Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

Dragonflies and butterflies  White and black on the bed  A beetle here  A ladybug over there  The chilly air  Sun shining in  And dust glittering  Little paisley shapes  You're warm and safe  Soft cotton all around  We laugh and roll At the precipice, we, together 

Perogies  And tomato soup  Mixed veggies  And water mugs  A seat on the counter  Imelda on the air  The little things  All the gentle  And caring  Little things Genuine  Wondrous  True  Love  A life  That is finally  Happy 

Violet splotchy dress  Neon pink flowers  Lavender go-go boots  Tap tap  Arm sway arm sway  Sing out  Call out 

How do you measure, measure what's happened? What a difference three months makes. How extraordinary the little chain of events has been. How joyous is life.

Dorothy wasn't a Gale  She was a wild wind  Blustering on the  Kansas prairie  Twirled in a twister  Blown away  Sailing on the breeze  To love  For adventure  Rainbows and bricks  Dogs in baskets  To melt  To garner a broom  Oh, but what was the mission, Really? Why, Dorothy? Neither bad nor good  Neither tin nor gold  Gulches and glitches  Away with you  Be strong and  Sail away  On the blue sky  And sparkle 

The birch tree orchard  Curved in a soft C shape  And light shone through  Each bristly little space  Snow white, great reedmace All glistened from mornings sun  Such wonder in such moments Oh, the joy in this sight  The scratchy texture  The dream and the reverence  Oh, the early time  These bless-ed snippets  Of wondrous life 

Basically, everything this year had been movie-like—just craziness. Any one thing that happened this year would have been a MAJOR life event, and there's been like ten things. I am shocked and awed and grateful. Wow. What a ride. 

The prompt was expand upon: I'd like to really understand everything that led me... For Many Reasons, I Hate Math I'd like to really understand everything that led me to Baldwinville Elementary, a falling apart and underfunded school that, for some reason, had wall-to-wall carpeting. God, that carpeting stunk, and I can still smell that odor if I think about it long enough, though I very much don't want to.  Baldwinville Elementary, a grey two-story building with buzzing, prison-like lights, sat at the state's saddest intersection. To the right was Winchendon, which the locals referred to as Winchen-tucky; to the front was the main road into the bad part of Athol, and to the left was the street that led to the old Salvadore car lot. Scattered around this podunk crossroads were a minuscule California Paints and Stains, Village Pizza, and a heavily polluted river, where they held the annual rubber duck race each year.  Mayberry this small town was not, but I had chosen th

Studio City, California  On .29 acres sits a gorgeous time capsule of 60s and 70s kitsch with classic cars the size of tanks and plastic grass. A charming split-level ranch with stonework and both Dutch modernism and mid-century modern design, this home is warm and filled with genuine love. Furniture in loud plaids, vinyl, and plastic, pepper this cozy house, as do dark brown, avocado green, and prison jumpsuit orange. Wood paneling at every turn delights the eye. Backyard is fully loaded with seesaw, swings, patio, carport, and a dog house for a nonexistent dog.  Comes with jolly, motherlike home assistant who bakes cakes for every occasion, large and small. Happy blended family sold separately. 

Have been told that I, and my laugh, are much too loud.  Have been made to believe that I am clingy, needy, or too affectionate.  Have been told my nose and forehead are too big, too manly.  Have been made to believe that openly sharing snacks and food is not okay because what you ordered, you ordered.  Have been told that I was a lot, too much, not enough.  Have been made to believe that I am stupid and/or less than because of dyscalculia and ASD, etc. Have felt inadequate.  Ugly. Unworthy. Like I had to pent it all up. Unwanted. Unrequited. Small. Bad small. No more.

Bruce Springsteen said in his song, For You,  I came for  you , for you, I came for you But you did not need my urgency  and for once, my urgency is needed. And that has made all the difference.

Dashing, good morning!  I rather enjoy your face, oh, to be with you. 

He looked to me  with faded aqua eyes and said, matter of fact,  "If there is nature worth seeing  they'd have built a hotel next to it.  For that is how  I would like  to view the world. To see the scenery, safe behind plexiglass." 

I've volunteered at many an event to face paint as a means of fundraising. This Saturday was one of those days and I found myself sitting in the basement of my best friend's Non-profit, next to a dear old friend. The goal was to get donations for the NP and to streamline the face painting if needed, if there was a line or crowding, etc. We drew up a chart that said the kids could get a simple bird, tree, or snowflake. Most were not interested and asked for something custom, which was more than fine. Until one girl asked me to turn her entire face into a dinosaur; thankfully, she settled for a small red brontosaurus on one cheek and a green one on the other. 

Alone in the corner, bent over a book of poems  Sitting beneath the lights that let out low hums Hot coffee by your side as you ponder the meaning  I long to join you but fear you'd be bothered by my intervening  So I took a bite of my Austrian tiramisu  Wondered, imagined, and thought, of you

A three-fourths life  So, mostly good  Mostly fixed  And repaired  Mostly put together  But it wasn't all  I allowed myself  To want it all  I dared to speak  Words that needed speaking  It came together  I came together  We found each other  How extraordinary  You didn't break me  But I'm rather flattered  You  Want to pick up  My pieces  Without anterior motives  Without expectations  Careful kindness  Warm generosity  Exhilarating and  Whirlwind  Don't come close  As we become close 

The misty autumn morning  And the drive past the lobster shack  The rackety old streets  And hockey murals under the overpass  The unfairness of leaving  And the excitement of returning  The unfathomable sixteen And imagining what's in store

I feel wrong when I'm not with you; my tiny hands are empty. You have the softest, sturdiest hands to hold me and make me whole.  We hold and recite, and life feels fantastical.  I can't remember anything; titles and words and Pyrex dishes.  You made me forget my name after you broke my bra strap in your kitchen. We forgot to be careful in the town where it mattered, but caution be damned. I wanted to do and be better and flourish in every way. You brought out the very best and touched places no one has. We are better now, best together, and meld easily, the way the waves join the sand.

Dancing at a train station  Looking out at the lake  Drinking mead and  Patting horses  Cushioned window benches  Surrounded by books Laughter and homemade ice cream  You, with me

What do you do when your fantasy comes to life? Do you get rid of the old, slash it with a knife? Do you leap from the cold?  Enjoy someone to hold? Do you finally understand what it's like to be happy? Do you write little poems, ones that are sappy?

More in hours than in so many years  Beautiful works and moved to tears  What a treasured treasury  These feelings are exemplary 

Twisted lightly around my neck  blue and red,  fluffy, soft. You pulled it gently, with a smile. Sparkling eyes, faded green. A kiss, a long kiss, and hands slid around me. A light snow  left little droplets on your  thick, grey hair.  White sky and slushy snow  All around us. Us. I love you,  and embracing in the cold.

The emotions you make me feel are like mysterious items from the attic; what are they? And what do I do with them? I dream of asking what you would do with them. Or if you even know, or have noticed.

Insert yourself/your character into your favorite work of fiction. How/why are you there? What is your character like? How do the other characters respond to you? I chose Game of Thrones, by George R. R. Martin, and the character I created for myself is Lady Annora of house Firn, the Linen Armorer for Winterfell. Her dearest friend is Jon Snow. This story was created by using Jon's age/appearance from the show and takes place before the events of Book 1, so pre-Ghost and Longclaw, etc. I set my sewing basket down on the stone floor of my quarters, then sat beside the fire to warm myself. When I regained feeling in my hands, I stood to take off my cloak but paused, admiring the sigil I'd recently embroidered onto the thick wool, a brown loom on a light grey background, the symbol of House Firn.  Firn is a small house, much like the house Petyr Baelish had come from, lesser and largely unnoticed. But also like Lord Petyr, my father and I had done well for ourselves. We worked our

Crossing off bucket list item number one was...as awesome as I thought it would be.  Wow.

At 5:28 pm  On the second floor  Of a library  At computer number 8  I finished

Election Day  Election gray  How long will I be be free  Theyre coming for  My rights, my body  My right to be a person  My right to make decisions  Wasn't that the beauty  Of leaving seventeen? Eighteen gave you freedom  But I guess that's just for some  Every Election Day  Brings terror  Fear and horror  Gently down the steam 

Not a sprint  Cliche  And true  So close  To the end  Carpal tunnel  Twisted back  Hunched  And hopeful  Closer and closer 

For a "handsome ransom" as their dad said. For four days. Three nights on a floor. Two kids.  One check.

Hallllllp, I'm scared. And exhausted. My eyes hurt. And my brain is fried. And this week is beyond exhausting. And this blog has been awful. Who is reading this? Thank you for reading this. Sorry it's been utterly uninspired, but I am...preoccupied.  Fingers crossed and anxiety at a thousand! 

If you're at an intersection and you're trying to turn left, you HAVE to yield—driving school 101. If you can't understand that and you insist on blaring your horn, I and all the citizens around you should be allowed to collect a fee. I CAN'T TURN LEFT IF CARS ARE COMING! WHY IS THIS HARD TO GRASP!? This only happens in the affluent sections of the state. The entitled BMW and Tesla drivers who think they're driving planes instead of trend cars. Douchey.

And presents challenges  And it's annoying AF  And I just want to finish  But I can't focus  Ugh

Lemon beagle  Runs under the catahoula  Like she is a bridge  They have zoomies together  And play fight  They sleep butt to butt   Neither will fetch  Both will hug  My baby doggies

But in good ways  Happy ways  Unexpected ways  Ways that are sooner  And scary  And fun and fulfilling  My God does manifesting work  It did, it really did  I got obsessed and stayed obsessed 

It's 2 am, suddenly, you're waken up To see that an emergency broadcast has been added. The message simply states, "Run." I pulled my Care Bears blanket over my head, my bedroom was freezing. I curled up in a ball, hoping to fall back asleep, but my bedroom door opened and the portable TV appeared in the doorway, sitting on my Mom's bar cart.  The TV clicked on, making snowy static, then the words 'emergency broadcast' appeared on screen, followed by a neon orange background and the word 'Run,' in bold, black letters.  "Artie, you little booger, it's two am! Put the TV away and go to bed! And close the door, it's cold!" He didn't answer. The TV repeated the same pattern, static, neon, 'Run.' "Ugh, really?" I muttered. "Artie, I swear to God, I'll go downstairs and wake Mom!" No answer.  I rubbed my eyes and and climbed out of bed, wondering why it was so cold. I threw on my bathrobe, shuffled pa

One party  Four friends  Four years  One bonfire  Ten pans of food  Seven kids  Four husbands  One donut  Five hours  Two pictures  Too many laughs to count

I don't think your affluence is cool, I find it garish and unnecessary  Flaunting Patagonia like the pope brandishes rings  Discussing million-dollar renovations and Tahitian vacations like they're table scraps Desperate to not so secretly announce to the world that you're well off Having money is not a personality trait  I wouldn't even be close to half your wealth, but I have so much more.  The ability to see past designer kids' clothes and arranged little meetings  Something to talk about, though I'm disregarded for my hair and thrifted clothes  If wealth is a game, then you're winning, but if life is talent and meaning, then I call checkmate 

I have a fever, and the only prescription  is more Zappe! It's Zappening!

I love Ted Lasso  Dani Rojas is my fave  Beautiful Cristo  He's here, he's there, he's  Every-fucking-where, Roy Kent! Beautiful captain. The best show ever  Making TV kind again  Over and over

A line that said  Her truth was in  Her poetry  Such a line  To happen upon  I wish that I Had written it  Because it was true  Because no one knew  How strange that her  Most important fact  Was scarcely known  While her face was known  Around the globe

One week from today the writing group I'm starting with two other people begins. I can't wait but I'm also super scared. I'm also working around the clock on my novel.  I am NOT complaining, these are fabulous 'problems' to have!

Yassss!! My 3rd Billy Joel at MSG. Absolutely stoked. Just sat down, hoping my height doesn't affect my view this time! ...amazing day; drove in to NYC, stopped in Astoria for Comfortland, saw the Friends Experience, the theater where they perform Hamilton, watched the first half of the Pats game in Times Square, watched Bailey Zappe the terrific toddler win said game, and walked around the fashion district. So thankful for fun trips like these and that Billy is still rockin'. I've loved these days! ;)

Head of house Martell  Hero in pink  Queen of seven and three  Legend isn't a title good enough for you  Goddess perhaps comes close  Movie star and model  Comedian and singer  Business mogul and author I have given you all my money  But you have given me everything

I take in his sculpted face as if each feature is oxygen Incredibly aesthetically pleasing in every single sense  Joyous black eyes that shimmer and squint in smile  Onyx hair that glitters as it cascades down the center part, silky  Satiny jersey ripped off and swung around, rippled, god-like muscles  The most pulchritudinous brown skin striking atop verdant grass  The accent- Jesusgod- his accent, it's spoken sex  Even his name is fun to say; with a light ah and up at the end  Stunning, sensual Adonis, I am in love

I have to finish and pay attention but I cannot seem to focus. Why is it so hard to focus? Is this ADHD or my inner saboteur? Both? Neither? I just want to focus and finish!

Redacted! :D

I'm not of my generation I was born 50 in 1987 I grew up in love with Greg Brady I desperately wanted to be friends with Marcia Brady and The Monkees I just found out that Rob Zombie did a Munsters remake My elderly heart is full Netflix and chill

New Dawn Art Center Ashburnham, MA Tuesday nights Coming 10-18-22 All writers, all levels! All are welcome!

Idyllic She peered into  the second story  gable window of the old white  farmhouse at the tall boy penny pencil in hand bent over  his words, his world. Gold rimmed glasses framed his  handsome face as a dreamy smile graced his lips. He seemed to glow brighter than the afternoon sun shining down  on Virginia. She longed  To feel the way he must feel. To create and story tell the way he did To have what he did To enjoy the love and richness he was blessed with She wanted to escape into his world to love and live and experience what happiness could be. This writer had it all, a welcoming farm with kindly Blueridge people The lovely mother who sang and baked The strong father who provided Six brothers and sisters with the most enviable red hair and  A vulpine grandpa and ironing grandma It seemed so perfect even it wasn't.  The Depression, the war.  The uncertainty of the time but even still, even still they had each other.  They had hope. She sighed as she walked away Time to return

Writers retreat! Four days of glamping. Cabins and pinecones and critiques and ponds and fireplaces and sharing. Creating and editing. Bundling up and exploring and trying new things. Meeting and fellowship. Fun.

Spooning, "I miss you." Turning around, face to face. That's much better, smooch.

Polydactyl cat With the ocean colored eyes Sleeping in a sink 

I fell to the wayside  on the brick patio in the cast iron bistro chair when I saw your incredibly handsome  and beautiful  face. Wait not among the cobblestone,  nor the honey, nor tavern with colonial chairs and pewter mugs. Nor at the saltbox or old red school. Here is not for you. You were, are, meant for more and greater. Go out, sally forth,  be the model. Your tattooed arm and pierced ear and perfect beard belong out, in, and to,  the world. Open neptunic eyes of galaxies. There is much and more for you. Under umbrellas when you should be under stars, or in them, or one of them! Go, with all you have, go! Leave the black and white and storm the world.  

Big fences make good dog yards A safe place for  Two silly doggies To run in circles  And play canine WWE To sit in the sun And nap in the flower bed Good fences make  Happy dogs

It hurts All day Every day More so Now And that's A good problem In that I'm writing And Editing Constantly  And getting So much Closer

To whom it may concern.  To whoever is in charge. If you're even there, In the skies and clouds And divinely invested in Football.  Please, hear my  Plea May Mac be swift and accurate, Everything we know he can be.  Guide him, our captain, our captain. May the offensive line protect him. May he have many targets. May the defense stop and intercept. May special teams be special. May the whole team come together as one to dominate and win. May we win at least 11, though 17 would be better.  May the season be fun and eventful, with no injuries and few penalties. Please hear this plea and make this New England Patriots season the best ever.

Sunday night and you're still hangin' around Tired of listening to your dumb ass critics You'd like to find a little hole in the defense, For yardage So you went to the gym, got new swol arms And you read Bills playbook and stopped ice cream It's like some prolific change for the better And you smile Captain Mac will get you through tonight And take you to your special W Captain Mac will get you by tonight Just a little pass, and we'll be smilin' Oh yeah, ... So you stand behind the center in your New England clothes And you look so polished from your hair down to your toes Ah but still you're going to show all the non-believers  After all,  Captain Mac will get you a win tonight And take you to your special victory Captain Mac will get you points tonight Just a little rush, and he'll be smilin' (To The Tune of Billy Joel's 1973 song 'Captain Jack')

Religious abuse of the past never really leaves us, does it? The anti-women rhetoric. The hypocrisy. The anti LGBTQIA+ hate speech. Child abuse. Mental torment. Anti accepting. Anti love. I could go on for pages.  I haven't been in that school or that church for decades. It must be close to thirty years by now. I still think about the torment. The loneliness. How cold the building was literally and figuratively. Seeing churches now with openly LGBTQIA+ leaders, churches flying Pride flags...it's great to see, but there are still decades, centuries, of abuse. It's so scary to fear when these old demons will come back to haunt.  I came across a picture someone posted of some graffiti they walked by, and it read, 'religion is a great way to hide from god.'

All at once, everything happens. Dreams and cousins growing up and things getting started and putting yourself out there and allowing yourself to hope and take-up space without apology. It's dizzying and scary and fun and thrilling and exhausting all mixed in one beautiful jumble. 

I slide one purple harness  Over a catahoula And a red harness Over a beagle Click in place Click in place Wrap the leashes  Around my  Aching wrists We walk outside Walk through chirps Squeaky squawks  Flapping Leather wings The bats are out They fly in  Wobbly patterns They must live In the trees out back But we cannot see where I wonder if the dogs Care the bats Are there What do they think Of the sounds Do they see And hear Maybe chase A strange bird?

At my sign post. What's up ahead? What's my next stop? It seems this is reality now. It seems like this is happening. I want to say, I've done it. And I think, soon, I really can.

Like Robert the Bruce found inspiration in the spider that kept rebuilding its web, I found inspiration in the teeny spider that kept crawling onto my notes yesterday. I am scared and mortified and nervous but also determined AF. Stay tuned...

I am clenched in the vicious, drooling jaws of anxiety. I am shaking and scared and apparently just labeled as dramatic. One, I'm on the autism spectrum, so fuck you, and two, it's an autistic meltdown. I am overrun with exhausting emotions right now. Hurt, fear, sadness, helplessness...I'm on day three of this but by all means, stay away. Like, could I have some actual compassion?  Yeah, I'm fine in that I'll get up tomorrow and go to work, but meanwhile, I feel like I can't breathe, I feel abandoned, my brain feels like a cake mixer on high, my back aches, and I'm nauseated beyond belief. I guess this is the cross I bear. Alone.

Liquid cream on my tongue slowly oozing to my anxious, anxious, washing machine spin cycle, stomach. Chalky cream. You tatste awful and you're a bandaid on a massive, sanguinary wound. Sticky with what ifs and possible embarrassment and thousands of constant scenarios. Do they make a calming doggy thunder vest for adult humans? I am aching. And nervous. And wondering. Sacred to holy hell. Please?

Queen. She was a queen- and a maverick.  A badass and strong woman. Someone to idolize. I longed to be  as cool as her, as funny. I marveled at her  beautiful hair and the way it moved. She never, not once, took anyone's shit. Smart and tough, great dresser to boot. What a hero to all of us born female.  All of us born as what society sees as lesser.  She was never lesser, regardless of society and systemic bullshit. Unwavering in strength and resiliency, intelligence and grace. You could argue but none could argue that you are a Queen.

I used to like you. Not just the character you played. I wanted to be you or her. You both were my idol I would've  settled for being  your sister or friend. Maybe I could've been your other best friend living next door  on the other side of your grey mansion with the bright red door. I would've been the politest guest  and perfect confidant.  You, who had eveything everywhere you looked. I would've given  anything for your father who never yelled, who understood.  Or your uncles, who were honored to let  their entire lives revolve around you. You had the best clothes and the best hair. Perfect grades and a room I've been jealous of for decades.  Plus handsome boyfriends I could  only dream of. I wrote my college essay about you. The letter that got me  accepted to my university was about you, your influence, and how nuch  you meant to me. But now I hate you  and love her. And not for the reasons you would think. You damn  all of us and are  complacent.  I know you&

Sweet prince with the wolf cut hair of Hawkins and Forrest Hills. Leader of lost and forlorn labeled so unfairly,  Eddie the freak. The kind one, kissing the guitar. The unfortunate one, witness to horror. Hiding under the tarp. Sail out and sail away. You had no powers, not supernatural ones, just your goodness. Lovers Lake and radios, stopped watches and a trip to the  creepiest old house. Grabbed and pulled through the gate, followed by new friends. S.O.S. Through the old chandelier. The War Zone, ready for battle. Tin shield and makeshift spear. Play your song, concert for the ages. Deflect with the bicycle, refuse to follow and face the hoard. Heroic. Eddie the epic. Biten and consumed  and rendered rabid by those vile, evil, Demobats. Please return. Hero, vampiric,  ghost, or  reserected. Eddie the hero.

Optimism abound today! As I tried to start writing again and tried to make a writing career for myself, there were times when I felt like it was stupid to keep going. I often struggled with the optimism and perseverance to never give up and the reality of no one wanting my work. Then I found I was struggling with should I still write for myself, or was that dumb? I ended up taking a couple months off, if for nothing else, my mental health, and then surprises came. Interest in my work. Hope and validation. I'll skip ahead, but there's potential interest in a 5k word piece, and a short story has been accepted into an online journal. Thankfully, I've learned that never giving up is always the right choice. You make your own luck, and you should never give up on yourself. 

The writing prompt asked; if you could have three fictional characters over for dinner, who would you choose? Ted Lasso, Jo March, and Blackbeard (The OFMD version.) We'd eat KC barbecue in Concord and after dinner, we'd go sailing. It would be a dream come true and I'd never want to wake up.

"Sara! My name is Sara!" I was trying to help a desperate young woman on the shore of a marina somewhere in Texas. I was having an incredibly realistic dream. It was so real that when I woke up, I did a google search for people named Sara in Texas. I didn't find anything but couldn't shake the feeling of how real this dream had felt. I'd been walking on a long and winding sidewalk near a marina peppered with large white boats. It was really hot, the sun was beating down, and I longed to jump in the water next to me to cool off. I walked by some construction workers, who made me cross the street to get around their work. When I got back on the sidewalk, I came across two women who seemed panicked.  I approached the one with blonde hair and sunglasses and asked if she was okay. The other woman seemed to fade away as Sara frantically told me her name and started crying. We both looked around the marina, then tried to figure out what to do. The last thing I remember b

(with a few details changed) "I like your scars, Bradley," called a deep voice from my memory.  I'm transported back, years ago, to the cabinet makers where we worked, before the Revolution.  He had seen my first scars, the only ones I had prior to the war. I look into the mirror and cock my head, so I can see my jagged scars, reddish-purple reminders of an accident in childhood.  I try not to go deeper into my memory, but I blink and find myself outside the cabinet makers where we had sat close together on the long bench, knee to knee, exchanging glances.   After eating lunch, he'd tossed aside his gala apple core, brushed off his weathered hands, then ran them over his glistening face. He caught me admiring him, his sandy blonde hair tied into a ponytail with a black string. He effortlessly stood out against the vivid red leaves in his loose white shirt and black breeches. My eyes darted from his hair, to his square jaw, to large and calloused hands. I'll never

When Game of Thrones was still on the air, I used to complain to one of my best friends about how frustrated I was that these TV writers dared to change any of the brilliant words George R. R. Martin put down on paper. I couldn't believe they could come along and change anything he' written! Didn't they know how much time and precision and life he had poured into the books? And I kept saying how impressive it was that George created this whole universe, these five books!    As the show went on and the story seemed to get away from the writers, from all of us, really, it was frustrating! One of the things I complained about a lot to my best friend is that they couldn't change the storyline or these characters or this detail because George had meticulously woven everything together in such an incredible way, so how dare the show! I would get the response from my best friend-in a teasing way- oh, your precious George, and oh, if he were a better writer, he would have finis

I notice that he slouches sometimes. He only does it when he's nervous, and I don't believe he is aware of this tell. Normally, he stands tall and proud, though never in a domineering way. Rather, he has the posture of a man who is proud of what they've accomplished. Though his resume is impressive, he remains endlessly kind and effortlessly humble.  He is the only man I have ever gushed over, and it surprises me that I can gush. I was the eternal man-hater, the one who insisted I would proudly be single forever. I was independent to a fault and loudly not looking. When fate brought him to me, I knew in an instant that despite all my efforts, I was in love. I had called my best friend in a desperation that was equal parts 'What the fuck?' and 'Why is this happening?' When she was done laughing, I asked her what I was supposed to do now. "Follow your heart!" "But I didn't think I had one!" That earned more laughs.  Eventually, I discov

Canary grandma poncho  Vintage and so soft A rather stark and  Intense Contrast to the other Pinkish weaves of yarn The one that made me beautiful  The one that was torn away By cruel and crueler words The one I thought had Turned to trash How strangely it has grown But still I live My Marcia life But still I thrive  Despite it

Traveling from Boston to Ohio today with my godmother, we were up at 2:30 am, got to Logan, had a stopover in Laguardia, and finally made it to Ohio. We had many hours to laugh and plan and enjoy each other's company. The day only improved when we met up with my other Aunt for bbq, thrifting, chats, and Mediterranean food. Topping the day off with some Project Runway reruns was the icing on an already perfect cake. 

I long for a time  When I didn't fear the news Back when my anxieties Had a much different fuse But I guess  I didn't know better Didn't see history's repeating  Helped by each abetter Over and over We've been here before And it could get worse Damned to be diverse, woman, or poor The hate continues Oppression thrives  Crushed by capitalism The price just our lives Must be nice  To be a cis/het white male Gross and in charge and free Overseeing and laughing when we fail Scams and greed and  Phallic rockets Yachts and islands Cash for billionaire pockets  All that is left is hope What else can we do Until they take that away And monetize it too

Reusable bags, coupons, and a checklist all ready to go in tax-free New Hampshire leads to a successful trip. The last day of July yields Christmas shopping victories and piles of money saved. Add in fun family members and delicious food? Unforgettable. A perfect way to close out the month. 

Combs and oils for the long black beard  Bushy and unbrushed Gently pull through Gingerly massaging his folicals From cheek roots and chin roots to tip Lovely raven locks of  Beard hair Snarl free and curly Affixing tiny Purple velvet bows At the ends of Two teensy braids Edward Wearing fine things quite well

Lanky person strolling by. Legs that look like Rocket Pops, in long and linen  bellbottoms. Stand out so boldly; bright blue, winter white, and ruby red. Late July  brings sadness  and convention. Terror day by day. There's relief to be distracted by long popsicle pants. Appreciate the unexpected.  Endearing and simple. A quick forget, a short reprise, from chaos and fire.

Please welcome the first-ever guest author to my blog; my godmother, aunt, and friend, Donna Crowe! Donna is a screenwriter and blogger; follow her at;  www.MsToyWhisperer.Wordpress.com & @MsToyWhisperer on Twitter. Orange You Glad You Asked? I didn’t realize I was passionate about fruit until I learned my niece wasn’t. Fruit is naturally packaged and often, ready-to-eat. Just polish an apple to enjoy every snapping juicy bite, peel a banana for an instant breakfast or rinse a few grapes for a polyphenol-rich snack. This oldest niece, Melissa, recently visited one summer night. I offered her some fresh pineapple chunks, leftover from morning breakfast. I learned she didn’t like pineapples - or watermelon. Bananas weren’t a particular favorite either. I was surprised they were all dislikes since she has a healthy diet, appreciates vegan food, and doesn’t eat sweets. Bing! Melissa finally settled in with a few cherries instead. She did also mention her love for peaches. If they are p

I love orange. Orange; cats, candy, and seltzer are my jam. Oh, and add marmalade to that mix. Hand me an appropriately prepared and arranged orange slice on the side of my large platter of scrambled eggs? Fabulous! Just don't let it touch the eggs themselves.  Orange cakes, cookies, funky sneakers, and blush? Hell yeah. Want me to peel an orange? Oh, honey. With all of today's modern conveniences where I can more or less get whatever food I want at any time, why, oh why, would I eat an orange?  Time and patience (and texture) are critical factors in this neurodivergent/autism spectrum persons eating habits. If I have to make my meal or snack, you better believe it's microwave city or whatever can be unwrapped the fastest.  An orange comes in the most frustrating packaging! And why does it have a belly button? Gross! And why is the skin full of divets? And, oh yeah, if you want to save yourself an hour, don't bring up pith.  You've been forewarned, I bring up pith.

I guess I liked fictitious you. Well, I know I did. I loved you even. My college essay, the work that got me accepted to college was about you. Gah, not you, the  character  you played.  I wanted to be you and wear your clothes. I'd have given  anything to be your friend  or sister. Couldn't I  have been the best friend who lived next door on the other side of your grey mansion with the gorgeous, bright red door? I would've been the very best guest and confidant, anything. Your whole world was everything  mine was not.  I wanted your kind father who  never yelled. The uncles who were happy in having their worlds revolve around you. You had all the answers  and were the  perfect daughter, student, sister, friend, role model. You had everything  and more. Seeing you, actual you, is disappointing.  Not for the reasons  people would think. What I can never forgive  and never get over, what I have lost in you, is how you were  the very best  girl, woman, female but now you happi

I've cast the movie version of my novel in my head. I see the sets, the clothes, the director. I see it all so clearly. It feels scary and fun and free and ridiculous and wonderful to dream this dream.

Is how I've felt post 30. I've thrown my back out from sneezing. I had back inflammation so bad I couldn't walk. I got norovirus once, good times. When, occasionally, I don't feel like a fossil, it's a real treat.  At the pool with my nanny kid, a life guard started chatting with us. She asked,  "So what college do you go to?" Score! 

My book took 4 months to write, I 'finished' it last June.  I'm STILL editing it and picking it apart. I'm 17 months in.  After finishing my book I had to learn how and who to query. I spent hours, so many freaking hours, trying to figure out how to query and market. While I was trying to build my website and Twitter. While getting rejected constantly. While having a job and 8 pets. I gave up querying in late winter due to mental health.  By chance/luck/magic/who knows what, I found some people who seem interested. Things are progressing. I am cautiously ecstatic. They are lovely and make me feel seen and I badly, desperately, want to work with them. There are many steps. There are many questions. There is still tweaking and editing to do.  I think and write and hope and yearn and doubt and convince at all hours of the day and night. I want this so badly. I'm willing to do the work. I will make this happen. I will see this through.  ...All the while I have to put on

Scared's like a clock, always ticking  on and on. It doesn't matter what hand; slow like hours,  quicker like minutes, fastest in seconds. Doesn't stop. How it always is, internally and eternal. Tick. Tick tick. Tickticktick. Spiraling storm of hands, loose hands. Watches and grandfathers; tick. Fear. It's always fear, sure as one is after twelve.  Choking, stepping. Beating, tickticktick.

Or maybe more? How do you measure the ticks till your dreams? Maybe dreams.  Anxious, hopeful. Scared, unsure. Begging, pleading, but to whom? Your head, a god? The universe perhaps. Making changes, all day, every day. Casting a fictitious movie. Calming quaking breath. So much in the air, No air in my lungs. What is happening?  Do any of us know? So much that summer can't distract. Shining sun shines on  treading trepidation. But we, but I, can only go on, I suppose. 

I arrived home yesterday, after a very long day, to a massive loaf of homemade zucchini bread hanging from a bag on my front doorknob. It felt very Leave it to Beaver, very adorably old school. Such a sweet gesture from a very lovely neighbor.  It's the little things.

Rhys Darby live in Boston!! Got to see my pirate captain and polite menance tonight! What a fun and funny show. The OFMD was very, very represented. Lots of orange patterned shirts and pirate outfits. Loved it.  The show ended with "you people know that representation matters!" and yes, yes, yes!

It's 1991 and I sit at the absurdly  large computer. Neon, blinding screens and  Oregon Trail. The short, dumpy teacher with a fish-like name yells out, "Do you think you're on vacation!?  SIT UP!" I had dared to not sit properly, undiagnosed ND, ASD, ADHD, anxiety. I sit up straight.  I feel embarrassed and ashamed.  I think of this often, as my five-year-old self  attends a frigid and  lonely school.

I feel like I'm standing in a crowded room and screaming. Screeching in despair. Yelling my rage. It's ignored.  No one looks up. Nightmare of hell. How many times do I need to explode, blatantly stating, It's not, this is not, I'm not, Okay.

They threatened for hundreds of years. They said it would come. Centuries of thinly veiled hate have boiled to the surface. It's here. What now?

The monster separates from its host. We assume the host shall seek the monster again. One cannot survive without the other. Bound in stabbed-out eyes, sick closeness no one knows. The stenches, oh, the smells, assault the nose and breed in walls. Coiled around one another, ah, can you truly leave? Foul, foul. I see. I seethe. Both, no, three? Perhaps a trio. Disgust abounds and perhaps the bed too small. Such a complex, aim low. 

Fifty-one years ago, the most brilliant lyricist (imho) wrote; "They say that these are not the best of times But they're the only times I've ever known" Words still relevant. Words that I can not get out of my head. Occasionally I pepper in; "Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity" and also,  "Between reality and madness It's either sadness or euphoria" I desperately cling to the words of Billy Joel. I desperately try to overcome my anguish and horror and fear. I blare the song 'Summer, Highland Falls' and the album 'Cold Spring Harbor' as I fall and sink and cry and hide and stare at the dark.

What. Who. It's coming. We are not armed. All pawns. All screwed. Forced.

"Excuse me. You're standing on my neck." -Theme from Daria  We peaked in the 90s.

I have not  One thing to say As I reflect Upon this day

I have bilateral carpal tunnel, and I'm exceedingly clumsy. I always take extra care when handling fragile things, especially if they don't belong to me.  At work, I've never been asked, but I always empty the dishwasher. The people I work for are exceptionally kind, welcoming, etc. They're the best people I've worked for at the best job I've ever had.  Today, I was removing glasses from the dishwasher. Somehow, I broke a glass as I removed it from the rack. As I turned the shards over in my hands, I saw it was my boss's favorite glass. Happy Tuesday!  

Nothing is more unsettling than the stench of black licorice or honeydew melon. The thought of either makes me feel ill. The gassy, choking odor of the supposed candy or the doubled-over nauseous smell from the gross, bald, melon, how disgusting.  Unchecked stupidity. Like when people use religion to hate monger. Or when people are racist, prejudiced, homophobic... Animals not being treated like the royalty they are. I wish every dog and cat lived like mine, precious and revered.

Enjoying Boston Sports- The Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, and Celtics. Art- sewing, painting, drawing, sculpting, etc. Reading- The Babysitters Club, American Girls, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Game of Thrones, etc. Movies/TV- The Wizard of Oz, The Sound of Music, The Brady Bunch, Full House, etc. Writing- I've attempted most iterations at one time or another. I feel like everything else ebbs and flows from love it, to like it, to hate it. Or maybe it's indifference or never having tried. Who knows.

Upon learning what demi girl meant, I immediately, in my head, started singing "demi girl kinda life, baby, baby, I want something else..." And then I couldn't help but think; at this age, one could hardly be called a girl. And also, the opportunity to coin the term femi-guy was missed, and I'd much prefer that. Ah, well.