Ahhhhhhh, Remember when we used to fall for men? Boys? Others? Hm. Leaves a stain, doesn't it.

Ahhhhhhhh. To crawl. The blood between your teeth feels good. You like the iron taste.

You got it. Now what.

To what.

Slouching toward Bethlehem. Slouching. Toward Bethlehem. You got diamonds on the souls of your shoes. Get it right.

Sit, act, do the play. You know the lines. What are you crawling toward?

Where is the beauty in your reward. Well, I guess if I have to answer, and, well, this is my fucking blog, so I guess I will...

Be born! Live, you children, Live!

I think that there is a huge difference between showing indifference and actually being indifferent. Actually, I think that there is a giant chasm of self worth that is involved with the whole ordeal, if you ask me. But you didn't.

There are times when we crawl toward what we think is True. What we think should matter. When the truth is between the sheets, and you, and me.

Or not. We can talk about the weather.

What opposes us is simply our desire.

You shoot that beaming light onto someone else, they've gotta catch on, right? You're bright. You're beautiful. But did you know that? Did you?

There is a time when all that is possible, is.

There is also a time when you sit alone, in a bath, and thank the fucking Goddesses that no one is bothering you.

The sheer possibility that you might be someone is scary. It carries the weight of the crown, of all the worlds.

Crawl. Fall on your knees. Lay down your sword.

And become humble in the knowledge that it is. Right. Before. Your. Eyes.

If it LOLZ, It Leads

Jesus fucking Christ, people. Have you read the news today? Economic Rant #353 is on its way soon. I just need to unload this suicide martini first.

DON'T.

Get thee to the funny. The world will spin on its own.

what she said

Man. What she said. For real. Brilliant. She IS a Queen. And I couldn't agree more.



We'll see if the link function starts working for me again. Meantime, go here
http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2009-11-05/investing-in-adolescent-girls/

You can't get here...



Unless you go here. Every. Day.

And you keep getting up. And you keep getting hit. And you keep believing. You believe that you own what is yours. And that nobody. Nobody. Can fucking beat you down. You can get hit. You can be down. But you better fucking believe that you're gonna get back up again. Because you have something that nobody, not that guy in the other corner, not any of those faces out there, can take away. So get back in there. And keep fighting.

A good day consists of Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye, Etta James, Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and the Temptations on Pandora. Ahhh, sing me back home my dear friends. Sing me back.


"My dear ladies, we have one goal. To persist." -Lauren Bacall

All Hallows Eve

Halloween, or Hallow's Eve, is a Celtic tradition called Samhain.

Samhain is the annual fall tradition, when the weather changes from warm to the bitter cold. It is when you bring in the flocks, the herds, the family. All of them. Spirits have passed. Time has passed. You are still here.

Where are the ghosts?

You bring them in, by lighting candles. You ask for them to join you.

The mask between what is living and what is dead is lifted. For one night.

Samhain.

Come on in. We miss you.

All the ghosts, all the spirits, of what has passed. Of what is Past.

You can wear a costume, if you want.

We recognize your spirit.

We lift the veil.

Come in.

Happy Halloween, to all my ghosts. All my spirits. All my kindred.

All my souls.

10.15 (on a Saturday Night)

Best. Birthday. Ever.

Voices and bodies and wishes and strong arms where I haven't felt them for so long. Benedictions and nods, looks and longing quiet speechless sentiments from those so dear to me. Never near enough, and never very far away, no matter where they are. His way of walking off saying "goodbye, Toots" without looking at me, but when we sit and talk like actors do to one another, it is The Truth, and we deep sea dive with looks and expressions like hand gestures in a near black depth of sea. His eyes say everything. When he says "amazing," He really means it. When he takes the camera, he knows what he's shooting and how. When he takes me out for a walk, it's just to listen: to the earth, the moan and pounding whoosh of the ocean. When he opens the door for you and checks you out, head to toe, even though you're not alone: you think, you gorgeous dark thing you, I fucking love you for doing that on me birfday. When she brings you a homemade candle and mozes around in ballet slippers, you are honored and loved just for the relaxed, knowing company. And when she texts, you go. Because: There Will Be Fun. Shooting photos for the first time in ages, remembering.

I sat in that dark theater, hearing that which has brought me back since I was 16.

I could have watched those laser horses run for hours.



A dream for too many years come true. All doubts eradicated; every single negative thought that's ever crossed my path, entered my mind. Eradicated.

I heard and felt Bonzo like I never have before. And for me to say that? Is fucking saying a LOT.

Top it off with Roscoe's at 2am with your Hunee, and my dears: fuck the rest. You got put thru and still found love and joy.

Oh and one more thing:


She was 36 when this photo was taken. Sometimes, maybe, it's just getting started. Scratch that maybe.

My Heart's in My Chest, You Snake. You Can't Have the Rest. You Snake. aka Cries for No One

and my heart is a canary
that I send into the mines
and over and over and over

it never comes back out

and I go in anyway.


To find her.