Am I Invisible or Do You Just Not Care?

Tell me the lie
Tell me you care
Tell me that you pay attention

Give me this time
This space, this lie
Because it holds me better than the truth

You don’t care
So I don’t care

It was my eyes that I blame
For opening and viewing your frame
In the window of just-out-of-reach
Air tinged with your latent speech
Of how life was a test, and we were all failing
That suffering was expected, and God was tailing
To see the pain and anguish of his hands
Molding our fucked-up time in the hourglass sands.

I knew it was too good to be true
When just out of the blue, you looked back and saw me too
And you beckoned me over
Was I drunk? Or was I sober?
Did you really just point at me
Was I -finally- seen as someone to be?
I craved, in a solemn moment, to be there
Free from damage and care
To just laugh and scream and dance and sing
Like a person instead of a broken ring.

Stepping forward, I noticed your eyes
Looking past me, I looked back at a different barfly
Sinking, I realize it wasn’t me, it was never me
Because I just wasn’t here, so now I will flee
Why should I go?
Unwanted before, where else will I be
But right here, haunted by memories of thee.


Another Saturday: Conversation Snippets

“You know, you can over-think things until the cows come home…” a slightly nasally voice said, a hint of frustration bleeding through.

“I’m not Hindu,” I said, with attempted humor.

“What?” snapped the frazzled marketer.

“I said, I’m not Hindu.” The smile slipped slowly off my face.

Saturdays have become a wonderful hideaway representing freedom and adventure. I finally know what to do with myself when I’m not busy working myself into an early grave.

Mostly I spend the morning lazing away beneath covers, luxuriating in the fact that I don’t have to jump up at 0700 to prep for work. Then, when I do get up, I head over to poetry group and tap into my emotions in a productive and apparently well written way.

I wrote poetry every day for the month of April and it was a delightful exercise. In a google group of like-minded overachievers, we wrote almost daily and cranked out the 30 poems.

On the weekends I can breath and sing. I have been singing lately, and it wasn’t until I started again that I realized I had stopped. My weekends are devoid of my week days pressures – no more noise, just quiet and calm.

“So, what’s your name?” the charismatic author grins at me, pouring on the charm that pairs well with his jaunty bow tie.

“Cole,” I reply, the challenge in my eye softened by the smile on my lips.


“C-O-L-E.” I spell glibly.

He peers up at me, then glances at my contradictory work name-tag. “That’s not your name.” he says with a chuckle.

“Cole is my name.” I state calmly and firmly.

Something must have clicked. He turned back to the book he authored, signed my copy with a flourish and handed it back.

“Thanks!” I grin, picking it up to read the inscription.

‘Cole, let’s do this!’ ~ M

While I am pronoun apathetic, my name is always my name. And I hadn’t realized how meaningful it is to have people call you by your rightful name.

Of course, people only hear what they want to hear sometimes.

“Hi guys! This is Cole, we met at poetry group!”

“Hey, how’s it going?” I grin, pouring on the charm as I smile at the five players already seated. “Where do I… do I just grab a chair or…?

“You can sit here,” the gentleman in the middle says, rising from his seat so I can take his place. Too kind.

“Thanks!” I reply, setting down my stuff and stripping off my rain-swept hoodie. Our group of five-plus-me has assembled around 6 mini tables pushed together into one long surface, completely cornering a section of the restaurant with our meet-up. Glancing across the surface at the papers and 2-D pieces, I spot at least 10 sets of dice spilled across the table top.

I have never seen so many dice at a single game: 4 sided dice, 6 sided dice, 12 sided dice, 20 sided dice.

“So…Cole, is that short for Nicole?” another player asks, his whiskers fluttering gently on his upper lip.

“Nope, just Cole.” I glance at him with a smile.

“She’s just Cole,” my friend chimes in emphatically. “It’s not short for anything.”

In the lull, I examine my stat page and dice. “So… what are the rules for this game?”

Have you played a MRPG* before?

I shake my head. “First time.”

And thus I was initiated into one of the funnest games I’ve ever played.

*Feel free to shout out if I wrote the wrong acronym. I’m still a newb, learning this stuff. But I will have you know that my awesome dice rolling skills contributed massively to our successful campaign.

Or so the players told me.

But really, what am I getting at?

Last week, after poetry workshop, one of the attendees pitched going to grab coffee for a bit and hanging out between workshops.

It was six of us – huh, another group of six – who gathered in a jaunty coffee shop down the block, within a shop that seemed a cramped and uneven slice at the end of the enjoined building. Inside, the white walls and soft grain-wood tables gave the bright and cheery vibe, as sunlight streamed from the large picture-window next to the entrance. Quaint pictures of roosters hung on the wall above the cashier, and their coffee and food menus were minimal and hearty in their offerings.

I ordered a mocha for the first time in a while. The caffeine hit reminded me why I usually abstained.

The dialogue was… pleasant I think. I felt I spoke a lot, spent a lot of time inhabiting my extroverted facade that I knew would exhaust me for the rest of the day. I wished to emulate my counterpart at the opposite side of the table, who sat quietly with a small smile on his lips, watching through black-edged glasses, his impossibly smooth and straight hair framing a studious face. Although he played no instruments, he looked like a musician with his thoughtful gaze and the slender elegant fingers a pianist would envy.

I have not yet heard his poems, I hope I will one day.

We all write differently, started at different points of life, and have varying education based on writing. Unlike many in our poetry group, I did not go to school for fine arts or communications or writing. I wonder sometimes whether I could have been even better had I bucked tradition and familial pressure and done the typical foolish stereotypical thing that would have horrified my parents.

Major in art?!! NEVER!

You can write at any time, you don’t have to get a degree in it!

I admire my colleagues, my writing family, who went and did that thing. They are braver than I was, I think.

Sometimes I think about whether I should officially change my name. I wonder if I’m being disrespectful to reject the name given me by my parents. Not that they’d ever call me by my name, even if it were legal.

Is wanting it a good enough reason to push forward with changing everything? Even though my legal name never resonates with me? Even though at work I am constantly called by a co-worker’s name interchangeably even though our names are different by all but the first letter?

Am I just overly sensitive to the fact that I can only be Cole on weekends? Like the cheating spouse who can only meet with his mistress on holiday, is this brief reprieve only forestalling the inevitable disjointedness of my existence?

I know not.

What I do know is that sitting at that table, listening and meeting and getting to know the folks behind their poems, I felt a rare slice of peace.

Siting there was lovely.

Sitting there, I was Cole.

Today Then, Tomorrow

On days like today, I can feel the moment poise like a knife balanced on wire, like the ballet dancer en point, like the gymnast threading the needle.

Effortless, efficient, balance.

Days like today used to be fraught with nervous strumming, a fervent bass vibration in the pit of my stomach. The kind only a lick of pain, a soft alcoholic phrase could kill. The kind that made be hold my breath, heart thudding desperately in my ears, as I promised to never exhale or inhale-

Poised on knife point.

But today is different. It is gentle, graceful, beautiful, loving. A caress of something entrancing, gossamer, tantalizing.

The soft shapely thigh of a lover curved around the lower back.

If I kissed it, it would taste of sunshine and apples; bubbles popping in my nose, gentle raindrops on my head, a gust of wind from the sea. If I held it, it would be fire and flame, petals and vain, laughing so hard I can feel the vibration through floating ribs and on through to my fingertips…

I’m singing, and that never happens anymore.

Cruella Deville. Cruella Deville. If she doesn’t scare you~

So cruel, so cruel, my little devil, you jerk me around and call it play~
Come tell me something to make me want to… stay~

Waiting for the kill…

Poised like a predator awaiting prey. A praying mantis; patient, silent, and cunning-


And the violin string holds the note -And the violin string holds the note

And the violin string holds the fucking note-!

Threading a needle through my veins, ready to launch baby, take me into your arms and throw me up to the heavens so that I may embrace the wonder of the universe. Cradled in the clouds, where there are no houses.

No houses,
no houses,
no houses.

Balanced delicately on the edge, a sliver away from split skin and ravaged bone. Draped now in silks and rapid anticipation.

I am poised on the edge of a terrific tomorrow. And it’s name is Terror.

Saturday #1

Last week, I swore I would get out of my fucking house and meet some people. For god’s sake, I was merging with my couch!

Which led to yesterday. Yesterday was Poetry Workshop day

Poetry Workshop Day

What better way to know if I am actually good at poetry or not? I asked myself, clicking the RSVP link and adding the event to my calendar.

I woke up bright and early that morning, rolled out of bed, showered and dressed. I chose the hyperlink blue top, black tights, and black & gray sorrel pdx wedges. Why I’m so enraptured by these clothes, I don’t know…

I got into my car and set on the audio-book to play, using GPS to navigate me to the nearby city. Remembering I needed to stop at the bank, I found my way winding through the metropolitan area, sprinkled with areas of construction along the main highway. I soon reached my exit and began winding up and down streets lined with shops, laundry mats, ethnic shops, restaurants, drugstores, and lottery booths.

It reminded me a bit of downtown Birmingham, AL, when I’d visited almost 3 years ago now… The same hip vibe, ethnic people, eclectic shops.

They must have a bunch of coffee shops here, I thought to myself.

When I arrived at my destination, I ran into a familiar problem, where to park. After circling the nearby blocks, I found a spot, small and tight, between a BMW and a Jeep. There I went, squeezing in my Honda Civic with a prayer on my lips, and my foot mashed on the brake. Thank god I knew how to parallel park (practice practice practice). After much reversing and care, I incrementally fit my small car into the space without tapping the neighboring cars.

I’m 18 minutes late.

I locked the doors, grabbed my backpack, and struck off down the sidewalk, counting down to the building number -201- then took the stairs to the second floor. I was pointed down a long hallway, to the last door on the left, where the meetup was held.

I opened the door.

And the vibe was warm, the auras were welcoming, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable.

I will come back, I thought, even before I’d sat down.

I was introduced to everyone, and I was Cole, nice to meet you. It felt like a comfortable cloak I’d never removed. I was Cole again.

Actually, I don’t think I’d stopped being Cole. Cole was always there, I realized as I grabbed a seat at the table. I am Cole.

I’m always Cole. No matter what they call me.

We responded to three writing prompts, taking ten minutes to write, then having the option to share what we read. I shared my poems each time.

I’ll share them here, with you…


Prompt: Break a rule – write about something we are told not to write about (i.e. fatherhood and death by cancer).

I stood there, in trepidation and silence,
A sorrow, stale and worn;
I could not seem to grasp the sounds.
They stood in white before me,
A flock of heartless birds to steal my soul away
With a word, a look, a halfhearted turn-of-phrase.

Wringing out, the eeking keen of disbelief tinged the air green,
A sickly soft syrup slushed through my veins;
I cannot even gesture acquiescence or rejection.
Captured, sliced, and mute.

The room I awake in is white
– Fuck the white.
I HATE the white that had woven the lies that sowed
Hope in my heart.
Why was there no black?

Spiraling down, I land on my knees
In the gravel driveway;
Choking, heaving, listing,
Clutching the last memory that
Slowly sifted away into sand.

Dirt trickles from my frozen fingers,
I find no comfort in the cloying scent
Of jasmines and sunflowers adorning
The gaping hole where my heart lies.
There is nothing I wouldn’t do
To destroy the world, to erase the limits of time,
To turn back those harsh and unsympathetic hands.
To return to her loving arms
Riddled with central lines, pumping
Poison into collapsing veins,
Destroying the smile on her lips.
The shattered glass of her eyes
When she asked when daddy would take her home.
Would he come now? She had been
So good, right mommy?

And I stared at the dirt mounded,
Covering my shame and guilt;
Laying down beside her, I finally —

Daddy is home.


I felt so wrung after reading. The silence in the room made me shy and embarrassed. The complements thereafter were warm. Slightly uncomfortable, I accepted the complements with a smile and thanks in the way I had been taught to do.

Would it kill you to accept a fucking complement, Cole?

The next prompt was tougher, harder for me to write. I started two different sets, thoughts akimbo, until in the last 5 minutes I realized what I was afraid of writing the most.

I didn’t want to write about W.


Prompt: Write about what you are afraid to write about

What he did
Was cruel.
I never understood
How a smile could hide
Such a devious mind.

Destroying more that year
Than I knew to be precious.
The truth is,
The cracks within,
Were my own.

The words were never there,
The emotion obliterated.
The past continues to return,
A demon never exorcised.
He planted the seeds,

And I can’t seem to halt the growth.


A muffled silence. I felt raw, thoughts racing. I realized, in hindsight, that the words sounded like the words one would write about an ex.

There were no words to explain I was writing not about an old flame, but an older, pathetic man who once called himself my boss. Ascribing words of another time into the present, where I finally had words to define and describe that which had been sealed behind my lips for so long.

On the page, I looked down on the words, written with anger, large and angular. Cross-outs throughout the page, blots scribbled out angrily. I could feel that anger now, in the silence. I realized my emotion caused me to read the words too fast, out of pace for absorbing the words by the listener…

I took deep breaths. This was turning into a spot of therapy…

After a 15 minute break, the last prompt was more… thoughtful. Approaching another, less harmful memory, I went back to childhood.


Prompt: Address an Entity in Rebellion

Hello. I wonder if you remember me
Please sit down, sir, you’ve spoken quite enough.
Let the oxygen in,
Let us breath for a damn minute
Before you drown us in pontification.
Opinion and bluster to erase
Every independent thought, as you spoke
With the arrogance of the morning star.

Did you ever stop to think about
The impact of your words?
Or were you so drunk on power
– Inebriated by greed and jealousy –
That you couldn’t spare a single thought for your victims?

The innocent wide brown eyes,
Disregarded by prying words.
Crowbars clattering against the locks.
Did you see me standing there?
Watching your desperation and triumphal
Entry? No, for all that you could see
Were earthly treasures.

Stacks of green paper mark you
A liar, sir, for heaven was not
To be found in the darkened
Maw of the safe.

Machinations, silver tongued
And multilingual, I watched you
Sway the multitude like
Wheat bowing to the wind
Waves of majesty before you
Could you see me standing there?

When the votes were tallied
Thy will, not my will, be done
In church as it may never be done
Above. The steeple mocked
Us all.

In the shadow of the cross
Judas put forth his hand for
Did you know, sir, that the
Value of all you covet that day
Was not even worth fifteen cents?

Did you see me standing there
Watching you froth at the lips
The only words chanting from your lips
“Where is the money?”


I dropped my book with a thud of finality. Again, silence.

“This actually happened,” I said, shying from looking anyone in the eye, bouncing my eyeballs at the empty spaces just beyond eye level.

“I’m sorry,” my neighbor said softly.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I was just a kid.”

I don’t know why I said that. I felt stupid for saying that.

The members shared what they wrote as they had done for each prompt. I closed my eyes to listen, grounding in the moment away from my turbulent thoughts to focus on their spoken words in the moment.

Stay in the moment, Cole.

Talent was in that room. I know it. Beauty woven in those words, I felt the peace descend. I was where I was supposed to be.

At the end, as I packed up and headed out the door, a member said, “I liked what you wrote.”

“Thank you.” I smiled into his eyes. “I liked your poems too, you have a beautiful sense of humor.”

We smiled at each other, and I continued out the doorway

Put the Pieces Back Together

I sat in my car. I just wanted… a break.

I felt flimsy, like a stiff breeze would blow me away and I’d cease to exist.

Wiggling out of the parking spot I’d wedged into, I pulled away into traffic, GPS charted for the 2nd Coffee shop I’d found almost 2 months ago that I hadn’t yet visited. I left the city and entered the suburbs, winding down more familiar roads until I arrived at the Maywood Pancake House.

Again, parking was hard to find. I ended up far away, but the sunshine was beautiful on my face, the air fresh and clean, I strutted up the sidewalk with a smile and entered in through the door into a




Mouth agape, I looked around in amazement. Did they actually serve vegan food here? And this many people came to eat?

“Sorry for the wait, how many?” the hostess asked, pulling me from my blatant staring.

“One,” I replied.

“Would you like to sit in the booth or at the counter?” She asked. I followed her gesture at the booth parked in the far corner. It looked dark and claustrophobic. The counter was open, well lit and inviting.

“The counter please.”

“This way.”

I followed her to the counter facing the coffee machines, the presses, and the sorcery where baristas flitted like busy bees, assembling all kinds of breakfast beverages. The hostess placed a menu and a napkin wrapped fork and knife on the table in front of the last chair at the end of the counter. “Here okay?”

“That’s fine.” I smiled reflexively.

She smiled in return, and left me to awkwardly perch on the chair, wiggling out of my coat and backpack which I stubbornly refused to leave behind in the car. I put the coat over the back of my stool, and perched the backpack under the counter lip to rest on the brass foot railing my legs couldn’t reach. I hooked my heels over the stool rungs and opened the menu.

“Hi, can I get you anything?”

I looked up at the waiter, whose words were spoken in an accent that reminded me of western Europe. Was it Russian? No, maybe Polish? Czech? It was lovely, all the same.

“Mmm,” I scanned the menu, “can I get a glass of soy milk?”

“A glass of soy milk?” I nodded. “Coming right up.”

He grabbed a glass and a straw, poured the milk up to the rim, and set the glass down before me without spilling a drop. I was impressed.

“Thanks!” I said, then sucked it down, surprising myself with my thirst.

I eventually ordered vegan pancakes -duh, right? -with chocolate chips and coconut shavings on top. I wondered if they served chai tea, but didn’t see it on the menu. Oh well…

As I waited for the food, I wrote in my notebook:

Such an onslaught of emotion. Both tired and shell-shocked, I await my vegan pancakes w/chocolate chips and coconut atop.

Emotionally wrung dry… I feel weary with eyelids heavy w/ sleep. Suddenly exhausted. The hot air balloon collapses upon itself and my facade is no more.

Weary, almost fragile. At the counter I alternate between writing and glancing at the cc of the TV spewing news reports. I can’t keep up. I remember why I hate the news.

After 4 pancakes and 2 milk glasses, I feel finally human. Shell intact.

I wonder what to do next. It’s only 2:30ish, perhaps travel to B&N? No… somewhere peaceful and quiet.

Or, maybe, just drive…

I wanted to ask Leo, my waiter, where his accent was from, but the opportunity did not arise.

Stuffed and craving a spot of exercise – shocking, I know – I decided walking was next on the menu. But not outside… inside would be preferable -ah-hah! The mall!

Parking again was illusive. I circled for 15 minutes with fellow cars, wheeling circles like birds of prey in the sky. I finally found a spot at the Target parking lot.

I walked for over an hour before my feet screamed their exhaustion. I turned my car home.

Thus ended my day..

It’s Time to Behold

“So, can I drive like this?” I asked, speaking to the blurry receptionist as I blindly scribbled my signature on the receipt.

“Sure, you should be fine!” she replied chirpily. Leaning down, the brunette reached into a box and pulled out a roll of… what is that? “Here, just put these on behind your glasses and it will keep the light from hitting your eyes too harshly.”

I accepted the roll of… film? then unrolled it. It was a thick-ish plastic in the shape of glasses, tinted like sunglasses. Ahhh, I see.

Or rather, I can’t see, I chuckled self-consciously as I fit the plastic into place behind my lenses.

“How long till the dilators wear off?” I asked, blinking against the blur for the hundredth time.

“About half an hour.”

I checked my phone. It had been 30 minutes already… “Maybe I shouldn’t drive…”

“You should be fine to drive. You should still be able to see things far away just not things up close.” She continued, nodding as she spoke.

Too bad, my distance vision sucked. Guess GPS was out of the question.

I stuffed my credit card into my phone wallet. “Thanks!” I said carefully stepped away from the counter. “Have a wonderful holiday!” I blurted out, reaching half-blindly for the doorknob and nodding absently as she responded.

I made my way down the hallway, wondering if it was normal to feel slightly off balance. Equilibrium restored itself by the time I reached the elevator.

I considered the stairs, then nixed that idea immediately. I could barely see the stairs on a good day!

In the parking lot, I sat in my car, debating waiting or going. After a few minutes of deliberation, I started the car and drove off.


And I Ain’t Got a Clue

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m going through my life with dilators dripping into my eyes. Somethings are so laser focused, while other things I’m just tripping blindly, blinking frantically, reaching out to something I can’t see much less touch.

When it comes to the career, crystal clear.

When it comes to personal stuff, about me stuff, emotional intelligence stuff, just give me a white cane and a seeing-eye dog cuz I’m fucked.

And while everyone around me lines up before the almighty altar and says “I do”, people keep asking me if I’m dating, am I married yet, or if I’m single.

I don’t find it offensive. More surprising because I usually don’t remember to think about that stuff till someone asks.

This blurry land of dating and finding partnership is just strange to me. I didn’t understand why anyone wanted to date anyone until about 4 years ago, that’s how disconnected I can be.

Now I’m awake, with my eyes wide open… and I’m seeing a big fat zilch.

I focus on other things, like eating properly, going inside the gym instead of walking by, trying out new cafes and restaurants, reading new books and developing into a better self

Am I the only one who finds boy/girl/partner hunting to be distracting? Probably. To be fair, I’ll probably bump into someone who makes my pupils dilate, and my mouth drool, and my legs wobbly – that’s totally likely and absolutely fine.

But until then, I’ll probably be… doing other things.

In the distance, I see myself with someone special who treasures me like I treasure them. Someone who loves me for who I am just as I love them for being their awesome selves. We compromise and agree where it matters, we align in critical values and goals, and we understand and value each others’ love languages. Ideally, the sex will be spectacular and the special moments will light brighter than fireworks in the night. Ideally there would not be heartbreak or pain, and if there was, we would navigate through it to a better tomorrow.

But who knows? The distance may be crystal clear, but the here and now is blurry and all distorted.

I see people around me jumping into the dating pool, some with spectacular splashes, other dipping in their toes, others sinking in the deep end without a life-raft and others floating side by side. The good, the bad and the ugly.

I just don’t see a need or reason to jump in.

Love is about finding someone and combining your two whole pieces together to double the joy. So often, I see folks bringing a half of their heart, and a ton of baggage, to try and make 1 whole heart.

But that doesn’t work. It takes at least 1 whole heart in the beginning and a hefty dose of selflessness to make it work. Because love isn’t about getting, it’s about giving.

And sometimes you give till it hurts and you give until you’re all out. And it doesn’t work.

Can you stand alone? Can you be yourself without being defined by another?

I don’t know, honestly. So I’m doing the stand alone thing for now.

Maybe it will be like that day in the cafeteria, standing by myself, lost in my thoughts and writing poetry scribbles in my spiral-bound notebook. Maybe I’ll notice the shadow across my page, and I’ll look up into eyes so crystal clear that I’ll be speechless. Maybe, just maybe, someone will sit down next to me and smile and speak to me and I will recognize the words behind the words, recognize the connection beyond the moment, and scrape up a response.

And maybe, they will be a prince rather than a frog.

Closing the Chapter on Yesterday

It isn’t about the place

It is about the feeling, the tendrils winding down your spine down to your core. Scraping your skin and drilling through bone like a sick sawdust that never washes clean, bone saw and icy chill of neglect.

Fingers so cold, reaching across a gap so distant and unattainable and that is where it always ends

Marie Kondo speaks to sparking joy, and sometimes I struggle to find the joy in my daily routine. Is there joy in the morning on my way to work? Is there joy at the end of the day before I crash and collapse?

I am surrounded by things I didn’t and haven’t gotten rid of. This papasan chair that’s a pain in my ass. Some workout equipment I never used and can’t seem to get rid off. Random stuff I don’t need or want, how do I get rid of them?

Is it an allegory?

Echoes in the Rear-view Mirror

I am tired of looking backwards, of rehashing the memories, of feeling the feelings I couldn’t feel in the moment. The feelings of being alone and betrayed by people I trusted -know what that feels like? Like a thin rapier through the chest, right below the heart cavity, and the sensation of bleeding is all on the inside, and the agony never makes it past trembling lips because in that moment, in THAT very moment, I have to be emotionless and expressionless and UN-FUCKING-FLAPPABLE!!!


So this year, 2019, I am focusing on tomorrow, not yesterday. Tomorrow and today.


And yet, I am drawn to the silent lake, in that long forgotten forest, where I paddle out to the center beneath the light of the dawn and scream and Scream and SCREAM!

…Until the tears dry up.

Because it hurts. Still. A splinter beneath my skin, my brain chemistry playing tricks on me. We know what pain is, and this isn’t it.

This year, I want to minimize my pain. I want to declutter the old memories and painful sensations of the past. I want to be reborn; while not forgotten, I want to learn the lessons and graduate with knowledge and healing.

Thank you for the memories. I thank my body and mind for getting me through the fire with minimal scarring. Thank you mind and body for all the support and coping mechanisms that ensured my survival and let me thrive into who I am today.

Guilt is released.

Pain is freed.

Let the memories drain their venom. Let them slumber beneath the haze of yesterday. Let us rise anew, this morning, fresh and rejuvenated.

Let us rise again.

Advance Forward

I want to seize life within my hands and live it to the fullest. I want to be alive in a way I have rarely been before. I want to do things, live experiences, be engaged with places and people, and be alive, not synthetically but authentically.

I want to live. More than ever before.

When I was holding on, I didn’t always know why, I just knew I had to white-knuckle it and get through somehow. Somehow getting past and making it last, because there was hope. Hope in something I couldn’t even articulate.

It is now time to turn that hope into action.

It’s time to just step out there and be myself -unapologetic and completely unbarred.

I’m scared, good scared, not bad scared. This is the scared when the plane starts to taxi down the runway and the anticipation sparks fireflies in the tummy and the ground rushes by faster and faster…

And then suddenly -you’re flying.

I want to fly.

Let’s fly together.


Live Life Now*

*Written while listening to ScHoolboy Q’s song “Studio”. If you haven’t heard it, the beat is wicked.

So… the month has been mad. I managed to get older, hit an anniversary, earned some trust, lost a pint of tears, got sick for the first time in several years and learned a little something about accuracy.

I gave a gift to myself and documented -15 lbs towards my goal. And while weight is something I’m not interested in discussing here, I will clarify and say that it is for the focus of being healthy and maximizing my lifespan, not for stupid propaganda of what “beautiful” looks like. And I’m doing it right by building new habits, going to the gym willingly -Shocker!- and imbibing more water.

Cuz I look hot, and I know it. I doubled down on what makes me feel good and I don’t worry anymore about feminine or masculine -it’s really about me, not about society’s expectations or what-not. I just do what makes me happy, and what makes me look good.

So, yeah, I went shopping this holiday season. Black Friday week I dropped some cash on clothes, some delicious winter boots with wedges and I strut those bitches down the sidewalk and I know I look fly. The clothes, the lipstick, the hair, it all comes together. I am put together.

Sometimes you can’t see yourself right away, and that’s okay. See yourself through the eyes of love, then you will truly see yourself.

You gotta build yourself by building yourself.

And I miss dancing. Hitting the dance floor with the lights and the DJ pumping bass and beat, the rhythm and instruction/invitation to move to the music. Let the feet catch the rhythm, let the arms capture the melody, and let the waist and hips sway in support of the accompaniment. Shoulders, arms, waist, knees, neck, feet, hands, each have their way to go. And unless synchronized, no to dancers dance the exact same way.

This moment and movement, embodying the music in a physical way, nonsexual, and completely uninhibited -at least for me. Time to go wild, and just emote without words, just with expression and movement. Beautiful and divine worship. I miss that sacred altar…

Soon… and is it a good idea to go alone? …Don’t think so…

But the other piece is that you can’t wait forever to do what you want or love. Because then you’ll be waiting forever.

While it is advisable to do things together, with others, it is still important to not let excuses hold you back. Live. Your. Life. Today.

Don’t wait for that right person. Sometimes you meet that right person by going out and doing it, whatever it is. Sometimes you don’t. The point is, live your best life now and don’t let anything hold you back.

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Thanks and Reflection

Thanks for the Traditions

Thanksgiving is always a delicious affair. I bring a dish and the family receives my humble offerings with delicious mains, salads, desserts, and appetizing foods I have no idea how to track in my macros tracker. Homemade food is the most decedent, delicious, drool-worthy affair.

And the food coma is REAL folks. I knock after dinner every time. And, if you’re like me, you skip breakfast and lunch and save all that calorie loading for that dinner. Oooooo Mama!! Nothing tastes so good as the Thanksgiving dinner.

Tomorrow is a spot of shopping – okay, I’ve been shopping the past few days – but tomorrow/today, our family will complete our annual clothes shopping tradition. No, you will not see us in a mall or major chain store, in fact, we avoid such places during this shopping mania like the plague. No, we will be heading to a lovely store with the best variety where hardly any violence will occur aside from a toddler or two hauling down some hangers in a fit of impotent rage.

We go early in the morning and finish when most folks are devouring a rushed brunch. We spend the drive talking, catching up on our lives while apart -even though we talk/call each other every day. Oh how we laugh and chat and smile, the soul rejuvenated by the love from each other to one another.

Then spend time with friends: meeting, talking, eating, catching up on each other’s lives and updates after being so long and far apart. As adults we are spread across the country, so the few within range meet up and spend time together. I’m wondering if in the future we can skype our far away friends in -some of us have moved too far to visit. I imagine we will go to meet them sometime – if they can host, or we can host. We’ll see what we shall see.

Then spend time with friends: meeting, talking, eating, catching up on each other’s lives and updates after being so long and far apart. As adults we are spread across the country, so the few within range meet up and spend time together. I’m wondering if in the future we can Skype our far away friends in -some of us have moved too far to visit. I imagine we will go to meet them sometime – if they can host, or we can host. We’ll see what we shall see.

I am grateful for this opportunity to spend time with family and friends and engage in meaningful dialogue.


For me, Thanksgiving harks as a period for reflection. I wake up this morning a few hours after midnight and find myself thinking about the past year, the past five years, and the present.

If I plotted my journey as a line graph or trend line, I think a year ago from today would have been the start of an uptick, a bend in the curve. Not immediately but gradually, I’ve turned things around. It took a lot of reflection on who I am as a person, who I want to be, and the gap between. Then identifying tools and strategies to help me close that gap and be the person I know I can be.

Today I am closer. It’s been a year of this new direction, and while I’ve whined a lot on this blog –LORD Have I whined!!– it was to a purpose.

Silence gives something power. At least, this is what I have come to believe. Holding it in, silent and stewing, brews a poison in the heart and soul. Talking it out, to yourself, to trusted friends and family, and to strangers helps. Gain perspective, purpose, and best practices for the future by talking and getting feedback/advice.

It is strange  how time changes things. Time and healing.

While I do not wish my bad experiences on anyone, least of all myself, it has helped me to grow because I was able to turn my pain into something positive and beautiful. The process was ugly; the outcome, astoundingly positive.

I went from ignoring my reflection and thinking badly of myself, to looking proudly every morning thinking how sexy and hot I look. That I’m beautiful – believing it and not just saying it!- and that I’m smart and capable. That I can be athletic and strong in body, that the gym isn’t a scary place to avoid, and that I can be and do all the things I set my mind to.

That I don’t have to be alone. That I have friends and family, and while they aren’t a hop and skip down the road, they are always with me, in my corner.

I am blessed.

Thanks for the lessons, no thanks for the negative experiences.

From the muck of the pond, a lotus blossoms.

I Realize You Weren’t There After All

Because of the orange, I can stay.

I can feel myself unfolding from the tightened, origami confinement of the past. In a way, I’ve never felt this free, this controlled, so much myself. Exploding into color, rejecting the black and gray for purples, oranges, reds, blues, greens; the colors of the life of a rainbow.

I smile and dance, the air is anticipation and I’m captive to my burgeoning joy. Never let me go…

The pieces are finally coming together, I feel them click into place, like a puzzle of one thousand pieces, a glass masterpiece, shattered, only to re-converge into the most tear-inducing stained glass artwork.

It’s been five years.

Five years since standing on the bridge at the rushing water of the waterfall, the sign warning of danger and a gentle nudge to “Dial ###-####” if I was feeling the sweet caress of death in my shadow. She was closer than a lover, her dry fingers massaging my skull, fitting into my ears as she whispered to me of the eternal beyond.

One moment then nothing.

Five years since turning away, again, and again, and again. The pain of turning away like parting from one’s beloved, sour-tinged panic and nutmeg hope an odd drink to pass my lips.

Away from my eyes…

Five years of unspeakable pain, of cruel words and hidden veins of deception. Of being forced to see and hear and bear witness to a most foul subset of humanity, the envious and the proud.

The rocks venomously tossed into my soul, shattering the clear prism above to ripple the waters below and sink and thud at the bottom, stoning my heart into bloody pulp, searing words into my cerebral matter like a burning brand to claim my very soul and chain it to a special, unique hell of human design.

And that was the past.

2018 I awoke and swore I would not be a victim. That the chains would not hold me, that those words would not break me. That I would stand on my own two shaking feet and know that I am whole, that I am strong, that I am better than the shit.

We are in, but not of…

And it is now, here, after much work, that I can finally see a the corner turn, the bend of the arch, the bow of the rain in the sky, casting magic and lighting a way forward.

Shedding this skin, I flutter to life. And no prince was near to kiss these lips, so I licked them myself. Hauled myself out of that glass coffin and put on my stomping bitching shoes, with the heels and the studs, and strutted through the forest, weapon in hand, to slay my own fucking dragon.

I knew deep down, that I had to stand on my own. Mind over matter. Mind over desire. Mind over all.

A sacred blood oath, to be no one’s victim. A Valkyrie can kick ass all on her own. I just needed to fly with my own wings this time.

The fire of autumn ignites my flames, the red beckons to me and I embrace his hold, a mastery all my own. Sweeping up the forgotten mantle, I am my own master and my dominion remains.

Thanks to you, I have reached the threshold.

And stepped beyond.

Nothing can hold me. You failed to stop me. I am transcended.

It’s over.