No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness. -Aristotle

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality. -Edgar Allen Poe

You should never doubt what nobody is sure of. -Willy Wonka

Friday, December 18, 2015

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas!

For me, I'm turning in my pens for now, and wish for you the best that life has to offer. Keep moving forward, and always have faith. 

Monday, October 12, 2015

3 questions

I was reading "A Room of One's Own" and I wrote a few things down and would like to hear the opinions of anyone other than myself.  :/

1. Do you think women write for different reasons than men?

2. Would you rather be labeled one of the greatest thinkers or one of the greatest writers of the 21st century?

3. Can someone understand something so well they are able to write about it as its opposite?

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Girl with Chicken

I'm reading Ransom Riggs "Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children" and on page 187 there is an old photo of a girl holding a chicken. The sad faced girl appears to be mid-teens, with long, dark, unbrushed hair, wearing a dark top covered by a dark, patched pinafore and what appears to be a dark wrap around her feet.

The photo is taken in a barren room, shades of dark and darker, with a bit of lightness here and there, like an afterthought. The picture is real, and I can't help but wonder who the girl is and why she is holding a chicken.

Is she moving into the home? Moving out of the home? Is it even her home? Is that her pet chicken? Is the chicken about to become Sunday dinner? Is she poor? A young mother? Alone? A slave? And who is the photographer?

For three days, since I have hit page 187, I have thought about this girl. I wonder what she was thinking when this photo was being taken. I wonder if she was happy because she had a chicken. I wonder if all she had was this chicken. Did she give it a name? Was it a prize winner? Was the purpose of the photo to show the girl or the chicken? Who wanted the picture taken? What did she do after? Where was she going? What was the rest of her life story, after the chicken?

So many things I wonder about this girl who lived not so long ago. Who ever she was, she lives on in this photo. Her and her chicken. Isn't that something?

Tuesday, August 25, 2015

Follow Your Bliss

For the last few months I've felt absolutely miserable. Grumpy. Bitchy. Unnerved. Feeling alone and trapped by the obligations of my life, the responsibilities that I feel I've had for centuries and will have for eternity.

Feeling these things is not a very good way to get through the day, let alone interact with people, so I googled things like "why am I so miserable" and "how to be nice" and "how to tell if you're dying" and then I remembered a saying - Follow Your Bliss. Yes, Follow Your Bliss. Well, okay, soooo wtf is my bliss and how do I follow it? So I googled that which led to more things and from those things I read from people who had followed their bliss's  and were now living high on clouds and sipping wine with the Gods (which does not make a miserable person feel better) so I made a list of questions:

What kind of people do I like to be around?
Who am I hanging with?

What places make me feel safe and comfortable?
Where do I spend my time?

What things would I love to surround myself with?
What things are in my home?

What hobbies and activities do I do for myself that make me feel alive?
How am I spending my free time?

I decided that if I was going to venture out in search of my bliss I'd better be damn truthful with my answers and let me tell you sometimes, I'm better off not knowing. But knowledge is power and now I had some power to further analyze myself and this is what I learned - the answers to the first set made me sad, the second two sets were pretty close, but the last two, oh, the last wonder I've been so miserable.

They didn't match. Didn't even come close. Nothing on the first was on the second. Things like Pinterest, TV, Facebook, complaining, stuffing my face, those were a pathetic few. The first list was writing, sewing, and taking pictures, things I hadn't done in months. Well, except for a few stitches here and there, but nothing finished.

So I asked myself why would I deliberately stop myself from doing things that made me feel alive? No matter how I rationalized that answer, it always came down to "because I don't feel I deserve it". Whoa. Wait, what? Why the hell not? Why don't I deserve to have joy?

Ready? time has come and gone / my life wasn't supposed to be like this / I have too many responsibilities / I listened to my parents-boyfriends-now ex-husband- friends and lost me in the process / etc., etc., etc.

Bullshit. Yeah.

Can't tag this to anyone but myself. Nope, no spoon was carrying that tub of mint chip ice cream - I got it. No remote was clicking on 'Castle' and 'Rizzoli and Isles'  and 'Project Runway' (but I LOVE PR) - it was me me me, my doings. Or my undoing.

You see, I'd been faking it. Faking me to the world. You know how they say to "act " like you're having fun and "act" like you're having a great day and "act" like you love your job? Well, that there is most likely the most dangerous advice you can follow because when you "act like" anything you are denying yourself the truth about how you feel and when you deny your truth you end up being a living, breathing, lie and as you know, lies snowball, and turn into more lies and where does that leave you?

Angry. Lonely. Confused. Wavering. Unhappy. Doubtful. Uncaring. Insensitive. Detached.

Is that who you are? (Here is where you jump up and proclaim loudly with a fist in the air, "hell no!")

Is that who I was becoming? Maybe. But now that I've recognized that and for whatever reason I subconsciously decided I was undeserving I know I'm to the one millionth power most deserving, and this is why I'm writing this post.

For me. And for you. Please, for the habit of joy, don't get sucked into the act. Don't feel like you can't continue to / start to do what makes you YOU. (And I'm assuming these "what makes you you" things are healthy and productive habits and not something that would make you bolt down a dark alley to avoid being arrested.)

For me, I will read my list daily and know that I deserve to be happy. What is on that list may lead me to those people that support and strengthen me, those people I listed who are unknown to me now. And who knows, maybe the small plot of earth I've been bequeathed in this gigantic universe will at some point be marked with my contribution to benefit mankind, even if mankind is a small part of the whole.

So when you feel confused, befuddled, find yourself wavering and at a complete loss wondering what the hell is your life all about, go somewhere quiet and make a list.  Be honest. Be kind. And most of all, don't ever let anyone make you feel like you don't deserve the best things in life, because you do. Follow your bliss.

And remember this:

Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little; we owe it everything. The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.  -William Cowper

Friday, July 17, 2015

Three Words

For the rest of your days, if you had to live in the aftermath of three words that you chose to speak, which three words would you choose?

Saturday, May 30, 2015


I put the rings on yesterday because they were pretty. Both silver, one a tear drop shaped aquamarine surrounded by tiny diamonds, the other, two separate strands - one of tiny diamonds and one of rubies - raised over a fluted band.

With the bright sun shining thru my work window I was able to enjoy the sparkles from the rings, and while turning them on my fingers I realized that the backs, the part that sits palm-side, was tarnished.


When I put them on, there was no emotion attached, they were just pretty and matched my outfit.

Both rings had been bought separately to represent something, neither of which now exists.

I bought the teardrop for me, with part of a Christmas bonus because I wanted to buy something that made me feel significant, more than the single mother who worked, payed bills, and tried to keep my teenagers from going over the edge or pushing me off it.

The diamond-ruby ring was to commit to a man who, after 15 years of being divorced, I decided that he could be the next only one. Guess what? Nope.


A metaphor, perhaps? Cheap, but highly priced silver? Is that why I had put them in the box of rings that I would most likely never wear again but didn't want to throw away because they were pretty?

Funny how you forget to remember why you do certain things.

My question to you is this: what happens to the significance of the gifts after the event has ended? Does it just become a thing without feeling? Do you toss it? Regift it? Burn it? Ritualistically remove it from your essence? Put it in a box with all the other metaphors to remind you why you should never date again?

Tarnished. Such an opportunistic word.

Sunday, February 15, 2015


Art is immortal. Art is passion. Art is the expression of the personal connection between our spiritual and physical selves. Art is love, romance, and joy. Art is fear, despair, and pain.

Dear Einstein stated: "All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree. All these aspirations are directed toward ennobling man’s life, lifting it from the sphere of mere physical existence and leading the individual towards freedom." I wonder if our life purpose is to find our art and express it, and if the reason so many people are discontent is because they haven't taken the time to fall goosebumps in love with a painting or a dance or a song or a book, preventing them from feeling the truth of who they are, and continue to drone through the daily grind, pretending to be happy but slowly succumbing to the loneliness that a body with a trapped spirit harbors.

I wonder if it's our artistic abilities that are our saving grace in the eyes of God. Or in our own.