Move over, move out.


What the fuck are you up to woman? 

I don’t know. I reject Paulo Coelho. I avoid the self-help aisle, believe it might be infested with cockroaches. I do not want to be on some damn journey.  I just want to be solid and sure like I have been in the past.

Of course, you do like security. Like to be in the know. 

Yes, I do. I’m a thinker, a student, a practical woman. Jeezus

Well, there are times in our lives when we all make changes. This is that time? for you? 

I don’t know. What good do changes do if you choose the same choices the next time you have the chance? What have I learned? How many times will I take care of someone else at the expense of myself?

You are a caretaker. Why do you deny yourself this? 

Because my job is not to be everyone’s everything.

Why won’t you let anyone love you? 

Why doesn’t everyone stop loving me? I just want to love me. First.  I want to love myself. I want to be selfish and take care of myself. Just me. Just Me.


Give her some goddamned room. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.





2014-03-13-10-07-50What do you want?

You know what you want at your core, your deepest core, your basest desire.

You know.

You are just afraid to want it. Afraid to say it out loud. Afraid to defend your choice, maybe? Afraid to go for what feeds the roots of your desires.

Fear. You fear. You fear abandoning the rigidity of practicality. You fear wanton abandon, hedonism, feeding your primal mouth and hips and loins and lust.

You are a taker. Wait until someone stumbles along, who is capable, trainable, malleable, passionate enough to play, your games, your mess, your head.

Devour your moment, child. Do not let it pass unheeded. Fill your mouth with blasphemy, fill your heart with need, fill your hips with outward expression, join with your lover.

She had abandon. She waved it like a flag of defense; not all can embrace the kneeling, the bowing, the scraping to the god of the flesh. 

# for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.



It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. The little place in the country, the one still standing despite years of bands and hardwood dance floor abuse from men dancing with men, twirling actually with drunk men, completely heterosexual mind you, but just wildly letting themselves feel the base and spin at the same pace as the brain after a few hours of brandy old fashioneds downed between sets.

There’s a steady stream of locals and newbies, and very little reinvestment into the place as evidenced by the one stall bathroom and the lack of a decent top rail scotch. Still, it’s a good place for dancing and a great place for not having to talk due to the volume and a spot with a $5 cover is frankly, hard as fuck to come by these days.

Linda, she’s a blonde with a history that she can’t defend but recognizes that she’s not perfect either and she brings along the latest add to her crowd. She loves to dress up, has on a spaghetti strapped sequined black top and her best elastic fabric white jeans and at my request, strappy sandals that just barely emerged from the car before removing the toe spacers they supply at the local nail salon. She is so grateful she noticed and pulled the from her toes before she walked up to pay her $5 cover.

I’m behind Linda. I’ve got a grey leather jacket without a wallet. i need to exit and return with my id and my cash. I do so. I pay my way in, walk to the bar and order a blueberry vodka press for my friend and a corona with lime for myself.  $14 later plus a goddamn tip and I’m across the room waiting for a chance to dance.

Linda is the dancing kind. She knows the words. She knows the breaks and when to stop dancing. She knows the songs, and has a reference due to her good friend’s escapades in the past, she knows he will stop being a coherent fun tag-along, she knows she’ll have to babysit the drunken fucktard until she acknowledges she does dance, does it well, and does not need to make anyone happy.

Yes. She has to buy her own drinks. But it is worth it. No putting out for guilt. Instead, she puts out that she is turned on and capable of bringing the same. 


# for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.


Can’t settle in


Let’s not confuse settling down with settling in. One is an end, the other a beginning. There’s an implied discomfort with settling down, at least for me there is, an implied restricted constriction of blood that flows to the important parts. A little PTSD, trauma induced by expectations labeled security, marriage and tradition.

Let’s look at settling in.

It’s that shimmy of the hips when you are in bed with someone who spoons with you…the movement that can mean a comfort arranging snuggle position or an invitation to full on, full-bloomed love making frenzy…a snuggle that lead to the latter if you are settled in.

It’s that time when you leave the door open, relieve yourself, wipe and wash hands and don’t close the door. That’s settled in. NO. IT’s NOT. Don’t fool yourself.

Settling in is when you move in syncopated harmony in a two-ass kitchen. You know, the tiny kitchen that you have in your first place where there is really  not room for two chefs but it is so romantic to cook together, to cut the onions because they make her cry or simply because you have to have them cut  in a certain way and you know she’ll just butcher them and then your mouth will have to feel small onions and big onions and it will mess with your tastebuds and your whole fucking experience of shared kitchen tasks.

Oh, that settling in…it’s when you make a plan for an 9am yoga practice followed by coffee and you find yourself awake at 6am and fully aware that you have to either roll over and wake him up from a soft, flaccid, non-wet dream moment and make him grow in your mouth and create a major bed-shaking all out crazy morning of love-making where the sheets slide off the end of the bed, the pillows get jammed between the mattress and the headboard and when your alarm goes off at 8 you hit the dismiss so fast that the yoga instructor knows you are not showing up today because you are getting your downward dog on and

That’s settling in.

She figured that settling down was overrated, oddly, she still found herself aiming for it. WTH?


#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.






You are not like them. You should be living in the city with interesting  people…people with ideas and open mindedness! YOU are funny. YOU are interesting. YOU could talk to anybody at a hockey game or a Jewish circumcision. THAT’S Amazing! YOU are a ray of sunshine, drowning in that dark family.

-An honest friend

I grew up in a small rural town in the middle of a midwestern state. We had more bars than churches, unless it was Sunday, then we acted like we had more churches than bars.  There was one public and one parochial school. Most everyone lived on a dairy farm or was a townie and though there were railroad tracks running on the south side side of town there was no division of the populace as simple as living on the right or wrong side of the tracks, but instead we relied on some factor I never figured out; not what you had or didn’t, not who you knew or didn’t but a more elusive trait probably defined by whether people knew if your dad drank every afternoon away at the corner bar, the sign outside actually read THE CORNER BAR, and some defining decibel level measuring system that categorized the volume of your mother’s voice when she was screaming about something you had done wrong, the middle name usage included.

Small town minds, small town rules, small town gossip, small town labels. Apply whatever pecking order you wish, the truth was I grew up with a loud mother, a father who couldn’t carry on a conversation with anyone unless he was holding a guitar in his hand and had a case of Pabst in his belly and was asking for a request and the five o’clock church bells ringing at from the bell tower to remind me every single day that I simply was going to hell for the impure thoughts I had to keep at bay every night when I pulled the covers over me and waited for the neighbor boy to sneak in to my yard at night at rap on my window and offer me a cigarette in exchange for some french kissing and patience with his fumbling to open my bra strap while he’s acting like freeing my budding breasts is not what he’s up to at all.

There’s not a lot of self-awareness in a small town, not until you leave, if you look back, if you look back and have any sense of comparison, if you are wiling to step just one foot into the future that doesn’t involve the rules of the small town think tank. Suddenly, one semester of college and your world opens up. You recognize the guidance counselor at the high school tells all the boys to go to technical college and all the girls to enroll as an administrative assistant program, that is, if they weren’t pregnant or already engaged to be married in the next year or two after graduating. Small town schools prepare you well for following the instructions of the authority figures in your life to their faces at least and for spending time drinking at road parties and getting felt up at every opportunity which loosely translated means after dark whenever there is or isn’t alcohol involved.

And there’s this thing called the age of 18; a simple rule that means the male teachers at your school, some of who are fresh out of college themselves, the male teachers know they can look at a few of the graduating seniors as potential wives, and maybe he leans in a little too closely during instruction and brushes fingers along backs of some pretty little hands during lessons and then write a hall pass for extra homework help in 7th hour and counts on some young girl’s teacher fantasy to deliver just enough of a dose of angst that she’ll let her little ass, wearing a pair of tight fitting Levis, saunter into a classroom, almost innocently with that hall pass in hand and a petulant look of surprise when he doesn’t just sweep he into his arms and take her head to the stars and instead he holds her off, telling her he wants to but it wouldn’t be right, and making her think for the rest of her adult life that all relationships have to start in the darkness of impropriety, risk and naughty denial because she is wanting teacher to touch her, touch her everywhere.

So there’s also a bit of intervention from the goodness, the teachers who have a little conference and decide to bestow some opportunities on a family or three with potential. The little girl with hair that smells like cigarettes but is eager to please, reads like books will all be banned tomorrow and has a mouth on her that spits out vocabulary words at a volume learned from her mother’s rants about whatever piece of furniture was now ruined from kids using it as a launch pad for olympic gymnastic routines. She’s the girl who stops wearing the knee-length dresses on Good Fridays, who picks out a pair of 3 inch heels in seventh grade to wear with pink pants and the one who who is clearly on the wrong path if there is no intervention. That kid. The kid that is absolutely crying out for some sort of adventure that will steer her to some life bigger than aiming for the Miss Smalltown crown and get her to see that she could answer to her own story, write it any way she wishes if she will just take a minute to pause and see that something bigger than where she’s been is waiting to meet her, introduce itself and ask her to slip in the front seat and drive.


Keys, please. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images from personal collection. 4/23/2017

Take Wing


examine your concept of distance, the fundamental need for personal space. juxtapose independence with the desires of a loving partner who recognizes your spirit and seeks only to breathe in your air, to take space near your form, to feel the heat of your skin radiating life from the very bones of your person.

take poetic license, the ease of banter and conversation. slash this with the red pen of a gentle reader who seeks to study your string of letters, wishes only to add to the margins an understanding of your life story, wanting simply to absorb your aura trapped inside the pages of this leather bound book.

touch the child inside, the laughing joyful exuberance. quiet her mind with the expectations and rules of a father-like lover, patting your arm when you giggle too long,  shushing silliness which cannot be kept at bay when sitting in the the pew,  under stern gazes and tradition, he pales as smirks and exaggerated snorts burst from your mouth, flying to the cathedral’s ceiling where silence is your penance.


I shall not be bound by your needs. I shall learn to fly for my own, first. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.

Pfft. She did all the fighting. Not me.

I did not live in those moments. I lived through them.

I was not the patient. I had no right to sympathy. I took the easiest route.  I powered through. Ignored the pain and realities. And was strong for every one else.

It is what we do.

It is called mothering.

Even today, 1.5 years into remission, into Her remission, we are reluctant to feel the strain, the pain. We did nothing really.

We may have hurt our children, more.

We let them pick and poke and prod.
We told Her to let them pick and poke and prod.

We put on a happy face.
We told her to put on a happy face.

We woke in the night, held a feverish head, supported an emaciated body as she walked to the toilet in the night.

We let the nurses move her, turn her, time her, palpitate her abdomen, press her wrist, adjust her lines.

We mothered, more.

We faked patience, feigned indifference to another delay of release.

We colored easter eggs in hospital gowns with vinegar the custodian brought up from his cleaning closet.

We made excursions in wheelchairs and raced it down hallways and up hills and over terrain that was not supposed to be traversed by wheels.

We welcomed resident doctors, and nurses in training and repetitive inspections of heart, and lung and bowels. We laughed at fledgling bedside manners.

When we could, we participated in study drugs, research protocols, tests on our own child, to further the treatments; simply to save another child this pain and ridiculousness.

We were stronger than we knew we had to be. We were fakers. We faked it full-on, with blatant disregard for truth, we lied, outright and straight-forward and with conviction.

We were heartbroken takers of a moment of peace,  of a minute of pain-free time.

We cheered for CBC results, we rejoiced at nutraphil increases, we celebrated the beating back of gram negative rods in her gut.

We made joyful noise with hugs and knowing glances. We laughed at the repetitive day to day of the hospital bed.

“How are you? Can we get you anything?”  Yes. You can fucking get my kid healthy and out of this damn, sterile unit.  What? That is what you were offering?

You asked. Jeezuz. You fucking asked my kid. Stop. Have mercy. Just stop. 

#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of life.