independence day

image acquired via unsplash

My grandmother, God rest her soul, said to me, “Poetry is ugly. I just don’t like it.”.

My mother said to me, “Kids don’t need art in school. They need to learn life skills.”

Well, I hadn’t the will to tell my grandmother, but…sometimes the subject matter of a poem is ugly, but more important, it’s HONEST–and because of that, poetry can never be ugly, poetry is beautiful because honesty is beautiful. But she did so believe in keeping secrets, sweeping difficult things up under the rug, and lying to herself and everyone else about the less than socially acceptable realities of her narrow little life. I say the word ‘narrow’ because she tended to swim in a very small circle, by choice.

As for the idiotic thing my non-idiotic mother said, well, she was half right. Kids do need to learn life skills, how to balance a checkbook, budget money, so on. But children also need ART–to learn to express themselves in healthy ways. And Momma, if your child hadn’t used her art to express herself, she wouldn’t have ever been able to express herself at all, because of all the lessons she learned from her family, the one best driven home, unfortunately, was–you are to be seen and heard only when asked to do so.

As freeing as putting these thoughts of mine down on digital paper feels, as I’m writing them, I’ve got one pinky over the backspace button because I know that people don’t like for you to point it out when they’ve behaved badly, and sadly, sometimes people don’t realize how badly they’ve behaved until other folks point it out for them. Well, I’m personally not one for pointing fingers, unless I’m looking into the mirror.

It’s one thing to hit your child because she spoke out of turn. It’s another thing to emotionally punish your adult child because she took the mirror in front of her off the wall and turned it toward you…and you didn’t like what you saw. Hypothetically, of course.

And since we’re talking hypotheticals, I think I’d say…

I’m sorry if you didn’t like what you saw.

I’m even sorrier if you did.


Happiest Independence Day! 🙂

my heart

Listening to Mickey Guyton while I write this morning (pulled an all-nighter), which is sometimes hard to do because this woman’s voice will stop you in your tracks. Ouch my heart. It almost hurts to listen. SO beautiful.

ps remember Tristan on Idol? :O Total boohoo fest, but it was awesome. Such a sweet and gifted young woman. click to watch Tristan McIntosh, Why Baby Why on Idol

Back to work. Happy Sunday. 😉

break away from broken things

pretty picture via unsplash
Am I the product of a problem that I couldn’t change?
Got his eyes, got her hair,
so do I get their mistakes?

The first post in my journal says:

I keep dreaming I’m beating the shit out of a vampire with a baseball bat. He won’t ever die. I think I am using the wrong tools. 

For some reason, I felt the need to share that. You are so welcome. 🙂

In other news, I was sitting awake the other night, searching my brain for the slightest inclination as to why I’m writing this stupid story I’m not even into, and as it often does, my messy mind found me somewhere in the middle of a memory from my childhood…and it hit me–I have a story I need to tell. Finally! It’s been a minute. I’ve been hoping and praying for such a sign. Something. Anything. And so it begins, the race to see if my fingers can type the gifts my daydreams have given before my mind forgets them entirely. Wish me luck.


#listeningto Kelsea Ballerini Secondhand Smoke

#amwriting, still

awesome image via unsplash

I’ve been trying for two weeks to revive an old character. It’s miserable business, I tell you, miserable. At this point, I don’t know why I’m even trying anymore other than I put her down over 5 years ago and when I finished the last project I finished, I looked around and thought to myself, I wonder what she’s been up to?!

Most all of my old stories are completely out of print. There’s a good reason for this. Well, there’s a reason for this.

I stopped writing. No. I stopped sharing. I never stopped writing, for myself, never. I never will. But I did stop sharing, publishing, that is. And there’s a good reason for this as well. Well, there’s a reason. One day, I’ll be able to verbalize it, the reason. For now, back to the imaginary undead.


gain and suffering

brilliant photo by Tim Arterbury, via Unsplash

My morning writing finds me sitting at my desk, surrounded by wadded up papers and half empty legal pads, in my flamingo muumuu, no socks, and uncombed hair. Middle of the day. Early Afternoon. Whipped Greek yogurt for breakfast. Green tea and woven wheat crackers for lunch. No war paint. No ornamental embellishments. It’s just me and my tools, and a messy head full of crazy dreams. Oh how we suffer for our art.