It’s Been A Daddy Kind Of Day


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I dreamed of my father.  He was with me just now, as I remember him when I was a tweenager, back when I had a pageboy haircut and wore caramel-coloured velour shirts.

He was standing on the grass in the courtyard, much like this one only the buildings were taller and there were more trees.  I knew almost everyone here.

He was standing still as I told him why I was sad.  He listened to me and it felt kind.

When I awoke, my heart was pounding hard and I suddenly knew the reason for my sadness.  (I brought it on myself.) He didn’t have to say a word.

Thanks, Dad.

(then, of course, my brother calls me just now to ask me a question about him.)

Women’s Lives


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The dream begins.
I was walking towards a large campus of low buildings, crowded with many people inside and out.  These are schools, elementary, junior, and senior buildings all in one place. The weather is neutral. Some folks are sitting on a low hill in the grass. All of the bathrooms were empty. No one wanted to use them because every room, every stall was polluted and broken.  I walked among throngs of people outside; no idea what the gathering was for.  A young woman approached me, her mother sat on the grass watching impassively. The young woman was shorter than me, her face round and young, her blonde hair long, very long, down to her coccyx, natural and wavy, recently unkempt.  She said she needed help, she needed to get back home. She was calmly distraught, if that can be a thing.  A great deal of the dream was me asking for her name, what is wrong, where are you from, but she wouldn’t answer. We kept walking through the crowds.  Finally, she brought out a picture from her pocket, a printed piece of paper and showed me an infant in a high chair, head and face bloody, a knife through the top of his head. She said she needed to get back to him and see if he’s okay.  Instead of recoiling and hating her, I could only feel a low, deep sense of need. She was in trouble and needed help. I put my hand on the small of her back and guided her towards one of the buildings to see if we could find “somebody” which I assume to mean “authority” to help us.  On the way I asked where she’s from, no answer. Every teacher I asked for help said, “She’s not in this school, sorry.”  In between jostling through crowds in the halls, looking for someone to ask for help, she confessed that she hit him before, the law knows about her, and she can’t ask anyone for help because of all the trouble she’ll be in. She just needed to get home, please help me. No tears.   I stayed with her.  Finally I came to a tall person in a white-shirted uniform. Seems he knew the situation with her from what through rumor and threadbare facts.  And then nothing.  The dream ends without me knowing what happens to the girl.

What strikes me most about this dream is that I can see her clearly, her mother stayed behind while I led her away,  that I feel empathy towards someone who apparently murdered a child, and that she showed me a picture she (or someone) took, and printed on a piece of paper.  I woke in the middle of the night recalling this dream, thinking, “are you kidding me? really? did this really just happen?” I spent some time with the dream before returning to sleep, soaking in details and I knew (somehow) I’d remember it in the morning.  What does it mean for me now?

No Big Mystery


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People are making a big deal that a female tennis star won a grand slam title while she was pregnant.  I say, so what?  Her body is doing what it’s supposed to be doing, and if you really want to impress me, let’s see her play in the men’s division–and win!

Look, we really need to stop putting women on pedestals just because they have babies.  It’s just what nature chose, the luck of the draw. Like seahorses, the males carry the eggs in their pouches, nobody makes a big deal about their fatherhood. They’re just doing what nature gave them.

So women, just stop with making women hallowed, blessed, saintly, goddess things just because they carry around babies and breast feed and work jobs. So what? Your body does all the work, it’s not like you have anything to do with it.  Feed yourselves good food, read up on parenting, call your mom when you get in a bind, and take care of the kid that you put in this world. This is not a big deal, people.  It’s been going on since the dawn of time.

Women have babies, men do not. It’s just that simple.  Men and women are not equal, never will be.  So raise your boys to be boys and girls to be girls, as God intended. If more people would just follow nature and not make such a big deal of things, it would take such a burden from all our shoulders. A collective sigh the country could breathe. Ten fingers and ten toes are all the blessings anyone could ever need, and it’s time we got back to thinking like real women and men.

April 19, 2017


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Do you remember where you were on that day?

What day. There have been so many days.  It’s hard to keep track of that day.

Was it a traffic stop day? Tornado day? Something that happened over there, overseas, some place we will never see?  What is that day all those people were killed? Or that day that all those kids were killed, and what does it matter?  It’s all just people.  It’s all just another day.

He killed himself in prison, convicted.

She killed herself in prison, not even tried.

They overdosed in Ohio and West Virginia. Maybe it’s because they were sad about all those kids who were imported for house cleaning. Or sex.  Illegals. Criminals of victimless crimes. Or maybe they just wanted to get high.

I remember where I was on that day when that stuff happened.  I was either at school or working, flirting with a man-child. Tragedy took my eyes off him and thrust me into a world that was so much bigger than me. Than us.  That kiss.  That failing grade, those catty remarks, my fist, my failure to launch.

Where am I, on this day?

Morning Musings


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I hadn’t planned on waking with a jolt, but it happens sometimes. I open my eyes to a bright flash, like lightning, but there is no storm here.  Sunrise soon, so I slip into slouchy clothes, add another jacket because the winds are northeast, and you know what that means.  The dog walkers were out trying to be quiet, but their fluffies have one job and they are going to do that job every morning: yip at anything that moves, and that’s okay. By now most of them know I’m not bite-worthy, so they let me scritch their wiry necks and set them on their way.

I stand in the sand with camera phone in hand waiting for the molten orb to rise from the Atlantic, noting the ceiling covered by rows of narrow clouds, adjoined, pink, soon to be yellow then white when the whole thing is done.  I watch the fluffies trot across wind-blown dunes. I see early crab tracks and wonder if they’re sorry they got up too soon.  In the west, a pillar of rainbow over the Hampton bridge.

The laughing gulls were quiet for most of the year, but now that the “skimmer” gulls have arrived, the laughing gulls call constantly. Laughing gulls are more likely to share the breakwaters with the fuller-bodied gulls or tiny plovers who are no threat to anyone.   The skimmers fly by in the mornings but do most of their work of feeding in the evenings, skimming the tideline open-mouthed and faster than a white feathered bullet. Their morning calls are demure compared to the coarse laughing gulls, their bodies are the epitome of sleek, narrow, curved, pale, and far more seasonal. They are white silk arrows flown from heaven, and that seems to piss off the laughing gulls.

There is a tiny bird perched on the dead tree limb outside my window, breast curved and deep. He silently pivots like an unsure weather vane. What is he looking for?

My neighbor says goodbye to her cat on the windowsill every morning; she doesn’t know I see this, and she greets him when she returns before she opens the door.  I met her across the balcony this morning. I said hello, and she “confessed” her ritual. I think she felt like she was caught like a deer in the headlights.  We haven’t spoken but a few words.  I told her, “You should see him when you’re not home. All the parties. Had to call the cops a few times.” one-two-three…. She had no idea what I was talking about, but eventually she smiled and said, “You’re funny, ” and I wished her a great day as she smiled and made her way down the stairs.

Mad Libs was a fun game, and sometimes Jimmy Fallon, the late show host, fills out a Mad Libs form and acts out a scene based on the guests’ words.  I’ve watched Jimmy coax a great many words from his guests, and most of them disappoint me. They’re like me, trying to remember what’s a noun, verb, adjective. Most guest replies are often bland like a primary color wheel, and it informs me more deeply than a silly interview.  This morning I am pleased with Kevin Spacey who, unsurprisingly, immediately, chose wonderful and interesting words.  This matters to me, not so much because I want to win a date with Kevin Spacey, but more because it reaffirms my need for more, my need to be in the company of people who are curious about the world, who know things that I do not. Those who touch the mermaid of me.

April 17


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What a difference “__” makes.  That variable is subject to debate for me. It could be time, unplugging, sunlight, warmer weather, winds shifting from north to southwest, mending fences with a neighbor, the departure of the bad energy downstairs.  Or it could be the determination, the want/need/fight, the will to sleep through the night and arise at peace with the world. All of the above.

I am better today than I have been in some time and am relieved.  There is still much work to be done, but at least I feel ready to begin (begin again) and again.  I forgot my blessings and address them again today in a rising sun that reflects the blinding yellow paint on the building next door.

I slept with a full belly. I slept with the windows open. I slept with hope for tomorrow.  I slept. And now, it’s time to write.



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Sleep paralysis is not a plot device used by some dark gods to fuck up my night, my morning, my life.  I know what it is now, and I can fix it. (Furthermore,  I really didn’t need to recall  the “Sad Keanu” meme. It’s a bullshit way to start the morning.)

I like my strawberries room-temperature. My mouth crackles as I eat them, and I am grateful for this pleasant stimulus today as I walk along the edge.

Jackie is due in three weeks, and all I can think is that time moves so slowly, and so fast.

I lit a candle to honor the grief of someone I do not know. It only makes me feel better.

I watch a tiny black beetle who barely fits inside a window screen square make his way here and there. What is he looking for?

He found a message in a bottle on the beach that holds a child’s pain.

I’m the priest in that story who never wanted to hear music again because it’s all just noise compared to the singing of angels he once heard.

Loud generators, the bump and clank of hand trucks moving sofas past my window, and a door slam are not plot devices used by some dark gods to fuck up my fragile mood and ambitions. It’s called life, lady. Better get used to it.

Her Footsteps Are Aflame


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I wonder if even the power of death will take this anger away from me on that final day?

“The evil that men do lives on, the good interred with their bones,” badly paraphrased, I feel like there will be no room left in my marrow for anything at all. When they pop me in for cremation, they’d better stand back, my hateful afterburner will kick in, a final Fuck You to humanity.

I feel like there will be no good spirit to take along with me into the next place, where ever that may be, this anger is hard to contain.  So help me, there better be no men around. Or women. Right now I feel like I want my final rest to be just that: Final. Rest. No more playing around with planting wisdom trees and dancing with supposed eternal happiness, blowing on a breeze and making nice with the universe. Keep the journey, I’ve got a date with an eternal dirt nap.  !!


There are no women in heaven. They are at peace when their time ends, as all living do come to an end, but only the men rise and return to god’s kingdom.  Only our knees are strong enough to kneel forever before him, our voices tireless to praise him. Our breaths are his sighs, and he is pleased with us, for there are no tired doubts in the kingdom. The misguided sinners and unbelievers were washed away in that final stroke.  There is no hunger or thirst but for his light. No tears for there are no troubles, all sinful vessels were cast out, broken. Our only desire is to love him and receive his perfect love in return.  amen.   “history is written by the victors”

A Sensual Morning


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Sounds. Sleeping with the windows open brings me sounds, or sometimes thoughts, in one window and out the other.  Ghosts of truck tires, distant. A stiff breeze. Silence. I woke to the spotlight in my face, the moon fierce in the window. Damn, girl, don’t you know I’m tryna sleep here? (Me and her got beef, her being a silent witness and all, and I’m not going to stand for it anymore.)  I turn over to begin again.  Silence. A stiff breeze.  He began singing in the dark, an hour before the paler blue comes. He is loud, energetic as he sings the sun, singlehandedly, up from the water and into the sky. My dear friend, I wish you knew more than two lyrics, broken record dawn patrol. That’s all right. You have a job to do, and I’ll not shoo you away.

Sounds. I hear your feet below me pounding the floor as you walk from room to room which is a miracle because my hearing is blurry at best. Perhaps I feel the vibration through the walls, or I just know what to listen for.  Is it too soon to prepare myself for the slam of your door as you embark on another office day? Too soon to prepare my snarky comment, “Have a nice day!” as I watch your back, wet hair plastered to your head, stomping off to your car? Yes. It is too soon. I don’t know if responding like this to someone else’s energy is good or bad. It informs me of my own emotional tendencies, my inability to forgive “trespasses,” and tells me I should send her off with blessings if nothing else.

North wind this morning. I can see and hear the wavelets clearly, the bay scent is strong and clean. Mourning dove plays his reed. A wind-chime tinks. Refrigerator hums. Pick-up trucks throaty exhaust. Finch father calling his little ones for flight lessons today, a happy racket. Sounds like someone striking a toothbrush on the edge of the sink to cast off excess water, one two three.

By now the maintenance people would be power washing the walkways, using the leaf blower to clear off excess beach debris or the lawn edger to manicure the little bits of grass in the courtyard, but not this morning. I have a day to consider my tasks. To do them or not do them, it’s as simple as that, so sayeth Henry Rollins.  To think about another neighbor who surprises me all the time. You never really know a woman, it seems. Or anyone. I probably won’t write down at the beach today in my journal that smells like olive oil (long story) because it’s a little chilly out there, north wind and all. So many things are calling and it’s a blessing to take each one down at a time.