Them's Fighting Words!
According to CNN:
"I believe marriage is between a man and a woman, and I think we ought to codify that one way or another," Bush told reporters at a White House news conference. "And we've got lawyers looking at the best way to do that."
The president has taken a courageous stand in favor of traditional marriage at a moment in American history when the courts are conspiring with anti-family extremists to undermine our nation's most vital institution," said the Rev. Louis Sheldon, chairman of the Traditional Values Coalition.
I'm just about ready for another Civil War. And you know what side I'll be on.
Bush's cronies (in contrast to Crones, to whom he REALLY should listen), are heading us straight toward another Dark Age. Their agenda is clear: limit the rights and privileges of gays, minorities, the poor, the uneducated; the disabled; use words like "conspiring" and "undermine" (which are exactly the opposite of what we who believe in the spirit of the Constitution are doing); set up anyone with views that differ from the neocons as the devils: gays, liberals, non-Christians (except maybe Jews, since they believe in at least half of the Bible).....
Why hasn't anyone more erudite and articulate than I am begun to define Bush as the supposedly prophesied "anti-Christ" who distorts and manipulates true Christian teachings in order to woo susceptible believers into laying the foundation of their own destruction. It's so obvious to me who the Devil Incarnate is these days. But then, again, what do I know. I do rituals at the ocean's edge and make online amulets.
I guess next, they burn people like me at the stake. Heh.
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I leave my best lines in other bloggers' Comments.
See, for me, an important part of blogging is the conversation that posts prompt. (The rest is, as Frank Paynter's site so succinctly explains, that it works as a "public place for self-expression.")
Recently, I commented on a post of Frank's (entitled "When Does a Blogger Find Time to Write") about what constitutes success for a blogger. He cites several, for example, who have parlayed their blogging expertise into dollars. To that I commented:
Maybe it's because my primary medium is poetry (and we all know that very, very few people make any money writing poetry) that I'm comfortable with the notion of blogging not being a commercial venture. For me, blogging is like giving a poetry reading at Borders: I don't get paid, and the audience is small. But it's what I do, and there are always a few people out there who appreciate it, a few people whom my words touch in some meaningful way. Bloggers and poets -- each in good company, I think.
While blogging and writing poetry differ in style, often the intent is the same -- to share with the world a personal interpretation of a larger reality.
And then Tom Shugart posted a funny piece on an episode of the HBO series Real Sex (which he swears he doesn't really watch. Right.)
Given my ongoing disagreements with the expressed gender attitudes of both RageBoy and Halley, I wound up leaving a very serious comment. Some things I have a hard time not taking seriously.
I'll bet that the Boy Toy was invented (and marketed via HBO) by a male. If you read erotic fantasies written by women (ahem, yes, I've been through more than a few of those books), it becomes pretty clear that many, many, many of us prefer a slow hand, an easy touch, warm skin on skin. Erotic movies written and directed by women (ahem, yes, I've seen a few of those, too) are also very different from the slambamthankyouman scripts devised by men. So, if men seem to be becoming irrlevant to many women (we don't need them for financial support and all we need is their sperm for impregnation)perhaps it's because what we look to men for is really something very different from what many men think we look to them for. And so if men seem to be becoming irrelevant, perhaps it's because they're making themselves irrelevant.
Anyway, Tom, from what I've learned about you here over all of this time, I don't think you have to worry. Big, heavy-handed anatomically correct Boy Toys are about as satisfying as Halley's "Girlies."
Q: What's the difference between a cucumber and a man? A: A cucumber doesn't leave a wet spot. (Sorry about that.)
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I made the Chicago Tribune!
As I emailed to my friends and relatives:
I guess this is one instance where age has its advantage. To be included in an article with Rebecca Blood and Meg Hourihan, the crown princesses of blogging, is an honor that resulted pretty much solely from the fact that I'm one of the oldest women on the blogblock. But that's OK. These days I'll take whatever I can get.
Tribiune staff writer Gail Philbin captures a good (if necessarily limited) cross-section of women bloggers who reveal why they bother to blog. I thought I mentioned Blog Sisters in my interview with her last month, but if I did, the mention got lost in the editing. Too bad. I like to plug that bunch whenever I can.
I guess I've used up my alloted minutes of fame. Or maybe not.
P.S. Since my interview with Philbin I asked the Linda Lovelace site to remove the link to my blog; I get enough porn spam without that kind of help, and I'm sure that anyone actually finding my post about Lovelace was terribly disappointed anyway.
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Time for a VR "Sim Planet?"
I don't play computer games, but my former boss is a real Sim City addict, so I know a little about how that works.
An article posted at Bloomberg.com yesterday reports:
The U.S. military plans a worldwide on-line futures market to help it predict events in the Middle East. Traders could bet on the likelihood of events ranging from the overthrow of a government to the collapse of an economy or the assassination of Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat.
[snip]
The market is to be managed by the Pentagon's Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or DARPA. DARPA spokesman John Jennings wasn't immediately available for comment. The senators said their information came from the market's Web site.
The site doesn't make clear the extent to which traders, geopolitical analysts or ordinary citizens actually ``bet,'' the mechanics of payment if any, and how the Pentagon plans to use the information.
Somwhere along the line these guys and their Dumbya leader have gotten pretend game-playing and real-life confused. (Although certainly this tendency among men hungry for power is not new. I just finished Poisonwood Bible, which reflects all too painfully how most of us have to live our lives staying out of the range of influence of those kinds of evil male-dominated machinations.)
It's time to hook these infantile guys up to a VR Sim Planet game and let them play out their fantasies of power and persecution to their dark hearts' content. Then maybe the rest of us can find a way to work together to make the real world the kind of place in which our grandchildren can thrive. Feh on them all!
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Sisterhood and Wisecracks
Sisterhood and wisecracks: That's how Joanne Weintraub of Milwaukee's Journal Sentinal describes my favorite sitcom of all times, Designing Women. (Well, maybe after Northern Exposure, which made me laugh out loud too, but for different reasons.)
I couldn't resist tuning into parts of the Designing Women reunion show that aired tonight, and I hooted and hollered at the old clips all over again and cheered on Dixie Carter as her character launched into her clever and clipped diatribes about the nonsense that women not-so-patiently put up with, particularly from men.
Its characters talked about things real women talk about, from politics to pantyhose. There's a clip from an episode where Mary Jo (Potts) deliberates getting implants that may be both the funniest and most honest discussion a TV character has ever had about breasts. (from Weintraub's article)
Small-chested Mary Jo carries on about how powerful she feels with bigger (temporary) breasts. If she were a "D," she muses, she'd probably punch someone out. And her descriptions of how differently men treat her and her bigger breasts are as hilarious as they are unfortunately realistically accurate.
I think I've seen every episode more than twice since they started airing in 1986 and moved into re-runs in the early 90s. The characters are feisty and fallible, smart and sexy. They are not girls. They are women. They like themselves, they like each other, they like men, and they like to laugh at their own human foibles.
Hot, sexy, strong, femine, feminist W-O-M-E-N.
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The spooky 11:11 is baaaack.
Every so often, I start seeing the numbers 11:11. What's really spooky is that I'm not the only one.
It started several years ago, and I wrote about it somewhere on my old weblog but I can't seem to locate the post. It started with purchases that totaled $11.11. Or change from purchases. Then, it seemed like every time I looked at a digital clock, it said 11:11. I go through spurts like that every once in a while.
It's happening again. At least with the clocks -- in my car, my bedroom, the VCR. I understand that it's likely that somewhere in my subconscious I'm telling myself to look at a clock when I sense it's that time. But that doesn't explain why it only happens every so often, with no logical reason why it should start again.
I'm an irreverent non-believer, which you might not believe because I love to conjure rituals and am fascinated by synchronicities -- especially because everything in life really happens so randomly.
Some people are born into poverty and ignorance and some into affluence and privilege. Some get cancer and some depressed and some breeze through life full of joy and energy.
Yesterday, I relaxed for a couple of hours at a friend's pool -- gossiping, reading, book-reviewing, keeping cool and privileged in a manicured back yard of the lovely home that she got in her divorce settlement. And across the city and across the world, others sweltered, suffered, starved. It's a crapshoot that we begin where we begin.
One one one one. The beginning number. 11:11. Supposedly it means that I'm on the right track. I sure don't feel like it.
It's spooky.
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Listening to Voices.
My newspaper today had a column by Andy Rooney bemoaning the fact that his "voice" had been stolen by someone who was circulating something (racist and vitriolic) on the Internet that claimed to have been written by Rooney. It was written in his unique staccato style, and while many readers emailed Rooney to say that they know he couldn't have written something like that, others were taken in by the accurate stylistic parody. I don’t blame him for being mad. Our voice is something that identifies us, and, if we are writers, it's who we are, our souls made manifest.
I know that there are ongoing blog conversations wrestling with the fact that some bloggers take on the voice of some other, fictionalized, persona. Some think that's lying; some think that's creative writing. I read weblogs the way I read books, recognizing that some are creative fiction and some are embellished facts – the very peculiar and personal perceptions of the writers. I like to read writers who understand the power of "voice."
I'm in the middle of an audio tape of a novel by Barbara Kinsolver – The Poisonwood Bible. Yes, it was one of Oprah's book club selections, but I didn't let that stop me. Much of the story is told in the voices of four young sisters, daughters of an abusive missionary father, living in the Congo in 1959. I love the uniqueness of each of the girl's voices, especially the mute twin, whose wonderfully creative (if dyslexic) mind shows us a reality that none of the others perceive.
My one-year old grandson has no words yet (except for Da-Da and "uh-da," which means "what’s that.") But he's already developing an identifiable voice that reflects who he is becoming – curious, definitive in what he wants, impatient with his young clumsiness.
I hear the voices around me here in this odd place where I live out of choice but not preference. They are weak, fragile, helpless, demanding voices -- high-pitched and usually complaining.
No wonder I keep books-on-tape around all the time. I put on my earphones and listen to voices that are as fundamentally fiction as they are wonder-full reflections of the most eloquent human truths.
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The things we do for love.
-- Drive back and forth to Boston twice in six days.
-- Decorate with an “Elmo” theme and even wear an Elmo party hat.
-- Bake an eggless, milkless, butterless chocolate cake from scratch.
-- Replace everything in an extra bedroom with wall to wall mattresses.
-- Remove everything breakable below any surface less than four feet from the floor.
-- Shop shop shop for toys toys toys and books books books and size 24-month clothes clothes clothes.
-- Load up on Cheerios and Gerber Fruit Wagon Wheels and watermelon.
My grandson Alexander’s first birthday was yesterday.
His grandfather said it well:
To Alexander at One (19 July 2003)
From an open, partly-outlined book,
you’ve come now to a full year of filling the first pages:
learning you, learning those who made you and love you,
learning how beyond you is a world to take in,
learning how you can make them work,
learning how your own parts work
-- this arm, this leg, these fingers, eyes, ears –
learning how sounds range and begin to have sense,
learning how you get and how you give,
learning you have your own meaning and that it’s important,
learning how warm is love.
What a lot of distance you’ve gone,
how many blank pages you’ve filled
and begun to lay the basic plot
for all the pages to follow
in the story of you.
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Healing Magic for Ann Craig.
Word is out that Ann Craig (once a blogger, always a blogger) needs our good wishes, good thoughts, good vibes.
And so I conjure mine -- a healing blue bindrune for skin diseases (coincidentally configured like an "M") contained by a conch shell whose center radiates harmony and healing and whose root grows life-affirming green.
a full moon on the 13th
and magic from the sea
signs life to sisters
under the skin
Meditate on this and be well, Ann.
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The end of one line.
I'm getting ready for my one and only grandchild's vist this week to celebrate his first birthday, and I can't imagine loving any grandchild any more than I love him.
At the same time, I'm having this odd thought: the female lineage of my family ends with my daughter. Her one and only child is a boy. The generations of my family's genes that have been passed down from mother to daughter for centuries ends with her. She is past forty and will be having no more children. No daughters.
Our last photo of four generations of women was taken when my daughter was about six months old and I was in my twenties and my mother was in her forties and my grandmother was in her sixties. No more passing down of family genes and secrets and stories and myths from daughter to daughter to daughter..... Something I've always taken for granted is gone.
Well, I might not someday be watching Alexander bounce around in a tu-tu, but I sure will pass along to him our family secrets and stories and myths, and I'm sure even a few of my wayward genes. Maybe he'll even let me teach him to ballroom dance.
In the real world, the end of this female line doesn't really make much difference. But in my mythic one, it feels somehow important, and I'm sure that there is a poem to be written about this after I let the feeling simmer for a while.
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A graduation speech for America.
Outgoing Oregon Symphony conductor gave a graduation speech recently that all Americans need to hear.
Artists are truth-tellers, and, as an artist, James DePreist began his address with the painful truth of today:
Graduates, the world in which we live is a mess. Myth masquerading as truth, our beloved United States in crisis, many of its fundamental principles under assault. And yet, a goodly number of your fellow Americans seem oblivious...sleepwalking through these alarming times, heedless and gullible beyond belief. Our country simply cannot afford this and our hard won freedoms cannot long bear the weight of an unenlightened citizenry. This has nothing whatsoever to do with the unspeakable horror of September 11th or the very real menace of world terrorism. History has clearly shown that the ultimate weapon of mass destruction for any society is ignorance.
His poetic and passionate plea to confront "the tragic bittersweet chasm between dream and reality, between a nation's words and its deeds...beauty in the wings" urges us to accept our Constitutional responsibilities as American citizens:
You must find the ideas that our society needs to hear and make your country heed your words. At the 1964 Republican convention Sen. Barry Goldwater let fly this provocative clarion reaffirmation: "Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice and moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue." Could the senator have been thinking of the Declaration of Independence and our revolutionary war led by that ragtag band of left-wing extremists like Washington, Jefferson, and Patrick Henry? Just imagine the list of those who today could rally 'round the banner emblazoned with Goldwater's words. Over here—the leaders of every coherent left-of-center and radical group. Right next to the team of Ashcroft, Rumsfeld, Rice, and Wolfowitz who in turn, are alongside Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, and Ralph Nader. All of them listening to a concert by Lee Greenwood and the Dixie Chicks. You get the picture. The strangest of bedfellows all believing that Goldwater means them! At the center of the work of democracy is the avoidance of the difficult ascent to anarchy on the one hand and the far easier slippery slope toward fascism on the other. The navigational chart for our ship of state is the constitution. But make no mistake, the nation is kept on course—true to its promise and principles—by the people. All of its people. It is so very easy to veer dangerously off course.
"...a democracy begins to stray off course when the ideas it needs are drowned out by the din of the enthralled," he says. And Bush certainly has an enormous number of Americans vocally enthralled, including members of the press who have forgotten their responsibilities to be truth-tellers. Citing quotes from old oddfellows such as Spiro Agnew and Barry Goldwater, DePreist brings home why we all need to graduate to that next step as active citizens of a floundering democracy and "Just do it."
His entire speech is worth reading. Here.
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Blogging for Votes.
While I’ve been keeping up with Howard Dean's news and notes, I haven’t been posting much about him lately. Actually, I’ve been too busy getting ready for my grandson’s “first birthday party” visit next week to post much about anything.
However, Dean’s use of blogging to generate grassroot support impresses me. And his plan to be the featured blogger on this website while the main man goes on vacation with his family strikes me as a really smart move.
Stanford Law School Professor Lawrence Lessig is turning over his weblog to Dean for a week beginning tomorrow (Monday, July 14). This is what he has to say about that:
This is, I believe, the first time a presidential candidate has been a guest blogger. But it is an obvious extension of blogs and the process of becoming President. Campaigns are all about meeting different groups and talking about ideas. Where better than a blog?
I have great respect for Governor Dean, and especially the clarity of his voice. I have even greater respect now that I see the doctor makes house calls. So Governor, welcome to this tiny server at Stanford: You’ll find perfect acoustics provided by MovableType, and an interesting mix of views provided by the readers.
And to everyone else, enjoy the week of something totally different. Dean is on starting Monday. I should be back the week following.
One ground rule: I’ve had a policy of not editing comments of others, regardless of abusiveness. That is not my policy for my guests. You may disagree with the views you read here. But if you are reading them here, then you at least should respect the fact that they are being expressed here. It is important to me that blog-space everywhere become a place where more of this kind of conversation can occur. So trolls, please save your abuse for my return.
Even before the Dean dialogue begins, it’s interesting to read the dozens of comments already posted to Lessig’s announcement of the blogging event. They pretty much reflect both the big and little concerns of bloggers about the politics of this kind of technology.
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A Whale of a Tale.
A while ago, Blog Sister Andrea James posted about the movie Whale Rider.
Last night I went to see it with some women friends, after we had dinner at a great little new place called the “Barefoot Gypsy.” I wish we had seen the movie first so that we could have had all of our dinner time to talk about it. There’s so awfully much to talk about.
Andrea was absolutely right about the movie being extraordinary on all kinds of levels, including visual.
And, I, who am so enamored of mythologies that empower women, was, of course, swept away by the tale’s affirmation of intuition and connections to “feminine” elements (water, sea creatures), ritual as art – and all that “right brain” stuff.
I’m still mulling over how I feel about the role of women in that society – which is very much like the traditional role of, say, Italian and Polish women. And that is that they let the men think that they are the bosses and then the women find ways around their foolishnesses. The men make up strict rules for everyone’s behavior (including their own) based on their interpretation of what their god or gods have supposedly proclaimed. And the women go about their lives on a whole other intuitive, connected, and somewhat devious plane. They “mother” their men, treat them like large children who can be dangerous because of their size, and so they have to be placated and manipulated into doing the right thing.
But despite my discomfort with that “woman’s place” thing, I felt in my very bones the power of the movie’s honest message. Whoever rides the whale is the one who is meant to ride the whale. Ride, Sisters, ride.
(posted also at Blog Sisters)
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Creating Peace.
I got the following in an email (I'm on a Howard Dean local email list), and -- since I had similar feelings back when the Peace Corps was instituted, I thought I'd pass it along here.
Expand the Peace Corps. Did you know that without a bachelors degree, you can't even get into the Peace Corps today? Let's devote 1% of the military budget to the Peace Corps. Restructure it so that, as in the military, you have officer and enlisted ranks. Also like the military, make enlistments binding and create a GI bill for Peace so that kids can work for a college education.
Imagine if we had done this in Afghanistan 20 years ago - if the Peace Corps had educated the Afghan people, do you think they would have gone Taliban? JFK had a great vision when he created the Peace Corps - it would be a truly effective way of projecting American values to the developing world - creating friends instead of jealousies and suspicions.
Hey, I realize that with the Governer's position on the Iraq war it may not be a politically salable issue for the center of this country that supported the war - it may cause people to look upon the campaign with greater suspicion... but... 1% of the military budget could save a lot of military lives and a lot of money if it prevents just one war a decade... 4 billion dollars a month in
Iraq... it doesn't always have to be this way...
Personally, I don't like the military hierarchy as a model for the Peace Corps, and I believe there should be a flatter kind of management structure and, certainly, a more humanistic training program. But the idea of giving people this kind of opportunity to make a real difference and get a college education always seemed like a really good idea to me.
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He paid attention in Literature class.
Myrln says:
To talk of Dumbya and Intelligence of any kind in the same sentence is to construct the ultimate oxymoron.
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Why Can't Men Be More Like Women?
I’ve always wondered the opposite of what ol’ Lerner and Lowe queried in their famous My Fair Lady ditty.
And now Maureen Dowd says maybe what I’ve been hoping for is happening.
You can read her article here or here or here.
Dowd’s article on the "Incredible Shrinking Y" includes the following VERY interesting information:
The darlings have been fretting for some years now that they may be rendered unnecessary if women get financial and biological independence, learning how to reproduce and refinance without them. What if nature played a cruel trick and demoted men, so they had to be judged merely by their appearance, pliability and talent for gazing raptly at the opposite sex, no matter how bored?
New research on the Y chromosome shows that my jittery male friends are not paranoid; they are in an evolutionary shame spiral.
As Nicholas Wade wrote in The Times: "Although most men are unaware of the peril, the Y chromosome has been shedding genes furiously over the course of evolutionary time, and it is now a fraction of the size of its partner, the X chromosome. . . . The decay of the Y stems from the fact that it is forbidden to enjoy the principal advantage of sex, which is, of course, for each member of a pair of chromosomes to swap matching pieces of DNA with its partner."
[snip]
In a new book called "Y: The Descent of Men," Steve Jones, a professor of genetics at University College in London, says males, always a genetic "parasite," have devolved to become the "second sex."
The news that Dolly the sheep had been cloned without masculine aid sent a frisson through the Y populace, he writes, because men began to fear that science would cause nature to return to its original, feminine state and men would fade from view.
The Y chromosome, "a mere remnant of its once mighty structure," is worried about size. "Men are wilting away," Dr. Jones writes. "From sperm count to social status and from fertilization to death, as civilization advances, those who bear Y chromosomes are in relative decline."
Now, I have to say that, while I’d love to see some men I know taken down a peg or two, I really don’t want to see them slide into total decline. And I certainly know men who (I think) are pretty cool the way they are. So, I hope that the men in question look at what seems like a downward shift in their various statuses as a leveling out from all of those centuries of gender inequities -- an evolution toward a breed of human males who know, as most women (and some highly evolved men) have always known, that bigger is not the same as better. And that Betsy Devine's "Alephs" are the way to go. (Maybe she'll reprise her great post on that topic. )
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Paving the Road to Hell.
So much for my intention to read at an Open Mike poetry event tonight. Too much to do to get ready for my grandson’s first birthday party next week. And I’m working against a deadline for the writing job I took on. And then there's my mom, who says she's feeling better and doesn't want to go to the doctor's.
Of course, yesterday I could have done some of the work I have to do, but I opted instead to hang out at one of my friend’s pool and be that big fish in a little pond. Only I had to share it with a big frog, who has taken up full-time residence in the pool. My friend, who has made a hobby of feeding peanuts to all of the squirrels and chipmunks in her neighborhood, has also befriended the frog. For a while, I wondered if he might turn into a prince if I kissed him. Unless, of course, I turned into a frog instead. I opted for some peaceful – if wary – co-existence. Just me and the frog and Big Bird.
If all goes well, later this week I’m going to finally see the movie Whale Rider that Blogsister Andrea James highly recommended a while ago. My group of women friends is going to meet for supper at some new place with “gypsy” in its name and then do the movie.
Such is the life of a caregiving crone. It could be worse. Sometimes it is. Meanwhile, I guess I'll just keep paving.
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Cousin, Cousine
During the 40s, after the war, everyone was having kids, and I grew up in the midst of an extended family of cousins and pseudo-cousins. Every Sunday, all summer long, caravans of these nuclear families would head out to the Long Island beaches or up to lakes in the Catskills, where blankets would be spread, beach umbrellas set up, and ice chests unpacked with enough food to keep the cousins running and splashing, digging and giggling until the setting sun sent us yawning for home.
That was when we all lived within three blocks of each other. Now many of us don’t even live in the same state. Many of our kids have never met because many of them live even farther away.
But I do have one cousin who lives about a half-hour ride from me and who, each summer, gathers as many of us cousins as he can at his ramshackled old house on a beautiful lake. Of all my cousins, he’s the one with whom I share both personal and political philosophies. We are both renegades and radicals compared to the rest of our family. Oddly enough, though, it’s his daughter who is now in Iraq, in charge of leading supply convoys between Kuwait and Baghdad. It’s his daughter to whom I sent a package of new white underpants and lots of Vitamin C lozenges. My cousin and I commiserate about our kids and how we brought them up to make their own choices and take their own chances.
Today, my mother and I spent the day at my cousin’s summer family get-together, where a new generation of cousins and pseudo-cousins ran and splashed and dug and giggled while the rest of us sat in the shade and ate. But it’s not at all the same as when we were kids. But then, what is?
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Six Years Ago Today.
Over on b!X's Portland Communique, he remembers the July 4 event he organized at the Millennium Cafe, the ownership of which he took over shortly after.
And shortly after that, I went out and visited him. Remember when I took that photo of you, b!X?
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So hard to be back.
It was so hard to leave, hard to head back to this deadening place.
My daughter and her son are so full of life and love.
I slept better on their couch than I do in my own bed. I ate less and better. I laughed and hugged a lot more.
It was so hard to leave. I was finally establishing myself as someone the little one knows and likes. The three of them will be coming here to visit for his first birthday in a couple of weeks. I wonder if he will remember me.
It bothers me how much about my kids’ childhoods I have forgotten. I don’t remember their first steps, their first words. I don’t remember if they got the same kind of ear infections that my grandson seems to be getting. I mostly remember being sad. I wasn’t ready to be a mother back then. My daughter was soooo ready. She and her husband are the kinds of parents I wish I had been.
There’s an Open Mike poetry thing on Monday evening. I should go and read, like I used to – wear long, dangling earrings and the jeans that I hand painted and crocheted a border on. Get in the spotlight and remember how it feels to be that person I used to be.
On Monday, after my chiropractor session and after I call and try to get my mother an appointment with a vascular surgeon (she has a toe that she finally informed me is feeling numb – and this is after she’s been having terrible leg cramps) maybe I’ll go through my files and pull out some poems to read. Some poems to help me remember me by.
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