I’VE MOVED MY BRIDGE TO
my new blog
I hope to see you there.
I’VE MOVED MY BRIDGE TO
my new blog
I hope to see you there.
Of course my family played games at Christmas- I think one year we played dominos.
I don’t know who thought it would be more fun to set them up in patterns and knock them over, but I’m pretty sure nobody knew how to play them anyway.
If they did, they weren’t sharing that info.
We also played checkers
We’d cheat like crazy and it was fun. In fact if you didn’t cheat and make it amusing nobody wanted to play you. I mean, come on it was checkers- not high stakes Poker.
But by far we loved a game I actually got for my birthday when I was six.
I’m not sure whose idea it was to get it for me, but I think I asked for one and said it…
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One Christmas when I was a little girl, I asked my Grandfather why we always told Ghost stories after Christmas dinner. I asked whose idea it was to light the fire, turn down the lights and talk about cemeteries and bodies buried in basements and bones in hatboxes on dusty shelves in attics.
I said it was weird how we told those stories every year at Christmas.
We were sitting in the living room, the fire was roaring, the treats were placed on tables around the dark living room and the tree lights weren’t on yet.
The rest of the family were in the dining room finishing desert.
We took our seats under a painting of my Great-Great Grandmother.
He looked at me. ” I see your point. “
I wasn’t sure what my point was at that moment but before I could consider it…
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Anyone can forgive, some people can forget. I’m no exception to that.
Hold a Grudge though?
You bet- until the day I die.
Maybe even beyond that day.
I have this theory- when we wrong somebody we create a monster. It lives in the head and heart of the person you hurt until there is no head or heart for it to live inside.
When that place is gone, it goes looking for a new home, something dark and fetid and familiar. It goes back to it’s creator because there’s no place like home, is there?
It doesn’t matter what God you fall on your knees and pray to, it doesn’t matter if your conive or con forgiveness for the pain you caused.
It’s going to come home to…
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I post daily on My Enduring Bones…stop along to see what’s up!
I love it when people tell me about their nightmares.
I love having them myself and when I have boring dreams where my brain is sorting out the junk that’s been piling up in there I wake up and think, ” that was boring, what a waste of REM sleep. “
So if I had a day to do exactly what I wanted, I would spend my day crawling into people’s skulls and give them the best nightmares EVER.
I would hold nothing back, I’d fill peoples dreams with murderous Aliens from Venus, diseases where your body parts drop off and you spend your dream trying to glue them back…
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I never throw coins into a fountains and make wishes because of what happened at the Old Well on my Grandma Tilly’s property 50 years ago.
She had this well way back on her property- just passed the family cemetery and from there almost a half mile from the tree where people liked to hang themselves
Grandma Tilly figured about a dozen people hung themselves from that tree. Grandpa Wolfie was all for cutting it down but she was convinced those souls were caught in the branches and if she cut it down they’d walk around her property and make it creepier than it was already.
” I don’t think that possible Tilly.” Grandpa Wolfie said once as they stood under the tree and looked up into it’s…
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If my blog were a house, would you brave the long lonely drive here
Once you’ve arrived you wouldn’t have to knock, just walk right in and take a seat, feel free to read a few pages of what I’m working on.
I don’t mind.
It’s pretty quiet here on most days, sometimes I have bad spells and don’t feel like myself. That doesn’t happen very often and if it does while you’re here…well…you can always leave.
Just do it quickly.
If you want to look around you’ll find here and there the things I’ve worked on, safely stored but not locked away. Things in my house have taken on a life of their own.
No I’m not laughing.
I just have a little tickle in my throat.
I hope you’ll spend a little time here.
I’m willing to bet though…
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I’ve started a new blog and will be posting daily at:
Hope to see you there!
Asking me to pick a favorite nightmare is like asking a parent to ‘fess up and admit who their hands down favorite child is.
I love all my little nightmares equally- but here are a few that I do love more then the rest:
I had this nightmare back when I was about 12.
The Soldiers With Silver Eyes
I was walking to school and it was dark outside.
I saw the sun shining in the sky but the sky was jet black and I knew it was morning because the stars weren’t shining.
This was morning.
There were only a few people on the street- a couple of kids walking…
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The first time I traveled alone, I ended up in Hollywood, California at a club where the hair was tall and the dresses were short and the guys were wearing more eyeliner then the girls.
I was wearing a pair of Calvins a lavender cashmere sweater and motorcycle boots- in those days I didn’t wear a lot of makeup so all in all I felt under dressed.
Didn’t bother me though, back in my young day I didn’t care if I fit in or not and for all of my issues seeking approval from strangers wasn’t high on my ‘ to do list of life’.
So back to the Club.
I was on my way to the restroom, which was the most sketchy, weirdest walk I have ever taken in my life. It was like…
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Over the last couple of years I finally got around to visiting art galleries and museums.
In my heart of hearts I always wanted to be Indiana Jones before Indiana Jones ever existed.
Museums were always places I loved but didn’t learn to appreciate until I actually had the time to wander through them as opposed to just walking through them.
Art was another kettle of fish.
I just didn’t get it.
On one trip I learned how to stand in different places in front of a painting and at different spots on the floor and then to look at the painting and surprise!
I got it.
I learned to see a painting and then I finally saw them.
It was like when I put on my eye glasses for the first time and was I stunned! I had no idea before then that the world wasn’t this…
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One of the great blogs I follow is called Perspectives On.
Terri had this great idea- creating a facebook page tied to her blog- so monkey see monkey do I decided to do the same thing.
I’ve changed the title of my blog- slightly- and set up a facebook page for it.
I’m hoping it will help me keep focused on writing and what it takes to bring a story together.
So please give it a like- and if you do the same let me know in the comment section.
(Hit The Logo To Go To A.L.C.B Facebook Page )
” Follow me ” she whispers from Faraway
where the night is forever
and awake is dream she used to have
a very long time ago.
” Follow you? ” he calls down to her from Faraway
where the night is forever
and all but a handful of stars have burned out
from his sky
a very long time ago.
Follow Me, Follow Me, Follow Me
her voice echoes from Faraway
where awake is a dream and the night is forever and all but a few stars still burn in the sky.
From The Diary Of
June 20th 1911- October 31st 1992
This took me awhile to figure out. But when I did I went straight for my bathroom mirror and kissed my reflection.
I would take:
J sometimes referred to in some circles as G
( old , tough and probably gristly but it’s soaked in wine so I’m sure it’s good for broth making )
( definitely good for roasting )
( a little of this goes a long way )
( Oh, why not)
and of course
( no taste at all- for garnish only )
So is this me being clever?
Do I intend to take as many food stuffs with those letters with me to the nowhere place that I’m going to be sent to?
All I can say is, I’m well schooled in human anatomy, corpses hold no fear for me I’m one hell of a cook and I’ll eat like a queen till help arrives.
Help for me.
For them it would be too late.
Writing is about the only thing I can make myself do.
I can do it on my bad days, my good days even on days when I don’t have anything to say.
So if I could clone myself what crud jobs would I give my secondary me?
I’d have that ‘me’ do all my caretaking stuff- the day to day grind- the housework, the cooking- almost everything except for my day job and taking care of my cats and dog.
But the reality is, I hate that stuff myself and when I slack off I don’t feel bad about it.
So how would I get my clone to do it?
I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, me and my clone would agree to blow it off.
I know myself, if I don’t want to give I don’t.
However, I’ll bet if my clone and I put our heads together we could find someone else to do the work for the BOTH of us.
Just a thought:
Sometimes when I mention I used to work in a Funeral Home some people will say that they always wanted to do that work because
” They feel comfortable in a funeral home” , that they think death is “beautiful”, and dead bodies don’t ‘bother’ them.
For the most part I listen politely.
But this is how I really feel:
The living VISIT funeral homes, even the people who work there. It’s not your home, it’s a weigh station for the dead.
Show some respect for that. It’s not a club house.
Death is NOT beautiful.
It takes babies and children, old people, good people, bad people, beloved pets .It takes you when you’re happy, vulnerable, when you’re sad and depressed and lonely, when you’re driving your car or just living your life and minding your own business.
How messed up is that?
Like Lister said in Red Dwarf, ” If Death comes near me, I’ll rip it’s nipples off “
For the most part that’s how I feel about death.
And FYI dead bodies SHOULD bother you.
They should make you think, feel, react, run, vomit SOMETHING.
Once there was all the hope in the world for that dead person and now it’s gone.
No more chances, no more reset, you get put into the ground or and urn and that’s all she wrote folks.
So please, if you want to work in a Funeral Home remember you are in service to the living and your job is to care for their loved one who has passed.
You’re not ‘of the night’.
You’re of the living and if you forget that you’re not going to be of much help to anyone.
Parenting is scary, just like Mrs. Daisy says.
When I was in school they asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up.
At the time I was about 10 and that person was not a young woman to be trifled with.
I knew I was SUPPOSED to say a Teacher or a Secretary or a Mom- none of which appealed to me because I knew a lot of women who did that work and they weren’t exactly happy when they left for work in the mornings. It seemed like a grim existence.
I knew better then to say what popped into my head, but I did it anyway.
So I told my teacher I wanted to be a Hang Man.
I was great at knots I said plus, I’d seen it done a million times on TV so I was pretty sure I was ready to enter the work field of my choice.
She told me I was being silly.
That wasn’t a real job, besides women didn’t do that kind of work she said firmly.
The trouble was, I believed her.
Years and years later I was reading a book about death and one of the chapters dealt with executions and in particular there was a part about Ted Bundy.
One of the witnesses who could only see the eyes of the executioner ( Bundy was electrocuted if memory serves ) remarked that the Executioner had long thick eyelashes- they kind a woman would have.
Now this is noteworthy on two points- getting sent to Hell by a woman after what Bundy did is just to delicious for words.
I must say, if those words were a cupcake it would be topped with three inches of thick delicious frosting with a deep rich velvet cake buried in there somewhere.
Second point, I read that line a few times, let the book fall on my face in despair ( I was reading in bed, because nothing says fun, fun, fun like reading about death before your eyes shut and you’re plunged into darkness) I thought to myself:
Son of a bitch, I missed my true calling.
Because someone else answered the phone before me.
Go down the rabbit hole with Alice; play quidditch with Harry Potter; float down the river with Huck Finn… If you could choose three fictional events or adventures to experience yourself, what would they be?
Oh where to start.
Where to Start.
If I could choose three fictional events to participate in I would:
Want to be with Father Merrin in the Exorcist when he is standing in the desert in Iraq and he’s looking at the statue of Pazuzu and he knows that dark days are ahead.
I’d have loved to have been there with Scrooge in the graveyard when he sees his name on the tombstone and
I’d really have liked to have taken that carriage ride with Johnathan Harker to Dracula’s Castle in the Carpathian Mountains.
I’m going to be honest here.
I would want to be that Statue of Pazuzu and have been able to have looked into Father Merrin’s eyes…I would have invited him to run, but of course I would have hoped he wouldn’t
and I’d like to have been the Ghost who took Scrooge to the cemetery to see his lonely grave and I would have told him to relax. All graves are lonely and eventually they are all forgotten
and I’d have liked to have taken those reigns and taken Harker on the ride of his life through the Carpathian Mountains. By the time I was done he would have walked all the way back to England and Dracula would have been a different book all together.
Those are just moments in a story but I’ve been there over and over again and those moments feel like a lifetime.
Our weekly free-write is back: take ten minutes — no pauses! — to write about anything, unfiltered and unedited. You can then publish the post as-is, or edit a bit first — your call.
When I worked at a funeral home, my view on the death penalty changed
It changed the day I walked in and we were back logged and every cot and table were full. I saw all those dead people and thought:
” Why would anyone create one of those on purpose? Nature seems to do well enough on its own.”
People commit suicide in cemeteries. I’m not sure what their reasons are but this is how I felt about the Funeral Home in general.
The living just visit there- to me it felt like a reception area to the next world, but in the end we didn’t belong there. No way would I want that to be the last place I saw before I go one to meet my maker.
I always felt sad when I heard those stories, because cemeteries are lonesome places. Terribly beautiful but sad.
I used to eat a lot of Pez after I embalmed a body.
I still haven’t figured that one out.
Strange as it may sound, I did have a fun day at work now and then. Like the time I had to go do a removal at a retirement center.
It was a huge industrial looking place- and as we do in most places we go through the back door.
This time there were two old guys sitting there in lawn chairs when I came out with the deceased.
They reminded me of crows- at first.
” Hey.” said one old guy, ” he was my friend.”
“Was he?” I asked, sensing that these two guys would not appreciate polite banter. So I stopped for a little chat. ” How long did you know each other?”
” Long enough to know ” his friend sitting next to him said slapping his knee ” that this is the only time in his life he was taken out by a beautiful woman”
” Oh come on now. “
” Look, promise me this when I go come and get me. Or if you got a good looking friend at work send her. But no matter who it is, wear that dress.”
I didn’t laugh…I roared with laughter. ” Hey. There’s laws about harassing women like this you Wolves you.”
” Yea. Sure. Whatever sweetheart. I was an attorney and he was a cop and our friend there did time for robbery in his young day. You’re surrounded by them.
I considered this. ” Ok. But you should know that nobody can hit an artery faster then me.”
” Marry me . ” said my talkative friend. ” Marry me now.”
I used to visit a grave in the children’s cemetery that we called Babyland. My baby cousin is buried there. He died from SIDS back in the late 60’s.
A row down from him is the grave of a baby who died on the year and the same day I was born. For each holiday that rolled around someone came out and put out seasonal directions.
I wonder if I would have ever met him had he lived.
I used to find my pictures on different places on my desk because people would pick them up to look at them.
But they never touched that lady bug.
Just before I turned 49 one of my cousins died, my Dad died, both of my dogs died and for the first time since I began writing at age 9 I honestly could not write a word because the inspiration, the joy of it all was just gone.
Losing my ability to write was the hardest thing that happened that year, it was hard because I had always seen myself as being the person who wrote.
So with my identity in the crapper and on it’s way to wherever raw sewage gets sent ( oh sure…it ALL gets sent to a treatment plant I am SURE) my entire life came to a screeching halt.
I felt less then human on so many levels.
The first thing I tried to get back was my Writing Mojo.
Do you know the world is full of advice on how to do that? They write books about it, you can go to lectures about it, ” All you have to do, ” I was told over and over again ” is just sit down and write.”
” Oh really? ” I remember thinking. ” Wow. That’s SO obvious. Why the heck didn’t I think of that?”
Well of course it wasn’t that easy.
Most of the time I wrote snarky obituaries for people who thought it was so simple, all I had to do was just ‘sit down and write’. You know what I wanted to do? Tell them I took their advice and show them what I was writing. I remember thinking I’d lose some friends but there would be a few less red wagons in need of fixing out there in the big bad world.
So in the end, as it often is often the case, I found my own way, sat down and started to write again.
I didn’t read advice books, I didn’t go to a meetup and talk to other writers about not being able to write.
One day I sat down here at my blog and started to read my stories.
The older stories were the first stories I wrote- and I left them as is because over the years I thought it would be cool to see how I grew as writer. I’d do a lot of them different, but why mess with the work of a writer who worked that hard? As it was, I loved those. I’m proud of them. Even if they are far from perfect.
And then I got to the more recent ones and I couldn’t believe they were mine.
It made me want to write again so I picked up on these daily posts at WordPress. I looks forward to doing one ( or two ) a day.
Of course I don’t think I’m doing them exactly right, but what’s the worst that can happen? I can’t get fired for not following the rules and nobody is going to die over it.
My responses are what they are.
In the end I felt human again, like Anita Marie the writer again because I went back and found myself lost there in the weeds and ruins- and there in that mess was my writer’s voice just waiting for me.
I think I was lucky this time.
May we never part ways again.
A prompt where I get to explain myself.
I don’t think so.
Oh well. Stephen King says you shouldn’t shy away from writing because the topic is to hard so I’ll give it a whack.
I think I’ll try to explain why I write.
It’s what I do, so how hard can it be?
I write fiction because it makes sense. Life not so much.
You know what Mark Twain said right? He said,
“Of course truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.”
Boy was he right.
I’ve written whoppers about Killer Grandmothers and what happens when the Devil has a bad hair day and I did one about a woman who gets inspired to bake a new kind of pie for Halloween.
Weird as those stories are, I can’t cheat the reader – they have to make sense, they have to follow rules, they must have a sense of order.
In real life my nephew died from a disease called Friedreich’s ataxia and that made no sense. None. I couldn’t write a story where that happens because in a million years I couldn’t come up with a reason for that to happen to anyone.
If I tried people wouldn’t buy it, they’d say ” Oh come on, stuff like that doesn’t drop out of the sky and hit someone on the head.”
But that’s what happened.
My dog was diagnosed with a serious heart condition when she was about 11. The vet thought she had a few months to live, he gave her some meds to control her cough and we decided to let her run her clock down on her own because she was eating, sleeping and active and alert.
On her last day at age 14, and at that time she was still active, alert though she was frail looking, I came home from work, we went for a walk and then we ate our dinner together. When we were done she went to her bed and she died.
I could never explain that one either. Saying ‘just because’ wouldn’t cut it. She had a will to live and die on her own terms. And I don’t know where that came from.
It made no sense.
Me being able to write makes no sense either, my love for it, the ease that it came to me made no sense.
I remember I was little- I was like six and I remember being desperate to learn to read because I wanted to write so much.
By the end of my first year in school I was reading at a first grade level, in fact I read ‘up’ a year or two until I was 12 and by then I was reading at college level.
I was driven to read so I could write. Makes no sense at all. It just happened that way.
Life is weird and full of twists and it offers no explanation for itself.
I hate that.
So I write fiction to bring some kind of order into my head and my life.
And that my friends is as close as I will ever come to explaining myself again.
It’s October! Do you know what happens to my heart in October?
My heart races, it pounds, it screams out – well it would if it had a mouth, but you get the point.
October, as I was saying causes my heart to go a flutter, it skips beats if it wore pearls it would be clutching them and it would say – you know, if it had a mouth,
“Lord, I am just beside myself. There’s so much to do. Lord take me now because there’s no way I’m going to be ready for Halloween.”
That’s what my heart does in October.
It goes wild.
Sometimes I think it’s going to blow up and then what will I do, you may be wondering.
Well, let me tell you.
I’ll have to go out and get a new one, which is not exactly an easy job and then I” ll have to wash the jar out that I kept the old one in (yuck) and stick it in there.
Finding a new heart is no small task, but you do what you have to do.
Even though I am strapped for time that’s the way I roll.
So. Be still my heart. I mean it. I do not have time for you.
I was reading one of those articles that they aim at people who are either just choosing a career path or maybe they’re looking to go on a new one.
My day job is great- there isn’t a lot of money involved, but I like the company, my co-workers awesome and and I like what I do.
At night I write.
Life is good.
But that article made me think outside the box. The thing of it is when I think outside the box I end up far afield. I might not learn a lot and I’m sure I’m not using the information provided as it was intended but at least I can say I enjoyed the heck of the article.
So here it is, if I could chose a dream job- if I could be anything in the world…get ready for it…
I’d be the Headless Horseman
I’m not particularly enchanted with the idea of getting my head cut off, but in the past I’ve worked at jobs that broke my spirit and made me feel small and stupid so how does a little decapitation compare to that?
In addition I like to be out at night- the darker the better, cold enough to rattle your bones? I’m good with it. Big plus here- I’d get to ride a wicked horse and that takes me right back to the days when I rode motorcycles – wow- be still my heart- I’d probably get to wear leather again too.
And of course the fun part- chasing people around who like to tempt fate and pooh-pooh what they don’t understand,
I tempt fate now and then, but I don’t wait for it to turn it’s back and then sucker punch it in the back of the head. People who act like that manage to hurt everyone around them so I think it wouldn’t hurt them to get chased across a bridge on a dark, foggy night by a demonic horse and someone who really and truly loves her job.
And as for the Pooh-Poohers?
They’re the one’s who think they know it all because they are so enlightend of heart and intellect that they can tell themselves in all honesty that they’re not ramming their view point down your throat because they’re actually the most vicious and intolerant human beings to walk the face of the earth and are only listening to you talk long enough so yes…they can pooh pooh what you say..
I’d like to introduce you to my not so little friend who was created to chop off limbs and is not known for making surgical style incisions.
Of course I’m sure there are great benefits like-
I am sure you get to travel or maybe fill in for other Headless Horseman on other Bridges or Roads. Or maybe you get to chose. That would be great.
Halloween must be awesome. I’ll bet you could arrange a take your kid to work day. Of course my kids are grown up but I do have a few cats who would probably love the ride along experience because who wouldn’t?
You get to set your own hours. From what I understand the Headless Horseman pretty much show up when they want to. Awesome.
I’ll bet the Headless Horseman get to meet some cool monsters like Werewolves and Mummies and Ghosts. My guess is that they hang out in cemeteries which is fine with me because I actually used to work in one.
This could be the perfect job for me.
I’ve heard a bunch of different legends for how The Headless Horseman came to be.
I think ( at least I hope ) that somewhere there’s a piece of paper nailed to an old tree and written in dark brown ink ( because that’s what happens to blood when it turns old ) that says:
Do you have dedication, skill, flexability and determination to complete your task at hand? Are you a self starter and self motivated?
Do you like horses and are you willing to work late hours?
Then wait here.
We’ll be along shortly.
Really? There’s a choice?
Because in the past when people have tried to help me be an all around better writer they used brutal bare knuckle honesty because hey- they care.
I would prefer the kid glove treatment but does anybody really do that?
In my experience: No.
I was in a class once where my grade on an assignment went from average to A PLUS!
Well, I listened to my critics and wrote the story exactly the way they said it SHOULD be written in order for it to be CORRECT.
I gutted – and I will admit was a less then perfect but fun read- and made it like any other piece of crud, done to death, predictable horror story. But hey that was the RIGHT way to tell that sort of story.
I moved from the back of the class to the front ( metaphorically speaking ) when I crafted little ditties that could have been written by anybody EXCEPT for me.
That’s right, my work was recognized for being great as long as I removed any trace of Anita Marie from it.
I finished the class and this is what I learned.
If you ask for help, consider it when it is given.
If you want to ‘help’ someone take the ” I would have” You should have ” and the infamous ” This would be better if…” out of the conversation. When it comes to writing there is a lot of technical things involving structure that we should know, so that kind of advice is gold. And in my quest to be a better writer ( which I work at everyday) I pay attention when that advice pops up on my radar.
But I do filter it out because in my mind telling somebody how to be a better writer or how to tell their story in a ‘better way’ (which for some reason always turns out to be their way- I know weird right? ) , verges, in my opinion on telling them how to be a better person.
I don’t view writing as something I do, it’s who I am. So with that in mind I’m always open to finding unique ways to tell a story, different styles of writing . And I’m careful that when that criticism wanders off into the weeds to treat it for what it is- grandstanding.
So I will smile and nod hold my tongue and remember I’ve been doing this for about 40 years and remember what my Grandfather used to say when the Kid Gloves come off and the Everlast Gloves come out.
” There are always going to be some people who are harder to love then others. “
I think there’s a new Dracula movie coming out.
I think I’d be more into Vampire movies if they wouldn’t have and continue to riff shamelessly off of Lugosi.
The only exception I can think of
is Christopher Lee in the Hammer films ( list HERE ).
This is an older clip that Bela’s son did about his Dad, it was a touching tribute so I’m going to share it here:
I also found this great interview with Lugosi Jr by Armand Vaquer HERE.
This question might be harsh, but if you’re going to write you can’t be afraid to be harsh, to kill off your favorite character if the story calls for it or to face some painful truths about yourself.
So I’m going to give this prompt a go:
No matter how I phrase it, the question is
Would you want to be Captain of the USS Enterprise
Battlestar ( Galactica )
I’m old school, and adventurous and I really do love the strange, the campy and the unique.
The Galactica and it’s crew are streamlined, sexy, edgy, and dare I say desperate?
Yes I do say that.
I could see myself in the world of the Enterprise, but in the Galactica world?
I’m not sleek, sexy or dangerous. I don’t have a great set of boobs and a High IQ. I do think I look good in a mini-skirt and I’m no genius but the smarts that I have I use well.
So I’m not saying I wouldn’t make friends with someone who sees themselves as Captain of The Galactica. But I can see myself hanging out with someone who can be great in a fight and has a bunch of weird and wonderful friends.
So Beam me up Scotty and let’s go for it.
When I was about six years old and we
were living in Seattle we had this great cherry tree in our back yard.
Now the sweetest cherries are on the highest branches, so I used to scoot up there and lay on a branch and for each one I picked to take down to my Mom I’d eat three.
The problem is I’d when I’d get up I’d fall and down I’d go. It’s safe to say for awhile there I fell out of trees more often then I’d actually climb down. In fact, it took me awhile to learn that part. I think that for awhile I just assumed that was the way you got out of trees.
So be it a big tree or a small tree- a fruit tree or a maple tree I had no fear in climbing up and zero fear of falling down.
Luckily I never broke anything. I twisted my ankle a few times and I knocked the wind out of myself more times then I could count.
If you’ve never been able to draw a breath, you know it’s a pretty terrifying experience. But for me, I’d just wait and then I took a breath and I was good to go.
I guess you’d think I’d have developed a fear of heights or falling or I’d have developed some kind of morbid fear of trees.
But I didn’t.
So that little kid who always climbed to the top of a tree to get to the sweetest fruits or wanted to climb as high as she could because it was fun to watch the world turn from being big and intimidating to small and very far away…
became the woman who wasn’t afraid to be who she wants to be or to go where she wants to go.
And Just in case you’re wondering.
That kid is still with me.
Ella Fitzgerald –
‘Tain’t What You Do (It’s the Way That You Do It) lyrics
What’s there not to love about a dark and dreary night?
How could you not love a bitterly cold foggy morning? Or better yet a foggy night with dead dry leaves crunching under foot as you make your way home to a fire, something warm to drink and your favorite novel, ( or in my case for sure ) a little something by Mozart.
I do love the Spring, I love the green and the fresh cool air. It’s full of promise. It’s open and free.
But Autumn is secret and sly. It’s the bad boy in the leather jacket who plays the guitar or rides the motorcycle- the one you’re Mom warned you about because guess what. She probably met the bad boy’s acquaintance before too.
When the Fall shows up those flowers you planted seem to just disappear one night, the leaves on the trees turn slowly from gold to red and fall off one by one until boom! They’re on the ground and being carried away to wherever it is winter lives.
This is the time of year when take out our dark clothing and we put on our hats and scarves and cover our faces. We make our way, wrapped in our shadow friendly clothing, through a world covered by low dark clouds, full of snow or rain. Now is the time we blend easily almost naturally into the shadows and doesn’t that just make you feel…just a little wicked?
People are alive during the Spring and Summer.
But I believe during the Fall and into the Winter
Everyone wakes up.