Category Archives: insight

Uncomfortable Conversations

Just now I slipped into morbidity and thought, maybe my eulogy or my headstone, might say ” She got too mentally involved with shit that didn’t relate to her actual life, and missed out on a shit ton that was awesome.”

I promptly went outside, pulled weeds and watched the sunset… Who the hell does Future Mandie appoint as their sponsored voice in something like a eulogy or a head stone?   Hopefully, they are more poignant than my reckless imagination.

I have been thinking and talking about death quite a bit in the last couple of weeks.  It brings my attention to the ways I avoid administrative type tasks in my adulthood.  The shit no one wants to deal with.

A couple of weeks ago, my uncle forgot to tell me that he would be late coming over in the morning.  He basically has consistent “AM Grandma (or in his case MOM) duty.”  He is single, without kids, and structured, but creative.  He understands I stay up late, to capture some hours with out responsibility.  It works out well.

Anyway, he forgets to tell me he will be late, and at 9:30 am, I walk out into a dark hallway, and hear my grandma’s dog scratching on her door.  I get the dog out to pee, and open the curtains, and immediately ponder why the hell my Uncle isn’t here yet.

He is anal retentive about making sure if one of us has “schedule changes”, that the other one is up to date on what the what is.  So… THE FIRST THING that comes to my mind is ; “How long do you wait to do a welfare check on someone who you see everyday, but lives alone, so far as you know single and basically shares little to nothing about their personal life?”

I mean… “He seems healthy, but what the fuck do I know?”

I tried calling.  I send a couple of text messages.  I got grandma up, and made breakfast… He finally got a hold of me around 11:30, saying he was “on his way.”  I didn’t bring it up.  He didn’t offer to explain.  But, since then, I have been going through some adult administrative mental anxiety starting with that question… how long do you wait to call for welfare checks?

Would one of his friend/bandmates do it before me?

How exactly does he structure his time to commitments?  Who relies on his reliability?  (He is really reliable, but sometimes unexpected.)

Who are his Emergency Contacts?  Should I at least be acquainted to them?

What do I do about……..?

He holds the vault for my grandma both financially and medically…  I buy the groceries, but I am not on the bank account.  I make sure my grandma takes her PM pills, but I don’t know what they are all for.. though I know I could google it easily.  He attends her appointments, and fills prescriptions that don’t arrive by mail.

What if?  What if one day, my Uncle is driving to band practice down the road from Cheyenne, into Colorado, on the highway, and he is in a fatal accident?  Worst-fucking-case-scenario; am I able to step up or in, or do I have to just pass administration over to the last surviving son, who only shows up once a week and never seems to bring anything helpful to the table, when it actually comes to CARE?

Then I think about HAVING to force communication with a person who has no respect for me as a human, and has done just about everything possible in their power to treat me like I don’t exist; all while training his family to act in accordance…. and I damn near shit my pants.

That’s it.  That’s all.

I need to have some serious and uncomfortable conversations with people who avoid conversations like this, at all costs.  Fuck.

Mother Pluckin Mothers Day

I’ve never really thought about being a mother, or what it actually means to be a mother.

I suppose more likely that I have given it some severe criticism over my days.

You know that moment when you just submit to how things are; how you are sure they will always be in the midst of knowing, while STILL trying, somehow,  to make it better – perhaps over compensating in some mentality that had served you for a good long while; but has become such a self identifying characteristic, that letting go is hard, and humbling and tough to move beyond?

Yep.  That is me.

I could blame the anti-mom game on my early life; social programming, feminism, Disney, and the World In General… but I won’t.

I made a choice of self preservation due to trauma in early life… and I have unabashedly  stuck to it.  I empowered myself by it;  I gave it life and definition.  I fed it by ignorantly and fyoulishly adhering to my trauma blinders.

HA!  Like I think I have always known things!

When I was a child, I wanted to be a Grandma, above all…but, I also knew I never wanted to be a mom- so being a grandma, was probably out of the question.

I grew out of attempting to age quickly, and clung to the idea of being “The cool Aunt.”    My tag line is “When you can’t handle the transitions, save your sanity and send them to me.”  I believed I could be the bridging gap between generations, despite being a decade older than my sister.

Somehow, being single and childless, in my mind, equaled freedom which directly translated to “more room to comprehend and connect.”  It also meant “choosing ones own connections” aka “being exclusive and reclusive, mysterious and confused.”   “Appearing more purposeful than I actually feel.”

I have been, successful.

Successful at avoiding certain responsibilities by “opting out.”  Successful at using the word “No”, even when it’s too much, going too far.  Successful at building a very strong fortress around my totality of being-ness.  Successful at giving out selective passage with time limits, to those who dare venture these walls.

But hey, what is your definition of  “Success”? Is it at all defined by your MOM?

Mothers, just…they just aren’t suppose to just leave, ya know?

I don’t know… I mean… based off Disney, they are bound to. Moms exist as a memory with Disney.  Why is it all the girls and boys who love Disney movies the MOST, still have their mom‘s?

Right?!?  They not only HAVE them… they are CLOSE to them…

I guess, I should admit, I never really “bonded with my step mom in a way that  would ever give me a real “Mommy” vibe.  In the same breath, I will admit, I gave that woman hell with solidified child thoughts.


“Why did you choose HER?”

“She WILL NEVER understand me!”

What wasn’t childish, and I didn’t understand back then, was the fact that I was unknowingly competing with an adult woman for my fathers’ attention.

Whoa, right?!?  No one tells you that at 9 years old, even if you are going to a therapist who is SUPPOSE to help you navigate shit exactly like this; why?  Because you are STRONG, you are RESILIENT, you are SMART, and if an adult explains it properly, YOU WILL COMPREHEND AND OUT DO EXPECTATIONS!

On the other hand, you can still carry all those attributes and go on like a bumbling fool because the adults around you are afraid of breaking a child who has already broken.  A child seeking security, and finding everything around themselves a suspect.  A child adapting, but never REALLY feeling like they are trusted or heard.  Ho, Hum.

I don’t blame the effect of this on any one but myself these days.  And, I am hard on myself, so I ask myself things like  “Why didn’t you see this and understand this dynamic earlier?  What is wrong with you?  Why do you continue to fixate on things that are more easily accepted AS IS, instead of ruminating solutions to the past free-will decisions and actions of others?  If that is what they would have thought was best, they would have.  You know they are doing their best just like you, but you STILL SHOULD HAVE SEEN IT and KNOWN.”

UGH.  Someone please bring me a 2×4 to beat my own head in.

That has been my life on repeat in variations for TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS!

Coincidentally, my step mom married my dad at the age of 28, in May, nineteen years ago this year.

I had just finished up my first grade year.  And let me tell you, it was an EPIC year.  I went to Ireland with my grandparents, my brother and my dad.  I felt like I landed in a place made just for me, except for my sensitive stomach.  We traveled in a rented van and stayed at B&B’s and I felt like the magic of my heritage was upon me. During the school year  I had a beautiful and kind first grade teacher, Miss Rolfe, who was super nice and magical.

Then The End of The Year came.  A week before the last day of first grade, I found out my Miss Rolfe was getting married, and on the last day of school we made a celebratory field trip to Brimmer Park, down the road from Baggs Elementary.  I remember my grandma took me to buy  a gift, and I chose two silver candle holders.  I was excited to show her how much I adored her.

We had a child like bridal shower in the park.  We all brought gifts, and over sized white t-shirts for her to sign in magic marker. On mine she drew an eye + heart+ you.  I felt that inscription in my heart.  She was beautiful, she taught with kindness and I thought she would be there forever.

At the end of our picnic park party, Miss Rolfe broke the news; the man she was marrying had something happening in Arizona.  She wouldn’t be at the school the next year; she was moving.

My heart broke, and I am sure my attitude showed it. My grandpa picked me up from school and we walked the three blocks home.  I was miffed.

I remember being home a while and my dad came in.  I was in the kitchen, and he knelled down to me sitting at the table.  He asked me something like “What do you think about me marrying Karen?”

And my heart sunk lower in my chest, but given the opportunity to express, I said “No…No.”

I received an answer that culminated in “It’s too late.”  I had no “real choice” in the matter.

So finding out I was getting a “new mom” with no choice, and realizing I wouldn’t be returning to Baggs Elementary; I was hit with the realization that  I lost a teacher, a school and all my friends; but, hey, I was gaining a step mom and a move to the country west of town, to a new school and house.

I stayed mad for two decades, and anything I deemed my step mothers doing in my misery, went into my brain archive.

How DARE you ask me, what I think and feel, if in the end, it matters, not?

I have always fallen victim to my observations and opinions.

How does one become malleable?  Roll with the punches and keep your mouth shut.  Make up your mind and keep it to yourself.  Suffer in silence.

I looked for my dead mother until I was fifteen; thinking somehow, someway, she could get away faking her death and continue living with another family in the same town.  I looked for her in the aisles of stores, and in the  clouds when I flew on planes.  I thought, in my youth, that you could just put a bouquet of flowers on the roof on birthdays and Mothers day, and she would just float down and get it.  It all continues to give me cognitive dissonance.

But… you know what pulls me out of that dissonance?

I am THIRTY SIX FUCKING YEARS OLD!  This shit is old hat.  I graduated  high school half of my life ago.  Life has moved on.  Everyone is moving on in their own way.

If I am honest with myself and my observations, these truths are undeniable… I have kept myself stuck despite knowing the evolving truths….

My dad has someone who loves him, and her loves her back.

My sister has an attentive mother that adores her, and she deserves that.

They all have done the best they can with me, but I kind of scare them.

Everybody is fighting to comprehend the day to day, and it’s changing swiftly.

My step-mom has always done the best that she can with no guide book, she is brave and resilient; but most like me, adaptable.

I wish I came upon all this alone, but I didn’t.

I have been really blessed in my adulthood to have surrogate mothers.  Women, regardless of age, whose lives seemed to somehow collide into mine.

I haven’t had the same “call and check in every day” or “pop in unexpected” or “care for you when you are sick” kind of relationships; but I have had some eye opening realizations and some heart felt growth.  But honestly, I mean, in my own experience the one thing you have to face about a surrogate is, they will always be there MORE for their own in the most natural and organic way.  You are not really the Fruit of Their Loom, er Womb.

Kind of the same thing with my “step” situation.

She has my sister, and my sister has her; and in no way would I ever wish a woman to grow up motherless. They have a pact I will never truly understand.  And I would never do anything to keep them from it.

I hypothesize that maybe if you have enough surrogate moms, you can actually plan that into your schedule and hug more frequently, and have a reason to make lots of handmade cards?  I don’t know.   What I do know, is, they are there when I need them,most times.  But I don’t ask for, or expect much, and that makes it easier for everyone.  Life is like that.  Sometimes, you have to just figure it out on your own because no one is there to pick up the call or rescue you.. or just soothe you.

And that is okay too.

Some of us have to learn to “Mother” ourselves.

My surrogates and my step mom have taught me more about themselves and myself in regard to the life around me by their unique perspectives and my willingness to listen and observe.  They present perspectives I don’t have on my own, unless I really try.  They DO HAVE birth children! They understand love on a level that I don’t They have  and continue to ride that roller-coaster which may not be ending soon when it comes to life transitions and need.

Rumor has it, “You always want and need your mother… no matter how old you are.”

What do they want in return? These Mothers?  Proof of existence?  Proof that their pain and turmoil and worry isn’t in vain?  Proof that their best attributes can rub off and be impactful and important through progeny?… Justification to a certain degree, that the risk was worth it?  The worry has worth?

Honestly, I don’t fucking know.  I am not even going to pretend right now.  Tell me.

The best I can come up with, is, they are like me; care taking spirits.  I took a different angle, and I know that the out come will be different.  I have no expectation than to have to deal with the most gruesome parts of mortality alone.  They probably expect or at least hope their children will be there to hold their hands through it, when it is their time.

I need to work on honoring this, because quite honestly I have previously just shat upon a Mothers purpose, Their purpose.   We don’t have life without Mothers.  We do not have balance without Women… and care taking humanity would be a lost cause without that energy.

But, I’m not a feminist…?!?

I don’t have to be, because regardless, Mothers gonna keep Mothering.  I apologize if I wasn’t appreciative before.  You all impact the totality of the past,present and future.  We need your love and attentiveness.  We need your kindness and structure.  We need your support, and your presence.  We need your fearless protective nature.

You are a TREASURE.

Thank you.

May all you Mothers, have a Mother Pluckin Mothers Day.

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.


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?

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.

February 12, 1999

I was able to apprehend a job at a local radio station when I was in High School.  I have to admit that I felt it was one of the coolest jobs a kid could have.  It didn’t pay much, and believe it or not, it required more responsibilities and checks than most HS kids have in jobs.  I stayed in radio for roughly 4 years on and off.  I still think it is one of the coolest, underpaid jobs in the world.  Here is a taste of a normal day observation back at KRAE/ KRRR; run by the iconic Tom Bauman.  

Tom reminded me of the cigarette smoking man on the X-files.  He was a strict mystery clouded by smoke.  His daughter Brenda, one of the main DJ’s,  was my favorite person at the station.  She loved my thrift store clothes, that reminded her of her youth.  Occasionally she would inform her listening audience on my daily attire.

For a few years, the KRAE family, was my second family.  I miss those old days, on the radio.   I loved that Tom wanted me on his crew.  I watched as the initial take overs of small stations were usurped by larger broadcasting conglomerates, infiltrating one of the oldest local stations in the region.

My how times have changed.  Please enjoy this short relic of the past.

P.S.  Yes, I worked at a place that still played records On-Air, and our commercials were recorded on to 8 track cassettes.  “Digital” was still in it’s infancy.


Silently I sit on a broken stool, in a puke green shag carpeted corner.  I hesitate while the stench of stale cigarettes pervades the room.

The addicted man behind the other door, lights a new one, once again.

I am burning out as he hungrily inhales his Cancer.

Music.  Good time oldies are playing and melting together as sweepers play in between every two songs.

Dan Rather will soon give his daily report.

The phone rings at just the wrong moment, yet the lady at the control board opens a sandwich bag full of fresh slices of orange.  She drips juice down her chin, and my stomach growls.

There is a consistent whir of reel to reel carts playing KRAE commercials.

The lady eating oranges says it is my turn to play.