Like The Day Is Long.

If I could bottle my own motivations,
And drop that bottle into the open void,
If I could paint a scene of my own salvation,
And have it hand delivered by the one decoyed;

If I could wrap my severed hands in an icebox,
Mail them across the seas to my partner in crime,
If I could say blessings over freckles and dreadlocks,
If I could throw you a party with silent mimes;

If I could will myself to feel your presence now,
If my strength held up even halfway to your own,
If I I could let you lick my wounds somehow,
If I could warm my soul at your hearthstone;

If I could articulate the growing hole in my heart,
If I could lift the fog from the inky moors of my mind,
If I could capitulate to the the cold and dark,
If I could sift the bog for my lost days’ worth of time;

If I could bake you an edible birthday cake,
If I could share your laughter on the windswept shore,
If I could be enlightened by the time it’d take,
If I could swear not to care anymore;

If I could write down all the ways I adore you,
If I could stay on pitch and sing you a song,
If I could bite down on any hand that’s hurt you,
If I could, I would; like the day is long.

(The Bear Trainer)

❤ From your ever-faithful sidekick.

A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.


The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.


The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.


We had drawn up this road map so grand,

the highlighted route to the ending we planned,

the flutter of cards as they dropped out of hand,

the calling of Gods in dreams we understand;

poor odds follow close, wherever I am,

fleeting as granules of time-whitened sand

fickle and pickled in the spices at hand,

between promise and oneness,

that same ol’ ominous numbness,

parlor tricks performed in a deserted land;

peopled with embodied nothingness,

void of all the sugary fluffiness,

where you are is ever where I am,

when I’m asleep that’s how it stands,

I dig in the deep with my polished hands,

driven mad by a fiendish hologram;

dropped from the attached strings,

to your heart’s working guillotine,

you never came back for me,

left me miserably, deservedly

just as I am.

African Tools of Death.

For Sam:

You are an enigma.

Enigmatic to my drab eye,

you spark against my darkened sky,

with you, comes the mental hum,

you loan me peace of mind,

no love letters or epic songs,

might ever rightfully define,

or accurately emphasize,

how you’re a stationary prize,

that hangs higher than all else,

higher than you likely realize,

I just can’t help myself,

from warming in your light,

resigning my heart, outright,

to the magic and the might,

you’ll never fully perceive,

the grip you maintain on me,

You are a beam of light.

Lightning bolts that strike,

cutting sharp as knives,

through life’s dark scenery,

You are full of surprises.

From the depths of such rebellion,

and what’s left of the little Hellion,

your character  arises,

to shine so singularly,

so winningly, impressively, eternally,

you’ve yet to fail the friend in me,

and so…respectfully and true,

thoughts especially of you,

that words might do

some kind of justice to.

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I sweat and bled;
while they closed my wound
I  brooded on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came with my remaining four,
pounding on your secret door;
Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering of my murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and you said, “We’ll get it next time…

Min Ven.

night horse

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

day horse

A Bear(Trainer’s) Birthday.

In international politics, the union of two thieves who have their hands so deeply inserted in each other’s pockets that they cannot separately plunder a third.

An agreeable sensation arising from contemplating the misery of others.”
– Ambrose Bierce

kick it

Today is a special day; it is the day that celebrates the birth of my best friend.
There is no way to gain through the words of any language known to humankind, the ultimate and profound finality that represents the birth of this individual into the world. On the birthday of such a human being, I find myself in deep recollection about the birth of all things before and after her own – of all things cosmic and worldly; minute and massive; near and far.
In a selfish way, today is kind of a birthday of my own to celebrate – it marks the birth of an individual whose influences over the years between my own birth and death are inarguably strong and incomparable. It marks the day that, despite having been a while ago, was the day that a God smiled upon me for whatever reason, and sent me Sam. Today is the anniversary that some of the most lasting and meaningful words ever written coming to life in the tiny brain of an angry infant somewhere in South Africa; one who would grow wiser and stronger than the Gods could have foreseen; one who defies the odds.
Sam is the Meri to my Pippin; the Drax to my Rocket, she is the Florizel to my Geraldine. I have truly come to refuse any real thought of life without her; she is the John Keats to my Joseph Servern – and I would follow her to the most gruesome of deaths, if she asked such of me.
Most importantly about Sam’s birthday though, in my opinion, is the fact that whether she likes to wear the jacket or not – SHE IS A SURVIVOR – who has made it to see another year; she is yet, another year older than certain weasels from her past might have liked to see her become. She continues to defy, spitting in faces as she passes by. I wouldn’t trade her for anything.

Adrift (For the Bear Trainer).

This is a piece written for my VERY BEST FRIEND ON THE PLANET (and beyond), The Bear Trainer.

…S, you are the entire village that it takes to raise the child – and I honor and cherish you more than you know. <3


It’s the incessant babbling,
Of a perpetually invisible stream,
This I do most certainly know,
There is no halting or stopping its flow;
Even when I can’t touch its noise,
It isn’t like I have any choice,
I feel its presence trickling,
I feel its coolness prickling;
A sense of a long, lost something,
A dense and heavy whispering,
I can count the nights and days easily,
To try to measure what I’m so missing;
I can carve notches like lines into trees,
But there’s no accounting your importance to me,
Have you any idea of the weight you carry?
an influence that trumps all, subconsciously?
Near or far – here you are…
to awaken these things that sleep,
I need your heart attached to mine,
if I’m to somehow believe;
the Heavens are darkened by the distance between,
the truth is the anchor that’s unwavering,
the tides wash off the filth of humanity,
when all’s said and done, I have only this one thing;
the notion that resides in the depths of my being,
the unspoken truths attached to our destinies,
when the Universe again – fails to reassure me,
yours is the comfort that mine will find eventually.

Ancient Proverbs: 23 – Friendship.

Friendship is something that each and every one of us takes for granted; it is a fickle element in Life that we each find ourselves loathing and loving at some point and another…

Friendship is, in actuality, one of the most precious commodities in the world, when it’s real and true.

Today, I awoke feeling full of gratitude for my real and true friend in the world, so today’s proverbs are with Sam in mind.

“Friendship doubles our joy and divides our grief.”

~ Swedish Proverb

“You may forget with whom you laughed, but you will never forget with whom you wept.”

~ Saudi Proverb

“We are friends; we must assist each other to bear our burdens.”

~ Osage Proverb (Native American)

“A friend’s eye is a good mirror.”

~ English Proverb

“With true friends . . . even water drunk together is sweet enough.”

~ Chinese Proverb

Waltz of the polar lights


I had been complaining about how long it has taken her package to arrive via snail mail just the other day; it had been just about one month…she made the comment that it was okay, that I’d see…the mail would arrive at just the right time – when we were each more in need of the said packages than we knew. As usual, she is right.
Today is Mother’s Day in the U.S.
I have a rough day on Mother’s Day every year because…well, for obvious reasons…
I opened her mail this morning amidst the sadness that I typically wake up to on Mother’s Day…and it made me smile and reminded me of important things that aren’t always so easy to recall during the rough patches in my life: to breathe…inhale and exhale…and everything else falls in line somewhere.
Throughout my lifetime thus far, I have seen many movies and read endless storybooks detailing friendships that seem to be able to surpass the confines of space and time; even life and death through the invisible bonds associated; I never fully comprehended such subject matter until now, more recently in my own life.
There are, indeed, some friendships – bonds – ties – sutures – webs, which are so intricately wound throughout the human elements of the Universe, that even those bound inside the weave do not fully appreciate the depths and heights made available through such cosmic humanity. Those of us who are woven into this fabric know the power and strength to which I refer; those who do not know, can only believe.

Ode to a Spaniard.

Across the sea
a ways from me
lives a wondrous
writer of poetry;
a Spaniard – my Charly:
his prose are like dreams,
the way that he
whittles down words,
he knows how to love me;
An Ode to a Spaniard –
a blue eyed, fair-skinned King
writes words I believe
alongside of me,
in a flow that goes freely,
the click of typing keys,
Ode to a kindred,
spirit belonging to me,
my favorite bull-chaser –
My Crazy Lifed Charly.

Beckoning Support for the Bear Trainer.

She didn’t tell anyone, because she’s just like that…(she only shares her burdens when she feels like there is no other way), but the Bear Trainer is in major surgery today.

I shouldn’t be airing her laundry like this either – but I feel like EVERY last person who sends her positive energy will make a difference for her outcome. I won’t get too personal with this, other to say that her condition is very serious and life threatening at present; and I ask any of my readers to keep the Bear Trainer in every possible thought towards the upswing until I hear from her.

Please keep her in your strongest of thoughts today. Thanks, everyone.

Things of Importance.

There are things of importance in this world;
things that only come to us one time, at all –
things that we don’t see for what they are,
while we hold them in our sweaty palms,
we look past the beauty at the spaces beyond;
we don’t send them trinkets in the mail,
as we really, really should,
we don’t send them letters describing to them:
a worth that can’t be mirrored or matched,
it’s too easy to get caught in the nets of –
“tomorrow’s tasks” and “today’s necessities”,
we take for granted: what these things mean to us,
what these things are for us – the work that has been,
back-breakingly and unfailingly – out of loyalty;
A loyalty that doesn’t bend or give with pressure,
doesn’t burn under the heat of a torch’s flame,
these things of importance, take heed of them –
they are a gift from a God or Goddess to you,
sent to our lives for specific purposes and reasons,
we too often, become easily aware of their presence;
yet, we come to fool our human minds of the permanence,
of those who stand most staunchly at our sides in battle,
those who bleed with us in the trenches, who deliver us salvation,
we abuse them and deny them of their precious worth –
a worth measured thousands of times higher than the purest gold,
a resource more necessary than water to drink or food to eat,
these things of importance go unseen beneath our feet;
There is one thing of importance, that I have recently seen –
a bear and its trainer have thoroughly shown this to me,
the wondrous ties that bind, and connect some of us,
to a much bigger, much broader and profound destiny,
things of importance that were long ago, handed to me,
things that I’ve lived this long unable to see.

Min Ven.

A Toast
from one dead soldier,
to another –
from one dawning sun,
to the moonlight –
let’s get fucked up tonight;
this life’s been hard,
hard as fuck to survive,
let the tears fall,
my friend –
we’ve been
through it all;
fighting back to back,
through the fires
of living Hell…
to all of our times alive,
to our many defeated
victories stacked up high;
velsigne dig
a key that we found
in the enemy’s pocket,
a while back –
we both knew what it unlocked,
and so it was tossed
into a well as we passed;
min ven:
Moenie bang wees nie,
this too, shall pass us by –
like the many storms weathered
between you and I,
you will keep walking,
right here at my side,
and I shall abide.

The Unsecret Dialogue Chronicles: Grand Theft Auto: Part Four.


Dicky (Richard) Hatfield demonstrated perfectly: the epitome of “sayin’ something – doin’ nothing”.
With beady eyes and reptilian features, including obnoxiously yellowed-blonde hair that was reminiscent of a Bearded Dragon’s spiky scaled mane. His lower jaw was underbitten badly, and he had one, bright fluorescent blonde streak for an eyebrow that remained burrowed deeply in the center of his perpetually sunburned forehead. His voice was nasally and he always sounded to J as if he was begging not to be smashed in the face, no matter what he was actually saying. He was an idiot and a judgmental ass; a tattletale and a poor sport; a man nobody trusted or liked – only tolerated – because of who he was little brother to.
Dicky’s infuriating machismo and self-righteous attitude had found him the fat end of more than one Louisville in his time alive so far. Dicky Hatfield also happened to be what the guys (and J) from the shooting range referred to as a stereo-typical ‘BOB’, the acronym used among them in short for ‘Brother of Boss’. The brother that represented the son-of-a-bitch’s Lifetime Get out of Jail Free Card was the none other than the local face of the Law: Sheriff Mac Hatfield , a fair enough man…
J: Don’t act like you don’t recognize the name Hatfield, S!
S: Oh Ye! I do, I do! I……..
J: Yes, Einstein! Now, it’s coming back to you isn’t it?…you fuckhead, shit!
Red the Undead turned slowly around to face the girls without the industrial strength flood lights from inside the shop blazing in his eyes, pulling a dirty rag saturated in grease and gear oil from his back pocket and wiping his brow before speaking in his drawling, matter-of-factly tone – one that bore so much bass that his final word of a sentence resonated between one’s eardrums for moments after he finished speaking; he said,

“Well, there’s only one thang we can do with this shiny little mo-chine now ain’t there?”

J: Red, we can’t take it back – don’t make us take it back, they’ll put us both away for eons and you know it!…
Red cut her off and held up his huge hand to silence her anxious plea, he whistled a sharp, shrill chirp loudly and his huge Malamute appeared behind him;
“We gotta get this Mini to the Chop Shop before sunrise, Ladies…” Red smacked a hand against his thigh and the dog snapped to attention when he addressed it, “Let’s go Bullet, get in the tow truck.”

The Unsecret Dialogue Chronicles: Grand Theft Auto: Part Two.


J sighed as she watched the pinkish-red brake lights come to life through the motion amidst the busy parking lot; she eased out onto the road slowly, following every traffic rule she could think of at the moment, including the use of her blinker as she slowed again and pulled off to the shoulder to wait for S to snail-crawl the ancient Mini from its inconspicuous spot towards the rear of the lot.

Inconspicuous to everyone besides S…

J thought to herself, chuckling.
After several anxious moments of an unintentional, however – record-breakingly uncanny – imitation of a bobble head in the driver’s seat on the side of road waiting for her fairy-like partner in crime, the Mini at last appeared in the lineup of cars waiting its turn to pull out onto the highway. Before long, the two friends were in tight caravan formation and heading home, or so J thought.
The fog was sinking down onto the road with the setting sun, and J wasn’t sure but she thought she saw the Mini driving itself during several stretches of straight two-lane highway. Additionally, J mentally noted at least five separate cigarette butts flying out the driver’s side window in the deepening darkness of night: something she had to make certain to give S a good chastising for when they got home. Just then her phone rang from the passenger side door panel, where she has stashed it prior to indulging in her earlier catnap; the vibration rattled it down deeper in the door’s built in pocket as J imagined herself as Gumby or Inspector Gadget and tried in vain to lean far enough over to reach it.
Another red cherry butt of a cigarette exploded against the windshield.

Fuck this!

J thought to herself, and tore to the right with her grip on the steering wheel with a few quick flashes of her high beams at the Mini in front of her. Oddly, her best friend is pulled over and out the Mini before J can even put the vehicle she is driving in NEUTRAL.
S: What’s the problem? Let’s just pull off up there at the next exit if your toes are cramped up, eh?
J: My toes are not cramped up, S…did you just try to call me right now?
S: Oh, ye…I did…I was going to suggest that we stop over at Red’s and let him take a look at it, see what he thinks, you know?
J: Now? Seriously? It’s white-hot, S…I think we need to cover it with canvas for a while in the junk pile out back or something; not flaunt it all over to our friends in a pissing contest…
S: So you’ll follow me over there, to Red’s?
J lets out the frustrated sigh that S has come to know and love the way a child associates a special blanket to comfort;
J: Yeah…S…yeah but let’s go! And stay off your phone no smoking while you drive!
S: Okay! Follow me!
S hops back to the archaic Mini and starts the engine with a fierce and victorious howl from her doll-sized lungs before pulling out into the traffic. J pulls out right behind her and matches her speed as they make their way to see Red the Undead – the best mechanic around.


Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and even cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I, myself – bled;
they seared closed the wound
I was fixed on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came pounding with a bloody paw,
on your secret passage door;
“Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering made by a murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and said, “We’ll get it next time…”

The “Unsecret” Dialogue Chronicles – Part 3


Liquid noisily splashing against plastic sheeting in background.
J: So, uhhhh….were ya gonna tell me about the toaster or…..?
S: J…would you please stop stepping there! You’re making a mess – LOOK!!!
J: Sorry, oh oops…my foot was stuck to some Jello-y stuff that’s stuck down…oh shit…oops…
S: J! Stop fucking around and help me with the mirror real quick – hurry!… or else the dude you didn’t see yet becomes a problem for us!
J: Okay, okay…
slips and slides her way over to the counter and climbs up next to S, who is tearing off a sheet to cover the vanity mirror with
J: Bear! The toaster!
S: Right right…the toaster…

the two struggle briefly to reach all the way to the ceiling, as they are only ten feet tall – combined.

J: This is about your Gods damned burgle, isn’t it?
S: Huh? Oh….that….huh?
J: Don’t play dumb with me!
S: You do realize your own circumstantial lack of leverage here, don’t you?
S: Huh?….

*The final sheet of plastic has been lain; and the two tiny creatures sit down on the vanity counter-top with surprisingly heavy ‘thuds’, one grinning widely and the other exhaling a sigh of frustration *

S: That toaster was well worth the money I spent on it, though – for the record…

J is totally distracted by a shimmer in a puddle of dark blood

J: Why?…how much did you pay for it?

CLICK HERE for Part 4!

The “Unsecret” Dialogue Chronicles – Part I

Ring Ring Ring ring… ring… Ring.. Ring…. Riiiing Riiiiing…..

J: Hello?

S: Babe.

J: Hello?

S: BABE! Its ME.

J: Ah Hell…What the fuck…?

J: S?

S: I need you to come over.

J: Why? What’s happened?

S: Well… I happened, to be VERY precise. Can you bring, like, all the plastic sheeting and … all things plastic?

J: Are you taking the piss???

S: That would be funny. But no… I’m not.

J: Do I even ask?

S: Probably not a good idea.


S: I didn’t get his name… or hers.

J: TWO people???

S: Uhm… 4. But let’s not get stuck on details eh? Can you come over? Like, now?

J: No.

S: What? Why..?

J: Kidding. I am on my way.

S: Cool. I have everything else… and one of them had a full pack of smokes. So SCORE!

J: You are not well in the head, kid.

S: Oh, I know.

J: Fucking hell. OK. Be there in ten.

S: Okay. Hurry.

J: Keep your panties on, I am ON MY WAY.

S: Oh… fuck.. speaking of panties..

J: Stop talking. I don’t want to know what that means.

S: All good. I found them.

J: I’m hanging up now.

S: Cool. Cool. I will put the kettle on.

CLICK HERE for Part 2!

Follow My Lead.

When the moon is hung high
like a pock-marked lullaby;

When the music has stopped
and the sweat begins to dry;

When the day is finally over
and there’s finally time to cry;

When your feet won’t seem to
carry you..
when you feel like you could die;

Follow the trail that I’ve left for you;
track the stampede left behind by my shoes;
Do not even think for one second –
about where the trail might lead to…
just follow my footprints and I will protect you.

When the faked smiles
go on for hundreds of miles;

When you’ve been shown
compassion known only by crocodiles;

When the defense rests
while the prosecution compiles;

When your heart won’t beat through
to awaken you…
and everyone is beguiled;

Take the route that I’ve mapped for you;
charter the waters that I have just sailed through;
Do not even think for one second –
about where the map might land me and you …
just follow my lead and I will be there waiting for you.

Thoughts on ‘Detachment from Reality’.

Face It.

Face It.

The human species has the baffling propensity to become manic with enough fear of the ‘terroristic’ kind. I tend to flash onto the scene from the early 80’s movie I saw as a super young child in which the hostage, desperate with fear and doom and gloom (from being terrorized), finally can’t stand it anymore – and runs off the side of the building’s 125th flight rooftop – as opposed to remaining any longer in the grips of the terror. Same example can be attached to 9/11, and the many terrified souls that we watched leap from the burning buildings – in desperation and terror, on some level, obviously, innately aware that the end-result would be the same – DEATH. These realities are indeed, tragic as Hell; however, perfect examples of how the human species tend to respond during circumstances defined by terror.

We all have the capacity to detach and dissociate when it becomes a necessary element to our own livelihood; we have honed this psychological mechanism to a truly universal skill in our time here on Earth so far, so well, that many of us perceive this type of dissociation as something other than what it is: a coping mechanism in its rawest and purest of forms. It is one that everyone has used already before in his or her own experiences with Life and Death; it is a ‘skill’ that we will each use again before we die, also. It has become part of the human nature that spans across the globe. There is no question about that.

My question then, based on the implications surrounding this truth about dissociation and detachment from reality as a means of human survival, would be:

“If we all execute the use of its affect, and we do, why are we not, as a species, focusing much more on the “channeling” (for lack of a better word) its presence in a more positive direction?”


         To me, it doesn’t seem to be brain surgery, to conclude that we have been, and will continue to evolve psychologically, just as we have physiologically – throughout history. Evolution is an unmapped process, despite the ways that it is in our genetic nature to do so, given environmental changes and the presence and/or appearance of variables that have such effects on us, as an Apex Species. To me, this streak of “instability” in certain individuals who display dissociative behaviors stands out as strength greater than any physical one that our collective species can stake any claim to. It represents the will of the mind to bend the body’s ability to endure great physical feats of survival in many different contexts, and sometimes in very young human beings.

I am totally honest when I say that each and every human individual that I personally know who suffers from traumas so horrific, the presence of this thing called ‘dissociation’ has become permanent – is also someone who has strength so powerful and unique to only him/her. These are always the MOST human of human beings. These are all people who I would depend on, have depended on in times of need, with success and a supportive outcome. These are all people who were robbed of something crucial to them early on in their young lives, every last one of them was. They are each hard-working, loving, passionate, deeply spirited individuals also, with very uniquely burning fires that can’t be distinguished by anyone or anything – outside of themselves. And too often, this is what happens, because of the complete lack of support and understanding put forth by the rest of us. It is the understanding of the child inside of these people, one that was robbed deeply during childhood and never moved on. How can we be angry at a child for being “unstable”?


I guess I just have it in my blood to trust the wrong people throughout my time on Earth amongst other human beings –or whatever you’d call those carbon-based, sets of bones with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly (or loosely) around each one, with seemingly emptied out, bobbling heads attached – I sure as Hell hate to call those things “people”.
I have mastered the unrewarding, often self-masochistic, pseudo-“art” of choosing the most shallow and self-absorbed individuals on whom to place importance and on whom to martyr my dwindling ability to trust. At some point in my life, I got to where I can no longer blame the vernacular beasts that I choose to surround myself with for such miserable incompatibility; sooner or later, I had to swallow the realities that I find consistently staring back at me through the eyes of my own reflection.
I eventually began to accept the fact that if I am incompatible with so “very, very many” of my own species, the likelihood of that incompatibility being born of the “shortcomings” of that group of “very many people” is low, if even in existence. I have truly realized and began to accept that I am the faulty common denominator in the countless equations of social arithmetic that I pathetically fail to wrap my thick head around – the continual negative sum in the mathematics of human behaviors and relationships – worthy or otherwise, I am the common denominator. PERIOD.

1421876244430-1Naturally, the majority of “relationships” that I can stake any claim to throughout my scarce and, undoubtedly warped experiences within the realm of human intimacy have each been notably unhealthy in at least one major aspect. I do not know what it looks or feels like to be in a healthy relationship with anyone in a romantic context. In spite of the insatiable hunger and longstanding desire I remember always harboring to have this elusive, healthy thing. At the end of the day when all’s said and done – I wouldn’t recognize a healthy relationship if it came up and bit me in the face…how could I recognize something I’ve never seen before? I have only misidentified the chances that I might have had in the past at healthiness in a committed relationship with someone; I have only mistreated the good standings I’ve had with men who may have been exceptional if I had given them a fighting chance. I just can’t trust the words that people choose to waste on me anymore, at all – not women, not men – not anyone – ever, in any circumstance. My issues behind the inability to foster commitment run so deeply entrenched at this stage of “the game” that I have truly started to question whether or not any amount of therapy, strenuous physical exercise, or exhausting mental stimulation by the opposite sex could ever actually change my perceptions back to what I think that they once must have been.
I do not know if I find this revelation a good one or a horribly life-altering one, either. I have been behaving so ambiguously the past few years in general, in all honesty. It’s been very strange to feel so indifferently over everything – another HUGE shift from the person that I used always like to think I was; Life’s formerly Technicolor scenery has been replaced by a drabber, grey-scale version of it. The white noise of my existence resembles the constant, bellowing rolls of thunder that accompany the bolts of constant lightning that crack like live wires of energy gone awry: a chaotic soundtrack that perfectly mirrors my psyche and syncs naturally with my soul. During nighttime the soundtrack only shifts into the noise of a low-volume baseball game’s announcers and noise.
I have not lived a perfect life by any means; I don’t claim to have, and I am also much too self-aware to dare try. I know that I have let many people down along the way to where I stand now in life, and death. I know that my combative spirit is NOT the ONLY reason why I have survived as long as I have; I realize that I hold no special title to the world’s shallow, robotic inhabitants, nor would I like to if given the chance to hold one:
…a bunch of fuck-heads…
People disgust me with their’ all-consuming need to rise in rank – to “ever-aim-higher” – to continuously yearn for what ISN’T in a given existence…bigger, stronger, faster – better and worth more money…
Me: I don’t have this parasitic social handicap I suppose; because I could honestly care less about having bullshit possessions that I can carry around and flaunt – to show off to my heartless “friends”. I do not count the monetary value of my possessions against my own cha-cha in the Universe; I don’t ever let my head fill entirely up with the environmentally poisonous, bullshit hot air.



I’d trade anything I own in a nano-second in exchange for some sort of true comfort that Boo could eternally call hers – that nobody and nothing could ever steal from her. The rest of the world and the bullshit happening in it just seem so insignificant and muted to me – while my daughter spirals downward into what should have been her future. Her eighteenth birthday quickly approaches now – in May…and I carry so much fear and dread as well as excitement and relief over her coming of age and being set free. I’ve only recently opened my fucking eyes and seen the striking similarities between Boo and I in regard to commitment issues, somehow…not sure what the fuck I have been paying attention to, but it’s like a metric fuck-ton of bricks from the top of the Empire Reality Building have crumbled and landed on my head, in terms of Boo’s shiftiness.
Basically, somehow I have managed to totally overlook the FACT that despite my painstaking efforts when she was a baby and her father and I were together still – to protect her from seeing things that he’d done to me, in a wide and creative array of ways, trust me – she still KNEW. She always knew. Even before she knew that she knew, or what it was that she knew – she knew. I’ve always known this deep down in my heart, for obvious reasons…but as with my former drug addiction during the same era of her life, there’s nothing I can do un-do any of it, so other than to simply try and persevere onward and upward from those past mistakes of mine – there’s little I’ve ever been able to process surrounding any of it. Of course, she and I have always had issues over her father’s sudden and permanent absence from her toddler-hood; she remembers him being there always and then one day just not ever being there again. In her perceptions however, she does not recollect the FACT that I also disappeared from her life at the same exact time as he did – only temporarily. All these years later as a full grown woman, I see the unacknowledged trauma that must have created for Boo, in itself. She doesn’t deal with it properly because she has somehow warped her perceptions into something other than what they actually were. She would tell you that her father “just up and left me and my mom one day…”, which anyone who knows anything about our story knows wasn’t even close to how shit went down. She hardly ever even talks about my absence/injury/hospitalization period at all – never has.
These thoughts of mine have me wondering things about why it seems to be so much more difficult to really get through to her about ANYTHING. I’m realizing that her entire perception of all things shared between our life experiences, together or separately, is contrasting to my own.

math_friends…which brings me back to my original point with this:

Who then, in these instances between Boo and me, is the common denominator?

Jackson, The EMT.


Jackson or “Jack” was a stranger to me when I woke up after having my throat cut. He was just as strange to me as any of the nurses, surgeons or anesthesiologists; I didn’t even know his name or where I had seen him before….
He was sitting there, flipping through the pages of magazine that had pictures of hitch campers and fly-fishermen having the time of their lives out in the Great Outdoors of Manly Men; his hair was tousled and his eyes were heavy. He looked exhausted even to someone who didn’t know him.
Jackson…for ten plus years….a fucking ROCK.
He had been there religiously since I got there to the Unit; he was on a first name basis with everyone before I even regained consciousness. He knew nothing about me besides the minimal information he had collected during and immediately following the drama of my injury/attack: my first and last names, my presumed DOB, the fact that I am anemic, and my blood type: AB/RH-. All he was sure of, all that mattered to him for those days in between my actual injury and the day that I woke up, had been that I was not alone and scared as Hell when it finally happened.
He didn’t know that I had no Dad anymore; he didn’t know that my Papa had recently passed, either. He had no details about any part of my life outside of the FACTS that he had seen first-hand, as my own personal Hero. When I ask him wtf he was doing hanging out in a hospital, waiting for some mutant-faced domestic hostage refugee to awaken and lose her shit upon finding out that she had not been having nightmares, after all – he always simply answers with,

“I knew enough.”

A man of few words, Jack has always frustrated me beyond description with his overkilling calm and seemingly delayed responses. He has balance that shines from every pore; the picture of self-containment and control. Never, have I seen him lose his temper for a nano-second; nothing throws him off, he’s “Money”.
Jack is the epitome of ‘Mr. Slickness’ –but, I digress.

The very first memory that I have after surviving and being hospitalized is of Jack the EMT; I became immediately and acutely aware of this strangely familiar man (whom I innately liked, but mentally associated with REALLY bad but unclear experience), fearfulness washed over me like a fucking wave of tangible and anchoring liquid. I tried to jump up and away from the feelings, and was driven closer to panic by the sobering appreciation of the fact that I could not move my body at all, tied into a bed by wires and stringy webs of hospital equipment; I tried to speak but only succeeded in letting out several very telling gasps for air. Reality lingered nearer, my fogginess began to clear quite suddenly and a moment of total recognition came over me then:
He was already up and moving, he immediately dropped off of his chair into a Mechanic’s Crouch at the foot of my bed in a submissive gesture that any mammal of earth, including severely retarded ones, would understand as his assurance of no harm meant. The way he recollects it, his instincts had already told him that I was a “kick in the pants”. His lulling drawl was calm and very passive when he softly spoke to me from his place near the footboard of my hospital bed.
He said,

“I know you are going to feel very afraid and confused right now, Cricket”

(I remember thinking: ‘my name isn’t Cricket…is it?’)

“And that’s okay and totally normal…”

He now says that was not the right thing to say and that it was inappropriate (because he has come to strongly harbor an opinion that in the circumstances in which that moment was defined by, there is really no such thing as “normal”) but let me tell you something:
As soon as he spoke, the relation I had to him rushed back over me all at once:
His voice over my face, blood everywhere – even on his upper front teeth, somehow; his voice commanding barks at me in the ambulance and through the swooshy doors of the trauma unit, his steadied hands gripping every single millimeter of my remaining life – fade in, out, fade in, out. The words he used were irrelevant and meaningless to me at that very moment in time, but his voice told me enough to know it was okay, he was okay, I was okay. I could trust that he wasn’t there to hurt me.
I was mean to Jack at first; I didn’t always feel gratitude towards him for being here to write this…on the contrary, we had many months of ugliness and instances that were reminiscent of a father and his unruly, rebellious teenaged daughter. Many days were spent with my eyes on “perma-roll” in response to his patience and lack of reaction to my anger and newborn PTSD. I recall sitting in his den (which became my “bedroom” for a while) with my index fingers plugged into both ears because I could not stand how calm and noiseless he was. (???) I was a bitch; a seriously scared and broken bitch. I do not like to think about what my recovery may have looked like had Jack NOT been the one called to the scene of my attempted murder.
Jack took it upon himself to carry the burden of recapturing the events of The Ripper’s attack on me, as well as his escape from the scene of the crime – and ongoing evasion from police; and he held nothing back with it. In retrospect, he wanted me to be disgusted by all of it, I think. Jackson literally sat beside me through some of nastiest surgical procedures on earth: stuff that made my own family dread having to actually look at me – but, he always made eye contact with me, without once batting an eye…and believe me, I was ever diligent in looking for a cringe or reaction from him over my appearance. He was an EMT for thirty years leading up to that point, and that was no coincidence either, I’m sure. He knew what was going on with my physical recovery process better than I did, and was annoying die-hard with my long-term wound care, wound-cleaning, debriding, grafting progress, etc.
In hindsight, aye…I was mean to Jackson when I woke up to my newborn life as a Cut Throat Survivor – a gift that he had given to me. He didn’t care what I said or did, he never faltered on me. He was like clockwork day in and day out. He was the scientifically sound evidence of humanity floating sacrificially amongst a sea of hungry evidence-eating sharks and humanity devouring monsters I was trying to resurface from. He waited THERE for me. To his detriment, I’m sure. He was single because of me for way too long in my opinion; any woman that he tried to be serious with has been threatened by my existence and his ongoing contributions to it. Did he give a shit about a single one of his ex-girlfriends’ feelings or insecurities when it came to me, even one time? No, he did not.
As a Native American tribesman, Jackson’s devotion to giving back to the community he lives in runs deep, and his devotion to me was born of this characteristic. He has never been remotely shitty to me, even when I would redundantly spit out hatefulness and embittered perceptions at him for ensuring me the life in order to feel so angry; even when I wasn’t yet devoted to me, he was. After the doctors were finished with “Frankenstein”, and I got to go home finally – Jack was unable to keep himself together – he cried tears of joy. His bottom lip still quivers when he speaks of that day, he was proud of me. He is still proud of me. I struggle, even now, to understand my stroke of luck when it comes to him.
A few months ago, I asked him why he insists on calling me “Cricket”; and his response to my question was this:

“When I saw you for the first time out there in the yard…I saw YOU. Yeah, yeah…your face was not your face back then; that was before you grew up, shit what were you? All of twenty?…I remember the fear in your eyes when I got to you, if you coulda talked to me, you woulda asked me not to let you die, I saw that in your eyes…I saw you wanted this terror and fear to be over, I saw in your eyes that you were willing to work with me in order to stay alive to the unit…”

I was tearing up by this point in his recollection – due to the fact that he is totally correct in his summation – I remember these things – staring up into his face intentionally, willing my eyeballs to burn into him so that he’d recognize my ‘fighter’, still in there with her fists up.

“…those little legs folded up under you, you were bone-broken into bits… and gurgling blood…it was a tough last ride to retire on…”

I was nearly killed on Jackson’s VERY LAST DAY AT WORK, prior to his retirement – again, no coincidence.

“…still, you were smiling at me the entire time…I don’t know, but you were a Cricket – delicately in my lap…a happy little Cricket, gurgling songs…and I made the decision right then and there, that you had seen enough bullshit for one lifetime. That I would see you better and set free…”

I have written countless poems and prose in my lifetime as a result of my love for literary beauty and conciseness; however, when those words, simple and few as they may have been, have remained burned into my head like a white-hot branding to my brain – it’s description, too meaningful and heavy in my own perception to even write poetry about. Basically, what he was saying was that he made the choice way back then (based on my “broken cricket legs”, and my own version of a ‘death rattle’ and morbid smile) – before knowing a thing about me – to FREE me from the living nightmare I had come to know as Life.

“I knew enough.”

Here’s looking at YOU.
<3 <3 <3 <3


Comfort Call.

Ring. Ring. Ring.
Yes, it’s me
I am calling you,
you pick up on ring three;
no nervousness involved,
so glad you took my call…
He spoke of things,
had my head nodding,
yes, yes!
I know that feeling!
It was a comfort call;
Yes, it’s me
after so much
tragic misery
that we’ve been forced
to eat as reality…
We joked about,
how the bottom falls out,
just when you think
you’ve got the hang
of anything.
A comfort call;
Yes, it’s me
I’m okay
He’s fucking
and though he knows a lot,
if he doesn’t know,
he’s not –
afraid to suck it up
and ask me.
Yes, it’s us
A friendship full
of creepy,
natural trust;
that he can’t explain,
and I make no sense of…
It was a comfort call.

Comfort Call.

Comfort Call.


What it was, it wasn’t really there;
There weren’t any late night whispers,
No fingers through my hair;
What we were wasn’t really anything;
There was never any meaning,
To the words you spoke to me;
What I thought, it was totally absurd;
There was nothing more to it,
Than just your lonely, empty word;
What I wanted, you refused to give away;
There was no red dress I could wear,
To bring the words you wouldn’t say;
What it turned out to be, in the end of it all;
There was a knock at the door,
And you took the call;
What I didn’t know was that your heart is gone;
There’s no ticking or beating,
Yet you somehow drone on;
What is surprising to me above all else;
There is no one on Earth,
That you love more than yourself;
What you haven’t thought of, ahead of time;
There is no way in Hell,
That you’ll take anything of mine;
What it was, that it never could be;
There are too many like you,
And hardly any others like me.


Canus Lupus.

Canus Lupus.


Because of the beautiful wish sent out to my Boo,
From the kind heart of a kind friend, now gone;
I sit next to the flame that I’ve kept lit for you,
In the moment, I am once again – overcome;
By the words and love left all across the Universe,
Imprinted by the quill of your bright signature;
Yours was a kindness one cannot rehearse;
A gentle, warm soul wrapped in a Grey Wolf’s fur.

As I sit in this passing rite’s flickering firelight,
I confess that your words swim around my heart and mind;
Though the language is different, the words are unchanged,
They speak lasting words of someone truthful and kind.
For the beautiful wishes that you chose to send out to my Boo,
Because she was weighing on your great big, human heart;
The most selfish wish that I must practically beg of you,
Would be to light the pathways for her through the dark.

Angel of Nothing at All.

Angels of Nothing.

Angels of Nothing.

For What It’s Worth.

When the Bear Trainer rips open an article in describing the nickname she’s been given by “someone whom [she] loves and trusts”, please understand firstly and fore mostly – that these words do not come easily for her; she likes to keep a well-drawn line in between herself and others…she feels safest that way. The Bear Trainer sees herself as “Grotesque”…a mangled and patched together version of what might have been, had she not been physically tortured, and in turn – changed on a genetic level by a man (thing) whose cruelty and sadism matched The Ripper’s in nature and severity. I see something so much more than what might have been when I look at her, when I connect with her…when I listen to her.
Upon knowing the Bear Trainer, my beliefs have been deepened; my fears validated and soothed by a voice of reason; my hand has been taken for the first time in a long, long time…maybe even forcefully, but it was needed. It was crucial, in fact. I do not typically jive so well with females for what I’m sure must be obvious reasons; and so you can know that any women that I am close to are gonna be THE BEE’S KNEES – no stupid beezies ride in my car, truth. So when strange and unfamiliar women send me questions about my passed experience with my ex-husband or, even the current shit with Boo – I typically don’t pay much mind to it; because I typically don’t give a fuck what some dingbat from Upstate New York or Laguna Beach has to snort about my business, to be honest.
Yet, through the bustle and noise of technology and meaningless lines across a screen – there was a fearsome bear standing up inside of a fire to get my attention – to ensure that I listened to its trainer. I wanted to share with anyone who has recently been exposed to the Bear Trainer and her blog; she is fierce and chain-bearing, outspoken and raw – she can make someone disappear with a simple line written in truth, make them obsolete in the Universe…she is larger than life and full of colors richer than the most eye-bending hues…she is the epitome of strength and endurance and courage. She stabilizes “stable”.
But know this:
She is the Bear and the Bear Trainer, aye – but she is a beautiful, delicate and fragile creature that’s been burning white hot forever – and to touch her the wrong way might one day, affect the cooled ashes of an ember…she does not openly accept everyone and let them near her life as I do – she guards her armor well, and rightfully so.
I do not need to ask m y readers to understand this about my beloved Bear Trainer, if any of you should come to know her also…but I’m asking you to try.
Amalija is a VERY RARE FIND…to be treasured and celebrated with a roar.


Me 'n The Orphan

Me ‘n The Orphan

I’ll give it to the guy, he’s patient as dead elephant when it comes to my essentially dragging him around behind me aimlessly, during the grips of a random expeditious episode on my part. He usually seems quite content in just silently trailing, hands in his Pendleton pockets…it takes him at least an hour to even chime in with something like, “Uhhhh, should I Google Map it?”

What a trooper, the lil’ shit.

Postcards from Freedom #6 – From Persia, With Love.

With Love, Bitches!

With Love, Bitches!

Postcards from Freedom #5 – Mommy’s Little Maximus.

He'll NEVER turn out like YOU.

He’ll NEVER turn out like YOU.

This postcard is one of a two part series – Persia will be sending her own out soon. The importance behind this particular postcard should be obvious – Persia has ensured her son Max’s freedom as well as her own. He will never grow up to be like his scary father. Much love from Freedom!!!


The Orphan came home this morning…after three days and nights away.

He announced his arrival by sending me the following text message first:

“You know…it’s called a wetsuit for a reason, not a hang up dry suit.”

Basically, his way of provoking me into going to the beach with him…


I do not prefer to spend the day with anyone out of a sense of pity they may be feeling for me, but he means well. When he actually got home, I told him it’s too late for surfing today, by the time we got there the sun will be starting to set – and he is not keen on nighttime water activities so much…smart guy. Anyway, he told about his latest endeavors and I told him I had nothing new to report; we drank over-strong coffee and chain-smoked together, a default comfort mechanism that we have always shared in common, and I eventually just asked him straight up:

“You trying to take me to the beach ‘cause you feel sorry for me?”

He doesn’t miss a beat before replying:

“That’s the ONLY way you EVER get to follow me over there…”

The Orphan boasts the biggest, whitest, most Un-American looking choppers I have ever seen in person…his smile is unmatched by any dude that I know, and when he cracks a joke prior to cracking that smile, he does this funny thing with his neck – the combination of the three together is instant comfort to me, regardless of the situation; one of his most endearing physical displays, in my opinion.

“I don’t do shit with anybody out of pity, you dumbass…”

The words seem to speak directly to my heart as he says them at me.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself…”

He’s standing, staring down at me, still smiling – but his eyes are afire like he’s possibly bordering angry as he retinal-burns me with his line of vision; waiting for my response.

I am caught off guard by his calling me out, and it apparently showed because his expression softens itself immediately before he adds, “Jackass…”

I stood there temporarily stuck on stupid, not sure what to say back to him, thinking about how right he actually is with his point.

Okay, Killer…I will.”

His mouth is hanging open slightly across the table from me, as we sit under the now-naked pomegranate tree out back; he was not expecting me to agree with him, no doubt.

You’re right…”

For someone so wet behind his little (sunburned) ears, he can be pretty wise when he doesn’t want to be, sometimes…

Sheets of Plastic? (For the Bear Trainer)

Sheets of Plastic ( For the Bear Trainer)

Sheets of Plastic ( For the Bear Trainer)

Therapeutic Super Burritos.

beach dayz

Yesterday, the Orphan and I had the ever-dwindling opportunity to eat Super Burritos (one of our shared favorites) together at the hole in the wall next to Big Lots; it was nice because it’s been a while…(by a while, I mean like 2 weeks or something). Yeah yeah yeah, we live together – but you might know how that goes with two broken people under one roof: lots of time alone, in separate rooms, being broken for our own separate reasons…

He’s suddenly looking better everyday when I see him , as if there has been some kind of boulder lifted from his shoulder blades at a gradual pace. He is just like any other broken man that I know: proud and tough as nails – unable to resign even for a moment – unable to accept defeat (even when it’s shoving a brick down his throat) – working out the trauma he has just come through in abstract ways that personally soothe him best – he knows what he needs and wants, and he’s ready to get up and go out looking to find it.

Two weeks ago, he told me that he’d be going abroad for the Holidays – going “home” to his native country to be with his parents and childhood friends for he holidays. I will admit that part of me (being the Abandonment Issue Queen that I am) was crushed at this news; but the bigger, more humanitarian part of me was thrilled to hear that he misses them and desires a closeness to them at all. I settled on the agreement of helping him get his clothes folded and packed and smelling clean for the hugs he’ll be giving to his mom and dad and sister. This specimen of the Male Persuasion (the Orphan) is truly a rare creature; and it’s not often that I say this, but he has my 110% faith, trust and support in all he does. Since he technically began living with me, there are things that I haven’t been able to peg in regard to his overall personality; for example:

It has always stricken as very odd  that someone like the Orphan, who is so logical, practical, fair, calm, non-confrontational, and most notably – well-educated; somehow found himself tied in with a creature who was the epitome of a man-eater – an extremely narcissistic/sociopathic female who has ended up being the one in his own experience to have “turned him cold” in regard to his willingness to LOVE.

When we first “met”, it was due to the healing process in which he is still enduring, resultant of the above described relationship. He reached out to me because he was desperate for answers, for the much needed closure that he already sensed he would never get; he was in despair and feeling without hope to push on. I instantly loved him, the little fucker; he is a human being…he is a good human being.

Easy Now

Since our initial online emails volleys (that sometimes became so obnoxiously long in the thread, it was disturbing lol), things have evolved quite a bit in the context of his hopelessness and my helplessness in the context of our everyday lives – separately and together. After his first visit (one that was kind of a spontaneous form of support on my part and a total leap of faith on his), he decided that this place felt more like “home” than any of his other options (and for the record, this guy has handfuls and handfuls of choices, worldwide); or, better described, he chose here to be his beginning point for the rest of life. Where his life might take him, who knows? But the point here is that he was intuitive enough to recognize a safe haven when he saw one – and jump on the opportunity to take some time to heal himself.

Back to the point of post:

Over Super Burritos, we were discussing things about our similarly terrifyingly sociopathic exes (a topic that we haven’t touch on for months because I think we both got tired of talking about so much ugliness nonstop), and he began to describe things that lead to a complete epiphany for me in regard to the recovering men (and there are sad numbers of this type of Survivor, unfortunately) who have been intimately involved with (and in turn, DESTROYED BY) a sociopathic/psychologically terroristic woman. This can even be his mother or another female relative or teacher, etc.

“Oh My fuck!!!”, I bellowed out of my chip-filled Sailor’s mouth, in my typical impulsive manner.

His eyes do this funny bulge/roll movement that’s all tucked into one motion whenever I behave like an obnoxiously drunken lion-tamer in his public company;

“Sorry…but you just totally made me realize something…I’m having a moment here…” I tucked both hands into my lap and asked him from across the table:

“Were you afraid of her, somehow?”

His eyes lock cleanly into mine as I finish the sentence; I’ve never seen the look that overtakes his charmingly boyish face;

“…because from ALL of the many things you’ve shared with me of your relationship with her, it sure seems as though the same exact process was there – with some minor tweaks and twists, yea…but there all the same…”

His head is nodding vigorously; a smile washes off that unfamiliar look of what?…recognition?…relief?… and he pokes his long index finger into the table in front of his plate.

“You know, so-and-so (a psychiatrist friend of his from grade school) says that we (by “we”, he means himself and every other man who has suffered the traumas of a destructive and narcissistic female) have the same affected state as that of domestic violence victims…”

My dumbfounded shock must be glaringly apparent, because he adds, “The constant fear and manipulation, the isolation from “normal” people in our lives who would speak up and say how abnormal things are…”

I catch myself with my mouth hanging open, nearly frozen by the seemingly obvious, in retrospect. I have no words to say that might even come close to acknowledging so many discussions he and I have had about the ways that he felt “trapped”, “obligated”, “guilty” by the slightest thoughts of leaving her and getting away from her unhealthiness.

This handsome little devil is a veteran of some seriously traumatic warfare – numerous war experiences – and I’m talking VALIDATED and VERIFIED horror…living Hell…he’s no sissy; he doesn’t shy away from ANY kind of challenge by nature (like me), and he was not raised in an unhealthy environment. The slap to the back of my head came hardest when I recalled how many people have said things along the lines of: “You don’t seem at all like the type of woman to become a battered wife…”, or “I can’t even imagine you being married to that type of man and in a situation like you were in – it’s NOT like YOU…” over the years of my ongoing recovery from my own traumatic marriage; and then put those recollections in context with the times that I have said very similar things to him. What an ass…I am still sort of processing the common threads and mechanisms between the two of us – based solely on the experience with traumatic marriage and the associated effects that we share in common from them. But I felt like it was worth writing down because it was a light bulb moment for me in terms of decoding the Orphan and his current needs and state of being. I have long recognized his “Shell Shock”, and try to treat it accordingly how and when I can; but now – – – well, now I have a more clear appreciation for the absolute Hell that he has survived through much more recently than I came through mine. Now, he has become that much more endearing to me because I see a healing process quite differently in everything he is doing.

All in all, it was a very eye-opening discussion that ended up trailing back home after lunch and continuing until almost dinnertime…yesterday was a very therapeutic day for us both I think. Good.

Truest Trust

Grab My Hand!

Hollow Eve


I don’t know what triggered you last night; I don’t know what it was that finally broke you…or actually, made you feel broken, finally…whatever it was lied to you. The lies that you bought into last night made you feel insecure and worthless; the things those lies forced you to revisit in your mind only solidified your insecurities – you were weakened by the forces of your own psychological exceptionalism last night. You were in a bad place, I know…I visit it often too, it’s comfortable there somehow for people like you and I, that’s okay.

What ISN’T okay is that you were especially suggestible last night for whatever reasons…you shouldn’t have been alone, my friend…you shouldn’t have been alone. It wasn’t okay that you wound up that way – alone – and in the grips of such hateful self-resentment and such meaningful death wishes –

It isn’t okay that I am too far in distance to have REALLY been your friend when you needed me last night, it wasn’t because I don’t care…my heart feels as if it’s literally struggling to pump blood as a result of my being the “captive audience” to your deeply entrenched misery.

Today, do I have another friend who has gone away; who has left this painful existence and been snuffed out by its poisonous content? I am your friend; I’ve always meant it when I told you that…genuinely. I know you meant it, too. You are special and rare; you are an exception to so many “rules” in the world…have you forgotten that? If you’re gone, it will never be okay no matter how much I respect your ability to decide things for yourself. My heart is running out of room for new hollow spots.


Shallow Roots

karma is as karma does“Oh my God! You live with Him?” her voice naturally lowered itself upon her own realization of how “teenaged girl” she was behaving; I couldn’t help but to roll my eyes and nod at her typical reaction.

“Yes…right next door…I even see him nearly naked on a daily basis…” I continued my speedy pace towards my newest roommate, “the Orphan”, where he sat in the shade under a tree on the side of the busy streets of the local Farmer’s Market.

“Okay, try to control yourself, Chica…he’s very timid, despite his gorgeousness…go easy on the lil’ guy…”my voice trails off as my cousin and I approach the Orphan’s position, and I inhale a deep breath to begin my introductions so that she might just go on about her business and leave he and I in peace to mosey the marketplace.

Her hand shoots out across the center of our tiny crowd of three before I can finish my first sentence – the one that would have included what a dumbass she is, if I had been obliged – and she begins to take off on one of her notorious tangents about how awesome she is. I can see the “deer come into the headlights” immediately from the corner of my left eye, where the Orphan stands, shocked like a hunted beast in the netting, his curious nature being nearly overtaken by over-stimulus of the most uncomfortable kinds for a person like him.

“Chris, listen…he doesn’t speak English so well,” (a total line of fabricated reality, as his English vocabulary and conversational skill often gets me up on my own toes…) “how would you like it if you were visiting a foreign place and some totally hot guy came up and bombarded you with words you couldn’t quite process…?” I see the smirk of disgusted recognition disappear just as quickly as it had appeared from the Orphan’s face to my side; I hear my cousin let out a long, frustrated breath as she pulls my arm, forcing me to step once to my right. She hisses into my ear and it feels as if someone is holding an acetylene torch to it as she says, “I don’t care if he speaks English…I just like how good he looks, Bambi….C’mon, you’re messin’ up my cha-cha…”.

She releases my arm and pushes me gently away from her and the Orphan as if to tell me to kick rocks, which I happily did – I know something she doesn’t know.

It only takes about a minute and half before he catches up to me on the trail towards our neck of the little woods where we live; he is smiling broadly and looking content. I say, “I knew you could handle yourself…”

He smiled the entire way home.



the creature n me

A while ago, I made a decision to open my heart to a new person who’d come along and crossed paths with me in Life; and surprisingly, it’s been a decision that hasn’t yet bitten me in my hand.


The past four or five months have been a tornado of happenings here:

More pretenders and opportunistic mutants

More lies and deceit

More injustice and less answers for it

More questions surrounding everyone I know (or thought I did)

More painful recovery processes

More thoughts and fears

More disillusion

More abandonment

More mistaken identities


Through it all, I have had a steadfast ally at my side – this orphaned spirit that I decided to adopt into my family; a person who has taught me so much without intending to teach me a thing – a person whose very existence has been an anchor lately for me, to a previously untouched – more meaningful side of Life.

People say that our circumstance is crazy, that our bond is “insane, at its best”; my friends have all reminded me of the chances I’m taking with a ‘stranger’ from far away becoming so close in the cramped quarters of my limited world…of course, that had been the thing that caused me to jump into my new friendship head first like I did – don’t tell me NOT to do anything.

Upon first meeting the orphan, I was stricken by the sheer amount of loyalty and sincerity that seemed to ooze from his body; by the reluctance to let go of his own hope in his own way; his headstrong disposition sets him apart immediately from anyone with a pair of broken wings. His heart has been trampled and continues to be kicked from one side of the floor to the other in a volley of deeply entrenched deceitfulness and shocking cruelty; yet, he still smiles…somehow.

His former life was drained of its former goals and plans; and the future he had invested so completely in has been stripped right from his stubborn hands; he has been like an island growing out of the black, cold sea in the middle of nowhere to offer a form of relief and reprieve to a weary pirate driving a jacked vessel.

He’s lied down and said fuck it; then got back up and said he didn’t mean that.

Instead of becoming the shitty, embittered spirit that I embody, he doesn’t fall in line with the grief – he masters something new. He renews his sense of ability in whatever context he can, which is amazing and inspiring to me.

Overall, he has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

He hasn’t let me down like I’ve been expecting him to do; and I am so very grateful for his friendship now. I wish him all of the healing and strength in this world.

In the end, it’s kinda funny how when we think we are opening up a wing for someone else to climb underneath, the orphan scampering into the offered space doesn’t necessarily come empty-handed.


That AWESOME moment when:

The weakened spirit stands up with a surfboard shoved under his arm and declares that “he doesn’t feel like replying right now”…

Do Not Mistake My Weakness for Kindness

This week has been sullen for me, as an individual human being on a solo journey through this thing called ‘life’…I’ve been stabbed once more in my back – the back that resembles Swiss Cheese these days from so many of these trivial betrayals.


“Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness.”

Or so, I like to proclaim quite regularly; but in all actuality it’s much more the opposite. I am a weak individual in terms of emotional control: I am cursed with the permanent role of Devil’s Advocate, as well as the additional layers of extreme and seemingly untreatable abandonment issues that have morphed into rejection issues over time. When I say “rejection issues”, I don’t simply apply that to the context of romantic relationships, either…no, unfortunately my insecurities, leeriness, and inability to commit have crossed all boundaries throughout the realms of my world by now – rendering the recluse, socially anxious and withdrawn “thing” that writes this blog. I know that I am the common denominator in all of the failed attempts at intimacy in the years since I learned the truth about the Real World and how quickly someone can literally become someone else altogether. I have repeatedly been shown the lesson of trusting the wrong individual, but have yet to actually learn it, I suppose.


My worst wounds are the ones people can’t see; the most painful experience of my own survival are born from my psyche, from my perceptions of the world around me as well as the people in it. In reality, this past week has been very minimal in interaction or dialogue or exchange with the backstabber in question; that’s my issue – that’s my symbolic open wound: the ways that others feel so obliged to “use” my weaknesses to their own benefit somehow.

I operate fairly simply and without complexity:

  • If you’ve hurt me in any way, I will let it be known to you – at which point, you have the option to either do right or wrong by me.
  • After a window of a day or so passes by, if you have not chosen to show me the fundamental decency of communication in any sense of the word, you’ve been systematically chalked up with those before you who have acted like a mutant.

In life, I realize that we are each essentially on different journeys in this thing, motivated by varying factors and ambitions; only coinciding to unite forces when the purpose serves each person involved; I get it. I am not some numbskull from whom such concepts escape, trust me; I am however, apparently in some highly masochistic sort of denial to the blatant and repeatedly painful realization that 9 out 10 of the living, breathing, “functioning” carbon-based, human life forms around me at any given moment in time: are quite likely already chalked up to the formerly mentioned category of “mutant”.


I use the word mutant to describe many types of creatures who live under the palpable existence of “humanity”:

  1. People who steal from other people.
  2. People who bully or terrorize others who are unable to defend themselves due to size or restraints.
  3. People who are dishonest with those who are not.
  4. People who think that they are the exception to “the rule”, any rule.
  5. People who are intrinsically satisfied by watching others suffer.
  6. People who are obnoxious in the need to flaunt and display celebratory behaviors at the cost of others in a form of mockery.
  8. People who believe that a certain social status or popularity amongst the tanning lights will protect them from the dark side.
  9. People who carry a badge or yield a gavel out of an unsatisfied need for control over others.
  10. People who knowingly look the other way when something WRONG is happening, because to say something would somehow affect their pocketbook negatively.

There are many more types of mutants too: pimps, johns, most government officials, bible thumpers, bullies, etc.

This week, I’ve been dealing with #s 3 and 8 on a pretty regular basis…and it’s been rough on me because I am an adult now, and I have to behave like one – but it’s NOT always easy is it? Sometimes, I would give anything just to be able to allow my fifteen year old Self to come out, just for a few moments and say, “Oh really? You think you’re backstabbing is anything new to me? Seriously, because I wanted to know if my back was hurting your fucking knife yet, you little Weaseling Snake…”, or, “Can it seriously be possible that you’re as fucking Princess Stupid as you’re acting, you stuck-up little spoiled rotten Dumptruck?”…


…Jesus, I stomp around my house like a fucking Terra Cotta soldier, cursing and snarling under my breath whenever I’m in the same room with one of them – the 1st of May CAN NOT get here fast enough I’ll tell you that much…because I can hardly stand to look at my soon-to-be former roommate or either one of the little shit-kick dogs that are attached to his presence here in what was a once quiet and calm, easy-going and reciprocally supportive home front. I hate sharing space with such an opportunist; as I am NOT built that way by any means. I take yeah…but I am most certainly far from last to refrain from giving back.

I’m trying really hard to be mature and to just let it all roll off my back like water off a duck’s, but I guess I’m not as mature as I need to be, because things bother me when it comes to humanity. It really bothers me when people use me, when people not only use me, but then carry on as if that were always the plan, afterward. Why does some pompous, rich, pretentious fuck need to fuck with me and take from me when he already has more than enough for himself? Greed. Self-absorption. Lack of substance. All I know is that it’s hard to keep giving like the human being that I am by nature, when those with their hands out have mouths so full that they cannot speak to me.

Ok, that’s all for now…I will step down from the podium now…