Blog Archives


Part I – The truth


I’ve seen abject poverty, absurd wealth – caste systems – been tugged at by hungry, filthy, beautiful children in India “Baksheesh!”.  My white skin and light hair touched uninvited, brave small hands reaching out to make tangible the encounter.

I’ve climbed onto a wing of a plane and let go.

Lain on a table as a life ended.

Pushed life into the world while apologizing to a room I had screamed for hours in prior.

I’ve loved and lost.

Hated and forgiven.

Held onto innocence as long as I could, the only ways I knew how.

Delved into debauchery to test my limits and punch out at the world.

I am educated – and so ignorant.

I thirst for truth and seek it.  Hunger for good and dissect things until I find it.

(Dissection … a quick tangent here.

It occurs to me that when people tell me to ‘let it go!’ or ‘Just get over it’  the simple fact is that they just don’t want to hear about a current problem or hurt.

For me, I must dissect.  So that when I let go, I let go of all of the parts.

It takes me longer, but in the end I’m rid of, and understand ‘the thing’.)

I ache at injustice.

I have a bad habit of flight in lieu of fight.

I need solitude to really be me – and in that solitude I ache for a partner.  One I can miss.

I’ve been a good mother, an awful mother. A good friend and an awful friend.  A good daughter and an awful daughter.

I’ve self medicated, self mutilated and despised myself.

Lashed out – fed my pain with my own cold served dishes.


I hit my knees nightly saying ‘thank you’ to a God I don’t believe in.

Spiritual me, with hands clasped – and God forbid I forget, perhaps in a state of fatigue.  My OCD pulls me from bed and I snap out a prayer – offer up sincere thanks and what I mean to be true – then sabotage my blessings almost daily.

I don’t reciprocate the love of my friends demonstrably.

She who used to gift everyone to be in their favor, won’t leave her home anymore to visit the important, unwavering people in her life.  And they still love me.

I hole up in my nest.  Only really feeling safe when I don’t have to make eye contact, or be funny or upbeat.  Where I’m not too thin, not too deep.  Where I’m gloriously, unapologetically me!

What’s left?

I go deeper into myself.  Talking to myself.

Not eloquently – but my thoughts are.  I open my mouth in public and hear myself trying to fit in and failing.

I see patterns in my behavior, faces in my food – beauty in the reprehesible and ugliness in Saints.

I see truth.

Part II – Deeper truth


I watch the news and cringe at the biased reporting.

I read quotes slapped up on pages and various social media ‘walls’.

I sneer at the generic, pedestrian sentiments of the ‘Hang in there’ cat poster variety.

“Come on!  Catch up!  I’m past that life stage!”

Then end up feeling sanctimonious and rethinking everything I think I know again.

I want to say “You!  You there!  With the prefabricated opinion – have you looked into that?  Do you even know if it’s attributed to the correct author?  This original opinion that you found on the internet?”

“Have you weighed both sides through careful and passionate research?”

But I don’t.

Because then I’m told I think too much.

But should I ever be asked the same question, I hope my answer can always be an authentic ‘yes’.

I’ve written some terrible posts lately – just typed out for the sake of posting something.  I’ve been so uninspired.

Then I watched Nymphomaniac Volumes I & II last night and today.

Lars von Trier inspires me.

(The photos above are stolen screen shots from his movie Antichrist)

Lars von Trier pulls me deeper.

He puts no decorations on his points.  It’s raw.

I don’t have to pretend to ‘get’ him.  Pipe in the corner of my mouth, leather elbowed jacket – discussing the 100 things his movie could mean.  No. None of that.

His cinematography is breathtaking and writing succinct.

I used to love Poe.  I think because of the depressive complex nature of his topics.  I was young.  And full of angst.  I think I also pretended to understand him.

I never understood Shakespeare.  Okay, some of it.  But then I’d get snagged on a sentence – like a blouse on a branch.  The more I tried to pull free, the more entangled I became – the more the sentence could mean.

This reminds me of the joke about the blue curtains.


In Nymphomaniac, I loved that Joe – while listening to Seligman’s metaphors politely and even contemplating their validity – carried on with what she meant to say.

Nymphomaniac was not erotic for me. I don’t think it is supposed to be.  But then – porn does not arouse me.

I have a very unhealthy view of intimacy – the result of a multitude of inappropriate ‘experiences’ I did not choose to be a part of.

The emotionless rutting makes me sad.  Especially in this movie – her never-ending quest to be filled.  To feel.

Her blank stare as men thrust inside of her on the train.

Carnal, desperate and mechanical.

She tells her life story, unedited, to a man who has taken her in after she has been beaten.

Of all the characters – Seligman the virgin, in my opinion, was the most reprehensible character of all the men.


And not just because he kept interrupting her story while trying to validate her actions in order to feel better about himself …

I vehemently feel disgust for those who misrepresent themselves.

At least the other men did not hide their intentions.

People who hide their intentions frighten me.

I was very happy with the ending to the movie.

When I was little, and someone I loved very much was being hurt – I fantasized about doing the same thing.

It was always the same fantasy – the person would not be taken by surprise.

They would know it was me – look directly into my eyes and know my intention and that I was going to follow through.

Never for me – but for someone I love – I would kill.

I can know that about myself and I feel less guilty for not leaving my house to visit.

I also know I need to offer what I can to those I care for while there is still time.

I know this.

But I also feel I need to improve what I have to offer.

I’m still dissecting.

I still look in the mirror and don’t understand what others see.  I do not find myself aesthetically pleasing most of the time – and when I do, I feel prideful and vain.

But the most important things that I see when I look in the mirror I am comfortable with.

I meet my own eyes and see someone who is willing to admit all of her faults.

I see someone who is willing to work on them.

I see someone who I would like – someone I would visit and not expect a visit from in return.

I’d probably also post an arbitrary prefabricated quote on her wall and tell her not to take herself so seriously – that we’re all in different stages of our life’s journey, and hers is just one of many.

Knowing she’d dissect it.




Musings From The Laundromat



“To Delete or not to Delete, that is the question.”

Wonder if Shakespeare had the internet if he would have erased any of his works.  Maybe a poem he re-read in the morning and thought ‘That is crap – what was I thinking?’ (That is crapeth?)  But because someone took the trouble to type set and print and distribute, he couldn’t do a take back.

You know who I think would post something and have writers remorse?


I can imagine him having a particularly morose day and  ingesting a bit of opium and pouring his heart out about unrequited cousin love.  Then waking up the next morning to the caw of a raven (Do ravens caw? I think they caw.  You’d think they’d crow.) anyway, waking up and slapping his forehead and groaning “Nevermore.”


I bet he’d delete.

What I’m getting to, via the scenic route, is that I contemplated taking my last post down.

I guess I wasn’t using large enough capitals when I said that I would never have done it.  (Take ALL the medicine.)  One tweet to me said ‘glad you didn’t kill yourself’ and I actually giggled – then thought, wait – did people not read ALL of my words?

It’s not a funny topic.  I’m not making light of it.  And believe me, I was disturbed by how easily the thought came to be – and if I’m going to be disturbed, I’m bringing you along for the ride.

Because that’s  what I do.

I will not delete.

There are diaries I threw away from my days of debauchery that I so wish I hadn’t.  I’m not making that mistake again.  Authentic – unedited – Me.   That’s what you get.

I share the Good, the Bad and the Ugly with you.

Only when it is my story to tell.

Trust me when I say, if I felt comfortable naming names of some people in my life, and completely removing my moral filter, there are posts that I  could write that would go viral and change lives  – and not for the better.

Which is why I don’t write them.

Great segue to my next random thought.


My Prince of 14 months finally traveled to my country very recently – however, not to my Kingdom.

That was a shot to the heart.

(Now I have Bon Jovi singing in my head)

I have eased some of the pain with lots and lots of ice cream.   Which is such a stereotypical ‘girl-with-broken-heart’ thing to do.  Yet SO unlike me.

I have never been a big ice cream fan.  But my son and I got into a little phase of banana splits recently and I got hooked.  I think mostly it’s all the whipped cream and nuts I put on top.

Maybe I should just have a ginormous bowl of whipped cream and nuts?  Or skip it and just go straight for the cream directly from the can.



I spent quality time yesterday with two bowls of rocky road ice cream (with copious amounts of whipped cream and nuts on top of course) and watched a couple of movies.

Last weekend my son found a blu-ray player that was a steal and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

(He’s still not here much by the way – I’ve mentioned him twice, which would give the impression he’s been around, having banana splits and buying electronics and whatnot. He returned late last night and I only have two nights with him before he leaves the nest again for another week.)

SO back to the fuss.  To be honest, I couldn’t see much of a difference.  Although, to be fair and even more honest, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be and HD and non-HD look pretty similar to me.

I rented these:


First let me mention that this deal Nic got on the blu-ray DVD player didn’t include a remote.

Next let me mention that not all ‘Universal’ remotes are universal.

I spent the better part of an hour trying to program one to the Sony BDP S360 with no success.

I almost threw in the towel and lamented the $4.75 I had spent on the rentals.  Then decided not to throw any towels and spent another half of an hour googling my little ‘want-to-watch-a -movie-and-don’t-want-to-have-wasted-this-money’ heart out until I found a code.

(I do this as a public service – if you have a Sony blu-ray HD DVD Player – and if you have a cable remote – try 21516 for Comcast and 1516 for Suddenlink.  It worked.)  Thank GAWD!

The Wolf of Wall Street was okay – probably all the hype elevated my expectations to an unreasonable height.  Leonardo is aging well though.

This Is 40 was okay as well.  I love the actors in anything they’re in.

When they said the part about the time between 40 and 60 being the best years of your life – I did a cursory glance around my empty living room and thought, well, I’m 5 years in and have 15 years to catch up.

American Hustle I did not watch.  The laundromat and DVD return box needed to be one trip – god forbid I exit the house twice on a Sunday.

Besides, my boy is home and laundry is done and the couch across from me won’t be empty today.

I’m staying put and enjoying what will be one of the best days of my week – and maybe sharing some of my ice cream.

Deleting trips away from loved ones is ‘to be’.


*late breaking news – after publishing, and excitedly showing Nic the salmon and pie I planned for our dinner,  my boy announced he has plans for the day and night.  :/  #@&*!!

I’m refraining from heading to the freezer …  but let’s face it, it’s inevitable.

Empty couch and ice cream are in my very near future.

Reading (too much into it)

Read an amazing book.  Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn.  Could not put it down! I loved the flow of it, the intelligence of it.  I felt smarter reading it.  If I met her I’d tell her “You make me want to be a better writer.”  (And she’d probably say, “Start with not plagiarizing movies when you compliment someone”.)

The author had a way of describing things that made me think ‘Yeah! That’s exactly how that feels!’  I don’t have the ability to describe things that way.

Then I Googled.

I’ve mentioned before – I get fixated.  For instance, when I stumbled on the movie Melancholia, I fell in love with it before I’d even seen it.  I loved the movie’s internet page, loved the score.

(Here, check it out, )

I read interviews about Lars Von Trier and became obsessed with Ophelia, read more about her and then Hamlet.  Once I am interested in something, I research the hell out of it.  I finally did see the movie and I liked it, but my research needed me to love it.  I ruin things sometimes that way.


I can never just watch a movie either.  I have to watch all the special features afterwards.  If they had a section devoted to the cast and crew at the craft services table, just snacking, I’d watch that too.  I like ‘behind the scenes’.

So anyway, I’m in love with this book and a quarter of the way through it  I Google.  I don’t know why – except for … that’s what I do.  I didn’t want to know how it turned out, just curious I guess to see if other people loved it too.

I see one link and it says: ‘this delectable summer read’.  Huh?  What the heck is a ‘Summer read’?  My mind paints a picture of a fickle woman with a beach bag – not a big reader – but who wants something to break up the tedium of laying on a beach. 


That comment made my book feel less smart.  Less important. 

I Google ‘Summer read’ and it doesn’t mean that, I feel better.

I don’t want books to be put in categories like that.  I’m as eclectic with my reading genres as I am with my musical tastes. 

Poe used to be my favorite – (the story Berenice in particular).  I revisited ol’ Edgar on my nook and honestly wondered why.  It was hard for me to understand if I’m being honest.  I mean, literally hard to understand.  The words were too big for me and the sentences too fussy.  It was as if he needed to write the same sentence five different ways to make a point.  How was he my favorite for so long?  Have I dumbed down?  I haven’t got the most brilliant mind, but I’m pretty smart and have a decent vocabulary.  He was over my head and didn’t hold my interest.  Maybe I’m going through a phase.

I remember in High School we had to read The Fall of the House of Usher and write something on what we thought it was about.  I hate that.  Why does everything have to have some deep, hidden meaning? 

Can’t a sentence like “My cat curled up next to my tattered childhood blanket” just mean the cat curled up next to my old childhood blanket? 


I’ve read reviews that break down a single sentence to the point of absurdity.  They’d have read that and maybe said:

“The cat represents aloofness and independence.  The protagonist however, in keeping a part of their childhood, has extended a safe place for the creature to attach itself too.  A metaphor for …”  (well, something very profound would be finishing that sentence if I was someone capable of describing things).  You get the point. 

Why does everything have to be a metaphor for something?  Do we subconsciously do that?  I took creative writing in college.  We’d make enough copies of our work for everyone in class.  No names on the stories/poems whatever we’d written.  Someone would read out loud, then the Professor would go around the room and have everyone comment on the anonymous piece.  I would internally roll my eyes when they discussed my work.  I was thinking, ‘Really?  I didn’t mean that at all!”

I remember thinking along those lines when we did that High School assignment years ago, ‘What if he just really meant what he wrote?’  But I put on paper I thought it was about vampires.  (Take that Stephanie Meyer).

I’m on a second book by Gillian Flynn now.  I love the way she writes!  I won’t analyze it, just enjoy it.  But probably I’ll end up Googling it and reading other people pick her work apart.