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i’m a zombie today.

not because i had something strange and wiggly for dinner last night, but because my allergies have been off the charts this year, and breathing is nigh unto impossible right now.

i’m stuffy, congested, watery eyed, and sleepy to the heavens.  it’s like my indoor plumbing has gone hay-wire, and i really need a sinus roto-rooter.

so i’m a zombie.  i’m walking around like the “stumbling dead” (a: i’m not walking fast  b: i don’t want to infringe on anyone’s copyrights; you get what i’m saying?).  i probably look like i fell out of a crypt.  my energy is almost equal to that of a houseplant, or at least a light switch.  and all i can think about is going back to sleep.

hmmm…now that i think about it, i should be concentrating more on brains.  so perhaps i’m really a MUMMY today, longing for my tomb?

either way, i’m feeling pretty monstrous

too many winters


Like a budding spring tree,

I can feel the change coming.

I can sense the


opening up in me –

slowly, but with purpose

and determination.

But I …

I have seen too many winters.

I have felt the chill

and shivered in it’s embrace.

I have crawled back

into bed

on mornings when

the best I had to offer

was a tested skill

of wrapping myself in

my blankets –

tight –

like a little human


And these cold


mornings have left their

print on me,

and seared my body

with an undying

kiss of


So I run from life

at the first sign of


and I hide from it all,

afraid my sweatshirts

won’t be warm enough to

protect me

from the elements.

And when the tiny

beautiful voice of spring

rises in my heart

and whispers to me that

I too

can be free

and healthy

and alive

and powerful

I run to my closet

once again

and bury my creative


in a pile of sweaters

and blankets and


For I must keep her warm –

this muse –

and safely protected.

For I have seen

too many winters,

and I know of the

barrenness of the trees.







a thimble of wine


i don’t know how to do this.

i don’t know how to open myself up, and leave my heart out for people, when i’m just not sure of the outcome. although that statement is pretty ironic, considering i’m sharing my soul to complete strangers who don’t know me, and likely don’t care.

i know that it’s what people have done for a millennia; give their hearts away, to lovers and friends, only to have their hearts dashed on the rocks or squished like grapes being made for wine.

and sometimes that’s how i feel it is for me. that the bigger purpose in life, humanity as a whole, is so much more important than my tiny life. that i am the grape. and the juice flows out of me, spills from my skin, just to feed all of mankind a thimble of wine. but am i only the juice? isn’t there more for ME as an individual? i’d like to hope so…but i’m wary.

i’ve spent my whole life hiding myself from people. it was a necessary part of my life, to hide my reality from those around me. my person, my soul has kind of been on the lam for forever. worried about people learning the truth about me, my dark secrets, the skeletons in my closet, the shame that i wear like a scarf around my neck. sometimes i will let out some little part of me, some white flag or token offered to a friend, but i’m always looking for a sign that i must retreat. i’m always ready to pick up my belongings and take to the hills if there is any movement that looks suspicious.

and i guess i’m being challenged right now, and i’m not sure how to proceed. so many situations in my past have made me wall myself up in a tower, like a creepy Edgar Allan Poe kitty in a horror story of love and not love. so i’m used to that, i’m used to the comfort of obliteration. i’m used to not having what i desire or deserve, because i’m too busy spending all my energy hiding my beauty and uniqueness from the world, and don’t see those around me who would actually love me, and treat me well, and honor my life instead of try to destroy it. and here i am now, faced with uncertainty, and fear, and small situations that mean a great deal to me, even if they don’t mean a great deal. and i question motives, and intentions, and actions. i look for hidden information in others, that might reveal to me that i am cared for, or longed for, or sought after. because i can’t always see it, even if it is right in front of me. because i’m used to cutting, not binding. i’m used to running from, not running to. and my soul wants desperately to pick up its skirts and take off at a breakneck speed, and dash away to the safety of my tower, and pull its hair up so that no one can ever follow.

but my heart doesn’t seem to notice. my heart just jumps back in the vat, ready to be trounced again, ready for the wine of life to flow from her veins. and what else can i do, but support the alcoholics of the world with my life essence?


i’ve heard a million times (wait, a bunch of times, i’m not sure i have the attention span to count to a million)…i’ve heard a bunch of times that the brain is a computer. good stuff in, good stuff out. bad stuff in, bad stuff out. our memories get wired together with emotions. we get programmed by the time we are five. my syntax is incorrect and giving me errors. whatever, i get it.

what i don’t get is the recording button. where the hell is the recording button? i need a damn dictaphone for my computer! this happens to me, i don’t know how many times a week (sorry, the calculator option in my brain’s computer has never been correctly calibrated): i’m in the shower, and come up with a great paragraph for my book. a PARAGRAPH mind you, in the shower. when i’m all naked, and sudsy, and rubbing my hands all over my luscious skin and distractingly plump bosoms and … oh sorry, wrong blog. so i have this awesome paragraph in my mind, and i run to my room to jot it all down, and by the time i sit down wet and still naked and luscious, and get out a pen and paper, well damn! it’s gone! it was this brilliant piece to my book! just vanished!

then this happens to me when i’m driving. who cares where i’m headed, it’s more of the same thing. great idea. great lines. great blog. but then it’s gone by the time i get near a writing instrument.

what happens here? all of the words are right there, coming out of me…flowing out of me like a stream of brilliance. and then i try to capture it and my brain gives me the “i’m sorry, this does not compute” message. or the creepy 2001 message in a deadpan voice, “i’m sorry, dave, i really can’t help you, dave”. but i’m like “HAL, you dumb controlling creepy computer, my name isn’t dave!” (although i could date a dave, i suppose, and then if i married him i would be MRS. dave, but i don’t think HAL actually ever says MRS. dave)

if only i could find the manual for my brain. i’m sure it must have some feature like a DVR, and i can work those fine. i’d just like to be able to hit the back button a couple of times and replay these fabulous stories and blogs and masterfully crafted chapters and revolutionary literary pieces that would surely win me some prize or honor, and i would stand and give a modest speech about how i thought up the whole book in the shower. but maybe that’s mike myers’ thing, making scripts for movies in the bathtub, so i don’t want to rain on his parade. nobody likes a copy cat.

so i guess i either need a dictaphone, a better memory drive in my memory drive, or maybe a personal assistant who doesn’t mind co-ed showers and who also happens to have waterproof ink pens.