Micro Managed

I work, a great deal more hours than I was expecting to right now.  The money is okay.  The people I work with are strange mix indeed.  Despite the variety of ex cons, young pups and old men that fill my night working in the trucking business - I have no freedom. It seems that every possible moment of my work day (most peoples bedtimes) is filled in by phone calls, reports and constant interaction.  I am in no way blaming the men that work with me - I can imagine that they are as sick of their tethers as I am (perhaps even more so).  I just wish there a way to handle all of this interaction with more precision.  By sunup I have completed five major reports, monitored the dispatch and handled drivers problems for an assortment of clients.  By the end of my day - I have completed at least three more major reports that are in essence the same reports only more information filled in.  /sigh  It is mind numbing.  I'm exhausted and there are even points when my throat begins to hurt because I've talked so much throughout the night.  (Can you believe that?)

All these trails of paper make me feel micromanaged and horribly inefficient.

Tears in the Night, My Mother's Cabinet

My mother’s china cabinet is made of a dark wood with glass and wooden filigree.  Inside it she collected Auntie Mama Cookie jars and an odd assortment of old photographs.  It has been in every apartment, every home we ever lived. It is one of the few things of value that our family actually owns.

Last night I dreamed about my mother. She has been dead now for 11 years.  It feels like only yesterday that she died, that I heard my brother’s voice over the phone and that stone fell within my heart.
Tonight I dreamt of my brother’s house where my parents lived with him – where my dad still does.

In the dream I went home to find another woman in the house with my dad.  My mother was in another room broken hearted, on an old mattress – down the dark hallway.  My heart lurched.  How could my dad be doing this? How could my brother allow such a thing? 

“She’s been dead a long time” he says – as if excusing my dad’s adultery. 

“How can she be dead if she’s in that other room crying? I say logically and for a minute - confused.

I yell at my father then, putting my hands over his face as if to strangle him.  I’m screaming at him over and over that he can’t do this to my mother and that I would make him pay for hurting her.  

My brother reaches into her cabinet and brings me a photo of her with him from years ago.  His hair is longer and blonder but he still has that amazing smile and those cornflower blue eyes.   I began to sob. 

And to wake knowing she is dead, with a pillow covered in tears- is more than my heart can bear.

And now I sit, four-something in the morning, still crying over my own certainty that my mother was there with me last night.  I felt her, I saw her – she spoke to me. 

Bringing out the dead

The long dead have always fascinated me.  The stories they leave, the articles of clothing and materials they discard by accident - on purpose.  This last year the real world has hit me full force - knocking me from my historical pursuits. I was hit with reality - squarely and most painfully.  I realized that the Ivory Towers are gone, that people not only don't understand history but they don't want to.  I am a historian, a writer - perhaps a professor - but definitely not a teacher.  I don't like children really - and certainly don't want to spend my time in a middle school or high school classroom. (in this country at least)  What I want to do requires a lot of soul searching, of setting my priorities solidly in the right direction.  For now it is study for comps, pass them - then work on my thesis.  After all the academic pressure is off - I will be free to pursue what I really want to do with vast accumulation of knowledge - WRITE.  I want to write.  I want to write on history, on passion, on whatever strikes my fancy and I want to leave a novel behind that like a handful throughout my life - will leave others breathless.

I must clear my life.  The internet has cluttered it in a way that is alarmingly like a drug addiction.  I will be removing myself from constant updating, from the latest meme's and frantic correspondence.  I simply must.  

Computers have made us all ADHD.  

I want soft lights, rain outside and a few hours to spend talking myself through my own thoughts. 

Holosuite / Fifty Shades of Quark's

So I'm watching DS9 and Quark offers the doctor a night in the holosuite.  It then occurs to me that I have never really given much thought to what my pursuits would be if I was given such an offer.  What would it be? Where and When would go?  I think such an exercise of creation would be beneficial and practical really.  I don't think women really spend much time exploring what really turns them on. We accept that we are supposed to be turned on by men (or women), enjoy their touch and their scents but I would guess that few sexual interactions have been judged by what we hold inside - our secret desires.  Perhaps every woman (or men too) should take a few moments and jot down on a piece of paper what their ideal seduction would entail.  I for one would have in the past where the language was sweeter and the buildup longer and more satisfying.  Setting is important too.  In my holosuite I would be outside, exposed to the sky and earth but isolated so I fear no intrusions. (or extra eyes) Stopping with these few lines you can decipher many things about my sexual nature.

1. I need more romance.  The slower nature of the "courtship" is really a hunger for intimacy and flair.
2. I have a longing to feel free, less bedroom - more adventure.
3. No prying eyes - well I have no secret desire to watched.*

* This last statement is precisely what I'm getting at.  If you are writing your perfect holosuite and a mob of men are watching while you are being ravished - your secret desires may entail exposure, excitement, a need to let go of control. This is often a reflection of your daily life.  Those who are in control all the time often like a submission, a little exposure to offset those worries that bog them endlessly throughout the day.

Men often ask why women read Romance novels and scoff at the bodice ripping and throbbing members. But instead of jokes they should be paying attention.  What most women really want can be found between the ridiculous covers of those books.

Romance novels are the closest thing we get to the Holosuite. Perhaps this is why Fifty Shades of Grey did so well despite the rather unimpressive writing style.  Because every woman is different.

And women should write - write their desires down as they come across them if they aren't particularly good at expressing themselves verbally. What books turned me on?  Interview with a Vampire was a big one - and for many different reasons but here are a few:

1. Louis - Louis was the artistic, human one.  The one that was kind in his killing - regretful.
2. The coldness, the fear - the allure of death and then life eternal.
3. The warmth of the blood itself - the giving of life and sharing that deep crimson intimacy with someone.

But this might not be every woman's cup of tea.

Finding YOUR turn-on's and sharing it with your partner is vital for a healthy and lasting relationship.

I wish we had Holosuites - it would be proof that our society had moved to a point of comfortable self awareness.  That desires and interests could be safely shared with others and with oneself with judgement or shame.

Piteous Man

Rich tin’s throaty passions he calls from the corner.  The wicked lament of woe has become his bread basket.  Here he preys on the kind, the weary and the luckless.  He knows that guilt and fear will overcome their revulsion, their anger at his filthy shiftless appearance and he exchanges them both for the nod of goodwill that he and they know to be untrue.  He makes them pay for their privilege to be kind because the Church no longer sells their pardons. 

He waits on cool corners with his designer dog wearing a hero’s clothes that have been discarded to charity years ago.  The hero has forgotten them but their symbols are still in service – active duty if you will.  He is pushy and is shameless.  He makes more than I and pays nothing in.  No tax, no levy on the kindness of strangers.  No tariff on the silvered chips of guilt hitting plop plop into the can. 

He smiles, his teeth yellowed from tobacco that he can afford, ground down from the junk we buy him.  He is this piteous man who lives comfortably in an apartment downtown.  I drown in debt, in loans I cannot pay, working jobs that will have me.  He smiles at me when I glare at him.  He knows everything.

Vestal

Ah purity - thy fate is dull as it is replaced.  Nevermore the sweet innocent, the protected - the vestal.  How long ago those days were when choices were replaced by angry members and I was shocked and awed by my own pain, my own repression - the heavy silence that followed every heinous act.  Although this unlocking, this movement from protected to discarded isn't thrust by force for all girls or boys - it is traumatic.  For some it takes years for the reality to sink like a stone into your belly for others - perhaps the more "disadvantaged" it is instant.  There is nothing after this holy moment that renders oneself complete again. All the build up, all the push by hormonal drive cannot hope to ease the reality that is the sheer weight of disappointment.  Your previous purity ripped asunder and in it's place is nothing more than idle bragging rights that left to darkness is only bluster to hide that emptiness, that loneliness that creeps on after the sex is done and nothing in your universe actually changed for the better. It is in that moment that some (not all - some come later) that you realize it can only get worse from here.  Popping morning after, dry swallowing  the old HiV cocktails (I'd like my retro virus to say "Wowsa!"), bearing parasites or scrapping that bloated uterus' - if the best outcome of a bad situation is nine months paid off at "We Care Adoption" - then sign these girls up for Vestal duty friends. Bring it back in style.  Put it too some hip Dub beats and stick it on the YouTube.  The big "O"? Sad face..... the big Oooooooo is that your herpe? *evil grin*

Summer Heat

The summer has already begun.  Outside the light is blinding, skin melting and comforting. This last winter was hard on me.  I was in Seattle apart from my family.  I spent the majority of it wet and cold - climbing in and out of buses for hours at a time. There was a point that I felt as if I'd never be warm again. It was a shame really because the winter was so bitter - it made you want to do nothing and Seattle was such a beautiful city.

But now - the sun shines high and hot in Kansas.  If it wasn't for my instantaneous sunburning I would lay in the yard all day - soaking it's warmth inside of me. It is hard to feel sad when you are in it's yellow light, radio on, windows down and you are driving by fields of green.  The other morning I drove in with the sound of summer birds cheerily singing and I felt as if I was going to break into song like some Disney cartoon.

Then it hits me.  Exhaustion.  This schedule is horrible - I work at night, all night - in a stressful job to come home and clean, deal with my children and my pets. I try to lay down in the afternoon but the heat clings to me, to the house, to my mind.  Sunshine is like coffee to me - making my body buzz and my mind blur from thought to thought - causing me to be unable to sleep long and soundly.

It has been weeks since I slept well. /yawn

Fly Fly Away

Today I'm taking my youngest to fly home to Texas.  We must drive 3 hours to ensure that at 12 she doesn't have to change plans on her own.  Wow.  My baby is 12.  I am torn between this momentous feeling of excitement for her future and one of sound guilt that somehow I should feel as the other mothers do and fall to my knees in weeps and wails.... OH my baby!  It's not as if I'm not motherly  - I do love her and comparatively I think I've done a pretty good job raising my kids.  Not perfect - but above average I'd say.  But my lack of panic at my future empty nest worries me.  Am I some sort of robot?  I love the kids but I honestly can't wait until they are happy living their own lives off in college.  Am I expecting some big journey or excitement then?  I can't really think of any.  I am anticipating having my space as my own again.  No smelly teenage bodies, chip bags and book bags on the floors.  Hmmm I envision my house quiet - with Jayde and I burning candles and listening to music while painting or writing - not talking, just enjoying each other's silence and presence in our new smaller - cozy home.  Even though I will miss them, worry a little even in the beginning, I think I can settle well enough into that empty nest.

Life Forms

I sit tired, home from work, from the dog park - hungry and exhausted to the point of migraine.  I find myself wishing that I had more time, more inspiration and frankly - more dedication.  I want to be a writer.  I want to tell the world sexy stories, scary stories - memorable stories.  Who has the time? I'm working over 40 a week, running errands, cleaning house - and even sleeping a few hours to boot.  It makes me wonder how others who write find the space, the energy to create anything at all surrounded by this jumble of soul sucking life forms.

Perhaps I have no talent.  Maybe that is what is really at the heart of my hesitations and lackluster.  I feel that way.  I feel as if I write to an empty house.  

Is anyone listening?

Celestial "O"

I had a strange experience the other night.  I had this one perfect - truly freeing moment - where I felt myself pull up from my body.  I could see myself as a light-form, away from the flesh.  It started what could only be considered a cascade of memory. (the dark man, the cave, the black water)  I remember feeling fluid and warm all over. These memories, they came flooding back, rippling over my body in the shocks of "O".  I wish I had shared my experience in that moment but I didn't.  I kept my silence.  

It has been sometime since I felt myself let go enough to feel those memories - that magic.  I am always locking myself away - hiding beneath maternal sobriety.  

I exist.  I am still a spiritual self. 

Please don't let it leave. 

The Wastelands

It is all 19.  I am back in Kansas again.  Land locked in the budding summer skies with fresh green that is trickery and like such sorcery will disappear soon enough.  What is left behind is Wastelands.  I drove along 177, a hidden and scenic route - cows, grass and railroad tracks a plenty.

I thought about Blaine as the men walked beside the tracks.  They were the only people I saw for miles. I drove through a tiny town with pretty flower boxes and white fences - but it was empty.  The people perhaps in the city 30 miles away, or in their fields over the hill I couldn't see past - or perhaps they hid behind their curtains waiting for this interloper to pass on.  Pass on little truck. 

While quaint is hard to ignore, that 'awwww' that surely bubbles up from some feminine space inside me is quickly replaced by the horrific images that bled through my imagination. 

"Repent" they cry with bibles in hand. I recall something from Julie Jackson's The Lottery and I shivered.  I decided not to stop in as I'm not the protestant type.

I had gone safely through but that lingering fear nags me.  I don't trust people here completely.  It's like I am always waiting for that pitch forked mob in the night or King's creepy children to come out of those fields and set me ablaze. I am not one of these of people.  I do not belong here in the Wastelands.  

You Muse Me

Ah what can I say?  After a series of bad movies I realized that I should be working on historical fiction.  I was having a bit of writer's block this week - thinking about the right town to set my story in, worrying about current accuracy of place - and having a super hard time putting anything to paper.  Then it occurs to me while watching these movies that screenwriters have certain "tricks" to make the story believable (like cell phone tower is blown up so no communication, deserted cabin retreat for vulnerability, etc.), and this sparked this rather strange AHA moment me. If I set my work in the past and use some of these Hollywood type tricks - it is not necessary for me to completly recreate a city or town brick by brick.  So for this next week I think I'm going to study of course and work on a believable outline of the town I have in mind.  Something that does not require me buying historical maps and blueprints.  In other words - I'm going to try not to over think it.

Ode to Joy (2)

Ode to Joy

                She couldn’t see his face.  His long black hair had freed itself and hid that intense look from the audience.  To them the music was sweet honey, but she knew his eyes would show the pain of practice, of agonizing over notes and tones and relationships swept away on melody.  This was her third time seeing him play this year.  She sat in the center, her golden hair pulled tightly away from her face.  She never smiled or sighed or clapped.  She was unreadable. 

                When the curtain came down the audience stood, clapping and excited.  She made her apologies as she slipped like a wisp out of the aisle.  He had come through the velvet to bow again, and watched her as disappeared again into the night.

*****

                Isa sat at the bar.  Her long legs in silky black hose crossed and uncrossed nervously, shifting position on the tall wooden stool.  She hated these places.  She hated the way they smelled of old beer and soured men.  She looked around disappointed.  Just then she heard a rustle over the door and abnormally tall looking Korean man appeared, disheveled but smiling.  Her heart thudded against her chest and her palms usually cool and dry began to heat up and slicken.  He saw her from the corner of his eye and faltered only slightly. 

                He continued in, greeting men and women alike with a soft polite smile.  His name was Kim Min-Jun.  He was a second son and he was brilliant.

                The twinkle of bar lights illuminated his smile and the effect halted her breath.  She turned and faced the tired man behind the bar.  He grinned at her broadly as he brought her more wine.  There were no secrets here.  Somehow she knew this man could read her thoughts, her shaking hands, soft flush she got when Min-Jun came near but he was the sole of discretion. 

                Min-Jun slammed back a shot from the bar, just mere inches from her now.  His breath was warm enough for her to feel, to smell the taint of whiskey on his lips.  He grabbed the cold beer, glanced quickly at her and took up his instrument towards the tiny stage.

                Some bars had Karaoke on Thursdays – but not Mike’s.  His bar was classy.  He paid students to come, to practice, and to play on his stage for cheap beer and well shots. The patrons loved it.  They swayed together in the soft music, feeling the momentary sensation of culture travel down their polyester shirts and blue jeans – all the way down to well worn boots and scuffed heels.

                When Min-Jun played, the world stopped for her.  She closed her eyes holding her cheap red wine barely breathing at all.  Goosebumps rose along her neck and arms and her nipples pressed outwards against the soft cotton of her blouse.   She felt his eyes on her.  She knew if she moved just a little more to the right, slid her legs out, cross them even that she could face the stage.  She could gaze at him fully, smoking gaze into his eyes but she dared not.  She contented herself in watching him through the mirror behind the bar.  His image a little distorted by aged glass and dirt.

                Min-Jun played a soft waltz and time stood still.  The older couples smiled at old memories and turned each other gently.  The younger crowd moved back to tables and sipped at their drinks, still smiling.  While he played, the bow pulled against the violin in a delicate flip of his wrist, and his lips parted like a sleepy child. She knew how those lips warmed skin, how they tasted sweet against hers. She flushed.

                He could see her from his stool.  The long lines of her body stretched against the fabrics, the little black skirt drove him mad.  His cock hardened against grey slacks.  He couldn’t take it anymore.  He worked his way through the last few notes, waited for the applause to die and announced he would be taking a small break.

                She heard him and froze.  He packed his violin lovingly in its case and walked to the bar.  Passing it over to the bartender he glanced in the mirror at her.  He said nothing but moved on to the back. 

                The narrow hallway was dark with its wood panels and yellowing light.  He walked slowly, his slender fingers tracing the walls as he went.  He came to a door past the bathrooms.  He opened it slowly.  Light spilled through and he could see the small table and an old daybed against the wall.  It smelled of old furniture and cardboard boxes.  He didn’t care.

                He heard her behind him.  Her sweet perfume wafted into the room.  It was subtle, classy.  He waited until he heard the door lock and he turned around.  Without a word he grabbed her and pushed her against the wall.  She moaned slightly as her breath was knocked out.  His lips pressed roughly against her as his body stretched and pushed at hers.  His cock was hard and sharp as it crushed against her pelvis. 

                His tongue darted in and out of her mouth.  Her lipstick smeared and her breath was labored already.  He grabbed at her shirt and she gasped as she heard the buttons rip to the floor.  But she didn’t move. 

                Min-Jun’s fingers spread and pushed against her bra, the fullness of her breasts spilling above the satin fabric.  His right hand pushed at her throat as he dropped his head down to kiss their swell, biting the skin, the fabric – her nipples were hard flags of desire and she was on fire.

                Isa whimpered his name and his hand moved from her neck to her mouth – covering it.  He moved his head upward and stepped in closer, burying his teeth into her neck.  She cried out against his palm.  But he kept her quiet.  Her heart thumped wildly as he stepped back suddenly and let her go.  She fell forward a bit, suddenly loose from his grip. 

                “Sit on the bed” He said gruffly.  She nodded and moved to the edge of the bed and sat as commanded.

                “Now open your legs” He walked towards her, never lowering his eyes.  She did as she was bid, opening her legs wide.  She wore no panties beneath.  Her soft folds were shaved, exposed and wet.  He knelt down in front of her – pushed her back so she lay flat.  He took his fingers and opened the lips of her womanhood.  He bent down into her.  First he moved slowly.  His tongue and his fingers working in unison.  She began to moan.

                “shhh” he cooed and she bit her lip and dug her nails into the bed.  His tongue began to move faster and faster, she squirmed – moving her hips to meet his mouth.  Finally she came – bursting and he moved his hand quickly across her mouth to shut her cries.

                He stood and smiled then at her, a wicked thing.  She sat up, pulling his hips into her face.  Her hands clasped his button and zipper, moving quickly.  His pants slid to the floor and he stood there fully erect.  She immediately placed him in her mouth.  He was warm and smelled of flesh.  She tried not to gag at his size but her jaw strained against him. 
                He moaned deeply and pushed her off of him.  She looked up, her bright blue eyes shining. 

                “Get up” he said and helped her up.  He turned and laid himself on the bed.  His shirt half open revealing his chiseled hairless chest and his cock stood wide against the night.  He motioned for her to come to him.  She slid off her heels and straddled him on the bed, sliding his cock deep inside her wetness.  He grabbed her hips and held her all the way down. 

                “Don’t move” he whispered.  She obeyed and just sat, feeling the depth, the heat.  He began to move his hips slightly, rocking her, holding her firmly. 

                “Now you” he grinned.  She began slowly, moving her hips forward and then back.  Her breath began to speed up, and her hips moved faster and faster.

                “mmmm yes, that’s it” he said and licked his lips.  She nestled her face against him and came hard, crying out into his shoulder.  He rolled her over then, giving her no time to catch her breath.  He thrust against her hard.  She moaned and sighed for breath.  He got faster and faster – pounding the soft flesh between her legs.  His hands held her hips high and her breasts moved in rhythm.  Finally he cried out and she could feel his hot seed spurting inside her.  

                He stopped, letting it flow into her, letting the sensation move over him.  She said nothing.  Slowly he moved himself out of her, his cock still bulging and sticky.  He grabbed for an old rag and wiped himself.  He slid on his pants as she touched his skin gingerly.  

                When he stood he looked back at her.  She was lovely in her black skirt and torn shirt.  Her lips were red with passion and he could see the stickiness between her legs in the ill light.  He sighed and headed for the door.  

                “Min-Jun” she cried – but it was too late, he was gone.

               

Oh the bus

I am less than impressed with the men of Seattle.  I know, I know - wide statement - over reaching - but no, not really.  They all look like weird clones of one another:  wool hat, wool jacket, beard, t-shirt and those god awful black rim glasses.  Yes, I am calling them all Hipsters.  And I'm over it.  It's not cute.  It's as annoying as everyone's obsession with recycling while they throw cigarette butts on the ground and never come out from behind their earbuds.  By the way - your music isn't really that interesting.  Oh and I know - you are probably listening to some Liberal College Station or something - but must of you are over 30 now - it's just sad.  A couple of friends and I went for dinner a few nights ago - we passed this Wine Dive where they sat around smoking on the patio.  It was like a clan of cave bears with beer bellies.  Also - straight men don't drink wine - they drink beer or hard liquor.  Gay men look perfectly fine with a nice glass of Merlot - you sir look like a douche.  What happened to real men?  You know - the ones who really don't care if their stocking hat matches their jacket and can fix my car or my plumbing -who doesn't just text the repair guy on his IPhone.  Guys you are becoming completely useless as men.  It's disgusting.  I know I'm supposed to be liberated and capable - I get it - I'm a 21st Century girl but you are still a sissy boy.  It's like over the last twenty years the real men have become brainwashed by that nerdy kid he used to kick around in high school.  Don't get me wrong - Brains are sexy.  Hipsters are not. And they would be completely useless against Zombies - so what's the point?

No Wrong Done... Ever

It amazes me how individuals who are truly malignant can continue to harm us even after we have tried to cut them out of our lives.  It is also shameful that a family would bury themselves so firmly in denial as to risk the health of their grandchildren. Most of you know about the damage my ex has caused me physically and emotionally.  What you may not know is how year after year I have tried to maintain a relationship with his family only to be hurt even worse by them.  It came to me last night, they have been
re-victimizing me for years. They have been holding me accountable for his sins and their failures by punishing me emotionally, manipulating me emotionally to hide his crimes.  When I was asked NOT to testify against him because it would hurt the family I laughed. I finally got it.  They don't care about me at all.  They only see me as a piece to keep in check so I won't give anyone the lengthy catalog of crimes he has committed. They are asking ME - the VICTIM - to help him.  What's more and this is really sick - they don't care about him either - they just don't want the neighbors to know what kind of monster they raised.

Ode to Joy

She couldn't see his face.  His long black hair had freed itself and hid that intense look from the audience.  To them the music was sweet honey, but she knew his eyes would show the pain of practice, of agonizing over notes and tones and relationships swept away on melody.  This was her third time seeing him play this year.  She sat in the center, her golden hair pulled tightly away from her face.  She never smiled or sighed or clapped.  She was unreadable. 

                When the curtain came down the audience stood, clapping and excited.  She made her apologies as she slipped like a wisp out of the aisle.  He had come through the velvet to bow again, and watched her as disappeared again into the night. 

Moments in Space

The homeless are everywhere here.  Corner to corner begging for change.  Most of them appear normal enough with their cups and dogs on leashes, woolen caps and cardboard signs.  But there are others out there too.  You hear them first, this strange loudness of voice - they are angry, shouting their internal dramas  into the chilly air.  They see you but you get the feeling that they think you can't see them.  They keep talking, dirty clothes bound in wrinkles and they move ever forward - ever onward.  They rage war on injustice, protecting themselves from the aliens, the demons  - "the man".  It is pitiful but it is not really what you feel for them - what you feel is an odd fear, and uncertainty.  Can they see through you? Are they "touched"? Because sometimes what they say has an odd ring that sounds like one of your secret thoughts and it makes you shiver.

Westlake 420

Seattle is very happy about their legalization(?) of pot.  I'm happy for them, sort of.  I do have a couple of issues with the joyous celebrations occurring though.  The first issue  - smoking at Westlake.  For those of us who have commutes that require the tunnel and the side street pick-ups - it has becoming a cloying experience of skunk weed.  I'm not offended by pot per se - but I enjoy their patrons as much as I enjoy any other addictions which makes you utterly obnoxious. It smells - the acrid smoke seems to follow whoever hates it the most - and this case that would be me as I have developed a weird sensitivity to the smell that makes me want to vomit.  Ironic really as it's often given to patients to help alleviate that very same issue. Aside from my own personal hatred of the smell, I must also speak as a parent.  When someone drinks to much, it becomes obvious and disturbing - but children passing by are not suddenly asked to take shots of alcohol simply by trying to run past.  Pot smoking on the streets is affecting the kids too - not just me.  I see the parents sighing patiently and pushing pink and squirmy brown bundles closer to their jackets in hope of filtering the fumes.  That is absurd   Why should we as non-smokers be forced to make ourselves and our children uncomfortable so you can stand around the bus stop toking?  That comes to my second issue - why there?  I want to point out that this sort of legalization is tentative at best and the sudden flood of complaints the city must be receiving about people smoking pot openly on the streets and especially at the stops is only going to fuel determination to make it illegal once again.  It's like giving a inch to be taken for mile.  It wasn't good enough that the city loosened it's hold a bit but stoners have to behave childishly and flaunt it - thereby sealing their own fates to be pushed underground again.  I know thinking logically is hard on pot - but please try to keep up. It's Parenting 101 - if you want your parents to trust you and give you MORE freedom then don't take advantage of what they do give you - act responsibly and thoughtfully among others.

Broken Music

Broken Music came in today.  I have a copy, a signed copy tucked away in the safety of plastic but I actually wanted to read it.  It starts where all great stories should  - in the middle of chaos.  I like to read on the bus, hoping someone will ask me "Hey what are you reading?" so I can tell them.  So I can share in how books move me.  I have told more than a handful of people what my favorite book is.  No one reads it.  It makes me wonder if they don't trust my judgement or is it that they just don't care enough about me to even try to understand why these words are so important to me.  I believe you can tell a great deal about someone through what they read.  There is something very secret about a persons choice of novel.  What demons are they exercising?  What loves are they holding mournfully too?  What are they missing in their own lives that they can find escaping into written worlds?  Reading for pleasure should be done often and with great voracity. There are but a handful of people that I truly admire outside my close and personal circle.  Sting is one of them.  I am excited as I've started -  his books are seeping through and I want to read everything that has impacted him - so I can feel closer to him in some strange way - like looking up at the same bright star and the same time.  Words fill us up and we can share that with the ones we love and strangers alike because they are constant.

Literary Sea

This is my year.  This year I will put my heart out on paper, let my stories breath in the open - away from my overly protective psyche.  Despite my misgivings and my self loathings I will write.  I have a novel inside me somewhere.  It's in here with my voices of doubt and the harsh words spoken to me as a child.  It is in here with my mistakes and my triumphs. And I want to share it with those who will listen, who can commit to my journey as I try.  I have moved to Seattle, to be closer to the sea and the cold.  If healing must be done through tears than so be it.  I will allow myself to drown in these tears, sailing on my literary sea.