Both sides of the coin, loving and hating

Things that might need to be changed....
Living far from others affords some freedoms that one might take for granted, such as, well, walking round nude and gardening in pajamas and what else?   Oh yea, yelling...   I might want to curb my frustrations when I reside in hearing distance from others.
What makes me holler anyhow?   Not much actually.
Sometimes I call the dogs back when they chase a raccoon or a Poodle or a rat or maybe a regretful, trespasser.
Sometimes I sing really loudly and when I do, I'm absolutely certain that I could have been a Rockstar, but only when I'm completely alone.

What makes me yell?  They do.  When they fight or bicker or bitch or act out, I may raise my voice and perhaps that will have to stop and that wouldn't be so bad.  It would probably make me kind of happy to never have that luxury of yelling, since I personally find it rather ugly and afterwards mostly unnecessary.

Funny about fighting - my kids love each other so intensely and insanely that the fights they do have seem almost like an exercise in "actions".  Neither one appears to know what the real world is truly like and the arguments between them are so miniscule, pointless and docile or tame; they really make no sense.   It's as if they fight over nothing just to practice the art of argument; sort of like taking field hockey in P.E., knowing you'll never play a single game in your entire life.   What goes on here between them is absolutely nothing in comparison to the fights I had with my own sisters and brothers.  I have no idea how I survived those battles, but I did and what's more true is that they made me who I am today and the love that grew between myself, those brothers and sisters of mine is something I wouldn't be able to live without,  not even for a day.   The fighting only heightened or made noticeable the real and tangible value in the relationships.
Sisters and Brothers = the Hatfields and McCoys of everyday life.

I realize that sometimes it's the arguments in a relationship that carry it to the next level.
Oh and yes, this is what I do when I should be packing.

my favorite mistakes

Expletive.
Seriously?
I mean, I want a menu, but then again... with the privilege of choices, comes the time when you have to actually, you know, choose.
Decisions - Decisions -  Decisions
What if I make a mistake?  
Long ago, I would choose based simply on my gut.  I'd say, I want this or I want that and I'd say yes or no and I'd suffer the consequences.  I cannot believe how many times there was no suffering and/or consequences with my easily made choices back then.  
Now it's different.   Now it's more then just me involved.
Now, where and when are far from simple choices for me.

The weighing of my decisions alone is suffrage.  
Contemplation is more then enough to scare me off completely from the possibility of consequence.


Hmm, but not really.  
Not me.   
I am a chooser.
I am a menu risk taker.  Heck, I'll order for the entire table, with some form of confidence.
I like surprises and I don't mind choking down something that doesn't agree entirely with my palette on occasion.  I'll suffer the consequences. 

Everyday I choose.  Everyday I win and lose, mostly just a little, but sometimes a lot.
I can take it and also I can leave it, but the bigger situations, well they can ruin me.   
And... if I'm ruined, who'll be left to maintain the situation and the standard I've set?


Tonight, while I worry and churn inside about things to be decided on soon; while I don't sleep, can't eat, while I toss and turn, I find myself wanting to give up the decision making for now.  Instead I find music and not just my thoughts to listen to and I look for old photos I've taken to focus on.  
Hidden in the 9,412 snaps I've stored here on this one, little laptop, I realize that in all honesty, I find the best of them, the best photographs I've taken in a long while were in fact by mistake.
A malfunctioning camera, too much light, poor technique, lack of attention, distraction of kids and dogs, sand, water, suntan lotion coating my hands and what I ended up with was absolutely, improbable, totally random, perfection... to my eyes. 
What did I do wrong that actually went right?


I'm guessing that I just did it.
I took what I saw and I sought to capture it.
I had no idea if I was doing it right, nor did I care what I ended up with.  
I just snapped away and clearly at the time I loved every moment of it.
I was present.  I was there and so was everything I needed, apparently.
Years later, I look at them.... just a mistake and yet... they make me smile, not only on my face, but inside of me.   
Maybe the secret is to just go with it.  See it and go, if it makes me want to.  
Maybe the choices I make tomorrow will be totally right and if not, maybe they'll be.... 
my favorite mistake.

Lose the BIG Guy...

And yes "Dah".

I should have considered this too.

I considered a lot when I took him in and took him on.

But, I could have contemplated the notion that one day I might live in the middle of somewhere

as opposed to just the lovely middle of nowhere.

But why go there, when nowhere thinking got me everywhere I comfortably needed to stay?

One year is really all I need.

In one year things will be settled.

I believe I said that about four years ago, but I'm willing to believe it - still...

For one more year that is.

Maybe I could ditch the dog?

But she can't and maybe he can't and so if they can't...

Guess what?  

I can't.  

Because where they go, I go and thats the only thing I'm certain of.

Yea, yea, yea.  No girl needs a big, big dog.  

No little girl requires one.

Yet I'm positive that she does.

It's the only "positive" thing about having him right now, her need.

We use the term "Best Friend" all the time these days.

I have lots of them and they aren't perfect, but they do something to me and for me and bring something out of me that adds to my life.   I guess I require them now.  They make me, well, they make me ME and so...  I would not give up my best friends for a better location, better deal, better situation although I might consider giving them up for free cable.  

Which leads me to this reality... I got her the dog, the very big and beautiful dog because she needed a best friend and I think he's changed her, like my friends change me and I think he makes her world an easier place to cope, as mine do for me.  

So he stays...
Or in this particular case, he goes too.

End of story.

Stolen Kisses

"Can I have a kiss goodbye?"


She will make an excellent game player, except for the fact that I doubt she'll enter into the games.   "Good", I think to myself, "don't go there", don't play games with people and love.  Don't live that life, don't go towards what feels like life and light.  Stay away from the light/lite, because what's light now is often dark later.  What's lite today becomes heavy in time.
I want to hug her, squeeze her tight and I notice I can't, but I do want to and I remember this feeling.  I remember the desire to  be close from another time, another person I loved, but I can't recall a closeness.  I believe I said to my friend just last night that I cannot remember my relationship with someone to whom I was married, then for hours after I said those words, I tried to justify that reality in my own mind.
Where the hell was it?   Where did that time go, the memory of that time spent together, those interactions, that "stuff", that love?


I pictured a wheelbarrow full of dried leaves.  I imaged myself pushing it downhill fast.   Runing with it easily and as I do, leaves float up and out.  They hit my face, obscure my vision, fly past.  I see them, feel them, taste broken bits of them in my mouth.  I'm amazed by them.  Later I go back up the hill, seek them out, wanting to collect them and keep them, collage them, paste them in a book, because they were beautiful and they somehow seemed to actually belong to me, but I never find them and if I see them I won't recognize them for what they were in those fleeting moments.  They were never mine.  


Loving someone with Asperges is essentially easy, while knowing them seems nearly impossible.   Then again, we've placed men on the moon and they've come back.  


I realize that I'm a lucky person.  I live in the same house with my children.  Only I want to know them both and I can, but not both fully, not all the way... 
I think about these words from that song I love by Frank Sinatra, "If I'm gonna love you, it's for sure I'm gonna love you all the way.   All the way."

I'm going to continue to steel those kisses.   Gonna make her look me in the eyes.  I'm going to step in front of those speeding bullet goodbyes she shoots me.    Hold her tight, hold her gaze, hold her to it.    I'm not going to push this lovely, little stack of colored leaves rapidly down a sleepy, sloping lane and later regret a single, speckled, freckled, fading leaf.  I'm going to love  her - all the way....
And I'm going to teach her that there is no other way to be loved.  


Men walk on the moon.   I'll walk across a distracted heart or two or 3 or...

collision courses

Why do I write?         

Because.

Because thoughts and feelings collide within me and seem to need an outlet and so I write in effort to set them straight and set them down and set them free.

I listened yesterday to incredibly successful literary women speak about writing and I felt in some ways like one of them and in many ways I felt rather far beneath them.  One posed and answered the question of why we write.   It got me thinking, why do I write?  What makes me think I can, when actually I'm pretty sure I can't?  Yet I do... and somehow I know I shouldn't, but that doesn't stop me from doing it... and so why do I?
I write...

Because I'm being kind to my rarely idle mind?

In effort to feel understood?

I seem to need to.

Part of me thinks I can.

Because I might not be able to.

Because I'm curious?

Because I'm lonely.

I actually enjoy typing.

Because I'm happy.

So I can breath.

I write so I don't have to speak, because when I speak, I rarely say what I meant and almost never exactly what I felt, but when I write, it tends to come out more accurately, most of the time anyhow.

I write so I won't eat junk food.

Because I've become numb to television.

I like to share.

Because I can't sit still.

It saves me from having conversations.

Because I think I might die if I don't.

Because I feel like I'm alive when I do.

So someone will notice me.

To keep people from seeing me.

To open myself.

To expose myself.

To embarrass myself.

Because I'm unemployed.

To kill time.

To save myself.

To show I care.

Because I don't really care much what anyone thinks of me.

Because I feel so much love.

I need a release.

Because I'm an artist.

Because I'm afraid that I'm not remotely artistic.

To show my confidence.

Because I'm insecure.

To give a voice to my feelings.

So that I don't need to voice my opinions.

Because I'm a little lost and this feels like a map of me.

Because.  

Because I don't know why, but I do know that I am most myself when I write and even more so  afterwards, when I read what I actually produced... and then, somehow, I can finally see me.  It's like looking at a photograph of yourself experiencing something that you can't quite remember doing but when seeing the photo, you realize what exactly you did and why and how... and then you know a little bit more about who you are.

So I guess I write in effort to find myself.


Why do I read?  Why do I listen to music?

Uht oh.  

Because.

Because I feel like I'm alive when I do.

Because I feel like I'll die if I don't.

Because I'm unemployed.

Because I'm numb to television.

I like to share.

I'm curious.

To kill time.

To open myself.

Because I'm lonely.

I need a release.

To show I care....

Because my mind, my soul, my entire being very much want to collide with the thoughts, feelings, experiences and imagination of others.

Because I feel so much love.

So I can b r e a t h .

S o  I  w o n ' t   e a t  j u n k   f  o  o  d  .   .   .

All Four 1

At 11:11 - there it is.

Always. 

Well, often anyhow.

I seem to see the clock most often when the ones are all aligned.  

Seeing it, noticing it, the repetition magically coincides with something monumental, like a strong feeling or a negative connotation or maybe a moment of silence and introspection, the end of a kiss, the start of an argument, the passing of something subtle but significant.

I thought it was just me, but it's not.  

There's a whole world of people who see the significance in those numbers, 11:11, whether it be night or day and I found the plentiful, pointless websites regarding it on the internet just now.

Coincidence - one of my favorite words.  

Coincidentally, "coincidence" is the only other word that starts with C on my still forming favorite word list.  The other, "California", is probably the largest coincidence of my entire life up to this point.  

I came here first when I was a kid, then again and again, again and again throughout my life I've come back, left, then come back again.  And here I am again or still and actually, when pressed, I imagine I'd admit, that here, quite likely, I'll remain.  

I have, like a bottle capped and filled partially with fluid tipped on it's end, then toppled the other way, flowed to and from this place, about a dozen times, more even, but I don't want to count.   Only last night, at 11:11 pm did I realize that it's the biggest, most powerful, confounding, obvious, obscure, precious, perplexing, clear coincidence of my life, this California is.

Where else does the sun set like it does here?  What other place can capture the stars, literally and figuratively and who else, but this lovely girl California could inspire the lyrics for so many great songs?  

Even the flaw of the state; the very prominent, yet better ignored center of potential disaster beneath the surface,  ever present, always troublesome, but none the less unheeded, in this pedantic state California, calls to me in particular...San Andrea's Fault.

Ironically coincidental, I'm willing to concede that yes, most of the time, it is my fault when things go seemingly astray and this can be attested to by many, actually most, who've spent any amount of their time involved with me.   A troublesome, unheeded, obscure, perplexing, precious, better ignored flaw beneath the surface of me that I can't actually realistically do a thing about and I realized coincidentally, at 11:11 last night, I wouldn't have it any other way.  

Whether 11:11 actually means a damn thing, I have no idea.  I love though that something, anything calls attention to itself and adds perhaps unwarranted intensity to whateverthehell is happening the seconds before, during and after a clock displays those four straight lines -
 all four one