Learning to Count (on)

I used to discover things…
Once I explored a ship that had sailed across the ocean connecting it’s lines from one corner of the world to another.
Once I saw the world’s largest frying pan.
I heard the voice of God once…

I was maybe 26, when my son said to me, “you’re a wonderful mother” I remember the sweet, grateful smile he gave me as I soothed his little hurt.

I’ve tasted so much of the worlds’ offerings. Gazed in wonder at sunsets at foreign shores.
Played in the worlds wide gardens.

I used to be something more than this ordinary.

I never noticed it til now but everyone on the whole shitty planet shares your name.

Once I am sober from my drunken deliciousness long enough to…
wonder when if ever you’re this fixated if just maybe …

when someone stalls out in the middle of saying something …. Landing far too fucking softly on the D if Annnnnnnnnn(d) doesn’t at least to you…sound a lot like me.

I find myself looking for one thing…
The key To unlocking our little mystery.

Where it all ends perfectly. Where we are just one.

That is synergy. I don’t believe that is enough for you.

If I dared give you all of me, I’d be returned to sender, a box well wrapped, but empty.

You’ll always be an unfinished conversation away from really choosing me.

Or maybe you chose her and this riddle is really just another dark place I find avoidance from reality. Places I cleverly hide to avoid more of my own responsibilities.

You told me I added to you.

But I knew then, if it comes down to equations I cant measure up.

I am more a pleasure to see walking away than the simple sight of me begging you to stay.

And I’ve done that before. Begged for breadth I had no right to take. But, I can’t do that anymore.

Not after I let them stone me to death with words that hurt so much it stole the body from its breath,

Not so much a lover, maybe once, a friend.

Nothing much to see here.

learningJust a whore at her end.

Blankets and Boxes

I am not your puzzle to put together. I will not fit your form. I am an undulating storm. I will gather my skirts like billowing gusts of winters; air, I will bite at your cheeks. I will leave you begging for blankets, twisting in my sheets.

If you have need of order, find another.

I am done with boxes, locks, and ties. I will love you. Hard. Completely. Discreetly. Without shame.

I do not take your heart for granted. I will not consume you, as others would have done to you. I will expect you to run wild and free. And when you need to be held, my hands are open. Always open. Accepting.

My eyes will take drunken, lasting gazes over you. These eyes, they burn with passion.

I am too wise for what is the latest gossip, or your notions of fashion.

I have grown too large for the small minded places you will put me. I am not your mother, daughter, whore. I will break the glass at the ceiling and refuse to sweep the floor.

What is more?

I will define my success as happiness. As my own. As a birthright devined to me by my mere existence.

I will determine myself worthy. You don’t get a vote anymore. Your opinion of me, is ugly.

I am done caring what you think. I will drink in the nectar from the vine. I will call this victory

I will call me… Mine.

Woman Silhouette Waiting For Summer Sun

What is lost can be found

The heart of a complicated and mostly kind man broke- and the damn earth still moved on without it.. a few well wishers called to say “so sorry” and, , ” how can we help” ?

For him something great, and precious, and nearly perfect is lost-

And the world didn’t stop spinning, the breeze blew the way it wanted to.

And I found you. I found you in the corner holding flowers wearing a sheepish grin.

I found a place my hand didn’t just interlope.. it fit right in, Right in the place it belonged.

I know it because it is familiar. His hand, much BETTER than my own

Tea & Oranges

Leonard  Cohen and I need to talk.

He basically destroyed me.

I think he knew and loved a crazy girl once and she must have hurt him, bad. She was crazy and that clearly implies- best lover the poor guy ever had. Her tendrils wrapped around his finger and her broken pieces unfurled like a churlish bitch- you haven’t met yet.

I was born in the wrong skin, too thick in some places, and my intentions just plain too thin. His Suzanne and I were probably friends. I was born two decades too late bereft of almost anything innocent by the time I was 8.

But his songs they call witness to something inside me- his words a lullaby to all of my crazy- there is little hope any other will understand, or ever appreciate these things in me. Does your Suzanne still feed you? Are you there when she needs you?

tea and oranges

Notes on a Suburban Scandal

This place is for losing. For the coward in me who is too frightened to do the choosing.

The place my whole being begs to be heard by you. To laugh with you… You’re the only one who gets me. Without that feeling I draw a needle back and it reveals me, empty.

It literally hurts. My goodness this breathing when you’re not talking, when you’ve stopped singing – it hurts.

Have you become so unfeeling?

And then I play the game… I play the game all alone and I feel it tearing my whole being apart. I remember why I hate loving you. Why I wanted to escape from our madness.

My therapist would call this a thinking error — narrow thinking or catastrophic thinking. It’s a sign of a chemical imbalance and I find that shit funny because you’re my chemical equivalent to whatever that feeling is called that’s past serenity except when you’re not, sometimes you’re not. Still, it’s fucking better than anything else I’ve gotimage

The Place Time Forgot

Just sharing this old post as I have my eye on the rear view this morning.


Brick homes with stone walls, and tree lined streets, cool blades of blue green grass quaffed perfectly at our feet.

We began a half dream there together, lying under a perfect tree, on a perfect day with perfect weather.

Your smile speaks to me… to a place I can’t deny. A part of me where strangers are unwelcome, the tender bits that when touched too roughly show the tear drops spilling from my eye…

This place you shared with me, untouched by time… a place where love for you found me, and your heart felt mine. Its a place we can travel back to… somewhere a long the line.

Only a pure heart can beat here, only a strong, steady hand can lead here…

Only you can take me here to this place where time forgets and the world ignores, and the sunshine pours out of a sky made for…

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The Thing I Think and Don’t Say

This blog is about something real. Something so difficult the only way I am ever going to understand it is to write it out loud. Saying it out loud makes it real. This blog is not going to be easy to read. Even for me. In fact, stop reading it right now and forget you ever saw it.

I wont apologize to you for publishing it. Because every part of me sings with the need to shout from rooftops that I am here and cant do this alone.

I am the mother of a survivor. I am the mother of a Viking goddess. A warrior. A girl with cancer. A girl with secrets.

My baby girl. My sweet and only daughter. She is sweet, too. Not like some kids. She’s wise. You talk to her and forget she’s so young. She’s so poised, so smart. Such a beautiful poet. So good natured.

She has been hospitalized for suicidality, self harm and PTSD 6 times in three years. When it began, like everyone else, I thought it was me. My fault. I broke this precious thing I committed to God himself I would treasure. Protect. This wasn’t the 1st time I thought I was wrong for her, unworthy. Too crazy to be her mom. I tore my soul apart to undo what I had done. I lashed out. I kicked, I screamed, I still shout.

It didn’t help.

I committed to her recovery from poor parenting, hippie like parenting. I stopped listening to the wind for her. I tried to deny my own impulses… even if I was the only person aware I was denying them.

And it didn’t work.

I dont see someone anymore who doesnt 1st ask me, “How is Abby doing?”  because however she’s doing is also seemingly how Im doing. Sounds so sad for her when I say that out loud, poor kid doesnt have enough to deal with but she’s got this fucking shitty narcissistic mom to live with, too.

I hate myself for this. I swear to God I have the worst Goddamn instincts. I really do. I hope you’ll agree with me, and hate me too.

And it’s still my fault.

She’s still so fucking brave. So able to understand things, so bright, So innocent. So sarcastic now, that’s new. She wasn’t sarcastic before.

And then, back in December last year we were there in the ER after yet another blindsided suicide attempt… she told us. (there’s a lot more to what led to her telling us, and believe it is so relevant but in the interest of not overwhelming myself and in staying on topic—- we’ll go back to that another time.)

She told us about Sean. And his 6 years older self coercing his way into her pysche, her self, her body. The systematic abuse she’d succumbed to at his hand for 5 years. Sean my cousins son. He’s 20 years old now. Sean who now lives in Alabama

( yes, he really does live there and if you do privately message me so I can help you in a way I couldn’t help my Abby –)

Anybody besides me think it must have something to do with being of “southern blood” ?

Normally I wouldn’t allow or tolerate in another such ignorance of any single identifying trait in another race, creed, color, or background.  I’m not normal anymore. I’m angry. At myself for not seeing it sooner, for not stopping it from happening altogether.

It’s my fault.

I’m her mother and I failed her. In 1000’s of ways any mommy does when she’s a stupid Hippie moron. Hippie and moron are not synonymous with one another they just coincidentally are two of my more dominant traits.

I was a sorta kinda sometimes not so bad writer once, not anymore. I would apologize to you, but this bad writing here isn’t for you.

My Abber-bo-babber, my Bug… she was placed in residential treatment 30 odd days ago now. And I miss her. I miss her dirty socks in the mix, I miss her silly dances, I miss her laugh.

I see her once a week- usually on Saturdays.  And in between visits she is without a mother. A hippie moron momma shouldn’t be too concerned to let her seedlings grow wild and free wherever they go. But I’m a recovering idiot. (or trying to be) And I feel this displacement. I hate not knowing if she’s slept well, what if she needs me and I am not there? What if she can’t sleep, who will lay beside her in the dark and hold her hands and sing? Who will tell her everyday what a beautiful gift she is?

She is not okay. She is lonely. She gets scared. She’s still so little, she still needs hugged and kissed. She still needs me. She’s so fragile, so broken… to see something so beautiful so broken it does something so dark to you.

I would give anything to put her back together, to recover for her. To be the perfect consultant parent, the confidante she comes to, to be steady and even. But, I am not that. I try to imitate that. I’m so scared I’m not doing it right. How do I know if she needs more from me, or less?

A lot of people who know me, don’t like me. It makes sense to me. I don’t really like me, either. So it makes it hard when you’re searching to grow to know what instincts are good, and which ones aren’t.

I don’t trust anyone.

These thoughts are either totally helpful because they shine a light on the thing I am missing and keep cautious, aware. Seeing her true needs and the path to meet them.  Or, they’re simply a shame cycle I don’t know how to break.

I think if you’re me, feeling ashamed means you’re not a monster. That’s right. It means I do feel bad for the many many mistakes I have made. I feel them more than you can know.

I don’t deserve her.

I never did.

But I love her. I wont give up trying to be what she needs. Even when its hard. Even when I cant see my way out of my own fucked up shit. I won’t ever let my ego or my pride stop me from doing my literal and actual very best for her. (my best wont get most of you very far)

I will admit it has however made me useless to pretty much everyone else. I wish I could say Im sorry for that. I love you, I was lucky to love you and be loved by you in return. I hope you know I still do.