Sunday, November 19, 2017

Morning Time

I guess I’m rethinking weekday mornings, I’ve never been well enough to actually take action. The last 20 years has been struggle to wake up, a struggle to get every thing done before heading out the door hopefully the coffee will kick in between morning naps, egg timers, and as I go to work/school. Where I jump from break to meal losing my shit If I have to wait a few extra minutes for either because I’m so hungry.

I remember 25 years ago having huge breakfasts even resorting to salmon burgers in hopes that I could make it through the day without feeling beaten down by hours and gravity. And they didn’t help, for one reason I probably had bread around my burgers, and by the time lunch time hit I had a sandwich or walked down the boardwalk for some cross contaminated fries.

I’ve perfected the diet, I’m not afraid of a little coconut or olive oil, and decided to fry some eggs with my waffle the morning (still lots of coffee 😊)  and I made till 1:00 waiting for lunch in my new job. I walked into work happy and alert and I wasn’t thinking about food all the time.

You know what else? If I get up early enough in the morning I can relax and write and enjoy coffee and not rush around and forget to clean the litter box because I was half asleep. I haven’t mastered getting up with the alarm yet, but, I have had extra half-hours to write in my journal and not feel rushed in the morning. The new message to me is that the morning can be just as much a functional part of the day as the rest of the day.

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Write on

I guess I want to write more. When I come home at night to sit and write, my brain is usually blank. I have to really force it to create and be focused. My brain shrugs at the shoulders and decides that there is nothing to say, nothing to write about. Sometimes I get something sometimes I don’t. Which has been acceptable till now but...

At Writers Circle, there is always something to write about, and I can write about it in any format. At Writers Circle I can do anything I put my mind to.

So my question to myself today, as I go off to spend 8 hours at my job, so I have a house to live in and write for an hour or two, when I come home. Is how do I translate Writers Circle into my house. 

How do I sit down and write almost every night?

Do I need to set up a better desk? Do I need to turn off the music? Or does the music help? DO I need more writing prompts? Or do I start every day organically and see where it leads me.

Today morning pages were about compassion, my compassion the worlds compassion. About ourselves, our world our animals. I consider myself pretty compassionate but can I be more, can I share this compassion with others?

Will these generations that are following me, say “Oh look at all the great things people have done before us…” and keep harming the planet. Oh will they be like “whoa nelly” and say we have to do things differently. Why can’t my generation do it.

To be fair there’s been a complete revolution in how to treat women in the film industry and people seem to be listening, now let's do that in how the world treats not only our millionaires, put those is poverty and our whole world.

I guess I'm offering myself two challanges...

Friday, November 10, 2017

#You Too?

I wasn’t in the industry for very long, but I had a rep that preceded my very quickly. The boys knew I wouldn’t randomly sleep with them, I was there to work. I remember one time I reminded a male co worker that I was available to work on his movie. “Ah you don’t want that role, you have to take your cloths off.” I didn’t know what he meant.

I remember through all the “knowledge” that my inner me had that I WAS  pretty, I didn’t feel the world giving it back. He just made me feel fat and ugly and rigid. I had people refuse to consider me because I was “too large” and they hadn’t even met me. They could just tell. Imagine my shock when I saw (at 40 a) a picture of my tiny cute self at 25. I was so cute. I wish people had told me that. I wish I had lived in the cuteness rather than the shame.

I couldn’t get on a set of boys who knew I would follow the rules (no guns on set boys) I couldn’t get a walk home from the boy who knew I wouldn’t sleep with him. I didn’t feel safe with these people. I guess in retrospect I’ve heard a lot of bad shit that has never happened to me, but that doesn’t mean what I experienced or felt wasn’t any less. That I knew there was something going on that my mind couldn’t identify, but my body was screaming “this isn’t right.”

My writing prompt this week for writers circle is write what you can’t see, and the above is what came out. As a first start. It wasn’t what happened to me it’s what didn’t.

It wasn’t that the boys disrespected me to my face, it wasn’t that they said said “watch out when you run through the hotel at night that you don’t get raped.” It was that they rarely said “good job glad you’re on your team,” and the one night I couldn’t handle in three years, the one night, they wanted to fire me, because I alone, I couldn’t handle, a whole hotel on my own.

I guess for the last couple (dozen or so) years I’ve let them in my head. I always thought It was my fault: I could have been stronger, I could have been this: I could have been that. But they weren’t looking for someone like me. “Frosty you would be good on any set.” I was told by one man, but I never got the chance to show it. 

I can’t spend the rest of my life, like a wife in a battered relationship saying it was probably my fault that it didn’t work. Tonight I think “It was my way out, away of an unsatisfactory unfulfilling life choice."

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Monday like an Elastic

I started a new job on Monday. Can’t say a lot about it. Still at the call centre, still with the same client. Just crawling up the stairs a bit. 

In the middle of the transfer from going from a basement in the old hospital morgue, back up on the floor, and all it’s action; I caught a tremendous cold. The last time I was able to sing, was a week ago, and my throat has been too scratchy to do more than five basic notes. Although my Base is pretty powerful.

Why I write this, is that I keep myself pretty calm on regular basis; I’m silly and can get wound up, but my mind is always able to work shit out when chaos is going on around me, and if it’s not I put on a pair of ear muffs, dissociate, and keep up what I’m supposed to be doing.

Well this week I couldn’t, my body demanded to be listened to, although my thoughts were numb to the changes: I was asked it how it felt to be leaving the group I worked with for seven years, to leave what my body knew like the back of my hand, and to go to something I still had trouble explaining to people until maybe today. Today I got it. But I just shrugged. Monday was another day, like Friday was. I walked in and walked on.

On Monday, day one of the new job, I actually threw up. All the while my mind was telling the body it was just another day, my body was wound like some sort of elastic band twisted and turned. My body was freaking out, but I had no way of hearing it, until I was leaning over the toilet.

SO there’s a lesson here, that while I appear to be calm on the outside, I am wound up tight on the inside. Maybe, now that I know this, I will listen to my body and I don’t have to exhaust myself during the day. I’ll find a way to balance my energy and find a way to heal this silent anxiety.

My aim now is to not so much worry about calming the mind as it is to listen to what my body is silently screaming, and that’s going to be new.

Sunday, November 5, 2017

the force

I began to hear pine needles
Drop to the forests autumn floor
Like hearing the sound of a single
Triangle, patter, throughout the symphony
I’m reading her poetry and for a moment
Am taken to the world where the bears
Eat salmon on the river bed
And the eagles fly over head
The kind they chose for that Robbie Robertson video
And although there was no music I knew in would be
Skin Walker. Like Skywalker has a light sabre
To break though evil the evil that is brothers sisters cousins
Family; family sticks together except when the force
Rips them apart.


Monday, October 30, 2017


Perhaps we learned a lot about spreading germs at school, about having a cold, a flu, pneumonia. How to pass it when you don’t wash your hands, or as you got older they said “mono from kissing.” But I rarely catch a cold. But there is emotional illness.

I think of the little children I read about as children that couldn’t go outside because they were delicate flowers, a push of wind would knock them over. A child that needs clean air and a germ free house, an environmentally reactive person who can’t touch newspaper and oil of olay.

There are people that need to live emotionally clean lives as well. It’s sad that we haven’t gotten to that point of making it a scientific explosion, where TIME magazine publishes a earth shattering article and people realize some people hurt differently than others. Some people get eaten up inside my the city, by the film industry, by the wrong job.

I’m think I’m an extravert, with depression. I love being with great people, but I still have to spend hours making sure I don’t get emotionally ill. I have to spend extra hours sleeping when things get too much. I have to check in with myself especially at stressful times. I find the purring and love of my Kitties relaxing. I’ve learned how to combat a grocery store or a shopping mall in small bouts.

Like someone with allergies takes a Benadryl or Auntie Jones carries a pack of wipes and hand sanitizers; I write in my journal and take a little cocktail of antidepressants to take on the emotional strain.

Someone who is emotionally ill is going to be affected by your tv shows, by your nasty remarks, and your violent outbreaks. I heard some one say “I soon won’t be able to say anything.” I say if it’s going to hurt someone you shouldn’t say it anyway.

It’s now not socially unacceptable to sneeze or cough on a “friend”. We have to realize now that like cancer, mental illness needs to be treated like a deadly virus, and that almost everything affects certain people. The "OutBreak" we are facing is not a viral one, it's an emotional one, a verbal one.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

Red Flag

It’s been a year

A year ago I had a boyfriend
For two weeks
And found it highly over rated
I didn’t have time for that shit
I didn’t have time to be raped
Or abused or manipulated
Lied to or used
I walked away from it
And didn’t get hurt

I listened to all those people
That came into high school
And talked about rape
And putting yourself
In bad places
Oprah always Oprah
And If I didn’t trust him
I stayed away
I stayed away a lot
Life is a red flag

There was no one
Who would have an
Honest relationship
With themselves
It’s too late now
I’m on too much Prozac to feel

I’ve had too much time to love
Myself to waste my time
Trying to make someone
Else Happy
That’s what rape culture
Has taught me:

To be alone
To wrap blankets around me
When I want a hug
Just saying hi
Is a red flag
Just the wordscoming out
Of that mouth
Is a form of rape
That look in his eyes
That look down on me
Like I’m just a child
That I’m not worth the fight

Again I’m different
Than all the other girls

I’m not one who can say

Me to

New Job...

There’s a little path I’m taking
Lit by the peaking morning
Sunrise, colours of red and orange.
Behind me is the darkness
Of the last starless night
Ahead of me lies the day.
The radio sings of love
And the day will have adventure and dancing

I’m right in the middle
Day and night. Night and day.
A year of strength and growth
I knew I had to go somewhere else
I knew I had to keep moving
I couldn’t keep hating the light
Couldn’t keep sleeping through the

Sunshine and turning on the rainbows.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Tears in Heaven

Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven

Eric Clapton and Will Jennings gave us this question
When a little boy fell from a balcony window

Would it be the same
If I saw you in heaven?

No not at all there are so many worries
So many confusions when we are born as humans

Would you hold my hand
If I saw you in heaven?

As death found souls, we recognize everyone in heaven
Wrap our energy around each other

Would you help me stand
If I saw you in heaven?

We are energy when we die like butterflies
We change our core and fly

Time can bring you down, time can bend your knees
Time can break your heart, have you begging please, begging please
Beyond the door there's peace I'm sure
And I know there'll be no more tears in heaven

We have to change we have to evolve
Which is maybe why we morn when someone dies young
Because like a caterpillar they never had a chance to live to be a butterfly

Perhaps as humans no matter what stage of age we are in
We fly into the universe and love all we were supposed to
On earth. With tears in heaven.

I'll find my way through night and day
'Cause I know I just can't stay here in heaven

And after heaven there is another step I’m sure

We just have no idea 

Thursday, September 7, 2017


I’m glad I had
The time to invest
In me
I’m glad I had
The heart to touch
What no one else
I’m here to say
I didn’t fall
Rose up the vine
Magic beans into the sky
What I found was giants
And I kept growing
I see the movies
Where the bad keeps
And I wonder
How someone
Survives the Diehards
And the Armageddon’s
And I realize that’s how it feels sometimes
People fall behind
I fall behind
But the guns and the bombs
Are still blasting
All around me
I keep running through the fire
Walking barefoot
In the broken glass
I find the bad guys
And walk away

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Not a Genius

I was watching criminal minds this morning and the team turned to Dr Reid and said “You’re a genius, you figure it out."  I thought how nice to be appreciated for your smartness, rather than have it laughed it and belittled. It made me instantly think of my grade one life, where I was scolded for knowing cursive writing and using it before everyone else had a chance to learn.

There were no temper tantrums no fights no big noticeable depression for days, I remember some sadness and confusion, that I wasn’t allowed to use this new trick, but I accepted it. Teachers were adults and made the rules.

But I wonder, just a little bit, if it didn’t close me up a bit, make me feel like everyone had to excel at the same time and same pace, if somehow I was, even mildly, stunted by this information. If my need to excel scholastically was held back to make sure I didn’t learn too much without teachers advice. I wonder if I was afraid to jump ahead and learn.

Hmmm Worth thinking about and healing.

No Alibis

Today, is Sunday; laundry day. I don’t have a washer or dryer in my house or a car to get to the laundry mat. I packed up my little wheelie cart full of dirty laundry and headed a out the door. Today I got a drive to the laundry matt, usually I crawl up the hill with my cart behind me and dread the TV shows that play there.

Today the show is Criminal Minds. I sit at the counter after the washer is loaded and try to write morning pages. The show engages and scares me at the same time.  There was an episode in the second season where Frank sends Jane  wind chimes made out of human rib bones and it freaked me the fuck out, the power of the story telling, the acting, the music. I studied storytelling in many forms and this was powerful enough to break through the “I know what they’re doing there text book 1-2-3 cut and paste,” it made me terrified of windchimes for a long time and I still hate hearing them, wondering if a serial killer is around the corner watching me.

I’m the kind of girl who can watch Zero Dark Thirty and Good Fellas and not blink an eye. But I’ve been known to stand in front  of my dryer for 30 minutes watching the cloths go around to avoid the mass killing that happens on AE early Sunday morning.

Today on the marathon they had two shows that I watched one from 10-11 at the laundry mat and later, 12-1 in my house after I got home. Both were done in a way that although the violence implied was rough, what we saw and how they presented it was not too emotionally damaging and I watched both full episodes.

In my journal this morning I wrote what manipulation they used to get me to watch, every second demands I watch and feel for these characters; the FBI, the victims, and the killers.  Like a good drug you have to come back to see these people play with sex offenders and drug using murderers.

I was thinking about the piece I posted yesterday and how it said that a good poet knows not only how to manipulate words and rhythms and story, but knows how to dig into your mind leaves you coming back again to read the poem and ask new questions , see images, feel feelings.

Writing is becoming more than just freefalling once or twice and getting a few good lines. Which I have been satisfied doing, but now there’s more. It’s calculated and manipulative in good ways and bad ways. It’s more than just reading it out loud after a few drafts and hope it sounds good and makes sense.

SO now, I’m obsessed with a show that is brilliantly made, and made to make me physically ill. But I want to understand how they do what they do.

I guess it’s hangovers and Criminal Minds for my Sunday mornings in the Future.  

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Name, a Free Fall

Gave myself my own name
Frosty was enough
I never aligned with a group
That I didn’t want to leave
My badges are scars
That I gave my self
Hand through the glass
Stairs through the lip
Stars through the heart

Made myself my own friends
Sons and daughters who thought
Just like me
Loved me until they turned 16
And then turned against me
Best 16 years of my life
When I heard you yell
“Mama” In the distance

Walked through the world alone
Keep it that way at the end
Of every dinner date
I look away and look past
I held your hand
Only to let it go
Palms to the ground
Circles in the sun
Like a child

Listen to your voice
Do you have to drink
Until it can’t speak anymore
Listen to your song
Is it typed or recited
In the deepness of our sleep
Dreams tell me I can do
Not anything
But what my heart desires
I gave myself that name

Saturday, August 12, 2017

See Through Our Hearts

There’s a little story I could tell you
About the ghosts who still live
In the basements of this town

There’s a little story about
All the rotted hearts
Displayed on the sidewalk

Walking proud and strong
With outdated ideas
That kill us All

Everywhere it’s everywhere
This darkness the fail in logic
Fail in love fail in time fail in space

So whisper like a child
Who sees the wrong in tradition
Scream as your hate is dying

There's a little story I could tell you
About healing and about seeing the truth
And the ghosts that live in this basement

Years of darkness undercover
A person a country a universe
And there's a handful who don't believe in love

Tears and tears rips and shreds 
In souls and bodies
Rest in peace 

I opened my jewelry box this morning
Found a safety pin 
I have no idea how it got there

Someone magic knew it was my time
To say to the world "I'm safe."
I believe in you I hear your scream your whisper

I know a path into the light
I believe this earth is for all peoples
All animals all life

I know a story but we must listen
We must hear close our eyes
And see through our hearts

Saturday Night Rough Drafts

I knew when the sun came up over the sea
That the day wasn’t so strong
And the rain would fall on broken souls

I knew when the sun came up over the mountain
The glue holding the broken
Would wash away and take the pain

I see the rain wash sinew away
Fall to the floor like broken diamonds
It has taken so much to crack and bleed

I knew when the sun came up over the sea
That the day wasn’t so strong

And the rain would fall into sidewalk cracks

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Independent Hermit

When I hit university, and my jobs post university; I was amazed that people had lives outside of school and work. I didn’t understand it, when I was done a day of grade school, I came home to listen to music and write.

All the people around me were hooking up, going to each other’s houses and going shopping, while I naturally did life by myself. I wasn’t invited, or if I was, I would shy away. Or people never thought to invite me “I wasn’t that type of person.”

I say this because being offered a social life was such a change in my life. When someone wants me over every night to hang out with them, in a dating or friendship situation I begin to get lost. I need to run home to write and relax and talk to my cats.

Instead of playing with people all weekend, I do meet up with friends on a Saturday morning, I like to take the weekend to find my centre, after a week of work and spending 9 hours with the hundred or so people at my work.

Friends ask me out on Sundays, but despite the whole leaving the house to do the laundry, and occasionally driving myself crazy, I won’t go out on Sundays, but I like to sit here, in my bed, and write.

So in relation to the last post I wrote, this need to be by myself, and low self esteem, people saying “oh friendships, love, just happens" was some sort of bullshit I didn’t understand and I thought everyone hated me. I didn’t realize I was just being me and people were just reacting to me being a hermit. I didn’t put it out there that I wanted to play and very few people asked. So I'm not avoiding you, I don't hate you, sometimes my world is clearer alone.

Monday, July 31, 2017

Pitty Party

You see, I have a sad. I decided, today, I made all the wrong decisions in my life. I didn’t stick with jobs and passions when I should have. I quit things when I felt that people didn’t like me. Example I haven’t sung in like two weeks, because I was sick, and because I was writing. SO I decided that maybe I shouldn’t be singing.

Without Sara there is no one to sing with, and none of my musical friends want to invite me over to sing, I decide, because they don’t like me. That means I sing the same songs to myself and the songs I was writing, I decided, weren’t good enough.

I shouldn’t have left the museum, just because it was pointed out on my first day that no one wanted me there. And I could feel it against my heart and the hotel was pushing me away and I wasn’t able to work a full time job and work for free in film and no one liked me because I couldn’t pull my weight, I decided.

I came home and hid in a place where if people didn’t like me I didn’t care. It was just me. And now me and my cats. It just seems like everything I do is not good enough. The music isn’t good enough to take me outside of my livingroom, yes it makes me feel like a million bucks, but I’m alone. The writing keeps being rejected by publishers and myself and I think If nobody likes me: Why am I doing it?

I’m writing it because I have to, because it’s how I process, it’s how I figure out myself but if there were another way, a relationship where I wasn’t alone, would I still keep writing down my every thought my every feeling?

Well that’s a pitty party… I’ll bring the crying clowns. The point is those feelings are still alive in my heart. I still want to quit, like I did when I was twenty. Maybe I need to fight a little harder. Say it doesn’t matter if anyone who is any good thinks I suck, I still have to jump forward and do what I love.

I realized today that we watched tv and did homework when we were little. It’s been a hard habit to break. Writing was my way out. Writing is still my way out of being alone. Of nobody liking me.

Sunday, July 30, 2017


I have a new life. I say “maybe in this life, I’m the only one who comes to dinner.”

There was this one time I had dinner with The Queen , who brought Her King. Her hair was full of baby birds that demanded to be fed and she would feed herself a fork of pasta and flavored tofu and slip her well manicured fingers into her purse where she had a collection of worms, the kind you find in the garden when you are pulling out the weeds. She would feed them to the baby birds in her hair.

“They’re my babies” said the childless woman: some blamed her rigidity, some blamed her husband’s ability to perform.

“They’re her babies,” he said, and smiled as if it was the most grotesque act that could ever be performed. I never once wondered, until I left the table, where all the bird poop went.

I had dinner once with the daughter of my soul. We sat at a long table with each place setting set meticulously, vanilla candles burning in the day light. She was so far away that I saw more clouds than I did of her. We talked words that could only be mumbled in the centre of a dream and I tried to write her poetry but my hands were broken and I tried to show her love, all the emotion did was become trapped inside my heart.

I became stressed and woke up ready to go back to sleep and dream a better life. But the alarm clock was going off and I needed to start my day after the queen with the birds. The daughter I fell though the clouds for, and woke up, and lost.

Perhaps I’m the only one who really came to breakfast that morning. Perhaps I’m the only one who sat beside me and talked to me through the night.

“There, there darling,” I say, “you’ll be ok, no one will understand your Prozac induced sleep, so deal with it now. Before you have to step outside the door into a world of real people who hear the words you say and take them to mean something else. 

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Bones is my Therapy

Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to be in love with writing. Perhaps when I left DAL I left the love I had for theatre and creativity behind and closed off my love like “Bones” closed off her love for her father. Perhaps I’m in an emotional tangled up relationship with writing, a sick relationship that has pounded me down for twenty years.

Perhaps getting me a tv and letting me only write when I want to not banging myself over the head for every second I’m not writing is letting me fall back in love with writing. Perhaps when university became a loveless piece of shit in my life I closed everything down. From relationships to creativity. I turned it all off and decided that it wasn’t worth doing it going forward.

My creativity became enslaved and I couldn’t sit down and write like I wanted to because everything needed to be edited and put into acts and compared to all the pieces we studied. When for me creativity was an act of the heart the world speaking to me. The world speaking through me. I couldn’t do it anymore I lost my passion who knew it would take 20 years to get back something that took three years to steal and rob from me.

I was thinking about people who have been abused and raped and the dreams that I have: their intensity their emotion their reality the reliving of a moment over and over again. If that had happened to me I would be dead inside, in shock inside unable to move or function.
I get like that just with the stressful things that were in my life.

Maybe I haven’t really tried, haven’t really fallen in love and felt a broken heat for a person. But my university life was so traumatic and not what I thought it was going to be that it broke my heart in more ways than a real person could.

In the past two weeks I’ve been healing the scars from the last twenty years, reaching out to people who were really there for me and explaining how thankful I was to have them and trying to find a way to bring all my friends together in the present show pictures of me in all stages of life tell stories and feel and heal.

I can’t force myself to be in a romantic relationship I can’t force myself to read a book. I can only ponder along until I find out what heals me and moves me forward. In love and or indigestion.

There will be more to come...

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Feed theBeast

Warning i don't eat cake.

My generation counted calories, instead of fueling ourselves. I find my self a current weekend warrior but i do walk about 40 minutes everyday.

My personal trainer and friend gave me permission to eat avacados and coconut oil as good fats are fuel. I found that adding a little to my diet along with a session with her gave me emotional and physical streangth.

Instead of taking away and burning all that i had eaten i had given myself fuel to make it through the day. I dont have the body i had in 2011 when i ran an hour a day and counted every calorie in my body, but i have the brain power and self awareness to be proud of the person I am.

Yay food

Thursday, May 4, 2017

Censor Time

I guess, I learned a lesson today. As in, everyday, one should learn a lesson. I made a poster that I thought was fine, and it was proof read by a friend, and lets just say, I didn’t pass poster school very well. I had fixed one spelling mistake but I guess I missed all the other grammar mish mashes. SO rough copies are for mess ups and if my next step is to be published, I have to really work on grammar and spelling and know that how it looks is just as important as how it sounds. People, important people, are watching me.

I went to a poetry reading and thought “I could be doing this; this could be me if I take it to the next level.” SO I’m wanting to take my words and my ideas to the next level. And that my censor doesn’t like. It says “well you’re good enough to do this, but you’re not good enough to do that." So I’m writing out my feelings and facing them. Facing the censor and saying, it might hurt a bit, but it’s time to approach this with a great sense of "needing words to look excellent as well as the ideas being excellent." Time to not take my writing for granted, and time to really do up the whole package.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Music and Footsteps

Music is more than hitting the correct keys on the piano.
Life, for me, is more than getting up and going to work.
Music isn’t something you can just decide to take in university. 
Life isn’t something you can put on hold.

But I’ve done it all: I’ve put everything aside so I could get through the day and be happy. I’ve pushed away my dreams to make sure I had a roof over my head and food on my table. I had to learn how to calculate each step I made to make sure it was a good one. Like fingers on a piano. I’ve looked back at every step I made to see how it affected me. 

Perhaps I’ve weeded out all I can weed out and now depression just happens when it wants to happen.

I “learned” to play piano, my first two years of piano, on a “being” with a broken sound board. I loved the sounds that came out, but it didn’t sound right when I went to play at my teacher’s house. The sounds were different. SO for two years without being aware I was learning to play by making sure my hands went in the correct place at the correct time. Not by sounds and patterns and feeling.

I played my piano last night, a little"True Colours" from the glee book, and heard sounds and patterns that I had never let myself hear before. I can’t even put it into words. It’s just the magic of music.

Maybe what I need to do now, is still watch the feet, but let the feeling and the patterns come in too, just like music. Muisc and life tangle together and pull me forward. As I dream forward,

Saturday, April 22, 2017


Hello stars.

Where have you been?

The city.

No stars in the city eh?

Not many.

Quiet: hear the peepers.

It’s so quiet in the country.

So live here on wild chicken eggs and buffalo milk.

Just like that?


I have a 9-5 and a house, a gym membership…

Like normal people?


And you’re a normal person?



The stars are nice tonight

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


I guess it’s not a bad thing, just different. I’m wanted. People want me to go places, and do things, be things. I want to sit in my bed with my cats, write poems no one will ever read and watch “The Voice.” That’s what makes me happy. I haven’t got the voice on yet I can’t type and “Voice” at the same time. I have Robbie Robertson telling me How to be Clairvoyant.

Adulting is so difficult. All I want to do is eat vegan ice-cream in my pj’s and have cats, I have the cats part but vegan ice cream is soooo expensive. I usually just stick to dairy free chocolate milk for breakfast.

I’m always tossing the ball between “yes I’ll do ‘it’” and “my bed is calling.” I used to think It was lazy, and maybe it is? But It’s who I am. I get overwhelmed at loud dancy places and don’t like organizing things or entertaining. I like to write and play with my voice and hunt and peck the piano.

I used to think it was lazy, like when I was a teenager and I decided that I would be out in the world and do “whatever I wanted.” 30 years later, I realize that what my logical brain wants and what my body wants are two different things. Logically I would like to be out supporting my friends. But there’s nothing better than bed sharing my bed with a calico, and a white cat.

Adulting is so difficult. Luckily there’s a little Cave I can go to and not adult.