A Frenemy named Bipolar, “My 2017 Mind” Playlist, John Maus’ helping hand, and The way “Seawall” steals my breath every. single. time.

My 2018 Calendar – Cavallini Papers Curiosities

Life knows nothing of years. -Charles Bukowski

Hello & Congratulations, you survived 2017!

It is 5:30 a.m., on the second day of January. It is -2° and the windchill is -11°. Currently, I am fairly warm  as I sit at my desk, but if someone would like to offer me a tropical, womb-like warm place to stay during my birthday month, I promise we shall be lifelong friends.  Seriously, how is it that I was born in the most dreadful winter month? I’m pretty sure it was a middle finger gift from my parents because they knew I would be a nightmarish offspring.  The world is frozen solid right now. I miss April-August weather so, so much.

I wrote a New Year’s Eve post  Sunday, but it turned into a strange, epic post, written by someone that probably could benefit from seeing a therapist about her unresolved issues…go figure, right? I may revise and post it, but for now, its hanging out in my extensive WordPress draft folder.

So, here we are…What a surreal nasty joke 2017 was, right? Despite the fact that it feels like the country capsized, we are still here… I know this will pass…unfortunately, it will likely take years to fix this, and there will always be rotten, hate-filled people, but I am confident that eventually much of the waste will sink back to the bottom of the fish-tank…I hope so, at least. I don’t think I should write any more about politics right now. So much of my past year has been consumed with nervous stomachaches and disbelief, and my new habit in 2017 was checking news apps before getting out of bed each day to see if a war had been started by an ailing, narcissistic hate-bag with a Twitter account. But this year was about more than just a hideous orange stain.

There’s so much to think about when I try summing up my past year- I had a brilliant period of creativity during the spring and summer, only to crash by the end of July into a heavy depression that took me a few months to tunnel my way out of. The depression felt like my punishment for the productive, blissful High I had just had. I also felt partially responsible for my crash, since earlier in the year, I decided to stop Zoloft because I was fed up with feeling nothing at all…I began to feel like a blank piece of paper…and a completely asexual person, and I am definitely not asexual by nature… I mean, I was 13 when Prince’s  Darling Nikki came out, and that was basically the beginning of my um, curiosity and awareness, (and Prince was an amazing Guru in my formative years, by the way)…and if you’ve read some of the things I’ve written ( For example, American Darkness), then you can understand why having such a major part of my personality stifled was horrible. And no, I am definitely not suggesting that people should stop taking medication that’s helping them, and I’m sure that I will begin taking antidepressants again in the future, but with less side effects…after all, what good is a medicine that treats depression if the side effects are the biggest reason you’re feeling depressed? I’m currently still taking Lamictal and Buspirone, though I’m not sure how much I’m actually benefiting from either of them. I began taking Buspirone last year, and while it did help calm the anxiety, it’s not doing so much anymore. Lamictal is a mood stabilizer, but since I am no longer taking Zoloft, I feel that Lamictal is basically only keeping my feet on the ground and not allowing me the highs I really need to achieve the things I need to achieve.

I also spent several months last year forcing myself to step away from my desk and do a lot of biking…as in two hours each day…and I felt much better, but work came crashing down and I was forced to put more and more time into it, which meant less and less time for the things I wanted to do like biking and writing. I think by the time I slipped into my rough patch in late July, I was also dealing with burn-out from work. I really think that I now have a pretty good  creativity/work balance, and have been fitting more and more writing time into my day/night, most of the time at least.


I’m working on some things at the moment, and I really want to write about them, but I sometimes feel that I may sabotage myself by discussing them prematurely, so maybe I should wait until I have something I’m proud of to share with you.

And not only am I writing more, but I’m spending more time writing posts. I still have a  hard time writing simple day to day mundane posts, but then again, I read day to day mundane blog post that other people write, so I’ll stick to my word and write those kind of posts sometimes…actually, this is a pretty mundane post.

So, you probably already know how necessary music is to me, and in the past, I have sometimes posted year-end playlists and I also posted some downloads of the music that inspired me for the year. This year, I’ve made a playlist of the music I have  been listening to the most-usually in the background while  working, reading, social media, etc. It was such a strange trip to relive the last 12 months musically when I made this playlist…to remember the circumstances and reasons that the music was important to me…The easiest and the most important of all of the music, (besides the Blade Runner 2049 soundtrack and the fact that listening to songs like Seawall and Wallace are not only songs, but experiences that steal my breath and  cling tightly to me every single time I listen to them. I haven’t posted about 2049  yet because I still haven’t found an accurate way to describe the effect that the visuals and the music had on me when I saw it in the cinema… I still have the crumpled tear-stained tissue that I held tightly in my hand throughout the entire movie) was John Maus’ music. I began listening to him while I was digging my way out of the terrible low episode that I ended up fighting from late July to mid-September. His music played an important part in helping me find my way back to myself. There were weeks that I listened to nothing but his music. So thank you, John Maus for extending such an amazing hand when I needed it the most.

I have this playlist up on YouTube, but rather than just giving the link to you, I’m taking the time to post the entire list here. Why? Because I understand and totally appreciate being too lazy to leave the page and listen to 20 songs on YouTube. So from one lazy person to all of my lazy peeps, I hope you enjoy taking a peek inside my head and listening to these songs….Some of the lyrics have been my voice when I couldn’t remember how to speak… (I am a Cracked MachineSmall Hands Small Heart , Life On Mars, I will adore you forever!)

And I really, really, really hope that you are beginning 2018 feeling optimistic and hopeful…and I hope that you have managed to carve out a peaceful place for yourselves. You deserve it.  I spent a very long time searching for peace and removing myself from situations where I knew I was judged and misunderstood…the constant worry about what me and mine were saying or doing while in the company of others became overwhelming and several  years ago, I decided to break away from it all..and for now, things are good and I am truly feeling better and happier than I have in a long time…I would be lying if I said I didn’t have miserably tough times…I mean, I’m riding with Bipolar without an (antidepressant) helmet on and Mr BP is stuck with me forever-like a bag of bad memories and a body of scars…there are times when it catches me off guard and suddenly the room darkens, everything begins to spin into Van Gogh swirls and fierce Munch shapes & colors, and when it happens  I have trouble talking…even swallowing. But I also realize that Bipolar is not only what tries to skin me alive sometimes, but it’s also what helps me dream in colors and see the things that I form into words, lines and stories.

So, there you have it…a mundane Tuesday post…now I’m off to write for a bit and because I live in the middle of nowhere, we have to  stay awake until UPS has delivered random things like hair dye and dry shampoo, and sunglasses and then again tomorrow for more random things 🙂  Thanks for taking the time to read this and if you listen to the songs too,  U are especially awesome!

 Hugs, Peace and Love,


MY 2017 MIND:




“You were wild, where are you now?”

I, I have to learn to let you crash down. I, I have to learn to let you crash…
~Tori Amos, “Hotel”



Hi, remember me? If you read my last post, then you already know that I’m that crazy person who decided that wearing something tight and very corset-like, paired with a  mighty heavy backpack and a few miles’ walk was a good idea…and then the next day, I felt a tiny ouch that became… over the course of the first week, full. blown.Hell. That irritating pinched nerve became hands down the worst pain I have ever experienced…I ugly cried numerous times, while popping pain reliever and muscle relaxers and wrapping myself in alternate heating pads and ice packs…I considered going to the hospital twice, but because I had not done a pedicure recently, I decided against it. Yes, I know…I’ve already heard the snarky, yet sensible comments about that. [But then again, when there was a fire scare in a previous apartment building, I sat at the top of the stairs putting on makeup while waiting for the firemen to arrive.] I didn’t sit at my desk for over two weeks….sitting hurt and being in bed hurt even more. Finally, about 10 days ago in a haze of sleep-deprivation, pain and Flexeril , I typed out the following post on my lovely old thinkpad (thanks, as always to D), but before taking the time to post it, I slipped back into another week or so of cabin fever and excruciating pain. I literally managed to LOSE an entire week to the constant pain, forgetting that I was actually on week two instead of week one. Yesterday marked the third week of being stuck indoors, and having basically no food left in the house, we had to go out…This time, the backpack wasn’t too heavy and there was nothing fashionable or corset-like happening with my attire either. My first trip out was actually better than I thought it would be…but then last night, I woke up to the familiar intensity of pain that I had dealt with about 9 days ago…two steps forward, three stumbles backwards, right? Currently, the pain isn’t as bad as it was last night, but it’s still there-pointing its crooked finger at me and warning me not to attempt another backpack excursion for a few weeks, so here I am…feeling trapped…in winter…how bloody perfect.


“You were wild, where are you now?”

Yesterday, it snowed. The first blanketing snow we’ve had. At first, I tried not to look outside, but once it was dark, I had to look. Nighttime snow is beautiful; pure and blue in the moonlight. I like moonlit snow. I like walking in it…the crunching sound shoes make in an otherwise silent space. Night snow doesn’t make me feel trapped or holed in. Its actually calming and inviting.


The view from the living room window is usually bleak; it overlooks the parking lot of the complex, bleak and completely useless to me. But last night, the snow completely pulled the parking lot into another world, a world where I’ve spent a lot of time…. mostly at night: Hotels.

Even when I was younger, one of my favorite things to do while staying in a hotel was to look through the window into the parking lot…Each car represented a completely different world and the collection of cars huddled together in the parking lot was wonderful to me. All of those lives in their own little worlds, on their way somewhere…all with different intentions and reasons for leaving or arriving. The magic of seeing a parking lot full of cars was one of the best things about being in a hotel…slipping into my imagination space, creating stories for each of the cars consumed me until I finally fell asleep.

And the rooms-as humble and outdated as they often were, were also intriguing to me. Who had last slept here? Did they wake very early? Were they happy people? Were they excited to be on their way to wherever they were on their way to or happier to be leaving whatever or whoever they had left behind? How many people had cried themselves to sleep in this room? Did someone die on the bed I’m sitting on? Of course these were my prepubescent mind’s questions, so as I got older, my questions spiced up quite a bit: Did someone do ‘it’ on this bed, and if so, did they do it on top of the blanket or beneath the blanket? Did they shower afterward? Was it an unfaithful, dishonest tryst? My germ obsession eventually kicked in, so rather than only focusing on the collections of cars and all of the potential stories, and the smell of the cool air conditioned room, I focused more on the knowledge that hotel maids usually only wash the blankets a few times each year, tend to only wipe out the glasses and ice pitcher…and seriously,  just how clean ARE bathrooms in hotels? Yeah, time, age, and hearing first-hand the habits of hotel housekeepers and the shortcuts they often took and the hideous discoveries they made in the rooms tainted my view of hotels…but not enough to stop wanting to be there…and even passing by hotels at night on my way home, I sometimes looked at the cars, my mind inching its way into my storywriting/character-creating space…and once upon a time, when I was 20, I spent most of the winter in a hotel.  But I can’t really go into that experience because I’m saving it for its very own post.

This photo I took last night from the balcony is messy and dark… and the falling snow turned the parking lot into a hazy cloud in the photo, but the mysterious feeling of hotels was out there, and I spent the rest of the night thinking about all of my hotel stays and the circumstances that had led me to those stays…and also of how many insanely different lives….different worlds I have built, loved, hated, evaded and destroyed to make room for a different, better world.

Two weeks ago, I received a facebook message from someone that I had gone to high school with;  not anyone that I ever really knew… as a matter of fact, I’m pretty sure that he had been someone that had often laughed at me, though I don’t really remember him, so I can’t say that for sure. Besides the usual ‘Hey‘ that people tend to send as a legitimate message  on facebook ( Quick word of advice: simply typing ‘Hey’ is not a cool message to send to anyone, ever.) , he ended his message with You were wild, where are you now?, and instantly, I felt a strange sinking feeling, and even now as I type this,that sinking feeling is still lingering. I’m not sure why. Maybe because reconnecting with anyone from my past usually makes me queasy…or maybe it was because I didn’t really know him when we were younger…maybe it was that the fact that his profile picture is a dead deer, as if a dead deer adequately represents who he is. Or maybe its because his question is a line from one of my favorite songs…and that line has gone through my head thousands of times.


Every song I listen to means something to me…with the exception of a random song that gets stuck in my head for the catchy music or chorus, the rest always mean something, and I never listen to a song unless I’m feeling the feelings…or living the story of the song, or at least prepared for my head to revisit and remember. I guess that’s pretty self-centered of me. But just as every car in a parking lot creates a story for me, every song does too…although in order for a song to stick with me, the lyrics need to have some kind of relevancy to my own world…either because I have felt or experienced the lines or maybe because it happened to play in the background of that particular event…that particular world I was in at the time. After receiving the message from Mr. Deer Murderer, I began thinking about how many times I was truly wild…but seriously, what is wild? And how and why did he remember me as being wild in high school? Regardless of why he said it, I began thinking of past scenarios, scenarios from places as random as being on the wrong bus at the end of the night in the worst part of town to climbing beneath bridges and yeah…in hotels. I keep wondering if those scenarios were experienced by someone that should be referred to as wild.

Once my former friend and I had made plans to travel to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. I was a 22 year-old new mom and a scared as fuck girl stuck in a bad relationship that was sinking deeper by the hour, and there were most definitely no lifeboats in sight. All that I had besides my perfect chubby little blessing was a pretty crummy best friend that was as slippery as any Judas could be, but I clung to our friendship because she was the only friend I had. So, we started out with the intention of going to Mardi gras…but I had 35 dollars and the idea of trying to make that money last all the way from Cincinnati to New Orleans and then back home again didn’t seem plausible…even as a 22 year-old, my mom sensibilities had kicked in, so instead, we drove an hour away and stayed in a  hotel for 3 nights. My friend was working at a Holiday Inn, so she received discounts, and if I remember correctly, we only paid 15.00 a night. I remember that the farther away we were from my apartment, the easier it was to breath, and the idea of being away from the chaos for 3 days seemed like bliss to me…so we spent the 3 days sleeping throughout most of the day and staying up all night listening to music and I think on the second night, I stripped my black hair and dyed it red. For some reason, dying my hair red usually symbolizes putting on a set of armor and facing whatever it is I need to battle. The hotel stay helped me remember who I was and what I should and should not accept from anyone as being ‘Okay’. At the end of the three days, I went back to the apartment-feeling more like myself than I had in a year or so, and within weeks, I moved out…totally ghosted the apartment and the boyfriend on a whim. I don’t think it was just the red dye that had inspired me…it was the hotel stay…standing at the window, looking at the parking lot full of cars and watching the traffic on the nearby expressway and the reminder that life was still happening all around me. I was still alive.

A few years later, Judas’ parents were on vacation, so we decided to house-sit, (unbeknownst to them, mind you), and we spent the week eating way too much chocolate, cutting each other’s hair, listening to old albums and even crying over past relationships or crushes that had fizzled out for one reason or another. On the second night, around 3 in the morning, while singing  Sister Sledge’s We are Family as loud as we could, Judas began to look sad.. turns out, she was supposed to go to work 5 hours later, something she’d forgotten all about while caught up in the chocolate gluttony and Sister Sledge performances. This wasn’t the first time this had happened…and not only to her. For some reason, hanging out with me made people forget that Monday morning meant work, and usually, they would tell me how much they dreaded it and just wanted our good times to continue. What was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to BS them by telling them that it was important that they show up for their crummy minimum-wage job, or be honest and tell them that their time was worth more than the measly pennies they were being paid by greedy chain-owned hotels and restaurants? It was a terrible position to be in for me. I didn’t WANT to tell people what they should or should not do, but it always seemed they were looking at me to make their decision for them…to push them over the edge into unemployment limbo, or pull them back into the rational world of expectations and the soul sucking reality of paychecks and conformity? I hated thinking for people…I still do, but there I was-sitting on the floor in my nightgown, reading the album sleeve of 70’s albums, and once again, as was often the case when people were torn between wanting the party to never end, or wanting to be told they should go to bed for a few hours before going to work, I felt like the leader of an indecisive people cult...a murder-free Charles Manson, sharing my philosophy of work and freedom…I didn’t set out to be fun-time, irresponsible Charlie…it just sort of always happened at 3 in the morning with people who teetered on the line between a conventional world and fun-time Charlie’s cult compound…I remember, after unsuccessfully trying to ‘read’ what Judas wanted to hear, finally giving her the ‘your time is worth more than they are paying you’ speech…and the ending was always the same: ‘besides, you can find another (fill in the blanks with either, housekeeper, cashier, Wendy’s burger flipper, etc) job next week…’take a break this week, you deserve some times off ‘

Why I said those things, I have no idea…No, I do actually-because that has always been my opinion, so I ended up being honest about it…and every time, the person I was with took my advice- lived it up for a few days and just as I had predicted, was working a new similar job within a week or so. Was sharing my opinions with them when asked considered Wild behavior? I don’t think so…careless maybe, but not wild.

7 years later, and my world was completely different. Mommie was still my first name, but I had started growing into the person I am now,(even if that world was completely different than the one I am living in now). I remember that Judas, (who had become my roommate), was going away for the weekend and the idea of being in our house alone- just me and my little boy was terrifying to me, though I’m not 100% sure why. Maybe it was because Judas was often screwing people over-including our landlords, and I didn’t want to face whatever fury she had evoked… maybe it was the fact that there had been two mice in our house at that point, and I was so insanely terrified of them at the time, the idea of being alone was impossible to me. So, instead, I rented a hotel room for 2 days. My son loved the idea of being somewhere new for a few days, and for me, it felt like a getaway because basically it was about getting away. I remember spending a hundred dollars on books and magazines and anything my son wanted to keep us entertained during our stay. By this point, I was in complete germaphobe mode, so staying at the hotel meant actually bringing my own blankets and pillows from home to stop the hotel ick from completely devouring me. Once again, the hotel was near the expressway, so I spent the night looking at the parking lot and the traffic on the expressway. Life was happening all around me, and I was still alive…was that being wild? I don’t think so…maybe a bit strange because I chose to stay in a hotel for two days with a trunk-load of my own blankets and pillows and a hundred dollars in books and magazines. Strange, but not wild.


At this point, I’m still not sure if wild is a fitting description…perhaps crazy would be a better word for whatever I have always been…hotels, snow, fistfuls of old worlds, both good and bad, and playing fun-time irresponsible Charlie: leader of my very own indecisive people cult…all looking for me to give them that push from the empty train-car or the pep talk before that Banzai Skydive.

Apparently my slacker voodoo even works on very well-grounded people…like a friend who contacted me after 15 years to share the  news: They had finally ditched their comfy nine to five,and  sold their shiny, shiny overpriced cars and their rooftop crib, all to really go out and live life, the way I had always told them they should do. They had left all material things behind,  traveled around the world and are now settled out west-sharing tents with people that smell like urine and make runs for people-whatever that means. This news made me face-palm the way Jesus must do every second of every single day. I wanted to shout into the sky “No, that is never what I meant when I said whatever it was that I said to you!” Penthouse to tent by choice…now that, my friend…that is wild. Sad, but wild, nonetheless. I remember during a particularly testy time for me during one of my manic week-long, sleepless highs, hearing this friend yell through the window: I have to learn to let you crash down. Fitting to mention that memory, since these are also lyrics from Hotel, the song this post has grown  around in several ways and holds dozens more memories than I’ve written about  here. Anyway, I guess I’m not the only one who crashes down sometimes, right?

I never responded to Mister Deer Murderer’s message…seriously, what could I even say? Um, great profile picture, which of you shot first, you or the deer? What kind of gun was the deer packing? Was he killed to settle a multi-generation vendetta? Or maybe your tiny tadpole sized knob grew an entire inch because you killed a defenseless animal? Even better: Hey Tom, if you want, we can reenact the scene and  YOU can be the deer, whatdaya say?How’s that for being Wild, Mister?

My Wild, Wild Love


I’m still alive. I’m still alive… I’m still alive. I’m still alive. I’m still alive…

“Spine is just a string”

“She’s made of hair and bone and little teeth
Things that cannot speak
She comes on like a crippled plaything
Spine is just a string” ~ Marilyn Manson, “Tourniquet”

Hello You,

Happy Sunday, (Is it possible for Sunday to be anything other than an empty space-filler  when the dread of Monday sets in and makes you feel weighed down and glum?). Sundays feel like a short-lived fling with a rebound lover...you wish you could enjoy it, but you know its completely useless and you look forward to when its over, so that you can move on to better things…OK, enough of my silly gloom-its the Cold Moon tonight so make sure you look at it. Its the only full supermoon of the year and its going to be beautiful, I’m sure of it. The moon is always, always beautiful. I don’t spend enough time in the moonlight these days and that really bothers me. I miss watching the sky through the car window as the moon raced to keep up with the car…I miss moonlit walks and spinning Widdershins in soft, dewy grass. I think everyone has things that are vital to their livelihood…I know that there are things I need to reclaim in order to exist…being out in the moonlight is one of those things.

I shouldn’t be typing. I told myself I would stay on the couch all day. Why? Because I somehow managed to pinch a nerve in my back, which means that almost any random move I make inflicts sudden, terrible pain on me. Pain that actually makes me gasp aloud…or say ‘ow!’followed by a string of colorful expletives…I’ve never been someone that winces or gasps aloud from pain, but this is a whole new world of pain, so I am indeed wincing, gasping and murmuring dirty words like a angry sailor. Why are spines so annoyingly susceptible to pain? Knees and hips can be replaced…why can’t the same thing be done with spines? This really sucks.

Today, my pals have been ibuprofen, Flexeril and a heating pad ...but by mid-afternoon, I grew tired of being on the couch, watching MSNBC and CNN and hoping there was a way we could fast forward this slow-moving story….fast forward to the climatic ending, when the corrupt madman is thrown out on his Big Mac-loving ass, so that the sane people can stitch the wounded country together, while the confederate flag-waving dregs settle back to the bottom of the well. Life has been surreal this year. I don’t want another year of this apocalyptic feeling. I don’t want to feel hateful and angry when I am out there among other humans, because the entire time, I know that I am surrounded by the morons that actually elected the wretch and tainted the entire idea of what this country is supposed to represent.

Its time for my next Flexeril, so I will wrap this post up with some random things that I’ve been planning on sharing for a while.

I recently watched The Mindscape of Alan Moore, which was pretty good, though, by the end, I was becoming a bit restless…then again, maybe that was down to my restless nature? Its worth having a look if you like Alan Moore. I had a dream last week that I was sitting at a table with da Vinci. We both had been scribbling things on paper, but in a secretive way-the way you do in school when you are trying to stop someone from looking at your answers, (though truth be told, I was usually the cheater) When I looked over at him, he had become Alan Moore. I have no idea why…perhaps its the hair?


I mentioned the song If You Have Ghosts in a previous post. Roky Erickson wrote and sang the original version, and though I had heard bits about Roky through the years, I never knew what happened to him. Actually, I assumed he was dead, though I’m not sure why. Fortunately, there’s a documentary about him on YouTube “You’re Gonna Miss Me”. Even if you aren’t a fan of his music, it’s worth watching, especially if you’re an avid music-lover who can appreciate any musician’s story…his story made sense to me…I could relate to particular aspects…(And no, I’m not talking about the drugs). Watch it and see if you figure out what I’m talking about.  His songwriting is one of a kind…imagine an album of songs written by Roky Erickson and Daniel Johnston. That would be pretty amazing.

Also, We recently rewatched The Witch and it was so, so much better than the first time. Terrible sound quality and a dark screen made the first time disappointing… there was a lot that I missed, so seeing it again actually felt like I was watching it for the first time. I love when a movie ends the way that it should end, and this is one of those perfect endings for me. The score is excellent too. My favorite track is “A Witch Stole Sam” This song makes me want to be outside tonight…in the heavy beautiful moonlight, spinning circles until I fall over dizzy and laughing…like I’ve always done.

And that song ‘feels’ like The Witch from the Suspiria soundtrack, which I sometimes have on repeat while writing. Listening to it right now makes me want to be barefoot, surrounded by trees and the sky. Music is magick…. Imagine a world without music. Grim, if not completely unimaginable, right?

I wanted to share more, but I need to get out of my chair and take a muscle relaxer. I hate it when my body doesn’t function like its supposed to. I can accept an unruly mind…or as I refer to it, a spirited mind. But an unruly body is a completely different story. I wish I could slip into a nice, durable metal body-one which never ages, malfunctions or dies.
Imagine if Philip K Dick was God and he was in a pleasant mood so I persuaded him to answer my prayer for an ever-lasting tough as nails, shiny chrome body. What a perfectly splendid idea.

Feel better quickly vibes are very welcome if you want to send me some, because being in this kind of pain is truly the pits.

And go look at the moon. If I can fight the crazy muscle spasms and the cutting pain that happens every other step or so that I take  to witness its perfection, then so can you, right?

Hugs & such,

(par-ih- DOE- lee-ah)

‘Cause the sky was all splitting, the night was all slipping away,
…Come On, let’s get killed, let’s get killed, let’s get killed tonight, let’s get killed’


Pareidolia .

The box fan is on low. Not for temperature, but for the sound.  It’s the sound that I need, because the idea of trying to fall asleep listening to the sound of my own breathing or my heart beating in my ears is inconceivable to me now. I don’t know how I ever did it. These days, if I had to fall asleep in silence, I would be filled with dread that the beat or the breath may be the last. See? Being Bipolar doesn’t mean we have a 24/7 death-wish.

So the fan is humming and my hair stirs a little like abandoned spiderwebs in a doorway. The sound from the fan sounds like cicadas and crickets; like when they sing together on early hot summer mornings, when the light is blindingly gold and the sky is a vacant blue, except for the occasional contrail slithering across the top of the world. I have both loved and hated those kinds of days. At the moment, it seems like the best memory in the world to me. The sound of cicadas and crickets, praising the warmth with their chorus that rises and falls in perfect unison like a choir… or really good sex. I would love to believe it’s warm outside and the trees are full of green and the sound I hear are actually insects and not a dusty motor forcing dusty blades to spin.

But that’s a lie.

And right now the singing insects are only here…in my fan.

The air is dead. Everything is still. The cold is cutting. Tonight, I opened the back door and listened for sound, a sign of life. In the distance, I could hear the occasional guttural crawl of cars on the expressway…and sometimes there’s a vibrating hiccup of a semi’s brakes too, but then those sounds dissolve into long intervals of complete nothingness. With the exception of an infrequent car passing by outside and the very distant howl of a coyote, I could believe that I’m the only living thing in the world tonight.

I shut the door and pulled my flannel shirt tighter around me. Inside of my home, I could try to  pretend the world isn’t frozen. Oh, but it is, and trying to avoid the truth is like trying to take your mind off  the corpse in the room. Put him anywhere for an all-night wake: the center of the room, in the low-lit  corner…even in the next room, but you can’t escape that  you are sharing the space with the dead. The winter is a corpse, but we aren’t just in it for a night or two; This wake is going to last for months. I try to comfort myself:  just a dozen weeks or so of this is all there will be…a dozen hopeful Friday nights, stumbling Saturdays…12 useless Sundays, and then the world will be yours again; the birds will return and the buds will appear, and everything will be green again, and soon enough, winter will only be a bad memory…like food poisoning or an ugly, ugly breakup.

It doesn’t work. It never has. Winter is here and for nearly 100 days or so it will make me feel miserable every time the cold gets into the room through an opened door, every time I look out the window and see the bare trees and dead grass.

Pareidolia is from two Greek words: “para”meaning wrong and “eidolon”meaning image. Have you ever seen a dog in the cloud or Jesus’ face on a piece of toast? Have you heard a voice when you’re in the shower? That’s Pareidolia. I experience it fairly often, especially Auditory Pareidolia-whenever I’m wearing my headphones but don’t have music playing, when I’m taking a shower, and especially when I am lying in bed forcing my eyes to stay shut, trying my hardest to fall asleep-just like I’ve always done. Even when I was seven years-old, sleep wouldn’t happen, and I would sneak into the bathroom and read the labels on shampoo bottles or stare at the dim bathroom light until I fell asleep on the floor or even sitting on the toilet. Sleep is such a bastard!

I assume my Pareidolia tonight has something to do with the fact that I miss summer and, as always, feel that the cold weather is pulling me into a void, where I lack control…after all, its easy to walk in the heat-even when the humidity feels like you’re walking through soup…but the snow-when it’s several inches or, God forbid, feet makes it impossible to do anything, and the sight of dirty snow makes me feel the way I felt when I fell into a pit full of ReDeads in Zelda: Ocarina of Time gameSeeing the weeks’ long piles of muddy snow is a little like observing roadkill to me, and honestly, I would prefer to sleep all winter and then remain awake throughout the whole of spring, summer and the first half of autumn. (By the way, I think it sucks that the season’s names are not supposed to be capitalized…its a bit like how it feels wrong that you capitalize I but not the ‘y’ in you.)

Initially, when I was diagnosed with Bipolar in 2006, it was by a pair of doctors that stepped out of the room to discuss my symptoms, (as if I couldn’t hear every word they were saying). I was prescribed Lithium, but I didn’t take it. All I could think was Lithium is the same element used in batteries, for fuck’s sake (yes, I know-different form, but the same element), so why would I want to put that in my body? The second set of doctors to diagnose my Bipolar consisted of one arrogant jerk and his shy side-kick, who was clearly the yes-man for Mr. Arrogant that looked much more like a junior high science teacher than a psychiatrist. The second pair seemed both horrified and delighted by my stories and examples of my symptoms: I remember Mr Arrogant truly appearing shocked when I told him about my short stints as a homeless 19 year-old. I suspect he’s the type that had never watched anything more harsh than a PG-13 movie and probably listens to the Frozen soundtrack by choice. I was tempted to ham my stories up a little, (for dramatic effect-something I’m proud to be infamous for, thank you!), but since he was so obviously terrified to hear about the homelessness, I thought it best to not add any fuel. Even I have my limits when it comes to being dramatic-especially when speaking to someone that potentially has the ability to have me committed, ya know?

After Mr Arrogant -Show Tunes-Science Teacher left the room, I was on my own with his quiet side-kick, which was much nicer and more likable than his Master. We ran through tests-such as memory and patterns and then he asks if I sometimes heard a radio playing when there wasn’t a radio on, and I abruptly said ‘yes’ and then immediately regretted it. My head was pounding with the fear that saying yes meant I might be diagnosed with Schizophrenia instead of Bipolar. Apparently, it didn’t because I received my second Bipolar diagnosis.

So if you sometimes see your dear departed doggie, Bif in the clouds, or hear dreadful bluegrass music playing when there isn’t a radio, fear not…it doesn’t mean you are Schizophrenic or Bipolar.  You’re probably  only experiencing Pareidolia…

…Well, probably.

Cheeky Smiles & Tons of Sincere Hugs,


P.S. A few random things before I stop typing:

Here’s a list of 7 phobias related to the Hell otherwise known as Winter, (and yes, the W was intentionally capitalized because it should be damn it, and No, please don’t bother explaining the difference in proper and common  nouns to me 😉 )

Thanksgiving was not a thing for me at all…it never was, not by choice anyway. Thursday, I slept late and then felt complete peace. That being said, I do still enjoy this:

And finally, there’s some (relevant) music…because there’s always music…even when it comes from box fans or showers 😉

‘Cause the past is all written, the future’s always slipping away; and you might as well be spending the time trying to blow it away’





“If You Have Ghosts, Then You Have Everything”

‘You can say anything you want,
And you can do anything you want,
If you have ghosts, then you have everything’

Last week, a friend messaged me to ask why I seem to take long hiatuses from writing. Truth is, I’ve never taken a hiatus from writing. Ever.

However, I do take hiatuses from being visible and accessible online because it can sometimes become a terrible, terrible distraction for me. I’m also sometimes overwhelmed by the number of emails and messages that I owe others…and wondering why people would seriously want to personally communicate with me, (Ah, my sweet self-loathing, you cling so tightly to me, always!). And there are times when it feels like I take a hiatus from myself – especially during those long days that require extra time and much more effort to ensure the bills are paid and there’s food for the week. (Believe me when I say that the whole starving artist thing is neither cool, nor inspirational…its a total bag of wank.) Those long, soul-sucking days leave me feeling empty and completely unlike myself…disconnected from my drive and creativity….detached, even from the characters that thrive, transform, love, fight, and forever dwell in those tenement flats in my mind…where even the characters that die in my stories remain…my ghosts.

So, there are entire days that are consumed with that hideous thing called practicality…something that I have never handled well. And just as tradition and convention have never been friends of mine, I’ve never been pals with promptness and schedules either. That isn’t to say that I don’t accomplish things, because I do…and pull it off pretty damned well most of the time…eventually ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Last month, I said that I wanted to post regularly both for people who take the time to read my blog and for myself.  It sucks to check a blog weekly or even monthly and find that it hasn’t been updated. That puts me off and I find myself visiting them less and less. For me, blogs tend to serve as some kind of link to the outside world…they serve as normalcy for me, (well, as much normalcy as I need). I doubt that my blog will ever serve as normalcy for anyone, but I would like to post enough to keep you coming back and to also keep my writing momentum going. I didn’t mean to NOT post sooner. Things happened…like the usual stepping outside of my head to spend exhaustively long days working, and at other times, (especially in the evenings),  getting lost in music, music, and more music and art, art, and much more art… or searching for more books about Chaos and Enochian Magick– new (old) phases I’m slipping into at the moment…I’ve missed that part of my life.

And there were also times…those dark times when the idea of saying anything to almost anyone felt impossible, thanks to the bitter cocktail of bipolar mood swings and chronic introversion

And yes, I have also been writing.

I’ve been working on If You Have Ghosts again, which I swear will one day have a proper title, (instead of being nicknamed after a song because both the song’s title and lyrics fit the story so well and also because I do so love the song!), I’ve created a sensible (?) outline, changed the sequence of some events in the story and discovered the moment of death for one of the most beloved characters I have ever known, (which pained me to write, though it was absolutely necessary.) Death is only the beginning of his story, but still, it was hard watching him go through it.  Lately,  I’ve also conjured up a lot of lines and phrases for potential new spoken pieces. While doing the daily mind-numbing work, I’ve begun scribbling lines, words, phrases, and ideas on pieces of colored paper, (which then live in crumpled piles on the shelf by my desk, in my usual disorganized organization). And in the middle of the night, while attempting to sleep, (In the past five days, I have become immune to the effects of Ambien, so what am I supposed to do NOW?!), I’ve started writing emails full of words, lines, etc. I keep forgetting which writing apps I have installed on my tablet, so instead, I email things to myself. I wonder how many other people email themselves…

My attention span is basically non-existent at the moment, (but there’s no way that I’m asking the doctor for more prescriptions, so I’m toughing out the attention issues for now). For example, on the way to my desk to write this post, I decided to make the bed and then clean the bathroom sink drain out….with an ink penseriously. No, the sink wasn’t actually clogged, but since I recently trimmed my bangs and I suspect that most of it escaped down the drain, I had a feeling that it might become clogged soon, so I felt compelled to shove an ink pen down the pipe….you know, just in case it was almost clogged. These kinds of distractions are basically attempting to take over my life at the moment…Leonardo da Vinci  could be whispering amazing new ideas in my ear, and I would probably just wander off to chase a beautiful butterfly or pet a stray cat. I seriously have the attention span of a toddler right now, but I’m hoping that since a large amount of stress was lifted over the weekend, I might bounce back to my usual self-where butterflies and cats would still distract me, but I would at least wait until Leonardo had finished whispering before wandering off.

So, less stress means that I am finally back to my usual nocturnal self for now, focusing mainly on writing, and pretending the world isn’t going to be bare and frigid for the next four months.

But at the moment, morning is staring hard at me through the curtains, so it’s time to stop typing, and go wrestle with hesitant sleep before eventually locking horns with dreadful nightmares for a few hours.





In the night I am real
In the night I am real
The moon to the left of me
Is a part of my thoughts,
Is a part of me Is me
Forever is the wind
Is a part of my thoughts,
Is a part of me Is me
In the night I am real

…If you have ghosts then you have everything




“The Delight of Once Again Being Home”



The sky was already a beautiful mad thing by 7:30 Sunday morning. The wind was just strong enough to play with my hair, and  a light jacket was all that would have been needed to spend the entire morning outside. I wanted to stay outside…but there’s nowhere to BE outside around here, not without a purpose anyway. Funny that I should find a place in this vast, chaotic country that really lacks places where its OK and perfectly natural to be outside without a particular purpose…to hang about aimlessly…but that is indeed where I am right now. Still, the time I did spend outside was absolutely perfect and walking through the parking lot toward home, I meant it when I proclaimed yesterday as “The absolute perfect day”. Seriously, there’s very little I could have done to improve on the designs of yesterday – had I single-handedly created a day on my own.

The sun came out by mid-day in an intrusive, blinding way that reminded me of an Ex, uninvited and completely unwanted- barging in on something wonderful. Luckily, it seemed to get the hint, because after a few hours it slipped behind the clouds again, and the windy sprinkles and cool air returned. [I was going to say something witty about needing that interruption in an otherwise perfect day to make me appreciate the day even more…like the way that we are supposed to need a bit of pain to appreciate pleasure, or bad times in order to appreciate happiness, but I think that’s complete bullshit. Give me a perfect….completely perfect day every day, and I promise I would never take it for granted.]

Ah, the silly philosophies we create to make ourselves feel better about the hard, sad times…has anyone ever really believed that we need those things to keep us happier during the best times…to make us appreciate something a little more than we might do if we had the eternal promise of perfect grey, windy days or endless laughter? If this idea has been pounded into your brain, resist it…We do not need misery or pain to appreciate the things we find blissful. When did people first begin coming up with silly quotes about needing the bad times to remind us of the exquisite delights of absolute joy?

[So… are we sure its a good idea to leave me with free reign of this blog… to post whatever I wanteven when I’m not writing epic-ally long, story-ish posts and might just want to ramble about silly beliefs and beautiful grey skies?]

I know it’s been a while since I did this sort of thing with you, but I’m pretty sure its like meeting up with an old friend or new-found kindred spirit , and once the initial nervous coughs and forced laughs are out of the way, you’re completely comfortable and behaving just like you’ve always been together…

Yesterday was a chill sort of Sunday, thankfully. Several Dark Shadows episodes, because the show is our current comfort zone. Along with the weather, I couldn’t have asked for more wonderful day…except maybe spending it in Spring Grove Cemetery, but to be honest, I’m not sure I would have felt like putting on an ‘out-there, amongst other people’ face and figuring out what to wear anyway, so its probably best that I was at home in my comfy, well worn and somewhat hole-ridden eccentric writer’s clothes instead.

Anyway, here’s my plan for blog posts that don’t require me to bleed my memories and feelings onto the keyboard: I’m just going to say and post whatever is going on in my head and in my world: art, music, literature, posting photos of the random possessions I love enough to hold onto…and even bitching about movies that make me want to sue everyone involved with them for the time I wasted watching it…for example, I would seriously rather watch a screwy VCR recording (with terrible tracking issues) of 80’s wrestling shows-complete with Hulk Hogan and Captain Lou Albano-than to sit through the movie, Mother! again, and to be honest, I can’t even tell you why the movie made me feel so angry…but it did, and I am actually gritting my teeth about it as I type.I hate it when things affect me so negatively without  understanding why…Perhaps I was hoping for a Rosemary’s Baby kind of film and instead I was served with a pile of religious, borderline pretentious pile of feline grass-hurl… I dislike when sneaky religious themes are injected into my entertainment choices…it feels slimy and underhanded, like Christian rock bands or people that try to lure kids into church groups, pretending to be hip and cool.

So, yeah, I guess its more than fair to say that I abhorred the movie 😉

I woke at 4 this morning, after a decent night’s sleep-with the exception of a night terror involving Bigfoot stomping through a field -on his way toward the back of my mother’s old house. I’m trapped inside her house, with a room full of small children that I need to protect, all the while I’m freaking out because I know that he can smash his way though the glass door and I don’t want to alarm the children, but I know I need to do something fast because he’s only 100 feet away or so..I’ve had the same dream at least a half dozen times in the past few years. One of the children is N. and he’s 5 or 6 again, as well as three of my nieces, who are also around 5 or 6 in the dream. I’m sure it means something about protecting the people I love from the things that can harm them, something that I have always been extremely determined to do-probably going above and beyond the average person’s idea of being protective…still, my ‘over-protective nature’ kept N. safe-he rarely even had a scraped knee  when he was small, and I am so happy that there were never, ever a chance for true ugliness to slip into his world. I wish I could wrap my arms around the whole world and protect every child from ever experiencing ugly things… I used to tell my grandma when I was 9 that one day I would build a huge home for all of the unloved ‘old people’ and animals, so they could stay safe and feel loved forever…As of yet, I haven’t started building that place, but it still seems like a brilliant idea to me.

Anyway, Bigfoot caused me to wake up in a sweat, gasping for air, but I fell back asleep briefly before waking up and needing to hear the song that I am adding at the end of the post. I have listened to it at least 100 times today. Its one of the most divine things I have ever heard…every time I listen to it, I get the same chills that its always given me, and once I reach 5:45 of the song, amazement tears starts to happen every.single.time I listen to it. Its one of the most beautiful pieces of music I’ve heard and I adore that it still has the power over me that its always had. The song is from the studio album,  Tomorrow, In a Year and is based on Charles Darwin’s On the Origin of Species which is perfectly clear – if you look up the song’s full lyrics.

“Music is the strongest form of magic.”
Marilyn Manson


So, I’ll stop typing now, and add the video. And I’m not even going to fret with adding tags to this post until tomorrow (what a misbehaved rascal I am when I’m sleepy!)

Writing this post has actually been much easier than I thought it would be… I suppose that means the nervous coughs and laughs between us are finished and we can be ourselves now?

Beautiful grey skies and warm hugs,



In the mouth of the river
A strange scene it is, 
Everything in flames. 
The sky with lightning
And the water, luminous
A strange scene it is
Under over through…

Six weeks old
Henrietta smiled for the first time
Tail habits proof
Instinct that moves
Emma saw him smile
Not only with lips
But eyes …

The delight of once again being home…



I Am The Patchwork

Over 300 years ago, pieces called British/Irish, Native American, West African, South Asian, Scandinavia, Finnish, East African, Central/South African, and French/German, began to gather at a table, and along with the help of colorful threads with names such as Ashkenazi, North Slavic, Balkan, as well as others referred to simply as Broadly Northwestern and Broadly Southwestern, spent the next 3+ centuries creating an unabashedly unique, colorfully crazy,  boldly designed patchwork.


…I am the patchwork.


Over the past two weeks or so, I’ve written and rewritten My DNA post  7 times, but it never felt right. I wanted to wait for another result, (I submitted my DNA to 5 companies) and then figure the average of the results…I think I was also focusing  too much on writing about the negative experiences I had with name-calling that began when I was in high school (negative high school experiences-anyone seriously surprised?), and which again reared its ugly head last November when I found myself in a small disagreement with a…member of the opposing political party (How’s that for an attempt to be polite when  describing  a racist, ignorant prick?). When I was defending someone having a hard time with his English, the racist pig told me that I was going to be ‘sent back to Mexico where I belonged’, and when I insulted his lack of intelligence, he decided that  I should actually go back to ‘Hong Kong or wherever the Hell I came from’. But there I go again down the road of negativity, when in fact this post is meant to be about something  absolutely wonderful for me…

I know that people need many different things to feel complete…identity and self-discovery have endless meanings…I’ve been fortunate-I began developing a strong sense of self earlier than some people do…I know and firmly believe in the things I stand for and will forever stand and fight for those things, just as I always have. And though I’m pretty sure that I have an inner male that looks a lot like Freddie Mercury in the Killer Queen video, I’ve also never been confused about my gender or my sexuality (though that’s often been a favorable hot topic with my relatives, and will no no doubt continue to be discussed over holiday turkey and cranberries along with countless other colorful theories and complete fabrications about me and mine- but hey, at least it gives them something interesting to talk about, right?).  I have never been a cruel or envious person (though I  really wanted to steal a tube of Hello Kitty lip-gloss in third grade, and I did run over a dog’s tail with my bike when I was 11 and I used to pull earthworms into pieces when I was 3, but only because I believed I was making several baby worms out of each one), nor am I a person full of rage for absolutely no reason-though when I was teenager that might not have been entirely true- and I most certainly do feel rage for the current political environment and the  fact that the extreme hatred in this country has been viciously stirred and is now unfortunately seeming to thrive. With the exception of my rage and disgust over the things I see and hear every day,  I’m a pretty straightforward liberal, imaginative, nurturing, empathetic person.

[seriously, did I just actually say positive things about myself? Whoa!]

However, there have always been missing pieces inside…gaps that I knew absolutely nothing about and in my situation there were no seemingly possible ways to find the answers to help me feel complete…but in the past month, I’ve found some of what I have been looking for, a great deal of it, actually…enough to finally stitch the pieces of who I am together and wear it comfortably.

I think the majority of the feeling of missing pieces came down to growing up without my father, and for the first decade and a half of my life, I felt like even mentioning him was taboo in our house. I’m not praising my father…I’m sure that had he been around, I would have gone through some of the same rebellious phases with him that I did with my mother; but there were so many things that I was confused about, not just aspects of my personality: how I came to love writing and jazz, (By the time I was 12, I had an “impressive” list of cassettes by David Sanborn, Wynton Marsalis, and even Kenny G-don’t laugh at the Kenny G thing, I was a kid, OK? Actually, go ahead and laugh a little, it’s pretty geeky), and even politics- I crept out of my room when everyone had gone to bed to watch a rebroadcast of the Democratic convention when I was 13… I remember feeling ‘dumb’ because I really teared up during Jesse Jackson’s speech. (I was 13 dammit, so I was not supposed to cry over anything– great speeches, sad movies or even my grandmother’s death…or so  I had made myself believe at the time); but it was also the fact that I felt completely alien to my surroundings-never fitting into the pieces of the world I was supposed to be a part of, (if my family were being paid to be completely honest, they would have to agree with me). It wasn’t until I spent a single evening with my father years later, and discovered that so many of his mannerisms and tastes were so much like my own, that I felt a little more complete…like I had found some of the missing pieces..

Still, there were other things that I was almost certain I would never find. Growing up, I knew very little about my heritage,  so I’ve spent most of my life basically guessing at what I’m made of…wondering who the people were  that created the opportunities for me to eventually come into existence. I knew that my maternal grandfather was Irish or Scottish, but his surname was most definitely Jewish, and that my maternal grandmother was of Native American descent….that was as far as my ancestral roots traveled. But I always knew there had to be more….I had suspicions and came up with my own conclusions (and I was actually correct about some of them- which is pretty impressive considering that some people laughed at my theories). But still, I basically only knew 10-20% of my ethnicity. So, how could I connect the dots that created me if I didn’t know the patterns? How could I piece the patches together without any real information? It seemed impossible, and I was afraid that I would spend my entire life not understanding what I was made of and this bothered me every single time I looked in the mirror and wondered where my hair, my eyes, my lips, my cheekbones and my nose-that’s never really seemed to fit  with the rest of my features- came from. Only since receiving my results have I began to feel more comfortable in my skin…I’m not happy with my face, but now I know more about how it was designed, and knowing that has made me rethink and make peace with my appearance…somewhat, at least 🙂 Now, when I look in the mirror, I think of the patchwork of the people that helped create me.

Throughout my life, people have often asked me or assumed they knew what I was-ethnically speaking ; my former best friend’s hippie uncle used to ask me every time he saw me if I knew any Cherokee words…he had  the memory of a goldfish, so at least once every month or so, he would re-introduce himself  and begin a conversation with me about my Native American roots; I once told a stock-boy in a grocery store to Fuck Off! because as I was shopping for diapers, he looked up at me and asked what I believed was ‘”Are you an Idiot?” Turns out he asked if I was an Indian, (and yes, of course I apologized). A former boyfriend liked to introduce me as his ethnic girlfriend; And I, as I mentioned a few paragraphs ago, was called a list of racist names throughout my imprisonment in high school.

I was absolutely ecstatic when I finally got the chance to have my DNA tested, and once I had received my initial results, I had this insatiable need to check, re-check and re-check even more, (and as I mentioned, I received a total of five  sets of results) to make sure that what I was seeing was as accurate as possible. I’ve decided to post the median result of the five results. The other sets have a bit more of things like Hungarian and more as well as less British and one totally neglected the Ashkenazi results somehow.  The 23andme ancestor timeline, which is probably the most important results for me, is especially surprising and also validating…and from everything I have read, the ancestor timeline is one of the most accurate aspects of DNA testing available through testing kits at the moment. I have read that its even more accurate than kits that cost over $1500.00 so obviously, bigger price tags doesn’t always mean better results 😉

I’m pretty sure I’ve driven people around me crazy with my constant heritage talk lately, but this is so, so unbelievably important to me…actually, its been necessary for me to finally feel like a complete person, and now that I have results, I’ve already started to spend a lot of time researching and trying to find out as much information as I can about where the people who played a part in creating me originated from. One morning this past week, although I was sleepy because I had been up all night, I completely lost myself in learning about the Yoruba people; And I want to know more about my paternal grandmother’s maiden name, Troxell  her German heritage… and more about my maternal grandfather’s  Ashkenazi heritage…

…And I know next to nothing about the Slavs…yet.


So, I know I’ve rambled, but you probably already know that I never share a direct to-the-point  story with you, right? Besides, I’m so pleased with what I’ve learned, its hard not to get lost in talking about it.

Colorful Patchwork Love &  Big Warm Hugs.


This is ME:

(Click each picture to open in a new tab- so you can actually see it 🙂 )

Ancestry Timeline

This represents  the timeline of my ancestors (8+generations of great- grandparents) that were most likely 100% of each group listed.





P.S. I try to catch up on blogs that I follow once a week or so, and regardless of the blog, there’s comfort in seeing new posts…it makes me feel that the world is still turning out there, so going to attempt to do the same for my blog. I can’t write epic posts every day, but people seemed to enjoy my short daily posts too, so I’m making the effort to do that…Its probably going to be like the old days-when they may even been a few lines about doing absolutely nothing with my day, but I even find comfort in reading that sort of thing, so maybe you will too?

Squint your eyes and look closer,
I’m not between you and your ambition.
I am a poster girl with no poster,
I am thirty-two flavors and then some…

She’s a Killer Queen
Gunpowder, gelatin
Dynamite with a laser beam
Guaranteed to blow your mind


OK, seriously-this is finally the end of the post, so you can leave now 😉