Trials and Tribulations of Being a Single Woman in a Man’s World

It was more than just the nausea. More than indigestion, vomiting and sleeplessness.  It was more than just a time of high energy, in which those who are sensitive (such as myself) may find themselves transmuting what ever the world around them, was unconsciously throwing off.  It was way more intense than any other PMS episode I had ever experienced.

Sore tits.  Constant cramping to high heaven.

It was more than not being able to eat for two weeks; daily emptying my bile reserves.  Food wasn’t staying down, nothing sounded good and weary was I.

Yes, it was more, so much more.

I finally called an emergency trip down the canyon, to Boulder yesterday morning.  After arriving home the night before at 11pm, falling right to sleep, only to awaken at 2 am with previous said symptoms in addition to profuse sweating and dry heaves that kept on until 7:30 am.  At which point, I couldn’t take it any more.

If I wasn’t suffering from ulcers and irregular menstrual cycle again, I would think I was pregnant… but I just bled.  I stayed in bed all of Tuesday, my day off; I stopped bleeding, assuming it was because I was supine all day.  I began bleeding again on Wednesday… I figured I must be in the clear, I mean I am no stranger to morning nausea from the ulcers.  I know I haven’t been eating the best lately, due to stress.

It was the swollen breasts and soreness that was causing the confusion.  My breasts have always felt uncomfortable before and during a moon cycle; but this time, even I noticed I looked more “filled out” in a couple of shirts I normally wear.  My tits looked better than they ever have before.  I needed to know for sure, I wasn’t pregnant.

I found a free clinic that does testing and counseling.  I arrived at 9:36 am, but they were not yet open.  Located in a some what ghetto strip mall, “Real Choices Pregnancy Center” was neighbored by a check cashing/ advance pay check place and a bead store.

As I approached the front door, a white piece of paper attached with scotch tape to the winds announced that Real Choices, would not be open until 9:45 am, today.  “Okay, only nine minutes to go.”  I scramble back to my car as the air is heavy with fog outside, and seemingly more cold than the higher elevation I drove down from.

I feel somewhat unprepared.  I expect this feeling to pass.  It doesn’t.

9:45 comes and goes.  9:56 a silver car pulls next to mine.  A very conservative school secretary type exits the vehicle with a large yellow folder fill with urine sample cups.

I wait three minutes before enter Real Choices.

Mickie, introduces herself and apologizes for running late, I tell her I have nothing but time today… what a long day I am in for.

Mickie sets me up in the restroom with instructions to pee in the dixie cup and bring it to her when I am done.  I have been holding it now for over a half hour, so letting that yellow river flow, seemed quite the relief.

My anxiousness wants results, and I am being less conscious to detail in response to the emotional place I am currently at.  I am distracted by  my own uncertainty.

Mickie invites me to sit, and I am instructed to use a disposable dropper to pick up some urine from the dixie cup and to place a few drops on a pregnancy test result screen.  I do just that and then Mickie asks me some preliminary questions.  Name; date, birth, last period.  I tell her December 19, but that I have had bleeding since then.  I explain how I have had painful and irregular periods for as long as I can remember.   I tell her I had read Black Cohosh can help Amenorrhea ( a period that doesn’t come.)

I explain my cycle is usually waivers between 32-52 days; this cycle was nearing forty-eight, one of my longest ever.  I had no concern of pregnancy.  (Perhaps just my hopeful thinking.)

At this point, Mickie drops the bomb… I am pregnant.  These tests are 97-99% accurate.  My body has enough of a specific hormone to confirm, yes indeed, I am pregnant.

I tell Mickie the truth; I have no desire to have children.  She reflects upon me her beliefs.  At this moment I realize this free pregnancy test and any counselling that they offer at Real Choice, is funded by some Christian organization.

A look of fear and concern crosses over Mickie’s face.

“So you DO believe, at the time of conception, this is the beginning of life, right?” she asks.

“I believe life may have begun, but the soul personality, has yet to be attached.”  I respond.

Mickie casually pull her delicate cross necklace from beneath her collar.  “Well I am the mother of four children, ” she starts in and immediately I zone out.

“She hasn’t a clue!” I think, “She is only a volunteer here.  She is just here to represent her religious organization.  She isn’t some young vagabond in the mountains. She doesn’t exchange hours of her time for room and board from those she works for!  She doesn’t live in this paradigm.  She was probably supported through all of her pregnancies by her God fearing husband… She probably didn’t get pregnant from a random one night stand with a stranger just because she was horny and wanted to get laid, and the situation was there.  She probably never got pregnant from a condom breaking while having sex in her car during a blizzard and a full moon…. or maybe she did.”

At this moment though, that seemed like a very far off reality and since I zoned out most of her story, I guess I couldn’t be certain.  She was now telling me, how she has met “so many women who have chosen abortion” and how they end up feeling so horrible about it for the rest of their lives.

In my mind, I think ” I wouldn’t feel that way.  I know I wouldn’t.  I am so adamant about NOT having a family, unless I feel it is circumstantially ‘right’.  I can’t take nine months to have a kid for someone else, when right now I have to change things within and around me.  Even adoption wouldn’t leave me that choice.”

Mickie and I chat a while longer.  She attempts to get me an appointment at a free clinic for an ultrasound.  I have no money, and no luck.  She offers to take me to the Emergency Room, but her religious organization doesn’t want her to shut down the center for her to escort me. I don’t want to go to the ER with her anyway.

I am shocked.  I am unsure of how to proceed.

Mickie expresses concern that I might have an endoscopic pregnancy because of my bleeding.  She urges me to seek care very soon.

I finally leave; paperwork of confirmation in hand.  I need to smoke a bowl.

I drive back up the mountain in silence.  In my mind I am bargaining with the Universe.  I do not want pregnancy.  If abortion, by means of a tube, being shoved into my uterus, is the only way to go.. I’ll do it.  I don’t know how, because for someone with no money, three hundred or more dollars is expensive.  I feel I am early enough in the game, that there must be another answer.

Perhaps more Black Cohosh?  It could create uterine contractions.  I have more.

I recall hearing about a drug that induces labor in a few minutes by putting it inter-vaginally.  Or, what about self administered tappomant (percussive massage) on the lower abdomen?  Jumping jacks?

I get to my town, and I keep driving.  I need to see friends who understand.  I need to know if my clairvoyant friend senses anything about my situation.  I arrive at their house, but no one is home.

Shit.  I need to talk about this with clear people, NOW!  Finally I call a mutual friend who passes along a cell number for the friend I am looking for.  I call and find out she is over an hour away, and had just arrived at her destination.  It sounds as if she is in a bit of chaos when she picks up the call.  She tells me to give her a couple of minutes so that she can go outside and call me back.

I wait about twenty minutes before she returns my call.  I give her a run down of events, and she offers to drive back up the mountain, to take me back down the canyon to the ER>  It would be over an hour before they would be there.

Sleep and nutrition have been rare for me in the last few weeks.  I decided I would stay, and rest on their couch until they arrive.

I find myself in somewhat of a daze; not asleep, not awake.  I am half way nauseated.  She arrives an hour and a half later.  She walks in with her baby, explaining that her husband is concerned about her unnecessarily taking the baby to the ER, which is bound to be rife with sickness.  Her mother in law will take me alone.

Another hour and half of highways later, we are amidst the smog of Denver.  Lutheran Hospital; unbeknownst to me, one of the busiest ER’s in the the Denver Metro Region.

My stomach is feeling stronger now.  We sit among the sick and injured.  I fill out admittance paperwork.  I get my stats taken.

I wait for six hours in the waiting room.  The TV is tuned to CNN.  I am fully up to date on the Anna Nicole coverage.  I know I am going to have to sit here a longer while, so I eat a Snickers bar.

A man enters and throws a fit about the length of the wait. He is raising his voice.

The ER attendants reaffirms, “There are NO rooms!  There are NO beds!”

The chaotic man seems drunk or drugged, or just damaged.  A breezy Malibu type shirt hangs half open on his beet red chest.  This is not a small man.  The ER staff swiftly admit him.  To where, with the lack of beds?  It’s unknown, or perhaps unspoken that there is always room on the Psych Ward.

Various small dramas proceed with brash interactions, including a bitchy blonde ER nurse and an injured, low-income white guy.  I am among some of Denver’s best and brightest, today.  To each of their benefit, I am certain it is hard to think, when such pain and sickness impede your life…  The ER staff do not have it easy, especially in Denver’s busiest; still, is it really necessary to have such a sassy attitude with those who seek their care?

Six hours later, I receive a gown, a room and a tasty IV with anti-nausea medication.  YAY!  The cool fluid flowing into my arm, is easing away the sickness of reality.  It’s about time to really find out what is going on.  There is yet, more waiting.  I read magazines that I would never purchase.  I breeze through the gossip in regard to Brangelina and Britney… who looks how, in what?

Honestly I don’t fucking care.

They draw my blood, which leads to more waiting.

A silly tech wheels me to radiology for an ultrasound.  We are on the precipice of finding out exactly how far along this train wreck is.  Thank God for pain meds and anti-nausea.

A lubed belly and an ultrasound later, I find out I am eight weeks… TWO MONTHS?!?!  Oh yeah, that broken condom in the car episode.   Brilliant.  Some silly dread who happened to be in town for the weekend, over from Leadville.  Silly.

I endure the ER for another two and a half hours.  Fully re-hydrated and drugged, I am free to leave.  It’s now 11:30pm and everything is closed.  All I want is Chick-Fil-A ( avid pro-life, gay hating chicken.)  Actually, it’s all I have craved for weeks now.

Sleepily I laze in the passenger seat as I am driven back up the mountain.

The next few hours are used in mental formulations.  I will take more Black Cohosh, I will perpetuate my own bleeding.  I will find a loose pill of Misoprostal in the cabinet of my birthing nurse employer.  I will stay with my friends for a couple of days, to ride out the nausea where I am allowed to smoke cannabis.

I arrive home to find a dead cat in my room.  It seems to me, to be a sign of things to come.

I conspire to find and take the Misoprostal vaginally; causing me to bleed chunks later.  I am feeling smart, maybe too smart for my own good, as I am sure this will cause a miscarriage. In my mind, this is decidedly a pregnancy that WILL be terminated, whether by force or effect.  I feel a stress of unknowing, burden my ovaries.  The pain goes through waves of increase.  A sort of feeling, like my uterus is being ripped from me; and yet it stays placed inside, only to be positioned in pain from unknown origin.

I tell myself that this isn’t a “safe” pregnancy.  This is not a “conscious” pregnancy.  This is not a continuing pregnancy.  How am I going to end up paying for all of this; monetarily, physically, spiritually?

Word has it of “Emergency Medicaid,” but no one I talk to has much information.  My circumstances seem applicable, to me.  Will the State of Colorado, agree?  I rationalize that it would cost less for The State to assist in the cost of termination, than it would cost to assist in the long term raising of a child, from a no income young woman.  I learn The State has it’s own ideas as to what It believes our money should be allocated to assist.  Most of it, seem illogical.

A small bit of paperwork for an ongoing, onslaught of more paperwork and phone calls.  I could have allowed myself to be attached to the system for weeks!  Whatever hard earned taxable dollars I had previously earned, were deductible from the over all system; so for those weeks, I could get the best in medical help, if I so choose.

Painful wisdom teeth?  Fuck it!  They will pull them for FREE! (No tip required.)  Just provide proof of pregnancy, and you too, can have a free first class ticket to any medical predicament.

In the right wing tradition of Pro-life, our male dominated system, peeks it’s head into our State and Federal run programs.

Women considered irresponsible for multiple births out of wedlock contributing to our supposed over population are somehow supported… but abortion is only legal in a few states.  Women are demonized for having children out of wed lock, with various men; yet our system is seemingly aligned with the idea that “man SHOULD spread his seed.”

It seems it is economically easier, to live in a life of unwanted, and avoidable circumstances, than it is to independently make a decision for oneself;  to have to  ultimately live in a state of shame perpetuated by a political and religious agendas.

Sure, sometimes men get slammed with child support, but in reality, less than half of them actually pay. Even then, somewhere out there, under the radar; out of the political and religious eyes; we learn that abortion is the most common surgical procedure performed on women in this day and age.

Silently we are speaking back.  This topic will not be spoken about at your local church group, in any light manner.  In fact, the topic will most likely be avoided all together.  The topic is too, taboo… a product of bad taste.  Despite it all; when those groups gather, there will be at least one woman in the group who will have done it, or considered it, depending on their personal beliefs and situations through their life.

Male domination in the world, will cause them to question their choices.It will only be conversations that are whispered among sisters, that they will find commiseration.  Otherwise, they will be left to feel, that they didn’t really have much of a choice in the matter, because  ironically,”Life must go on.”

Weirder yet, conception is another touchy subject especially when it occurs outside prudential expectations..  The way conception unfolds, apparently happens on it’s own terms.  There isn’t always need for attraction or permission.

One in three women will be raped at some point in their lives.  How many of those, become pregnant from the rape?  How does that rock a woman, emotionally; especially when unprepared  and un-wanting for such news?  I have met a man, who is a byproduct of such an event. Conceived from rape. He survives his adulthood caught in child like delinquency.  The man is desperately talented, yet he is lost in a search for something meaningful  in all the wrong places.  You might say he has a lot of loose ends.

His mother committed suicide.  She was never able to cope with the past pain that brought her son into the world.  He was twelve and committed to juvenile hall, when he got the word his mother killed herself.  They wouldn’t let him leave to go to her funeral.  Ten years later, he was dealing with the effects of not being in attendance and the violence of his beginnings.

When is self preservation an act of higher intuition?

My step mother is in disagreement of my choices, yet  I feel confident.  There was a time when, what she thought may have mattered to me, enough to affect my decision making. Not today. Now, it’s all about me.  The question, exactly, is how?  I keep going back to the idea of self preservation.

When we took that drive up the mountain and  I was running groggily through my thoughts.  I was thankful the Vicodin was easing my pain.  I thought about the ultrasound, and how I was able to see the beginnings of a being, forming inside of me.  At eight weeks it was only a grain of sand, only sort of visible in it’s embryonic form.

Seeing the beginnings of life, had changed nothing in my mind.  It had only reaffirmed my self preservation.   This being was bringing my attention to what I have avoided; my own body, my own ability to procreate.   I realize how I had abandoned my own system. Secretly, I felt somewhat cursed from the beginning of my own life.  My pain was likened to the feeling of rotting from the inside out, right through my reproductive organs .  A feeling as thought the ligaments holding everything in place, were being ripped directly from me.

Lately, I feel new to anything feminine.  Maybe it’s been about four years or so, that I have actively tried to assimilate myself to societal ideals of womanhood.  Everyday has been a struggle.  I feel covered in a facade of accessories.  I suppose, I have mainly attempted to be more feminine through ways of appealing to others by physical perception.

If there is one thing I hope to learn from all of these experiences that I have gone through; I hope one day, to find an answer to the question that stands strong for me; “how does one truly become womanly.”

So far, it seems I am finding out first hand, the hard way.  Regardless, I am thankful.

December 8, 2011-Jubal @ Whistlers (Chicken Cordon Bluez)

Often times, when I lived in Nederland, Colorado; I would go out alone, and check out whatever music may be playing, and hang out with friends that were bound to be out.  The night of this show, was a little gathering while I was back in the area in transition; house sitting and dog sitting for local friends.  This is the last time I saw Jubal play.  I am honored to find this in my notebook.  I am glad that I was able to record my perceptions in the moment.  It makes me feel good. I hope it does the same for you.  

The night may be one of those, High Altitude type nights.  The weather is cold, snow is on the ground, and those who choose Whistlers this Thursday, are primarily there for the entertainment and the suspended menu.

Tonight, I have some early bird jitters.  I feel there may be conflict.

The Thursday night football game is on the big screens; Jubal is on guitar and vocals. The audience seems split.  I figure, there must be room for compromise.

Jubal begins his set, almost as a warm up.  He is playing his less played set list. He emanates a desire to own the room with his music.

Jubal, is an inexhaustible well of music, the type of performers most towns wish for.  But, tonight, We, Have Him.  Knowingly in this moment, he has his competition; be it the football or those few patrons who would prefer their Chicken Cordon Blue in silence, he denies them their wish with gritty growling and harmonic strums.

Tonight we are all somehow the embodiment of this well, that Jubal is.  Some may be dry on the surface, but they are rich and deep, below.  The well is not purely a wood base on the ground, or a metal pipe with a pump.

One could consider a tree, a living well; pulling water up from the depths through it’s roots up to the leaves above, into the branches.  This is how Jubal and his music holds some capacity of the humanity around him.  They rise to him to be with each other, seeking some sweet soul nourishment; finding their call is answered.

If one becomes too dry, they turn to dust and fly away.

When one is fertile and hydrated, one grows and shares their steady beauty to those around them.

Sometimes, we become dry; and we don’t know exactly why or how. Was it the weather, or failure in the roots?  Does a tree, or a well, ever ask?

Sometimes, the well is muddy.  You have to drop the bucket through scum to find the spring.  You have to dig deeper for the clarity.

What really matters?  Perhaps in this journalistic opinion; it is the beautiful clarity that serene submersion brings, seeking the purity.  Jubal holds the perfect sound track for this; somehow every song begs the question, “What really matters?”

Is the game more important than the player?  Is the player always the star of the show?

“Perspective.”  A wise woman, once said.

The room is almost full, and it seems we are on some 24 hour precipice of a Full Lunar Eclipse that will be visible locally.  I wonder if the lunacy of the moon tonight, is reflecting back humanities lunacy.  What is the symbolism of it’s momentary shadowing?

I suppose we are all a little creative and crazy; especially when humbled by seeing the shadow of ourselves, in the midst of lunatic confusion,we still have just enough of a grasp on who we want to see within ourselves that we can find some reconciliation.  We find at times, even lunacy can be overshadowed by a strong desire for realization.

Jubal Thompson passed away August 7, 2016. You can read his obituary here Jubal Obituary.  You can check out his original music on Reverbnation here  at Jubal’s Songs .

I dedicate this writing to all of Jubal’s friends, family and musical admirers.  I apologize, if it wasn’t more about him, or his specific music; however I honor the fact he was a strong participant in a community I was apart of and love.  I was honored to spend time and conversation with him, and I feel this piece touches on a deeper part of our understanding each other in friendship.  If you want to do something in Jubal’s honor; buy a kid an instrument and encourage them to express themselves through the tool of music and words.  And always, listen closely to the truths expressed therein.


Above All, Love Thyself (2005)

I met that assailant five years ago, today.

Internet connections say little about deviant ways.  I only know the sadistic things he’d say to me, while he forced me down, bleeding; telling me to say I loved him.

In that apartment of discardment and disregardment, the stranger of violence, sickness and anger; and a child trying not to be bitter, bleeding between virgin thighs.  Not from his penetration, but of her womanly cycle.

She came with two intentions; her first stop, a film festival.  She came to meet new friends, she only meant a night with out regrets and loose ends of insanity.  She only wished to be innocently entertained; not emotionally rearranged by a deranged stronger stranger.

She did want the later weather to keep her there; she didn’t want to seem overly careful.  She didn’t want him to be inside of her.

Why did he ask her to lie to him, when she could only cry to him to “Stop!”  Why did he mistake her curiosity for infatuation?  Alcohol, a mental obstruction for erectile distraction?

Her strength only a fraction of his, a safe distance missed by watery miles.  Her smiles are long gone.  Her night began at this innocent film fest with other aquaintences; those artsy types, a long and rainy ride to meet a director for his debut.  Not rude at all to his young admirer.

A wine reception was only a lesson in show business and politics.

Next comes that sick twist of cinematic proportions that corners this sad story of lost glory and innocence.  She leaves the film fest to meet those she doesn’t know; the water flooding the highway floats her toward disaster.

Some one must defend her!  Try and rebuild her sense of self worth, but she’s left feeling more worthless than ever before.  A trusting girl, now she’s only a mess on this emotional train wreck.

It takes more then seconds to think of the lessons she has learned from this tragedy.  I know it’s messed up, because it happened to me.  Now self esteem seems so hard to catch.

Men leave me cautious and sick when I think of lost intentions and sad revelations.  Not all men are the same, but the bad name is branded by a night that broke me.  Not at all a joke to me, just a sad story of lost virginity that needed to be told.

I will choose to be bolder, though my heart grows colder than it would have been, had my innocence been left to rest a while longer.  I needed to be stronger than I was that night.  What was once made wrong, I need to right for myself.  Search for help.  Pay these dues, get past the hurt of being used, sexually abused.

Move forward to help some one else, before the memory fades.  I know no matter how many days pass, I won’t relax because there is a mission to share.  You girls, beware; some guys are beasts out there.  Some times you can control your fate before it’s too late to say those words.

Stand up like a woman, though you feel like a girl.  You show this world that you can overcome; beyond grey skies, look toward the sun.  Innocence is lost everyday.  That doesn’t make it okay or right, but it’s no reason to want to die.  It’s a reason to grow; be bold, live to grow older.  To be the shoulder to some one younger.

It’s a lesson born of a sick sad situation; building aggression, fused confusion and broken illusions of grandeur.  This is the stuff soap operas are made of- the complete opposite of love.  It’s sick, it’s bad, but it’s something some of us have had to endure.  It is the merger of physical violence, sexual deviance, and disgusting circumstances rolled into a complete disregard for a woman’s voice crying out “NO!”

It’s the emotional blow of a lifetime; the intimate mark on a personal timeline.  The invasion of a jail-able crime, but a sentence that doesn’t serve enough time.  Something I didn’t report, a personal decision of mine.  Something upon which Karma I tend to rely on.

So I have gone five years, not so much fearing for myself sexually, as much as I started hating male humanity.  Not the lest life to lead in a hetero-relationship.  I haven’t figured out yet, some I am suppose to live in forgiveness of the situation.  To really let it go, and begin again.

I take it with me everyday… it’s a lot of hidden pain and twisted thinking.  Enough to constitute drugs and reckless drinking; which is what got me moving forward into helping myself and trying to help some one else… yet, I still haven’t learned to love.

I’ve got to take these lessons, there is something to be gained from the most painful of days.  A bit of enlightenment that never fades; a diamond of knowledge from the wise old sage.  A source of healing from the rock of ages. Another one of those challenging steps in the phases of womanhood. A woman, where a girl stood.

Should you ever be this woman’s lover; LOVE HER!  Cherish her.  Covet the love you have for her.  Sing Songs of Solomon to her.  She is a beautiful disaster and at times a walking contradiction.  She suffers the lost virgin affliction.  She NEEDS love to be her addiction.

She will fight it.  She will fight you.  I know all of this, I do it too.  She will cry, she will weep, she will stay up all night and make you lose sleep.  She will mourn, she will come to terms, only to wake in the morning and burn again with anger.  Some times she will seem like a stranger.  The faces of hurt sometimes can not hide within her.

She will want you to hate her, because she hates herself for a situation she couldn’t help. To her control is something she prides in herself, it’s at the top of some list next to personal health.

Just love her. Learn her.  Remind her of her worth.  Let each new day, really mean “re-birth”. The pain is sharp as it internally hurts.  Love and time can heal all wounds.  It’s just a tough job convincing her she is worthy at all.  Not a small task for the weak of heart, the faintly in love.  You WILL want to give up! Yeah, and some times it really sucks… but once she “gets it”, it will be eternal love.

So please, curb your tendency to criticize, look deeply into her eyes and ask her to vocalize her worries, her deep set fears. Tell her, tears are okay.

And if you are on the other end, quit defending your pride!  Don’t lie and say “nothing is wrong.”  Admit that you are insecure, full of fear, anger and resentment. Let him know about those losses and so much more.  Tell him this unlocks the door to the dark stuff that keeps you awake.  These are the feelings that make you fake your security.  It’s okay to express the pain of how you use to be, and how you can seem to change or get it back.

Hold her hand as you listen.  Never think her deranged.  Listening like this could forever change the course of everything later on.

Girl, learn that when they listen, you know they are for your best intentions.  Each time it’s a new lesson of patience.  It makes no sense to try him over and over; Rover only returns if you treat him well.  He can assist you with finding Heaven, if you face it that you are not in Hell.

Sadness for the past drowns the strongest swimmer in the Sea of Despair.  You only fair so well for so long before your air escapes you and you sink so far below, he can’t see you, see him anymore. Just a word from one who knows.  She is the repeat offender; all of her destructive decisions fall in the blender of memories.

The times I have made myself scream at self loathing and the desire for Love to leave, for the leave of love I couldn’t understand and still some how still don’t.  I believe in Love above all, and perhaps just not for me.  Another struggle of trying to believe; I’ll convince you, if you can convince me.

I am waiting for seasons to pass before I drop these leaves of self doubt and hate.  All those lovers before, bailed  after they realize the bait was tainted by sorrow.  I never plan on being sad tomorrow, sometimes it just ends up that way.

If you are sad and you want love, you will find excuses to pursue love and then call it all useless.  It draws you back in, time and again.  I suppose the fact you can still fall at all, is a positive sign but learning how to stay is like finding a pearl of Truth.  Eternal Love is Eternal Youth; the ultimate soother of all those fears and bothered looks. (Trust me I read about it in one of those Self Help books.)

I feel I can help you along a road of self love and self help; but I feel like I can’t help myself.  My advice leaves me dry of knowledge for my best intentions. I tend to learn life’s lessons the hard way.  I start up the same old mountain, from the same place, and fall at a moment late in the game from failed interactions and emotional distractions.  Leading at times to erratic over reactions and faulty verbal transactions.

Maybe someday I’ll try the other side of the hill; it could be the cure for spilling down that rocky road, and getting that bulky load to the top.  Showing that rock, whose boss.

Look at the Lover, and wonder where they got their graceful strength and patience.  The power of two is more than one.  Set this to the reminder at the rise and set of the sun.  Love, above all, Love Thyself.  The wealth of Love is with you.  Covet Love.  Love the lesson of a lifetime, the delicious fruit on Time’s vine.

The Kiss of a Stranger (2006)

She looks at her reflection, it just won’t teach the lessons she’s looking to learn.  All these consequences for risky actions; scandalous transactions have this girl attached to unreliable sources.

Forces of nature, put her there.   Aware, the whole time, of her shortcomings and the risks. She slips across these thoughts like skipping rocks across water, bouncing a few times before they disappear.

Walk along these empty streets with me, just breathing the fresh air and carefully walking in darkening grace. This place, right now, is silent solitude; a lovely little interlude from this crazy life.

A momentary escape, late at night, a people packed room.  A slow progression forward, not bored at all by our conversation. Walking to your home in synchronicity, in these moments of clarity, I want your kiss desperately so.

Did you find me witty and adept?  Appealingly unkempt and at times a bit bereft of rational thoughts?  Are my motions too fast, did I interact too boldly?  Knowing I only want luscious lips on mine.  I want to redefine my single-hood.

I am a walking effigy of innocent integrity; he begins to boldly kiss me; softly, sweetly and passionately.  It’s been  over a year since I breathed the breath of another.  The wonder of such newness!  The friction of a first kiss; a moment I have missed so desperately!

It is my weakness; this physical plea test, the best part of the beginning.  The feeling of winning the touch of a beautiful stranger.  Later he hours go until no more darkness rests on this hemisphere; the queer night of indulgent lips lock in lust and curiosity.

He even still smiles at me; not as bad as it could be.  Thank God, he didn’t want to sleep with me; but I want to see him again so badly!  I have got to breathe, because this has only just begun with a question and a look.  A smile.  A chat.

Chatting over a cigarette for a while, walking back east in style; a wily hippie at my right.  A perfect night cap.  How is it I find him so appealing?  His physicality reels me forward into kinesthetic wonder.  And I question if he rocks like thunder under the sheets.

What am I thinking?  I am again forgetting to breathe.  The lack of oxygen is clogging my senses.  Again I feel reckless and senseless confusion.  I give these illusions abandon. I am not yet stranded.  I should be celebrating my independence.


Hoʻoponopono (ho-o-pono-pono) is an ancient Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and forgiveness. Similar forgiveness practices were performed on islands throughout the South Pacific, including Samoa, Tahiti and New Zealand. Traditionally hoʻoponopono is practiced by healing priests or kahuna lapaʻau among family members of a person who is physically ill. Modern versions are performed within the family by a family elder, or by the individual alone.

Thanks Wikipedia! 


Dear –

I am sorry,

I forgive you,

I love you,

I thank you.

These are the four small but massive tenements of change.

I realize, “I love you”, just isn’t something I think or feel, until I do.  It is such a rare thing.  But when I finally feel it; it feels intentional,  yet somehow, also distant.

I will say “I love you” to those I adore, but our geographical distance keeps us removed.  I pass the sentiment through telephone lines and satellite feeds.

Meanwhile, my grandma, a few rooms away; and who I truly and deeply love, sits alone.  Why is it, I say “I love you”, to her, begrudgingly; almost with bitterness?

What have they done to deserve this?  If it is only my discontent, and we are all the same person, only separated by meat sleeves like sausages; am I spoiling those around me?

I am reminded by old adages; “Treat yourself as you would have others treat you.”

The Chorus Of My Answers-

I am mean to myself.

Some lost Golden Truth, imposed and impressed-

” Treat others as you would have them treat you.”

The reality of my actions-

“Treat me like disturbing trash in the wind.  Be swift with your disgust and disregard immediately.”


So, I lay in bed.

I recite, “I am sorry.”

My next thought is “What am I sorry for?”  Deep down I know the list is endless.

“I forgive you…”

But why?  I can’t even forgive myself.

“I love you.”

For what?  I hate love.  I hate the word “love.”

“Thank you.”

What did I do?  No need to thank me.  How can we live in thankfulness with feelings like this?

I start adding things. Improvising.

” I am sorry I have been so harsh with you.  I mean it.”

“I forgive you for allowing Truth.”

“I love you for your resilience.”

“I thank you for sticking around.”

“We might be crazy.”

“I am sorry I’ve tried to kill you.”

“I forgive you for pushing me.”

“I love you for your perseverance .”

“I thank you for accepting my apologies.


Things start flowing from my heart and my eyes.  I am knee deep in a love/hate moment.

“I am sorry I haven’t believed in you! ( I really, really am!)”

“I forgive you for not believing in me. ( I don’t blame you, I haven’t believed in me, either.)

“I love you because you are lovable. (Even when you don’t feel love or lovable.)”

“I thank you for being, me.  (We are One, and that is why it hurts.)”

By this time I feel the familiar choke in my throat; a solitary tear creeps between the slits in my closed eyes.  Again I feel that Love/Hate resurface… what have I gotten myself into?

“I am sorry I dehydrate you, every day.”  (What a dick I am.  I know better.)

“I forgive you for enabling me.”  (Why am I my biggest enabler?)

“I love you for the limits you set.”  ( How can you even say that?  My limits seem nonexistent to myself, these days.)

“I thank you for understanding.”  ( I think you might be mistaken… for now I am more confused.)


I go further.  I focus on my grandmother.

“I am sorry you are getting old.” ( I wish I had more patience and kindness.)

“I forgive you for your failing body.”  ( If only we could turn back time.)

“I love you so, so much!”  ( Why am I crap, at showing it?)

“I thank you for your continued support.”  ( I suppose that is the least I could do, right?)

“I am sorry I am a bitch to you.”

“I forgive you for not stopping me.”

“I love you because you exist as 100% love, in my mind and heart.”

“I thank you, for being just the way you are.”

The grey matter in my brain feels extra mushy.

“I am sorry I can’t figure out how to make life easier for the both of us.”

“I forgive you and your past.”

“I love you because, I do and always have.”

“I thank you, for your silent strength.”


Most days, it’s just me, and her.  And the only people I have to feed, is us.  Admittedly, most days I wait until I am absolutely hangry before I choose to eat.  By that point, she has already been snacking, and squashes our plans to have a shared dinner.

I have made plans for food for “us”, not “me.”  Tonight I do not want to eat alone, but her disinterest is telling.

At this point, I am so hangry, that I put on some boxing gloves and punched a tree for three solid minutes.  I do fifty jumping jacks.  I wonder if I am killing the tree, by not hugging it enough.

I avoid eating “our” food, and have another drink.

My Lover calls me back.  He tells me “Everything is great!  I just had dinner with an old friend of mine that I haven’t seen in a long time.”

I tell him, “That’s all I was calling about earlier…. I gotta go.”

The call disconnects, and I am pretty sure this time it wasn’t my fault, but who knows.  The hung dial tone is loud and it’s amplifying my rage.  In all this dissonance I decide to take a drive behind King Soopers.

I am looking for a “For Sale” motor home I heard about over a week ago.  There are several motor homes and fifth wheels in the trailer park area.  Nothing is labeled “For Sale.”  I am miffed; this adds to my daily defeat.  I just want reinvention and newness; with out babies.

I think I am wasting all my good karma on free drinks.

A week ago I wondered what if I treated alcohol and tobacco, the way I treat psychedelics; I never buy them, they are only received once in a blue moon by gifting, and they must be blessed before consuming.

Today that idea seems a void.  The small destructive pleasure of escapism are at times, the little lights of living.  The little social resurrections, despite how volatile.  Obviously, I don’t ask for much.  Maybe, I don’t ask for enough.  I can’t bare to ask for more, but why?

This Universe is supposedly infinite; most of us really don’t need much.  Many ask for more than they need, and receive more than they asked for.

I don’t mean to sound humble… my ego isn’t very humble; however my needs are few, and therefore I would say my needs, are humble.

“You get what you ask for.”

“You get just what you need.”

“You get what is coming to you.”

“You don’t know how to appreciate it now.”

Maybe not, but I think I do.  Every moment is “Now.”  Science says time does not exist.  Spirituality says we are all infinite.  Astrology says I will find abundance in my 50’s.  Fuck, that is another 20 years.

“To some, 20 years IS a lifetime.”

I tell my inner guru to shut the fuck up.  It is annoying the present place, now, me.  Fuck.


I make my way four miles home from the pub.  I grab a sammie on the way.  I Hoʻoponopono along the way, trying to reconcile some people in my life that I feel have the same emotional lack that I feel in the present moment.  I believe the motion of walking will solidify my meditation.

“I am sorry I’ve allowed you to lie.”

“I forgive you of your past lies.”

“I love you for your brazen attitude.”

“I thank you for teaching  me.”

Despite my outward expressions, I am just talking to myself, out loud.

I continue.

“I am sorry you haven’t been honest.”

“I forgive you for your misuse of imagination.”

“I love you for your creative spirit.”

“I thank you for your unabashed-ness.”


Home is quiet.  The loves in my life are both asleep.  I am happy to sleep alone while battling the reality of falling asleep alone.

Those two don’t realize how different but the same they are.  My loves.

One sleeps in the basement and the other sleeps above, only separated by twenty feet, and fifty years.  I lay in the middle of decades; always more distantly close to one, more than the other.

Distance.  Miles.  Emotions.  Years.


I decided after a long while, to google what I can only say, was once “The Love Of My Life.”

His refusal to engage with social media led me to finding his baby momma, now wifey.

“What am I doing with this lurking?”

I find her comfortably taking up space on Facebook.  Right there, now, in my face sits this happy little family.

There he is, still handsome.  His daughter looks a lot like him.  I cringe.  I cry a little.

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t think that this should have been us… our life would have been different, most likely childless.

I have only had a handful of relationships, and this is just another one that tells me, (from the outside looking in,) that I am all wrong.

I have tested every man I have ever loved; ultimately pushing them far, far away.  Not long after we are over, they move on and start families with women far more congenial; far more loving, far more responsible.  I can’t help but wonder how damaged I must be, or how clueless my self dependence is.

I am, in fact, so sick of being and feeling alone.  Out of love.  I am sick of feeling like I have to keep my emotions at an arms length away from potential love.  I am sick of not finding attraction that stirs my understanding and compassion.  I just want to feel the stirrings of mutual love.  Loving mutually.  I want to wipe those past relationships from my broken heart.

Those who did choose to love me, loved very hard.  In turn, I had a very hard time accepting it, until it was gone and over.

Hindsight is 20/20, right?  It is.  I know.


Dear Lover,

I am sorry we didn’t know how to love each other.  I forgive the pain we cause each other.  I love you, always.  Thank you, for taking time to love me.

I am sorry for breaking  your heart.  I forgive you, for breaking mine.  I love you, and I can’t stop.  Thank you for teaching me.

I am sorry things didn’t work out.  I forgive you for hitting me.  I love you for the sweetness’ we did share.  Thank you for setting me free.


There is just so much to say, and not enough words.  Again, I am left with question and yearning.  I would have given him everything, if he would have just, let me in.

I love a lot of people, but being ‘in love’ is rare.  Mostly for me, it seems attraction is not a defining component of love, how ever it is a huge factor of ‘being in love.” I don’t just mean physical attraction; I mean multi-level attraction.  Body, mind and soul searching type shit.

A burning of compassionate passion, that brings two bodies into a union.  I have found the sparks of those fires quickly die off.  Admittedly I hold grudges that affect my mind, actions and libido.  My libido is already, very weak.

I don’t want to be touched (physically) by ‘just anyone.’ I need everything to feel ‘right.’  This rarely happens.  Instead, I find myself upon some high dusty shelf in some sort of “self preservation.”  I wonder, if I am wasting time?

May 24, 2014 : Lesbian Stereotypes I learned by Binge Watching “The L Word”


  • There are NO overweight lesbians in L.A.
  • It is inevitable that you will eventually be best friends or lovers with the lesbian that aggravates you the most.
  • Lesbians, have little qualm with  sleeping with more than one woman a week.
  • Lesbians “in heat”, are loud mouth breathers.
  • Lesbians in L.A. wear tight pants, that are often times hard to remove.
  • Even “butch” lesbians in L.A., are fucking HOT and still pretty fem.
  • L.A. lesbians rarely, if ever, discuss their periods or reproductive health.
  • Lesbians eat A LOT of pussy, but they never discuss how it tastes.
  • Lesbians apparently don’t have very many heterosexual friends; especially heterosexual male friends.


Attempting to Submit to Love in 2003

I knew my adult story started with him.  My superficial bones tested the strength of will, I thought I had.

We tell ourselves things in judgement of others.  An internal pact, ” I will never be that woman.”  Then some how the ironic face of circumstance sets forth a learning curve you once thought yourself to be invincible against.

I walk through life, listening to my own voice-over; laughing and wondering how a story could begin like this; but it did.

Imagine a girl entering into a new period of her freedom.  Twenty-three and vigorously trying to be more athletic and perhaps more hip than she has been before.

It’s a ski town and she is trying the “snow bum” lifestyle for a while.  This place is edgy in its very removed and integrated way of twenty-somethings and older folks alike.  They were all there for the snow; small town drama and copious amounts of intoxicants at any moment came as a sidecar.

Their attitude was “the moment is meant to be lived”; this philosophy in this neck of the woods led to other sentiments, such as “It’s better to live below poverty ABOVE 9000 ft.”

I love the mountains and nature.  Every once and a while I like to party.  Mostly thought I love nature and beer, with a sidecar of interesting stories.  So, I found a job at a local pub with the help of a couple of local friendly friends.  Forward I worked into the integration process.

This was May 2003.  By October I had a few friends I could stand on a regular basis; plenty of places to hang out if things got dull, and a condo with a filthy roommate who was rarely there.

I was getting more fit, and spending much of my free time painting and forcing myself to workout.  Twenty pounds of extra winter clothing and a two to four mile walk, would make me happy, as I was literally “walking my ass off.”

I wasn’t smoking cigarettes. I had a healthy pot habit and mostly drank Guinness or Carlsburg Dunkle.  I walked to and fro, from my three jobs.  Mostly I avoided drama.

I remember it was a warm day in August, or September; the first day he saw me.  I recall him telling me his friend owned the condo behind mine.  He was helping with “home improvements.”

He’d seen me running.  That same day I had finished one of my favorite paintings out under sun.

In this small town, his friend living directly behind me,  his avoidance of drama; we were bound to eventually meet. Our paths had to cross.  It would take a couple of months.

I had some flings before then.  Maybe more than I would like to mention, given the circumstances of small towns, and my distaste for sloppy seconds; none of it was of real potential, just young snow boarder guys.  Most older than me, but not at all very serious.

I am feeling my superficial bones ache.  It takes more than beauty and brawn to win me over.  Still, admittedly, I like good looks and a great mind.  Great minds are sometimes a bit vulnerable to superficial beauty.  The brain could go on thinking in such contradictory and malicious circles, until one finds themselves void of the ability to communicate clearly; perhaps going so far as to not be able to communicate at all.

I’d like to say that when we met, I was starting to feel as though I was grasping clarity; though now I know, I hadn’t even really started the search.

He touched me and this muddled mind and vulnerable heart, immediately forgot about listening to common held fear, and jumped happily forward into a hard lesson.

Something I have always known and been impressed with, is the most effective way to fully know a lesson, is to fully immerse in order to truly learn.