Day 23 of 30 Day Writing Challenge - A family member you dislike. 

Y'know... I think all the family members that I really disliked have died. There are family members with traits or attitudes I dislike but that doesn't make me dislike them entirely. 

Maybe I'm not remembering all of my family members right now. I'll have to get back to you on that one. 


Day 22 of 30 day Writing Challenge - Your Morning Routine

I don't really have a routine. I wake up with just enough time to take a shower, get dressed, grab some fruit on the way out the door. I'm not kidding. I suppose you could call that my routine but it doesn't feel intentional. It's a haphazard dash. The only thing that makes those three items above a routine is that they must be done in order by necessity.

Routines are missing in my life. It is something I am working on developing but it's hard when your brain seems to reset every 1.5 weeks.

I, Gemini.

Day 21 of 30 Days of Writing - Your Zodiac/Horoscope and whether you think it fits you.

Gemini - The Twins

Although I believe life is a spectrum I love the concept of duality. I have two characters that live in my head that are two facets of myself. One is nigh indestructable and the other is capable of incredible feats of creation and destruction. One is loud and obnoxious, the other is quiet and introspective. And so on.

I love the concept of the twins, the yin of the yang. I am often of two minds so this aspect of Gemini fits me. There is also something about the Gemini's being creative. I am that in spades. There are other things that do not fit me at all. Apparently Geminis are gregarious and the life of the party. Nope, not me. Airheaded? Eh, yeah, maybe.

So, in the end the best I can do is say I think my horoscope 'only sorta' fits me.

Leaf, blazing with color, dances on the wind.

Day 20 of 30 Day Writing Challenge - Put your music player on shuffle and write the first 3 songs that play and your initial thoughts.

  1. Take Me Anywhere - Tegan & Sera
  2. Matches to Paper Dolls - Dessa
  3. Video Girl - FKA Twigs

This is the story of a girl that has a frail ego. She has a very thin sense of self. Dependent on others to be saved or entertained. 

...I think some of this may be sublimation on my part.


There is nothing like hunger to make cast off refuse taste like a feast. If you are fortunate enough to be able to sup from the source instead of suck from the scraps you know the wonders this port city offers. And yet, the kitchens of the grandest estates cannot produce anything to rival the aroma of a ShaVandyr cookfire wafting out over in the Vastland camps. Ah, but the Vastlands are a memory clung to long past usefulness to someone raised by these streets and the constant twist of hunger from within. A bit of charred oshta fin stolen from a passing dog; that was delicacy enough that I could forget ever being a carefree nomad eating roast lamb and singing to the stars. At least until I was hungry again.

Now, of course, it is different. I do not live in the Council District or one of the estates at the foothills but if I wished it, my table would rival that of any lord’s. It has been long years since a hollow belly would keep me awake. There is still hunger, but of a different kind.

There is the hunger that visits on the wake of her scent as she passes through your tavern. From incense and smoke you pull a trace of that fragrance that you taught her how to mix: subtle enough to only compliment her own signature. That smell leads to the memory of her taste on your tongue. The resultant hunger causes parts of your body to flush. A hunger that must be reminded that she is now off limits to you. By some ridiculous self-imposed code you close yourself off and starve two people for the price of one because some things are more important.

There is the simple hunger of necessity or greed, depending on which hand you hold. The hunger that allows you to take a magistrate’s bed as you buy his jurisprudence. Using your bedroom to entertain and confer with those who have influence. Whispers of conversations overheard (or not), cultivating rivalries and unlikely alliances, pushing for chaos that you and yours have learned to mold like clay.

There is the hunger of seeing the murderer of children in the market laughing, drinking with associates, oblivious to your eyes on him. How the skin on your arms, neck and back goes cold and then hot, your fingers itch for the turral-dipped darts in your sleeve. Or, more urgently, how the curved kukri at your thigh and the whip on your belt both lust for his throat. A hunger that knows that if you moved now, -in stark daylight -in full view of the market throng, no one would dare stop you or admit to ever having seen you gut the man in the street.

And that hunger you feel is nothing to the grief and desperation in the eyes of the mother who begged for you to deliver retribution for her dead children. You accepted, as it is known that you would, and yet the man lives. The mother finds ways to cross your path. She says nothing but you know that look of hatred on those betrayed.

You had told her to be patient knowing her pain would not allow it. While there is an aching need to explain to her, comfort her, assure her that you are still on task you cannot tell her the truth: that the man must live until he brokers the deal with the captain of the Orimun Fah. Once that transaction is secured and it’s goods in the right hands you will make it up to her by arranging a death so blatant and gruesome there will be no question as to why or who delivered it. This is not at all to your taste but necessary in this instance. Your life has become broad gestures in granting lives and taking them. Enterprising and vulgar, your name is currency in the Shadows.

Even so, with your questionable fame, there is an ache to be done with this life. You hunger for freedom. To be free of the burden you, and those left cast off in the shadows, have put on you.

You feel stretched thin, nearly to bursting, filled with the terrible queen that you’ve become. If you do not drug yourself with wine and hashish and sex and Fire-eye you will start to vomit up the life these Shadows poured into you. And it will not stop because there is nothing but Shadows now. Inside you, outside. You are the Shadows now. Let them take you.

And I would if I didn’t know there are members of my clan still here; lost in a city bent on devouring them


[Day 18 of 30Day writing challenge - What is your favorite color and why?]

I don't know the proper name of my color. In fact I might not really know what my favorite color is. I would say yellow-orange but that'd be too yellowy or orange-yellow but that would be too orangey. The closest I get is maybe hex code ffd000. It's an impossible color to nail down in the wild.

I've never been sure is why it became my favorite color but one of the reasons is that is a brilliant accent color against a black or (even better) a deep gunmetal gray. It also seems to be the color I imagine when I recall the old masters chiaroscuro paintings. I don't know.

A quote or two or three

[Day 17 of 30 day writing challenge - A quote you try and live by]

There are a few quotes that tumble around in my head over the years. It's hard to say which one guides me the most. 

Most recently asking myself  "Who am I?" and "What is true?" can reframe my mind or confirm my intentions in just about anything I am considering. This one I would like to keep in the forefront of my processes. Thank you to Steven Barnes for that (among many other things.)

from Miguel Ruiz' The Four Agreements I have these taped to my bathroom mirror:

Be impeccable with your word. 
Don't take anything personally.
Don't make assumptions.
Always do your best. 
From Dawn Callan I was given: 

Wake up! 
Don't complain.
Don't Take Any Shit. 
From my mom: "Walk a mile in their shoes." Or "Put yourself in their place" has gone a long way in teaching me compassion.
"Ain't nothing to it but to do it." Is something my sister is fond of saying. I grew to like it too because of its straightforwardness. 

I love this bit attributed to Thoreau "Go confidently in the directions of your dreams. Live the life you've always imagined." Ah, that 'confidently' has been the tricky one.

Many of these seem like they are beyond me sometimes. But the fact that they refuse to fade away like other bits of advice I've gathered over the year surely means they are part of my path. I may stray often, but when I remember to look up these are the lanterns that will guide me home.

Bullet Your Day

[Day 16 of 30 Day Writing Challenge - Bullet your day]

Wake up
Go to work
Navigate stress mines dropped by the boss
Leave work
Go to the grocery store
Ditch dinner plans because Inlaws want fam to come over for dinner
Get home late
Make a valiant attempt to write
Fall asleep some time after that

3 Pet Peeves

[Day 15 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: Three pet peeves]

“Eww!” – I find that I have little patience for people who are fond of using the two-syllable utterance of “Eww!” to decline something or express that some mundane thing is not for them. Alright, it is not just the word -although that phrase in particular instantly sets me on edge- but the utter pretentiousness of putting people down for something they might like and you don’t -ugh!

Celebrity gossip/news. – I don’t care who is getting in trouble or dating/marrying/divorcing who. Do not waste my time or airspace with shit that’s not my business.

Morning Talk Radio  – I find it hard to express my seething hatred for drive time radio. Take my two peeves above and get obnoxious people to talk about nothing but that. Oh, absolutely, that’s how I want to start my day.

7 years

Day 14 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: Your life in seven years

Seven years from now I’m going to be traveling because I will have goddamned earned it by then. I think would like to be travelling with my son -at least for a little bit of the trip.

Oh, this could be when I do on my dream trip: The Ring of Fire Tour on my motorcycle. Hmm. That means I will have taken extraordinary care of my body and perhaps found a way to reverse my aging. (I am taking notes now.)

So I will have earned this trip because I busted my ass for six years solid on my creative endeavors. Oh, lets say I finished a book or two or three. Probably wouldn’t have netted me much but for the amount of work I’m imagining I’ll be doing, I think travel would be a nice reward.  I’m not talking about traveling in style necessarily. Frugal but well researched would be nice.

In Seven years I think I’ll be living somewhere else, living a much simpler life. I’ll probably still have a day-job but I think it would be more oriented toward my creative side -so a better fit than my current day job. My projects would bring in some extra cash. It’ll be nice.

I will like to have resolved some of my psychological, emotional challenges by then. It would be good to be in a better mind, heart space. (Taking more notes.)

If you can’t tell I am kind of dancing around this one without fully jumping in.  I’m not in an especially good place right now but I promised myself I’d write daily, even if it’s these stupid writing prompts.

God, I’m so fucking 

7 minutes

Day 13 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: Your commute to and from work/school.

A short roll of the throttle gets you out of the cul-de-sac to the corner.  The first right hand turn of the day rolls you right through the Stop sign. You never stop at the sign -no call to, plus it’s horribly inefficient, you just got rolling after all.

A short jog then a Left-and-Right (both turns are other Stop signs to ignore -judiciously!)  and you are leaving behind the hive of houses proudly named something fancy to gussy up the ticky-tacky.

The first Stop sign you obey is the gate to the arterial flow of morning rush hour. Find your gap and scoot on in. Up over the bridge then and peeling left into the onramp that has you joining the inferior vena cava that is the 215 Beltway. The lane never quite merges. It becomes the off-ramp for the next exit which is, fortunately, your exit. You don’t get to shuffle and jive with the rest of the freeway commuters. Pity, that.

Shoot across the intersection at the exit and you are on the frontage road that’ll lead to the business park to your office. You are running along side the freeway again, but this time there’s a barrier between you and the pulse of rush hour. Though not nearly as packed, this leg of the trip is less carefree than the flirtation with the freeway rush hour. No, now you get to mess with the build up centered around the elementary school.

The road that leads to the turn in to your office is clogged with cars that move erratically in fits and starts, like a herd of cats each chasing their own individual red dot. It makes ignoring three Stop signs at the beginning of the commute seem downright earnest and thoughtful. That is why you ride right past it to the next block.

That’s where you discover favorite morning ritual: the Riley curve. The road that borders the business park goes from west-east to south-north in a smooth radial sweep of asphalt. A nice little right-hand sweeper where the concrete crawl butts up against tumbleweeds and creosote. As you ride up on it and burn off the speed as you lean into it you think It really is a good morning.

It’d be perfect right-hander if it didn’t have that little hiccup of a rain wash running across the road. With no room to savor the curve as you exit you have to snap upright to attention and reign in all that speed you spooled out so that you can stand in the stirrups and let her ride motocross style over the gutter. Soon enough you are at another Stop that lets you onto the street you avoided to go play for a minute.

In less than 15 seconds you will be rolling into your parking space a little sad that your commute is over.


Day 10 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: A fruit you dislike and why

I honestly can’t think of a fruit that I don’t like. I mean, perhaps there are features of some fruits that I dislike, but it seems the unpleasantness or inconvenience have never outweighed the pleasure eating a fruit brings.

I suspect, if that were so, then the fruit would have never gained the popularity it has today. Early man & woman would’ve said, “Oh, fuck this it’s just not worth the fuss!” and that’d be the end of said fruit ever seeing its way to a produce cart at the market today.

Then, there are what I like to call -the impostors! They are fruit that got too big for their britches; thought they’d be better than the other fruits. So much so that the stopped being sweet. Put their serious game face on and Sucros got kicked to the curb. Talkin bout “Excuse, me. But do I taste like a fruit to you? I think not!” Yeah. Got us all thinking they are vegetables. Sittin all high and mighty up with the veggies at the super market. Too good to be a fruit now.

I’m looking at you, Tomato and Avacado. You too, Cucumber -not nearly sweet enough! Pumpkin! That’s right -I KNOW YOU ARE A FRUIT! DON’T EVEN TRY TO DENY IT!

You impostor make me sick. You could’ve spoken up with dumb humans labelled you. But did you? Nope. Assholes. I got your number. Imma tell everyone not to believe you.

Nary A Fuck Nor Spoon

Day 9 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: Your feelings on ageism

It sucks. Obviously. The young and the old discounted and diminished in the eyes of the other. That’s just lovely.

I feel this another of many -isms that are tossed into the bonfire of Whats-Fucked-Up-With-Our-World-Today. Shit that gets under our skin and makes us shoot sparks from our teeth we’re grinding them shut so hard in our seething of how WRONG it all is.

And yet, if there is a scale of magnitude similar to Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, I figure ageism would not be the worst -ism out there.

Still, it sucks.

I feel I have a dog in this fight. Rather, two frothy rabid dogs. I kinda get stung from pitchforks weilded by ageists on both sides.

I am both too old and too young to be me. I have developmental and dissociative setbacks to thank for this strange place I find myself. I don’t even know if I’m where I’m at due to circumstances of nature or nurture. Both? It doesn’t matter. This is arrested development. Failure to launch. A samsara merry-go-round.

I used to think it didn’t really matter. I guess it didn’t until I had a kid. It was fine if I fucked up my life but now -Oh god. Now.

I am too old and too young for this and I have nary a fuck nor spoon to spare. Anybody want to come at me with ageist bullshit is gonna want to think twice.


Day 7 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: What tattoos do you have and do they have any meaning?


I only have one although I’ve always meant to get more.

On my right shoulder I have the eight outward facing arrows of chaos. At the time Chaos was a prominent theme in my life. As you can imagine, life was a mite more interesting at the time. I might have been a little off balance then.

See, I had originally planned to have a harmony tattoo on my left shoulder to balance it all out. That, sorta hasn’t happened yet so my life has been a little unbalanced in the favor of chaos. I think I am ready for the harmony now. Before I get that done though I would like to shed some of this weight first -it’s not that much of a priority at the moment. Having children will mess up your tatt priorities like that

Someone who fascinates me

Day 6 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: Someone who fascinates me and why

Craig Ferguson.

He seems like someone I’d love to hang out with. At least I like to think I’d not be the terribly awkward person that I usually am and instead be able to hold my own in a conversation with him.

Of all those late night show hosts he was my favorite. I liked the way he related to the guests, his self-deprecating manner and how he related to the audience in studio and through the camera. Very personable.

And the respect he shows for other people is immense -a compassionate soul. He was the first late night show host (hell name me any other tv show host) that would defend celebrities when they have melt downs and the world is a thrall with tut-tutting, gossip and sucking up whatever sensationalist soup the media is serving up. This guy would stand up and show some humanity and compassion in the middle of the feeding frenzy. I have deep respect for anyone who can do that. This is the kind of shit that inspires me.

When the world goes to shit this is the guy I want on my team.

I read his pseudo-memoir and I felt like he came through as an authentic, very real, down to earth person. But I didn’t need to read his biography to know that. I picked up pretty much everything I needed to know about him through the episodes of his show (I don’t even remember the name of his show, at the moment._)

A quote from him that I try -try- to live by:
Does this need to be said?
Does this need to be said now?
Does this need to be said now by me?

Lets go live in Cyprus! No, I've never been there.

Day 5 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: A Place I’d like to live that I’ve never visited. 


Thats a place I’d like to life that I’ve never visited. An island nation that is one part Greece and one part Turkey. Whats not to love?

Ok. Honestly I didn’t have a set plan until this question was put to me. So several places came up: Oregon, Santa Fe, Chicago, Hokaido, Morocco, Glasgow,  Istanbul, Budapest, Sri Lanka, Thailand… Oh, I could go on.

And I will, but first: RESEARCH

Love's First Kiss

Day 3 of 30 Day Writing Challenge: Your first love and kiss

It was a kiss of delightful surprise. In that vacuum of wonder after that tiny *pop* of something I’m sure physics can explain, I felt the universe confirm that we were meant for eachother. I don’t remember the exact story at the time of the first kiss. That’s not important.

What is important is that my First Love was Story. It found Story through my mother’s voice as she read out loud, on the television, on the street, in my dreams.

I loved how it fueled me and how alive it was, like a beautiful wild thing. I couldn’t possibly keep or hold it. I needed to lift it up and throw it into the air like a carrier pigeon. It would reach someone, surely it would. But I had to learn how.

No, that’s a lie. I didn’t learn anything. There was no learning to it there was just doing. The me then had no doubt or hesitation. There was nothing but the volition of the Universe: Child, tell us.

I used my words. But my words are not the words of grown people. I told them plainly my story. Their faces, eyes crinkling in humor beaming with delight. They talked back to me in their non-sensical grown people words, tones of agreement and laughter. But it was all wrong! I was not telling them something funny. They didn’t understand even though they acted like they did.

Child, tell us.

I do. I share the Story but you dont hear it.

I attempted to frame the Story a different way. It was a crayon, dark blue. Most certainly a Crayola. With supreme confidence I set down lines and swirls and dashes and stipple covering the peice of scrap paper.

There was a point, I recall, where the hand presses too hard and the strokes grow thick and layered with purpose and urgency. Eventually the scrawling slowed as the conclusion spelled itself out. There was a dense slick of blue dominating a corner of the paper -maybe it was water. Yes, water, I think. The once conical point of the crayon had worn down nearly flat. When I lift my hand, the tip of the crayon disengages from the veneer of wax underneath with a tiny snap. I even felt the tick of separation in my fingers.

And there was the Story.

It was a kiss of delightful surprise. In that vacuum of wonder after that tiny *pop* of something I’m sure physics can explain, I felt the universe confirm that we were meant for eachother.

I don’t remember the exact story at the time of the first kiss. That’s not important