Cake And Eat

If I didn’t have a computer and you couldn’t reach me other than by telephone or long-hand writing through the mail and when you reached me all I’d say is that I wanted to move to some remote place and leave every thing and everyone behind, except you, would you want to do the same and go with me?

If we didn’t have all of these tools and tricks to impress each other, and all that we could do was cultivate a piece of land and build a little place to rests our bones and think about what we already know or things that we could find in the books that we brought with us, would it be enough?

Would we be happy to dress up for each other, put on fancy clothes and dance in the night air or would we long for others or a different or the original piece of cake?

Would the life around the plants, animal and soil livestock that helped us stay alive suffice to provide entertainment and be company when we tired of each other? Would we tire of each other or would we get ever happier as we went along?

It’s a fantasy, thinking of what might be. A wonderful one. What is is and it is known and the limitations might make happy wanderers of our minds but they can fix us in the present and make us sure that there is something.

What if we go to this remote place where streams flow, stars light the night skies without interference, cool breezes blow through open windows to cool us in the night and one of us dies too soon…what if? What if there are too many bugs and mosquitoes. What if someone like Nestle comes along and steals all of the water?

Too many ifs.

It is something to know that this kind of excitement and longing can come this late in life. It is absolutely wonderful to think of the possibilities. But they just can’t seem to be the way we’d want them, so perhaps it is better to leave well enough alone.

I thought all day about it, and it was so wonderful to get to know you better before we decide to quit, before we go too far. To actually hear your voice and know that the tone of your words are different when spoken than written was uplifting and made me fall a little more in to the crush.

We seemed to have a good rhythm and left space for each other. My heart beat louder.

It is good to know that I think I was right about the kindred. It certainly seemed more real to me and the notch went up a hitch – I felt my heart grow a little. It made me realize how much harder it will be if I go any more. I will fall in and there will be a deep pit to try to crawl out of. I felt it a little this morning before you called. It was already hard the first time – backing up.

I have no right to even write these words.

Things didn’t seem finished let alone started, until this morning in that calm we shared. Absence had made my heart grow fonder and a certain peace had settled in because of the forcing back of emotions. I thought I could put you away but every day I’d look to see what I could see and even though I tried to convince myself that you were too angry or too confused or too something or other – the minute you reached out, I was pretty much a goner, “He still likes me!!!”

There is too much to lose at trying to gain something different than what we both know is all that can be – to try to have the cake and eat it too. Absence made the edges clearer and even though the first parting was abrupt and wounding, it forced the space that was necessary to crush crushing – a little – at least slow it down. Now to make the sensible choice in this less than hurtful space where both of us are softened.

Doesn’t it just seem that it would be better to leave well enough alone? What good can possibly come? And I’m okay with that if you are. It was wonderful, and I am grateful. Thank you ever so much for coming along and playing.

Piece of cake or piece of pie? If either is meant to mean that a thing can be easy, this can be considered neither.


Cake and Eat





Break A Heart

The little pincher bug immediately started running around on top of the dirt like its hair was on fire. She continued to look for a few seconds thinking it was looking up to see a giant looking back and was trying desperately to find a hollow somewhere in the pile of organic matter to hide but it was then immediately realized that the poor little bug was trying to get its feet away from the scorching heat of what it had been put upon. The heat that was, by then, starting to penetrate her own more well-padded naked pads.

She quickly tried to sweep the little bug to where the dirt was shaded but she feared that it might not have been quickly enough. By the time the bug had started writhing, turning itself over on its back and flailing itself around was when the horror struck her and it was fractions of a second from setting it down — probably better that she hadn’t just walked away.

Oh the horror though at the thought that it had suffered at her hand.

There are so many ways to break a heart.

She was trying to rescue the little bug from her sink full of water afraid it might drown while hunting for a scrap of something to decompose and knowing what great value they are to decomposing things, she took it right out to where kitchen scraps had been covered over with some dirt that had been dug out first. Once it had been swept to the cooler, shaded side of the dirt, she didn’t see it again and could only hope that it had managed to bury itself for soothing.

It was hot enough now that it didn’t seem to matter much if glass and curtains were left open from any windows and there were puffs of air pushing curtains back that had a coolness to them reminiscent of fall. It’s a queer time of year when dirt is far too hot to walk on, can fry a poor unsuspecting little pincher bug in seconds that are split, and a tank of hot water can be run from any hose left under the Sun but yet a sense of refrigerated cooling can be felt in a puff of moving air.

She saved another pincher bug today by taking it out to cooler grounds.

There are so many ways to break a heart, and just as many that can heal one.

break a heart giant




The Bell Brothers


Bronte sisters

Anne’s health began to decline rapidly, like that of her brother and sister some months earlier. On 5 April 1849, she wrote to Ellen Nussey asking her to accompany her to Scarborough on the east coast. Anne confides her thoughts to Ellen:

“I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect … But I wish it would please God to spare me not only for Papa’s and Charlotte’s sakes, but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for future practise—humble and limited indeed—but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose. But God’s will be done.”[127]

Anne hoped that the sea air would improve her health, as recommended by the doctor, and Charlotte finally agreed to go.[128]

On the Sunday morning she felt weaker and asked if she could be taken back to Haworth. The doctor confirmed that she was near to death and Anne thanked him for his candour. “Take courage, take courage” she murmured to Charlotte. She died at 2 pm on Monday 18 May. She is buried in the cemetery of St Mary’s of Scarborough.[129] Her gravestone carried an error in her age in the inscription because she died at the age of 29 and not at 28. It was noticed by Charlotte during her only visit, and she had the intention of asking the mason to correct it. Ill health did not leave him time to effect the repair and the tombstone remained in the same state until replaced by the Brontë Society in April 2013.

Three girls became known as three men so that they could publish their collective genius. The Brontë sisters changed their names to men’s names with their same initials because females weren’t taken seriously at the time.

The three girls live to be 38, 30 and 29 in order of their appearance. Two earlier births died at ages of 10 and 11 and the only brother somewhere in his 30’s. The father out lived them all and went on to the ripe old age of 84.

They didn’t let their short lives keep them from their legacy. Their brother was in the portrait that he painted shown above but erased himself so as not to clutter the sisters.

branwell bronte

Branwell Brontë self-portrait

Just some inspiration since there is no will to write today.

Annie and Bar

Her first doll was Annie Laurie, her first teddy was Bar. Bar had a squeaky ear, back in the day.
They’ve done a better job of hiding her same age and will both go wherever she does, the rest of the way — the full distance of her life if she lasts as long as they.

Sometimes she wishes that her mother hadn’t said, “Be sure to wash your hands, Girls, before you play. And when you’re through with playing with them for this day, put them all back in the cupboard just the right way.”

Some other children’s mothers didn’t care at all, if their brothers lopped the head off all their dolls.
If she had had a mother, more like they, she wouldn’t have to worry now and it wouldn’t be so sad, to wonder who will care about them, once she’s gone.

If she had had a daughter, she would have called her Annie. And Annie would have had a teddy just like Bar.

Where To Go

The thing to do it seemed was to start packing things up in boxes exactly the way it would be done for moving, starting with things that should definitely travel to the next place – only the utter essentials. That would start the paring. Those boxes could take the spaces where they would be the closest to any of the exits.

Looking to the left the cupboards were loaded and yes, they were handsome for looking at and the shelves had finally been finished in the best rendition of coloring after going through several gyrations – two shades of what interpreted as more turquoise than Moody Blue as it was named. It might be that turquoise could be moody and in fact it did have a way of setting a mood and one that no longer needed any further tweaking.

All the items stacked on the shelves to look at — and they were mostly just for that as seldom were any of them actually used — were colorful and placed such that they would photograph well for an article that might be written for Thoughts of Home in an issue of House Beautiful — another of the things that had long ago been a good intention — and even a main reason for why any writing had been taken up in the first place.

There had been fabulous stories in Thoughts of Home that were still available to re-read in the mile-high stack of magazines that might now be better burning — if they wouldn’t be too sorely missed.

Most of the items intrinsically of value if by sentiment or having aged well were not among the utterly essential category and though they might be sorely missed, could remain safe in boxes that could stay for the time being as well as possibly any of the Thoughts of Home.

Any of a number of complexities for trying to sell the things was outweighed easily by thinking of the joy their absence by burning or leaving might be to ease moving or thinking about them again later or dusting sometime in the future. It might be that after a succession of the events of new living, they would find themselves forgotten or devalued for their ability to distract because a better thing had taken the space that they’d been holding. That was the hope. And that was becoming known of what their value had ever really been, distractions, a thing to dote upon or move around for dealing with neurotic episodes. What a waste of valuable time and no more was available for that kind of wasting if it ever had been. Seemed that true healing was finally beginning.

This had all been done another time when it was thought that a new living arrangement was on the horizon. And though that failed to manifest – old souls deciding that if they hadn’t been ready before they likely would not be ready ever to live together as one – the boxes did well to sit for quite a spell until a collection of animal vases looked interesting to paw through and it all went mad again from there. All of the boxes flung open and their contents spilled out to congregate on shelves where they needed attending to by looking at again or dusting.

What had suddenly become so troubling had more to do with how to realize the full measure of life’s meaning in a way that didn’t require any consideration of dusting or mopping because dusting and mopping kept interrupting far too many other good scenarios of imagination or actual doing, so it was becoming ever more clear — as if it hadn’t always been — that they were not things good time should be spent on.

There was something of a story that still needed full expression – one that included living near a stream or some body of water where there may be a woods and meadow and wild things living and maybe even better weather that could fill the spaces boxed up goods were no good at filling nor any of their contents.

The things that needed to be put in the boxes left for losing had stories that were old and most of the characters in them had aged out and gone to ethereal places where they didn’t need any of the caring they or any of their things had called upon at one time. Touching or seeing any of those things again was an unnecessary repetition and seemed to be doing more harm than any good now. They could remain in boxes until the full measure of their missing could be known — but in the meanwhile, some going must be done and it would only be possible to do, it seemed, if the things were burned or left behind.

It’s so easy to see once the putting of things in boxes starts that the city had gotten too small and there were no meadows and not much evidence of wild things — that the weather was poor and even though congestion was not anywhere like a real city, it was nonetheless congestion — other unhappy people milling around behaving in neurotic episodes not finding any real measure of full meaning — most all of them eating pizza and forgetting about the birds and bees instead.

The only charm the little burg had ever had was a person and some other people that had come and gone by now. And no one else seemed worthy of mentioning so it was starting to seem that rivers or lakes or meadows or mountains might be more satisfying — that story that still needed its full expression. There had been dreams.

There is a man that has a lot of anger and it’s hard not to imagine that people stay together because complaining is easy enough to remedy for a minute or two by cheating — but finding a way to keep happy and moving along in life without a partner leaves an opportunity to not excuse a lack of accomplishment on something someone else held back or replaced in a lesser way. There is no substitute for one’s own full knowing where less anger already exists.

There are people who when coupled are greater than the sum of their parts — people who living whole lives together benefit more than if they had remained alone — a beautiful thing when and if two can do.

Maybe just knowing that nothing but and every utter essential was corralled in boxes ready to exit would be all that was needed to clear the path for leaving. The house could be looked at like it had been at the beginning, but this time not as a place for starting over but a place to leave someone else for starting over. And even though lots of love had been put into it, that also had been done before elsewhere and it had been possible to yank any of those roots to leave with all those boxes.

Grieving is a process but it was starting to seem like the grieving needed to be carried in one of the essential boxes or maybe split up into several of the lesser ones because it was becoming more and more evident that it was likely the only thing keeping her from really leaving — that and where to go.



where to go







And Another Thing

Something to know about Summer’s hard getting through is cats. Their furs don’t seem to want to stay attached so collect in balls instead that roll around all floors the fur emitting cats parade on. And fruit flies have a warm enough place in the compost bucket to go from egg to flying so it is better to bury it sooner and sweep floors more often but it is seldom done as should be for funner things to do are easier to see, let’s face it – unless of course, fun is found in sweeping and it does have its place in smoothing ruffled feathers. So if one is inclined to be often ruffled, work, other than possibly sweeping, is better given to inflating someone else’s time and should be well-considered except that kind of thinking is a thief as well.

And then there is the question of what might happen when the computer fails for good and Summer is good at increasing that chance – silicon being such the sensitive little thing to heat that it is and fans unable to fix the thermometer where they want it.

It is such a bother to think about the thinking involved in which one might be better or have less interference or spyware coming with it. Which one won’t cause trouble from the start by being hard to learn or set up or become obsolete in no time with taken-away support.

Perhaps it would just be better to start living at the college center. Simpler, and requiring no uninvited or extended and comfortless stays, perhaps a pen and paper.

The days her computer closes in her face in the middle of a sentence, she sits on her soft, comfortable bed with her favorite pen and finds it quite uncomplicated except that fingers seem to be able to pluck keys faster than create swirls with a long, thin utensil that leaks a fluid when it touches paper and as yet, a brain can’t summon the world wide web to search a meaning of a word. She might be well advised to remember she has a dictionary or five or six and one giant one that has oxford style interpretations.

Yeah, well, her dictionaries don’t have urban slang or references to ways those words were, once upon a time, used in classic literature – at least not at easy beck and call. Who doesn’t like ease? Is that a rhetorical question? Oh, the handy things the nuisance computer’s worth can make wasting inflated time thinking about a new one worthy of its wasting. If it’s worthy is it wasted?

So, in conclusion, and another thing Summer can be known some for is — how its inclination to make the computer go black might mean the difference between caring or not caring about whether or not a question is rhetorical or whether or not time is being wasted or needs to be hurried through more quickly.

Let’s see if she can get this one posted in time or if she will have to come back some time later from the black to edit.

Valerie Da Vinci

Today’s inspiration: Gru said, “And another thing…” in Despicable Me 3 while he and Lucy were ascending to AVL headquarters for a meeting where he was subsequently required to explain why he failed to capture Bratt.

Some words stick. “And be buried with onions” another set.

You Ain’t Hurt

The poor girl struggled exhaustively and indefinitely but it’s hard to remember of her complaining. Instead she rocked — and rocked and rocked and rocked and rocked — even while standing she was rocking. As a baby she had a rocking horse and rode it to death. If not rocking she was busy collecting and organizing food for proper placement toward bingeing and purging. Distraction was her method of coping — not complaining — and it was very hard to find her eyes where they might be available for looking in to. All troubling thinking was to be avoided — that space inside herself that longed for magic kinds of touching was having shovels of dirt thrown over it instead — drugs and alcohol. It was magic in the seconds that she wasn’t gone and there were countless others clamoring for the few seats in her theater. Musical chairs. Being a sister was a preferential position, but after all, it was her choice who she’d see in the very few moments or seconds when she could see.

It’s always children that are hurt the worst. Even though they had been in the front row of her audience, the show of affection she was staging in the bathroom while they dressed up, put on Twiggy lashes or fixed their hair to mimic models while trying to sing Belladonna like Stevie Nicks only served to interrupt proper growing. She wasn’t really there but her flesh was available for clinging to. Abuse by neglect is more penetrating by its presence than its absence — but leaving wasn’t healing. They were all interrupted — perhaps the boy even more because he wasn’t inclined for any of the pretending of which the girls were more than willing. Any holding on to see if she was looking was grossly overrated and only served to stop their own full living. It still seemed like there was a story they were making

” ‘Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.’ ” No, that wasn’t it. ” ‘Get Up. You ain’t hurt!’ Yeah, that was it,” she could remember a favorite saying of her sister’s. She wouldn’t have been a Republican if she’d had any inclination to think about things like politics but that was put in the same place that alcohol and drugs shoveled their dirt over. It might have been her husband that used the bootstrap metaphor but not her. She liked to help others. As for herself, she kept trying to convince she wasn’t hurt.

She had little bits and pieces of paper tacked up close to all the near millions of mirrors spaced at intervals convenient for not interrupting her seeing her own eyes since no one else could. They all had sayings she had written on whatever envelope or bag was there for writing on. She was constantly looking for some kind of inspiration that would dig the dirt from over the dead thoughts and revive them for better consideration but wouldn’t hurt more than she could stand. The mirrors helped her see that she was really there and check for the only true understanding she had of herself — that she was beautiful. Constant checking was to see if it had faded any — what else would she have if it had or wasn’t what she thought it was a minute or two ago?

“I want a white poodle with a cute pace,” she’d written with her first grade teacher, Mrs. Ishoy, on a giant lined piece of paper with a squeaky marker she brought home to show her mother.

Before that she’d wanted white marching boots that she cried and cried over when they quit fitting. After the poodle, she wanted a long blonde wig so everyone in the family she was in then made sure she got whatever it was she wanted because if she didn’t, she was miserable to be around and constantly melancholic. If they’d known then that they were not helping, maybe they would have done something different but when she wanted “to look like Twiggy”, no one could give her that. Anorexia could and maybe drinking so she became friends with Anorexia and anyone who knew how to get the bottles.

“I don’t think my brain can be fixed,” she’d told her sister just a night or two before she pulled the trigger. “I think I’ve had a great life,” she added to that. Her sister couldn’t imagine that all the misery she had witnessed her suffer could equal the sum of a good life,  but she also knew that celebrity often comes with a price and her sister had been a really big fish in a little pond so it was good to think that she’d found some happiness in that hell. It was now her sister’s hell to live the rest of her life without her, her children too.

Oh to have found a way to help, but there hadn’t been one — not that she could find for herself nor could any of the numbers of those who were trying.

Gabor Maté says that best someone who loves someone can do it to not stop loving no matter what and even maybe bring them a needle or at least the anecdote if the needle tries to kill them. Love is the only hope and a requirement because the reason they feel so empty and are stuffing feelings down is because somewhere along the line, love got interrupted and more, not less love is required to bridge the gap. Not bootstraps.

Oh, how she wishes she’d grabbed her sister up one more time when she was claiming she wasn’t hurt and said, “Who are you trying to kid, kid. I can see your pain,” and tried harder to switch places.

She still can’t remember of any complaining.


Twiggy lashes