Live More Lightheartedly

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**Update: 02.26.2020 I have failed the commitment largely due to being highly dissatisfied with what was being produced in panic mode even though it was great fun and stimulating — so will now post when the spirit moves me or whatever. 

I do love to write and have written all of my life to help myself with processing feelings and trying to get a better grasp of what it is to be living.

Ultimately, especially lately and maybe due to the original commitment, I find myself simply wanting to be happy … enough.

Life is way too short and I don’t want to waste one single minute on commiserating about what isn’t good … unless I have to.

Yesterday I lost a little sleep worrying about a family member because of choices being made that alarmed me. Each and every one of us has to make our own mistakes but still, we want to let our loved ones know there is a place to fall back onto if they need to … a soft place to land or a hand to cling to if they need a little balancing. It’s especially hard not to judge.

It’s awful to worry. But, it’s important to learn how to live more lightheartedly — or so says Alain de Botton — “Registering every kind of heaviness and transcending it…”
Wonderful words of wisdom.

Especially as life goes on and experiences accumulate, more and more unhappy events try to push one to the edge where jumping off to end it all can happen — but it is this same accrued information that Alain alludes to that is also what enables one to realize the joy in the beauty that is the blue that is the sky. We learn as we go to realize that life is hard and always will be and it won’t get better — but there is always something wonderful to see, hear, taste, touch or feel.



Image credit: Dead Serious and Lighthearted – The Memorable Words of Modern America Volume I (1957-1976), Volume II (1977-1993), and Volume III (1994-2015)


Uprooted And Removed

Does it know where it’s going
Making trails as it goes
Do we want to know where
we are going
or is it too eroding
when we’re shown
Is it better
to simply go
free flowing water
on its merry way to somewhere
far away in the long run
with all its twists and turns
When the water has a chance to flow
it flows gracefully
taking what it’s able to
uprooted and removed
If it is stopped and stifled
it stagnates and struggles
for a way to try to go again
freely and gracefully
and will
as soon as it is
free again
to travel
where it wants to
Does anything know
where it is going
Does anything really want to?

This Time Better

The number of times

it takes to quit dreaming about him might add up to until the end of the dreamer’s being. It can’t seem to be helped. He’s in the psyche, entrenched, solidified even though he is no longer living.

The number of times

he is always rather mean in the dream might have the same fate since that is how he was in the long run.
He liked to leave.
And was distant
and unavailable
when he wasn’t gone.
It didn’t start out that way. He was a fooler.
He was handsome though and really good at kissing.

The number of times

the dreamer wakes up wishing she didn’t dream of him is zero.
He was lovely
when he wasn’t being mean.
He was handsome and really good at kissing.

The number of times

anyone meant as much as he is fairly small and none were quite like that.
There is always hope that some kind of love may come again.
Maybe this time better.
It doesn’t even matter is he is handsome or really good at kissing.

The number of times

it seems better to have cats and dogs instead of a man
outnumbers any thought of having any kind of love again.
Dreaming can suffice
in the long run.


Image credit: Lovely Book/ Wiki commons

Ooey Gooey Stuff

It is such a debilitating thing to feel a need to worry about money. It may seem necessary but it is only necessary to find a way to provide for needs. Money works for that sometimes but more often than not it is so inflated by the time it can be spent that it might have been better learning how to do without whatever it was that money was being saved or worked so hard for.

And — things get less worth buying.

Freedom = Money

Robert Downey Jr. is worth somewhere in a vicinity of several hundred million dollars and climbing. Wasn’t his father an actor? Didn’t his father buy him out of his cocaine troubles?

Bunny Meyer/grav3yardgirl had to confess she’d been lying about how poor she is since she isn’t any more. She’d been trying to deceive to keep her fan base — thinking that they would abandon if they knew she could now spend $5,000 on a handbag while she was telling them how to utilize a thrift store. Lust and greed for money was now the driving force for what she tried to do on her YouTube and it was failing.

Her YouTube channel was sliding down fast because she was no longer able to be authentic so she cried to show herself as vulnerable and penitent and bring them back to her side. She confessed and the hoards came back — clamoring for more of her silliness.

How many Designer’s lipstick can be the best there is? How many slots does the Sephora brand have for rising stars that have the fan base to equal enough for them to want to sponsor? Is the sky the limit or simply however many viewers they can count on to remain ignorant enough to buy the ooey gooey stuff on a stick.

What does it take to be rich — does someone always have to end up dead for someone else to get rich quick?

There was a man who acted like a clown — strutting up and down the aisles of a furniture store with his black book and tie trying to entice someone into spending some of their hard-earned money so that he could make a commission.

It was nearly impossible to imagine how he could be so unashamed of his behavior while lusting for the buck. Jack Rafter was his name and he did the darnedest things to get attention. He was always on the top of the heap of sales volume for any given month and all the others were trying to find his secret — which was, as far as anyone could tell — he might as well have been doing cartwheels — he never said a thing that sounded the slightest bit intelligent or that he’d actually learned about the product.

He made people feel good.

Slight of hand.

Crooks get rich and clowns — actors and thieves.

What’s even harder to be than rich is what you want to be because all the while you’re trying to be what you want, money places stumbling blocks right smack dab in the middle of the path. Lack of confidence puts blocks out too but that’s a matter of changing a brainwave and not the entire economic status quo.

Maggie and Jake Gyllenhaal have a father who is a director and a mother who is a screenwriter. Don’t Bill Gates kids do dressage if they so desire.

The decks are fully loaded.

You’d better be a clown or thief or give up on the idea of being rich.


image credit: Beyer Beware


Happened So Fast

The man went spinning down the stairs and ended up at the bottom. She was sure he must be dead because they were such violent movements as he spun plunging down. His hand was lying on the floor below her feet with the towel it had been hanging onto. She stood there in shaking fear.

The people inside the apartment where they both had been came out to investigate what the clamor was. They were her friends. They didn’t know what to say. Everyone was afraid to say anything because, by that time, the police had put her in handcuffs and even she wasn’t saying a word. She knew better to keep her mouth shut and let them ask the questions. She didn’t volunteer anything and they were asking everyone but her what they might know about what happened. No one knew a thing because they had all been inside the apartment when it happened — but they gave her forgiving looks.

There were plenty of uniforms performing acts of investigative work — like analyzing  the trail of blood and where it was in proximity to where the only suspicious one was standing at the edge of the landing before the stairs.

There was a door around the corner from the apartment they had come out of. It was like there was an elevator between the doors but both doors were pushed back so that the elevator projected into the landing area where the event started and each entrance had a little hall before it. There was a pool of purplish blood near what might be the elevator but before the hall that made its way to the door to the other apartment where his girlfriend had gone.

The suspicious one had come out behind him and he was carrying the towel his girlfriend had used to blot herself. She grabbed the towel that he had slung over his shoulder trying to slow him down and was exclaiming that he needed to come back to the room where he had started and clean up his girlfriend’s urine from the floor with the towel — since she wouldn’t do it and no one else wanted to or wanted to traipse through urine on the floor that had already been traipsed through by the drunk blonde girl.

The girlfriend had cleaned herself off, used the towel to blot herself and then proceeded to strut out of that apartment headed for the other apartment because she was suddenly through with the chaos of the room surrounding her behavior. She was a drunk. She was drunk and her urine followed her like a puppy doing as it pleased, wherever it went to do whatever it pleased and wanted no consequence nor had any thoughts that it deserved any consequence. What have I done wrong? the puppy might think. She, on the other hand, felt entitled to be what she was with thoughts that she was too beautiful for anyone to worry about a little thing like her urine on the floor. Her long, thick blonde hair trailed her like a puppy too. It was her mane, her identity. It strutted with her, flowing out behind her tiny body.

The dead man’s sister arrived and the suspicious one’s did too. The suspicious one’s sister was a former cop and when asked why the investigation was avoiding her, her sister said, “They may not ask you anything. They may already see it as an accident. But they need to get whatever other information they can before they engage you and they might not need to ask you. They have to read you your rights first. Have they read you your rights yet?”

“No,” she replied while trying desperately to formulate the story so that it would be convincing. She didn’t want to muck anything up and say it wrong in a way that would be incriminating.

It had, in fact, been an accident. It all happened so quickly she was having trouble formulating just how it has happened. She was already feeling guilty that her anger was enough to pave the way for guilt in the eyes of the policemen investigating. Anger that the blonde drunk had strutted out as if the others in the room were all her slaves. “I’m not cleaning that up,” she’d said before the strut. Angry that she was left with a mess to clean up. Angry that no one was responding to her pleas to take responsibility. As usual, she was trying to control and now it was putting her in harms way. Maybe she deserved the label “guilty”. Guilty of being a bitch. Why shouldn’t everyone else have fun at her expense.

She definitely needed to calm her insides down before she paved her own way for being labeled and thrown into jail.

The dead man’s sister was explaining that her brother had a prosthetic hand. Of course, by then, everyone could see the attachment hardware — but, nonetheless, it was a peculiar sight to see a hand still holding the towel lying on the floor.

The towel didn’t have a drop of blood on it and the purplish pool didn’t really look like blood though the suspicious one knew that he had spun some near there before he had gone spinning down the stairs. Maybe he was holding a juice box and it had gotten crushed and spilled but she thought she remembered him hitting his head on the wall near there before his spinning body’s spinning lunged him toward the stairs where the momentum of the spinning increased and his only place to go was down.

What was hard, in her own mind, to understand was how had he spun such that he got all they way from the place between the projection and the other apartment door to end up such that he could go spinning down the stairs. It didn’t seem to make sense from a physics standpoint.

It had all happened so fast. **

** This was where I woke up from the dream.


Image credit: A Victorian Terrace in Devon

To Distant Seas

“What are you doing this morning?” was his question.

“Sipping coffee and slipping into the Facebook vortex,” was the most common response with various shades of “I hate work,” laced in the spelling.

Not being a working person, the hidden response, “What will I do to entertain myself today,” might be detected if anyone was listening well enough. And it might not portray desire any more than fear.

It’s not really entertainment as much as it is pushing away the fear of death. When there is nothing of a distraction, the brain is on its own.

Perhaps today would be a good day to jump off a cliff. People who survive claim it allows for great appreciation of trying to remain alive — those who don’t, well, they never say.

It isn’t any kind of wish to be 20 again. It’s wishing that the world could be more hospitable and that others didn’t ruin things so rapidly and wouldn’t be so hard to get along with. It’s wishing competition would mellow into sharing and caring and that fast fashion with regard to all thing meant to feed an ego would morph into a culture that could be put on a boat and floated out to distant seas that would never return to shore.

It’s another kind of wishing for more, more, more. More time to get things right. More time to fix the moldy leak. More time to plant the garden after building the good soil. More time to love another dog.

Wishing gets you nowhere.

As the person asking the question and sipping the coffee said, “Just sippin coffee and typing this morning. How’s your day so far? What’s on your mind?”

It wasn’t this typist, it was another in the Facebook vortex who is an artist and he also said, “Seeing others discover things that work in their process and making small leaps of skill is what it’s all about. There are seven billion people on this rock. If a few hundred more artists show up and are successful that’s a good thing. There is a big enough ecosystem for all of us.”

It’s hard to agree, (about the ecosystem being enough), but it is a friendly brain game.

“What’s on your mind?”

“What it would be like to live in Ikaria,” was this typists hidden thought.

Image credit: Song of the Distant Seas


Leave Social Media

Everybody seems to want to be an Instagram celebrity. I can’t even figure out how to register — probably because I really don’t want to. The closest I came to it was today trying to get on for the sole purpose of seeing Linda Rodin’s account. I kept getting error messages for problems with passwords or email issues. I quit when it was the slightest bit inconvenient. I really don’t need it and Linda’s images are all over the internet anyway.

Instagram is an addiction I simply don’t need and can’t afford the time for.

So, I’m glad it failed because I’m seriously thinking I will leave social media behind altogether.

I think Linda Rodin is about the classiest thing I’ve ever seen and she is just a couple of years ahead of me. Talk about aging beautifully — in every single way. Of course, it probably didn’t hurt that she is a beauty from the beginning and pencil thin to boot.

Anyway, I think her aesthetic is fabulous — and her views on life resonate to a T with me. She has given me the permission to shun Marie Kondo philosophers and want to keep the life of ‘proper’ clutter I’ve always loved and (truthfully) wanted. Bah humbug, Marie with nothing fun to look at. Give me Linda’s style any day.

Why not live your life with all the things you love and then some all the way till expiration day?

On top of it all, she’s never been married and the best I can figure she has no children either — same same — and apparently she’s never wanted or needed either of them any more than I have. Dogs are the best thing ever. Or cats. Men are fun, but you don’t have to marry one to enjoy looking at them across a dining table and then both go to your own home, perfectly well enough alone.

So, back to Insta-celebrity — it seems to be a PRETTY saturated market with not much room to spare for more. Quite frankly, it’s all almost making me kind of sick — it’s dizzying like being on a ship in a storm — not that I have ever been.

When is anything ever enough?

Now that I’ve finally seen someone that I can totally admire, I can focus on seeing myself the same way. Isn’t that what we’re all really looking for anyway — to see who we really are being reflected back at us — no matter what anyone else has to say?

Image credit: Grey Magazine

Being In Control

The bicycle rode up the hill and down the hill again. Someone was making it do so. The ride down was easy. The ride up quite a struggle. The ride down made it all worth it because the downward momentum felt like flying and in far less time than it took to struggle up the hill, several more times worth of length were flown down once the turnaround was made.

So it seems that we struggle longer to get just a little bit of flying.

It’s worth it.

High as a kite is not anything anyone could take on a continual basis. Neither is having to struggle forever. For some it seems they do. It’s a very sad thing that there might be someone who never gets to be as high as a kite without taking some kind of drug. It would be good if everyone could feel the effects of flying down a hill on a bike — one that has to be pedaled — though one with a motor is pretty awesome too. It’s that feeling of flying.

Lucky birds.

I can’t go on a plane. I’m claustrophobic. It’s a matter of being in control. I can control the pedals on a bike so I can still feel like I can fly except that now I’m a little too old and a little bit afraid of broken bones and they don’t all work as well as they used to — but, I can still remember peddling up that hill and flying down.

Lucky bird am I.


A Scrappy Afghan

The idea that it’s a given that it is required to be done is daunting enough. Did that make any sense to you? It almost did to me. I just started typing and let my brain go.

I’m trying to think of what to write and just typing away hoping something will come out of the mess that is being typed. Say one true thing and go from there is what he said, Hemingway was it? Something close to that.

What is true today is that I’ve been crocheting a scrappy blanket and I got too far using just certain colors and then tried to introduce others as they accrued from trips to a thrift store, (and Walmart). Now there are too many rows of the original colors and it’s become quit a challenge to integrate the others in a way that seems cohesive and pleasing. It’s been my experience that it usually comes together well enough in the end if I go along with enough trust in my intuition.

It’s all I can do to not quit this challenge that I’ve given myself, to write something every single day for one year — not the afghan, it’s a nice diversion.

I do so want to give up and after this mess I may just do that tomorrow. For now I’ll call this “something” and let it go at that.

And then I’m going to block quote this excerpt and hope I don’t have internet police come hunting me down and the copyright isn’t being infringed because it seems that a lot of people who visit me are trying to write as well and this was good advice:

Number six —

writing. Every writer you know writes really terrible first drafts, but they keep their butt in the chair. That’s the secret of life. That’s probably the main difference between you and them. They just do it. They do it by prearrangement with themselves. They do it as a debt of honor. They tell stories that come through them one day at a time, little by little.When my older brother was in fourth grade, he had a term paper on birds due the next day, and he hadn’t started. So my dad sat down with him with an Audubon book, paper, pencils and brads — for those of you who have gotten a little less young and remember brads — and he said to my brother, “Just take it bird by bird, buddy. Just read about pelicans and then write about pelicans in your own voice. And then find out about chickadees, and tell us about them in your own voice. And then geese.”

So the two most important things about writing are: bird by bird and really god-awful first drafts. If you don’t know where to start, remember that every single thing that happened to you is yours, and you get to tell it. If people wanted you to write more warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.

You’re going to feel like hell if you wake up someday and you never wrote the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves of your heart: your stories, memories, visions and songs — your truth, your version of things — in your own voice. That’s really all you have to offer us,and that’s also why you were born.

Please do go visit to read the rest.


Mom And Grannie

Before my mother,
I was with my grandmother
I was in the cells that made her daughter
They are both with me now
I am not alone
I am who I am
because they were
I thought my mother died
but I see her in a gesture that
I make
or a way I sit
The crooked lip I have like hers
and the dishes I won’t do
before I have to
She is still in me
Although I knew only little tiny
bits who Grannie was
she lived so far away but
sent birthday cards
I have her quilt
in colors that I, also
just so happen to love
Colors must transcend
and come with genes that
still remember
Did she make that quilt for me
All those who have come and gone
and didn’t stay
I will never be alone
I hope I go to where Mom and Grannie are
once my days are gone.

Image credit: Sciencing