my late teen years. Lots of them, a huge nasty assortment. Now, believe it or not, the drug time certainly had it's 'fun' points. I can't deny that. But anyway, it certainly could have fried an electrical highway in my brain that loves to short circuit now. Anyway.....I like to lean toward the more respectable means of getting epilepsy, skull bashing's........

Next up, I got skin cancer last year. Not the bad type, just level II, slice and dice, laser, your on your way sort. Of course, as my luck would have it, I got another one this fall, I had that little ummm, squamous a-hole eradicated and now I'm on constant vigil. Skin cancer........the direct result of frolicking in the sun and fun. The completely and totally unjust result of living a life strolling though nature and all her glory. I'm utterly disgusted by that entire situation.

And now, just to add insult to injury, the doctors (or maybe they are simply blaming, but the result is the same) are attacking my fly fishing. For the love of all things outdoors....I simply can't seem to win. Now it's this...in my eye...Pterygium. Which is a benign growth of the conjunctiva. Caused by....big shocker here....Ultraviolet rays. And UV rays bouncing off water is like staring directly in the sun~~damnit~~~It's not an unusual thang' actually, I've discovered from my doctor it's quite typical of a 60 year old farmer who spent his entire life sowing his wild oats in the fields. (That's my point, I'm 35) ....visual bonus and ick factor..in their white and red glory. P.S. the Pterygium isn't actually red, it's a swanky yellowish growth (I couldn't capture in film) that has now enflamed my entire eye into glowing red, just to make sure everyone notices :o) Again, Laser is my new buddy~

Before my entire entry falls into the coastal shores of a tidal wave pity party (to late I know) I shall try swimming. It seems, there is a lot of really good things in life that have a crummy potential result. But the truth is, I can't even fathom giving up any of my activities. The mere thought of protecting my traitorous body by staying locked up indoors seems horrific. At this rate, by the time I make it to a 60 year old non-farming, but outdoor fanatic, I won't have much of a face or eyes left.

Maybe I'm just finally realizing the body I used to take for granted, think was invincible, believed would remain as loyal and devoted as my mind likes to think it should be, indeed has it's weak points. Has a side of fragile and cracks. I've believed for quite some time now that people, ALL people, are warriors, strong and brilliant, able to leap from building to building in a single bound, but now, I think it's our minds that are resistant, and persistent, able to heal and mend despite the things that we encounter........but our vessels, our precious bodies are delicate. I just wish Ihad realized that ages and ages ago................

((If you see a person walking down the street with Hollywood Sunglasses over a full facial veil, complimented by a huge sombrero, long sleeve shirt, fancy gloves and not a speck of skin showing, yet reeking of strong sun block....yes, well, that's probably me <grin>))

Try It, You'll Appreciate It........

2008-01-20T09:39:00.000-08:00

Awhile ago....sometime in 2007, after a most horrendous eating experience at a local establishment, I decided I would try changing my tactics with dealing with bad service. Although it may seem like an insignificant movement, I've been rather satisfied with the results thus far and thought I would share.

I no longer complain about bad service. Nope, I suck it up, pay my bill, leave a marginal tip and walk away. Giving zero energy to a negative moment.

Instead I now focus on good service...in all public establishments.

For example, last night at a simple dinner. My waitress was wonderful. Spot on and did her job well. In my past, I would have paid my bill, left a hefty tip and wandered out about my own life. She would have forgotten me in 10 minutes, her boss would be oblivious to her job well done and I would be focused on my new destination.

But now, I don't think that's the case. For one, I believe I gave her a small unforgettable heart attack based on the look on her face. When she handed me my bill, I asked her to please send her manager over to my table.

She hesitated, looking a bit crestfallen, asked me "Are you unhappy about your meal? My service, is there anything I can do?" to which I smiled slightly and said, "No, but I would like to speak with your manager."

Now, I imagine in that line of service, that's about the worst thing a waitress or cook can hear from a customer, I know that, but I had a purpose, a plan..............

Lapse two minutes and a solemn looking manager and a worried looking waitress approached my table. I then proceeded to tell the manager what wonderful service his waitress had given us. They both went from smile-less souls to beaming faces of what I shall call relief, pride and good feelings.

I was thanked by the manager and the waitress and I was a satisfied soul. But the real reason I am sharing this on my journal is what happened a few minutes later.

When I was walking out, the Manager caught up with my party and stopped us. I shall let his words speak for themselves..................

He said, "Thank you again for telling me what a good job one of my staff gave. To be honest, rarely, if ever does that happen. The only thing I ever hear is when someone's order is wrong, a waiter or waitress isn't doing what the customer thinks is a good job, or someone is unhappy with their food. I'm just amazed and very grateful someone took the time to tell me such a good thing. Thank You soooo much"

He's right you know. I used to be the Manager of an establishment. I had 25 employee's to be accountable for and all I ever heard was the negative from customers. Once in a VERY great moon would someone just stop by to tell me something nice............

It's a great thing to tell a person they did a wonderful job......it's an amazing thing to tell someones 'boss' who may not even realize it, or hear about it. A boss only has two eye's. (And the ability to give a person a raise, or positive notation in an employee file)

Try it sometime....
give someone a heart attack....
then make their day, just because you can~~

P.S. This concept works in many various places. Dinning. Home Depot. Hair Salon. Grocery Stores. If it's a service center....there's a manager who would love to hear something nice about one of their own and an employee who could use kind words to make the job alittle easier~

Green Backs of Choice

2008-01-17T15:33:00.000-08:00

I had a conversation yesterday with a colleague about the all mighty green thing we call MONEY. For me, it's always interesting talking to him about such things because he grew up on the right side of the tracks. Actually, I think that's an understatement. If there is a poor side, and a rich side, he grew up 25 miles past the golden side of the tracks and atop a mountain of lush wealth. As for me, I was the good old fashioned, sitting in the middle section of the train tracks growing up.

Now, although his parents have more money then I could comprehend, this person is absolutely out, on his own, building his own fortune without any "here's a million to help you out" from his Parental units. I admire that. I knew him for over a year before I even realized I was in the presence of one of "those kids", the ones that grew up in 24 K gold. How could I not appreciate his humble demeanor.

We ended up on the topic of "What do you spend your money on, for personal enjoyment."

For him, at the ripe old age of mid 20's he already knows exactly what and if he has spare change it will be spent on. It's cars. Beautiful, classic, exotic, muscle, imported, fast, etc etc. He luvs 'em. Cars do nadda for me. Absolutely nothing.....

For me, I have to admit it took until my early 30's to finally nail down something worthy of my spare change. Before I found my monetary reward calling, I can assume I spent my money on clothes, a new purse or odds and ends. Then again, I didn't exactly have handfuls of money lingering around with nothing to do in my 20's. I was typically broke as hell and a spare 5 bucks was rolled around in my hand in spectacular awe.

But a time did come, several years ago, that I found myself with alittle extra money. Extra beyond bills, necessities, savings, blah blah, the boring stuff. I think at first I did what any red blooded American would do. I spent the hell out of it on things I couldn't even name at this point in time."Things" I had always felt deprived of, left out on, "things" I thought were the right material effects to covet...... After awhile though, I learned I wasn't exactly a shopper by instinct, and those things I had purchased had very little meaning to me. Empty satisfaction comes to mind.

Which brings me to Art. I never thought I would morph into a collector of Art, but it seems I have. I counted today and realize I have collected 17 beautiful pieces of art to cherish and linger over in my home. I finally found something that I could reward myself, treat myself and actually feel good about it's purchase days, months and years after I parted with the cash.

Now, for public clarification, or in case someone felt the urge to stake out my house and go shopping, my art collection isn't worth millions, or even 10's of thousands. The majority of my pieces cost under a reasonable $500 bucks. Some are worth exactly what I paid for them, some have climbed the totem pole of 'value' and one in specific is worth enough now to make tears come to the corner of my eye's, but I'd rather be run over then part with it.

I guess what I'm saying, is that art comes in all shapes and forms and all dollar figures. We normal humans certainly have the ability to acquire the illusive if we are inclined. I guess I once thought art was for the rich. Rich held the corner market on fine things and I've proven to myself that's not the case.

I'm glad I discovered something in life I adore and cherish. My art collection is for me and myself and always I. The three of us have a specific taste and there isn't a day that goes by that I don't walk through my house and say hello to all my pieces. Which, all but 3, happen to be female figurative. It seems, I like the ladies of portrait~~~

Do you have a specific treat you do for yourself? Something that is for you and you alone? Be it buying something? Doing something? Just my nosey curiosity of course. For my friend it is all things cars. For me, it's all things Art.........For you it's all things??

Speaking of Art. There is a blogger who deserves far more readers and comments then he gets in my humble opinion. His name is Marc and I've been reading him for awhile now. He has an interesting perspective on life that can only be found through someone who has experienced the world in several different dimensions. He's a talented writer and has been delighting me for sometime now with his Hy-Art pieces. I suggest going over for a look~~~~>>>>Sober Gay Poz Ex-Con Don't let that title trick you .....trust me~~

Good Intention, Wrong Person

2008-01-09T21:38:00.000-08:00

I adore a good intention.
I love to watch other people do the "right thing" ...the "honorable thing" ....the " kind thing"....and like to think of myself as a person who would do anything, within my power, to help another human being.

But today, I find myself at odds with what was supposed to be a random act of kindness last night, that feels like a major f*** up today. The short of it~~ I was driving when I noticed a small truck that had slid off the road. It had been snowing all day, was slick out and the fact a truck was off the road wasn't exactly alarming, considering.......so I slowed down enough to notice a woman wandering around behind her truck. I pulled over to see if she needed help, a pretty much automatic reaction, right?

This woman hurried over to my vehicle, breathless, panicked, frantic and when I asked if I could do something she exclaimed a ride home would be perfect, she'll just grab her truck later. The truck looked pretty stuck, at a strangle angle, etc etc. A ride I could do, not a big detour off my course, and off we went. Random act of kindness in live action............

But this is where my feel good thoughts turned bad. For one, she was ranting and raving about extremely strange topics. She would say, "Thank You, Thank You, your 're my angel!" and then in the next breath says " Don't you just HATE woman, aren't woman just horrible ,<insert several colorful cuss words here> " and so on.....

....and the more she talked, the more my vehicle filled up with the stench of alcohol.

This is where I started to feel sick. I realized I was helping a drunk driver evade facing the consequences of driving while intoxicated.....gut sick about it.

I have a notion about drunk drivers. For one, I don't give a shit who you are, if you drink and drive, you deserve nothing less then a nice little jail cell to sober you up. No excuses, no exceptions, no mercy. In my world, there is no gray zone for drinking and driving. Not even the 'just a beer or two' slides past my no tolerance for drinking and driving ideals when it comes to this topic. So, imagine my dilemma to discover I was helping a drunk driver.

And yes, I asked, "So, how much have you had to drink tonight??"
To which she replied, laughing, slurring, " I'm sooo like fucking wasted, I just luvvvvv Whiskey!"

I did drop this woman off at her house.
Although, today I wish I would have turned around, taken her back to her truck, kicked her out my door, made a call, and then waited for the police to show up. I wish I had, but I didn't and today it hasn't settled very well with me. Not well at all.

In a world where actions and consequences reign supreme, I helped a woman avoid the pain of her choices........

Isn't that like most situations, where there's this constant collision of human to human in life, that it takes time... 5 minutes, or a day to create 10 extra possibilities we could have enacted. A better come back, a better action, a better reaction, a better sentence or choice. Today I've thought of 10 things I could have done that would have made my choices last night sit alittle more upright within myself.

For Jennae, the moronic woman in Boise Idaho, age 41, driving a black Toyota truck. Your truck was in the ditch off Broadway. You embarrass me, you and your choices. I regret helping you for one single second. I fear you will drink and drive again and maybe next time you'll harm an innocent........that makes me nauseous. You left your CD player faceplate from your truck on my dashboard. Although I remember where you live, I have no intentions of dropping it off out of kindness. Perhaps you'll feel 'alittle somethin' when you have to pay to replace it. Let's call it, a much cheaper consequence then the cost of a DUI, or killing someone...............

Tack One On

2007-12-31T09:30:00.000-08:00

As the lucid air of a full bodied year comes to close, I feel compelled to rush over to this speck of my Internet Universe and well, you know, tick one off for the record.
I counted it up, with this entry I'll have exactly 23 for the year, a clear miss for a true 2 per month average. Oh well....tis what it is.....a lack of something or other.

I've never been a resolution type of gal, so this evening change of numeral implications doesn't create a huge impact in my life. If anything, the last day of the year creates an ominous acceleration of my past years accomplishments, experiences, or lack of, that line up for me to take stock, analyze and punctuate with appropriate ! (meaning good for me) or ? (meaning WTF was I thinking) or ........ (meaning clear unconnected confusion of the who knows type) etc etc.

I suppose within that car crash of accumulative 2007 life facts, it provides a bit of a wishful push to look around the gate into 2008 with a trace of motivation, clean slate potential and dreamy opportunity. I suppose. All a matter of perspective.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had a good Christmas. I prevailed. I survived and will not be boycotting next years festivities. I have realized Christmas isn't as jolly anymore with my daughters growing up. There just isn't the same type of magic to be derived from putting a big bow on a snowboard, or wrapping up a cute Ipod.

Barbie's and Teddy Bears and lots of cheap toys was way- way- funner..........thankfully there's always the promise of future grandchildren. I'm already plotting to be one of those rockin' Grannies that go overboard with all the unapproved toys .....of the annoying nature. Fun Grannie, Sugar Grannie, Extreme Grannie, Lovin Grannie, Break the Rules Grannie, Adventure Grannie.....oh my darling future Grand babies, we are going to have a good old fashioned Rebecca rockin' time. (grin)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the sentimental note of Christmas Gone and New Year fast approaching
I extend my best wishes to all those I've known online.
May your 2008 be full of surprises, accomplishments and satisfactions.
And may I suggest...
Add a bit of adventure, sugar, extreme, lovin, break the rules and fun.

I know I know, I surprise even Myself

2007-11-14T21:49:00.000-08:00

Well, I guess it's a good thing I kicked on the defibrillator today because I have something else to say. Or more like, I'm agitated and I believe in the midst of my agitation a public forum would make a good catch spot for it.

So this evening, in talking to a quasi-friend/acquaintance after the hooray of hello, howyadoin, how's the kids, life, you know, standard pleasantries, our conversation took an unexpected turn for the worse.

It went something like this.........

Friend (Beaming) : "Blah Blah Blah.....la la la.....so are you voting for Hilary Clinton? I think she so's fabulous....blah blah blah.......so are ya? are ya? of course you are, right??"

Me (shifting ever so uncomfortably, religion/ politics = cursed topics) : "Well, it's alittle early to make that call."

Friend (looking stunned) " Why wouldn't you vote for her? Huh? Why? What's the problem?"

Me ( looking for the exit door) " No problems, I'm still gathering information about all the candidates, that's all. Wasn't it cold out today? "

Friend (looking horrified) (and this is where she started to piss me off) " I just don't see how an intelligent woman like you would have anything else to think about. Hilary is our savior!"

Me (done): "Ya, ok, savior. All right, well, it was good seeing you again" and I started to move away to find a safe zone when she throws this out.........

Her: "Why in the world wouldn't you want to vote for a woman for President? You don't think a woman can handle it? (and then she practically hissed) You won't vote for a woman President!"

Pause~

       Is that the way of it? Is that the way it's going to be, especially within the feminine community? Because this has happened to me twice now. Twice I say. The first time wasn't as bad.... accusation style, but I basically got the same, "How dare you not commit your vote to the name with a vagina right this second."

       Seriously, I'm not ready to say who I'm voting for until I know who's going to be on the ticket, do alittle research, keep watching the debates etc, etc. But evidently the gender war is on, sideline style. Or maybe I've just run into two extremely narrow minded individuals and I'm overtly worried now....panic like.

       If someone is willing to accuse me of not wanting to vote for a woman, just because I'm not ready to commit to any one politician today, I have a problem with that. I have a problem with "You won't vote for a woman" coming after a conversation as a last ditch effort to sway me. Talk about an immature moronic reason, and reason alone, to vote for anyone, in any situation....... She might as well have followed that statement up with," I'm not gonna be your friend anymore!"

       I know the score, I know this little trap. It runs along the lines of this beautiful question, "Do you believe in God?" and then I say, "You know, I have my own thoughts and I'm not throwing my eggs in the manger" and I get the voodoo, "Ohhh your going to Hell lady." Which I guess is supposed to scare me and all, but the truth is, if you don't ride the God ticket, you don't exactly sign up for a hell, so they are both rather mute points. Which brings me to 'vote for the woman' or get pegged as a traitor to the female race, or prejudiced against a woman President etc, etc, etc........ I'm a female getting this mind set, I can only imagine what it will be like for you men, if you dare mention your doubting Mizz Clintons abilities. You'll have a lynch mob of Kotex throwing fanatics after ya!

       It shouldn't be like that. It doesn't need to be like that. Obviously, with the state of things in our country, this next election is going to be madly insane (that's for you Paul) and all I'm trying to say now is, lets leave the entire gender part out of it? K. Is that cool? Is that fair, comfy, agreeable, acceptable?

       Where my vote ends up going is unimportant, what I do think is critical today.....is people, specifically us gal pals, don't shoot below the belt and cry 'vagina' if we expect a woman to earn her way (not default gender vote) into the big oval office someday.

Again, I'm just saying.............

Oh, and my final comment to the above mentioned person was and I quote, " Why in the world would you vote for someone just because she is a woman? Think about it, it's the Presidency, I want someone who is qualified, a strong leader, respected, responsible and a hundred other qualities. If Hilary Clinton is that person, then she will earn my vote, if it's a male candidate, then he will earn my vote."

P.S.
Wow, thank you everyone for your comments, additional defribulations to the old Iris pages and words. I believe the blood is up and pumping once again. Even though I'm a bit mortified I've actually done a political entry. Always a first time for everything..........

A Numb Beat

2007-11-14T11:37:00.000-08:00

This entry is akin to putting a defibrillator on a dying person. I'm just saying........

       I thought this morning I would go take a stroll through blog lane, catch up, see what everyone's been up too. Blog lane for me, is a massive tangled mess of journal links packed to high heaven in my AOL favorites.

        Now, I understand this is the 'old fashioned' way of doing things, but I'm usually at least a year or two behind on all things high tech. For example, I don't even have a picture phone (the horror, my daughters have expressed) and have survived thus far, so I'll continue to do things the hard way. I'm just saying...........

       Anyway, back to my defibrillation......during my stroll through my blog link (hell) highway, I discovered myself actually in a graveyard of deserted journals, broken links, now private journals, and cobweb covered rooms. If I was a mathematician, I'd say at least 75% were mute, dated over a year ago, simply gone, or private.

       The song, "where have all the cowboys gone" came into my mind, except, of course, I substituted cowboys with writers, then changed the scene from a dusty ranch to a huge hotel with blinking red lights and labels above each door displaying the long lost journalers blog title. Then since I was at it, I had to switch any wayward horses to fancy computers and hip shooters with cordless mouse's. Anyway, that's all neither here nor there, the point is and I'm certain I had one....., is that my blog highway is pot hole filled, with rusty cars stranded alone, tombstones erected everywhere and flowers wilted over. It was a sad morning (mourning) of deletion after hip shooting, mouse clicking alleviation.

       Which made me think of poor wilting, neglected Iris in it's dark ass shadow. A heartbeat could hardly be detected here, in these pages. Which made me sad, for no other reason then I am the responsible party of these pages and I've been most negligent. Actually, truth be told, I've been cheating on Iris with another writing space, so I suppose I just don't have enough in me to court two places at once. So maybe that's what happened to all those other journals, they are all adulterous writers as well and I just wasn't privy to the new relationship.

       Anyway, this entry is about as un-interesting and completely irrelevant, in the way of journal entries, can be----but it's pounded on the chest of a dying thought.

That's all I'm saying.............

Sentimental Fool

2007-07-16T10:07:00.000-07:00

It's back, it's up, it's off and running. You really should participate.
It's the Arsty Essay contest over at Judith's chateau. Judith HeartSong <~~ Linkage
And it's a difficult one!!!! In a good way, go visit, try it, do it, you know you wanna.

(topic currently pilfered for advertisement and mussing purposes, please visit Judith's for full details, rules, guidelines and deadlines)

"What is your favorite and most inspiring possession? Tell us about it, and if you want an extra creative challenge... tell us about it without naming it until the very last sentence of your essay:):):)"

That Judith is a crafty one if I may say so myself. I'm not letting those little smiley faces fool me, it was a very crafty and brilliant/difficult topic to throw to us mere emotional humans.

When I read the topic, alarm bells and the electrical currents called my thoughts seized up in instant conflict. This is why..........

I, Rebecca Anne, am a self proclaimed sentimental whore.

If something has a story, meaning, physical or mental value, I keep it. I have a well designed system for storing all these items, call boxes. Wood boxes, pretty boxes, lockable boxes, glass boxes, metal boxes, jewelry boxes, marble boxes, big old hope chests, teeny tiny jeweled boxes, handmade boxes, doesn't matter. If it can pass off like a Pandora's box, without the plague if you open them, hiding my favorite things, it'll do.

There isn't a room in my house that doesn't house some sort of box, filled with my favorite and most prized possessions. I can only think of two things that are very sentimental and prized that aren't cased in domains of 4 walls and a top. My flyrod and my art collection on the walls. Everything else I possess can be blown to the four corners of the earth and I wouldn't really care. But my boxes of sentimental gold and my walls of art and the flyrod that usually lives in my Tahoe are utterly important on the grand scale of prized.

Pick one? Play favorites? Place one above the others?
Judith, Judith, where art thou's merciful creative soul?

Since I read the theme yesterday, I've played a few completely totally sick and twisted scenario's in my head, just for mind bending fun. The best one is............"Your house is on fire, and you have time to grab one thing, what would it be" .........thinking that if I played that game with myself, I could narrow it down. All that did was coax me into looking into the financial costs of building a completely fireproof room in my house.

The thing is, very few of my prized items are worth any monetary value. I doubt anyone would give me a single buck for some of the rocks I've collected from all over the world. Or donate 10 cents for a pressed flower I found atop a mountain in Montana. There is no value on a note written by my then 5 year old daughter telling me I'm the best Mother in the whole wide world, even to the moon and back. There's no value, other then sentimentally on a completed journal I've written, or a story I've tossed on paper. Or a piece of cut ribbon from a present I received. And letters, my beautiful cherished letters.... I save every single solitary letter ever written to me and I think I would perish should anything happen to them.

I'm 35 years old and I think I've been saving the most important sentimentally valued things of my life for 30 of them. I know this, I've learned over time nothing I buy for myself is of great importance. Nothing I can go to the store and toss in my cart can compare to something given me by a friend, a loved one, or found during my wanderings. I may be alittle off my rocker, but can anyone else say they cherish a green rock found on the banks of the Lamar River while fishing with an extremely special person? I think not, thats why it is so very damn important to me. It isn't even really the pretty rock, it's everything that rock represents.

I'm home for a few more days, I'll be doing my very best to write up an essay. I'm just not sure how in the sam hell I'm going to pick one solitary thing. Can we go metaphysical here? Then I wouldn't have to play favorites and offend any of my physical possessions...................I love my prized sense of ummm, well, floaty thought..............

Propensity Of the Ominous Nature

2007-07-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

I have a propensity for skin cancer... says Mr. Scalpel yielding Doctor.
I have a propensity for staying outside in the sun...says Me.

Which propensity shall win?

The way I see it, I'm rather screwed in either direction. I would wither and die if I spent my days hiding from the very thing that enhances my life...outdoors.....but outdoors is where that glorious back stabbing bitch of a sun is located.

When Dr. Slice and Dice did his medieval propensity on my face, he accused my skin of intensely leaning towards future and more skin cancer....."Your skin has a high propensity (sheer traitorous behavior in my humble opinion) for further skin cancer" he warned like a fortune teller......I couldn't help but think what a shitty propensity to be assigned.

I know my current cancer would get kicked out of the cancer lounge by much bigger, badder, meaner and vicious cancers that other people get. I know that. I realize that. I'm grateful I dodged the melanoma bullet again, the one that would earn a permanent membership to the lounge, and got smacked with a lessor cancer. But this propensity reality feels like an ominous black cloud I'll have hovering just behind my over sun-screened body for life. Wonderful.

I can't imagine changing my lifestyle at this stage of my life. I imagine it's too late for prevention, all I can do is maintain now. (Sunscreen, hat, long sleeve clothes in sweltering 100 degree weather, blah blah etc...) My propensity for fun and adventure, outdoors and life seems a much better focus then the propensity I didn't ask for.

Since my natural inclination is to do as I damn well please, I shall now focus on my habit of ignoring the bad and enjoying the good. Thats nothing more then sensible wisdom.

I did learn something about my personal mentality. When hearing the news, the boo C-Word, rather then feeling sorry for myself, or being reduced to tears, or fear, or something memorable like inspiration or wisdom, I got pissed, furious if the truth be told. I rarely get mad about anything, but on this certain occasion, I did. If I remember correctly I believe I said something like, "Now that fucking pisses me off" to the Doctor when he told me over the phone. I suppose nothing makes me more angry then a threat to my little patch of grass on this earth.

I have a new battle scar, and she's a beauty if I may say somyself. Another dent in this vintage car called me. I have other impressive scars achieved in more glorious of a fashion, so this one is just another notch of experience. If my propensity fortune goes according to the Butcher man, this old face of mine will look like a mine field someday. I may have to make friends with a body shop, i.e., a doctor, with a propensity for plastic surgery.

I think, my outdoors will win, always win, until the day I am gone. On the day of my death bed, I suppose then, I will let my bad propensities win. On that day, they can have me.

Sneaking In

2007-07-11T00:33:00.000-07:00

It's past midnight, sometime in July, it's summer I don't need a calendar.

I feel like a teenager sneaking back into the house after disappearing for an evening of eye opening adventure and UN-punishable sins.

Although I'm only lighting a small candle, I see this place is as I left it.

Thats good to know.

How is everyone? Good I hope.
I'm doing fine thank you.
I'm alive, and kicking (potentially screaming sometimes) and doing well. My computer didn't blow up, I didn't loose the link to this journal, and I wasn't held hostage by anything remarkable. I just........ well,....... snuck out of the house for a while.

A rather limp excuse for my absence, even unapologetic, but it tis what it is, me. I disappear in this world as often as I disappear in my 'real' world. In April I took movement to a new level and haven't paused much in-between. This computer collected much dust and my real home is in dire need of some cleaning as well.

I've been forced to stay in town for a bit, so I thought it was time to reconcile with these pages before another month passes. I'm failing miserably at keeping a documentary of my life in the nice chronicle order this realm offers. Whoops.

I'm really not ready to give up on the old Shadow of the Iris here, I just need something......to change within me. I need to open the doorways again and let the thoughts flow. I'll get there.

~~~~~~~~~~

My last entry gives me ironic pause.

I lived through turning 35 with only a few moments of numerical panic. I've pushed myself to act as carefree, young and spontaneous as possible over the last several months. Self assurance that I was truly vibrant and still kicking some serious life ass. It worked for the most part. Other then the fact I found out I have skin cancer last week. (stating that is like jumping out of a corner yelling Boo at people) That little bump in my road of life has royally pissed me off.

I blame my last entry. Sure as life, if you complain about insignificant, you'll get smacked with righteous perspective.

I'm not entirely surprised by the news. I've had enough pre-cancerous spots removed from my skin the past. The good news is I dodged the melanoma bullet once again, and got a less severe punishment for my fun in thesun with a nasty thing called squamous cell carcinoma. If given a choice, I would have taken some old basal cell cancer cells that make up 90% of skin cancers. But nope, I fall into the other 10% category.

No biggie, it doesn't appear to have spread, it's non-aggressive, it's fixable, it's a 95% cure rate, it's hardly worthy of a panic, but it still pisses me off. The bad news is this live cest pool of cancer cells is located on my face. I go under the knife, a procedure called Mohs surgery, leaving any potential vanity thoughts at the door, on Thursday. Meaning, I have no idea how much will be left of my face after they are done. Beauty.

Life event duly noted. Enough of that depressing little curable experience.
If I'm not scared, worried or alarmed, no one else should be.
I hereby swear I will never complain about another wrinkle, gray hair or birthday.
Karma
~~~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~~~

There was a time, when AOL journals were united by a very special woman named Judith Heartsong.
She moved her 'location,' but I've never stopped reading her entries, admiring her art and basking in her outlook of life.
Once again, she is opening the possibilities of wonderful creating, writing and unity through her journal with her
Artsy Essay Contest.
I encourage everyone to visit her journal, get to know an extraordinary woman and participate in her contest that starts the 15th.
I have two of her amazing pieces hanging in my home, my prizes for doing what we all do here.
Writing.

Judith HeartSong

The Ants of Time Go Marching...........

2007-04-25T09:16:00.000-07:00

       It may not seem a very remarkable thing to mention, but I have officially decided getting 'older,' to put it in childish terms, sucks. Currently I stand on the podium of 34 years and 11 months old. Next month I hit the banner mark of mid-30's, the big 35.

       I never thought getting older was a big deal, I still don't really care about the actual number. That means relatively nothing to me. What has started to matter to me is the independent government that consists of all the pieces and parts of my body and what 'they', the new majority, have to say about certain activities.

       For example, a motorcycle and I got into a nasty dispute on Monday night and the bike won, hands down. Or maybe that should read, Rebecca down, ruthlessly and hard. I believe 5 years ago I would have jumped back up, kicked it, cussed it out and proceeded to jump back on and go like the master I should be. Monday night I found myself lying on the ground, for an undisclosed amount of time, certain no less then 5 bones were broken.They weren't and I should formally thank the makers of Diet Coke and the formaldehyde it's deposited in my system. But the pain and lack of further desire to keep going seemed like a clear cut chant~~ I'm getting too old to do certain things. (repeat 5 times)

       It's two days later and I'm all frozen up. My joints are creaking, my muscles are moving the pace of molasses down a tree and I, the old master of her domain, feel like renting a wheelchair. This is not good. Not good at all! In my past, I've done far worse things to my body and I rebounded in record time, so what the heck is up if not age and time?

       That wreck could seem like an obvious consequence to my endeavors, but there are other things. Like the fact I can't eat all the chocolate bars like I once could without noticing an extra pound or two or three of four. So far, I'll be damned if I go on some sort of diet, but the clear result of chocolate shows it's glorious indulgent self on places I'd rather not notice it. Namely, my ass. This was NOT the case a few years ago. When you hit 33-34ish does your metabolism just go out for an extended lunch date? I object to this milestone.

       Another noticeable milestone of mid-30's, I get tired. In my twenties I didn't even comprehend the notion of tired. I went and went and did and did until I forced myself to go to bed late at night. Four or five hours of sleep was just about right. These days when I do my five hours of sleep, I find the next day I'm dragging a sleep deprived weight around behind me. Gasp, I can even take a midday nap now!!

       As for time marching it's way across my looks, I'm good with that. Even though the last time I had a facial, the lady sweetly recommended botox and filler for a few "laugh lines" that evidently will only get worse. Wonderful I thought, penalized for laughing and smiling. Isn't that the most unbalanced reward of all time!??? There should be an equitable compromise to that situation. The more you smile, the more you laugh, the more you've exercised those muscles, the more toned and smooth you should look. It's just twisted to have it the other way around.

       I suppose what reality is smacking me (and beating the crap out of) in my 35 year old mind, is that I'll probably always have the mentality of a spry youngster. I'll probably always want to do the thing meant for young bodies, but my body isn't exactly down with that idea. So where does that leave me? I have no desire to tone things down to my age bracket, so which side wins? Do I dare admit age is a consideration in my choices?

       I'm thoroughly irritated with this age discovery. I'm petrified it will only get worse and I'll be reduced to playing shuffle board and lawn darts. If a time came that I was unable to run up a Mountain, or wade across a river I believe I would be devastated. Maybe today I've finally realized I am indeed getting older, and not as resilient as my mind likes to believe.
And again, I think, that sucks.

Navel Gazing of the Pointless Nature

2007-04-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

       Sometimes, I find I can look over my shoulder and discover great amounts of time have escaped by my world and I am unable to account for these tick tock moments. Meaning, if someone inquired as to what I've been doing for the past several weeks, I would simply shrug my shoulders and reply, "stuff, something, things, you know......just life gazing."

            During my delightful gazing, I've wrote quite a bit. No shocker there. I've also gone through great pains to organize my writing, a mountain of an accomplishment only I - Rebecca Anne, and OfficeMax can truly understand. Irrational fears of my computer blowing up, AOL being sucked into a Internet black hole never to return, and a house fire of epic proportions spurred my desire to amass, collect into one place and protect my writing.

       For one, I went all the way back to the beginning of this journal and printed out every single solitary entry I've written in Shadow Of The Iris.......complete with ALL the comments ever left. This endeavor required 4 separate trips to Officemax for 1) 3 inch binders 2) good archival paper 3) new three hole punch and 4) the holy mother Mary of sentimental costs.....printer cartridges.

       Add up the hours spanned over 3 days to achieve my original goal with just this journal, plus the fact my printer practically melted by overuse and I turned a bit mind crazy by the time I was done----I wouldn't suggest such an adventure for the faint of heart. By the end of year 2006 I was weeping with joy if that paints a true picture...............then, I tacked all the writing in my Office Word program....etc, etc.....

I needed a week to recover, navel gaze and beg my printer to forgive me.

       Lets see, what else.......I helped have my Brother committed to the State Mental Hospital. All was good there, until I got a call this week that they think he's doing just fucking fabulous and are sending him home. I don't even want to think about it.

      Here's something thats been bothing me. I love Diet Coke. It is my poison of choice, my drug of caffeine, my daily friend and someoneabsolutely ruined it for me. They informed me that drinking Diet Coke deposits basically formaldehyde in your body. Which means, based on my Diet Coke consumption over the years, that I am a walking, live, embalmed corpse. Welcome to the Land of the Living Dead. Why, why oh why, do people feel the need to ruin a perfectly good addiction with such outlandish realities? Now, every time I sip on my Diet coke, which used to be a ritual of pure enjoyment, visions of mummified Rebecca's dance in my head. Double damnit.

       Not everything lately has been stationary navel gazing and formaldehyde consumption. I've dove head first (literately sometimes) into a new sport that has me outside and satisfying the thrill seeker (death wish) within me. It's gathered steam by several contributing factors, first, I like it, second, far too many people told me I couldn't do it, shouldn't do it, sh'ant attempt it.......which of course welded the seams of my reservations into sheer tenacious 'I'm going to do it just to prove the naysayers wrong' and therefore, I am. (Pray for my bones, then again, they are already preserved by toxic Diet Coke, so perhaps I'm safer then the average human, see....there's always a silver lining to everything)

       I suppose this is the closest to an update I'll ever do. I'm good. All is well in the land of Diet Coke corpses, warped printers, useless mental wards, dangerous sports and comfy navel gazing. Now, I just need alittle (ok, make that major) catch up time~~

Two Sparks and a Fat Guardian Angel Weed

2007-03-13T09:12:00.000-07:00

"Are you my guardian angel? You look just like a weed I picked on the side of the canal and I thought it was beautiful," said one of the patients to me. Over and over and over.........oh, and over and over and over again.............never a dull moment in the mental ward ~~ :o)

A quick update on my Brother. I visited him at the mental hospital last night for one hour. He wasn't doing so great physically, mentally or otherwise, but he was actually relieved to see me.

Physically he's a mess. He was shaking like a person with severe hypothermia, hard and uncontrollable. His heart is unstable, with a racing 180 beats per minute average and blood pressure doing it's own sky high to rock bottom acrobatics. His kidneys are close to shutting down and his liver may be kaput. The normal detox medicines aren't doing enough to stabilize him, so he was on 10 minute intervals of checking vitals by the nurses and they were thinking about transferring him back into the medical ward to have him monitored by machines. (I said..."what are you waiting for? A heart attack?" which is a very real possibility)

They were perplexed by his lack of response to normal detox meds, but once they finally understood through me and my Brother his actual daily intake of alcohol, they realized they weren't dealing with the 'normal.' For me, I'm tipsy and giddy off 1/2 a glass of wine. Ben was up to a case of Captain Morgan's Rum (thats 12 bottles!!), chased with case after case of beer per in days, sleep was occasional short pass outs. 99% of humans would die from alcohol poisoning from a margain of that intake, but not my Bro~~

Mentally, he still wishes he had died and ended his suffering. Which personally I think is good, because normally he would be charming the nurses and test takers into a pleasant euphoria of 'cured' and he would be out on the streets in a couple of days. For once, he's maintaining honesty. As of last night, he just didn't have anything left in him to live....but I hope that changes.

I did see Ben smile, ever so slightly, because of a patient who hovered like a bee to honey next to us. This man was convinced I was the messiah, a guardian angel sent from the heavens above to break him out of the mental ward. He was also convinced I was a weed, a beautiful weed, but a weed nonetheless. His insistence that I was a beautiful weed is what triggered a small smile from my Brother.....priceless, I'll be a weed anyday if it sparks life into my Brother!!! This patient promised me he would pick me some flowers if I wouldjust tuck him under my coat and sneak him out the locked doors.

When I hugged my brother good-bye, he did toss one more spark of life at me, he said, "You feel good, my nice and fat guardian angel." Now, under normal circumstances that should be an insult to 100% of us female gender humans, but to him it meant I felt healthy. The fact is, I'm 5 foot 8 inches. He is just shy of exactly 6 foot. I weigh 138 pounds.. Right now, my brother weights 131 pounds of skin and bones. He hadn't eaten a single thing in 6 days, and lost another incredible 26 lb. between hospital stays. When he's healthy, when he's ok, he weighs 170 lb. on average. I told the nurses to fatten him up~~

~~~~~~~~~~

Now, I have something to say, to all of you.
I wrote no comments please on my last entry.
I didn't want anything.
You ignored my request, repeatedly through comments and emails.

~Thank You~

Want and Need.
Two entirely separate definitions, but can produce the same results.
When my daughters say, "I don't want any medicine." I will say, "You may not want medicine, but you need medicine and I care about you, so your gonna get it from me."

In a way, you all did the same thing.
I realize now, I didn't want sympathy, or pity or drama inspired anything. I didn't get that. I got good old fashioned medicine of the caring and compassionate kind filled with heart and kindness and hope.

A wise mentor of mine says...
Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.

I thank You.

Edit: Thank you to Julie and first commenter. I just called the hospital to check on him and he was transfered back to the medical part of the hospital right after I left last night. This is a new hospital for me to deal with, in a city away from me. The two mental wards in my city were full Sunday night, so they transported him 40 miles away. New system, new nurses, new doctors, new hospital=more frustrations. Getting information over the phone is like extracting a tooth from an cat who wants to keep it's teeth. After 5 transfers, the best I could get was "The doctor is seeing him now, yes he lived through the night. No, I'm not sure if he is still critical. Blah Blah Blah"

52 minutes....20 seconds

2007-03-12T00:21:00.000-07:00

My advice is, skip this entry........and I usually give good advice :o)

I have never really spewed forth drama in this journal. Personally, I could do without it on the whole and avoid things in life that could be potentially drama filled......like the plague. I am, in business, in family, in day to day, in dealing with friends and pets and kids and anything else, I am the level gal, the even Steven, nary an outburst, nary the drama kinda person. So when I am faced with a problem I cannot solve and I'm hanging onto the last shred of my cool, calm, collected persona, I find myself completely at a loss for direction.

This drama type shit is made for someone else, someone else who thrives on it and comes flying out of the corner with her phone attached to her ear and a phone tree bigger then a sycamore. I just can't do that, hate doing that, won't do that. But I can write......Tonight is simply my recording of a night I doubt I'll forget, for me.

This evening, after wafting around my home in flyfishing euphoria, I got a phone call that was so heavy, such a burden, and so awful, I felt mute for exactly 22 minutes after I got off the phone. My Brother, the alcoholic who I knew was spiraling into oblivion called to say Good-bye. He was crying, which he never, ever, never, does. When I realized what he was saying, what he was doing, what he was about to do, I did what a person like me does, record it. I wonder now if that was twisted of me to think of doing, but I sat at my computer and like a good little secretary I typed almost every word he said...while I tried to reason with him, influence him, save him....but typed anyway......just in case they were really his last.

I don't know if anyone reading this has ever heard the voice, the words, of someone who wanted to end their life at the time they were actually standing on the very brink of doing it. Until this night, I hadn't. Now I have the hard copy. I guess there's good things in life, and there are really bad things. And tonight, I officially submit in my journal, proof of the really bad things. The really sad things. The devastating things.

I need to keep it. The voice of alcoholism at it's worst. Life at it's worst. Pain and despair at it's worst. A burden on my shoulders that I can't begin to explain. A choice I had to make that I never, ever want to make again.

My brothers words:

"your talking to a dead man
I'm dead
Your the last person I'm ever going to talk to and I'm just glad it's my sister so I can tell you I love you. I have no choice, alcohol has me, every piece of me.
Nobody is here, when I need someone the most
I'm finished.
Don't cry at my funeral, I've caused enough tears
I'm really hurting Bec'
Tomorrow is nothing, I could care less about it
Tell Mom and Dad how sorry I am
if you calls the cops, I'm dead before they knock down the door
your overthinking bec, if I go to the hospital again, I still will want to drink when I get out
why did I even call you....I don't care anymore.....all you want me to do is go the hosptal
If you call the cops, I swear to god it will be too late
If you dare show up here I will slash my throat, see if I can do it, I swear I will
I got nothin left, nothin
Stop trying to talk me out of this, I just called to say goodbye, I'm done, I love you, I'm sorry
shut up, screw you....I mean, not screw you, cause I love you, but I'm done
I'm done I bought the knife today just for this
Instead of a year without seeing Mom and Dad, it's a life
If you call the cops, you kill me for sure
They want a year away from me, they can have a lifetime
I don't know why I called you, I thought you would be my sister and let me die in peace
your committing your Brother to suicide hell if you try to help
I'm sorry for Mom and Dad, for putting up with me and all that I'm through with this I'm done
1) there's nothing I would do to hurt you guys 2) well, I guess thats it
Alcohol chooses me, when you see me and Mom and dad in my coffin you'll see a guy who once mattered to someone .....you can't help me, I got no way out. You just don't understand. I don't know why I called you, your not helping, I thought you would understand my goodbye....your confusing me....forget it you know......just I need a chance to come back around..you know....don't call the cops or anything weird. Forget it, they can't help me, you don't understand....well Mom and ddad don't want to see me they aint gonna see me alive again........stupid move, I'll be a dead man on the spot....your my sister...the closest family I got that will talk to me......I got no other way out, nothin....aint gonna happen...I'm done....I don't have any choice anymore, it'snot the matter if you drink you lose, if your done....I don't have that choice, it chooses me. I don't have choice. You guys will never know until I'm dead, I'm totally dead it chooses me, I don't choose it. I'm hurting can't you hear it in my voice, it's over, it's done. I just thought I would I would Say I love you, it's done, don't call the cops. It's real.
You can't help Bec, it's over, just let me deal with it. I'm gonna do it or I'm not. Thanks for being there to help me. And thats it. basically, sorry, sounds like I need superior help, but no body can help me but me. I'm the only one that can help me, but I can't do that cause alcohol rules my life. It's not a matter of mind over matter, or a choice, I don't have a fucking choice, thats what you guys don't understand......thats them, those AA people hugging and kissing thats not me, I'm beyond that. I got no where to live, I'm through with my job, I got nothin. I'm gonna put the knife right through my throat.
so whats the point so fuck it. Screw it, I'm done. I love you. I'm sorry yo ugotta see me at my funeral. not that you have to go, I'm sorry I just don't ......just don't call the cops, the knifes in my throat and I'll just shove it through if I hear even a knock on the door.......hospital or whatever. Either let me get over it or I'm doing it. .......the bible, I tried reading that bible you gave me, it doesn't help. I'm gonna let you go, I've wasted way to much of your time. Let me cope with it. deal with it. do you understand. Your brothers in hell, going to hell I love you bec I gotta go now click "
52 minutes........20 seconds conversation Between Ben G****** and Rebecca H****** his sister on Sunday night between the time of 9:00 p.m and 10:00 p.m. Rebecca's words ommitted

22 minutes. I sat at my desk watching the minutes click away, paralyzed. Call the cops, risk having them storm in on him and have him plunge a knife through his throat, or let him do what he needed to do, find the peace he's begging for....or hope he didn't do anything.

22 minutes is a very, very long time to stare at a clock. I didn't call anyone, I didn't do anything but stare at my clock. I've never been in a position where I felt such responsibility for something so important. Choices, the very thing I live and die for, can be so simple, or so unbearable.

Choice: to let him do what he wanted to do by not doing a damn thing..........well, I decided that was a really fucked up thing to pack around on my shoulders for life. Choice: call the cops and have him plunge the knife in exactly as he said would happen if I called the cops. Another fucked up thing to have wrapped around my throat like a noose for life.

It took me 22 minutes to pick the lesser evil of two life sentences for me. I called the police. I told them what Ben threatened. I jumped in my car, went to his hotel and parked across the street to watch what happened. I knew, ambulance bad, only cops good.

But this is where things got screwy. In a matter of minutes 7 police cars came, parking away from the hotel. Sneak, quiet mode. From my view I could see them crawling around like ants, but I saw them go to the wrong hotel room. I saw them extract, calmly and simply a man out of this room. I was confused and didn't think it was my brother, but kept watching. Then, police crawled around some more and finally busted into my brothers room.

He didn't accomplish his threat. In his drunken state he dived for the knife, but didn't get the job done quickly enough......the police officer told me.

The thing is, I realize now, that had I not called the police, my Brother would have certainly seen the police lights once they pulled into the parking lot, for the other man. Evidently, within minutes of my call, another call came in about a man who was beating up his wife in another hotel room. If I hadn't called, my brother would have seen those lights and most likely assumed I had called the police and they were there for him. He could have done his deed and no one would have known. He never knew they were there until they already had the door flung open. Thankfully.

This is probably the longest and horrid post I've ever made. Who knows. I'm a dead thought walking right now anyway, I'm bone weary, mind exhausted and everything else you could stuff in a bottle of hell dealing with my Brother.

Although I prevented something tonight, I know all I've done is prolong the inevitable. Unless I can finally persuade the state to keep him, long-term, since the idiots declined our motion for State Institutionalization earlier this last week. I need sleep. I can no longer think straight.

I would like to thank everyone for all your comments and emails of support in regard to my Brother over the last few weeks. They have been very appreciated and helpful.

But tonight.........please

No need to comment on this post of record, it is what it is. A problem I cannot fix, avoid, or rationalize.

Never Had A Bad Day....

2007-03-11T18:58:00.000-07:00

~I have never had a bad fishing~

Of all the profound things I could place on my death plaque, I've decided I'm going simple and easy. I say death plaque instead of gravestone, because I have no intention of ever being buried in the dirt. Dirt is where the worms are, and I'm quite certain my irrational fear of worms is so strong, so ironclad and soul ingrained, it will transfer in death. The thought of being trapped in a coffin thats rotting away to give the worms a new mansion and rotten flesh food, makes me seriously nauseous.

I made this official decision today while walking along the greenbelt that follows the local river to go flyfishing. I started noticing several trees and benches that had sweet little dedication plaques next to them and I paid attention for once. It's perfect: torch me, toss the ashes in the river and then buy a bench and slap a plaque next to it. Presto, I've left a mark on thy world to step on.

Fishing was the only choice I had today. After being terrorized Friday night by one said Brother and then last night, being terrorized again by something much smaller, completely out of control and just as sinister as my brother, I needed a mental break.

The thing is, although I've already mentioned I'm terrified of worms, I really am one of those 'tough' chicks. Meaning, minus the worm oddity, nothing really scares me. I fear nadda and have no problem hanging with the toughest of the tough. But last night one single little creature had me at my wits end. It terrorized me.

I had settled, naw, more like collapsed into bed. Given the week I've had dealing with certain 'said' things, sleep hasn't come easy and I was officially exhausted. I had closed my eyes, I was counting sweet sheep when I started hearing unusual noises. My girls are with their Dad this weekend, so I knew it had to be the pets. I tried, unsuccessfully to ignore them. The noises wouldn't stop. So finally got up and stomped out to the front room to give every single pet within sight a piece of my mind.

When I flipped on the light chaos broke out. Two cats instantly came flying out from somewhere chasing a single solitary mouse straight for me. If it had been a worm they were chasing, I would have screamed, ran out the front door and booked a hotel for the evening, but I figured I could handle one mouse. Besides,I had reinforcements. I have cats. I have a few cats. I won't admit the actual number here, because I'm not sure what number actually constitutes an 'official crazy cat lady' and I never wanted to be one of those.....so the point is---I had back up of pure feline mousing ability. Or so I thought.

Two hours. Thats right. Two hours, with every piece of furniture moved, over turned, tipped over and all out removed from the main hunting arena of the house. My cats would wait patiently each time this monster moved locations while I scooted, threw furniture and scared the little demon to a new location. Oh, the cats got hold of it every once in a while, but I discovered none of my lazy cats are true hunters, none possessed the killer chomp I was counting on. Sadly, I've accused each and every one of them as PETA versions of real cats. All they wanted to do with it was play, and that hissing mouse wanted nothing to do with that game.

Finally I took matters into my own frustrated hands, fired the cats without pay, and although I will spare this journal the details, I can say that little mouse finally dealt with someone who isn't of the PETA variety. Me.

This is why I needed to fish today. This is why I fished for hours and hours and didn't care that the only thing I could hook was icky white fish and the occasional moss bottom. It did not matter one single bit to me.

I finally had a glorious, beautiful day. Even if my 'said' brother came pounding on the door tonight, or another mouse invaded my home, I know when I go to sleep tonight I will be thinking of nothing but the beauty of the river and the peace I feel when I am casting my line across the water.

Today, it is all good.

~I have never had a bad day fishing ~

Irrelevant Details

2007-03-10T10:10:00.000-08:00

Ahh the quandary of details.

Here's the problem with details. On the solitary level. I believe, if one partakes in the self sided conversations for too long, one tends to wallow around in said issue long after it has dissipated. I, being of sound mind and common daily practice, does not like to influence the fires of potentially drama based problems. Does not like and actually accomplishing, are two different things. On this individual level, the battle of self (thought) indulgence is admittedly a tough fight. Draining self thoughts are worthy adversaries and they rarely wave white flags of truce. Meaning, inside my head, civil war is a constant threat.

I got that scenario down pat, solid, well executed, ya for me. However, sometimes a problem just won't go the hell away. A problem you never asked for. A problem you had no hand in creating etc etc..... even when you sic the police on reoccurring problem it just keeps coming back for more and more.

This week, my problem, my drama and my own flesh and blood is back with a vengeance. I've kept the details to myself, because this problem, this so called brother of mine, has no one other then myself to call and unleash on. Legally, because of a protection order granted this week, he can no longer harass my parents and for that I am VERY Thankful. I can handle it much better then they could, or should, or have already. Today, I am tired of dealing with him, again.

Details, oh the glorious juicy tidbits. He was spit out of the system once again, booted from the mental hospital with a neat little stamp called 'discharge.' He called me to come pick him up. I declined. Officially he is homeless. He walked to a dank dingy hotel riddled with fleas and god knows what else. A stray dog has a better chance then him, at least strays have the animal shelter to be taken to.

The calls started in. I ignored 90% of calls, however I did agree to take him some personal items. First visit reveals beer cans and a whiskey bottle hidden under the blanket I sat on. I removed myself immediately from hotel. More calls, a few fights, blah blah blah, the list could go on and on. Messages from hell, messages begging for forgiveness, declaring his love and full of despair to messages full of rage and vile threats. Last night was the breaking point once again, and I feel I was given no choice but to call the police, words are powerful and if someone in his state of mind threatens killing people, as a simple human I see no choice but ask for help from the authorities.......again.

His last call, a message on my unanswered phone, was one of fuck off and die to me for sending the police to his hotel. His parting words, "I'm going to die in this hotel and it will be your fault" I don't think he'll do it until he officially runs out of money and alcohol, but I could be wrong......

Lovely.

I wonder, even with him and his extreme to this concept, why people in tough situations can always find a way to blame other people for their actions. I hate blame. I also loathe excuses and people who avoid personal accountability. Even a small child can understand the principles of cause and effect. Action and consequence. I've done some actions that produced some clear reactions that I don't love (regret is more like it), but accept as mine and mine alone.

I wonder today, how I will feel when he finally ends his personal hell on this Earth. Will my non-action and refusal to give him a home, answer his calls at his beck and call, give him money, calling the police, and refusal to subject myself to the deliberate hell he's created, produce a reaction deep down inside me of regret and guilt when the end comes? The boy in a 32 year old body is screaming for help right now and I feel no choice but to let him keep screaming.

Today, and again, I am trying to convince myself that I will try, should, and can be at peace if he makes such a choice. Maybe if I say it enough, affirmation style, when it happens I will internally believe it. It's worth a try I suppose.

Details are so irrelevant to a situation like this, unless your talking to the police or stuck in an Al-Anon meeting. What I'm truly left with is a bag of emotions that aren't the type I like to embrace, pack around and flame the flames into a bonfire. But bonfire it is, and I crave some water just as much as my brother craves his poison.

Tags: alcoholism

15 And Proud

2007-03-05T09:22:00.000-08:00

My oldest daughter turned 15, middle of the teens, halfway to 20's, center of teen universe, this weekend.

For the mathematicians, I am 34, turning 35 in May, which equates to: I was a statistic on the books of teenage pregnancy for my generation. Although, at the time I didn't quite understand that because I was old enough to vote, live on my own, done with school, but nineteen (and unmarried, which instantly made me a no good tramp in the eye's of goodie two shoes) lumped me in with the shaking of the head, sympathy for my unborn child and general bad looks, plus the cool check mark in the teen pregnancy books. After I had her I couldn't wait, and I mean counting the days-2 1/2 months worth, until I was a respectable 20 year old and I could wear my Mommyhood proudly.

If I had listened to public opinion, my daughter should be a promiscuous, struggling, no good human being and a blimp on her generation destined to fail and be a burden. She was born to a Mother who was a teen, unmarried, just a high school degree, penniless broke, who gasp, used state aid for exactly 8 months to monetarily survive. I'm happy to say, I proved them all wrong, wrong, dead wrong.

I admit for 12 years I dreaded, had nightmares, worried and hated the notion of her turning into a walking zombie of teenage hormones, tyrannical potential and the hateful possibilities every parent can conjure in the mind. I assumed, based on perception that was just the way it would work, urban legends dictated my imagination!

For reason only a parent can understand, I had this vision that the day she turned 13 all my good parenting would sink into oblivion, I would witness an exorcist movie type phenomenon and she would turn into a version of the daughter I once knew. When she turned 13 I braced, but she didn't morph, spit green vomit and her head stayed on straight. When she turned 14, I held my breath, but every day she was the same sweet daughter I had raised, no out of this universe demon voices came from her mouth and I never needed to tie her to the bed. Now that she has turned 15 I feel good, I feel proud, I am no longer afraid.

I've realized circumstance does not dictate a destiny. Situation does not direct an outcome and predictions only happen if you believe in them. I should know, all the cards of presumption were stacked against little Shelby and I the day she was born. I know much of the world believes most children being raised today are no-good, ungrateful little shits who will eventually burden society. I'm here to say I despise that ignorant assumption. To say that insults me, my daughters, and the other parents who work very hard at raising good decent children.

The fact is, doesn't every older generation say that about the generation coming up through the ranks?? People thought the world was going down the toilet with my generation (80's teen), and according to my Mother, her elders were frantic watching her generation going through the 60's, those crazy hippie kids. I have no doubt that same mentality goes down and down through history. Generations change, people change, dynamics are constantly shifting.

I can look today and find awful teens, I can also find horrible people in their 20's, embarrassing to my generation 30 year olds, despicable people in their 40's and burdens to society folks in their 50's and so on. Age draws no lines in the fact some people are good and some people are bad. Thats why I refuse to tell my daughter, and her peers, that they are bad, awful and a disappointment to society-based on public assumption.

Aren't we supposed to believe in the children? Aren't children what make the world go 'round? No one would take an individual child and tell them point blank they are nothing but a liability to our future, so why generalize the lot of them by saying it in newspapers, coffee chats, gossip on the phone and so on? Why perpetuate such a negative assumption? If a child is out of control, the fault lays squarely on the parent who raised them. Even then, there are exceptions, good parents who's children take mis-steps! If a parent is lazy and doesn't care about their child, there is a good chance that child will struggle and become the statistic that forms public opinion. However, for every struggling teen I've come across, I can praise 10 more for being good kids and I think thats what people should focus on.

To talk to Shelby and her friends, I can tell you, nothing pisses them off more then hearing they are lumped in with a few strays. They are proud of their achievements, they work hard at their activities, school and various other causes they have taken on to help the world. To listen to her and the others, I puff up in admiration,laugh at my old fears and feel very good about the future. Very Good Indeed. This year I am excited to see what my daughter accomplishes and I have no doubt our foundation, the one we created together from the day she was born, will hold steady and firm. And to the people, society, who said when Shelby was born we were both destined to be a burden, well, you know exactly where you can stick that opinion :o)

Happy 15th Birthday Shelby
You amaze me today, as much as the day you were born.

For My Personal Entertainment Value

2007-03-02T10:51:00.000-08:00

I was Looking Beyond the Cracked Window this morning, so I have no doubt I can blame this Collage on Jodi. (insert mischievious grin) MY SORTING OUT PLACE has been at odds lately. Honestly, my Inane thoughts and insane ramblings have been playing a nasty game of rugby inside my Golden Silence. Many days lately There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass, but I know this will pass.............

The Wisdom of a Distracted Mind can both enlighten, or make a person feel like " I live in soap land " On both of those notions, I would like to officially nominate my RandomThoughtsConnected for Oscar consideration. The majority of the things I think about leave me perplexed and asking myself, "Am I thinking that" ??? Sometimes it's enough to make a person think I'm Going Sane in a Crazy World and then I feel much better.Perhaps we all need some sanity and crazy to compliment each other!

Some days I have Frosty Thoughts, and some days I have No More Appetite for Destruction. A calm settles over and I think about just Rebecca, or Just Mary, or just Kristen's Cosmic Fabulosity and I have no choice but to smile. Because, Life Is Full Of Surprises and I can't predict what I'll be doing tomorrow, I can try, but the fact is I could be sending Postcards From The Edge, or I could be waiting for Sunshine Colorado Notes to head my direction.

I like that about life, one day I can feel Separation Anxiety, and the next day I'm filled with enough Courage to feel like I can save the entire world. Some day I may be reading a published book called Daughters of the Shadow Men or one day I may take a trip to experience Life & Faith in Caneyhead. Tomorrow I could pass in the street, the man who wrote Diary of Rock-n-Roll Men. Who's to say?? Life, as I see it!, is full of potential and possibilities I haven't even begun to experience.

I think it's critical that everyone takes the time to do An Analysis of Life. Take time for More Reflections.., search under the couch and start a DUST BUNNY CLUB OF NORTH AMERICA..........why not? I think we are all worth it. Sometimes our Detached and Indifferent Expressions can make us feel downright blah. But from that important elemant we can all sew a A Crazy Quilt Life. It's up to us what patterns and Random Threads we use.

Listen if a friend says "let me tell you about My journey with MS" or wants to tell you Porch Stories . Look when someone points out The Sunrise and the Sunset. If a friend comes to you and opens their Dear Diary, appreciate it for all that Dear Diary2 is worth. Remember HOPE FLOATS and time goes through our hands like Grains Of Sand.

There is certainly a time to RebukeTheWorld and there is certainly a time for a Moonlight Drive. I think everyone should take a Northern Trip and participate in an Aurora Walking Vacation every once in awhile. I believe everyone has a Secret Garden that needs attention and it's Worth Watering from time to time!! Pluck from that Bowl of Cherries and notice Those Eyes That the Cherubim Drew. I think it's worth it...........every single day.

By The Way.. this was brought to you by a lady who likes to indulge in Adventures of an Eclectic Mind!

Have a Wonderful Weekend~~ and Never Forget......Carpe Diem - Seize the Day !!!!!!!!!

P.S. You guys have some wonderful Journal Titles, if I missed someone, well, sorry about that :o)

Indigent

2007-03-01T11:28:00.000-08:00

My last mental vomit still stands, I feel rather passionate and close to said topic. My brother did live through the weekend, however, he did not make it through the weekend a free man/zombie.

Meaning, after a tenacious homefront battle, heartbreak, blood was shed, a swat team complete with guns drawn were called in, many tears, and a finale worthy of my expectations, my brother was drug off by the hero's with a badge, to another mental ward.

He's Indigent. The states word, not mine.

Anyway, I'm tired of thinking about, dealing with, and mourning for him. I'm feeling indigent towards him and his problems. I suppose that happens when you have to witness someone like him continually hurt and make life a living hell for other family members, for myself, who have never done anything but help, love and support such a person.

Sometimes, disgust and anger reign supreme. In this case, every time the reality movie of this weekend reruns through my mind, I feel an intense desire to beat the shit out of him. I'm no saint, never claimed to be, and compassion/love only goes so far.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I gave a friend of mine an unexpected (on her part) piece of my mind this week that I fear will go down in the history books as a bad choice. Hindsight is always a fun mind avenue to entertain. I now feel that my reactions were based on the simple fact my perspective has been altered dramatically over the last month. With a friend murdered, dealing with my brother and various other oddities, my perspective overload spilled over into dealings with most people. So my normal reservations in giving personal opinion broke through the gates of nonjudgmental listening and I let her have it. Whoops.

The thing is, and I'll use one of her tragedies as an example, if the worst that is going on with a person is their spouse paid a bill 3 days late, or their Mother calls to ask how life is going (and that annoys friend) I'm probably not a good person to use as a sounding board right now.

It just takes a few bad experiences, a few rotten apples to roll across your path to really notice how bloody insignificant the majority of peoples complaints really are. There have been days lately that I would give anything to be simply worried about something as irrelevant as an argument, or an annoying person -friend-co-worker-family-neighbor..........

Bite my tongue, I told her to grow up, stop letting the little shit consume her time and energy. I suggested she should be grateful she has people who love her instead of constantly picking apart every single solitary thing they did. Yep, perspective overload runneth over. Our conversation did not end well.

Sometimes I think, some people would rather be miserable then find the good in each day. I do not comprehend this. What purpose does this serve? Even if something annoys me, I only need to look to 10 feet in front of myself to see things could be much, much worse. I think because I grew up with a Mother who's mantra was always "things could be much worse" if I sniffled or whined about something, I learned to look past little things that can irk or irritate a person. I don't think she was wrong. I really don't.

I give her credit for my mentality when it comes to looking at life's problems. How could I not.......she was the one, who through tears, watching her own son hauled away bloody and screaming by the police this weekend remarked, "it could have been worse, much worse"....................

** edit note after a few comments, my friend didn't know what happened this last weekend with my Brother. I typically keep all things about me, my life, the goings on to me, myself and I unless they are good things.**

Helping

2007-02-24T10:25:00.000-08:00

Anna Nicole Smith. Britney Spears.

I mention those two in my journal today, because they are/were both people in trouble and in the constant media spotlight. Be it alcohol, drugs, pick your poison, they fell into 'it' and didn't get out.

Yet, I've read all these articles and entries and commentaries of people ridiculing the people who are around Anna Nicole and Britney for not helping. Howard K. Stern. Lynne Spears. Managers, friends, family etc.............all in the hot seat for not fixing these darlings, not getting them "help" not curing them or steering them away from the bowels of addiction.............

Help a person who is an addict? A true living breathing addict who's life is dictated by the poison of their choice. Help them? And blame family members and friends for not curing or saving an addict??
You have to be fucking kidding me.

I reserve the right to be a bitch for a moment. If you have never dealt with someone who is an addict, keep your blaming opinion to yourself. If you have never held a garbage can under the mouth of someone going through withdrawals and suffered next to them while they went through it, shut up. If you have never drove someone to rehab with all the hope your mind possesses only to have them leave rehab and step right back into drugs and alcohol, you have no right to judge from afar.

~If you have never been hurt, punched, spit on, screamed at, kicked, stolen from, called collect from jail, sat through court for or by an addict...then shut it.

~If you've never picked a person up off a sidewalk laying in their own vomit, feared for your life, or one of your family members, hired an attorney for someone who is an addict, spent a holiday in a hospital, a suicide ward, a city jail, a rehab center, a mental hospital all typical places to visit an addict then save commentary for someone else.

~If you have never been thrown up on, taken a knife away from a person who is intentionally cutting themselves, called the police to have your loved one arrested, locked away or have the police pull you out of your bedroom window in the middle of the night to save your life from said addict in the house then reserve judgments, you're optimist suggestions don't count.

~Unless you've invested 10's of thousands of dollars trying to help someone, you're perspective is that of Candy Land mentality.

No offense, but those are the truths I've lived through, and I know other families of addicts have lived through. Read any book you'd like, watch any movie you choose, hear any story you want, but until you've lived face to face with it, you have no clue, notion or perspective of what it's really like. Period.

Oh sure, you can toss all sorts of brilliant idea's out that sound good in theory. Hell, we've tried them all with my brother, but alcohol reigns supreme and within it's dictatorship, our good intentions flounder in the shadows of wishful sobriety. Vodka's voice is louder then love and hope. Rum clears the path for all self destruction and self mutilation. Old English malt liquor provides the strength to transform my brother into a vicious piece of human with no regard to anything, anyone around him.

When you've tried everything available (I dare anyone to come up with one we haven't tried) to help someone such as my brother, you are left with empty bottles, broken hearts and a monster who masquerades as human being.

~~~~~~

The thing is, some time today, I have to go check on my brother. I need to go find out if he lived through the night. What a horrible truth to state, but it's the hard cold addiction facts. Truth be told, I'm shocked he's made it this long. The 32 year old man/boy I dealt with yesterday is a mere shell of a human. I don't believe in a Godly hell, but I have no doubt my brother is deep in the darkest reaches of a personal hell a person could be. He is a nonfunctioning alcoholic who has taken his sickness to the most inner reaches of insanity an addict can go. The only way out for him now is death or personal choice of sobriety.

Thats the cold hard fact. The only possible way to for an addict to come back is through personal choice. No matter how many people try to help, or think they have helped, or dare to even take credit for helping, it's up to the addict to actually do it, and follow through. It's that simple.

I've lost my brother to alcohol. My true brother, the one I used to fish with and tease and beat the crap out of and hug and love. That boy is long gone and I'm not sure if I'll ever see him again.

At this point, and with this entry, I give myself pardon. If he hasn't made it through the night, or if he dies tomorrow, or next week, or in a year from now, I know I did everything in my power to help him. I know addiction was more powerful then love and hope and help and family and life. I know addiction was the God, the dictator, the circus leader in this entire tragedy. And when he finally dies from his hellish world of addiction, I will gladly tell anyone to fuck off if they imply or question that I or my parents didn't do enough to help him, we didn't support him enough, or love him enough and willingly let him slip away.

Most of all, I will always cling to the memory of the Brother I once had.
I love you Ben. Up camping with my little bro when we were still innocent~~~~~~~

Vanilla Nyquil

2007-02-17T11:42:00.000-08:00

I boasted. I participated in self indulgent words. I bragged. It was innocent enough, I swear, all I said was this, "Well, I haven't been sick in so long I can't remember."

The statement that sealed the kiss of death.

If that moment had been a movie, the phone would have rang immediately and a sinister voice would have whispered in a snake like voice...."Seven daysssssss" (my nod to the movie ~The Ring)

I should admit, in my most delirious fever induced moments this week, I did some irrational blaming. I thought of the woman who sneezed next to me in the store last weekend. The man who touched the ATM machine before me while hacking up a lung, etc. etc........

Oh, and I even thought of all you AOL journals people whom I'm visited lately who were sick. Can you catch the flu via Internet? Just another form of virus right? Was it you Deb? Or you Mary? (p.s. I do hope you are feeling better !)

If thats the case, everyone's phone should be ringing......right about now...seven daysssss.......don't say I didn't warn you~

I'm higher then a kite right now. I'm on a Nyquil overdosed ride induced by too many doses in a 24 hour period. This is evidenced by a shaking brain, weary body, hyper thoughts and a deep desire to pass out, but can't. Since I have already used up all my sympathy cards with the family, I decided to come write here, Nyquil style. Lucky You.

There is only one person who knows me 3-D style, knows what I look like in the flesh, what my voice sounds like, how I talk, move, and carry myself in the real world, that has read this online journal. This person remarked once, that what I write here is all Vanilla. Meaning, I only skim the surface of who I am, what I am about, what I'm willing to talk about. I keep it simple and sweet, like Vanilla. The friend was right.

I've also noticed, as time marches on, I've tightened my thought strings even more then the original Vanilla statement from my friend. This is really starting to annoy me. Something changed, at some point in time, and I'm not sure what happened, when it happened, but it did. The strange and unexplainable writing goes elsewhere now. The issues I tumble around in my mind stay safe on paper.

Damn, this journal is like a marriage gone bad. I started out posting regular entries, like newlyweds have daily bed romps. I used to communicate with it's blank possibilities and felt good about it, and now, I'm like a cranky wife who clamps her mouth shut and says, "I'm fine" and talks about furniture. So sad.

I wish, it was like it used to be, when I would sit down and write things and not give a fuck what it sounded like. Hmmm, a bit like that sentence. I need a journal adjustment. Or journal counseling. A fresh start. A redo. A do-over. A makeover.

I want to sneak back out of my shell and cover the vanilla with some delightfully dark chocolate, some sinister cherry sauce and toss some candy adornment on whenever I feel like it. I want to touch the tender walls of my own individual mentality again here. The good, the bad and the unexplainable.

So why type all that out instead of just doing? Personal accountability. A person like me needs a touch of concrete to motivate in one direction. Does any of this matter to anyone who may be bored to tears reading this? Nope, but thats the point :o) The manifestation of my silent nature is slowly eroding my mood through time, and I've recognized the need to open up once and for all. Good luck to me.

If I don't, I suppose I could blame this lapse in protective judgment to the Nyquil and fever. Then again, I never did like excuses of any sort, nyquil included. Time is the ultimate judge of all things~~

The Beauty of Paper

2007-02-12T12:36:00.000-08:00

Charley @ Courage commented: "This might seem pedantic, but what type of notebook do you use? I have two that I carry with me, and I'm wondering which kind you use and why you use it as opposed to another."

I'll tell you what Charley, I'll answer that question today here in my journal, complete with visuals and rambling blather. I need a distraction~~

I covet fine paper goods like a wine collector adores rare vintages. Notebooks fall under the paper good stipulations. If I'm going to take the time to place my words in something, by paper gods, it's going to be worthy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For me there are two writing categories in which my notebooks fall, but one prevailing condition, rule, doctrine and requirement is no lines~

I am of the NO LINES mentality. No lines, no lines, no damn jail cell lines mantra. Much like Joan Crawford famously screamed "NO wire hangers, in this house, EVER" I feel about as much passion about not allowing lines infiltrate my home. Of course, I feel about the same passion about no blue pens allowed as well, but I'll stay on subject here. The only exception made for paper with lines in this household is the girls required school work. Thats it, all other offending paper with lines is cut off at the front door.

First stage collections of writing: These are the notebooks I pack around like my baby blankets. My 100% preferred notebook is purchased at the Art Store. They are hard bound black, wire spine, and thick white blank paper inside. Ideal for creative doodling, sporadic thoughts and unfinished notions. I believe they are supposed to be sketch books. You can buy them in all sizes and I couldn't live without them. Best of all, no stifling, handcuffing, thought squishing lines :o) Observe visual exhibit #1

If I want to write little I can, if I want to write bigger, I can, if I want to write sideways, I can, there is no limitations in any of my notebooks. I don't do well with confinement, in any form, manner or shape of life..............lines on paper make me crazy!

I will mention one other notebook I utilize, but I don't love it as much as my art notebooks. I have a few Moleskin notebooks that serve a specific purpose, so I won't discount those, but the paper quality is questionable.

Second stage collections of writing: If I like something I've written, or believe it's worthy of a better tribute then muddled in with my doodles and eclectic writing, I will then transfer it into the permanent collection. At this stage of writing, nothing but a leather bound journal with handmade (blank) paper will appease me. Because I live in a little town that thinks rainbows, angel cherubs and bunny rabbits on a cardboard covered journal filled with cheap lined paper is an acceptable writing tool, I have to buy all my leather journals online or when I travel. I love the feel of the leather. I appreciate the touch and feel of the handmade paper and the way it 'take's" the ink from my special pens.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I understand that my fascination with paper, pens, lines, leather, blank, quality, etc.....could seem a bit irrelevant, but give me a moment........ I once read this little quote, "The written word is the choicest of all relics." So if I regard my writings as a relic of myself, and I entertain the concept that it will remain long after I am gone, why not take the effort to place it in something nice.

All writing is a ritual. It's up to the individual to define how much enjoyment they will derive from the process. The above mentioned notebooks/journals give me the greatest pleasure during my writing rituals. I have no doubt, that pleasure is different from person to person. If someone like lines and blue pens, then thats all that matters, as long as it feels comfortable. ~~ I swear, I won't hold it against you either, my strange requirements stop with me! *grin*

~~I like to nudge myself to take one step beyond simple, beyond the normal and paint alittle extraordinary into everything I do~~

The Paper Goods (Top shelf, leather bound journals, second shelf~ all stationary *ok, I noticed one leather journal snuck on top of the stationary* ~third shelf, black notebooks and misc.)

Does anyone else put this much effort into their paper goods, writing, rituals?

Someone?

Anyone?

(crossing fingers)

Observations of the Random Kind

2007-02-05T09:43:00.000-08:00

Once again, I don't like my previous post, but have nothing of interest to write about. To improvise is to bullshit, and I can do that, anything, to push certain writing down a notch.

I have a notebook I carry around with me, always, every second, without exception. On the first page I've titled it as such:
Observations Of The
Human Watching Kind
~
Capture Of Personal
Fleeting Thoughts

Much like the start of this entry, in all my writing notebooks I have a starting 'explanation' page. I worry that if I don't put in a sub-clause title / reason for the writing, should I kick the bucket unexpectedly, my writings could be sorely and severely misinterpreted!

When I was young, Harriet the Spy was my hero, so I blame her for the Human watching. I can be anywhere, found scribbling little observations down at random. In a line for a movie, on a park bench, bathroom stall at Target, on the river bank, in a money bank. Doesn't matter, like a pistol in a holster on my hip, I'm always ready to fire down anything that catches my fancy. I was strolling through my notebook this morning and in my humble opinion, some of my observations are rather funny, some just weird, and some just quirky old me.
Today, I thought I would share a few recent notes...............

~ "My haircut is coldddddd honey" whined a man standing outside in line for hockey tickets in front of me. He did have a military short haircut, and it was quite cold outside, but he received no sympathy from the woman. She said, "It looks a hellava lot better short and I told you to wear a hat!"

~I witnessed a five alarm fire today and was amazed by the rainbow created by the fireman's water. Rainbow over fire, beautiful. I wonder if anyone else noticed.

~ The teenagers piled into the car, giggling from the nights dance festivities. I asked the required Mother questions. How was it? Are you all sober and free of illegal substances? Did anything happen at the dance I wouldn't want to know, but your obligated to tell me? And with that final question all of them but Shelby laughed. Maintaining my hip, no one will get tossed in jail for telling me the truth rule, I pressed for explanation. Whispers and more giggling. Finally, one brave and bold teenie bopper stepped up and said, "Tonight a whole bunch of the boys nominated you as the official M. I. L. F. of the 9th grade"
For once I found myself speechless, wordless and musical chords of the Mrs. Robinson theme song bounced ear to ear. Sweat pants and flannel for all future school functions. Shit. Shouldn't I get a tiara, a sash, or a bikini for that title?

~ This evening while reading Walt Whitman a new and refreshed sense of word loathing came over me. Once again, I abhor the word poet and poetry. He uses those words like a shield of supremacy and arrogant sword of importance. While I embrace the beauty of his word smithing, his use of the word poet, feels like a self indulgent abuse of purpose.

~ On Meeting Ben's (My Brother) girlfriends Mother.
This is it, I've discovered the holy grail to all things insane. With her, the image of crazy cannot be ignored, denied or even guessed upon. The actual visual only compliments her insane aura.
With her erratic white hair defying the very notion we call gravity, the spastic arm movements and constant shifting on her heals I could have assessed a wildly quirky character. Nope, that wasn't all.

Her verbal talk came out fast and unpredictable, I could barely keep up, comprehend and understand half of what she was spewing forth. With the wild white hair, the spazzy body movements, the truck driver banter and constant foot movement I could easily give a whacko sticker to her...........

BUT............the creme de le creme, the icing on the psycho ward entrance fee, was the single roaming eye. That eye that constantly shifted it's gaze from nose to ear while her one controllable eye stayed firmly locked on my amazed gaze.

I could barely take the pressure of this meeting. I didn't know if I should fall to the ground in remorse over my wicked thoughts or laugh to the high hell. Political correctness sunk into oblivion. My compassionate side was frozen in bewilderment. And the writer in me etched every little detail in my thoughts for future use. To think I disregarded T*** when she warned me her Mom was 'different.'

If this new girlfriend makes it, I'm going to need something strong, really strong next Thanksgiving....................

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." ~Ernest Hemmingway

Scarlet S

2007-02-01T11:58:00.000-08:00

       Now that I've updated, revamped and used BIG BOLD TYPE on certain conditions of my upcoming personal funeral, (upcoming, as in it will happen someday, I still haven't found the magical elixir of life) paperwork, restrictions and instructions (I'm a writer, I like to get the last word in) ....I'm ready to attack my current irritations in the written avenue I'm accustomed~~

       Deep breath, rewind, focus, write, review, let irritation rest in peace. Perhaps I just need the perspective of all the God fearing individuals who could understand the process of a Church funeral here. Or perhaps I just want to rant and rave and spew forth heathen babble that will ensure my passage into a mythological hell I regard as complete fairy tale rubbish.

       The thing is, I've now attended 2 funerals in 5 months. The first one was conducted in a funeral home and I thought it was beautiful. It was personal, it was about a fabulous man, his life, his devotions, his world.........The second one, this week, was conducted in a Church and by the time I had suffered through an elapsed time of 1 1/2 hours I was honestly disgusted. Obviously, I'm still carrying frustrated thoughts from this experience.

       Here's my impression of this funeral. Sit, stand, pray, sit, listen to God wisdom, stand, sing some more, pray some more, sit, more God talk, stand again, pray again, more talk about God, toss in some Jesus smack, ( I'm starting to wonder if they will ever mention the person who's funeral we are there for) let us sit again, more voodoo and scare tactics uttered, stand, more singing.....sit, One mention of persons name (to my utter relief) , more praying, up, down, up, down, a reading here and a reading there, sing some more, pray some more...........finally and presto, we have a eulogy about the person we are all there for.......thankfully......and then we are right back to up and down with a grand finale of watching people drink blood and flesh of Jesus, more singing, more praying...Yaaahoooo......

       So, it's true, I'm still appalled and shaken by the manner in which this person was murdered. I am still sickened, as all of the people who were effected by this tragedy, and have thought about it a lot. Perhaps a wee bit of my hostility about said situation is leaking into this entry and my opinions of this specific funeral. The fact is, she is gone, and we can all look back on such a situation and find questions, meaning and purpose. There's a thousand lessons to be learned by such a tragedy and reasons, whether you believe in God or not, will never come easy. But I'm not writing about those today.......

       So what I want to know, what perplexes dear little Moi, is why such an event is not actually about the person for whom we are there for? Why does the Church mandate and overshadow a persons life in a such a manner? You can slice and dice the sermon (multiple at that) anyway you please, but it still boils down to being how God raised his exuberant hand in taking this person 'home.'...(even though she, as everyone else, was a sinner) That God, what a nice man he is~

       I honestly would have believed I was at a regular Saturday night mass if it wasn't for the crying people, split second mentions of her name and the beautiful picture of her up front and center. What I want to know, is did that service really honor that person, her whole life. Because in my mind, it wasn't about her, it was about God and Jesus and she was a side note for the reason we were there. This irks the hell out of me......no pun intended.

       Maybe all the God fearing folks were most satisfied, comforted and thoroughly enlightened (or scared shitless into never missing another week of Church) by the end of the service. Maybe I'm the selfish one for wanting the time to be about her, her accomplishments during the time she was alive, her family and her world. I am thankful a family member read a eulogy and gave us that brief remembrance of her. I admit, I wanted more.......

       This entry isn't meant to offend others. Typically I keep my writing and mouth shut about such things, it's always a lose, lose battle.... I make an honest effort to understand and accept certain ways, but this recent example of Church has me tossed upside down.........Maybe this funeral was just the icing on the cake from the heckling I've endured lately from the tyrant God Mamma's at my daughters school and I can no ignore the scarlet S on my forehead.

But GoodGod in heaven, what the hell.............

Moby Dick or Meme

2007-01-23T11:38:00.000-08:00

I went to my local Mail Box Etc. store on Friday when I realized my book liquidation project was missing a very important element.......shipping boxes........Since I visit that store weekly anyway, no one asked any questions and they only marginally raised their eyebrows when I carted off 20 priority mail boxes.

(Mail tip of the day, those boxes are free, any size, and you can take as many as you can carry: MUCH better then buying boxes and then paying for shipping on top of that cost)

When I returned on Saturday, with two shopping bags full of boxes to send, Lisa, one of the workers who knows me by name, started laughing quite loudly as I started dropping box after box on her counter. I had to explain my liquidation motives and when we were done, I couldn't tell if she thought I was crazy or just well, strange :o)

I am impressed with our mail system, emails came in yesterday saying they got their package already! So much for the snail mail nickname I always attach to the United Postal Service......now.....if they would just serve up some decent stamps I'd be thrilled~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My friend Chris, over at (Chris)Inane thoughts and insane ramblings proposed a question to me and several other people, and I thought I would answer it here in my time twisting journal.
In his words..........."I have to wonder if the phenomenon of blogging is diluting the available pool of literary talent. Is blogging robbing us of the next great author?

Twenty years ago, if someone wanted to write, they wrote. Whether on stone tablet, paper & pen, typewriter, or word processor, they wrote. If a person had talent and desire (or sometimes just desire), he/she could attempt to have his writings published to reach an audience. Otherwise, those writings remained personal and mostly unseen (except for little brothers digging through Sis’ diary).

With the advent of blogging, any fool can hop on the information highway and distribute their writing to an immediate audience. If Melville had access to blogging, would he have written Moby Dick or would he have done a meme about “What Type of Whale Are You?” If Cather was distracted by blogging, perhaps instead of writing O! Pioneers, she would have written 101 things that she has done.

I am not saying that blogging is bad. I believe it serves a great purpose. I just think that some great potential authors might never write that classic novel that is within them, because they are content to write in small doses on a blog."

My answer to your initial question. Yes, and No.

There was a time when I devoted a lot of time to both my blog and other peoples blogs. I can't do that anymore............

The Good: For me, writing in my blog is an outlet in random writing, and a nice writing social atmosphere I really enjoy. I keep it random enough, without purpose and without expectation, so I could come here and type anything I felt like. I love the feedback, the encouragement and the opinions of others. Any potential writer could benefit from this type of forum.

The Bad: It takes a lot of time. If your not careful it can take hours each day to keep up with a true commitment to online journals. Writing your own entries. Visiting other people's journals, leaving comments, responding to emails etc.....There was a time I was overloaded, over committed and literately strung out trying to keep up. It left barely enough room and time to focus on my own writing. During this stage of my online journal experience, writing a book was nearly impossible. This is where the potential Author gets into trouble.

The Ugly: With over 100 journals on alerts, my email box was never ending cycle piling up. I was averaging 30 plus comments per entry, and in that technorati link thingy, my journal was linked on over 130 other peoples blogs that I tried to keep up with........ I had to stop, step back, and give myself a personal opt out card.

I had to make a choice. Write for myself and do the best I could at randomly visiting other peoples blogs, or put aside my 'writing work' to commit fully to keeping up in the blog world. I would like to think that wasn't a selfish choice, but a logical, self preservation choice. If a would be Author fell into this type of self imposed obligation, visions of a book, publication and "The End" fall quickly to the wayside.

I know it doesn't seem very neighborly to not visit everyone's blogs, even weekly, especially the gracious people who take the time to visit my blog and give me the gift of feedback. It doesn't sit well with me and my desire to reciprocate and show appreciation nags at the back of my mind to this day, but I couldn't/can't find another solution. The sad effect of my choice, I seemed to have lost many an online friend over it...

I think the main thing I wish, or hope for, is that not a single person takes it personally that I don't visit journals regularly. It certainly isn't a personal thing, because I do enjoy reading other peoples words, worlds, activities and journals. I do the best that I personally can, and right now, my focus needs to be on my 'work' writing.

I would like to think Melville would have made the same choice~~

The Shelter Is Liquidating

2007-01-18T10:06:00.000-08:00

One.
Two.

I wish I was savvy enough to put music on my journal.
This cat is not in the cradle of technology.

I've been feeling a wee touch of remorse about my last entry. Possibilities of Janet F*i*h (the symbol * is to prevent more possible Google matches) doing the Google thing and (gulp) coming across my irrational rant doesn't sit well.

Sorry Janet. You done good. You finished a book. You wrote pretty, individual sentences. I'm properly impressed. I just wasn't in enough of a deep dark hole of despair to enjoy the story. Maybe next time........I haven't given up, I promise.

I did enjoy both of my sweet little Young Adult books by Stephanie Meyer. Twilight and New Moon. I enjoyed her writing, and I actually had FUN reading her story. No wonder the teenie boppers love her books! That hasn't happened for me in a longgg assss time. A FUN read.

Stephanie Meyers books were a bit like (except innocent enough for teens) picking up a steamy cheap romance novel where you don't need to think. You don't need to care that the author wrote, "her nipples became erect like a thumb tack" you just read it (ok I admit, I might laugh out loud at times, in the most unlikely places) without expectation. We readers just go with the flow of destiny and questionable writing. In the end, it's all good...............bodice ripping, soul searing love and all. It was FUN, type of reading.

Which brings me to something else I was thinking about.
I read a lot. I know, bit old whopper of a surprise. The money invested per year is enough to float a small condo in another country. It's a lot, lotta, lotsa books~~

So, what happens to those used up books.....not a damn thing really. Donated. Thrown away. Stacked up to collect dust. Given away to anyone I think might give them a home. I can't handle clutter, or having to much of anything, so for the most part, the books once done, are tossed to the winds. It is very, VERY rare, I allow a book to become part of my permanent library. It has to be amazing. Brilliant enough that I'll read it again and again.

Hence, my library is smalland precious to me. Despite the downfall of Janet F*n*H last book, after careful consideration, I'm letting White Oleander stay in it's permanent place. But, I have probably 10 books (at the moment) hanging around my house, and always more getting in line, that warrant reading, and they need homes.

Is anyone in this blogsphere interested in receiving random books via mail?

From Moi?

I understand I did a very bad job trying to rid myself of the last book, but I can do better. I have the potential. I have the already read, needing good homes, books, all types. I have the $$ needed to pay postage. I just need willing receivers of previously used books.

No sub-clauses
No fine print
No expectations
No obligations

The cost of business? An address. Which I understand in itself is kind of scary considering this is the Internet and I could really be a big hairy stalker with crazy tendencies. That picture on the left could be a decoy, and in truth I could be a long lost cousin of Ted Bundy, and there's no way to prove otherwise. But if you think I'm a psycho, please make me bald, I've always wanted to try a bald theme.Ohhh and lots of tattoos. Big Black ones, like the arm band type. I've always secretly wanted one of those!

I do have a few peoples addresses from this blogsphere, but I can't give them as references because, well, I'm ultra confidential and wouldn't break that trust. Except, I should admit here, that once I do have an address, I tend to send random 'hi, hope your having a good day' notes in the mail once in a while. It's another one of my thangs. No reciprocation ever needed, nor expected.

Anyway, I think thats the gist of it. Simply put. Books I've already read need good homes and I don't like being the shelter house. If your willing, to receive random, every once in a while snail mails, I'm offering~~

(Cue Jaws theme song) You'd have to just trust me.....................

Email Works.

Paint It B.S.

2007-01-14T09:31:00.000-08:00

On Thursday evening, I officially lost my temper in front of my daughters.
The three of us had curled up on my big old bed for some 'read in' time. Each of us were snuggled under my comforter, all holding our current novels in hot reading hands. It was silent except for the few times I reminded Kaitlyn to stop wiggling so much.

Shelby was reading The Butterfly House, by Marcia Preston.
Kaitlyn was firmly engrossed in Eragon, by Christopher Paolini
And I was reading a book I had waited six long years for-Paint it Black by Janet Finch.

Six years is a long time to wait out one Author in my humble opinion (thank the Book Gods J. K. Rowling does better turn around time then that) , but I adored, loved and cherished her book White Oleander, so I surmised if the woman needed ten years, I could refrain from picketing her home and wait it out with her. They even threw in a movie during that time to abate me, so I was dealing with it.

I got the book, Paint it Black, for Christmas. As far as I was concerned, Christmas was over the moment I opened my new book and if I had a choice in the matter I would have locked myself in a room and got down to business right away. I refrained. But the next day, I got to it, or tried anyway. Painful comes to mind. Slow comes to mind. Metaphor nightmares of the eucalyptus nature bubble to the surface. Offensive blahs float within my opinion. Depressing with no signs of life after 200 pages......etc etc etc.....

Every single boring/depressing/over written page sent me into a tailspin of monumental disappointment. From Christmas until this last Thursday night I labored, I forced, I encouraged myself to continue in the pursuit it would suddenly morph into the Janet Finch writing I once loved. Hell, I would have settled for just a decent story to entertain me.

It didn't. I threw a tantrum.

Although it would make me sound like a lunatic I would like to embellish and say: I fell to the floor on my knees, clutching the sinfully bad book to my chest. Tears were streaming down my face, and I raised one hand to the Gods of Books yelling "Whyyyyyyyy, why have you forsaken me Author?? Whyyy??"

Honestly though, I threw Paint it Black across my room and it smacked the wall. My daughters witnessed, for the first time ever, me throwing something in anger. They looked up instantly from the fun little worlds they were participating in and stared at me in awe.

Kaitlyn implied a million questions in one word, "Mom?"
I folded my arms across my chest in a pissed off stance, "Realllyyy reallyyy bad book."

They both nodded in what appeared to be mutual understanding.

Shelby, always the compassionate one, touched my arm and said, "You can read along with me Mom."

Which I did, all the while trying not to glance at the offending book laying dead on the floor. Thoughts of torching it in the fireplace danced through my mind. Ripping it to shreds and sending it to Janet Finch came across my mind. Flinging it out in the snow to freeze to death sounded appealing. I made it to page 206 out of 387 and I won't even bother reading the last chapter..............

Hands down, the biggest book disappointment I have ever experienced.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Twilight Side Of The Matter.

On Friday, the girls packed up for the first real weekend with their Father in two months. When they were walking out the door, Shelby hugged me and said, "Mom, I left you something on my bed. Trust me."

On her bed was a note and a book. The note said, -Mom, trust me, it's a really good book, read it while we are gone, you won't be able to put it down, Love Shelby. -

The Book-Twilight by Stephanie Meyer.
Young Adult/vampire/love story
398 pages. Finished early Saturday morning. (no sleep)

Simple, sweet, fluid writing with a good dose of suspense and fun. I adored it. The last sentence had me thirsting like one of the vampires for more more more. I called Shelby and first praised her, thanked her and then begged for the second book. I needed to keep reading and I LOVED knowing there was a second book.

To my personal horror she informed me one of her friends had the second book, New Moon. The good news was I didn't have to wait six years for a follow up, the additional good news -I didn't wait for the friend. I drove like a psycho woman to Hastings and claimed my own copy. I'm at page 138 in this second book and I'm still enjoying the heck out of the story and the writing! Shelby has also informed me the third book comes out in Aug. I can embrace that~~

Eat your heart out Janet Finch.

Does anyone want my Paint it Black, Janet Finch book???
Anyone?? Hardcover, free, I'll even pay postage.
Say the word and it's YOURS for your personal reading torture.

*****After two comments and one email, I've realized I've gone about getting rid of that book all wrong. Let me try this.

Unforgettable book up for grabs: Travel into the world of bad 80's hairstyles and clothing. Get a taste of the vile under belly of LA's seediest shitholes the 1980s produced. Enjoy the emotional ride of one mans suicide as it plays out between one coke sniffing, pot smoking, pill popping, alcoholic girlfriend and his snobby, over done, piano playing freak of a Mother. Lots of passing out, and puking for your reading enjoyment, enhanced by eucalyptus trees every 3 or 4 pages. It's all mixed just right to highlight the most memorable, forgettable moments in book history.........

You'll love to hate it.

Trust me.

Writer Thoughts

2007-01-05T11:46:00.000-08:00

Between reading the esteemed Crapometer over at Miss Snark, the literary agent homestead and reading several correspondence emails from a friend facing a (poetry) critique firing squad, I feel inclined to toss forth my thoughts about a few items here.

Although it hurt my compassionate side, the crapometer was a lesson in quantity vs. quality vs. potential vs. crap vs. the ultimate fish pond competition. A parade of idea's marched across her screen some 682 times from the corridors of other would be writers.

Now, I fish, and here's a fact. If too many fish attempt to swim in a small body of water, they deplete the oxygen from the water, they devour the nutrients found in the undergrowth and ultimately, only the strong survive such conditions. I've realized, writing a book is very much like trying to jump into an exclusive pond. If far too many 'would be' fishies continue to jump into said pond, it becomes unhealthy and diluted by the very thing we call potential.

I can visualize how the hierarchy, those who control and manage the population (agents, publishers, editors, experts) , must continue, without sleep, without rest, to smack environment eroding fishies right back out of the pond they keep disturbing with potential ambition. I see it as a frustrating and nearly impossible feat of division. Flip away 20 potentials with bad swimming techniques and ambition (writing) and risk flipping away one J.K. Rowling because your blinded by the previous 19 rejections of fin-less swimmers.

I wrote my friend and still believe as such, that unlike painters or other artists, who have a multitude of tools at their disposal to create and build. We, the writers, have but one solitary tool. Words. Words, upon words, upon stacking and arranging, it all rests firmly with words. Every person in this word is gifted the tool of words. No matter the language, no matter the day and age or location, words are at our disposal, our mercy and our imagination. Everyone has the potential, anyone could ignite the ambition. Anyone and everyone has the opportunity to sit down and write.

The question becomes for me, is who is destined to take it beyond the level of personal enjoyment? Where does the fine line between recreation writing and potential writing for the masses evolve? Is it talent? Is it natural writing ability? Is it understanding the language better then others? Is it simply the tenacity to sit and scratch out 100,000 words and immediately start trying acrobatic moves into the exclusive fish pond? What spurs one person to pine for the exclusive pond over say, the person who writes regularly just because they can?

I understand everyone wishes to leave their mark on this world. There are millions of us (myself included) who must write. We write because the urge won't shut the hell up. I can't put masking tape over the loud voice within me and I certainly can't stop the march of constant idea's that materialize in my mind daily. I do what I must, write them all down.

However, I am not exactly educated in the art of writing. I have not taken classes, nor would I be able to quickly identify all verbs, nouns, adjectives, proper sentence structure, grammar, and all the other hoopla that has attached it's tentacles to the form of writing well. I'm not even entirely interested in taking my writing to a technical level that would muster praise from experts in writing format and sentence structure. I have the basics, they work for me. Plain and simple, either the sentence reads like crap or it doesn't.

I concede it is up to the critics and experts to wave their hand of opinion and judgment to keep all us little fishies in line, in the correct ponds. What I continue to hold tenaciously is my personal voice, originality if I may, and I strongly encourage those I correspond with to do the same. Adjustments can be made......however changing an entire tone, an entire sentence, an entire meaning based on a critic......thats a reward vs. loss game. Ultimately, whats more important to a writer?

Does this make me a dilettante? Perhaps. Does this make me avant-garde? Possible. Does it make me a stubborn soul who will do as she damn well pleases? Likely. Do these designations make one slice of difference to me? Not at this time. I am a solitary fish, basking in her own personal pond, swimming her own natural strokes. I rise to the surface from time to time to watch the other fish playing.

A time will come. I will also be clutching a manuscript between tiny little fins, attempting a head first dive into the exclusive pond. If some big fish smacks me right back into my own pond over grammar, or too many uses of adjectives, I'll listen and I'll adjust if I feel right about it. I learn daily, I study at my own pace and I adjust when I feel the natural tones of my writing has gone off canter.

To my friend who's writing was compared to Bauldelair, I say thats a compliment. Carry on.....study.......write and understand your originality is priceless in my humble opinion. When all else fails, fight and pull a Cummings ~ flip them off~~

Charles Bauldelaire wrote: ( Beauty)
"I hate all movements that disturb my prose,
I smile not ever, neither do I weep.
Before my monumental attitudes,
That breathe a soul into plastic arts,
My poets pray in austere studious moods"

I appreciate his thoughts...................

Merry Season and All the Jazz

2006-12-21T15:28:00.000-08:00

I have a feeling, that if I don't do an entry today, I'll get swept down the holiday super slide and won't find myself back here until 2007.
That doesn't seem very neighborly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wish I could write a lot of sweet nothings, ambitious hopes and sappy seasonal sentiments. Well, maybe I could, but I think I would laugh myself into a sincere bootkick off AOL, so I won't try. I'm just not feeling the vibes of such moods.

I am feeling a healthy dose of nostalgia towards my enduring year of 2006. Thats tricky internal clockwork. I've had my good, my bad and the humble experiences I'll go to my grave with. Just another dime a dozen, in the good old timeline of Rebecca Anne. I'm alive, it's all good.

I'm opposed to New Years Resolutions, but mentally encourage New Years Reflections.
Those reflections are a workload to sort out in the corridors of my mind. It seems many of them would prefer to tenaciously hold out in the shadows instead of letting me time stamp them into history. I suppose thats the price a person pays for leaving things unresolved.

I thought I would be cute the other night and write a personal story, using an old premise. I stuck myself in the robes of Ebineezer Scrooge, complete with Christmas past, present and future. Doing such things, simple writing like that, can either be a testament to my boredom or ability to parallel memories and history, with the connection of possibilities and opportunities.
Either way, by the end of my story I hadn't saved a destitute family, but I had wrote an end I'd like to claim someday.

I printed it out, addressed it to myself and tossed it into my 'read in 5 years' folder. I'm strange like that, I write my future self notes, letters, reprimands and encouragement. Another thing for my quirky box of traits. (Can't believe I admitted that here, I need a new shower curtain)

I still think Scrooge and the Grinch are sorely misunderstood souls.
Think about it.

As soon as the jingle has left the jangle of Christmas Day, I'm outta here. The kids can grab what they can carry in two arms and we're off to my cabin in the North 'till 2007. I need the Mountain Snow, thekids need the sledding, I need the geothermal swimming pool and the kids need a week devoid of electrical distractions. I need my sanctuary where even cell phones can't dial in or out and the kids need to get freezing cold. Nighttime bonfires in the snow and hot steaming cocoa complete with mini-marshmellows.
Just a few of my favorite things.........
Now that is a season of winter wonderland I can embrace.

Be safe, take care, and see you in 2007

~~~~~~

Slice And Dice

2006-12-13T19:34:00.000-08:00

Currently, I am struggling to grasp a certain concept and have decided I need the input of other powerhouse brains. Indulge me for a minute or two........

To explain my current state of question, I must first admit I did something quite out of the ordinary for me. First of all, I watched TV. Second, I watched bad Reality TV. Since I'm so out of the loop of mainstream television, I have no idea if this is an embarrassing admission or not, but here goes, I watched two rerun episodes of The Swan.

Thats right, I gave up two precious hours, sitting mouth agape, trying to understand the basic, 'what the f***" questions this program kick started in my mind. (For those who may possibly be as clueless as I was about this program, in a nosejob, it's women who sign up to be cosmetically enhanced, redesigned, spliced and diced, in the effort to win some pageant at the end of the series, *cough*, I mean, better their lives by surgical reproduction)

Heres what my mind can wrap around:
~ intake the 411
~ get jiggy with the possibilities.

No one is opposed to looking better in life.
Got it, I'll get in that line.
Everyone could use alittle refresher in both appearance and attitude sometimes.
I'm down with that.
I'm not even opposed to cosmetic surgery should one choose that route on something they don't exactly appreciate about themselves.
To each their own in my humble opinion.
I do believe dressing in nice clothing makes anyone walk alittle prouder.
It's hard to feel glorious in baggy sweatpants, no matter the occasion.
A simple or regular makeover would put a smile on anyone, I'd like to think.
The same person would still be smiling on this inside, just a bit brighter.

I know a person who takes care of themselves physically <simple walks, jaunts outside can perform miracles> it cleans and clears the mind.

Here's what my mind can't wrap around:
~Rejecting the implications
~Revolting the notions
~My personal naive moment?



       Here's what I saw, before the makeovers. Woman, who did nothing with their hair, no makeup, wearing the most unflattering outfits possible (intentional by the producers)? They were portrayed as dowdy, simple, and as unflattering as possible. Their personal
....." flaws " .......were pronounced as much as possible. For example, a nose that was in their opinion to large, or teeth that weren't white enough, or boobs that were tiny or sagged and on and on.........with the camera zooming in on them to really drive the point of their alleged imperfections.

        I listened to the stories of these various woman and one reoccurring theme was present in them all. They were teased as children, about their nose, or their lips, or their chests, or their pinkie finger.....take your pick. Evidently, because of these childhood scars, teasing, personal insecurities, etc., they have let their lives dive down a spiral of shame and embarrassments. The women were miserable. The women were convinced they were ugly etc...the woman were also convinced they had low lowww self esteem (I should state that I hate, dislike, and completely disagree with current mainstream views on the self esteem movement) ..... As I listened to one girl explain, that when she was little the kids would tease her about the nose she hated so, and that all she wanted was to feel good about herself again, I thought, well that makes sense. But.............

       But, here's my confusion. I do not understand why, oh why, do people allow things like old teasing, childhood remarks, or perceptions one believes others had/have of them to drain them out, depress them out, haunt them, dictate their choices and mental states of mind, beyond the age of 20 <?>

       Simply put, why in the world does anyone ever, give another person that much power within and over their thoughts and image?

       I was not immune to teasing, who was? I could list a quick 10 things that I endured growing up that fell into the horrendous zone. I remember crying about it. I remember the hurt from it. I'd love for anyone to state they escaped childhood without some sort of hurtful teasing. But there came a time, in my mind, my world, when I realized those people were full of shit, or if they were right, why should I care, I don't even remember their names. There came a time when I realized I gave far to much power to other peoples perspective, or opinion.

       I guess, I just sit here tonight and think, why would anyone want to wallow in the opinions 10 year olds dished out? Why would anyone look in a mirror and think, "Yep, that nose is still as large as Shithead chanted in my ear 15 years ago" and actually give it merit? Does not compute.

       Of the four woman I watched being sliced and diced, I can honestly say, they didn't need it, not physically, not in the way that show butchered them into unrecognizable plastic babes. To be brutal, I think a bottle of hairdye, an actual haircut, a touch of makeup, some Crest whitestrips, ditching the sweats and tennis shoes for jeans and black boots would have done a bang up job, on all of them, without the knife. But then, I guess if they couldn't see the natural beauty I saw in all of them before they got sliced and diced, I suppose..........it's a mute point. Beauty, is such an abstract preference......

       My main shock and awe, still comes back to why in the world does, would, anyone allow teasing from childhood, set a tone in concrete, set an image, that brings tears to their eye's 10,15,20 years after the fact? Why would anyone give that much negative staying power to a shadow of a 10 year old that doesn't even remember your name................

Psst. If your one of those people, who reads this journal, who still cringes over past comments someone made of you....I'm telling you right now, take a deep breath, take one final moment to see if you can even remember their name and say, "Fuck Off, I gave you far too much power for far too long" and then smile, take back all your power, and then tell me to fuck off for telling you what to do :o)

~Pardon Thy French~

Random Nudge

2006-12-12T12:48:00.000-08:00

Trees Up. Check
Lights shimmering. Check
Various presents purchased. Check
Measurements on current Christmas spirit. Lukewarm. Check enough.

Inspiration to write anything ~ critically low.
Forced, point blank writing *Nudge* ~ in progress.

Fa La La La La, La La La.
(choke, mumble, and dramatic jolly crumble)

I've decided that sometimes, writing in a public journal such as this, is a bit like taking a shower just behind a gigantic clear window display at a department store. I'm not sure if I should strategically cover certain attributes, close my eyes and pretend no one can see me, or put on a show that would merit water cooler chit chat.

Truth is ~ I sputter on the mechanics of this Internet world sometimes.

*Nudge*

.......silver white winters that melt into spring...... I simply remember my favorite things, then I don't feel so bad.....

I inhaled a breath this year and tumbled through spring in a swirl of cause and effect. I exhaled and summer became one jagged timeline pulled through the sand. I opened my eye's and watched the last of Falls leaves drift to the ground. I caught a light breeze and held on for months and months. There are places a person can go, where no one knows your story, and you can blend into the landscape without a care in the world.

Silver white winter has grabbed me by the heels and hauled my travels back to the solid ground. It's an evil twist of reality. However, I realize, one should not be privy to the extended freedoms I've experienced this year. It creates quite a painful disillusion to ones place in this world. I'm back in the jail cell I was once content with and now it looks eternal ordinary.

Biding time now, holding out for the invincible spring that thrives on a light breeze.

*Nudge*

.......and the greatest of teachers won't hesitate to leave you there, by yourself, chained to fate........

The writer of this song was indeed a poet of words. The teachers I've regarded in my life, the mentors, the inspirations, are those who left destination, choices, and fate completely mine to construct (or destroy). Individuality is a terrible thing to let another tinker with in my humble opinion. Even the worst of attitudes, of mentality, of accountability and responsibility has the opportunity to change, alone, and solitary. I find I smile when I hear someone say "I have changed this about myself" and frown when I hear someone state "I have changed this about another person." I suppose I find it arrogant to claim such power over another person. The power of suggestion holds enough ambition to teach. I believe.

*Nudge*

......yes, I would, if I could, I would, let it go.......surrender.....dislocate........

I've heard the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, yet expecting a different result each time.

Let me write that again.

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing, over and over, expecting a different result each time.

I think that sums it up.
Enough said.

*Nudge*

........Do you hear what I hear? A song, a song high above the trees ....With a voice as big as the the sea..............

Happy Holly Days
and all that jazz

Oh Shite

2006-12-07T10:39:00.000-08:00

I noticed this morning that it was December 7th, 2006. Time has flown by since I last posted here. I've been AOL journal MIA~~

Quick calculations enlightened me that I have precisely 19 days, including today, since I may be able to squeak something productive out yet, until Christmas morning arrives in my little homestead.

       This may have no wow factor to the majority of the population that already have their Santa hats on, but to me it means oh shite, time to muster up some festive spirit and get a flying reindeer move on things.

       Now, I haven't been oblivious to the impending holiday. I've witnessed the all out spectacle the neighbors achieve with their glorious lightshows in my neighborhood. My home currently looks like a big black hole in the middle of the Las Vegas casino strip. Any day now I could receive a community vote of no confidence and the little neighborhood elves will run power cords from their own homes to lights they have secretly strung around my yard. Trust me, I know these people, it could happen.

       I've even attempted a couple of out of home, out of body adventures in Christmas shopping. Ho Hum, even shopping couldn't kick start my festive mood. I paused in one store, closed my eye's and tried to allow the Mannheim Steamroll some music spirit into my bloodstream. Nope, nadda, I checked my pulse and everything was still flowing in the same manner as two months ago.

       I'm starting to think old Scrooge and Mr. Grinch were simply misunderstood souls. I'm not really muttering Bah humbug under my breath, I don't denounce the holiday really, but for me, over the years that Christmas 'spirit' changed within me and I'm having a difficult time recapturing the magical part of it.

       What's magical about giving one of your daughters a new IPOD just because it's the only thing she can think of? The 'spirit' factor got misplaced somewhere along the lines of time in me. I certainly don't blame my daughters for their requests. Ask a child what they would really really like, you'll get an honest answer. Nothing wrong with that. I know my daughters well enough that they never ask or expect anything in the way of material items. Christmas is just the bonus exception to the family motto.

       The fact I've designed a non-religious family creed makes this holiday a bit tricky. If you don't work in the religious capacity for "the reason for the season," you're left with, I love you, I want to give you something to show it. Well, the entire "I love you, I want to show it by giving you something" does not even come close to the way I've raised my daughters and how I function. Back to square one.

       I know how the magic of this season can seep into my spirit. I've felt it in Christmas pasts...... Some of the best Christmas moments of my past are when I had no money whatsoever. The focus of the season wasn't on what I could buy for others, but what I could do, even in the smallest gesture, to let others know I loved them. My Christmas past shows me laying on a couch, with my head resting in the special shoulder nook of the man I loved, watching Christmas lights, was far more important that what he gave me. I wish I could have bottled up those emotions and stashed them with the Christmas decorations in the attic. Each year simply taking a whiff of those old feelings would do the trick.

       Maybe thats why the mistletoe hasn't smacked me on the lips of festive moods. I've segregated myself from so much this year, people, family, friends, real life and assumed the role of hermit/troll crouched in a solitary stance, that to really enjoy this season, one must be surrounded by others. Christmas isn't tailored for the solitary confinement souls. My current non-excitement in Christmas, isn't due to stress, nor worry, nor obligations, it's the undefinable indifference thats getting me~~

       I think today I give myself a goal, a boost, a reindeer hoof kick to the arse. I will force myself to purchase a nice smelly pine tree today. I will brave the cold attic and drag boxes of decorations down to festivize my homestead. I will crank some Little Drummer boy music on and dance around the home in a Santa hat. Fake it till ya feel it right?

       I've noticed if I ask 10 people what Christmas means to them, I'll receive 10 different reasons for the season that all encompass the basics. Perhaps, as I've gotten older, those reasons continue to change for me and this year, I'm struggling to embrace mypersonal definitions. But damned if the quiet truth doesn't continue to chant in my thoughts, it's all about love towards others.......isn't it?

Sentimental Picture

2006-11-20T13:26:00.000-08:00

The leaves are falling heavily this week around my world. Everything has lost it's color, turning a dull dead memory of the coloring contest I consider fall. I've been a bit mesmerized watching these leaves drift to the ground. Perhaps I have too much time on my hands, but my computer looks out a large window and they are hard to ignore.

| View Show | Create Your Own

I think I've wrote down about 20 metaphors for falling leaves. The one that is floating through my thoughts today, is in the way photographs are like the leaves on a persons tree of life. My tree is fat full of photographs to illustrate where I've come from, what I've done, and in a real way, mirrors what I am all about..............

The way I see it, there are four ways to capture history, past, memories and a persons life in a way others can also examine it. The first and foremost is through writing. I got that one down pat. The second way is through video, and I'm a complete failure in that department, I have a video camera and rarely, if ever, use it. Third is through telling stories, campfire story, in person, to people who will actually listen and remember......... And Lastly, through ... photographs.

Photography compliments my nostalgic characteristics.

       I'm a sentimental fool. There is no use in denying that. So for a sentimental heart such as mine, writing and photography makes my world go round and round, in a good way. I also love to view other peoples photo's, invite me over to your house and you'll likely have to pull out a photobook for me to examine. It's my thang. I love the visual poetry aspect to memories............

       I discovered this little RockYou website via pilfering the link off someone's journal. Damned if I can remember who's journal it was either.......sorry :o) It was interesting going through my files and files of photographs compiling some of my favorites. When I watched the finished product I was happy with the history I've captured. I believe in the notion that a snapshot really can be worth a thousand words. I like to think my snapshots tell a story of someone who spends an enormous amount of time outside and surrounded by children.

       If you have a vault of digital photo's saved on your computer I would love to see other people's photo history. A bit like me coming over for a visit, parking my butt on your sofa and requesting a photo album to stroll through. If you do the RockYou thang, please let me know and leave me a link to your journal so I can come watch a piece of your history~~~

Landing (Thankfully)

2006-11-17T08:11:00.000-08:00

       On my way home from California this week I had a nice little jostle to the mind. Now, traveling by airplane requires the extremely careful practices I've established via thousands of air miles.

       First and foremost, I must sit on the right side of the airplane, against the window. Careful positioning is my only chance at being able to scribble, write and entertain myself. If I sit on the right side of the plane I can shield my writing from whoever sits shoulder to shoulder with me. If I sit on the left side, whomever sits on my right <which always happens> can sneak glances and peaks at my work. I don't appreciate that natural human tendency, peeking.

       Second, the minute I sit down I extract an arsenal of hints to display to anyone who sits next to me. The Ipod comes out and although I can't turn it on, I put the headphones in, a book on my lap, and a journal in my hands. I would like to think this screams, "I'm all set to fly for 2 hours, I have my entertainment and therefore no idle chit chat is required." I'm not sure if it makes me a flying snob, but I really don't want to engage in conversation on airplanes. Some people do not grasp my hints. The thing is, I'm far to hyper to be trapped in such tiny confinements for such torturous time frames. If I don't entertain myself via writing, music and window gazing, I'll go a bit nutso. Conversation, especially bad conversation, just drags the seconds out longer and longer.

       Now, typically I enjoy a bit of turbulence. It tickles my amusement ride mentality. It doesn't bother me in the least. I consider it a bonus usually, which either makes me twisted in the head or just proves how bored I am flying. This last trip home gave me loads of turbulence for my flying amusements. However, at one point it got worse then the normal bumps and jumps I'm accustomed too. I was attempting to write at the time and once I could no longer maintain a straight sentence I wrote (looking in my handwritten journal) "ok the airplane turbulence is getting a bit irritating here, Bye Bye Birdie" and closed up shop.

       But then.....as the bumps and jumps became all out jars and shimmies, I opened my journal up again. Visions of the plane going down by the head into a nice Mountainside flashed across the mind, I couldn't let my last sentence in life be "ok the airplane turbulence is getting a bit irritating here, Bye Bye Birdie"

       So I started to scribble again and my next sentence was "On the other hand, I should keep paper and notebook close in case we go down and I have 10 seconds of terrifying moments to leave remarkable last thoughts......."

       Last thoughts. Double Gulp. It was within that sentence I thought, holy shit, I have a lot of unresolved things. Coupled with another nasty hard bump by the plane I slightly panicked. The truth is my panic wasn't about dying, I've never, ever, been afraid of that. I've always pictured I would face death with a defiant bring it on attitude. My panic was about other people. Friends, family, the people I love. In hindsight I find it comforting to know that once I let myself think it was a possible in the moment, death, my entire thoughts were consumed with the love I felt towards others.

       I don't talk a lot about l.o.v.e. I think thats because although I embrace it, always have, to it's fullest, I haven't honored it the way love deserves. Hence my unresolved issues. That doesn't sit well with me. When I strip down all the nonsense in my life, I know the majority of my thoughts, my actions, my turmoil's, my choices, resolve directly around the great expanse of love. In my world, love trumps everything else. No matter how I role the dice, the love side always lands right side up. What is more real then love?

       If love really is a person last thoughts before taking their last breath in life then what could be more important? Today, I can't really think of anything.


I suppose I'm just thinking out loud today..........it does a mind good to be jostled around a bit.

       The last words in my journal ended up being,
"Landing (thankfully) no dire writing required"

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner then recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall be unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky

e.e. Cummings

Because I Can

2006-11-08T12:38:00.000-08:00

       So I'm here again, a real banner week in the quantity count of entries. I realized my desire to escape here is in direct proportion to the amount of other writing I've been up too. Ya know, the writing that has the desire to be published prior to death if I'm lucky. The more I write over there in Microsoft word, the more I find minuscule excuses to defect from it.

       This is a real contradiction of priorities I face every day. All I want to do is write, which I do <journals, handwritten snail mail, handwritten journals, notebooks, book> , yet in the same stroke of the keyboard, I'm looking for every excuse I can find to avoid the writing that I should be doing. Now, I've gone and read the 'advice on writing' books several well known authors have graced us wannabe's with. Because what's better then actual writing? Reading how to do it <insert implied sarcasm please>

       What snakes around my neck like a noose is the schedules these people claim to maintain. So I wonder, does it just look good on paper to say they wake up each and every morning at 5:00 a.m., write for 2 hours, take Fido for a mind cleansing walk for 7 miles (each way), then return, eat breakfast, review notes, do a strict 30 minutes of business correspondence, then write until 3:00 p.m. Is anyone really that damn disciplined? I really need to find an author who comes clean, coughs up and writes something along the lines of -this is my life as a writer called The Real <really> Deal. -

       In it I would expect to discover a parallel universe, soul searing kinship of the writing sister/brotherhood. I can't be the only person born with a serious addiction of writing who exhibit's one or more of the following routine downfalls:

1) If I can ekk out one single extra spare second in the morning worth of sleep I will do so gratefully and gracefully <hiding under the covers, hitting snooze 4, 5, 10 times in a row> 5:00 a.m. is a time I've heard of, I understand the dials on the clock spin past it's terrifying implications, but I have no desire to find out what 5:00 a.m. writing feels like.

2) After performing an exhausting relay race with the snooze button on the alarm clock, it takesatleast 2 full cups of pure caffeine jolt to pry my wicked heavy eyes open. Until the full impact of caffeine has seeped into each capillary of my body, no plausible thought, speech, or coherent writing can be experienced. Intense wall gazing can be observed at this time.

3) Push power button on laptop

4) More wall gazing while casually sipping 3rd cup of liquid inspiration. Turn on Bose stereo system with various artists singing for my current mood.

5) Open Microsoft Word. Reread prior days writing, fidget aimlessly, attempt to ignore the welcoming beacon of AOL icon distraction.......fail, click on AOL icon

6) Journal surf, favorite web site surf, waiting for a wave of conscious to wash me off my surf board straight back to Microsoft Word........whooosssssshhhhhhhhh back to work.

7) Write, write, write. Review, delete, correct, rewrite, reread. Progress made, one paragraph. It's all good in the alternate universe. Drink Diet Coke for extra caffeine boost.

8) Time goes VERY slowly in the alternate universe. It drags like a snail crossing a highway. Just once, I would love a day were I've written and written and oppss, discover 4 hours has passed. forrrggetttabbouuutttiiitttttttt...............

9) Go outside, throw ball for dogs, promise them a 1 mile <round trip> walk later on when all hope of words has fallen under a ton of mind bricks.

10) Return to computer, write some more on said book, become overcome with the need to defect again, go write entry in journal about absolutely nothing of importance.

Feel Better, go back to the jail of possibilities.
Bye.

Forward Thinking

2006-11-06T11:22:00.000-08:00

""I had this thought the other day- Ignorance could have been bliss....or an empty excuse for a conscious..........

I thought this would be interesting to write about..the dynamics of not knowing and how easy it is to miss what is ugly...and yet...searching inward creates other problems..sight...has to have compassion...otherwise...the heart evolves with surprises.........What do you think?......""

Asked and inspired By Raven of RebukeTheWorld

Raven, you do know how to get the wheels turning in my mind. I've chewed this around, thought on it, pounded it with my jackhammer brain and I'm not sure if I surfaced a bit wiser or a bit mystified.

Although connected, your questions and thoughts have several different aspects that can leave a thinker like myself repeatedly pounding my head against a wall. Toss the same question at 5 different people and you'll get 5 different ideas, so my opinion is the result of one possibility, one notion, one perspective and I'll have to assume you were looking for my specific ideas on your thoughts.

The breakdown: "Ignorance could have been bliss....or an empty excuse for a conscious.........."

I have a really hard time with ignorance as bliss or an excuse for anything. I have to believe on some level that if something is effecting a person, to some degree they feel it, perceive it, deny it, acknowledge it, ignore it, pick your poison, but they know it.....Pick an experience, any experience and with some poking and prodding we humans can retrace the files in our mind and find plenty of times, moments, where we either choose to ignore an issue, deny it's appearance or existence, and move along like nothing was there worth stopping for.

A conscious overshadows any form of ignorance. A conscious is a basic human trait not a single one of us can escape it's persistent voice. Ignore, yes, deny, yes, pretend all is well in fantasy land yes, but deep down or on the surface, we cannot escape our conscious mind.

Which brings me to: "the dynamics of not knowing and how easy it is to miss what is ugly.."

Just as I find beauty in almost everything, there needs to be ugly to define that beauty. Without the contrast, a person can feel like a compass with no direction. There is no value on something unrecognized. I believe everyone has a level to which they reflect on things in life. From simple observation to deep exploration of a solitary or collective feeling, emotion or experience.

If a person doesn't care, or isn't interested enough to seek out beauty not defined by conventional definition, they probably wouldn't notice ugly parading down the street. Thats personal and thats all right, it's a choice, or a desire exhibited by every individual. If I had a wish for humanity it would be that all people continue to reach for new levels of conscious, for within exploration comes discovery, more beauty, more ugly and more reaching.............

Which brings me to: "and yet...searching inward creates other problems..sight...has to have compassion..."

In my humble opinion, searching inward is the only path to breaking free of the mediocrity of what is expected. Does it create problems? Yes, because we are all born with a box of expectations in life. When, if you do good, you will be rewarded, do bad and you will be punished is the driving force behind living. And protect our own and compliment others, works 80% of the time, why not? Which by the way, I believe is a superficial way to live life. A person can become disoriented and confused by seeking answers not found in conventional thinking.

We all have our own innate sensory balance to life, influenced by every single stimuli we've come in contact with. How can we expect to provide true compassion to others if we don't even understand the power of our own inner mentality? The illusions of normalcy plagued my mind for many years, still does, and the inherent longing within me will continue to fight the confines of conventional. Responsibility to the world around us, within us, through us and between us, is a beautiful way to fuel compassion.

"otherwise...the heart evolves with surprises........"

Ah, the heart, the driving emotional fuel for which we all can measure our influence in life. As long as our hearts beat, we can love, as long as we can love, we will connect, as long as we connect, we can find meaning to everything. Heart/Love is capable of such extraordinary things. I could write for an entire day about what love means to me, but when it comes down to it, yes, love, the heart, takes my breath away with surprise. If there is one common thread to be coveted by humanity, it's our ability to need and provide love. Love is beauty and ugly and hope and desire and turmoil and connection and perfection all bound up, full of possibilities I cannot define. Love is the evolution of our very conscious nature and needs.

You know, I'm just a thought, a notion and words behind an idea. I think what I think, and challenge everything I conclude. I have more questions then answers, I have answers without solution and I have solutions without conclusion. I could be right, I could be wrong, I could be close, and who's to say. My notions are no more important then the people I will touch shoulders with today..... I think peoples thoughts and idea's hold more power then I, or anyone else can comprehend. Evolution of thought process is something I find remarkable and frustrating. But I know this, all thoughts effect my life and the closer I move to the surface, the more I discover the contrast in this world.

Forward movement I will always seek..................is there anything else you would like to ask of my thoughts?

The Holy Motherload

2006-11-05T09:42:00.000-08:00

Why couldn't I have been in Atlantic City, strolling along the ocean side, taking a break from sinful driven casino fun and have spotted the holy Mother load of messages in a plastic sack??? Good Gawd, some people have all the luck.

Article found here:Letters to God Found Dumped in Water - AOL News

Someday......someday I will find a message in a bottle, a scrap piece of paper, a note written on a napkin stuck in a Coke Bottle, it's a mathematical destiny. I spend an enormous amount of time on waterways. Then again, I probably stand an equal chance of finding a dead body during my flyfishing escapades too. It's occurred to me, that it's always a fisherman in the news who finds the corpses in the water. Personally, I'm holding out for the message in a bottle, I could do without the frightening death discovery.

I read the article with deep interest of course. Then I made the investigation move of clicking the message board to see what people had to say about these letters to God, Alter, and the Pastor they were addressed to. What surprised me the most was the horrible words about the man who found the letters, and placed them for sell on Ebay, which he later retracted. Here are some examples of what I found.

"The people who wrote those letters wrote their private thoughts TO THEIR PRIVATE GOD - NOT to the pastor, NOT to AOL, and NOT FOR US TO READ. Publishing this story is akin to raping their privacy in my opinion."

"He NEVER even opened his mail! He must have been one sorry excuse for a Pastor."

"Those letters were "prayers." They were heard the moment they were poured from the heart; if they were sincere prayers they were heard. Nothing can separate us from the love of God....It may even be part of His plan to bring them forth." ( I really liked this person thought process)

"This guy must really be a peice of crap. Selling someones hopes and dreams on ebay. I"ve heard it all now "

"The moral thing to do with these letters is have aceremony of prayer for the individuals who sought God in this manner. It sounds alot like a type of confession between these individuals and God which should remain sacred. After the prayer service these letters should be burned as an offering to God for these writers. Despite anyone's faith these letters are like a personal diary and some bear the inner pains of humanity. I pray for these authors and their intentions."

"I think God should get a good attorney and sue the bad bad person who did this. I bet God can afford good attorneys."

There's over 1400 posts in regard to this discovery and the destiny of the letters. The thing is, I don't see that it was an atrocious example of a Pastor to not read those letters. I certainly don't think anyone should hunt down the writers and return the letters and I honestly don't think any harm will come by finding the letters.

These letters are the personal prayers, dreams, desires, and hopes of humans abound. Do I think they should be published for our rubber neck curiosity, not really. But I don't think the prayers of these people, their words and desires, have been diminished by the discovery of their letters.

Isn't a prayer but the affirmation of a persons needs? Whether it's said kneeling before your bed, at an alter, in church, on a letter, in our minds, or said out loud. In my humble opinion, a prayer is but influencing the mind to focus in a certain direction.

Whether it is sending a positive influence to someone in need, or focusing my attention on things that need changed in my life. I believe there is immense power in prayer, but do not rely or place credit of change to another (pick your avatar) , I give the power of affirmation <prayer> to myself.

Prayer is a forward motion. Placing our desires in writing is a concrete form of forward motion. The writers of those letters were able to assert their desires and send them away to someone they trusted.

This isn't a bad thing. Does it matter if he read them? I suppose it depends on the individual. If a person believes their desires, hopes, needs rest in the hands of another person, then I imagine they feel neglected. Ifthe person felt better, more focused and empowered by their own forward motion, then I wager they will not be let down to discover their letter may not have been read.

Of course, one of the main furors over the found letters is privacy. Since I hold my privacy on a priceless level, I can understand the sentiment. However, one cannot assume anything written in solid form will remain private, ever. I'm of the opinion that if you don't want anyone in the world to know about something, for godsakes don't write it down.

Basic writing 101, Lesson #1, if you write it, it will be read, and you cannot control who will possibly read it. If I died today, who knows, my writing could end up on Ebay, I would hope it wouldn't.........but it could happen and if that possibility didn't settle well with me, then I would need to burn it all, bonfire style.

Speaking of Ebay. After reading the article I did a quick search and to my personal delights I found letters for sale, old diary's, and other pieces of history, thoughts, peoples handwritten words for sale there! I am a voyeur of humanity and for me this was a fantastic discovery. Just yesterday I commented to Kate over at An Analysis of Life that I have desperately searched for books in diary form. My new discovery has lead me straight to the real deal. I'm hooked already, I created an Ebay account, and have every intention of spending loads of money on my new collection of old handwritten letters and journals.

So I thought about it, would I have been a person who would have bid on the letters that man found? I'll bite my lower lip and answer honestly, the answer is absolutely. Obviously the man doesn't hold his discovery as the treasure it really is and is willing to let the letters go. He chose at first to sell them, and honestly, that was his choice to make. I would have been a buyer, because I would be somone who would honor and cherish such a treasure. According to the majority of the message board posters that would make me monster.

In my eye's, it is a collection of humanity in a rare and beautiful raw form. An example of life and the power of thought that should be cherished. Would I have said a prayer for each of the people, yes. Would it honor their wishes and desires? I suppose thats a matter of opinion. It does appear the right thing will indeed happen. The man has decided to donate the letters to a church. Good for him, and the letters. Everything always has a way of turning out beautiful..........

RandomNothingNessOfTheIrrelevantKind

2006-11-04T08:54:00.000-08:00

I have nothing but everything to write. No direction, no inspiration, nadda, zilch, blank. So, in spite of that, I will type until something breaks through the red tape of my mental blockage. Sometimes that mentality works, other times it's just an example of pure crap. (Kinda like what I've just written) Does anyone else wander around with a million thoughts, ideas, stories, yet are unable to form a simple sentence to wrap everything into one destination? Yes? No? Freaky? Oh help me, I'm in a mood........
~~
So I've seen various mentions for the VIVI awards. I read hints and such about controversy, but haven't read anything with specifics. Which is fine, I've never mingled in the political agenda that is sometimes found within this community. So this morning I thought I would visit nominated journals and exercise my journalgivenrightsofvoting. I suppose the issue I'm having would be like going to the voting booths on the 7th and blindly punching chads without knowing what any of the politicians stood for. For the most part I know nadda, zilch, a tiny example of those journal writers. Ok, fine, I got time and some writer blockage, I'll visit, gather some inspiration, bask in the writing of others and gleefully go vote for my newfound favorite journals. Starting with what would be my natural favorite categories. Yes, well, allrighty then....aren't personal tastes a bitch sometimes. Moving on. (ok, I just don't get it on some certain things, just does not compute, ekk this does not sound good)

Last year I knew the majority of the journals. Does that mean back then I was in the 'group' and this year I am a nobody, a social outcast, who's completely outta the loop? Did an entire population of new writers come along, start a new school and I've been left back in grade school, clueless like? I think I really need to get up to speed. I just need to find a few extra hours in the day to investigate the new school.

I was happy to see a few journals I know in a few of the catagories, journals that are really good ones at that.....yessss...I get to vote. And what's the deal with private journals in this mix? Isn't the point of private being the definition of no access unless invited? Doesn't that kinda exclude alotta peeps, like me? Are we supposed to askfor invites? Hell, if thats the case, I would like an invitation to each and every private journal out there. Yep, that would be very cool............in the name of investigation of course.

If your here, reading my words, and you've been nominated for somethin' let me know k, leave a brochure on my doorstep, list your qualifications, party affiliations and your promises I'll expect to see while you hold office. Alittle bribery always helps, so I've heard. I like paper, pens, stamps, books, and slush money always works, non-sequential order please.

~~

      If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Or more importantly, if someone remains silent and doesn't choke out their truths, are they lying to those who ask to hear the truth? Guilt by silent omission style?

~~

       Jehovah's Witness peeps came to my home yesterday to explain the phenomenon of 'false religion' to me. I was bored, needed distraction and let them come in, a pop quiz style of debate (is how I looked at it) I'm not sure if their God was keeping score, but I believe I held my own. I've been in a bit of a confrontational mood this week, God shoulda warned em.' 45 minutes later it was deemed I was a hopeless heathen and I deemed them courageous messengers. It was jolly good fun.

~~

       The squirrels in my backyard are winning the war on my outdoor furniture. So far, they've ripped open 2 more cushions and padded up their winter nests like cozy cotton mansions. I'm not amused. Retaliation: I will withhold their nut smorgasbord for exactly one week. The neighbor will have to make up for my depravation tactics. I left my Jehovah's' Witness pamphlets in their food box, they can pad their nests with 'true religion.'

~~

       My Mother always said, "If your (you're) in a bad mood, don't take it out on everyone else" I'm certain she meant voice.....she never mentioned writing.................

~~

       I'm thoroughly irritated with the book choices I've chosen lately. I need heart. I need connection. I need writing that delights my reading senses instead of creating a yawn of frustration. I need something that makes me laugh out loud and cry in all the right places. I need something..........anything.........that makes me stay up until 3:00 a.m. because I simply cannot stand the thought of putting it down for the evening. Is there NO book out there that can do this for me???????? Anyone? Suggestions? Reviews? Hell, I'll take a bodice ripping, Fabio influenced, pulsating crush of words if it has the ability to entertain me at this point in time. Yes, I'm that desperate for decent literature. If anyone suggests the Bible I may toss you on the food box with the pamphlets and rats with fluffy fur coats.

~~
       LordyLordy, I'mInAMoodyMoody

~~

       I was trying to solve the meaning of life the other day. I'll have to get back to you on that one.

~~

       I'm ready for that slush money now. Unmarked of course.

(P.S. Congrats to Dan, Raven, Kate, Gerry, Fred for your nominations!!!! A twenty will do, or a stamp or two) There is no doubt I believe you deserve the awards~~ If I missed any of my other friends who have been nominated let me know!)

~~

l(a

le
af
fa

ll

s)
one
l

iness

e.e. Cummings

Message Gone Skyward

2006-10-25T13:31:00.000-07:00

       I have a debatable self prescribed condition I have labeled as my own form of compulsive addictive personality. I find few things I am passionate about and that is where my focus remains fixated. I wish I could persuade this personality trait of mine to be passionate about house cleaning chores, but try as I have to convince my mind that would be a good thing, it's never gonna happen.

        Some of my compulsive addictions pass away with time, things like eating only cold cereal for 2 months straight or painting for days on end. But some of my addictions have grown deep roots, one being why I am here. Writing.

       So if your someone like me, you write when you wake up. You write all day long. You wake up at 3:00 a.m. and reach for the emergency notebook on the nightstand. When your not writing, you're thinking about what you will write when you get a chance. You drive with pad of paper next to you and learn to write without taking your eye's off the road. (Unless you live in Idaho, don't worry your safe) An addict like moi never, ever leaves the home without her writing survival kit....pen...paper. Ever.

        So one of the things I've had to figure out with my compulsive writing, is where's a good place to bury it all. Sometimes throwing finished notebooks and journals up in the attic is adequate. When I die off, someone will discover enough random writing to keep them reading for months. But sometimes just letting my words sit in a musty attic is not enough.

       I am extremely lucky and have pen pals <although I'm still searching for a more meaningful label then pen pal> which welcome my snail mail words in great numbers. Frankly, I buy a lot of stamps and stationary. Truthfully, my handwritten mail is an addiction all on it's own, but I consider it a good one. I adore the fine art of writing a letter on wonderful stationary, slapping a decent stamp on it and sending my words off to be safely held elsewhere. But to explain the importance of this to me, would require an entry all on it's own.

       Next, I have this forum to catch random writing that doesn't want to be handwritten. I've been leaning on this arena for almost 2 years now and although I'm not entirely addicted <notice the lack of entries this year> I still find it's walls and community comforting and extremely interesting.

       Some things I write, I burn up. A ritual I personally adore, but it could constitute me as a crazy pyro, so forget I mentioned it. Some things I write, I place in an envelope and address it to one of my daughters who will hopefully read and understand them someday. I've written letters to my daughters since they were tiny little things. There's hundreds and hundreds of letters just waiting in trunks I call the memory keepers. The notion that someday I will gift them with hundreds of memories we had all forgotten about, advice I want to give, insight into who I am and what I am about etc...... Details do tend to smear with time..............

       Which finally brings me to the last thing I choose to do with my words. It's a bit quirky, even a teensy bit cliche, but until today I had always enjoyed the ritual of it. The whole 'message in a bottle' concept. Because I was born with the pen and paper affliction I have always searched words out. As a little girl I would comb beaches, river banks, any body of water that might possess the elusive message in a bottle I had heard about. Much to my dismay, I have never found one.

       Being the optimist in every situation, I decided since I couldn't find one, I would start sending them out. Which I have done, a lot of them. Nameless, faceless messages I send merrily down any body of water I happen to be near. There's some lessons to be learned when attempting this type of activity. One, being that wine bottles, although pretty, are not the best vessel. Being a recreational water person, I know tossing anything glass into water is not smart. So, a while ago I found cheap plastic wine bottle impersonators to substitute as my bottle. I can seal them up with wax and feel confident they won't sink like the Titanic on their journey.

       This morning I had my fake bottle, sealed up, full of random writings I was willing to part with and took it to the river. I took the familiar steps down the riverbank. I sat by the water watching for a while as I always do, did some more writing. Finally ready, I heaved it out into the middle of water to watch it's disappearance around the bend. All good right? Wrong.

       My message in a bottle was pirated. An unprovoked attack of the bird nature. My smile dissipated as a large seagull came swooping out of the sky, dived down on my innocent bottle, plucked it out of the water and flew away with it. Robbed. Stripped of my ritual by the claws of a scavenger.

       I couldn't believe my own eye's. Can a person not even do a simple thing like littering the river with my idealist notions anymore? I felt completely and totally robbed. Visions of that bird taking my words into the sky wasn't my idea of a meaningful morning. Doesn't that pirate know how long it takes to successfully wax up an opening let alone write a few pages of handwritten word?

       Then my mind began to wander, has all my bottles been plucked out of the sweet cradle of water by scavengers? Has any bottle even made it a mile down the river in the past? I'm afraid witnessing this crime has tarnished my message in a bottle visions. Then again, this may explain why I have never found one~~

Beautiful Things

2006-10-19T15:01:00.000-07:00

"Mom!" she shouted, "Come look at your table!"
Table didn't seem to fit the alarm in her voice, but I sped up my walk to observe what she was looking at. Indeed, the umbrella on my large patio table had been pushed over by the wind, resulting in a million tiny pieces of broken glass top.
I think she was waiting for my rant. Or even a bit of the same alarm she had used, but I was transfixed by the sun shining across the tiny little pieces. I was mesmerized by the patterns it had created. And what I said to my daughter was,
"Isn't that beautiful?"
She gave me one of those looks, the ones I've established that someday she will remove my words from her neat little mind file and present them as evidence gifts to her shrink, and said, "Mom, you think everything is beautiful."

She's right, I do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

       If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then all anyone need do, is open their eyes wide. It's easy to find beauty in general, the sunrise and sunset, the appealing allure of a beautiful woman, a flower, a popular piece of art, our children's smiles, a river placed against natures backdrop.......all things I can count on, there's comfort in the dependency of the ordinary.

       There are so many things I see beauty in. A fires flames, falls graceful outdoor coloring contest, the disorderly mess in one of my daughters room and the organized tidiness of the other. The artwork on my walls and the thousands of leaves now gracing my yard. The beauty of a black and white photo and a single written sentence of another persons words. Beauty is around me and in me, on my walls and in broken tables. I only need glance 5 feet in front of me to discover something that satisfies my mind and eyes.

       While I marvel at the things I can see within my vision that are beautiful, it is the things I cannot touch, nor hold, or explain, that delight me the most. I cannot see an idea, yet I find it full of extraordinary beauty. I cannot touch it, nor hold it or place it in a box or hang it on my wall, but I find the very notion of idea's glorious. I imagine my idea ofbeauty is wholly defined by my own motivations and experience. My individual idea's that are sculpted by what has inspired me are mine and mine alone. I see beauty in those possibilities.

       Feelings can be beautiful. A man holding my hand while we walk down the street is something I've come to love and regard as the beauty of connection. Having a man gather me up in their arms when we are falling asleep is one of the most beautiful feelings in the world, to me. A feeling of both comfort and love combined is more beautiful then any painting I could own.

       The beauty in people astounds me above all other things. When I read of a tragedy or witness bad things happen to those I know, I bite my lower lip and wait. For in negativeness, and ugliness, beauty has a way of revealing itself. People come together and show the beauty of compassion. People band together and show how generosity can transform need into beautiful. Beauty always trumps ugly. Beauty tempers chaos. The way I see it, people find the way to beauty in all things, whether they realize it or not. You only need to look at any ugly in this world to see people come together at their best. This trait in humanity is divine beauty.

       I wish for myself, that a time will never come that I take for granted the beauty in all things. My grandmothers voice, my daughters everything, a handwritten letter, the feeling of rain on my face or a tear down my cheek. The glorious beauty in a smile or asking the questions filled with 'why.'

       For I believe in each moment, in every day, I only have to observe, to notice the beautiful in everything. On the days when I have let ugly erode my thoughts, I take comfort that beauty will reveal itself once again. Beauty is but a word, a starting point of a definition I can design on my own. I like that about beauty, it's subjectiveness.

       Beautiful means much more to me then what just satisfies the eye. In my opinion, that is a beautiful thing all on it's own. So yes Shelby, I do find everything beautiful and I hope with time, you will understand what I mean..............

Does Not Accept

2006-10-15T09:36:00.000-07:00

This is a banner week. I've been home for 5 days and this will be a 3rd entry in one month. I'm rolling the dice of normalcy. I've puttered around my home, attempted normal behavior for a woman my age, and even went to work. I'm sure once I fall back into the rhythm of routine I won't feel so out of place, but for now I'm a fidgeting soul.

       If I place tiny words to the feelings I have, I come up with one notion. I feel like I've been on an amusement ride for 8 months and it's just pulled up to a yanking stop. The toothless carnival men are shoving me down the steps and I'm still glancing longingly at my old seat. I'd like to purchase another ticket, but know I need to wait awhile before I embark on my next ride. As always, I just need my beautiful watchtowers of time to align once again with my desired destinations.

       I loved my travels and believe I've given my daughters many unforgettable memories. I took trips both alone and surrounded with others. It was the final 12 days that I spent the majority of my time in solitude. Although surrounded in the evening by a mob of male hunting buddies, I spent my entire days wandering through the Frank Church Wilderness, alone, testing both my mind and body.

       Putting yourself in such an environment is a bit of a catch-22. A person can deeply appreciate the beauty of ones surroundings and be wholeheartedly fearful the next moment. The area I traversed is so dense I could never see 40 yards behind or beyond the canvas of trees. A little matter of wolves making their presence known at all times added to an already eerie feeling. Wolves are loud, singers of impending kills and final dinner bells. Daily they splinter off from their main packs and communicate by howling in the winds. For a single person like me creeping through the Forrest, the symphony would grind on each and every nerve I possessed.

       By the time I would arrive soaked from the rain, snow, sleet and bankrupt of all nerves back at camp, I was ready to claim human inability to walk and sleep in the next day. Every night my resolve to go on another day would be depleted. Thoughts of giving up, idea's of feigning sick would march across my mind. Yet, eachmorning I would get up, stand beside the Wilderness posting sign, and dive off to the bottom all over again. I pushed myself and it felt good. I convinced myself I could continue and I did.

       I can't count the amount of times every part of my body would shut down, quit, and pretend dead halfway up a Mountain. Every part but one, my mind. I realized that no matter what the situation, our divine minds will do what it takes to get us past the things we think we cannot do.

       I suppose my mind had an easy time convincing my muscles that it's either make it to camp, or be wolf kibbles. But the sentiment is the same. It's comforting to know this powerful source of inspiration I carry around. I know in the future, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a year, maybe many years from now, I will be faced with things that will kindle idea's of giving up. I know if all things about me shut down, lose hope, there is one part of me that will never throw in the white towel. A piece of me that does not accept exhaustion, or play parlor games with defeat. There's comfort in that knowledge.

I just need to remember..... always trust in it~~~

Note: That picture is the actual jumping off point for me. Wilderness, for those in more civilized area's, means- no roads for hundreds of miles-no motorized vehicles, EVER <unless you want a huge federal fine> only accessed by foot or horse. I hiked to the third ridge back and covered the majority of the country in that picture. A beautiful place for a creative mind like mine. I gave all the ridges and Mountains pet names. Designations like Purgatory Lane, Dante's Peak, Hell, The Abyss, Mother F### Butte, Wolf Kitchen, and so on........

Each Our Own

2006-10-12T12:47:00.000-07:00

"It is those negatives that always stand out. Always. Why?
Many reasons, for each are our own."
Jodi~~Looking Beyond the Cracked Window(deux)

True to my personal nature, my previous entry has been another burr in my brain since I posted it. Since then, I've been demanding my thoughts to come up with something, anything that I could segway to and push it down from the front and center position on my journal. Jodi provided just the ticket for me, thank you girl!

It's the inner critic in me thats an uncontrollable beast I've yet to learn to shove into a closet and lock the door. In me, it seems to be the loudest, most obnoxious aspect to my inner workings. It morphs into all forms ugly, it materializes at the most inconvenient times and typically manages to bully all good thoughts into the corner to hide.

For Example: This last 12 days in the Wilderness- Internal Daily Rebecca Dialogue

Your going to have a heart attack and die walking up this cliff of a mountain
Yes, well, your sentences are too long and confuse people
Oh shut up, I have more important things to conquer right now
Your grammar sucks and you'll probably trip on a few extra adjectives going up this hill
Does life flight come save people who lay down on a mountain side and refuse to climb anymore?
Well maybe if you told them in short sentences and pronounce your nouns correctly they'll consider it
Shove off critic, we're going to be bear food if we don't make it off this Mountain
You should write an entry to everyone, just to explain your lack of perfection on your journal
Seriously, I told you to shut up 900 feet down the hill and I really don't feel like thinking about anything but a nice warm fire right now
Now you know how people feel when you write a sentence thats 900 feet long
I'm dying, I'm wilderness hike kill, first the wolves will naw on me and then the bears will feast on my scraps
Everyone will say, "There's the bones of that girl who didn't use spell check"
Yes well, I'll be able to bounce a quarter off my ass from the work out I'm getting this week (positive thinking)
Who cares about an ass if you write random crap that makes no sense
If I live to walk off Purgatory Mountain I swear I'm shoving you in a shallow grave
Just make sure you use good grammar, spelling and sentence structure on my gravestone
Shut up

I'm not joking. All because I read one sporadic comment on my journal at 5:00 am the morning I left. Twisted, I know, but there nonetheless.

Now, because I admit all this here, it would almost appear I'm a rather insecure person who needs approval from all directions or I crumble into a ball of wound licking emotions. When in reality, I have always felt I have strong character, self assured, confident and I do all things without the need of approval from others.

So why in the hell do I let little irritants like something I take as negative, harass my mind like I do? Is it a generic human nature issue? A self absorbed issue? Jodi say 'for each our own' reasons. And it is that question I propose to myself. Is it the perfectionist in myself, in others, that creates the unmanageable beast of critic thinking? I wonder, do men participate in mental harassment like us woman do? <alittle insight would be nice guys>

A person I know and trust told me once that I am beyond ruthlessly hard on myself. I nodded in agreement, I know I am. If I go the politically correct direction, I glance at my childhood and draw a nice big blank. Nope, the parents didn't beat perfection, expectations nor put me down while growing up. They were just the opposite, encouraging without obligation, cheerleaders without expectation. So there goes that reasoning.

I'm not a pleaser person who jumps to make others happy at my own expense. But I would do anything I could in my power to help another in need. So I know my issue isn't about what others think or believe about me. I would never crack on someone else, but I have no problem tying my own hands to a whipping post and going to town. This part of me is frustrating. Can someone inform me at what developmental stage does that shitty part of the human mind ease up at? 35? 40? 50? 80 or on my death bed? Did I miss the day they passed out critic mercy cards?

Jodi proposes we each have our own reasons for blowing up the negatives, giving them their own pedestal to radiate from and harboring them within. I suppose I'm still searching for my personal reason why I perform such circus mind acts. Perhaps I need that shrink afterall :o)

Straw, Icing, and the Final Button

2006-10-11T13:39:00.000-07:00

I've had 12 days in the wilderness to contemplate what I would like to write when I got back into civilization. I've gone from highly agitated, irrationally irritated and good old fashion confusion.

I've looked at the top of my journal, I've glanced at the bottom, and studied the sides. I've checked the dusty corners and rattled the squeaky headlines/entries for clues that would explain the recent happenings in my journal. I can only go back to the first question I had in my mind. A simple question really.

A one word-er
~~~W H Y~~~~

WHY
or what motivates people
both currently and in the past
to feel the need to comment, email and generally rain on my parade by pointing out things or mistakes they don't like about or in my writing?
WHY
being the mystified question
in my mind
~

Now, I believe, and I could be wrong, that I've taken the mature position by addressing all concerns, complaints, and unneeded suggestions personally via the email system. To which I believe the majority of it was smoothed out nicely and I hope this entry doesn't crumble the progress that was already achieved with those specific people.

Howevery, evidently that direction isn't working, because I keep getting the same invasive, unsolicited sideswipes about design, not content. <Did a group get together and decide it's pick on Rebecca's writing techniques for a while or is it all coincidence of interesting timing??>

SOoooooo............heres the deal. An explanation of my journal writing. In depth, down and dirty.

This space is unedited, typically UN-thought, sporadic and a simple corridor for the stream of conscious thoughts I have running untamed through my mind. I sit down and I write, I don't use backspace nor the delete button. I do NOT go back and reread what I've written. I always resist the urge to look back over my shoulder at my writing here because I KNOW myself and I would instantly start to edit/delete myself, my words, my writing and my thoughts.

I do not care about any of the following on the pages of this journal, and yes, I realize that because of this, I may not shine my writing in the best light, but here goes...... Spelling, grammar, sentence length, word definition, correct placement of ,.?! :;" ' , nouns, adjectives, dialogue, sentences that make sense or don't, and I certainly don't use any type of journal format.

I would like to think that in this space, if I would like my words to go on and on like a Virginia Woolf sentence, and use 20 commas, and write 10 metaphors and (and put in parenthesis anything I feel like) before I take a breath and end it with a period, I can do that because why in the world would anyone care enough to point it out as an issue and actually suggest I change MY writing because it's difficult on them, instead of that person just accepting my writing is my space and keep their displeasure to themselves, it is that type of WHY that I cannot grasp..............breath now.................(I can even use 40 periods for emphasis if I should feel the need)

I'm not a confrontational person, so I already know I'm going to hate this entry the moment I post it. Then again, I'm also not a person that ever willingly, knowingly, and intentionally <how's that for some pretty adjectives?> sets out to hurts a person feelings or tosses jabs on a whim. So when people do it to me, or others, I'm always left mouth agape and scratching my mind for answers and reasons.

Even now I'm worried about the very people who have sideswiped me over the last year with negative emails, concerns, suggestions and comments about my writing. Thoughts like, "Will they be hurt that I did an entry like this?" or "Will I piss off someone by my blanket outcry for no more sideswipes." Specifically, because it really isn't one person, or one comment thats finally done me in. It's an accumulation of unwarranted smacks that has me finally calling out that the straw finally broke my back, the icing is dripping from my cake and my last button was finally pushed.

My writing here is not perfect. I have never claimed it was.
My writing here is not scripted. I have never claimed it was.
My writing here shows warts and scars and dents and dings because it's my free zone.
My writing here is what it is, anything that happens to flow from my mind to my fingers.
My writing here has no agenda, no flow, no direction and should be devoid of expectation, obligation and guidelines.

On the flip side, the writing on my book is painfully slow and I take great care in the perfection of each and every single little word. Then I place it in the hands of trusted individuals with red pens and ruthless critique practices to butcher it all over again. In that arena, I am ready for critique, I am ready for the red pen, I am ready to be ripped to shreds so I can put it all back together again.

I am not prepared for, nor do I desire, critique on these pages. I am perfectly capable of doing that myself should I choose to do so. I don't think it is necessary. I do not believe it is needed. I have never asked for it and I shouldn't have to worry about it. What irritates me the most about this entry is the fact that I've received far more praise and encouragement from the people who have passed by then the negatives. I shouldn't even give these sideswipes a second thought, but like a burr stuck in my sock I need to eradicate it somehow.

I have been gone from home, life, and online journals for a long time. I've traveled far and wide for the last 8 months and hibernation is calling my name. I've had many new visitors I need to welcome and in turn visit their journals and I look forward to that. I've neglected my correspondence and visiting the journals of old friends, and I assure you I'll be back to my comment spamming very soon.

All I ask is when a person visits my personal journal, they take it for what it is. Nothing but words from a little lady sitting in her office in Idaho. When the desire plops itself in my writing lap I would like the freedom and clear mind of not worrying about if my sentences are perfect, without flaw and ready for publication.

This entry is to the point and if I offend anyone I apologize. I wrote an entry along these same lines, only nicer and more passive over a year ago, perhaps a refresher is due.........Concrete

It should be quite clear now, my purpose, or nonpurpose of this journal.
I write the good, the bad and the ugly and I'm fine with it~~

It's all Good

The Puzzle Of Parent

2006-09-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

       Yesterday I attended the funeral of a man I never met, the husband of a woman I've long considered a mentor of mine. What struck me the most during his service was how the family spoke so highly of his devotion to both his children, and the children who were lucky enough to call him grandfather, uncle, neighbor, teacher, and friend. At the end of his service we were treated to a video that showed the years of this mans life, from the long Beatles style hair to his final chemo reduced bald head and almost every single picture contained this man covered, surrounded and engaged with children. Starting with his own babies all the way to tiny grandchild playing on his hospital bed with him. To both a human and a mother like me, it was absolutely beautiful.

       I don't get it. I do not, or cannot comprehend where this type Father figure, parental role model from a male gender, has fallen to the wayside in my current day and time. Maybe if it was handed to me specifically, my own individual battle with the man who can claim birth certificate rights on my daughters paperwork, I could possibly believe I just picked the lemon out of the bunch. But I hear it from other Mothers, I see it all around my circle of influence and friends, and my previous job was a daily peek into the sad dynamics of families.

       I asked my X-husband recently, " Why exactly was it that you gave yourself permission to just be dad by title and remove yourself from an actual parental role?" His eye's slanted, a sure sign of irritation, he swallowed several times thinking about my question and how he could avoid my possible word trickery and ultimately decided playing stupid was his best chances. He said, " I don't know what you mean."

       I explained to him that in my world, a dad doesn't show up on time, a parent does. In my opinion a dad blows off performances and games to work, a parent doesn't. In my mind, a dad doesn't help financially support their child, but a parent will give their last nickel to make sure their child has something they need. In my optimistic approach I would believe a dad would stay in a job, city, world and let their children slip away from them in honor of money or other self involved reasons, claiming no choice and a parent would move to the ends of the earth working for a garbage company in order to spend as much time with their child as possible. In my idealistic fantasy land, a dad entertains on their scheduled time with the help of Chuck E. Cheese and Cable TV, a parent will look their child in the eye and talk about their day, friends, school and life. And most importantly, a dad will either by choice or show of actions let their children know how unimportant they really are in his life, and a parent will show a child exactly how important, how much they love them and how he has made his children #1 priority in his life. And on and on..............

       My speech was of course absorbed with the usual 'if I run she can't get me and I won't have to worry about it until my next visitation' demeanor my X likes to cower under. Fine, but the fact is I will never stop fighting for my daughters, even with him. Because when it comes down to it, I know they miss him, need him, want him, but his time is running out as they get older. Only he's too stupid and self absorbed to realize it. It was much easier when they were younger to cover for him, but as I always assumed, the truths would come out and his are starting to stink to high heaven. I never had to mention a word to my daughters in the process............

       A friend of mine, a stay at home Mom of 6 years was informed last month by her soon to be X-husband that he was tired of coming home to her. She was mundane and just a Mom. He never understood why she wouldn't hire a nanny to watch the kid like his high power female coworker did for her 4 children. My friend devoted her previous 6 years to raising their son, and supporting him while he worked to create a business.

       He barely earned the title absent Father, always saying, "As soon as the business is running good I'll be home more, we'll take vacations, I'll put more effort into being a Husband and a Father." As soon as..........as soon as..........life isn't ran on some sort of 'as soon as' I complete this task guideline! She had a feeling it was coming, but what she did not see was this. After his first initial consultation with the divorce lawyer and upon spying the financial repercussions of his choice, he suddenly has a 50/50 custody request of parental rights. For the man who hasn't taken the time to be home on a single one of his child's birthdays in 4 years, this is most disgusting in my humble opinion.

       So why am I mumbling about this today? I spent the evening fresh from a beautiful tribute to a man who devoted his life to child and I just kept asking myself why........why does men like my X-husband, my friends soon to be X and so many other men we all know in our lives regard Fatherhood as an interchangeable job? Do it when it's convenient, when it fits his needs, when it's not messing up dates, or their job or the personal lives they created separate from the one that includes children?

       I'm both an idealist and a realist. I know it's not easy when you have visitations and custody schedules. I know that no matter what, in a divorced family no one will have a 100% daily influence in their child's lives. But aren't kids worth striving for that 100% mark the best we can? I know it's not just men/dads, I'm perfectly aware there are Mothers out there that exhibit the same tendencies I've written about in absent Dads. For the Fathers that have custody of their children full or part or are happily married and show their children what a real parent, Father, is all about I both applaud that and admire it beyond imagination. In my perspective that is priceless and I hope these men realize what a beautiful thing they are doing by being a real Father.

       The need inside me to be a parent is just as strong now as when they were safely inside me during pregnancy. It has never diminished or quieted with time. How does with any gender, a parent become a distant part of their childs life? How does this come about, or is allowed, or acceptable?? (Note: Obviously I am not including drunks, druggies, criminals, abusers and any other vise that falls into the 'you lose your parental rights card' in honor of protecting child)

       I know I'm one of the lucky kids, and maybe it's because of the era I grew up in, but I have a Father that was always there for me, in every single way, still is. Perhaps today I am just sad that my daughters have never had that. There are many things I have a hard time grasping, holding, understanding and this subject is in a world of its own. I know every single hair on my daughters head, I know what each single separate smile on my daughters faces mean and I know in an instant what they are feeling by they way their eye's look. But my X, he never took the time or interest to care and that is a puzzle of choice I cannot find an answer for.

       How does ANY parent emotionally and physically check out of a childs life? I have pounded that square peg mercilessly into a round hole and no matter how I try, look at it, manipulate it, I cannot understand it.

       I have found comfort in realizing my X had the choice. He's had it from the moment they were born. He had the choice to make them a priority, he's always had the choice to show them love and security. He's always had the choice to schedule his life around them rather then try to schedule the girls into his life. He's always had that choice and the only power I've ever held was giving/showing him the opportunity.

       I wonder if my X realizes that if he were to pass away today, at his funeral the only achievements he would be praised for is his fine work ethic and ability to hold the roof up at the local tavern until it closed, his friends would be so proud............sad.

A Pit Stop

2006-09-05T12:09:00.000-07:00

       Since I am basking in a two day reprieve at home, I thought it was finally time to eradicate my previous entry, and replace it with something, anything, that doesn't reek of forlorn and misery. It was careless and rude of me to leave such parting words when I wasn't going to be around to follow up. I apologize to those whom I worried.

       The facts. This has been a very strange year for me. Unlike any I've ever waded through before. Starting with a surgery in January that knocked me for a loop. Another medical issue in March that essentially pushed both my mind and my well being over the edge of reasonable control. What I now view as reactive instinct, I took off. Literately. As soon as I was well enough to board a plane or drive a car I was gone.

       Things are kind of blurred together now, but I know I have been in Washington, Oregon, California, Mexico, Utah, Montana, Wyoming, Nebraska, Yellowstone National Park, and through a few of those places more then once and of course around Idaho. The longest stretch I've been home since the end of last March was I believe 5 whole days during July, which killed me. During those days I felt like a trapped bird.

       I haven't worked <my real job> I haven't wrote <my book workings> I haven't participated in a single responsible thing this year. For the analytical curious types, I assure, I never won the lottery, but I am self employed, made enough $ in 2005 to tide me over for an extended time, throw in some residual income I have each month and it's a deliberate recipe for the freedoms I create. Maybe thats too much information, but it's a scenario I dreamed about many years ago, and it's finally come to a point where I can up and leave in a days notice and travel far and wide for as long as I wish. It took work, and thought, and I'm actually proud of the opportunities I built for myself.

       During my travels I've had an abundance of thinking time. I've had beautiful days, and downright shitty days. I've had plain old ordinary days and days words can't describe because they were so divine. I've mended some broken thoughts in my mind and cleared some issues that have plagued me for more time that I wish to admit.

       A turning point cameright after my previous entry <now deleted> A trip to Montana that both soothed my soul and mended the frayed edges of my mind. The things I wrote of, the things I needed to do, I did. Piece by piece I stacked myself back up, settled my internal compass and have found myself back on track, finally. That trip, I hold selfishly for myself...........

       Since my trip to Montana I've spent time hunting, thats right, I do more then just fly fish. If you're a member of P. E. T. A. I would suggest skipping this next segment. First I spent a lot of time on the desert Antelope hunting. It was a successful hunt for me and I enjoyed the solitude and stationary stance that type of hunting provided. Next, I went to Nebraska for Antelope, an unsuccessful hunt that got changed quickly into an Elk hunt in Idaho.

       Until yesterday, I have been walking miles and miles everyday, standing on top ridges, climbing domineering mountains, watching the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Playing cat and mouse with amazing bull elk and soaking up every second my beautiful partner in life, nature, can provide. I had chances to take a bull, but I kept passing. I wanted more time, I wasn't ready to come home to city life, bad angles, excuses I came up with every time not to notch an arrow. It's all good. I get to go back for another week or so this month.

       Two things happened while I was hunting. Fresh from my trip to Yellowstone and all that I carried lightly with me, I found inner peace. I found my smile again, and I feel like my mind is finally clicking along like it used too. It wasn't until this last week that I realized sometime, a while ago, my mind had stopped thinking in it's imaginary tones.

       When I'm good, when I'm all right, my mind is a floating river of idea's and thoughts. Idea's for writing line up and march across my thoughts day in and day out. Like a person who wakes up one morning blind, my mind woke up many months ago devoid of creative notions and possibilities. While I was walking those mountains, moments kept creeping up where I would have killed for pen and paper. I hadn't realized that where I used to never go anywhere without my writing journal, I hadn't been carrying it withme since the beginning of the year. Now, I can't stop writing................I can see the words again!

       Tomorrow I leave again, Washington/Oregon, and I have other trips planned this month. I think, that around November sometime, it will be time to hibernate at home for a while. Until then, I'm off enjoying what life has to offer me right now..........

It's all good, It's all good~

Happy Dear? Chicken Not~

2006-07-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

I interrupt my scheduled summer off, to expose a fellow journalist, a possible menace to journal society, and a voyeur by his own admission. After careful investigation, I am of the opinion that no one is exactly safe from Omar, the dark and menacing writer of Detached And Indifferent Expressions .

Circumstances leading to this investigation started with a pilfered and altered picture of an unspecified derriere <see entry below>. Throughout the journaling community numerous innocent parties found their computers violated and containing this picture with specific, threatening, posting instructions. Even I, succumbing to pressure, added it to my journal to rid it's implications from my world.

All evidence of origination pointed to a specific detached and indifferent journal as the culprit. Upon picking up a shovel and digging alittle deeper, it was found that this journalers fascination with the posterior anatomy of the human figure was not limited to just this one picture. Infiltration into this computer and his world was not easy, but discovery was worth possible prosecution. The truth comes to fruition............

A direct quote by the guilty party from a reliable sources, his journal

"Where was I, oh yes....I saw a picture...and was inspired. And I decided what better way to honor such beauty, such perfection, such....INSPIRATION, was to once again share my fascination with the <inaudible> derriere. I am a connoisseur of great butts. I check them with my peripherals (right now I'm sitting at my desk, and I just peripherally checked out a slew of butts), I check them with aplomb, verve and delicacy. I am a fan of the <inaudible> figure. It is ingrained in my DNA!!"

An inside source has disclosed this evil persons fascination goes beyond the scope of an occasional glance. Pictures located deep within his computer shows a collection of various butts in different states of dress, with a particular fondness for the hard square lines of the male design.

       More disturbing, was the discovery of a certain half eaten piece of briefs found in his office trash can. Insiders from his office claim they were standing by his trash when something struck them as 'odd.' The coworker waited until Omar left his haven to use the copier and retrieved the offending article with two paper clips fashioned as tongs from the trash. The coworker then confronted Omar who simply replied he had not read the finer details closely enough. "Sensuous With Taste® Edible undies® are sold as a novelty item only, and has no nutritional value. Garment will dissolve in water or excessive moisture."

       One last discovery was made during this investigation that cannot be ignored. Fake, implied, implants of the removable nature, were discovered deep in the confines of this mans closet. Thats correct ladies, the backend you see walking by is enhanced, jacked up by ass end enhancing butt pads.

       This all just goes to prove, you can't believe everything you see in the great expanse of Internet world!!!!! So cover your backsides, hide your inclines and valleys. And most of all, be very very wary of people who call themselves the great and powerful lords of our universe, you never know if behind all that huffing and puffing is padding...................................

Wandering and Coins

2006-06-30T22:19:00.000-07:00

       The correspondence between my journal and I have been as sporadic as a lunar eclipse lately. There are many reasons for this, all of which are pretty irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. As I stand on the precipice of the 6th month of the year of 2006, I take a humble glance back, resign the time to history and look hopefully at the next 6 months.

       One of the reasons I could legitimately blame on my absence on these pages is wandering. In the last couple of months when the walls closed in around me, I did one of the things I'm remarkably good at doing, disappear. I've traveled like a nomad. My gypsy tendencies cried out for attention and I willingly succumbed to the calls of diversion.

       I've driven, I've flown, I've rafted rivers. Done some flyfishing. Played in the ocean. I've hiked mountains. I've gone to utterly atrocious commercial attractions with my daughters and I've hidden myself deep in the forest alone where no one could find me. I've been to Mexico, California, Oregon, Washington and all over Idaho. I've been home for 3 days now, after an 8 day excursion in Oregon and still can't stand the walls of this reality. Montana is chanting my name now and I must go..............I believe I'll try coming back again sometime in August..............

       My travels have provided an unbelievable opportunity for people watching. I've taken enough pictures to break the travel funds bank if I decided to develop them all. You never know when and where a photo op will present itself. For instance, at the wild kingdom of Wildlife Safari, this coin slot perspective was shouting for concrete visual via the digital camera. I resisted the urge to try a quarter drop and opted for sneaky photography. Why, oh why................Ladies, unless you are taking deposits, I suggest zip it up, hike it up, pull down the shirt, and always and I mean ALWAYS, do a simple hand check. If you can feel the valley, people can see it!!!

       Speaking of unexplainable photographs. Upon downloading I've discovered a picture in my system that defies definition. When I tried to delete it from my computer I was given a threatening warning with specific posting instructions. In honor of the photo gods that be, I fear serious retribution if I do not post this strange and mystical photograph.

You never know, what type of photograph will make it's way to the world wide web!
Of course, you also never know what the true definition of turn about is fair play, until you've tempted the powers that be~~~

Be well, and have a great summer.

On Writing

2006-06-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

"Writing would be merely an act of crazy hubris were
it not a means of discovery, cunning and patient."
~Mary Rose O'Reilly

       After I have made a deposit of some random thought on these pages, I resist the urge to go back an hour later, the next day, a month from now and read what I had splashed like paint on a canvas to the page of this public journal. When I have braved doing a backward glance, I will sputter and gulp at my admissions. A personal cringe at my erratic carnage.

       It is with that thought, that I've been toiling, as I typically do with this subject, why the hell does one subject their struggles to the concrete means of writing?

       If I assign concepts to it, I can come up with a few meaningful possibilities.

        Writing for me, is like binding the inside universe that is me to the outside world. Each sentence I write is from within, a silent word or emotion, a concept or complex contention. The real point of departure is when I can pen the inside to letters and sentences removed from me. Hence writing. Until that happens, all that I think is swallowed and digested over and over again until I can finally transfer it from one dimension to another.

       Perhaps the simple twist I seek in life is a feeling of continuity between the inner workings and the outer workings. The division of who I am inside and who I eloquently portray on the outside have extremely contrasting qualities. For me, writing is the only bridge that connects the two.

       Writing also has the ability to connect the present person that is me with the former self. When I write, I find a lot of the time I am bridging a gap between past and present, the person I was yesterday, with the person I am today. Writing is a way to extend a hand of friendship or berate the choices and chances my former self already experienced.

       I write to lay neatly in front of me what discovery I've accomplished. I write to extinguish flames I've callously let burn inside and I write to divide importance from insignificant.

       The trick to writing honestly is finding the fine line between memory, thoughts, imagination and truth. Memory is an entity all on it's own, a powerhouse that has the ability to keep me up at night, berate me or comfort me at any given time. It's within those memories that I unravel them, write them, dispose of them or continue to harbor. Writing is my medium, the pen or keyboard the device in which to transfer, the blank page my cradle of acceptance.

       I have to assume others have found different strategic ways to handle their zone between inner and outer workings. For me, it has always been writing. Conversations between my former self and my current person. Memories clashing with reality. Discovery blending with experience. Knowledge merging with wisdom. Nothing extraordinary about any of this, people have done such means of transfer since the beginning of time. But it helps, to think about it, especially when I question the 'why' in my writing, the 'how' in my placement of my words and the 'holy shit did I publicly display that' in my choice of concrete.

My inside is constantly fighting for a voice, my outside is as quiet as a river. Perhaps, someday, I will feel as big on the outside as I do on the inside.

Purge of Thought

2006-06-14T15:10:00.000-07:00

'There is nothing worse for mortals, than a wandering life'
~Homer~

       I think the most difficult part about wandering, is not the unknown, but rather the distinctive trail one leaves behind. When I take temporary pause in this atmosphere I call my life, I feel overcome with a nausea that brings me to humble knees. Hello ground.

       The clicking of watchtowers, a dime spinning on the ground. My metallic moments in motion are all mine, all my justifiable harboring of the heart. When and why I gave myself such carte blanche in life is beyond my current scope of understanding. Life, shouldn't function as sort. Love certainly doesn't, and reality never plays by those rules.

       Habit. Human nature. Creatures of the known and predictable. Brilliant tail chasing and sorrowful wound licking. Such a divine cycle, I can only scoff at myself and descend right back to where I started. Perhaps lessons are learned. Maybe even a slice of wisdom collected here and there. Although........I still haven't found what I'm searching for...............

       Whether it's the illusion of contentment, or the comfort of balance, or simply a sense of complete and utter freedom, I know I've only grazed what I seek. I've experienced moments of clarity, smooth cool ice beneath my touch, but it always cracks open to reveal a precarious liquid uncertainty. Clarity, like ice, is transparent and unpredictable.

       When I wrap it all up in my vigil of life, I'm disappointed by what little progress I've achieved. John Burroughs said "The lure of the distant and the difficult is deceptive. The great opportunity is where you are." Yet, I look around and have to honestly ask myself who the hell I am, what the hell am I doing, and where the hell am I going. Because this, my right here and right now, doesn't reflect what my mind and body ache for.

       I know I am more then this. I know I can achieve more then this. I have no doubt I can reach there. Being satisfied with mundane has never been my nature. Being content with ordinary was never really an option. Embracing so-so and mediocrity makes me feel crazy and trapped. Cause and effect. My mentality warrants my discontent. My desires strap me with restlessness. My choices constantly backlash me with the consequences.

Its the way of it. A wandering life.......

Fires

2006-05-22T10:10:00.000-07:00

When I was first officially diagnosed with epilepsy, I verbally balked to the doctor about being put on a daily medication of prevention. Up until that point, I had handled my seizures relatively fine, if anything, in my world they were simply an annoyance. Translation, I was a stubborn girl who thought she never, ever, needed nor desired additional help that wasn't directly controlled by the great and powerful Rebecca.

As any good doctor will, she then tried the scare tactic. This neurologist is a sly one, and much to my irritation she spoke my language.

       She said, "Rebecca, picture a campfire with 4 sticks on fire, small and insignificant. Now, throw a small stick on it and the flame will grow and get a bit bigger. Then picture adding another stick and then another, and so on. If you keep throwing sticks on that fire, it will eventually turn into a raging bonfire that cannot be controlled. Each time you have a seizure, it's like throwing a stick on that fire. Why don't we keep the flame minimal instead of letting the sticks pile up?"

       I'm not even here to write about kickin chicken moments and mind numbing seconds of frozen body parts. But, for the record, I have the ailment, so I can call it doing the kicking chicken all I want, it's my privilege.

       It's that irritating doctors metaphor that won't get out of my head these days. When I side the illusion up, comfy like, with the way I've been handling my life lately, I see remarkable similarities.

       My inability to admit I'm not doing well, my stubborn demeanor, my horrible habit of shutting, more like slamming the doors of communication down to anyone who bravely steps toward me when I'm feeling like my bonfire is out of control has been my detriment.

       My silence, to those online, those in my 3-D world, friends, family, loved ones in a world based on honor and simple human traits is not only unacceptable, it's deplorable.

       And unfortunately, it's me. It's my way. It's my Achilles heel. It's my self preservation blanket and my heavy chain of guilt to drag along inlife. My mode of silence and walls, is not reserved to any one person, although I can see why a person could interpret my silence as exactly that.

       When I feel like my fire has become an uncontrollable bonfire, I willing stand amongst it's flame and protectively turn my back upon the very people who care about me. When I am like that, when my world feels like a decent version of hell or just a beautiful swirling flame of confused thoughts, I want no witness, I want no voices, I cannot stand for others to see, observe, hear, touch, live, or experience my problems.

       That Achilles heel is extremely tricky to explain. Because for one, it could make me a very bad friend to have around. At a days notice I could withdrawal and slither into my hole of illusions and silence, the next I could be as receptive as any other friend a person has in their cache of phone numbers. In all honesty my Achilles heel, makes me not such a great friend to have on the rooster of dependability. It takes a good hard sense of understanding, or at least a teacup of friendship passes to be an active part of my life.

       It's a struggle for me sometimes, because I feel so very different from the majority of the people I know. I have friends who call me because they broke a nail and it hurts. I don't mind at all that they do that. I have friends who call with every bump and bruise, physically or emotionally, and I'm good with that. Yet, they all know I will never call with the same ailments. For example, a few years back I almost died over something and was in the hospital for days and days, and I never called a person nor told anyone. It just isn't in me to divulge whats going on in my life with anyone. I'm fine with keeping it that way, but I run into the problem of hurt feelings, misunderstandings and downright making people mad by my quiet nature.

       I create something I reflectively describe as fault lines. The longer I am quiet, the wider the fault line can become. The more time that passes, like in this journal, that I maintain my silence, the harder it becomes to face it and close the seams of my mute nature.

       Writing here, is a first step in a long fault line of silence for me. Next, I know I need to pick up the phone and apologize to people I care about. I find I canhold my phone in my hand for hours willing myself to make a call and just cross that fault line. Fault, is my burden, because even in innocence, silence cuts a scar of fault across my thoughts and I become cut farther and farther off at the knees the more time I let pass. Fear and fault, fault and guilt, guilt and accountability. All a beautiful mixture that makes me......me.

       I wonder about that fire. The one I can either add sticks, or dose with water. How much do I really add to it's flames is something only I can observe. I think I've allowed others to toss a few branches on my fire, but I'm the one who's thrown the logs on it. The bigger it got, the more quiet I became. The more intense it became, the clamps of silence took hold and I'm just now starting to break from it's flames.

       What I could have probably wrote today, instead of this jumbled entry that went on longer then a Virginia Wolf sentence, is, I apologize for my silence and those I may have offended. I thank those that emailed and commented about my absence, I appreciate the concern and well wishes.

       And most of all, hopefully understanding can be found in written words...............

Beautiful

2006-04-18T08:45:00.000-07:00

Death is the mystery.
Life is the stand alone, surrounded by faces and arms of precious grace.
Marveling at the compassion and central source of humanity, I feel something beautiful.

Without Pam, I would not have known about Chemo Angels. Without Pam I would have never signed up to be a giver of smiles, a taker of hope and a sender of compassion.

Every week, I send packages of smiles to a darling little girl named Alicia. She is two years old as of January and for a present of life, she received a brain tumor that is labeled Pilomyxoid Astrocytoma. She like Pam, continues to smile in all of her pictures and shows us what it's like to battle for a given life. She simply knows me as Angel Rebecca and the giver of weekly surprises. I like it that way.

Without Pam I would not have known what it was like to place such hope on words and pictures. Without her journal, I must admit, I may never have understood....... I fear for Alicia, and I cheered for Pam. I cheer for Alicia and thank Pam for showing us the way to selfless compassion and hope. I feel something beautiful.

I read how often Pam mentioned her Chemo Angels, and the many others who sent her hope and surprise, compassion and delights in her mailbox. The picture of her with arms extended around a mountain of hope is beautiful.

If you have the means, remember what a card in the mail did for Pam and visit the site of Chemo Angels and sign up to be an Angel of hope and precious snail mail giver of encouragement..............do it to help another, do it to honor Pam.......

Welcome to Chemo Angels

I thank You Pam, I witnessed, in you, beautiful.

Please visit Pauls journal today. His photo entry of Pams milestones and smile is a testament to the woman we all came to care and hope for. http://journals.aol.ca/plittle/AuroraWalkingVacation/entries/1932

We will remember, we will miss, Beautiful..........

and I think, there are no accidental gardens...........

A Deal is a Deal

2006-04-11T18:29:00.000-07:00

A deal is a deal
~~~~
As the memorable line from the show Sex and the City says, "Squirrels are just rats with a designer outfit." I subscribe to that thought. I live in a historical district in my city. Meaning our houses are all old and partially decrepit, but they hold historical history and cost too much, so that makes them speee-cial supposedly.

One of the bonuses of such a neighborhood is old, huge trees which are pretty to look at, horrible to clean up after and play treehouse to ancestral generations of rats with designer outfits.

The little buggers are starting to really irk me. First and foremost, they have shredded and dismantled the majority of my outdoor furniture. When the leaves are off all the trees I can look to the skies and see pieces of my outdoor furniture hanging off the branches.

I understand that they don't quite appreciate that they have 100 bucks of stuffing up in their nest, but they could at least hide the fact they have once again gotten the better of my stuff. I thought I was being smart this last fall when I took down, and tarped my big old patio furniture umbrella to protect it from the weather and the squirrels. Nope, nadda, uncovered it yesterday and discovered the varmints had snuck in and shredded it's beautiful fabric.

Thieves I tell ya......I left one of my shirts outside last fall for a whole hour and then couldn't find it, <don't ask>, low and behold, I see it's hanging 40 feet up in a tree this winter.

I swear, I've tried to make peace with them. I erected a 'squirrel' platform in order to feed them nutritious delights I have to buy special from the local rat store. It's one of those 'thangs ya just gotta do in the neighborhood'

They delight and devour whatever I place in there <and in case your thinking I'm ruining their migration to the sweet tropics or Southern side of the street, I assure you, they NEVER leave no matter the weather> I'm a good food slave. You would think alittle respect could be had between me and the rats with fluffy tails.

~~~~~~~~

Rain. Idaho is bursting with rain lately. April showers bring May flowers is an understatement of downpouring proportions this year. Rain is dandy, it's the perfect enhancement to a sour mood, or a divine cleaner of spirit, depending on how your mood wishes to observe it on a case by casebasis. Fine, thats all well and good. But the problem arises when you have a specific little <irrational, I KNOW> phobia that is highlighted during such water induced days.

Specifically, damn ::shudder:: worms

My entire yard, patio's, sidewalks, gutters, undersides of outdoor furniture, you name it, it's crawling with worms attempting an escape from the water soaked dirt.

I am utterly <an appropriate adjective> under siege.

They have set up a barricade like no other around my house. Back to that whole crazy historical district, the problem is back in the 'day' no one had cars. Hence, garages were unnecessary and there isn't room to address that little problem, so the majority of us have to park in the street. Thats the price of buying charm and good solid walls.........I have to walk down a sidewalk to get to my cars.

I'm certain there is a conspiracy going on, all the local worms got together and decided it would be fun to freak the crazy lady out at 1628 and lay on her sidewalks.

Now, add one mischievous little 11 year old daughter and we've got ourselves a legit problem. Darling Kaitlyn just loveessss to torment me with worms. Although I've threatened life and every imaginable toy and enduring bone in her body, she tests the strength of my threats with daily worm inventory, jokes, showings and holding.

We get up, she races down the sidewalk and comes back to report the largest earth worms she's ever seen are in my path. She gets me anxiety ridden before I open the door. She loves it, I want to throttle her.

Not to mention she's started her own worm farm out back and has been stealing my used coffee grounds for food for them. Just what I need, a smorgasbord for the local worms to go right along with the buffet for the local rats with good outfits.

~~~~~~~~~~~

So I'm standing in the line at a convenience store to buy my coveted Diet Coke. Nothing extraordinary about that, except I hear this little voice behind me say..."nice ass" to which I turned around and look at the man behind me while he contentedly stared at the floor. So, I thought, maybe I was imagining things.

Then I hear it again, "Nice ass"

And this time, I didn't look back.

Then I hear for the third time, "Nice ass Ma'am" alittle louder then before.

Well, I'm the only female standing in a line of 4 guys. One in front of me, and 3 behind me. What is a gal supposed to do when this is going on behind you? Clench the cheeks alittle tighter and hope they are up to muster?

Instead, I turned around and said, "Ok, who's saying that?" And two of them smile, one looks at the cracks in the ceiling extremely innocent like.

One guy pipes up and says, "Well I was looking and it's a fine ass, and your really tall."

Another says, "I swear I didn't say it first, but I was thinking it"

The last, continues to stare at the ceiling, he's having no part of this interlude.

I personally have no idea what to say, smile, turn around and think to myself that at least I know my spendy jeans were worth it.

Debatable entertainment, but it happens and it's rather difficult to forget.

~~~~~~~
Dedicated with admiration, verisimilitude, idolization,
to Omar Detached And Indifferent Expressions

'I make a large amount of rhymes up per day ~ And when I'm finished go check the survey'

Well of Compassion

2006-04-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

There once was a woman who was a glorious well full of compassion. She would offer cups of selfless drinks of her compassion to those who passed by, whether she knew a name or not. Some passerby's would take a sip and move along in their own lives, while others would stop from time to time basking in the taste and relishing in the comfort it provided. The woman would give freely of her drinks of compassion, and find peace and meaning, smiles and purpose of her life.

One day, a man came to the woman's well, he was broken and not well, his mind his worst enemy, his despair emulating through the air. The woman could see the man was in pain and offered him drinks of compassion. He lingered and gulped, he wiped the wasted drips off his chin and proclaimed relief. But the man did not move along like the others, instead he callously leaned upon the delicate edges of the woman's well and asked for more.

The woman looked down into her well and saw the beauty of compassion creating deep depths and granted his request. His need was great, and her well was full. He leaned into the well taking great measure to hold as much of her liquid in his large hands and began greedily quenching his own thirst.

The woman strained against his weight and felt the sides of her well crack, but she did not stop the man, his needs were great and she felt her well was strong enough to safely cradle his burdens. The mans thirst for compassion did not dissipate, drinks and drinks were taken, and he became blind to the sad eyes looking down upon his greed.

It wasn't long before others who had frequented the well of compassion came to seek comfort in it's glory and the woman gazed over the mans back and with sad resignation turned others in need away. There was no room left for others to dip a grateful hand into it's pool, the man had encompassed every inch of the well and would cast hungry angry eye's at any that dared approach.

The woman became tired from his need. The woman held her hands to the water that began to seep from the cracks created from his weight. She looked to the horizons, to the ground, to the sun and realized she was alone with his indulgence. She quietly whispered to the man that her walls were cracking and he was taking every drop of what she loved about herself.

He looked down and said there was still compassion in her well and the cracks were of no concern to him. His need was great and his troubles insatiable. He needed without regard to the pain he began to create to the woman of compassion.

The woman keep her sad eyes locked on the horizon, she could no longer bear to watch the man frolic and dive through her well. Her hands could no longer contain the leaks that had created valleys down her walls, the compassion the man could not hold completely in his hands leaked to the ground.

One day a friend passed closely by the woman, the friend looked upon the greedy man who smiled with glee in his pool of comfort and looked upon the woman of compassion who would not meet his gaze. He called out and asked her why she allowed the man to drink all of her compassion and break cracks into her once strong walls. She did not look up, but put a finger to her lips and whispered shhhh, don't let the man hear you for I fear he will become angry and kick a wall down and then there will be nothing left of me.

The friend looked a bit closer and whispered to the woman, friend, your well is dry and your eyes no longer carry compassion for life, you are already empty, there's nothing left for him to break. The woman looked down, and around, and at her marred, cracked walls and dry well and realized the friend was right.

She leaned down to the man who was crawling on her well floor searching for missed drops of compassion and whispered to him there is nothing left. He ignored her words and continued to scrape and lick at it's barren space. She raised her voice slightly and told the man he had broken her walls and drained her glory. He raised his hand to her and demanded she create more compassion for his needs were great. When she proclaimed she had nothing left he told her how worthless she had become and kicked and broke down her walls. The woman of compassion kept her eyes on the horizon and sought explanation for her destruction. She did not understand how her glory had turned on her and made her eyes so sad. Alone with nothing, she realized was better then giving everything she had to another's need. Compassion could not help greed, no matter how much she wished the man would heal.

With her realization, the woman that was once full of compassion let a single tear fall from her thoughts and saw that the tear remained in her well. She looked upon the horizon and saw her beautiful friend who called out to her, it's all right to cry dear woman of compassion, for with your tears your well will once again become the gloryitonce was. We can patch the cracks, though they will always remain, we can plug the holes that may spring from time to time, but your well will once again fill to all it's glory.

The woman of compassion, began to cry.

~Though it take a seeming eternity, the well which may currently hold barely enough for the woman's own needs, will one day again be full to overflowing. Though the woman may fear another greedy person, she will one day become as generous as before. Though it seems that will be a far off day, it will not. See, while the woman isn't looking, all around her are secretly pouring water from their wells into hers. One cup at a time may not make a noticeable difference at first, but one day the woman will look down and marvel. And then she will look up and smile.
-Paul Aurora Walking Vacation ~

I couldn't have written a better ending to my thoughts, thank you Paul.

Charade

2006-04-03T10:25:00.000-07:00

Something happened here in my journal, something I've struggled and struggled with lately. A change of mission, a division of purpose, what once was an unscripted stream of conscious exhibiting erratic behavioral writing for me, has turn into something I liken to my 'real 3-D' world.

Meaning, in my 3-D world I am a mute. And for whatever unexplainable reason, this journal has warped into something that scares me into mute, and thats a line I never wanted drawn.

It really pisses me off about myself.

I can't be a mute in every aspect of my life, it's enough to drive me terminally crazy. Therefore, fuck it, I'm taking this journal back from myself, from the oblivion I personally boxed it into. Blame is a beautiful thing and one aspect in life I have no issues wrapping the beauty of its principle around myself. I blame myself, my mind, my perceived expectations and hence will partake on the mission of reclaiming. I doubt it will be beautiful or inspiring. It will be, what it is.........I'm tired of hiding in every aspect of my world and this journal feels like a good place to practice.

~~~~

Issue of mute. Yesterday I answered my phone to a friendly voice. A new moment for me. What I should have told this person was that I have born the full on persona of a mute lately. I have crawled into a cave and refused to speak to anyone if humanly possible. I screen calls from all friends and family, I push as much work as possible off to the minions who devour my scraps like cotton candy. One step from a certifiable depression, or self imposed destruction. During the safe talk and simple topics I should have removed the tourniquet that felt like it was choking me to death and let flow all thats been bottling up in me for so long. I did not. I hate that. I wanted to. I didn't. I am the puppet on a string who is dictated by some unexplainable force that casts a spell of silence. I blame myself of course.

There are all these moments of chance in life. People ask me questions and I have this split second of choice, talk or not. The not, always wins. I have stood in front of some beautiful people in life, and they have asked me point blank, what are you thinking, what are you doing, what are we doing, and the answer is always the same. Silence. I disappoint so often it's become habit. Those who know me, expect this, it's a trained conclusion that I give no choice about.

I shouldn't have told this person life is fine. I should not have put on the happy voice. I should have exposed myself and said, I'm so bone tired today, I'm saddened beyond measure, I miss more then I can bear, I regret larger then life and I am so lonely I can't hear my heart anymore. I should have told them I want to weep for my wasted time and I want to crawl into safe arms and sleep. I should have said I'm not well and that worry keeps me up late at night and that difficult choices are stealing away my dreams. Should have, could have, didn't, the precipice of my cliffs. I had the opportunity, and let it pass once again.

I am afraid, someday they will no longer ask and I will deserve exactly that.

When I wrap myself around the truths of my silence, I must start admitting it's my failure to take responsibility, chance, choice, truth and my fraudulent voice that makes life so dark. There is no natural light in dark, only self made shadows from a tiny little candle. There is no comfort in black walls and red roofs. Where I once found sanctuary, is warping into a self destructive place of loneliness. I'm letting all this life pass me by just outside my cave of despair and cowardliness. I am not a strong person. I think strong people are they ones who shout to the world, hey I'm fucked up today and I'm letting you know it. It's the sniveling cowards that wrap themselves within their own little world to afraid too expose themselves for all they are worth. No inspiration to be found in those words, just my truths.

I'm angry today, angry at myself and only myself. If silence has a sound, it's become deafening in my world. I can barely stand it's tone, it's pressure of time, it's weight of choice. Everyday I get up and stand before obligation and my tourniquet tightens, my cowardliness shows it true colors and I allow another day to pass without battle. I've become the wounded soldier laying in the field playing dead. A dead person is passed on by for the people who can be helped. Playing dead is an idiotic strategy.

Precious moments gone into the illusion of time. If I've concluded one thing, it's that I certainly don't have the passion and fortitude to continue my charade for much longer.

Impressions

2006-03-27T09:59:00.000-08:00

Impressions.

A longtime friend came to my house last night because she was both frustrated, tired and basically at her giving up point. She talked, I listened, she spoke, I listened, she expressed her dismay's and I offered advice when solicited.

At one point she said the words I'm sure we've all said, "I just can't do this anymore, I give up." To which I said, " Giving up really isn't an option, because tomorrow will come whether you want it or not." What a wise old soul I am.....or cliche.

I did not receive the response I expected. What I did receive was a bit of a friend smack that turned the tables on me, in a rather uncomfortable position.

She turned agitated and said something a bit accusing," You know Rebecca, thats easy for you to say when everything you do, you succeed in, and everything you do your perfect at and you don't have to work hard like the rest of us at making it in life."

A jaw dropping moment in the scheme of the night. I looked at her and wondered if she was indeed officially insane or just gravely mistaken.

I understand that sometimes in an angry mood, it's easier to attack the nearest thing around. In this case, I found myself in the line of fire. Carefully, I addressed her. I told her that she was mistaken and I have my own set of problems, difficulties, disappointments, failures and that perfection and I seriously do not walk hand in hand. To which she muttered 'bullshit,' and started to cry. Officially, for the record, I would like to state that tears are an unfair advantage and have the ability to penetrate the best of my defenses............

I came clean with her, and in my world, that is not a small feat. Since she's known me since I was about 24, I went back into teenagehood and started there. I told her about struggles, mistakes, screw ups, I elaborated about my 20's, telling her all that I never speak of. I explained to her the current heartache I live with day in and day out and how I live a dirty little secret, all details included. I showed her some of my writing, and shed some light on this persona I've evidently represented to those around me.

My cover is officially blown and I blame the damn tears. She also placed a thought of guilt on my shoulders. She told me that it was unfair that she had known me for almost 10 years and knew nothing of what I had spoken of. I agreed, and that was not easy.

When she left, the air had changed. I think in her eye's I saw pity, understanding, and knew she saw me for what I really am, just like everyone else, a vulnerable human. My impression, the one she had of me, has seriously been altered. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Maintaining an impression is something I think everyone does. It's all part of presenting ourselves to the world.

There is a piece of me that worries about the impression I leave here on this journal. I know I shouldn't, but anytime you're presenting yourself, whether to friends, family, the mailman or a place like this, we leave an impression. I'm humbled more often then not when people leave comments that I am inspiring and such. But honestly, it doesn't sit well with me, or I have a hard time accepting that. I told an online friend, that sometimes it makes me feel like a fraud, to which their take on fraud/impressions put a few things into perspective for me. Thank you by the way....

Impressions are just one lining of a person, never the whole or even real deal. My friends turn about fair play, clearly showed me that. If anything I learned that should I have an impression of someone else, I cannot expect them to uphold it. It could be shattered by the revelations of truth.

Testing

2006-03-23T09:57:00.000-08:00

       If I think back to my first memory of reckless moments, I picture a girl, 10, maybe 11, climbing a mountain behind her home for hours. Focused, and always determined to accomplish what she set out to do.

        She'd climb a mountain for 3 hours, just so she could sit at the top perhaps thinking she was on top of the world, or maybe just basking in the light that can only be found from such heights. And then, with a mischievous smile, she would run as fast as she could down the steep mountain. Reckless, and without regard to possible injuries, she'd run, and hurdle rocks, bushes, sailing through the air hoping she could recover when her feet touched again. Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn't.

       Sometimes, she'd walk up to her home with her Mother standing on the steps with both hands on her hip, exasperated, and clucking like a worried Mother hen over various cuts and wounds, proclaiming, "If I look out and see my daughter tumbling down that mountain again, I'm going to whoop your ass worse then that mountain Becky!"

       Then, I remember a teenager, about 16 standing on the cliffs over one of the lakes not far from home. Gangs of teenagers hiding in the Mountains, doing things that would make their parents cringe and pray to any religion available. Cliff jumping they called it.

       Various points could be found to jump from, from almost safe heights to downright terrifying distances to the water. She hated the water, always did, but to stand on the cliff and will herself from the edge was an exhilaration and test of willpower that couldn't be denied. She liked knowing she was the only girl who would jump from the highest point that could be found. Mediocre was never a choice for her, if there was a breaking point, she'd test it.

       Standing on the edge, looking down to the water was always a test of the mind. We all knew with each jump, one wrong step would mean a broken something, or maybe even something worse, but we did it anyway. To be teen is to be invisible. But honestly, she was relieved when she finally broke a leg, it bought her a ticket out of doing what terrified her for the rest of the summer, while saving face. She would take a broken leg any day over being called chicken.

       Being an adult provided new challenges. What can an adult get away with without being called crazy? She still ran mountains, but changed her tactics. During times when her mind raced and there was no escape, she drove to the Mountains late at night and climbed in the dark, and ran down in the dark. A new dimension to reckless abandonment. A perfect solution and when one questions certain cuts on arms, legs, face, telling the truth is easy. Hiking, fell, it's all good.

       Then, she discovered rock climbing. But hated the ropes that bind. Free climbing was risky and exhilarating. And only produced one broken ankle from a nasty fall against a rock she was told couldn't be done. They were right, but she tried anyway.

       While flyfishing, being terrified of water provided a challenge. To wade in, test the mind, test the fear is always it's own degree of difficulty. When flyfishing, there is always a spot just out of casting distance. Always a spot that if you can wade in one more foot you can get to it. A few death swirls being pulled down a raging river hasn't stopped her, only enforced an irrational determination to not let water beat her.

       Once while laying on the bank, on the wrong side of the swollen river after a particularly scary death swirl, she was stranded for hours waiting for something, help sounds like the legitimate something, but she searched for something else. Answers? Absolution? A miraculous moment of clarity? Realizing in one way or another, she had been in that situation more then once was enough to scare her. Mortality staring harshly in the face of a person who tempted it and defied it, is enough to splash perspective on any fearless human.

       And now, I still do not stay on any beaten path. My last injury? A nail through the foot after a run off the safe trail. Not even worth mentioning, I call that a boring injury. Safe trails drive me crazy. Something laid out before me dictates far to much control. A classic habit in my life, take the unknown, run down the unexplainable, jump over the impossible to see if I can do it.

       Once, one of my parents said to me, "If you make it to the age of 30 it will be a miracle," to which I replied, "I'll take that as a challenge." I made it, and I am a bit more cautious now. Being a Mother is sometimes like a soft chant behind my ear, whispering do the right thing, do the responsible thing, do the Motherly thing.

       My youngest daughter is attempting to talk me into letting her ride motocross. A dangerous sport anyway you look at it. Hence the inspiration for my thoughts here today...... Last year, I got her a 4 wheeler, thinking 4 wheels are better then 2. She rides it like she is Evil Kineval. Testing jumps to see how far she can fly through the air. 4-wheelers aren't exactly meant for such thing. She seems to love giving everyone around her heartattacks, except when she looks at me, I know she sees a sly smile and proud eyes. I stick up for her antics and we're good like that.

       I see so much of me in her. It's hard to stop what is inside, even when there is a slice of danger there. I understand her. There is a fine line I've tried to master between enforcing as a parent what I think is safe, and what my children see themselves as capable of trying. I know I stand in a strange spot when saying I've never feared my daughters getting physically hurt. When it's time for stitches and casts, we just march off to the hospital and take care of it.

       I've always believed a person must fall sometimes when trying things, and a bit of blood is nothing compared to saying to oneself inside, I did it. From the time they were little I never dove between them and falling down, or stopped them from hanging in a crazy position on the monkey bars. And just so we are clear, I would indeed jump in front of a car and let it hit me before they were hurt in such a manner. But when it comes to day to day, I've always held back and let them experience things as they will.

       Conventional and I may not stand hand in hand, as I continue to test myself and my time on earth. I don't know if I'm exactly a thrill seeker, or an idiot. I'm happiest off the beaten path and I'm restless when I'm not putting myself to a challenge.

       I just may have to buy that 2 wheeled motorcycle and let her fulfill her dream of doing a backflip off a jump....................scary, even for me.

Adieu of Nothing

2006-03-20T21:36:00.000-08:00

              I have a thought process sans anything intelligent right now. I normally assign such pause in life as the calm before a potential storms in Rebecca's corridors. While I was driving today, pausing at a stop light waiting for the green proceed light, I realized how detached I've become lately. To which my next mind thought was detached is one emotional moment from self implosion. Sometimes it's unenjoyable to be connected to this brain of word linking and self righteous shrink inspired moments.

       Although, I've never seen a shrink. I've thought about it, but I'm afraid if I ever actually sat down with one, my mind would take it as a dynamic challenge and I'd be paying to pick the brain of my shrink. I can envision it now. We sit eye to eye, one mind against the other. Me toying with the person to see just how much they could actually pry out of my mind and just the opposite, my brain trying to pry as much as I could from them without them realizing it.

       Then again, maybe I give myself to much credit here and a shrink has a better angle I haven't seen yet. Could be worth a few bucks just to see what would happen. If anything, I could get a decent journal entry from my experiment of human mind pitted against another human mind on a mission. Damn, I haven't even made an appointment and I've already set a stubborn tone. A shrink would probably turn me away for wrong/bad attitude. To self shrink that would be to say I have issues of privacy and my mind thinks it's just fine without anyone toying with it. Scary ehh.

       I wrote down today on a scrap piece of paper as I was doodling during a business meeting, that I am a recluse cleverly disguised as a Mother, Friend, Daughter, and business associate. Thus the detached inspired mention above. I really do think, given the right conditions I could be one of those sane, yet thought of as crazy ladies who lives as a hermit.

       I can envision it now, a simple shack, trade in the BMW for a sweet little 1970 Bronco without a top, living off the land somewhere in the back woods surrounded by tree's, nosey chipmunks and plenty of sunshine. Maybe I was just born in a wrong era. Me and Emily Dickinson could have been great friends, provided we both could have gotten over our reclusiveness long enough to chat.

       I think part of my current problem is a crash of too many thoughts/emotions. From missing someone so much it crushes me inside and out, day in and day out. To thoroughly not enjoying certain area's of my life, on to needing more minutes in a day, to worrying about children, family, friends. I suppose some could classify that as stress, but I've really never been one to assign such words to my world, to excusable, so I just call it crashing of the eclectic mentality.

       And this entry represents me, posting something of complete irrelevance just to get out of my writers block mentality, I have deleted far too many entries over the last 3 days.

Much adieu about nothing.......

Full Circle

2006-03-17T09:41:00.000-08:00

Last night, a moment I had almost let slip from my mind came about full circle. Life is funny like that, you finally let the haunting of a minute of time, 10 minutes of time or a day, go to the calm recesses of your mind and in one-second they can all come flooding back with crashing force.

       "Hi, is this Rebecca H******?" asked the quiet female voice on the other side of the phone. To which I thought, too sweet to be a telemarketer, and replied yes.

       "Well, you sent a letter to my Father many years ago and I just found it. I wanted to know if you would tell me about the night my Mother Alice died, how she was, did she say anything you can tell me." Pause hers and mine "I'm sorry to bother you like this, but I want to know what happened that night, everything, I'm tired of wondering what my Mother went through and no one ever talks about it."

       My stomach did several backflips and my mind felt like static electricity gone haywire. I had expected this call back in 1997, and never got it. I was mentally prepared back then, last night I was completely caught off guard. The silence was deafening while I quickly composed myself.

       And so I told her. On the night of May 18th 1997 I was sitting at my computer just inside the front door of my old house. I had the front door open because the air outside was beautiful and warm. It was around 11:30 at night, kids asleep, neighborhood asleep, all was quiet. I didn't hear the squeal of tires stopping, only a loud thud that couldn't be ignored. I instantly thought maybe my dog had slipped out the front door and had been hit. I went to the front door and saw a car still in the process of stopping and a heap of something on the ground several yards in front of it.

       I didn't take a moment to put on clothes, or shoes, so in my large T-shirt and underwear I ran across my front lawn and straight to the person laying in the street. Her body lay in unnatural positions. Legs snapped like tree branches, bone exposed under the soft street lamp. Her shirt was partially ripped off exposing her breast. It seemed as though blood was seeping and pumping from so many parts of her body. A calm I had never felt came over me and I laid down in the street next to her. I knew, I couldn't move her, nor do anything for her. There were to many injuries, too much blood, to much of everything. I saw one of her legs, blood was literately pulsing out with each heartbeat and I did the only thing I knew, found the artery with my hand and pressed as hard as I could to stop the flow.

       She was alive and she was coherent. Her eye's were huge. I laid my other hand over hers. I locked my eye's with her and that is how we would remain until help got there. Then I started to talk. I asked her if she had children to which she said yes. I told her to hold on for them, over and over. She asked me how bad it was and all I told her was that she'd be needing some crutches. I didn't mention the blood that was pooling behind her head, or the blood that had pooled around my knees. I remember the only thing that kept coming from my mouth was about family. Children. Family. Children. Hold on, help is coming and you'll see your children soon. She told me to tell her children how much she loved them in strangled words. I told her, you can tell them when they come to the hospital to see you. I kept smiling to her, hoping it would disguise the worry in my own eyes.

       I remember the echo of sirens in the distance, and the way her eye's started to roll wildly around on her face. I remember talking and talking, holding her hand in one of my hands and pressing into her artery with my other. So much blood, yet, I didn't see pain in her eyes, only fear. Then, a police officer was next to me, yet, I didn't move. He asked me, "Did you see the accident" and I said, "No" and then he said, "Help will be here soon, keep doing what your doing" and then his presence was gone. I remember thinking, how can he abandon us?

       During a moment I cannot name, she was gone. Her eye's still wide open, but gone. Her heart still beating, but gone. She no longer held my gaze, she no longer made noises or mumbled, or tried to form a word. The sounds of sirens got louder and then, a fireman was beside me, asking questions, checking her for life, I did not let go of her hand. And then, when the fireman was ready, it was time for me to let go, and I turned my vigilance over to the people with equipment.

       If time is measured in moments, this entire moment of my life lasted probably less then 4 minutes. Yet, it will be a moment that both haunts meand I'll treasure for the rest of my life. I was with someone during their last moments of thought, life. If I call it bonding, it sounds superficial, if I call it connection, it sounds irrelevant. But something happened to me that evening that I've not spoken about much since I experienced it.

       When I stood up, I realized many people were standing in a circle around us. Neighbors woken up by the noise, other cars of people that had stopped. Not one of them had said a word, or came close to us, no one had interrupted my nonstop talking blather. Everyone a witness to this divine experience. I was covered in her blood, and astounded by the moment. I was silent. I quietly walked back into my home. The moment broken and gone, as she was.

       The card. When I learned that she had indeed died from multiple injuries that evening, I was torn, go to the funeral, or not. What I ended up choosing was writing a simple sympathy card. In it I wrote that I had been with her in the seconds, minutes after the accident and that should anyone ever desire to know what happened during that time, they only need to contact me. I sent it to the funeral home for the family and let time go by. I was never called, until last night.

       I hope, that in telling her daughter that all words, all thoughts were focused on her and her brother during those seconds, was exactly what she needed to know to find comfort.

       I've thought about it over the years, I know I could have taken it another direction. Technically, I could have asked her what hurt, I could have told her about the injuries I could see, I could have could have could have........but for whatever reason, I choose in that moment to focus on life, family, children and hope to see them again. I still believe I did the right thing.

       I hope her daughter heard what she needed from me last night. I hope I provided some comfort and rest to her thoughts. I realize now how young she was when she lost her Mother, and now, is probably an age where she could understand and hear the story, absorb it to her heart that her Mothers last words were about her. I am comforted, I was there and I am relieved I was able to tell her what I did.

She said, "Thank you Rebecca" and the circle was completed.

Dynamics

2006-03-13T13:42:00.000-08:00

This morning as I took my youngest daughter to school she proclaimed a difference that has stuck in my mind during the course of the afternoon. It went alittle something like this.

       "Momma, isn't it strange that your the Mom and you take me flyfishing and camping, and my dad is the one that makes me go to the mall and shopping when I see him a couple of times a month?"

       To which I said, "Well, I'm not so sure it's strange that I flyfish and take you, but I understand that usually it's the guys that do the things I do, and usually the girls that do the shopping.I don't mind shopping, but I love to be in the outdoors, especially with you kiddo"

     All I will say to that difference is, when I was married to their Father, I would have had to drag him into the Mall kicking and screaming. But alas, the power of another woman has overshadowed all previous fears their Father may have had and now he is as close to a Mall rat as most teeny poppers. All hail his youngster girlfriend, the female power of persuasion is strong with that one...........

       When I flyfish, I become someone entirely different. A wave of peace comes to the space around me and I am simply one. One with nature and one with myself. It's the one place I have found perfection in the world, a scene that could never be captured by camera or words.

       It is this peace that I've tried my damnedest to show my daughters. Family time watching TV, does nothing for me. Family time going out to a movie seems like a farce veiled behind good intention. Family time at any commercialized establishment always seems to be overshadowed by distractions.

       There are far to many distractions in this world and I've personally found the only way to escape them is going as far from cost incurring events as possible. Electronic devices be damned, paid events be gone, stationary entertainment is for late nights, and winter months.

       Of course, growing up poor, in the Idaho Mountains with parents that were outdoors enthusiasts is probably the main reason I enjoy my solitude in the outdoors as much as I do. We didn't have money for waterparks and gameworlds, it was all about, "Get your butt outside for the day and entertain yourself Rebecca" I wonder if things had been different, if I had grown up a city girl, without ever touching the rugged terrain of a river or mountain, what I would have established as my comfort activities.

       Comfort activities, we all have them. I wonder how mine differ from other people. When not in the outdoors I write of course, and read voraciously and rarely watch TV. I love to garden in the summer and during the winter months I pace like a caged bear. Spring fever is heighten like no other feeling right now. I've taken my pacing to the outdoors, checking for signs of life and soul inspiring green leaves around my yard and neighborhood.

       My daughter remarked upon something much deeper then I believe she even realizes. If there is one gift I can give her, it's appreciation for what cannot be bought. It's gratitude for something that is always available if one is willing to open a door and walk outside. I have such high hopes for my girls, that they will take from me that one thing, a love for the outdoors that will accompany them throughout life. It's the gift my Father bestowed upon me, and it's a gift I hope with all my heart I have given my daughters.

       I gladly give my Ex-husband the title of Mall rat, and just the opposite I'll keep my title of Outdoor rat. We'll see which gift of life my daughters treasure more in the long run. If I were a nicer person, perhaps I'd even mention that to my X, but for now, I'll keep my female persuasions focused on my daughters~

Oh all right, yes, I'm frustrated with the Father Figure and that makes for a slightly cynical state of mind. I just wish, I could show the man what a difference, what an influence he could, or should, or has the opportunity to do with his own daughters.

I have never understood the parent that falls to the wayside when it comes to their own children. That concept seems so, cowardly and as time continues to go by, I'm astounded that my own X is becoming the very type of parent I never understood.

The how is the question that strikes me a bit like the question of 'is the universe really unending?' How does a parent walk away from their own children? How does a parent choose a boyfriend or girlfriend over their own children? This question is one I now have found I must face. Ironically, my daughters Father figure has choosen life of hickies on his neck and Malls over spending time with his daughters.

I do not understand the dynamics of this how.

But I do understand how I've planted a seed of comfort in my daughters and as life takes them through the streets of choice, they can always find comfort just outside the door.

All Is Good

2006-03-06T22:59:00.000-08:00

This was one of those days that I wish I could gather up all it's moments, thoughts, feelings and emotions and bottle up for a rainy day. Clearly with my previous entry, by tomorrow it will be in the past and just another notion of my life, but I don't care, I enjoyed today.

Nothing extraordinary happened. Nothing spectacular in the grand scheme of things, and nothing that couldn't happen tomorrow. Today, I felt relief and for now thats all that matters. If there is a sanctity of mind, I achieved it today and I enjoyed it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

       I wrote in my book today, finally figuring out a specific character thats been giving me "grief" as he will say from time to time in my book. This afternoon as I started writing this persona into my book, I smiled from time to time with ultimate satisfaction knowing I'd finally set an important puzzle piece within it's pages. Thank You, by the way, to the persona that gifted me with the inspiration.

       One of the dilemmas with writing a book is adding all the right characters. I appreciate ordinary, I delight in eccentric and embrace the quirks of each of the 'players' within the story I'm attempting to convey. But sometimes, all right, often, as a writer I find myself roadblocked by need. Need of protecting a personal theme. The need to add just the right mix of characters without diluting the overall picture. The need to say what's just banging against my head to get out. The need to add character 1 with character 2 with a clash of peeps 3 and 4.

       Perfectionism is going to be either the death of my writing career, or the death of me.

       On those dragging days, when nothing seems to work, I add alittle role playing role across my mind. It goes something like this.

      I walk into the blaring lights of the Today show, smiling sweetly at Katie Couric who's gray hair is remarkably silver with the lighting. Every wrinkle on her 70 year old face is filled in with unconvincing pancake foundation. She asks her first important question, "Rebecca, your the author of a best selling novel, tell us, how long did it take you to write your brilliant piece of work that has touching the hearts of millions?"

      I shift uncomfortably in my chair, and stare down at my calloused hands, "Well Katie, I have to be honest, it took about 25 years. Perfectionism is tough to manipulate around 100,000 words of thought. In fact, it equates to 1,000 rewrites and I've murdered off at least 500 people/characters that just didn't fit in my book. I'm a serial persona killer."

       Gasps can then be heard from around the world by all other wannabe writers and beyond that I can hear the laughs of the writers who plugged out a book in 6 months flat......Hey, it's my role playing, and my way of kicking myself in the arse to get a move on things. Ok, it's one of those creative mind things, we like to self torture on occasion, gets the creative juices flowing. Yes, ok, maybe just in my world. It is what it is. A delightful torture venue with a goal of possible finality at the end of the line.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The biggest notion in my mind about today, was that I'm finally feeling like myself again. I know I don't add a lot of details in my journal, all right, my journal is typically devoid of details. But overall, the month of February was a tough one for me. I had a surgery at the beginning of the month, some complications, some rather unexpected ups and downs, twists and turns that flayed me like a dead fish on a cutting board. But thats all over now, in the past and now, I feel like facing the future. I'm fine, is actually true for once and I adore saying that. I can even feel the pull of a possible Happy Dance coming my way soon........

All is Good, and I'm enjoying the peace of it.
And thank you, again, for the offer. Wish I could have made it happen,
on the Gray Reef horizon