Wednesday, April 18, 2012

I Like It

I like the sounds of passion better than the feel of it.
The sound creates the images and the depth.
I like the words we use better than the things we mean
The words don't make me think too much.

I love the way you look at me when you're lost in it
The look tells me things I really like to know.
I like the movement more than the intention
The movement brings more heat and sweet to it.

I feel who you are when we are over it
The who you are is the real you you are.
I need the way we are when reality comes back
Reality is the part we let the others see.


Should I? Should I? Should I?

All right, Readers, I need your input.

For about 2 years I've been playing with the idea of writing a book. Nothing fancy, just a self-pub through, say, Amazon or something. I got the idea when a friend of mine (Drew Williams) brought it up. At the time, I was so on the move - not in a good way, but in a running-from-a-crazy-relationship kind of way.

Once I got back to Anchorage this last time, I'd hope to get on my feet (money-feet, job-feet, maybe find-a-love-feet) and give writing another try. Yeah, well, my health had other plans. Didn't consult with me at all beforehand, just knocked me on my ass with this nasty Sarcoidosis.

Well, the Sarc is still here, I'm still not really on any of my "feet," and life is just as messy as ever. Here's the thing, though: I realized that life is always messy - sometimes good-messy or sad-messy or fun-happy-odd-messy. Life, at least my life, is never going to be "normal" or set. I have to work with what I've got from where I'm at.

So. A book. Not the big trilogy I worked on for around 3 years. Not anything that will bring a Pulitzer committee around - shoot, probably not anything to bring a free magazine subscription in! But, still, a book.

I don't need to feel important or smart or even sane to anyone other than the people I care about and who care about me. I just want to make people smile and feel better about life. I want to be the writer you think of at the same time you think of the real and ordinary and good and sad and bad of everyday life. I just want to write things that will be read.

And, because I am also so broke that all the king's men might not be able to put me back together again, I need to make some kind of money out of it. Not big money, not Bentley or Maybach money. I'd be happy to make pay-ATT-and-the-doctors'-bills money. I hate this feeling of poverty and financial helplessness I'm living with. (Do you know that there were moments when I thought of setting up a private family-only begging site? Not that my family isn't helping me as is, but I wanted to have like a solid plan of income! lol)

I am going to work through the Sarc. I think that since I am going at my own pace, I can manage.


I want to write. I want to know if anyone has any idea about how that works. Is Amazon's self-pub a good way to go? Are there better ways to go? Anybody have any advice, ideas...? I'll take any help I can get.

By the way, I have a lot of material started. I plan to use my new blog to give previews as I finish sections and I will put up a link here when it's ready to start viewing. I will want a lot of feedback from you, my G+ pals. You all have been a huge source of encouragement these past weeks.

For those with serious information, please contact me at


Me & My Shadows

I have discussed my phobias before. My many, many phobias. I have made attempts to be braver about things, but I am a work in progress. Progress is slow.

I wish I will one day be able to write a post listing my cured phobias. In the meantime, all I can do is keep writing about them period.

Let's see, there is my fear of heights, bridges, deep water, driving next to deep water, walking on dirt/grass/gravel with or without shoes, snakes, scorpions and photos with eyes. (No, that's not all of them, but these will get us started.)

When you stop laughing, I will gladly explain.



The thing with heights has to do with falling. The idea dropping to the ground even from a shoe heel high enough for a respectable hooker just bothers me. The idea of being several feet off the ground makes me mildly uncomfortable. The idea of dropping off a high balcony or railing just scares the freaking over-yonder-y'all Texas accent right out of me. I have avoided chances for classier seats at theatrical plays because of this fear.

I have had a problem with this when traveling. Of course, there's the whole airplane thing. I have made some very temporarily intimate friends that I bond with during the take-off and landing of flights. There is something about flirting with strangers just so they will let you be a big ole baby and hold their hand during the ascent and descent of your jet travels. (And, yes, I realize there is no real logic to this. It's not like having a hand to hold is going to save a life should the plane crash, right. Well, that's not the point. The point is to have a real flesh and blood piece of the anatomy to squeeze while on your way to a potential death. A hand is better than anything else I might grab in a panic. I think women who give childbirth can relate to this.)

The height thing has also caused problems for me when traveling by ground. For instance, I (as a child)  proudly traveled many times the great Alaska Canada Highway with my military family. I said "proudly" not bravely. As a passenger, I'm not bad. When I was young, I loved that ride. I sat in the back of our old station wagon, ate salami and cracker snacks and got geopgraphy, geology and zoology lessons from my parents. Plus, I got to lay down and say "lalalala" to myself as a coping mechanism when crossing bridges or driving next to water.

As an adult, I had to actually help drive the AlCan. Closing your eyes and saying "lalalala" is not really a safe option when you are behind the wheel of the vehicle. I know because I tried it a couple of times. During one family move, my sister threatened to put me out and leave me on the side of the road once about 70 miles outside Whitehorse.

My soon-to-be ex-husband and I drove from Arizona to Anchorage the second year we were together. I was still so in love and later joked to everyone that we'd survived that drive so we'd survive anything. I really  hate it when crap like that comes back to tell on me. Sometimes when I am tempted poke sharp pins into the head of a little doll named Tim, I calm myself with the memory that he once really loved me. I know he did. The fact that he didn't commit any kind of spousal abuse during that trip says great things about either his patience or the power of my prayers. I was no joy to travel with, let me tell you. First of all, I have a really bad sense of direction. If I had been alone, I'd still be trying to find my way out of Vancouver. Second of all, there are those phobias...

One night, after Tim had driven something like 14 hours straight, I took the wheel to "bring us on into" whatever the next town was. And I was bringing us, baby. I was doing around 80 and just feeling all that loud Rick James funk I had going on the stereo. I was bringing us smooth and steady. Then I damn near flipped the Explorer trunk over hood. That's how hard I hit the brakes. Poor Tim - all 5' 6" of him - almost smooshed against the dash like a cartoon character (which I thought at the time didn't do much for his looking sexy). First, he re-gained some composure (still, not sexy), then he used every non-nice word in the English language to ask what was wrong with me. I'm glad he's uni-lingual.

I gave him my look - the one that was waiting to see if he was finished being so damned rude - and pointed. "Bridge."

I think I saw my possible death in that man's eyes. My mother always told me that God has special angels watching over me. This I now know. I think I might have even seen a feather from Gabriel's wings as Tim got out and came around to the driver's seat.

So, yeah. The height phobia is not good for travel. This is why I couldn't live in Dallas, couldn't drive certain places in Houston and learned every single surface road when I lived around Phoenix. Those Rounds and Mixers and Multi-layer works of concrete art you have to drive on... Nah. Ain't happening.

The other of my phobias that most people don't get right off has to do with my sensitivity to textures. Underfoot textures.

I know that when I was young and staying in Texas, I played with my cousins in the dirt, grass and mud. There is plenty of photographic evidence of my little dusty young self, ashy-kneed and very happy. I don't know exactly when I got so... weird about the outdoors. My brothers tease me and say that I was always a prissy little snit. Whatever. (I have promised my niece and nephew to give one of their camping/fishing outings a try this summer. Of course, it took my health scare and this new appreciation of life to make that promise possible.)

And the strangest of my phobias? The thing about pictures with eyes. I cringe to even think about it. The eyes, not the phobia.

You know how the eyes in photos and paintings kind of follow you? Like they are watching you? Okay. That's the feeling that creeps me out. I don't really like live things watching me like that, and I sure don't want to be tracked by some dead relative or perfect stranger. It was another thing about me that annoyed Tim. He thought it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard when I refused to have pictures in our bedroom. I think he was going to pull some kind of Who's Your Daddy bullshit with me over it. Threatened to go out and buy lots of pictures just to prove his point. He got right over that impulse when I explained that I'd probably go completely frigid at the thought of "eyes" watching us make each other, um,  happy. Like any normal guy, Tim just loves to be happy... He almost hurt himself getting rid of pictures. Damn near threw out precious family photo albums until I reminded him that they were okay because they were in albums.

So, yeah, I have some issues. I know that I should be in therapy, but I have a phobia about opening up to strangers.

I'm just stuck with being me.


Something About Love

A BFF is going through some pain right now. Someone she really cared about seems to have started caring more for someone else. It's hard enough to share love between two. When there are three hearts involved, someone is always going to be wondering if they are getting the smallest part of the whole.

My friend called me just to do what we always do when one of us is hurting: Nothing at all but sit, listen and try to pretend we have all the wisdom in the world. After all, true wisdom is just being wise enough to care.

What the hell do I know about love? If I knew all that much, I wouldn't be alone and with a trail of ruined relationships behind me like crumbs. If I knew much at all, I would not be human...

Not having all the answers never stops me from trying to find the words. So I tell my friend that she is, as Sade sings, so much better than she knows. I tell her about how it's okay to be a fool for someone you love. And it is, you know. Don't let anyone tell you that you should walk away, that you should just forget him and move on. Don't let anyone tell you any of that or all the other stuff you already know. What your mind knows and what your heart feels at a time like this - at any time - have nothing to do with each other. If they did, you would not hurt, nor would you ever truly love.

Love is the possibility of hurt. Love is opening your heart to someone, trusting them to take care of all the parts of your soul that you put into their care. Now, there is cautious love and careful love and protect-your-heart-and-wallet love. Those are easy. You can write contracts and plans out for that kind of "love". But real and true, giving and whole love... That is something else. There is no piece of paper, band of gold or cut of diamond that can define it. There are no songs, verses or written fantasies that will capture it.

I don't believe anymore in soul mates. I do believe in finding someone you can trust and want and respect and cherish and be ever-amazed by. I believe that you can end up with the right steward of all that you are and all you need to be. But we don't always find that one right away.

My friend hasn't found the one. In the meantime, she has been brave and hopeful enough to open herself to the hurt she is feeling right now.

We sat on the phone all night. Sometimes, we laughed about the absurdity of love, but mostly we were just trying to understand how to deal with all the feelings love brings. That was a little like trying to pin water to a board.

Finally, we just decided that, no matter what, it's worth it - love is. It's worth it because it's our human way of reaching for joy. It's how and why we dream. It's who and what we were meant to be. It's the part of us that makes our flesh pair with our souls. 

We don't feel any more enlightened this morning that we did last night, but we do feel renewed. My friend is going to survive this heartache. Because of this pain, she is going to be a sweeter gift to the one she is meant to be with.