...Hangin' In the Breeze...

"The place where you came from ain't there anymore,

and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out."

We are critics, we all are. Sometimes we are our own worse critic, and not one person I know can deny the fact. The word critic and its elbow hard edges; C’s that sound like K’s and the “IT” in the middle that stands alone (remember how you felt when you were the "cheese," and the cheese stood alone?). You expect to see a gnarly pointed finger and the possibility of the oncoming spray of spittle that lands on your cheek and burns like acid. My mom used to tell me when someone points at you, remember they are pointing three fingers back at themselves. Those words should have given me some comfort, but they didn’t. In my case, my internal temperature rises; my heart pounds to a whole different rhythm, sweat beads undetected on my scalp, the tips of my ears begin to blush crimson, and I come back to reality when the nervous perspiration collects to form an ice-cold trickle down the v of my back.
 
Your critic leans back in his oversized chair, a smirk laces his thin lips and secretly gloats, confidant he made you feel exactly how he envisioned it. Patiently, he awaits the rest of your reaction. You’re speechless. That’s okay, take all the time you need to get it together, time is on his side, not yours. This same scenario could be the reaction to bad news. Like when someone tells you your life will never be the same, or the decision you’re about to make can affect not only your life, but also the lives of those you love.

Beginning a letter can be quite a daunting task, especially if it’s been a while since you communicated with someone. The following letter will get different reactions, but I have a very savvy following and most of you might get it…or maybe not. It’s been nearly eight months since I’ve last posted and sometimes (probably most of the time), I’m vague at to what I’m trying to say. It’s like the writer who wants and loves to write smut, but is afraid what his or her family and friends will think. I say, write it using a pseudonym, or screw what others think, and just write it. Did I just say that…coming from the queen of vague? Some of my posts I’ve been told “…are an exercise in reading undertones. Have you done any acting?” Yep, that made me laugh. Don’t we act out in one form or another every day of our lives? Think about it… I digress.

I haven’t determined if this will be my last post, too soon to tell at this writing but this may be the first of the final series of The Constipated Woman. You know what they say about all good things coming to an end…when another door opens, take a deep breath and walk through…Peace.

June 8, 2013

Hello My Friend,

It’s been a while hasn’t it? I sincerely apologize for being so disrespectfully remiss concerning my continuing correspondence. You may come to a few conclusions of your own, on what condition my condition is in. You may concur with others about a probable diagnosis to what may seem to you, an obvious problem concerning my delayed absence. Please don’t. Better yet, just have a party. If you love to have parties to celebrate the non-substantial and the senseless, then the subject of my well-being will make a great theme. Flavor it up with a black light, a ball of tin foil, some grease paint, and a little mood music like Iron Butterfly and take yourself a retro 60’s trip with a zombie theme. Yeah, yeah, that’s the ticket…call me and we can work on the details. That was extremely rude…sorry!

After all, I did make a pact with you, and I fully acknowledge I haven’t kept many of the promises I intended to keep. In the past, you frequently prompted me to indulge you with dark and voluptuous snippets of my life to maintain your loyalties. I tried and I came up short. Instead, I frequently arrived with pen in hand, my thinning hair uncombed, and balancing my cereal bowl size cup of coffee while dodging my over-indulgent cats. I sit on my fat ass at my uniquely crafted desk and prepare to write out on my arm for all to read, a watered-down laxative in the form of feelings. I am remiss of the reason I came. The cold coffee imprinted two halos inside my favorite chipped mug. I am remiss of spent time or the number of cups I drank. The sun is high in the sky and I am remiss about why I’m still sitting here.

I duly note a number of my obligations did not exceed some of your specifications. I tried to be your friend. I tried to convey, and I believe I succeeded in letting you know you are not the only one out there with dark and crazed feelings. Should you ask me tomorrow what I wrote today, I would be remiss of an opinion and promptly display a blank canvas.

Did I forget to mention what your words meant to me? Did I tell you how supportive you were? I am remiss. I know I might have waited too long to tell you I care and for that, I am sorry. Hundreds of daily emails have dwindled down to an infrequent handful of letters from cyber followers who have become my friends, and that’s okay...really. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging during my absence; I am not remiss of the guilt or the sense of commitment I promised. I realize seven months is a long time to wait and see if I happened to share some sort of whimsical enlightenment to make you laugh or cry. By now, many of you may have even forgotten my blog’s silly name or the purpose I began to write…that’s okay, you can be remiss of that. What I fear is leaving an existence I am becoming remiss of. I didn’t leave you I left myself. It’s not so puzzling, just frightening.

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

It was the playwright’s fault for setting the stage all wrong. The props, the backdrops, and the eerie musty draft from backstage…all wrong. He promised the audience something he knew I could not deliver. I told him not everyone could read between the lines. All eyes were on me and if I gave a second rate performance, it was his fault. The script was flawed; even an imbecile could plainly see he plagiarized my subconscious in an attempt to gain fame and recognition. It was he who made me forget my lines by his devilish pranks and subliminal actions off stage. It was he who made me the fool of the performance while the rest of the cast waited in the green room sipping on a mild degree of success. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter now because I am totally remiss of the events during the blackout. Was it the stage or was it the set? Yes, yes, that was it…the set collapsed, it was an obvious flaw in the design and structure…that’s the answer—which I am now certain of. I merged with the coulisse and watched the confused audience from the diffused wings of my manic thought balloon. Remiss.

Cleverly camouflaged amid the props I stood unnoticed. I froze and watched the audience with widened eyes and gaped mouths to see the massive conglomeration of their seemingly pathetic lives form over their heads. Did they understand any of what was happening? Of course, they did not. Did they see what I saw, or were they remiss their own lives were being anonymously played out before them?

When everyone twisted his or her heads for one final glance towards the stage, I believed I would be in agony if they found me out. I wasn’t, and was thankful. They, the perfect ones with their curled lips of apathy, whisper to one another behind cuffed hands hiding the mounting sense of panic. They gather their programs and their looking glasses and scurry towards the theater’s only exit in an orderly fashion. They were afraid. Their declining postures and outstretched necks told me they were afraid others would see the fading façade through the failing youth toxins. Those, with their perfect pompadours and french manicures desperately inhaled the trail of the dispersing phantom whiffs of sanity as it marched out the theater before them. I stood remiss of emotion.

It would be remiss of me if I did not share with you the vital role you have made in my life. I know you cared…I feel it now, and I felt it then. Please forgive me; I am remiss of your name and long for the days when I was untouched by an atrophied brain.



Why does it have to be this way?

"Three may keep a secret," wrote Ben Frannklin, "if two of them are dead."

I wish I were one of the few lucky people in the world who sees everything through rose-colored glasses. I am not. I wish I were one of those who think they were blessed with no character flaws. Once again, I am not. I am a practical person with realistic and down to earth values. Occasionally, I do lean in the direction of being a misanthropist when I get on my soapbox, and today is one of those times. I am deeply saddened. I feel I should have done something to alleviate a situation many years ago, but I did not. I didn’t know how. I am angry. I am angry with myself. Period.

I read the words on a social network post, that someone, a family member, is in the care of hospice. She didn’t want anyone to worry or fuss over her and kept the burden about having the ‘Big C’ to herself after being diagnosed terminal a few months ago. I know that is the kind of person she is, and I have accepted that. The truth about her life is the anger within me that has no limits. I don’t know where or how to begin to write about her tragic life, when my thoughts are reeling of guilt.

This is a story about a family with a few dirty secrets and turned a blind eye to help a child in need. Secrets that became an exercise in avoiding the situation, driving a cleft between those in the family who know the secret and those who don't, and members on the two sides are driven apart by the knowledge. We all knew who was harmed, and who was being protected. We were all noble enough to perpetuate this secret, clearly knowing how damaging it was. It’s a tragic story of abuse on all levels. I asked myself, “Where was God in all this?” Who knows…maybe this is the answer.

The first time I saw her she was nine months old. She was a preemie that wasn’t much bigger than one of my dolls. In fact, she was a blonde haired cherub, with big trusting eyes and pink cheeks. She joined our family fifty years ago with the union of marriage. She was a sweet child who always wore a big smile and as she got older, she became the scapegoat for everything that seemed to go wrong in everyone else’s life. I’m not going to write about her demons and how she coped with them. We all have our ways, some self-destructive, some not. But what I can tell the world is that she is truly a good person. She’s a loving mother and grandmother. She’s a trusting, sensitive, and caring person for as long as I have known her and I love her very much.

This story is not finished...it has yet to be written...  

...I Got You, Babe...

Here's a toast to the future

A sigh for the past

We can love and remember

And hope to the last.

And for all the base lies

That the Almanacs hold

While there's love in the heart,

We can never grow old.

~Unknown

Forty years ago today, the final preparations were being made for the wedding that will take place in four short weeks. With time running out, my parents and my new in-laws were still disagreeing about the reception and where it would take place, the food that would be served, and the guests who were to be invited. Every day I sewed pearls and sequence on the wedding dress and veil my mother made for me. Many things crossed my mind during the time I hand sewed the details on my dress. It would have been so easy to elope like we planned and save everyone, including us a lot of headaches, bickering, and the financial obligations of having a wedding. Getting married and vowing to spend a lifetime with someone, for better or worse, is a tall order for two kids who just finished high school. The decision wore at me until I panicked. Four weeks to the big day, time demanded I confront those fears with the dark haired boy sitting next to me in the dining room of our first home. My mind wasn’t on the task of tediously addressing invitations. With every envelope I sealed, I felt myself becoming more stressed. I wrung my hands under the table trying to hide my nervousness and like someone possessed, the words poured out of my mouth, “I don’t think I can do this.” “Do what?” he asked. “Marry you,” I blurted staring out the window. The announcement was cold and unfeeling and it was too late to take it back.

The silence was overwhelming in that small dining room. I felt as though the ice green walls were going to smother me for breaking his heart. In my mind, marriage was supposed to last forever, when you agree to “until death do you part.” You accepted each other’s weaknesses and imperfections, and all the good and bad times that were part of the pact. Not only was it my religious beliefs, but also the way it’s supposed to be when two people truly pledge their love for one another. Forever is eternity. I just wasn’t sure at that very moment I could make that promise, or if I would, or wanted to be his forever. I told him what I had been hashing over in my mind and the fear and confusion I felt making a lifetime commitment.

The warmth of his hands eventually broke the surreal moment as he reached for mine and held them tight within his. Tears streaked his young face as he professed his love for me. He told me he had loved me from the first time he laid eyes on me. He told me what was in his heart. At that very moment, sitting at our small second hand dining room table, I really looked into his eyes and saw into his heart. I knew I loved him more than life and made the decision to be with him and to never look back. Oh, once in a while I wonder what would have happened if he took his love that day and walked away. I also wondered how that split second in time would have defined the rest of our lives. But...this is not a story of how life went on and we lived happily ever after. It’s not about the birth of our children nor is it about the deaths of our loved ones. It's not about the joy and heartbreak a couple endures.  It’s not about our spirituality or the possessions we own. It’s not about trust, honesty and compatibility. It’s as simple as seeing the look of pure love in someone’s eyes. The unspoken words that the eyes reveal when they tell you are the love of their life that you always was, and always will be.  It's the gel that meshes two people together...

One of our favorite things to do for the past 40 years is to scour for antiquities of the distant past and to find that one of a kind something that had meaning to each of us even if it meant digging, dragging, and hauling it from different areas of the country. One of our many shared interests has always been music and its many genres. More specifically, we love old gramophones, or as they are referred in general, the old talking machines. We have found many through the years but not one that had heart.

A few weeks ago, we happened to be browsing a shop we hadn’t frequented in quite a while. I usually go my way and my husband goes his, both of us searching to acquire a lost treasure. I already made my way to the farthest end of the shop and was peacefully browsing for some of the things I collect, when my husband comes around the corner, grabs my hand, and drags me with him to the opposite side of the store. “Why can’t it wait until I got done looking?” I protested. “It can wait,” he said. “What I need to show you can’t. You have to see what I found.” Well, you guessed it, my curiosity was peaked!

After practically dragging me to the farthest corner of the shop, there stood a beautiful mahogany sideboard hidden behind a montage of items. “What do you think?” he asked after he zigzagged through the maze and stood beside it. “Beautiful,” I replied. Indeed, it was a beautiful piece of furniture but I wasn’t sure if I needed something that ornate. He flashed me that devilish boyish grin that makes me melt and says, “Wait there’s more.” He revealed the cabinet had three compartments, and the one on the right was a phonograph. “And…it works!” He cranked the handle, placed the arm on the record he had waiting on the turntable, and the scratchy sound of Ethel Waters singing Stormy Weather began to play. Tears welled in my eyes and what I refer to as, “that mushy look” washed all over his face. When our eyes met, we both knew it was ours. “Do you think the records come with it?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders and before he could answer, I hurried to the counter to inquire about it. The answer was “yes.” When I returned to my excited spouse, he was closely examining the cabinet and the phonograph components. “Not only is this solid mahogany, it is hand carved. Look here, you can see a few chisel marks…” he pointed out. I ran my fingers over the cabinet’s detail as another record played. I didn’t have to say I wanted or needed it when he whispered, “Happy Anniversary.” I was given the Hope Diamond of record players to commemorate forty years of an ongoing hunt.

So, here it is...the new addition to our home, a Meteor, The Star Of The Talking Machines. We brought it home last Saturday with its original finish and placed it in its special place. Upon picking it up, the owner of the antique shop told us there were two owners of the phonograph, the woman who originally purchased it est. 1905, and her nephew who inherited it. His aunt would be pleased to know we've been having a wonderful time playing the old 78's to the flicker of candlelight in the evenings. It will take a while to play all 150 of them...Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, George Gershwin, Jimmy Dorsey, Ozzie Nelson collections along with some children’s stories and early country and jazz. Al Jolson, Ben Bernie, Paul Whiteman, and a few Enrico Caruso songs also grace this stack of vintage records.

I know “Auntie” will be smiling down on us this coming June 24th. We will be dancing cheek to cheek like we did years ago in the high school gym. The Peerless Quartet will be singing Let Me Call You Sweetheart, and we will be momentarily lost in time. Sometime during that sublime moment, we’ll tip our wedding glasses filled with a soft red wine, we will toast to the here, the now, and to our future, and hope that the warmth of our affections survive the frosts of old age…  

...the pen is now back in my hand...

“You are the designer of your destiny. You are the author. You write the story. The pen is in your hand, and the outcome is whatever you choose.” ~Lisa Nichols


I began this New Year forgiving and apologizing, now it’s time to get back to living and being the upbeat person I really am. I lost myself somewhere in the past twelve months. I’m not sure exactly where Monica went. I found her shell, but her heart went unfound until recently. My personal life and relationships with family was in turmoil. To put it quite bluntly, I hit bottom as the New Year approached.

Depression…it’s not something I am proud of. My mind took over like a runaway train and had an ongoing party at my expense. I wrote about this before and there is no need to hash it over again. I appreciate the many emails I received from those of you who have inquired, “what’s up?” I’ve tried to answer most of them, and hopefully, I plan to get back on track with life in general. I’ve made some difficult decisions and I feel good about them. I’m leaving the pessimistic woman behind and saying “hello” to the woman I remember, the one grounded with the positive attitude who placed her troubles in God’s hands. I’m anxious to get back that, “what are you up to?” or as my husband would say, “that shit-eatin’grin” back on my face. I have been very fortunate to have those precious few who has come into my life and inspired, touched, and illuminated me with their positive energy and their presence. For this, I am truly blessed.

There’s a quote by John DeMartini I heard many years ago, it was one I used to live by, “Whatever we think about and thank about we bring about.” There is much wisdom in those words. I haven’t thought much about those words until recently. Negative thoughts block the good things that can come to you, which is exactly what I did. Every day, I woke up with the lack of gratitude that God has given me another day to live. And, even though it may be a Chamber of Commerce picture perfect day, I couldn’t see the sun nor did I strain to find it. Many of us were taught to put ourselves last, and as a consequence, we begin to feel unworthy and undeserving. I am learning to change my lifetime habits by changing my thoughts. It may sound cold and harsh, but unless I can fill myself up with the good things of life, I have nothing to give anybody.

So, today, I saw the morning in a different light and I smiled when my feet hit the floor. I felt the familiar odd sensation brewing inside my heart, and thought, “Oh yes, it is good to be alive!” The stereo speakers released unconstrained rhythms off the walls throughout the house, and it made me smile as I thought about the special people in my world. And, if I’m not mistaken, I could almost swear that the brightly colored cardinal that was perched on the feeder next to the kitchen window was singing, “Welcome back to the magic of life!”

~Thank you, Jack for starting my day with this awesome NM sunrise!

...the night bled vermilion...

“If you had a bank that credited your account each morning with $86,400—with no balance carried from day to day—what would you do? Well, you do have such a bank...time.

Every morning it credits you with 86,400 seconds. Every night it rules off as "lost" whatever you have failed to use toward good purposes. It carries over no balances and allows no overdrafts. You can't hoard it, save it, store it, loan it or invest it. You can only use it—time.”


Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain. She is trying to blend into the sterile surroundings clothed in her new pale French lavender faux pas gown accessorized with new fangled white bracelets. Its not the most becoming attire for the New Years celebration but it suits her well for the time being or until someone brings her the Terani Couture gown she purchased for the event at Eeyore’s Melancholy Hotel’s, “Bring it on,” New Year’s Eve Ball. The staff smiles and nods when they pass her reclining on the chaise lounge in the quiet corner, and kindly inquire if she is cold. They avoid her request to call for a taxi and tell her all her questions will be answered soon…

Partygoers found her after midnight staring into the water until it bled vermilion, disheartened that her constant long time companion, Zoë left her. Her friend left her high and dry many months ago, even her closest confidant didn’t notice the emptiness that filled the days without her. The woman was a seasoned actress. She fooled many pros with her well-rehearsed lines, executing the prepared words with specific details that were meticulously practiced without flaw behind closed doors. No one suspected anything was wrong. Her confident outward appearance and cool demeanor duped them all. The woman kept up the façade that her missing companion was on a hiatus and would return soon. But, it turns out, Zoë was not the loyal friend the woman thought she was for so many years. It’s been nearly two agonizing years and Zoë still did not return.

Zoë didn’t give any reason to why she left but it was rumored she could no longer provide a faithful service to the woman. The woman used her to her full capacity until she could no longer efficiently perform her duties. She never abused Zoë physically, but in time, Zoë knew her services would become a weak representation of her strength to help the woman and did not want to be the cause of her sorrow. Quietly and unnoticed, she slipped out the door and caught the next blue train out of the city.

“Who the hell does she think she is?” spewed the woman. “I can live without her and all her conditions. She’ll find out she needs me more than I need her.” But regrettably, in a very short time the tables were turned. Zoë happily started a new life with someone who needed her, leaving the distressed woman in dire need of a new companion. It was difficult organizing her thoughts and everyday tasks were piling up without help. The void was intensifying and nothing was getting done. Family and friends were no longer intrigued with the woman’s charm and talents when she chose to become somewhat of a recluse. No one understood her weaknesses, nor did they care. They turned their heads in shame, embarrassed that she could not make it through the day without a constant companion, and eventually left her alone. Worse than that, the 86,400 seconds God provided the woman each day was wasted. Every night for days, weeks, and months, she lost sleep because whatever she failed to use toward good purposes was gone forever. She was distraught, petulant, and ached with profound emptiness and sadness for the relationships and the time which was lost and squandered pointlessly away.

Without Zoë, the woman could not express coherently what was locked in her heart and hidden in the dark corners of her mind. Well, that was not altogether true, because even with Zoë’s tenacity; certain people chose not to articulate on the matter and would never know what was truly hidden inside of the vulnerable woman.

One tear after another gently escapes her closed eyes without smudging the woman’s mascara. Even in complete desperation, she tries to remain composed. She lays on her side, hands poised in prayer, her mind wanders back to past times when she was calmed by the warm touch of her mother’s hand…finally able to sleep…

Todays Confession...

I have come to another realization on this journey to find myself and my creativity, is that things are getting tougher. It’s getting down to the nitty gritty why I think I am the way I am. I am learning to understand my needs. I have lived much of my life in the dark, in ignorance of what others think, feel, and because of those experiences, I have restrained myself.

I had insights at fifteen years old that I would seize again at another time and lose because I didn’t have the intellectual framework in which they would fit and be retained. I feared offending those who loved me, or those I wished to please. Shame can also get in the way of creativity. We all have the notions of what we should be, and sometimes we are ashamed of what moves us or how much we are moved. At other times, we feel we ought to have been moved and we try to pretend.

These are some of the things I have learned on my journey:

§ I believe the desire to be better can choke off the desire to just BE.
§ Judging my early writing efforts is a form of abuse.
§ When I feel blocked in my life, it's because I feel safer that way.
§ My creativity and writing is a healing process for mind and soul.
§ As I gain strength through my writing, I also start attacking myself with more self-doubt.
§ I can deal with these strange attacks when I see them as only a form of self-discovery.
§ Most of all, I cannot afford to think about who is getting ahead of me.
§ Don't compare your style of writing with anyone else's. That's what makes every writer unique.
§ Finally, I make big mistakes, the one's that carry regrets. It is a great thing to find a like mind and soul. It's a gift that needs to be cherished, a common bond that helps one heal the other…and I let it go.

Another confession…I am needy. I need to talk about things, all sorts of things, trivial and important, and this drives my other half crazy. I need to argue back, but I remain quiet. I need him to share his feelings too. I need to tell him why I need to be alone. I need him to tell me I still look the same in his eyes before my hair turned gray. My mind screams to the point I feel like my head will explode, but remain silent. I need to tell him to touch my face, look into my eyes, and see me for what and who I am and always was. I need to tell him, “don't go, stay” when I need to talk. I wish I could tell him why I want to run away and not look back. I need, like most of us, to be needed.

I read once, "As artists (writers included), we are travelers." Our minds wander (as you can read from the things I write). Our fingers turn raw from writing of far off things. We even struggle with dreams and reality. We want to make a difference. We need (there’s that word again) to learn to stop comparing ourselves to others and quit saying, “what's the use,” when we self doubt our aspirations.

Peace Everyone...

Today's Confession...My "Black Dog"

This is in response to the numerous emails and inquiries where I've been...I hope this answers all your questions...Thanks for hanging in there with me.

"Black Dog" was Churchill's name for his depression, and as is true with all metaphors, it speaks volumes. The nickname implies both familiarity and an attempt at mastery, because while that dog may sink his fangs into one's person every now and then, he's still, after all, only a dog, and he can be persuaded sometimes and locked up other times.

People tend to forget that an individual who has depression or any other disorder is actually a person underneath the chaos and despair. On my worst days, it feels as if the depression consumes me and takes over my entire body. I am filled with negative thoughts and pessimistic views. I am irritable, impulsive, anxious, and sometimes I am sarcastic even to those I love. I can even become narcissistic, wonder why people don’t see me as this wonderful person, and become aggravated when they want nothing to do with me.

I can hear myself when I’m angry and depressed, and I can hear the words, tone, and pitch of what I’m saying and on a subconscious level, I cringe at what I’m doing. I know that I’m wrong and I know that I’m being hurtful, but at the same time, I cannot stop. It’s like having an out of body experience where you are floating above and watching every movement and hearing every word, but are powerless to stop. It’s the worst feeling in the world, when you know that you are being unreasonable and could be hurting someone’s feelings. That is why I have learned to keep my mouth shut until I can calm down and have an adult conversation with someone. However, even that can get me into trouble because I am seen as being disrespectful and defiant and as someone who doesn’t seem to have the patience to deal with a situation tactfully.

The list of names reads like an honor roll of the past two centuries, names like Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill and Vincent Van Gogh, Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky, Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, Stephen Hawking, and Buzz Aldrin, just to name a few.

All suffered from either depression or bipolar disorder (manic-depression). The list goes on: Virginia Woolf, Judy Garland, Jack London, Marylin Monroe, Sylvia Plath, Mike Wallace, Kurt Cobain ...

Perhaps depression and manic-depression has a way of coaxing out the most noble and creative and visionary in some. If so, God must have a very twisted sense of humor. I think of the brilliant works produced under this muse, and I also think of the promising lives cut tragically short: Virginia Woolf's body fished out of the water, weighted down by stones, Van Gogh cradled in the arms of his brother at age 37, a thousand Starry Nights never to be painted, Sylvia Plath with the gas on and her kids in the next room, Marilyn Monroe found in a state of partial rigor mortis, forever young.

Sure, it's nice to know that depressives and manic depressives can accomplish great things, but then I consider the terrible tolls they all had to pay, and realize we are guilty of glamorizing the horrific, and in the process we diminish the tragedy this disorder has left in its wake.

I have learned to live with this thing inside me, even with the knowledge that it could very well bring me down at a moment's notice and show me no mercy. It has brought me closer to God and myself and my fellow human beings. But it has also reduced me to nothing and taken away everything I had. It has left me for dead, powerless to fight, feeling abandoned by both God and man.

And so, I must accept what I am, the bad, as well as the good, the ridiculous as well as the sublime. Maybe then, in my own way that is unique to me, I can feel as though I fit in. Maybe then, after nearly a lifetime of feeling different, I can say for the first time - and say it like I really mean it - that I am truly normal.

Peace...

Once a dreamer, always a dreamer...

We listened to what life was telling us to do, a new calling. Dreamers would say, we listened to our hearts and followed a dream, while others called us foolish. Wisdom and stability comes with age, but I’m stuck somewhere between here and yesteryear with my carefree hippie outlook in an aging body. Somewhere along the path, a little voice keeps telling me to be a rational and responsible adult, which I was...for a while. Two grown children, a career and a successful business later, the words continued to churn and whirl in my mind getting a bit garbled and I chose not to understand. Well, that’s not entirely true—I did understand—and I let my heart drive me fifteen hundred miles at eighty-five to ninety miles an hour with my husband hanging on by his fingernails. It was difficult to drive while my fingers were in my ears, blocking the condescending rants from others, but after twenty miles it became an annoying monotone hum that I was able to drown out with the volume control of the radio. While rational people are satisfied with stability, I still seek the unknown. Somebody has to be the dreamer, why can’t it be me?

I never gave up the notion North was where I wanted and needed to be. It was the only place I cried when I left, possibly because of the many unresolved issues that I was too hurt and stubborn to resolve on my own before I ran away again. After I was gone, I kept looking over my shoulder while those memories tried to sneak up and take hold of me. No way in hell, was anyone going to snicker when they mouthed the words, “I told you so…we knew you’d be back,” I wouldn’t allow my emotions to be flexible nor could I fathom compliance.

Years later, we started to go back with long intervals in between as we tried to maintain family connections. Only until recent years did I desired and need a tighter connection with those I selfishly I left behind while I lived my life. On this recent trip, I was forced to see everything through another set of eyes. It didn’t matter that I haven’t lived there for nearly twenty-six years or that I was only following my heart and my dream. It only mattered to me that my father’s and my home state’s blood flowed through my veins, and come hell or high water, and no words of logic from anyone was going to persuade me otherwise. I was meant to be back there.

The driving force to return was more powerful than each waking moment and was only getting stronger as years went by. First, it was seasonal, and then it became an everyday obsession. It didn’t help listening to Kid Rock’s song blast on the radio about the summer’s in Northern Michigan when he sang of moonlight, sandbars and campfires and being caught between youth and adulthood…”While we were trying different things, and we were smoking funny things, making love out by the lake to our favorite song, sipping whiskey out of a bottle, not thinking ‘bout tomorrow…”

For the first time in years, my perception was abruptly altered when I stood knee deep in the frigid waters of the Great Lakes. June temperatures colder than most winter days in the South, I watched the color swiftly leave my frozen feet. I was no longer that girl of seventeen; I only held her young heart. I stood there with an intense need to be one with the Lake and invoked God to please hear my prayer and give me some clarity. Warm tears mixed with the cold rain and the seemingly ambiguous clouds of the noon sky showed no reprieve. I needed that moment of transparency to relinquish every want and need I selfishly concealed…it was no one’s dream other than my own to be there. That was the harsh reality that I have not come to fully understand…

So today, my head is in a cloud, vacant of any productive thoughts and I’m finding it difficult to jumpstart my day. No matter how hard I have tried for the past few days, the cement wall of indecision about my future stalls my mind…

Peace…

Elephants in the room...

One day we took off our rose colored glasses and saw its big ass planted in the middle of the room. I lost track of how long ago that was. Years, I think. Before we knew what happened, the squatter became incredibly comfortable with its surroundings and the perfectly controlled environment we provided, rent-free. We went about our daily routines learning to dodge that thick-skinned pachydermatous as he adapted to its new home. Oh yes, it was an excellent player, one of the best I’ve ever seen.

On a good day, the rascal stood in the corner and we actually saw clearly for a moment or two and enjoyed some great conversations, then the mischievous imp extended its leg causing us to trip again. Most of the time, it stood smack dab in front of us. It blocked our perspective and dared us to make it move. We were anxious and fearful to share our concerns about our resident guest. We ignored it as it gained a great deal of weight since its arrival long ago. We didn’t want to hurt the poor thing’s feelings, so we whispered and talked behind its back. He heard us…we saw it look over its shoulder with tears in those big heartbreaking eyes, but all we did was stew in frustration until our spoiled houseguest went to sleep or we went to bed tired of playing the waiting game.

We gently tiptoed around it and didn’t talk about how we were going to get rid of it. It made us anxious and afraid to say anything to each other while it dominated our space. We’ve discussed our plans to get rid of it with others, hoping they would help us find a solution for our problem. Many of those “others” had their own houseguest and didn’t have a clue or their techniques didn’t work for us. It was controlling, it conditioned us not to talk about it while it’s in the room. Surely, it would lose its temper, erupting the perfect impression we’ve tried to nurture since its arrival.

Company came and went. A few mentioned a glimpse of something trying to hide behind the oversized tapestry chair in the corner. We were experts on denial. No one dared to mention our houseguest, I’m sure they didn’t want to embarrass us when they saw us trying to conceal its robust behind in the hall closet.

We’re in early negotiations with our unwanted stranger and we believe it’s sincerely trying to listen to our terms. We’ve had enough of its unsettling behavior and together, I am pleased to announce we found the nerve to face our obnoxious visitor and are gradually coercing it out the door. One day at a time…

Finding my way...

Have you ever listened to a song and as the day went by you couldn’t get that song out of your head? The song just keeps playing over and over on that turntable in your mind until it wears a grove in the vinyl and you begin to sing something foolish out loud like, “Mamma’s little babies like shortnin’ bread…” or “If I only had a brain…”

Have you ever started to think about something that didn’t make you happy, and the more you thought about it, the worse it seemed? In a matter of minutes, you are consumed with so many miserable thoughts and the situation seems to be getting worse. The more you think about what made you unhappy, the more upset you get.

I’m the first to raise my hand. I am guilty of these things. My life is reflections of many dominate thoughts because it was what I experienced. I am learning to quit complaining, because I seem to find more things to complain about. I don’t want to hear other people complain, because I focus on their problems and I don’t want to attract more situations for me to complain about. By the way, if I start complaining, I wish someone would tell me to shut up too!

I didn’t believe it, when an old friend (she’s not that old) told me she didn’t want to be around people who exhibit negativity. She is attracted to, and only wants to be surrounded by positive people with positive energy. “It’s conducive to creativity,” she said. It made sense to me, but it was hard to put into practice for my own life when some days it was more than an effort to get out of bed.

The technique was simple, but the implementation was not.

The first thing I had to learn is to get rid of all my negative emotions like resentment, jealousy, dissatisfaction and if I continued to feel ungrateful for what I have, I would never bring more into my life. I concentrated on what I have, instead of what I don’t have, then the positive thoughts started to out-weigh my unhappy thoughts. I no longer wanted to be dominated by friends or family members who made me feel inferior. The people, who in their personal opinions, knew what was best for me, and I didn’t have the heart (or guts) to tell them, “leave me alone. It’s my life.”

Secondly, I wanted to be free of my past and the positive thoughts helped me find forgiveness. I quit thinking I had to sacrifice myself to be a good person because those thoughts only led me to feeling more resentment. My priority was making myself feel good and leave behind the feelings of unworthiness and undeserving. I am responsible for my own happiness.

The third thing I focused on was, I want to love life. I want to be surrounded by the people and things that bring purpose to my otherwise, “set in someone else’s ways,” kind of life. This is what I’m working on. I’m stopping to see what I have been missing by running too fast…The swans swimming on a back road pond, the hiking trail that led to a waterfall I passed a hundred times and never took the time to stop, the aromatic cedar mixed with jasmine in the woods after a rain, another ocean view, roads to undetermined destinations, laying in a field of flowers looking at cloud formations, seeing long lost friends…

I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.
~ Helen Keller

Today's Confession...

Secrets…

Look, who’s in control now? The pain is an indiscriminate mess of hurt that has no future. It is the darkest secret that will eat away at your consciousness until there is nothing left. Frenzied thoughts plague every fiber of your being telling you, you’ll never win…you’re destined to always lose…and life as you knew it no longer matters. These are the beliefs of someone who is contemplating suicide…

When I was fifteen, I almost successfully sliced my wrists. I still have the physical and mental scars to remind me. Something told me not to. Something as real as a human whisper told me to keep on living, find out what you want and what you are about. I did. Rape in any extreme is an embarrassing and shameful experience. I was left hurt, alienated and thoroughly exposed…I kept it to myself…I was afraid people wouldn’t like me if they knew. I refused to let people know me well, because I was afraid of what they’ll think about my dark side.

On my side was my strict religious upbringing. It painted an ugly version of what happens to those who commit suicide…my soul rotting forever in purgatory, the closest place to hell. I was already in hell, what was the difference? I was betrayed and it kept me closed up. My family never knowing my pain pegged me as a moody teen and left me alone. If they suspected, they kept it to themselves, whispering...I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to relive it…IT…they all had an answer to why I was such a “problem”.

I searched for truth and understanding when love found me. I never saw it coming. He stood by me and gave me the gift of enormous generosity of spirit and unequivocal love. I longed to be known fully and still be loved. It didn’t come overnight, nor day, weeks, months, but many years later.

My admission of my own inherent vulnerability, my weakness, my tenderness of skin, fragility of heart, and my overwhelming desire to be relived of this burden, to be forgiven of my ultimate aloneness and to forgive my aggressors has finally come. Freedom comes with forgiveness and "butterflies don’t carry rocks"…

And life as we know it… goes on…

Picture Perfect...

When I write, I think in images or snapshots of my characters. I am not the only one who does. A fellow writer and good friend recently told me, “People think I’m crazy when I tell them I see my characters as pictures in my mind.” She was shocked when I told her, "I do too." No, we are not seeing dead people! But how else would do you connect with your characters and make them real, unless you did?

I love taking pictures, I love getting pictures, and I especially love the old sepia and black & white photographs…

Nearly a year ago, my sister gave me a scanner that scans slides and negatives. I started scanning some old photo slides my husband and father-in-law took. Many of them I had forgotten or have never seen. They were negatives of the proofs my husband had taken when he had side photography business in the 80’s. Smiling faces of people, I didn’t recognize, all of them having their pictures taken to commemorate a special event. Among them were graduations, weddings, anniversaries, and sideline action sports shots taken for the local paper. Many of these faces are no longer with us. Some of them are still celebrating wedded bliss, while others are long divorced. Babies grew up with families of their own and the local jocks, if they still stayed in that small town are more than likely, over stressed workaholics trying to survive. I have never thrown away a picture, nor will I these, and I can’t even say I’ve cut someone I disliked out of one. Generally, those pictures end up in the bottom of an old shoebox, forgotten…

Today, we took one of our typical motorcycle outings to the mountains in search of a few new antique shops opposed to those we generally frequent. I roamed through the quaint little shops until something buried in a corner or pushed to the back of an old wardrobe cried out to me. I did not hear any voices beaconing to me today, but I was and am always attracted to old pictures and albums. My husband doesn’t ask me why I bother looking at old albums anymore, instead, he asks, “did you find something interesting?” He knows of my fascination with images and lets me amuse myself. “How sad,” I would say as my fingers touch the old photographs and try to find a connection with the pensive faces looking back at me. Did I ever mention how much it drives me crazy not to know the back-stories on many of the images I find? I love knowing the little details of human life and I am saddened why theses photos of families wearing their finest clothes were tossed. In the past, I have even purchased old photos because I felt a particular attachment to it, letting me be their surrogate family member.

I lingered a while longer looking at these photogenic faces and became conscious how fast the years flew by since women had no amountable rights. I smiled to myself and wondered how these thoughtful faces would react if they saw a middle aged woman wearing boots, a leather jacket and jeans, was staring back at them…

Butterflies don't carry rocks...

“Butterflies don’t carry rocks.”

The sun is shining, it's almost 85 degrees out. I woke up today…Smiling. I wake up smiling on most days when I have more than six hours sleep. I am blessed to know I can share some of my most inner thoughts with people I will never meet and possibly make a small difference in someone else’s life.

Someone wrote to me recently and asked about a quote I posted a while back, “Butterflies don’t carry rocks,” and where the quote was derived from. Well, it’s a long story and a very personal one that dates back over forty years. The saying is an old philosophy in a new time that I try to live by each day soon as my feet hit the floor in the morning. I am still in the healing process from some vicious physical and emotional wounds that have plagued my entire adult life. There are many people and things to consider and as of these writing, I’m not sure I want to stand here in front of everyone in my full nakedness and thoroughly expose myself.

What I will tell at this writing is, I have a couple very special people who have come back into my life through strange circumstances. If you believe in Divine Design, and every thing has it’s time, then you will understand what I’m talking about. These special friends have become my inspiration, and have opened something within me that has been locked away for many years by sharing their own personal diaries. Their stories helped me open the suppressed memories and experiences that I locked away in the furthermost-cobwebbed corner of my mind. When we communicate openly, my senses flow, from my heart and my mind, hence, healing is taking place.

So, in response to the question, here is the answer—Butterflies are beautiful, fascinating creatures. If they carried rocks, they would never be able to fly free.
If we continue to be burdened by our troubles, we will never know our true potential and thus, never soar!

Peace, everyone!

My Peggy...

This past Easter weekend, I recalled a scene from, The Velveteen Rabbit, I hope the lessons from this book moved my children as it had with me many years ago…The scene I am referring to is which two stuffed animals discuss authenticity… “ ‘You BECOME,’ the horse said to the rabbit. ‘It doesn’t happen all at once. It takes a very long time. Generally by the time you are REAL most of your hair has been loved off and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don’t matter, because once you are real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.’”

Recent events and conversations with loved ones this past weekend, filled my thoughts of a remarkable woman who I knew in Arizona, she taught me how to find compassion when I felt no hope and considered myself a complete failure as a mother, in my marriage, and in my life's choices.

I owe much of who I am today to this remarkable woman, and I thank God often, that she was the fork in my road to better understanding life’s situations. I met Peggy on the first day we moved into our new home and knew there was something special about her. Perceptive as she was, she must have sensed something about me and told me she was determined to crack my hardened shell with daily doses of hugs and verbal encouragement. A day didn’t go by for two and a half years that my mornings didn’t start with a knock at the door and her open arms, sometimes more, but nothing less. She taught me to find forgiveness and bring love back into my heart.

Peggy was a retired schoolteacher from Missouri with gusto for life. She was also a piano teacher and a part-time librarian; she had a passion for every living thing and was dedicated to her Alzheimer’s inflicted husband of sixty-seven years. She asked me once if I ever did any playacting as a child, and if it was easy to be someone I was not. When I asked her why, she explained to me something that I have not forgotten; something she observed in her many years of teaching was that “most compassionate people in real life are those who did a lot of playacting as children.” She said, "that you’re required to understand the motivation behind another’s actions, and to have sympathy for their plight, then along the way an enormous compassion for others develops.”

I hope one day I am fortunate enough to make a difference in one unsuspecting person’s life like Peggy did for me; it would be extraordinary to pay her gift forward.
I believe all of us have crossed paths with our Peggy’s, some of us were lucky enough to have acknowledged them while others ignored that knock on the door…

A Tipsy Confession...

I never thought once to celebrate myself not even once—not after the birth of my children, not after nursing them through their young lives, not after the hundreds of times my arms extended to console others through loss or hard times. When my father passed away and a short six months later my father-in-law passed, I suppressed my grief to take care of two women, who like myself, never stood on their own two feet. More than thirty years later, I am learning to grieve, now that I am the only woman that I need to take care of.

I rushed forward in a straight line, pushing onward never veering off the path of rules set by other people, against whom I have measured myself. I never took the time to decipher where I was going—I just went. It’s only been recently I know what is missing in my life and what I crave to have back. I want a sense of balance that begins in my core; an integration of life experiences and it’s what’s driving me to my future.

It occurred to me that I was always eager to applaud my children’s accomplishments—walking, climbing, swimming, running, reading and writing—and yet I hardly noticed my own. Every decade I live offers new challenges and as I walk through the portal to the other side, I still strive to be me.

In the words of William Sloane Coffin, “The leap of faith is not so much a leap of thought as action. One must…dare to act wholeheartedly without absolute certainty.”
I’ve taken that leap into uncertainty one too many times, the first monumental leap was when I said, “I do.” I was scared to death. Will this relationship really last till death do us part or will we tire of each other and move on separately in different directions…
Other times I leaped and fell flat on my face…starting one business then losing another. One will never know until they tried. I knew I didn’t want to reach old age and say, “what if.” Risks are attached to everything, even if you were afraid or never took that initial leap, they are they hiding around the corner.

I strive not to feel weak and inferior, and no longer want to keep up with the Jones’s who are keeping up with the Smith’s. I am grateful for the one person in my life that has stood by my side and I thank God he did not veer off the path of loving me and keeping me safe. I am selfish that I want more independence, to make my way and not call for help. Having been taught compliance and dependence, I strive for autonomy and the resurgence of will.

I celebrate my women friends, each successful in their own ways. I no longer feel isolated in my own selfish thoughts, because these very dear women friends of mine have let me know that I am not swimming alone. A song comes to mind for those of you familiar with the Woodstock era, Joe Cocker’s A Little Help From My Friends—from an era of make love not war, to an era where women burned their bras, and finally to the time in our lives when we need to find our true selves. I raise my glass to each and every one of you…Cheers! You know the tune…

What would you think if I sang out of tune,
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song
And I'll try not to sing out of key.

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends

What do I do when my love is away
(Does it worry you to be alone?)
How do I feel by the end of the day,
(Are you sad because you're on your own?)

No, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody
I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody
I want somebody to love.

Would you believe in a love at first sight
Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time
What do you see when you turn out the light
I can't tell you but I know it's mine,

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends

Do you need anybody
I just need someone to love
Could it be anybody
I want somebody to love.

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends
With a little help from my friends.

Thoughts...

I thought about a conversation I had today…Profound silence is not something I fall into easily and I suppose wisdom would more readily transpire if only I could keep my mouth shut. When I’m excited I become the habitual chatterer. Too often in conversations I interrupt the speaker, it’s not that I don’t like what he or she is saying, it’s because I get carried away by the energy of the conversation itself. I have to confess that each time I jump right in and add my thought right over someone else’s I’ve outright and probably diluted what the speaker was trying to say to me. So, silence remains one of my biggest challenges and I apologize for rudely interrupting…energy made me do it…

I can’t sleep. I am over stimulated by my thoughts tonight. I reflect on what is outlived in my life today. I’ve known that holding onto to something for a long time ruins it, as does clinging to old ways, outdated ideals and lifestyles that have run their course. By the way we were is not the way we are and why would anyone still want to hang onto those parts that have lost their zest? Certainly familiar is comforting, easy enough answer…None of us can control the way life passes us, we can only adapt as it goes by. Then, I think about Buddhists and their goal to exist completely in the present, which is a grand idea, but a difficult one for someone who tends to daydream about the future, because she wants immediate answers to questions. Logic tells me that to achieve such presence depends on idleness, another challenge for me—since I prefer motion and doing.

I think about my children, would I want them attached like the barnacles to an old conch shell? Would I want to have raised children who had no interest in flying to coop? No. I am proud of my children and their thirst to forge original lives. One thing I know, a mother can never outgrow her love for her grown children, even in light of what an Jungian once said, the intimacy she once shared over time becomes noting more than simply “hope for loved strangers.” I believe that raising a child, if you do it right, it’s the only relationship that will end in separation. Mothering remains a vibrant memory, but in truth is was but a fleeting moment—

I’m feeling warmed by a few embers of courage that seem to be coming from my thoughts and sleep is beginning to overcome me…

Today's Confession...

You are never free to do as you please when you stay with the familiar. People develop in aloneness and are only led to the truth after being disillusioned.

I’ve been running away all my life. When I was little I ran to a vacant lot—the only place I could be all by myself and contemplate life as a butterfly. At sixteen, I ran as far as my thumb took me—changed my name and became who I wanted to be. I tried to be my own person and thought it was deadly not to be! I had the knowledge of what was underneath, but it was obscured by what others thought of me. Of all the term papers I wrote in college, the ones that remain tucked within my journals are those written about runaways.

Today I forced myself to look at a family picture, focusing on the odd fifty-six year old woman. I barely recognized her forced smile, heavy eyelids, hair streaked more with gray than her natural dark brown. They say you get the face you’ve earned by the time you’re forty—all those sorrowful and angry expressions, long hidden behind makeup, become the naked truth. It mirrors who you are, who you’ve been in a mosaic of endless tiles.

I know what I no longer want; things like making life pleasant for others while forgoing my own desires. I hate myself for never being satisfied. I should be more acceptable and accept the status quo, but obviously, I wouldn’t be writing this if I could.


In the beginning there was thought and her name was woman.
She is the OLD woman who tends the fires of life.
She is the OLD woman spider who weaves us together.
She is the eldest God and the one who remembers and
RE-MEMBERS.
~Anonymous

Stuff...

I have no idea which is worse, remembering a painful past or ignoring an excruciating present. I do know what they have in common, and that is rubbish. I also know that moving on isn’t as much about taking a few steps forward as it is about being willing to untangle and the cruelly uproot whatever’s holding us back.

As I look around my office at the stacks of books on the floor waiting to be reshelved; the piles of file folders containing the years of research of the past lives of my ancestors, magazines, clothes, empty prescription bottles (good to put more stuff in), slippers, shoes, piles of fabric sorted by color and the unfinished quilting projects, it’s difficult to believe that all this is surrounding the working space I have created for myself.

My closets are crammed so full that I need Houdini’s help to organize them. My drawers don’t just hide my disorder; they hoard it. I pick up something to put it away in its proper place and look around in appalled curiosity because I set it back down who knows where.

I think of “stuff” as being co-dependant. We allow it to accumulate and it enables us to stay stagnant. Sometimes it keeps us in an unhealthy situation that we should have dealt with years ago. Our “stuff” adapts to its surroundings and like little chameleons it adopts the color, shape, and texture and settles in for the long haul in closets, drawers and under beds, and not likely to be a trip to the landfill.

I’d be the first to admit my home needs an exorcism; then I would need help with the methodical task of letting go of all my stuff. I could always justify my hoarding by saying that it makes me happy and keeps me safe. I love it and it loves me. I only need to lay my hands on that box of scrap fabric or that winter jacket I hadn’t worn since I left colder climate for my mind to start screaming, “You can’t get rid of me!” I touch old letters and photographs and I am bound by them insisting I hear their stories over and over again. “We’re family, you can’t get rid of us!” Eventually, our possessions take on a life of their own and our “stuff” embodies what is outworn or unfulfilled in our lives and that’s why it’s so hard to give it away.

A day came recently that my “stuff’s” life with me is over and we both need to move on. Move is a powerful word and movement is life and/or the beginning of reality. I thought about the time many years ago that I had to sort through my mother’s possessions after she passed and wondered why she would keep such “stuff”. I know, because I have inherited that hoarding gene and it’s time for me to break the cycle. I’m now separating the guilt stashes from the legitimate ones because I would rather my children not have dry eyes sorting memories instead of messes.

Dog and Pony Show...

Dog & Pony Show…

Thank you, guys! I think I finally understand the whole concept. The idiom meaning of an elaborate presentation orchestrated to gain approval. In this particular case, a convoluted attempt to sell me on working for their company. Wine me, dine me and court me with a glitzy presentation. Suck in your stomachs and hold your breath, persuade me with no real information or content and perhaps this anxious job-seeking indigent will avoid the bottom line and not say, “Show me the money!”

I went to my not so typical standard dog and pony interview. I listened to them trying to sell me on the advantage of starting on the ground floor of their company’s new division. In between the rhetoric, like reading between the lines, my interpretation translates like this…I would need to curry favor to even be considered to climb the corporate ladder.

Imagine, little ole me, in session with the Knights of the Round Table; I sat poised and erect, while they searched for the best vein to insert the needle of inquisition Then the onslaught of prepared but not original questions began:

1. What is the most important; safety, quality or production?
2. Do you want to climb the ladder?
3. Are you a team player?
4. Can you keep the ball rolling?
5. Can you meet deadlines?
6. Can you handle stress when it comes down to the wire?
7. Can you tighten your belt?
8. Can you work out kinks?
9. Can you pull your weight?
10. Where so you want to be 10 years from now?

This is my interpretation with a slice of imagination:

1. Yes, this is a trick question; the answer is the same as the question. (1) No company wants OSHA on their butts. Period. (2) Quality says that the company emulates perfection. Duh? (3) Production is a number’s games, no production, and then the ump calls the play, “You’re Out!”
2. Doesn’t everyone want to advance their careers through promotions while collecting brownie points?
3. A committed employee (brown noser) who works well with others on the clock then disses you in public.
4. Ensure them that a project is progressing effectively and on time or you can keep rolling with the ball.
5. Meeting the time allotted for a particular project, before you fall dead on the finish line.
6. Stress? What’s a little stress? I knew I had one nerve left before I started this job!
7. Reduce operating expenses when the cash cow dies.
8. Improve a flawed product or service or they may pull the plug on you.
9. Share the workload and help others carry the dead cow away.
10. Is it a crime I hope to be in a happy place and not working 10 years from now? After all, I will almost be at my full retirement age.

Did I get the job you ask? Will I be age or sexually discriminated against? Am I over or under qualified for the position? I’ll never tell because I am still waiting for the answer to my question…”Please, won’t you show me the money?”

It's Saturday and not yet seven in the morning but I've been awake for several hours. Reading, lazying close to the fireplace sipping coffee laden heavily with cream. The music is softly playing in the background. A friend recently told me that I think too much but I want to take advantage of the last days that I can spend by myself before starting another chapter.

Every now and then I come across a passage perhaps only a phrase, which has meaning for me, and then it becomes a part of me. I’ve got out of the book all that’s any use to me, and I can’t get any more out of it if even I read it a dozen or more times. When I read a book, I read it with my eyes only. You see, it seems to me, one is like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are things that have peculiar significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by one; and at last the flower is there.

I was thinking about what I have written lately and what it is that has made me so cynical. It must be some kind of self-defence to hide behind irony and sarcasm. But I guess self-defence is only used when it is needed...right?