Thank You.

It’s been a whirlwind knowing you…I don’t need to say this though because you know.

I know that you know.

I genuinely love you. I meant all I said, everything.

And it’s because of this that I wish you well in life; and I am warmed by the knowledge of your fulfillment and happiness.

I toast your future.

Have a nice life.

Come and Go.

A Masterpiece that will always deeply touch and move me; one that I can’t take credit for.

It’s by Rob (Just Ruminating) and it’s a powerful, powerful piece.

it’s called “Come and Go”; enjoy…

Come and Go

Her back never faces the door

“I’ll only need you on certain days”

she says

“I’ll have to write them down
my memory doesn’t work so well
especially when I am caught up”

she’s thinking
(a lovely stare)

“Who is that in the mirror?
Where did she come from
why the fuck is she here?
I don’t need this shit right now
She shouldn’t be here!”

I ask

“Where did you go? Does the rain
bleed sideways always?  Or
does it come in sporadic torrents
spurting out
covering everything
like a permanent stain?”

She ignores that and says

“I don’t sleep so well
insomnia from hell, really.
She gets her claws into me
so that I trance the rage.
Over and over and over and
over again
almost comical.  I can’t wait
until the coffee is so strong that
it sends her into a
tailspin for once.  Just once…”

Bemused I say

“But it’s more than just caffeine
you need on most days right?
I see you in paintings everyday
you are always so resigned in your
poses. You can either look like
something is
coming around the corner at you
or you can look like
you have beheld the Gods.”

“Easy for you to say,”

She chuckles

“I think I’ll rest now. I can’t
remember all these details.
My memory can play tricks on me
sometimes I feel like I’m an actress
in my very own horror flick.
I watch the scenes go by indifferently
perhaps if I got the cobwebs out
I’d be able to see things more clearly
find the pause button, you know?
I never did dye my hair…”

she says wistfully
(her repose sexy)

I smile
I say

“I love your hair just the way it is”

then I say

“Although, I must say, blue would
really bring out your intense eyes
I wonder, will she be home later?
If so,
will you tell her I will be
betwixt and between? Within and
without always just a touch away
until she works through her shit?
I will be around permanently.”

She smirks

“Sure.  She probably thinks the
world is ending as we speak.
You know,
she’s good at catastrophizing
the shadows work best,
she plays those same tapes,
over and over and over….
well, you get the idea
she can be engaged like that
so, I’m not sure if she is or isn’t.”

then she says
(rather adroitly)

“She’s hyper vigilant, that one
reminds me of me once I detach,
once I fixate on my salvation,
you know I simply spend a
fuckload of time just trying to
get back to square one whatever
square one is is.”

I reply

“Well square-fucking-one certainly
doesn’t fit your puzzle, does it?”

I lean in

“I mean, all the squares have
they are so different they’re hard
to recognize.
Are they not? There’s so
many of them that
even tunnel vision
even hyper vigilance
can’t always help you focus on
shapes that are always shifting though,
I must say you adapt quite well.”

She laughs

“Shit, dude, I have to give you credit.
at least for your quirky imagination.
Christ is it time already?
I gotta get back to her
she could be in a state.
Hopefully not
in front of that fucking mirror
it’s not the best place on most days.
It clouds her judgment.
It needs replacing,
that, it’s cracked and warping.”

I rise

“Thanks for stopping in.  I’ll
make sure
I have your brand next time you
come and go
I found a place that stocks it
regularly, the stuff of legends
will you do me a huge favor?”

I ask

she says
(grace imperceptible)

I put my hands on her small frame.
Looking at her intently,

I whisper

“Just remember come and go
as you please she can too, especially
use my place whenever you need it
I know you’ll be sure to keep things
nice and tidy. You happen to be
quite masterful at that.  And
don’t worry,
I will continue to keep an eye out
you know, for both of you.”

She smiles wryly
(so lovely)

Glances a kiss
off my flushed cheek
turns and says
almost as an afterthought

“Aye, I know.  It makes all the
difference in the world
I know it does to me anyway.
I’m fairly sure for her as well.
She’s always taking stock, sorting
inventory, cleaning the messes up.
I’m pretty sure she knows though.
But you know how she is.”

As the door closes behind her

I think,

“Not really. But I am learning,
I am learning.”

Lily Lives!

It’s been quite some time since I planted anything new (I don’t farm ganja at home) in the front or back yard at my house; this is because I live with men who would sooner park the shell of a Studebaker over a patch of green than to water it and help keep it alive. The gardening aspect of what used to be two of my favorite places to spend my time has all but vanished in the face of what has gradually become the likes of a junkyard. I can barely stand to look outside in the back anymore.

Last month when we had a few gnarly wind storms, our side-back fence ate shit onto our side between ourselves and our neighbor (an awesome human being who happens to be a federal police officer and an Iraq War veteran, for the record), smashing and demolishing anything green still standing, including the last stem of sentimental gardening remaining to me. It was a huge prize-winning and quite mutant-esque flower: my Burnt Orange Easter Lily that I planted within weeks of moving in here with Dice over five years ago. In time, it had become one of my best kept secrets and thrived in the face of all the destruction, automobile chemicals, and various dogs with the tendencies to dig.

I will admit to being deeply bothered by the sight of the fence collapsed into rubble atop of the strip of yard where my lily had lived. I dared not say a thing though, because I repeatedly fall into the mindset that my boys don’t pay particular attention to my wishes or desires when it comes to most things; why waste the breath? Dice finally put the finishing touches on the reconstructed fence yesterday afternoon. I had jokingly commented that he took long enough to put up the lattice over there on the side yard, as he had been over there noisily doing things for several hours after the last piece had gone up.

This morning, I awoke exceptionally late (for me) from a night full of terror and horrid nightmares; and I went out back with my coffee to begin to shake off the high-speed wobbles that such a night unfailingly bring. I was so happily surprised to see that I was wrong in being certain all this time that Dice has no clue about my sense of loss behind my final patch of garden being wiped off the landscape. Dice is good this way, as this isn’t the first time he has shocked me speechless through an unspoken action that tells of his attention paid to the things I say in passing when I am sure that nobody is listening.


Half-Bred Beast.

Through the vastness,
of Human eternity,
scatter all roads,
ever taken by me,
the archaic line,
of woven patches,
sewn intricately,
into man-made time,
Never in so long,
did I ever meet,
another earthly creature,
one part: Woman,
and, one part: Beast,
muscular-skeletal control,
over walking legs,
that naturally,
upright stand,
very deeply,
steeped by,
this creature…
‘Sam I am’;
Try traveling again,
the face,
of this friend,
try carrying on,
as if it’s:
all just fine again,
nothing between,
the hearts,
of just me,
and, specifically –
this companion,
has ever been,
happy at the end;
for she and I,
there’s no limit,
to the blue,
that ever-paints the sky,
no limit to the shading,
of green streaks,
spreading far and wide,
my friend, it’s true:
shooting stars,
are just the glue,
that keeps the twinkle,
alive to our eyes.


The broken, even those like me who have a very limited family to choose from, come back to our blood when we can. I have shared every year how hard the holidays are on me – and how I feel as if I have only barely recovered from one holiday’s wounds before it’s already Christmastime again. Admittedly, this year isn’t as bad as the stack of years leading up to it, somehow – likely because of the changes that have taken, and continue to take effect on my own psyche, I know…but, the overall emptiness and hollowed out feeling remains, in spite of the beginning of my own process of letting go of any former (and completely futile) expectations, hopes and/or goals in regard to my child, my own identity, and the future in general.

I’ve also written about my family a lot: my clan of older brothers, still living – my single younger brother, long dead. I have written about the two separate sets of kids that my father reared: THE ORIGINALS (the older set of four boys) and THE NON-ORIGINALS (the younger set of two boys and myself); my family structure growing up was odd, at best…but very close knit, in spite of such a wide-ranging collection. During childhood, I was closest to the baby, JJ, who committed suicide very young; and also with my very oldest brother, German, who is old enough to be my (young) father. The rest of my brothers and I have always missed that certain “connection”, for lack of a better term.

Nate, who is right above me in age (19 months older) and the first born of the NON-ORIGINALS, is very different from me in every way possible, as was he from JJ. Our childhoods kept us close but as soon as we began to grow up and foster our own personalities, Nate decided that he no longer cared too much for us. His high IQ and exquisite intelligence always alienated us; his introverted and anti-social persona didn’t help. After our father died, and our family was split up and separated permanently, the only one that I remained in daily contact with was JJ because we were kept together for a time. I found out after his death that Nathan had specifically asked to placed somewhere separately from us, and this morsel of information literally felt as if it had broken my spirit somehow for years, afterward.

Through my discovery of such a painful truth, Nate had made himself dead to me as well; I didn’t even count him as part of my family for almost a decade. It was ice between us. When I was recovering from the attempt on my life by the Ripper and all that drama, he never even checked on me once – never asked about me – basically it seemed that I was dead to him, in turn. When I came home, however, and he saw that I meant business in my own recovery and rehabilitation (my life prior to that was spent as a hostage to a psychopathic husband), he flipped a switch and became my staunchest ally, nearly overnight. He has gotten married and become a father since then; he seems to love me more as a result of those things, somehow.

His first-born, three-year-old “Cay-Cay”, is truly saving my life these days; giving me a spiritual renewal that I couldn’t (and wouldn’t) have thought possible at such an emotionally defeated time for me, reminding me that I am still worth something to at least one young, formidable soul out there. Her fierce and unwavering love for me has been like a lifeboat in the darkest swells of a lifetime. And, beneath it all, I have this sense of my brother’s love, too. He has been almost forceful with maintaining such an exceptional bond between she and I since the moment she was born, even before my life fell the rest of the way to shambles, it’s like he sensed the need somehow. He foresaw things that I was blind to seeing and successfully created a kind of safety net of emotional/spiritual fulfillment for me, just in case.

Of course, as with most things in life, these are things that are only just now becoming apparent to me – but I do recognize them. And there are not words to express the ton-of-bricks I am buried beneath when it comes to feeling grateful to him for it.

Half-Bred Beast.

Through the vastness,
of Human eternity,
scatter all roads,
ever taken by me,
the archaic line,
of woven patches,
sewn intricately,
into man-made time,
Never in so long,
did I ever meet,
another earthly creature,
one part: Woman,
and, one part: Beast,
muscular-skeletal control,
over walking legs,
that naturally,
upright stand,
very deeply,
steeped by,
this creature…
‘Sam I am’;
Try traveling again,
the face,
of this friend,
try carrying on,
as if it’s:
all just fine again,
nothing between,
the hearts,
of just me,
and, specifically –
this companion,
has ever been,
happy at the end;
for she and I,
there’s no limit,
to the blue,
that ever-paints the sky,
no limit to the shading,
of green streaks,
spreading far and wide,
my friend, it’s true:
shooting stars,
are just the glue,
that keeps the twinkle,
alive to our eyes.


I am nearly too overcome with shock to share that the Pedophile has been convicted on multiple serious counts (and will be sentenced next Monday) – but seeing as how I outlet through writing, there it is.


Despite the undeniable mockery of Justice that has led here to his juncture; and in total disregard of the well-known fact that I, personally, have NOTHING outside of lethal venom to spit from my mouth in regard to the entirety of the circumstances (including the comedy show that has theatrically staged and performed within Courts, nationwide, funded under the heinous pretense of “Juvenile Law”), I have somehow still been asked to make an “impact statement” at the sentencing hearing.
The DA knows my nature pretty well by now (Gods bless that man’s soul and spirit eternally); there have been handfuls of times when he specifically offended me by requesting my absence in certain situations that he knew would not benefit by his star witness’s disgruntled mother becoming irate and unforgiving to the target audience. The case that he just successfully tried and convicted has been the epitome of a dragged-out legal process – going on six years or something now.
So, the fact that he was the one who asked me to write an impact statement for the sentencing judge came as a surprise to me, after all.

“Um…are you sure you really want to hand that letter over to a judge, Counsel?” I asked him semi-jokingly earlier at his office after he broke the news of the convictions to me;
“It’s not like you have any reason on Earth to include any hard-grudged death threats to him, so yeah – I’m sure…please write it…just trust me.”

The guy is a saint – a genius – a knight in the shingingest of shining fucking armor…he could pretty much ask me to sail a Zodiac raft into a freak swell storm, and I think I would find a way to be happy about being glad to do it for HIM. He did, after all, always believe Boo and reaffirm her trauma with her through his work (and now, he has championed that reaffirmation for her in a Gods damned court of law). There is little that I wouldn’t do in the event that he urged me in one direction or another – I have come to trust his judgment in a fashion similar to the way some people might trust their’ doctor or priest. That all said, I intend to write an “impact statement” for sentencing, as he requests.

It’s odd…after all this time spent thinking of this day and all that it either would or would not mean stacked up against the rest of Boo’s life; this verdict represents the only hope in the Universe at all for Boo to ever find a way to heal from the trauma and its ripples. Since the Pedophile ruined her young life in 2009, Boo has spiraled miserably out of control, to the brink of no return many times – to re-surface against all odds with seemingly only the one purpose of further self-destruction and demise. She has been in custody for the duration of the time between being sexually preyed upon by the Pedophile (who worked at the initial facility to which she had been court-ordered for behavioral treatment) and now – our family has been long ago trampled to dust, as a result of the affected alienation. Her social worker has been telling her all these years that she is a liar; that the Pedophile never touched her; that she’s best locked away from any kind of real support or love of her family. What kind of impact statement would I even begin to write to the judge in rule over the future (or lack, thereof) of the man who’s rotten sexual mutation destroyed the life of my only child?

“Dear Your Honor:
Had your piece of shit colleagues over at the Juvenile Courts – the ones who order children to reside in “treatment facilities” with sexual predators on the payroll – actually been doing their’ fucking ALL MIGHTY jobs (if there is even a job description for such a way to waste 8 hours five days a week and drive a convertible Jag), perhaps I wouldn’t have to write you this statement of impact against said predator.”

Yeah…that’ll go over like a fart in church, I’m sure…
All I know is:
hate to be that judge reading my statement – whatever it will say. Hope he is used to sugar-free…

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



my hero americana

When One of Your Heroes Thinks The Same of YOU…



When I first opened my blog up and started writing about Boo – she was still missing at the time (again, I should say) and I was likely the closest I’ve ever come to pure insanity, there was a person who seemed to reply to most of my heart-achingly honest and obvious hopelessness. In all truth – if I’m going to be honest here with this post – I initially opened my blog because I wanted to write down my own versions of things for my estranged, delinquent daughter to read someday, after I had given up on the entirety of the situation that we are held hostage by and removed myself, somehow. I wrote down all of the most shameful and regrettable parts of my trials in motherhood that I’ve never been able to tell her myself, for various reasons, simply entertaining the idea that one day Boo might find closure of some sort from this blog and it’s content, if she ever comes back around close enough to catch it.

There was this one follower – this Cyber-Saint of a human, who is the type of Survivor that my beloved Triple S is: A Nurturer. This blogger was my third follower, and has been with me (seems like most of the posts I make, she’s there to validate me somehow, even with issues that I was certain no other human being has ever struggled with) SHE’S TITANIUM in my personal blogosphere. Staunch. Solid. Respectable and brutally honest in her own recovery from abuses so unimaginable and long-lasting that I often find myself wondering how it’s even possible that she’s able to offer such unwavering support to others who write of similar experiences and their lasting effects. She was that one HUMAN BEING who SINGLEHANDEDLY got through to me in regard to my hopelessness as the grieving and helpless Mother to a highly self-destructive and unruly teenaged daughter. MANDY has been the one to renew my once-fading HOPE for something – anything – better to look ahead for when it comes to my relationship (or lack, there of) with my only child. A few months ago, Mandy sent me a link to the page she maintains called Heroes in My Garden on her blog; and I was dumbfounded to find my own name among the bloggers whom she’s helping to grow there in that special garden of true Survival.

It wasn’t until last night sometime, as I lay awake in the grips of my beloved insomnia and the zillions of thoughts that it streams through my tired mind, that the garden finally made sense to me – that her intentions behind it are so GOOD and NURTURING – it brought me tears in the dark, all alone.

Mandy is conveying her own projection of healing and nurturing to the many broken bloggers that she stumbles across in her reading here on WordPress; she has created a cyber garden in which she can “plant” people she feels are worth the effort and help them to “grow” through her natural gift of NURTURE.

She is most certainly one of my most admirable HEROES too – in more ways than I could even begin to describe in words. Honestly, she gave me a thread to hold onto when I first arrived in the blogosphere, and she has helped that  thread grow into a thick and calloused vine over time.

This is my THANK YOU to a VERY POWERFUL SURVIVOR in my recovery and ongoing survival process – MANDY of HEALING BEYOND SURVIVAL.

No Mandy, YOU are MY HERO....

No Mandy, YOU are MY HERO….

VETERAN’S DAY REPOST: The Wise of The Skies

My Papa (age 20). Already a pilot headed to War...

My Papa (age 20). Already a pilot headed to War…


It seems as though my very genetic sequencing was created on a battlefield somewhere back in time.
On the one hand (my father’s side, and the side of the family in which I was exposed to daily), my Old School Yankee blood hammers a foothold of ingenuity and aggression embedded in my very DNA. My Danish Emigrant family is littered with highly decorated American War Heroes in each and every generation that I know of, including my daughter’s generation. This side of my heritage historically and willingly puts up a well-organized and strategic fight for the glories it claims, no doubt. This side of my family tree is dwarfed in numbers by my mother’s side; and unfortunately, I believe that is because I have lost too many relatives, both distant and close, to warfare.
My Papa (my Dad’s father, who was my Partner in Crime until the day he died about a decade ago) doubled as my daycare provider since I can remember. This was a guy who was, indeed, a War Hero of at least two major wars in world history, a pilot (and it takes a certain kind for this), a Rosicrucian, a Mason, a self-taught Ancient Egyptologist (because he was compelled to explore alchemy, physics, astronomy, astrology, medicinal tincturing and ancient mysticism since his youth), but most notably and memorably for me: he was a magically wise soul. He was a genuine human being. He was one of my favorite people to hang out with for the entirety of my young life, even when I was a shithead teenager with a pierced face and old English block lettering Tattoos that said distasteful things – he never got boring or became too demanding of my time; my time was something that I always had more than enough for him.
I can write this, because he is dead and I am grown now;
During my teen years, he once rendezvoused with me at my car on the side of a dirt road during the wee hours of the morning (during a period in my life when I was swirling around life’s drain amidst teen angst, the shock and trauma of my Dad’s very sudden death, and in turn – the absolute demolition of my family unit as I had always before, and never again – known it; and was out of control in behavior and illegal activities) to offload armfuls of (totally illegal and extremely questionable in his perception) firearms with a stiff lip and stoic expression on his face the entire time. He drove away with at least ten felonies in his hatchback Celica without saying a fucking word to me about it.
I could never tell anyone about it growing up – couldn’t brag about it to my friends or brothers – because the fact that he never said anything taught me the lesson I’m sure he was shooting for: shame in grace, wrong against right, and dedication to those we love. I held it in for about five years before finally breaking one day over a Scrabble match and blurting out something like, “Papa, you know I’d NEVER ask you to do anything bad for me again EVER, right?…”
My Papa and I have the exact, same mischievously set eyes; upon meeting his gaze, I was always instantly triggered to smile, laugh, or giggle. This time though, when his eyes met mine, they spoke volumes of the disapproval and disappointment that he had been holding in all that time. Also quite noticeably though, was a weight that seemed to lift from his frame almost tangibly…and it came straight into my heart and has been with me ever since that moment.

For Veteran’s Day, I bow my head to any and all who have served my country in my place for whatever reasons.

This gratefulness that I feel runs deeply through the tangling roots of dead soldiers grown from my own family tree, and any other tree on Yankee/ Native soil. It most certainly takes someone with heart to be a soldier; thank you to all of the Veterans out there who may happen to read this post. Seriously…THANK YOU.



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.