if there were but world enough, and time
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Posted:Sep 30, 2016 11:37 am
Last Updated:Oct 16, 2016 9:39 am
7928 Views
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He is a tall man. He moves easily through the room, engaging in conversation with strangers as if they are colleagues or friends, leaving a trail of satisfaction in his wake.
She watches from the balcony. He doesn’t know she is there. It appeals to her that she has these moments to observe him as he works his way to their meeting place. Her hands are so hot, almost on fire but not sweating. Burning. She moves an inch or so to her right to improve her view.
He stands utterly still, staring up at her, fire in his eyes. He points to the floor.
Part of her wants to run. The other part moves swiftly to the stairs and descends to the event room floor, gliding to the spot next to him.
“Was 15 minutes enough time for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve been watching me for 15 minutes. I hope that was long enough.”
She tries not to smile but finds it impossible as he takes her arm. “How did you know I was watching?”
“I could smell you, he whispers into her ear. Blushing a deep scarlet, she trips over her gown, but his firm hand does not allow her to fall.
“No doubt” a deep laugh bursting forth.
As they move towards the bar, she leans her head into his shoulder.
“Finally, we meet.” She murmurs.
“This is not the meeting. That will come later. ”
She is trembling as they sit at the table with some others. He talks to the strangers but she is meant to be doing things, so rises frequently tending to the tasks at hand. It is amazing that she can be two people at once, this person who is remembering details, answering questions and this woman…this woman who can barely breathe, waiting only for when it will be time.
Time….it is something we all do battle with. It slows or speeds, so often contrary to our needs. But, in the end, time is all we have. It is what we offer to another, a piece, a moment, hours, a lifetime.
Whatever time you share, when you share it, give it fully. Anything else is a shameful waste.
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9
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Mountain Man
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Posted:Sep 27, 2016 2:57 pm
Last Updated:Oct 24, 2016 11:42 am
8206 Views
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How fine to lie under the stars to stare at the heavens, lose the finite become part of the infinite.
To walk a trail where only the animals have been or perhaps another like you or nothing at all but the low landers, the critters of the ground or the birds who sailed above it, dropping down like stones and rising with their lunch in their beaks.
Waking with the sun, sleeping with the dark. A righteous clock without noise or insistence, but with its own persistence. Heading toward a ridge, stopping to share a long look with a buck deer who seemed to speak without a sound. A moment traded.
His mind wanders out here in the woods. The only sounds the birds, wind, trees moving with the wind, dancing almost, if you stare at them long enough. Dancing trees.
He happens on two fallen branches lying across each other with a flat stone like an altar before them, the ground splotched with lichen. He seeks out the next stone a rounded speckle, smoothed from water or age, placing it in the center, tucking a small rock under it for balance to keep the front lifted.
Then the next, rugged and sharp, all edges, like a Georgia O’keefe skull set on the egg , to steady it a rock under the occiput. It makes him smile, knowing the term. He wanders, searching, small humming noises drifting from him as he searches.
Can you hear the smile?
The top stone, almost a geode. He places it with the scooped section open to the sky to catch water for the birds, to take offerings from the forest, to fill and empty with the seasons.
Finally, he places a single splotch of color from a sprig of leaves that had fallen from the trees, resting it along the rim. He does this for her. A cairn, a waysign.
Hiking upward to the top of the ridge, his mind is emptied by the land. His soul understands the gift it is to know what it is to be so small and the world so big, to know that you are breathing with it. An atom, a cell….
He just….
He….
Sits. Lowers his head to his knees.
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7
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a mother's love
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Posted:Sep 25, 2016 1:12 pm
Last Updated:Sep 29, 2016 11:45 am
8060 Views
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A mother loves her in a way that is beyond thought, it is primal, it lives inside every cell of her body. This does not mean that she doesn’t see that clearly. The love isn’t blind. But it is beyond the ken. She would die for that , kill for that . It is also possible, in some cases, she would kill that .
Impossible you say. A love that strong, that binding could not allow such a horror. Imagine a mother with a so deeply in pain, so riddled with disease that every breath was a torment – would you believe it then? Ah, so it not so black and white after all.
But this is not the story you will hear. The story you will hear is of a so kind, so loving so full of life. A who grew up surrounded with family who cared for her and she for them. A who was not only smart but gifted, who could with the touch of her hand, bring back life where it had drifted away.
A who had never been ill, never felt pain.
Until she was 15, she lived a life of family and friends, apart, but this year, her aunt brought a young man with her to the birthday celebration. One could see from the moment they met that there was no doubt that the two were attracted to each other. The sisters smiled at each other. As the pair wandered across the farm lands, they talked of many things: music, light, food, the tiniest of things and the most important.
However, as the day wore on, he made it clear that he wanted only to travel, to see the world, to never settle down, to wander forever. Ah, and she, she wanted always to be here, to cherish the home, to have a family, to help the people she loved. He grew frustrated with her and called her a .
Her hand reached to stop him as he strode off and he fell like a stone to the earth.
As she knelt over him, she sent energy to heal but felt nothing moving through her hands. Her distress became a sound that keened from her…heard far away by her mother and aunt who ran and ran to find the two.
The Aunt held her in her arms, weeping. The mother, held the cold hands of her , looking at her dead eyes. What is left now but pain?
Holding her head to her breast, she tightened her grasp and felt her relax into her arms. In minutes, she placed her down on the lawn. The sky was now a steely gray, the sun gone. She stood silently watching as the color returned to the boy’s face.
A woman cannot live without healing. A man cannot live without wanting. How rare it is that they find each other at the moment when they align and not before, and not after.
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5
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she was fast
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Posted:Sep 17, 2016 12:30 pm
Last Updated:Sep 25, 2016 3:38 pm
9033 Views
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When she was thirteen she was fast. It was the one thing she could do that made her feel special, different, alive. She didn’t have long straight hair. Her hair would curl if she said she needed a glass of water so she tortured herself with giant rollers that cut into her head as she slept. She had no breasts, no monthly visitor, no sign of womanly curves. Her legs were long, her feet big and flat. But she was fast.
When the trials came for the junior Olympics she entered the relay, 60 yard dash and 100 yard dash. She made it to the finals.. Two days before she started to cough. The day before she was throwing up and running a fever. Her mama told her no race and tucked the blankets around her like a prison.
On the day of the Olympics, her Da came into her room like a thief. He, fed her juice, aspirin, pulled her clothes on, tied her sneakers, hustled her down the back stairs.
They arrived only minutes before the games began. Her head was pounding but she saw the girl she knew from practices, smiling at her, knowing she was weak. She shook her legs and stumbled, not now, not now.
As he pinned the number to her chest, the caller looked at her closely.
“You okay?”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, you okay?”
She felt her knees start to give under her but straightened up, looking at him, seeing double, smiling at both of him, taking her place on the line. The day was hot, sunny, the world on fire, the grass of the field beside them a color unlike any she’d ever seen before. Her eyes closed, opened, finding the lane markers, giggling as they wiggled up and away.
“I’m good”
He nodded, leaving her there on the line.
“Mark”
“Set”
The POP was so loud she felt her body leave before her mind did, her legs doing as they always did, digging, pushing until the sky was all around her, until the air lifted her, until the earth was left behind, until she flew.
Her Da stopped her about 25 yards beyond the finish line, caught her in his arms. He lifted her, carrying her back to the bleachers, sitting with her in his arms, waiting for their next race, letting her rest.
She never knew such love. Poor Da…… mama was so mad.
But that day she flew. She flew because her Da knew she had to.
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7
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all clear
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Posted:Sep 15, 2016 11:34 am
Last Updated:Sep 21, 2016 3:05 pm
8929 Views
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Between midnight and dawn, night is endless. It stretches on forever.
Sleep eluded her. The glaring green numbers from the clock on her television seemed to take forever to change. A minute simply could not last that long….it was impossible. She flipped the switch on her bedside lamp, reached for her kindle and swiped it open, lighting a cigarette as she harrumphed into a curve and began reading, again.
At this rate, she will have read ten books by the end of the week and won’t remember any of them because they are all crap, crap, crap. Trying to read anything but crap is useless because her mind is a sieve. Why bother if the words just drop right through. Might as well just do serial killers until her tiny black soul withers up entirely and she shits it out that is if she ever shits again which is another thing, eh? Why the hell can’t she poop anymore? She who pooped religiously twice a day.
It’s a conspiracy, she thought. And there goes that chapter, starting again.
What WAS that noise?
The skittered into the room and fled into her closet. Uhoh.
Holding still, she listened. Nope, not a thing. She tamped out the cigarette and listened more closely as if the cigarette had been making too much noise. Okay, she heard “something”. But something is very likely nothing other than nerves reacting to the and dark and being so freaking tired. Right?
Right.
She slid back and picked up the kindle, swiping it back open. Her eyes flitted to the ceiling and a shadow moved across it and disappeared. Her legs turned to water, hands shaking as she popped a cigarette into her mouth, lighting it and inhaling deeply. Reaching for her phone she dialed 911. Leaving the line open she spoke softly, stuttering out her address.
Sitting stiffly in her bed, she reached for the knitting she’d been working earlier that evening, pulled out the needles, gripping them tightly as she listened, not moving, barely breathing.
The sound of sirens grew closer. When she heard car doors slam, she sprinted to the hallway just as the police slammed through her front door. She stood there, her hands over her mouth as they swarmed through her home.
It took forever, it was only minutes.
“clear”
“clear”
“clear”
The word repeated over and over….a mantra she whispered into her hands
They assured her she had done the right thing. They told her it was better to call than not call. She nodded and nodded, tears filling her eyes.
When they left it was almost dawn and she collapsed onto her bed and finally fell asleep, the under her arm.
He stood over her for a few minutes, inhaling deeply before he left by the front door.
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5
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like the wind
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Posted:Sep 12, 2016 1:10 pm
Last Updated:Sep 15, 2016 10:06 am
9589 Views
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She never knew she was poor.
They lived in a house that had furniture and her da went to work while her mama stayed home with the baby cleaning, cooking. Every year right before school started a box would come from Canada from her aunties filled with clothes for her and her sister that set mama to sewing for days. There was no stuff for babies though; just girl things.
She asked and asked for a bicycle but Santa never brought one. Sometimes she got a doll or a book or one time a microscope but never a bike. Pajamas though, socks, a coat if hers was too little now that she was taller than her big sis.
One year Santa gave her mama a coat too and made her cry. The box was big and the ribbon was so pretty she untied it like she was gonna keep it forever. Her mama wore that coat to church, hanging on to da like she was going to fall over.
She was “hard on shoes” so she was told so she never did get pretty ones like she wanted but big old boxy ugly ones that would last. It didn’t matter all that much since they didn’t look pretty after a day or so anyway what with climbing trees and scuffing dirt under swings. In the summer they were too hot so mostly she left them off if she could sneak it until her feet were tough as hide and nothing much bothered them.
Her days were spent running, playing any kinda game that she could, reading all the books in the world, escaping the wary eyes of her sister. Returning home she was replete, willing to fall into the rhythm of her mother’s breath and cede her warrior ways. Here there was soft light, the smell of cinnamon, the iron on clean linen, coffee, her brother’s hands in her tangled hair, the sound of her sister playing her violin. she could be quiet here.
Then came the day she awoke and found, her mama was atwirl in the kitchen. It felt oddly exciting but it made her heart feel funny at the same time. Mama had her hand on sister’s shoulder holding her back from the door, the other reaching out to her.
“Hurry, she said. Her mama's face was lit up. She hurried to her. they pushe out the door.
As they stood on the back stoop, there was her Da.
He was standing there holding them up. They were so ugly. She looked at them for what seemed like forever. He struggled a bit to keep them steady.
Bicycles.
But not new bicycles. Big old fashioned fat wheel bicycles that he’d repainted.
The smile on his face was huge. Sister ran to him, laughing. But she just stood there.
She looked at mama, realizing in this moment that they were poor. A shiver ran through her body
Mama said, “Go thank your Da.”, her smile never wavering, a hand pushing her forward.
She went, and as she ran, slowly her laughter came bubbling up. She jumped into her Da’s arms, knocking him to the ground under a pile of little girls’ legs and kisses, her sister tumbling with them.
She rode that bike like the wind.
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remembering how to play vs. politics
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Posted:Sep 11, 2016 10:50 am
Last Updated:Sep 15, 2016 9:57 am
9084 Views
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When Gary Johnson didn’t have a response to the media question about Aleppo, people snorted and laughed but I would wager that a good many of us were equally ignorant about the tragedy of Aleppo and other Syrian cities being held hostage by the war in Syria.
Had Clinton or Trump been held to the question, would they have had a ready solution to a situation that seemingly has no easy answer?
Policy is one thing…..spout it all day long. But the serious business of small facing chronic malnutrition, severe depression and multiple suicides in cities surrounded by war with no way of escaping this constant barrage of terror day after day………..how does one answer that in a way that doesn’t sound facile?
War sucks. We all know that. We all know it’s a business as well and that business is arms or oil and there is a profit there. No, no, don’t get all het up. I’m not placing the blame for Syria on America. I have no real idea if that is true. I’m not even close to well enough read in that arena to make that judgement.
But when have forgotten how to play, when they no longer sing or smile….when whole cities of small sit frozen…….this becomes something else doesn’t it? Shouldn’t it?
My neighbors work in Haiti 6 months of every year. It took almost a three months after the earthquake before the would play……..at all. Playing is something do naturally. It is like breathing.
When Sam and Marie started with the , they said it was like moving dolls around a stage. It’s not that they expected joy. But not a thing, no reaction at all….that is so very hard to see. The feeling of safety comes back so slowly, so terribly slowly with tiny bites of food, with quiet and gentle touches, with someone to hold onto, and most importantly, someone to hold them.
Not to know Aleppo means nothing – a social media blip. Let it go Gary.
Not to save Aleppo’s means everything.
Let's turn the camera on the real issue.
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6
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PTSD in blogville
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Posted:Sep 9, 2016 1:16 pm
Last Updated:Sep 25, 2016 3:35 pm
9400 Views
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What is the first visceral memory you have? Not something you remember because someone told you about it but something you remember because it’s a flash in your own mind?
There are times that I remember in total…….like they are movies in my brain that I can run back and forward….all the details just as clear as if they happened ten minutes ago. I can smell them, taste them, hear the sounds. Trauma does that. Any huge emotion I think. It’s why PTSD is so terrifying, so real and so damaging.
We live in a world that is filled with survivors. Veterans, , women and men who have been abused, elderly who suffer at the hands of their caregivers, those in hospitals who are treated with malignant cruelty instead of tender care. People who most often cannot for whatever reason call a halt to the abuse. I was so blessed to have 15 years of love before I knew fear. Fifteen years of safety before I came across true cruelty. If you were blessed, no….even if you weren’t and you’ve managed to survive and crawl to safety for which I give you the most amazing standing ovation and lift you high for all to see…
then please…take a look around Vision Personals.
How do you want people to remember you?
All this stuff that’s happening here in blogville…..all these people trying to seem bigger by making other people feel small. What’s that about? Telling people what they can write…..whoa baby….this is America so backup a minute. No one puts baby in a corner.
If writing here is anything, it’s about free speech. It’s about being able to make a memory come alive or make a new one, show off, make someone laugh.
Censorship here is like force feeding a vegan steak tartare………wrong in so many ways.
Don’t want to read a certain blog……..shrugs…….easily solved………..don’t read it. No reason to go shouting about it all over the place. Hey look I don’t read that blog………what’s the point in that other than to make sure everyone knows you’re a bit of an asswipe? pfft.
Blocking comments…..I guess I don’t see the point. A comment is a comment. Everyone has an opinion (yup, they're like assholes)
We write to be read. If I feel like it’s over the top to block. I might choose not to respond. But why block it? It’s just an opinion. If you were publishing RT, you couldn’t block a reviewer, right?.
Now, I know I am not read by any of the big people here because I don’t write about sex and print sex pics so it doesn’t make much difference what I say.
BUT, we little guys do read a lot of the people that are being harassed and it’s starting to annoy us. So cut the shit.
Act like grown-ups. It’s a blog… … And unless you have PTSD, I’m so over y’all.
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10
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being a Dad
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Posted:Sep 8, 2016 1:56 pm
Last Updated:Apr 15, 2017 6:35 pm
2557 Views
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When he walked to the door, his body wanted nothing more than to turn and run in the other direction. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, it wasn’t that he his friend meant so little to him. It was that all of his life, in so many ways, he had refused to allow the terrible things in the world to touch his life or his family and so far, until now, well, he’d been successful and if he opened this door and admitted that bad things do happen to good people for no damn apparent reason and with no fucking warning just when you think it’s safe then how the hell, how the hell do you keep going.
So he stood there.
But the door opened anyway and his friend jumped back, not expecting to see him, just going to have a cigarette.
“Oh”
“Hi”
They fell into each other, stumbling down the stairs onto the lawn and fell together like do into a rolling mass of arms and legs. When they righted themselves, their hands were still clasped and so they sat that way, looking at the sky, not talking, shoulders leaning into each other as the tears so hot they burned the skin seeped from their eyes.
He lit up finally, shuddering. "You didn’t need to come."
“Yeah, I did.”
“I’m so damn glad to see you”
He nodded.
“My baby’s gone.”
He nodded.
They sat there.
Two fathers of daughters. Sharing the terrible loneliness of their failure to protect.
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older than dirt
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Posted:Sep 4, 2016 2:11 pm
Last Updated:Oct 31, 2016 8:50 am
9909 Views
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i was at the doctors this week we were chatting as we always do (i've known him since i was around 40) about a myriad of things, but ended up on stuff about getting older. he told me if i dyed my white hair it would have more body.
I replied yeah, but then I would have to keep doing it and no offense, i'm just not that good at keeping up with stuff like that. so as we gamboled through the grasses of aging, the folks around us started listening in and adding to our list of the indignities.
bad breath - a result not of anything other than the happenings inside yourself - you can brush, eat mints, have good teeth, not drink coffee or smoke cigarettes and you still may have the breath of a corpse
you fart more - or at least you fart longer and louder. no sweet little airy things you squeeze off soundlessly in a crowded room. nope. these are rippers. perfectly fine if you're alone. but in company, best to start in a quiet corner and keep moving so you spread the wealth.
you either sleep like the dead or you don't sleep at all. i sleep like the dead. Doctor G dozes. two of the other old farts there were dead sleepers too. one said his grandson pokes him to make sure he's alive.........snork.
And when you do wake up, you don't spring out of bed. you roll over and you test the waters. you straighten up and place both your feet carefully. and if you're lucky and DON'T have arthritis you walk, but if you do have arthritis you kinda shamble a few paces to find balance. Either way, you find yourself waiting until your hips catch up and your shoulders find a spot level to them before you move on.
and then you hit the bathroom....that's first. no fooling around doing anything else.....bathroom first. in fact the bathroom may have been part of your night already 2-4 times. sighs.
you make an old person noise. when you sit. when you lay down. when you raise a cup of joe to your lips. hell, pretty much everything you do is punctuated with an old person noise.
you talk to yourself. course a lot of folks do that. however if you weed out the schizophrenics, the majority that are left are old folks.
seein' yourself yet?
you forget things. and words and where you were headed and why. now in and of itself this isn't such a terrible thing unless they all happen at once. bad enough not to know why you're in the kitchen, but just try explaining why, when you can't find the word you want. or better yet, " yes officer, i did mean to get that whatchamacallit changed last month when i was going to oh damn you know, beside the place with the big clam shack....serves those little lobster thingies"
this only works if the officer is local, over 50. in which case he's already filling in the blanks for you.
and when you laugh too hard, you pee a little.....so you should always go to the bathroom before a meeting or a dinner or well, just about anything.
but especially sex because sex is funnier now that you're older...or maybe it's just not as serious. but anyway, it' okay to laugh now....encouraged even. thank goodness. and if you don't pee first, I guarantee, halfway through, you'll need to.
you eat less, but you enjoy it more. you enjoy everything more i think. maybe because you take a little more time and you're not always hurrying on to the next thing.
friends are like comfortable shoes or worn in jeans. they fit. and if they don't you just don't put them on as often.
it's easier to do what you want and not what you should.
it's easier to say i don't know. and thank you. and i love you, and i'm sorry.
it's even easier to say good bye. oh it still hurts like a mofo but it's easier..
gravity is a bitch but then so is pride. and i've earned every wrinkle so i'm not as vain as i once was. i do the best i can with what I have and figure that's that.
i like the way my mind wanders now. it moves around more and my thoughts and ideas weave little tapestries. no more straight lines....pfft. and when i close my eyes to sleep i see a slide show of colors and mandalas that is something else, like LSD but without the sweats.
i cannot move like i remember moving, no more running like a deer fast across a field but i can appreciate the wonder of nature in ways I never did before and i can feel the pain of another in my own heart and though I will never be able to sing a note worth listening to, I sing all the time.
yes, i sometimes forget and yes, i sometimes ache but i laugh harder than i ever did. and with a greater abandon. i don't care if someone thinks, who is that crazy lady over there laughing because it is the laughter that is important.
and when that day comes and i find myself unable to laugh, i will know that i am ready to go.
laughter and tears : they both do the same thing for the body. remarkable.
so don't let the motherfuckers steal your joy.
oh, and never eat refried beans the night before a car trip.
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15
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when women weep
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Posted:Sep 1, 2016 1:10 pm
Last Updated:Sep 7, 2016 8:07 am
9307 Views
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She sat in the middle of her bed cross legged, back straight. Her sat beside the bed, staring at her, whining low in his throat. Her hand reached out to soothe him, smoothing his silky fur, cupping his snout while he licked her fingers. The phone rang, again and again went unanswered.
As if a harsh wind had swept the room, the woman’s back broke and her body fell forward, shaking.
The Jumped onto the bed and licked her exposed neck. Her hands beat a tattoo on the mattress, the pounding growing until the dog, frightened jumped from the bed and ran from the room. He stood just outside the door his hackles raised. His sharp bark of alarm did not move her to quiet him as it usually did so he slipped back beside the bed to keep watch. His body reacted first and began to tremble as the deep sound, like the sky makes when it lights up grew and spilled from her, over and over. He began to pant. Fear grew in him for this is when he would go to her and she would hold him close until the roaring sky quieted. But the sounds were in her, she was the sound. His ears flattened.
It took so long this time.
When she finally stood, she found him cowering in the bathroom and knelt beside him, her face covered in salt that he licked off in deep gratitude that she was back inside herself. Her hands ran through his fur while she spoke to him telling secrets only they would ever share. Together they pattered to the kitchen and he leaned into her thigh while she put the kettle on, one hand still in his fur.
This was good, this was the after.
Grabbing a bone from his box of treats, she held it out for him. He took it and ran it back to his bed beside her bed. She came in with her tea and settled back against the pillows, water still dripping from her eyes but the sounds had stopped and she was quieter inside so he ate the bone and watched her until she picked up the thing that made the box have pictures.
She patted the bed twice and he jumped and curled up beside her. He licked the rest of the wet off her face, until she laughed….. Good dog.
And then he could sleep.
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11
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why natural gas is the safer alternative
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Posted:Aug 29, 2016 4:04 pm
Last Updated:Sep 21, 2016 3:02 pm
11437 Views
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I was closing in on three and my sister a bit over 4 when she saved my life the third time. It was becoming such a habit, that mama expected it and my poor sister was given short shrift in terms of gratitude. Mama had lost a baby just a month before and so she was a little scattered and I was taking advantage of her lack of attention, slippin’ out of the house and running the streets like a wild thing.
Of course the neighbor ladies were attuned to the situation, calling whenever they spotted me but I was little, quick as the dickens and sneakier than any 3 year old should be who has a saint for an older sister.
As I remember it:
When I spotted the oil truck it was across from the Keane’s house, making a delivery so I slid behind it whadayaknow……….a tiny little ladder……..like it was made just for . I truly do believe if they don’t want to get evil ideas, they need to think about what they put on the side of trucks that are shiny and sitting still for so long.
It took a bit of jumping to get ahold of, but I managed and then it was straight up and looky here if there isn’t a big round handly thing to hang onto. It’s perfect………..perfect.
except here comes my sister with that madlook and Mrs. Keane, Ellen’s mama, trying to grab her off the truck. Course, she starts screaming while Ellen’s mama’s carrying her over to my house and banging on the door.
I can see everything from up here. It’s like being as tall as Daddy!
Then, oh boy, the truck starts to go and my sister starts yanking at my mama’s arm and pointing. Then she smack’s Mrs. Keane, and starts running after the truck. Boy, is she in trouble
Uhoh….Mama just screamed too. Maybe I should stop waving to her.
The man in the truck is sitting on the stoop now that he took me off his truck and Mama is giving him a drink of water. Mrs. Keane has me by my arm. My sister the saint is sitting next to the man who is patting her on the head. Mama is laughcrying
and when Ellen tries to come over her mama just yells, one step and you’re a dead girl.
Here come’s Daddy, down the street. I squiggle to run to him but I can’t get away. Mama tells the saint to go and tell him what happened.
He’s gonna be so proud of me.
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8
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freedom's just another word
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Posted:Aug 28, 2016 10:26 am
Last Updated:Aug 30, 2016 1:29 pm
11404 Views
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Statistics can be manipulated, used to show the outcomes you want them to show. And like most news and televised bits of information, we see only what we are meant to see, not the full picture or the whole story. Lately, despite the full blown media coverage of well, everything, I feel like I’m not getting the full story. Am I paranoid?
I recently re-read 1984 which was a book I found fascinating when I was a . It still is fascinating and the fact that it was written as a warning for the world back then and is still a warning for the world now, gives me the creeps.
Today we (not me and you we, but they we) can, and do, control what people see and hear every day. People are in constant communication all day, every day. Hell, the people in my homeless shelters had cell phones, some supplied by the state, for free. Interesting that. You can get one at the 24 hour store for less than 20 bucks.
Take a walk through your neighborhood. Count the cameras. Every notice how many there are? There is one at the bottom of my street which is a residential neighborhood. Why?
Until a year ago I did not have a cell phone. Work required it. I fought it. They won. My ex-husband has no cell phone, no computer, no Roku, but he did cave to cable so he could get sports. Lol. I still use my computer more like a typewriter than anything else. I don’t surf the web…..I’d drown.
And I wonder every time I buy something using a credit card, just how much data is being gathered on me.
When my bought me a kindle I was so upset. I love the heft of a book in my hands. But my book habit was so expensive………so now I only buy the books I MUST HAVE FOREVER and the crap I read to put myself to sleep I read on my kindle. I feel like a traitor to writers everywhere.
One would suppose that in this world of being so seen there would be less crime, but instead there is more. Maybe people don’t like being the rat in the maze. Sighs…I know, this post makes little sense. It’s just me feeling ticked off by the idea of being “unfree” , watched, people being labelled, all of it.
Cameras on cops and in the halls of government…..now these may be the only places that I really want cameras. Cameras on the people who are supposed to be protecting us and making our laws. Because, if they’re doing what they should be doing….then we should all be safe, right?
And free……..
Yup, I want to be free
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