It is the Fourteenth Minute

What really matters?

(A stream of consciousness.)

Once upon a time, I thought I would be FAMOUS! Other people thought I would be famous too. They BELIEVED in me. (Here is where I insert motivational year book posts, from people who thought I was talented and intimidating.)

Once upon a time, I thought I would be that person, too. What most people don’t know, is that I went down that road in the early stages of my life and it made me feel very wrong. Very bad. Very “Not Worth Pursuing.” I didn’t have a back up plan. I wasn’t like, “If acting fails me, I guess I will just go into accounting or teaching, or blah blah.” It was my one thing. I knew I could do it, I knew I could succeed but inevitably the compromises were too great for my will to continue.

I was a single shot, single aim player (despite being talented in more than one way). When I realized I couldn’t consciously take a path of attention, my fucking road crumbled. I’ve had to submit to God, or the Universe because nothing fills me with the sense of self and accomplishment performance and attention provided. My well paved path became a vague dirt track in the underbrush. I have become totally okay with building my own path but this realization has only occurred slightly before current society found itself at the brink of our current and evolving paradigm; which is far more saturated and competitive in attention seeking than it was twenty plus years ago.

1. I never succumbed to the “casting couch” but I was well aware of it, even to the point that no-name-budding producers were using the age old formula. I did’t cave. I walked away.

2. Even when things weren’t “supposedly” creepy, they were creepy as fuck. I have a low tolerance for creepy. The world is full of good people… but there is at least one lecher for every good human.

3. You can’t look to actors for real truth. You can’t look to artists as solid Truth. They are reflections. They are puppets of agenda. They are but a finger print of their own influence, be it racism or anarchy; Jesus or socialism. The truth is the fruit doesn’t fall from the tree. As an actor you have to leave your beliefs at the door if you want a role. As a creator, you can spout your belief all day. Your belief doesn’t always equal Truth because you want it to. That is why some say that “Truth is subjective.” I realized I am far too head strong to be molded or meld into the agenda of some stranger; this doesn’t work for me when it comes to the transfer strict control and willing participation.

4. I’ve had to deal long and hard with imaginary disappointment. What if others were disappointed in me because I railed against the media or thought forms they found entertaining? What happens when I don’t live up to my “dream”. Am I a failure? In whose eyes does it really matter?

5. Entertainment distracts us from areas where we may actually have influence. To be entertained is to shut down and turn off. Entertainment is the go-to way of relying on some external amusement in avoidance of the real world. Modern entertainment begs us to imagine ourselves as superheros, sexpots and rock stars (that is the “high end”); on the low end this “programmed media” wants us to laugh while simultaneously feel shitty about the harsh realization of being absolutely ordinary with far less adventure than our seemingly realistic familiar box office faces. (It isn’t so cute these days, when a friend says “You remind me SO MUCH of Amy Schumer!” or any other person on screen. I use to love it because low self esteem told me that everyone is better looking than me… and my vanity enjoyed the fact that people said I looked like Meg Ryan, Jenna Elfman, Allison Mack, and Jean Harlow.) Amusement can and is FREE for people who realize what exists outside of boxes.

6. Media is a program. Media is a way of brainwashing people. Media is a religion and an excuse for other nefarious things. Media is also a great medium to disseminate if you are actually looking for truth. No one makes it there on a whim. “You have to spend money to make money.” Only replace the first “money” with “will”. Nothing is free, and it all comes with a cost.

7. Truth wins over fame, fortune or notoriety. Truth trumps it all. Media is built around an agenda. Shut it all off for a month and actually question yourself, “What do I think about …?” Escape the hive mind and think for yourself; media works because it is somehow able to disconnect this essential mind factor. What happens when you escape the echo chamber, the distraction?

Sometimes I get down on myself, silently I think that I am disappointing someone… and then I realize it is myself I am disappointing. Then I realize, I am not disappointed in myself, I am disappointed in what I was told was Truth, which only turns out to be fabricated agenda fallacy. Those are the hard knocks. Hard Truths. Sad Truths.

Funny, because I only wanted to be a B lister. Like Janeane Garafolo in Mystery Men. Or Parker Posey in Best in Show.

Behind the curtain things are not as nice as you would be lead to believe. In fact, it’s even more gross than you could imagine. That seems to be the case when millions of dollars are on the line, and the script for humanity has to continue.

So, what now? I occasionally pick up entertainment gigs. Maybe I will finally get around to creating my own show. But it isn’t as pressing or as important as I thought not so long all. All of that isn’t as important these days. Maybe it’s because I have gained weight and gathered wrinkles… maybe it’s because I don’t want to mislead people. I don’t know. I do know people have believed in me as a performer and now I am super picky about what I do. I don’t want to play over old scripts repeated ad nasieum since Shakespeare. Perhaps I feel like I have already paid my dues and said, “No, not this season.” Who the friggidy frack knows. I just know I signed out.

You don’t have to follow a script on stage, it is a choice. You also don’t have to follow a script in real life, that too is a choice. (Think White picket fence,2.5 kids… or Mad Men type bachelor for eternity.) We don’t have to be locked in, but we are told we should lock ourselves in. If you feel like an archetype, you are probably following that script.

If you are anything like me, the minute someone tells you how it “should be”, you make a concerted effort to break the mold. I am not the person I was at 16 or 18 or even 25. I’m not. I’ve learned and grown. I have embraced those parts of my personality that see through the shit and unabashedly calls it out and I like those parts of myself.

All of those past things I wanted to pan out soley because I wanted to be solidified in your (the external) sphere of love. It was a false love because it had nothing to do with loving or liking me as a person, or me loving or liking you in return; it all just related to you loving or liking me because you relate to a character, and me dying for warm attention.

This use to be my whole philosophy as an actor; “I hope I can play characters that make people think and laugh. To contemplate what they cannot comprehend.” We don’t need characters to tell us the agenda of a writer. We need to think for ourselves and question everything. The world will tell you that you are wrong if you are not apart of the major consensus. That isn’t true. If you realize there is an agenda that disagrees with supporting creation and life, you shouldn’t feel bad about your desire to have no part in it.

Back in the 90’s all of us kids were talking about how gross it is to “sell out.” I would argue that instead of the name “Gen X” or whatever they call us, we should call ourselves “The Sell Out Generation.”
The transition from analog to digital was profound and our previous programming led us to believe we would each have our fifteen minutes of fame. Digital reality made that a very real potential. Now that we have it and it is driven by fifteen year olds… how do we feel? (Some 15 year olds are smart and cool, but most of them are assholes in the middle of development but caught in a self perpetuated microcosm of selfish dramas.) Perhaps some parents can’t see this at all because they sold their children out as infants on youtube, and being an asshole teen on youtube is bound to make ad revenue for mom and pops.

I don’t share my grandma with you too often because I think it is a way to capitalize on the elderly, and my grandma is not on point with all of her thinking. So I am not going to sell her out. I’m not going to monetize her for your entertainment. I call that integrity and morality. Some of you might think that idea is stupid but it isn’t for you to decide.

If you are paying attention to the world, you will realize how whack it all is. If you haven’t looked in to Allison Mack of Smallville fame and her connection to the NXVIM cult (pronounced Necks-Vi-Um), check that shit out and see her connections to child sex trafficking and providing notable names in government and entertainment with children. You can see why I might not be so keen on the comparisons now. (Sorry kids, but the Clinton Foundation is on the list of money connections to this creepy group.)

Very soon the media that you hold near and dear, is going to crumble before your eyes. Your heros are going to be noticed for long buried realities. The clock is going to ring on many of these fifteen minute-ers.

Thank you to all of you who believed in my talent. I hope you continue to believe in my voice and feel inclined to follow up on research with topics that have come into my view from my evolution as a person. I stand here today as a real person… not someone trying to play you, by playing a character.

There are some really disconcerting things lying in the underbelly of our reality. None of it will stop until we collectively reach a level of disgust that will tip the scales. This means crushing almost everything you hold near and dear and familiar. Politics is a joke. Your actors are a joke. Your music is a joke. Everything you’ve been told by an outside source, unsubstantiated, is a joke. Buckle your safety belt; hold your children close and kiss your loved ones. Shit is only going to get weirder.

-Mandie aka Madge


A Kittery Tale: Sleep Deprivation and Emerging Personalities

Quantum is a proud, patient, borne-to-be-a-mother of kittens.  She is naturally good at what nature gave her to do.  She is sweet, attentive, and clean.  Since the kitteries have been born, she is even more clean than she was pre-kitterville and that was SO CLEAN! She never smelled of anything but love(?).  I mean she just really hasn’t had any odor about her since she came to be here. (Yes, her shit stinks.)  About four days after the babies were born, the room smelled like curry, or a mixture of Indian spices.  That sent me for a head spin because I rarely, if ever make food with those flavors even though I love it.

Our little feline schedule has taken a shift with the arrival of these five new furry friends.  Three girls, and two boys.  With an intense feeding schedule of every couple of hours;  Momma has a bottomless pit for a stomach and a penchant for constantly cleaning, I’ve been sent into a whole new level of care taking that has no regard for the time of day or night.  Who needs sleep?

Personally, I like sleep. No, I love sleep.  I am a light sleeper and am easily awakened by the slightest of noises.  I loathe being awakened and a whiny momma cat, is not a slight noise.  The whines and cries always seem specifically timed to occur when I am just about to drift into the deep onset of sleep. She sits there, staring at me, knowing this. She always cries in that moment when I feel as if I could fall into a dream abyss.  Immediately I am snapped back to the reality that this Momma needs/wants something.  Be it food, water, or a clean box… there is no limit to the requests that may come up at 3 am and I am an idiot for thinking I can ignore her.  She wins…every…single…time.

Week two has led to sleep deprivation. I am at the beck and call of this Queen.  I do the best I can at meeting her needs before I go to bed in hopes Quantum will let me sleep a full night; what a dumb human I am to expect that I could just go to bed, unencumbered for a nice stretch of rest.

If Momma ain’t happy…

It’s got to be tough to all of a sudden have five little critters to worry about.  It’s got to be annoying to have those little critters grappling at your swollen tits, with tiny claws and emerging teeth.  It must be tedious to clean and re-clean those babies after this tactile human handles them, and kisses on them with coffee breath.  I get it.  Sometimes  momma needs a break too.

Last week as I was settling in to go to bed, with the laundry basket of kittens next to me, Quantum hopped in the basket for a kittery feeding.  I noticed a different set of squeals.  I popped on the flashlight in order to take a look at the current scenario.  See, Quantum has ten nipples but only eight of them are in use.  None of the kittens like being on the bottom row.  The top row, middle two nipples are prime real estate and if they had their preference, only two would feed at a time on those succulent momma mammarys, leaving plenty of wiggle room and no competition.

Anyway, I turn on the flash light and the two boys are fighting over nipple realty.  Fluffs of hair are being scratched off as these two little furballs fight for space.  Momma looks incredibly annoyed and uncomfortable.  I decide to step in and remove the more aggressive kit.  I decide to also remove the kit that is on the bottom row and pull them into bed with me for a while so that the others can feed in peace and Quantum can have a little break in the feeding chaos.  She looks relieved.   After a few minutes I notice one of the kits has fallen asleep at the nipple, and I gently remove it, and replace it with one that hasn’t eaten yet.  I continue the rotation until everyone appears to be satiated.  Quantum appears to be thankful, and when everyone is back in the basket and cuddled up, she curls up behind my knees for the first time since the babies were born.

I feel like Quantum is trying to “train” me.  If she is unhappy with the smell of her box, she goes to the litter bag and claws at it.  If she is unhappy about her water quality, she stands by it and whines.  If she wants more food, she becomes incessant with her cries.  No matter the time of day or night, what Momma wants, Momma gets.

Quantum is pretty balanced in her care for each of the kittens, but I get the sense she has her favorites, and they are the boys.  I am partial to female animals, and in this case the girls are significantly smaller than the boys.  Once, I noticed Quantum was being pretty rough with one of the girls she was cleaning.  A little black one I call “My little Teddybear”; My Little Teddybear is basically the runt of the litter.  And I was feeling like Momma was having some animosity, like with one less kitten, feeding would be a  peaceful and roomy event.   I snatched up that little kittery and I tell Quantum that she needs to calm down and be just as gentle with this one.  I held it and kissed it and loved on it, and since then  Quantum has been more gentle with her.  My Little Teddybear is one of my favorites… something about how small she is, just adds to her adorableness.

“My Little Lion” is a boy, he is a champagne colored kittle.  He is the only one with a full body of light colored hair, he resembles a very light tabby.  He is the biggest and strongest.  He is headstrong and adventurous.  He was the first one I noticed to start self grooming at a week old and seems to instinctively know what “I’m gonna get your belly” means.  As I put my fingers down into the basket, he clumsily rolls onto his back and lets me tickle his belly, reaching his tiny limbs toward my hand and pulling them away.  It too much cuteness, if there is such a thing.

My Little Lion is a beast at the nipple and he gets annoyed when Momma wants to clean him.  He will kick, punch and scratch his way to the prime real estate and he uses the same tactics to escape from being bathed. If one of the girls is in his desired nipple position, he will basically try and suffocate them off of it by climbing on top of them, pushing them down to the bottom row, right off the nipple they were latched to. Sometimes the girls try to fight back, but most times they just wiggle free and try to find somewhere else to eat.  Occasionally they just curl up next to Momma and wait their turn.

I can’t even express how impressed I am with this weird relationship I’ve found myself in.  I’ve never really fancied myself as a “cat person” per say. I’ve always loved cats but I haven’t spent much time with them in general.  When I was about nine years old, a calico cat adopted my family.  It was an outdoor cat, and they fed it once and it stayed around.   I think about a year later we moved two houses down the road, and the cat followed us to the new house.  I named her “Cuddles”. She was fat and sweet.  Strange that I don’t recall what happened to her.  I wouldn’t have another cat friend of my own until twenty years later.

“My Little Pirate” is of the other little girls in the batch.  Her body is primarily black but she has some calico in there, and her face is split evenly down the middle with black on one side and champagne mottle on the other.  She looks so astute and her face structure is more delicate and angular than the other kitties.  She is quiet, and something in my room causes her to sneeze.  She is also adventurous but in a timid way.  She wants to see what is going on, and then she moves forward.  I just love her.  If a tiny ass kitten can seem like an old soul, My Little Pirate has that essence.

“Lil Baby” is My Little Pirates color counterpart.  Her coloring is similar, but her face isn’t as distinctive and her features are more rounded.  Basically she is too cute for words and reminds me of good ole Cuddles.  She is a cuddle kitty, but vocal.  She also seems like the type that may like to  hide.  I was sitting on my knees on the ground and I had a skirt on over my leggings.  The way I was sitting and the length of the skirt created a sort of a dark cave between my legs, and Lil Baby walked as far back into it as she could, toward the heels of my feet, and she just sat there and watched all the other kitteries awkwardly walking around.  This was our first foray on the floor, out of the basket.

Finally, in this mix we have “My Lil Panther”, which is the male counterpart to My Little Teddybear.  They look very similar, all black, but My Lil Panther has some white hairs around his mouth and eyes, and My Little Teddybear has the cutest pink black mouth and a heart shape on her nose.  My Lil Panther is strong and feisty.  If there is some tomfoolery happening in the basket, it’s likely that he is involved with My Little Lion.  I have a feeling those two will have no problems defending themselves in the future.   My  Lil Panther seems like the hard sleeper.  If he is tired, he sleeps as the other kits crawl all over him completely unfazed.

Every few nights, I take the kitteries into my grandma’s room, so that she can see them.  She loves them, they are amazing.   I know they are therapeutic by nature, and it allows Momma a food and poop break with complete privacy.

Claddagh Wonderdawg still isn’t sure what to make of all of this. She seems unimpressed that I am sharing so many kisses with these little things that resemble the rabbits and squirrels she like to chase in the yard.  She seems curious and frightened.  In the mornings, when she gets up and greets me at the head of the bed, she peers into the basket for a split second, sniffs it and backs away quickly as if maybe all of this is a dream, and tomorrow there will be laundry in the basket instead of a bunch of wiggling fur balls.  I tried to put My Little Lion near her, and she wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible. She refuses to make eye contact with the kittens.  She does however make eye contact with Quantum, and Quantum has an intense stare.  Overall, Quantum seems pretty chill about Claddagh being around her babies, and I think she wants Claddagh to be more engaged than she is, all around.

It appears to me that Claddagh is still pretty jealous of Quantum.  Like there isn’t enough love to go around, and now there is another body sharing the bed at night, and it’s been a long time since we’ve been in that situation with my ex-cat Poppy Rascal.  (That is a whole other story.)  I probably need to take Claddagh on a date.  Get some “one on one” time doing something that she enjoys, which probably includes french fries.  Then we can sit down and talk about it.  That’s just the way it goes with my animal family.  Sometimes we have to talk through things, and we are all usually better for it in the long run.

Stay tuned… the kits are starting to get active and I am sure this is about to get even more interesting.




Self Imposed Solitude vs. Abandonment

Abandon: (n)

 “a letting loose, freedom from self-restraint, surrender to natural impulses,” by 1822 as a French word in English (it remained in italics or quotation marks through much of the 19c.; the naturalized abandonment in this sense was attempted from 1834), from a sense in French abandon “abandonment; permission” (12c.), from abandonner “to surrender, release”  

The noun was borrowed earlier (c. 1400) from Old French in a sense “(someone’s) control;” and compare Middle English adverbial phrase at abandon, i.e. “recklessly,” attested from late 14c. In Old French, the past-participle adjective abandoné came to mean “zealous, eager, unreserved.”

Abandon: (v) 

late 14c., “to give up (something) absolutely, relinquish control, give over utterly;” also reflexively, “surrender (oneself), yield (oneself) utterly” (to religion, fornication, etc.), from Old French abandoner “surrender, release; give freely, permit,” also reflexive, “devote (oneself)” (12c.).

The Old French word was formed from the adverbial phrase à bandon “at will, at discretion,” from à “at, to” (from Latin ad; see ad-) + bandon “power, jurisdiction,” from Latin bannum, “proclamation,” which is from a Frankish or other Germanic word, from Proto-Germanic *bannan- “proclaim, summon, outlaw” (things all done by proclamation); see ban (v.).

Mettre sa forest à bandon was a feudal law phrase in the 13th cent. = mettre sa forêt à permission, i.e. to open it freely to any one for pasture or to cut wood in; hence the later sense of giving up one’s rights for a time, letting go, leaving, abandoning. [Auguste Brachet, “An Etymological Dictionary of the French Language,” transl. G.W. Kitchin, Oxford, 1878]

Meaning “to leave, desert, forsake (someone or something) in need” is from late 15c. (Etymologically, the word carries a sense of “put (something) under someone else’s control.”) Earliest appearance of the word in English is as an adverb (mid-13c.) with the sense “under (one’s) control,” hence also “unrestricted.” Related: Abandonedabandoning.

Solitude: (n)

mid-14c., from Old French solitude “loneliness” (14c.) and directly from Latin solitudinem (nominative solitudo) “loneliness, a being alone; lonely place, desert, wilderness,” from solus “alone” (see sole (adj.)). “Not in common use in English until the 17th c.” [OED]

A man can be himself only so long as he is alone; … if he does not love solitude, he will not love freedom; for it is only when he is alone that he is really free. [Schopenhauer, “The World as Will and Idea,” 1818]

Solitudinarian “recluse, unsocial person” is recorded from 1690s.

Apanthropy: (n)

“aversion to human company, love of solitude,” 1753, nativized form of Greek apanthropia, abstract noun from apanthropos “unsocial,” from assimilated form of apo “off, away from” (see apo-) + anthropos “man, human” (see anthropo-). Related: Apanthropic.


I don’t cry very often.  If I do, it usually has something to do with the death of dogs.  This could be because I’ve had my dog for eleven years and I can’t imagine life without her, and I assume that everyone feels that way about their dog if they have one.

This companion has been with me through some very trying times.  She has weathered my emotional storms that come rarely but brutally. I know she won’t just run away, our trust and connection is very deep.  We rely on one another.

People, are a different story.  My relationships with people have been a different story and upon retrospect perhaps I have been too dismissive of humans who mean well and matter very much to me.  Perhaps I have taken for granted the love others are able to have for me as a person with meaning in their life.  Perhaps my willingness to be dismissive has created a reality where I am more easily dismissed.  Or, maybe, I am being the center of my own galaxy and taking things too personal. I don’t know, but I cried today over a human.

I cried because this human finally said that they were leaving this (at times God Forsaken town) in anywhere between four and six months.  There is nothing left here for this person, except me. However I am not a reason to stay here and I haven’t made much of an effort to validate that I could be worth staying for.  I’ve been somewhat dismissive.

Today I was faced with the thought experiment of what it will be like to be sort of back to square one when it comes to human connection outside of my living situation.  What it will be like to not see the one person I’ve see almost daily for at least a few minutes for the last six years, who isn’t related to me.

My heart is broken and I didn’t expect this.  I always figured if they were going to go, it would be a sort of relief, and yet I don’t feel relieved.  I feel scared as fuck. Despite the times we haven’t agreed and I’ve had to use my words to point out the things that are incongruous or vital to our growth, I am so scared to be alone again.  Friendless.

See, I don’t want to cry over this.  I want to be callus because I fear this loneliness so much.  I felt abandonment to some degree every day of my life because my mom died when I was so young.  That feeling never left.  That abandonment eventually turned itself into self imposed solitude.  “You are the only one you can trust.  Everyone always leaves.”

I’ve used my loss as justification to build a very strong wall around myself.  It is constantly fortified and therefore basically unmovable, un-scale-able, and unbreakable. I’ve told myself that “It’s better this way.”  But is it?

Another thing I tell myself is “Everything works out in the end.  Go with the flow.”  Meanwhile, I am just as scared as the next guy who is scared of being alone forever.  I note that I am currently thirty-seven and that number isn’t decreasing.  My fortress needs to crack.  It needs to break, but all I know is how to build it stronger, not how to tear it down.

I am at a loss when it comes to how to deal with it, other than crying for a while, because I know that tomorrow I will tell myself to shove it back down and keep living without appearing to be broken.  And that life will continue and circumstances will change and I will be at the mercy of those changes.  That’s it, in a “go with the flow” mentality.  You realize you have no real control over anything but your own personal expression in the world. I suppose the impression I try to leave is resilience, strength and emotional independence.  Self reliance in times of uncertainty or trouble.  Am I successful at that?  I don’t really know.

I want to put out some blame here beyond myself, toward the pervasive programming in this world that has helped me fortify my fortress.  The blame goes to the insanity of feminism.  I never once called myself a feminist, but I have inherited many of the destructive belief patterns that are inherent in that movement.  Namely the degradation of the family.  More specifically, the demoralization of men and the positive role they can play in our lives.

I have no idea why I have taken on these views and manifested them into my reality the way I see them in this moment. I thought I knew better.  My dad is a really great person, a really dedicated individual.  My male family members (over all) have been wonderful, non violent people.   Where did all of this come from?

“Hey girl, you don’t need a man, you can do it on your own. Guys suck anyway.”

It just isn’t universally true.  And attitudes like that make you focus on every negative aspect of a person.  It programs you to look for the worst and to somehow capitalize on whatever you find in the most demoralizing way.  I’ve been with kind, supportive partners and with everyone of them, I tried to “break” them.  Why?  Why was I breaking them instead of building them up?  Why was I justifying that breaking them would build them up?   When has that ever worked out for the good of things and people?  It hasn’t.  It’s called mind control.

Mind Control is easily asserted on those whose minds have been broken by trauma.  I allowed an earlier trauma in my life to dictate my future reality with a certain sense of failure.  In turn I would blame myself as being “unlovable.”  If I received a compliment that was true, I would shrug it off as “niceties” or smoke being blown up my ass.   Never feeling worthwhile of praise unless it had something to do with external talent.

My heart is just so full of love, but it’s gotten harder over time to show it.  Express it.  Be it.  I didn’t like being broken like that today.  I didn’t like seeing that truth in myself.  But mostly, I didn’t like crying about it.  I didn’t like the submission of seeing a truth I had been avoiding. I didn’t like facing it alone and realizing that I set myself up for this.  Even though I fell into a program, I am the one who let it go on this long.  I am ashamed of myself, but I will commit to forgiveness.

I’m not sure how this moves forward, “but I am sure it will all work itself out in the end.”



The Results of Unfollowing People On FB for a Month.

Well, it’s been a month and a few days since I cleared out my FB feed.  What did I learn?  What happened?

I think this will be a short post because most of it has been covered in the previous posts aligned with this topic.

Ultimately, I got VERY bored with the platform.  I used it as a resource above all and curbed my interaction by over 90%.

That is a big jump.  I no longer had a feed to scroll unless I went to my friend groups, and I only went to my friend groups out of curiosity (mainly about local happenings.)

I continued to get notifications, and any late comers to the game were silenced for 30 days.  Those silenced parties just started cropping up in my feed yesterday.  Namely companies that advertise through FB.  For me, namely, craft beer breweries I am a fan of.  Without thinking, I saw these posts crop up, and silenced them for another 30 days.

Honestly I am not “missing” anything, per se.   I love passing along info.  If a person has a question and I feel like I have a viable answer, it is a pleasure to share.  However, all in all, I only contacted people or posted if I thought some one may benefit somehow from that post.

I feel a need to remind my audience that I do not have FB messenger or FB app on my phone.  If I want to post there, away from home, I have to go to the mobile web page and I am limited in options.  I also need to remind readers that I am able to access FB more often than a person with a “normal job.”  I work from home, or rather home is work, but WIFI is pretty consistent and FB is an easy distraction from mundane domestic duty.

Did I miss it?  No, not really.  At times I noticed myself pressing the refresh button that leads to my own echo chamber and then I was like “Oh yeah, I boycotted this like I would a Walmart.”  I still drive by, I still have opinions, but…. I have no plans on going inside and interacting with anyone in there for the sake of boredom and randomness.”

Honestly, I think that is cool.  To me, it proves I wasn’t as addicted or reliant on it as I thought I was.  I gave myself the power of choice, and the challenge of abstaining.   I do suspect I will fade away and that doesn’t worry me so much.

Today I dug through my senior year book, and I didn’t have a shit ton of signature/ messages, but the ones I did have, reasserted the best parts of me that sustain to this day.  A majority of these messages were not short.   Most of them had connecting themes when it comes to talent; kindness, weirdness, good feelings and impact.  I am still ALL of those things and I didn’t believe it back then.  I always assumed people were blowing smoke up my ass because they, themselves, did not want to be rejected.

I don’t need Facebook to be my daily Yearbook.  I enjoy these throw back features to see what I was saying and doing xxx years ago, but I don’t have to have it to survive.  The thing that makes me feel like I am dying is isolation with no solutions.  In fact, since I have taken the leap of disassociating with my live feed I’ve made a new friend/workout partner; started spending multiple hours during the week to build workouts for M,W, F, AND connected IN REAL LIFE with people who are actually in my geographic sphere.

I feel accomplished.  I see how this type of process can fold over into other situations that may need conscious regulation.  If you feel like you would appreciate slowly pulling away from the intoxicant that is Facebook, hit me up, or read my other posts on how I experimented with the idea.   It really is a challenge of “out of sight, out of mind.”  A break like that allows you to question yourself what you want to use the platform for, and what you expect out of your engagement.

If you want naught, why fruitlessly search and conjure up partially fulfilling illusion?  All I’ve ever wanted is “real life friends who are true and honest.”  I’ve had them in spurts, and maybe it’s time I give those real life connections a chance again.

My hope is that you find this useful, and if you want more info contact me, I love sharing intel.  ❤

Quantum Express~ A Kittery Tale

On November 9, 2018 my friend Devon walked out of my garage to his car, and exclaimed “Do you know this cat?”

From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see what was on the other side of the door.  Immediately I thought “Well, probably not because I rarely see cats just roaming around my neighborhood.” However, much like Schrödinger, my curiosity got the best of me.

“What cat?” I exclaimed, jumping from my chair and racing to the door.  There I saw a slim, small violet Siamese cat with an injured paw.  She sidled up to the drivers side rear wheel of my car and peered at me coyly.   I knelt down and called her to me, to my surprise she walked forward to me.  She allowed me to scoop her up to look at her paw.  A small injury, but it looked  like it had been deep and healing a while.  The gash in her paw almost appeared as if she had been stuck to ice, and ripped away her pad.

She allowed me to take her inside, clean up her paw and add some Vertricyn to the wound.  She was cuddly and appeared to want to stay close.  How could I say no?

I immediately took to social media; the after hours Animal Shelter site on Facebook, and any other local group that I noticed posts of lost or missing animals. I took her to the vet to see if she was chipped. Negative.  I posted on Nextdoor, a social networking site for neighborhoods.  I called the Animal Shelter. I waited a day and then I went out and bought her food; litter, a litter box and a dish and a couple of toys.

This girl was so sweet, someone must be missing her. It was just before the holiday season, I thought to myself, “Well maybe she was being pet sat and sneakily escaped.  Maybe her person is on vacation or deployment and the cat sitter doesn’t want to worry her owners while they are away.”  I was constantly checking my post, and posts about cats in my area.  Pretty much, nothing.

About a month after the kittery had been hanging out, a woman on the Nextdoor site, insisted it was hers.  That she had left town on November 10 and had only recently returned.  I demanded pictures and descriptions.  Her cat looked nothing like the one I had been treating as my own for the past four weeks.  The markings were all wrong.  She felt dead set it was hers, so I took a risk and said “If you feel that strongly about it, here is my address, come on over and see for yourself.”   Fifteen minutes later she texted back saying that she was called into work (at the military base across town, where she lives) and that she would be sending one of her guy friends to come by.

Honestly I got a little panicked.  I didn’t know if this was a demanding boyfriend type guy or what.  I texted her to drop it until tomorrow and come for herself but she didn’t respond to the message.  Approximately 45 minutes later I got a knock on the door from a short, kind of effeminate Hispanic male and a  slightly taller Hispanic female.  Both seemed somewhere between mid twenties to early thirties.  They explained the situation on their end, and I went to get the cat for their inspection.

I brought the cat out in my arms, lazily purring.  Immediately the woman said, ” Can I pet her? ”  And I reply “Yes.” because I have only seen this cat friendly to people (unless hungry).  She is a lover.  The lady pets the cat and says “This isn’t our friends cat.  Her cat literally hates me.  She tries to attack me anytime I am near her.”  Her male companion proceeds to look the cat over and agrees, “this isn’t the missing cat.”

I tell them my end of the story, and of my growing attachment, and how I thought it would be weird for a cat from the west side of town to make it all the way over here and then not try to go home.  They admit that their friend use to live in the apartments across the street, but it had been over a year and a half ago.  We thanked each other for our time and patience, and they went along on their way.   I cuddled the kitty deeper, and decided a month was long enough to wait for an owner to appear, and then I had the weirdest thought.

What if the owner of this cat died, and the cat slipped out when EMS arrived to remove the body?  Cryptic, right?  I got a strong sensation this was the case.  This cat had been stray for a while, and it was looking for the right person to adopt.  I had proven to her that I care for her well being.  Her love was strong and instant.  All of a sudden I felt “chosen” , again; a feeling I haven’t had since I found my Claddagh Dog.

This cat needed a name.  From the first moment, she just somehow integrated so perfectly.  I continued to let her outside, in hopes she would just find her own way back home.  I’d let her out at night, when traffic is less… and every morning I would wake up to pee and think of her and she would magically appear at my bedroom window.  I would let her in, pour her a bowl of food and lay back down.  She would eat her food, and come nestle herself in the crook of my bent knees.  We would sleep a while, and when I would get up she would make the smallest squeak as to say “Don’t move, I like it here with you.”

Some nights it was a battle of the bed.  Claddagh usually wants front seat being the little spoon against my chest, and occasionally the kittery was first to call it.  Claddagh would seem disappointed, nevertheless would curl up at my feet at the bottom of the bed.

See, I am so blessed with my animals.  Claddagh is a dream come true Dog.  She is so perfect.  She had her issues in the beginning but most of that stuff is out of her system.  She has had a kittery before, she is gentle and observant. I trust her to be kind to the kittery, however I do not trust her alone in a room with a dirty litter box.  It’s good to know every ones boundaries.

This cat still needs a name.  What do I think of her, when I think of her?  Well, it’s like she just came out of nowhere.  Like, she manifested from some other dimension in Time Space.  Quantum.   Quantum Dream Cat.  Oh shit, you know that kitty is here to teach you something.

So,  Quantum came into my life, accepted her name and knows it.  If she is outside and I call her name silently, inside of my head, she arrives.  Admittedly I was a lazy owner,   taking for granted the fact that I don’t really know anything about this cat except the fact that she is extremely clean, loving and chipless.   She likes wet and dry food, and as she is getting more comfortable with her surroundings, she wants to be held less.  I still let her out for a few hours each night/early morning.  She continues to return.  Sometimes, she just jumps up on my window sill and watches me sleep, waiting for me to wake up and look at her to let her in.  Her voice is quiet most times, unless she is super urgent or agitated.  She doesn’t beg to be let in, she just waits.  Claddagh wants to hump her and I think it’s funny to watch the Animal Planet live from my bedroom.  Something tells me the kittery might be in heat, so I start to keep her in.

In all honesty, I love this situation but I am sort of weirded out.  All of a sudden I feel some spiritual “Level Up”.

Okay.  So. I know. I should have taken her to the vet the moment I took down all the posts and claimed her as mine.  I should have, but I didn’t.  I checked for a spay scar, and didn’t see one, so, that is totally a “my bad.”  I was handling Quantum quite a bit on a daily basis, and the moment her little teets no longer looked like little pieces of dried rice, I went to Google to confirm what I suspected.  Pregnancy.  Fuck.  But, what do you do, right?  So far as I know, there is no Feline Plan B.  Again, what have I gotten myself into?  Immediately I start a Google crash course in pregnant Siamese Cats.



Letter to my 30 Year Old Self.

Dear 30 Year Old Mandie/ Madge- whatever you want to call yourself;

You kind of know me, because I am you and so this shouldn’t be creepy or offensive in any way…. but DAMN GIRL!  You are so adorable and just the right amount of weird and sexy.    Farming really looked good on you.  Nature is a place that brings out your best assets. I really miss the entire wardrobe you collected and discarded over the years.

I notice that you looked forward to 30, and you KNEW that once you arrived that you were on top of the world.  No longer a child, and old enough to say you know better… The prospect of thirty was exciting… and it felt like an accomplished age. You weren’t wrong.  You really played strong, hard and responsible with the right amount of reckless.   You learned and observed a lot. Despite normal selfishness, you wanted nothing more than to give and receive the gift of seeing others happy.   Your strength still helps me today.

I know you are still struggling with body dysmorphia at this point. You have a hard time facing it, as you always have.  Your diet is really great, you really try to “work your body” outside of the demands of a physically demanding job, and you still feel inadequate. I just want to say, damn girl.  If you could see me, the potential future you in my today; you would know what I am saying.

If you could really SEE the whole you,  beyond picking the right take from a video meant for youtube,  You would be amazed at how often you’ve demonized yourself.  When things were good, they were great and yet still as avoidable and demonized as when things felt bad.

The You, who made up “Madge Midgely Laycock” and so many other avoidance characters, was both brilliant and sad.  You  honestly always said what it is you are experiencing, and sometimes bad grammar is your partner in crime, but it is adorable.

30 Year Old Mandie, I miss you.  I mean, its only been 8 years, but, WOW, I LOVE YOU!  I feel so much of our internal, eternal  realness was represented in your excitement, boldness and presence.   You didn’t even know you were thinking about Me, now, then.  But, I get it.  I feel ya girlfriend, self I am.

Thank you for being so unabashed, always.  I think that is one of the things I love most about you. You are really strong, creative and resilient.  It’s awesome to know that you are me.

I ‘m sorry if I have disappointed you.  I didn’t expect this, either.  You know how we roll?  With the punches.

I know I feel inclined to defend or explain myself to you, but you will understand when you get here.  And, if I know you, like I know me; there will be forgiveness, compassion and understanding.

Mandie2010-2012, You are a force to be reckoned with.  Thank you for the time we were able to spend together.   You taught me how to really be a friend to me, you, us, and the future.

In Trusting Love,

The 37 year old You.


Facebook- Refine Your Desires, Define Your Face

This process of refining my Facebook feed has been interesting… and I am not done with it yet.

Slowly I am putting people into groups of demographic.  (Sorry kids, I don’t like labels either but now you each get your own space in a category.)

By clicking on my Friends Lists under the Heading “Explore”, I can see a grouping of posts from people that I have separated.  Which means if I don’t want to see stuff about my home town, music, or babies… I can effectively do that.  When I want to see what’s happening in the music community, I can click on that group and scroll, until the feed ends.

This experiment has been both awesome and gross.  One on hand I am taking control of my input and output and on the other hand I am silently judging and allocating realms for people, they don’t even realize they are now existing within.

Doing this has significantly cut down on my time scrolling my FB feed.  Now, if I am curious about something or someone, in particular, I go to the list I put them in.  I get the added benefit of seeing posts from people who are also existing in that category.  In relation to that and on a side note, the algorithms are putting similar posts in alignment.  This is when I see two strangers talk about the same thing, even though they are unaware of one another.  I like it for research purposes and find it creepy as fuck on another level.

I have to face the fact that I will be invisible to people I care about, who I thought cared about me due to the “unfollow.”

The “unfollow” means that two people are responsible for their interactions.  If they stop interacting online, eventually the dialog will dry up.  Who knows if you still call each other, send letters and talk, if you don’t do those things, expect that relationship to take a hit in the cyber realm.

I’m not sure yet if the menial contribution I have after this point, will be useful.  I’ve basically told you how to take baby steps in completely disconnecting from the most major social media site on the planet.

I haven’t missed the mindless scrolling, but I miss the late night banter on a controversial posts.  I suppose that says a lot about me, and the types of things I like to engage with.

Regardless, I want to feel confident and happy with my online social experience as well as being real with myself about how I do not want social media to dominate my social existence.

I will continue to post updates as I notice, notable things.  Such as the featured image on this post which begs the question of how badly I want to be involved in one of the largest data collection experiments in human history.   That isn’t as easy to answer as I do appreciate the platform for reference in the world.

See, even if I am isolated, I know what is going on around me because of this platform and it allows me to do something that I enjoy doing, which is to assist others with requests or needs.  I imagine that pretty soon everything will be powered by auto-bots virtual assistance (this is a growing trend and being marketed to individuals who don’t have the time to man a busy page all day, and have no trust for a human Admin.)  The program will scan for questions and deliver answers more quickly than waiting on a human to share their input.

There is a need to sincerely look at this from a higher perspective and not just the selfish nature of desire.

Until then, may you interact with social media with balance and responsibility.

A portal of inner exploration