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Monthly Archives: November 2019
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I am not a secretI am a sirenI am not a mediatorfor those who are weakI am the spokesmanI will not drag you with meI will proudly walk aloneFearlessBecause I faced the worsta long time agoI am strong willedStrongly opinionatedStrong legs to stand tallnot for runningStrong lungs to exhale and blow you from meI will continue, undauntedCaution trampledI am not sugarI am ginThat bites backI am honest to a fault voir direI am blue eyes and unruly red hairI am tears for an instantThen I am fierceI am a switchblade when my anger flares I am not a shrinking violetI am a strutting, bold ravenWith thorns held in my beakFor my nest in the highest, sturdiest oakI have never been a cowardBut will shatter my heart with a disaster To prove I will rise from the flamesI will not listen when you label me with your insecuritiesYour aggression is nothing to meMy confidence is a fortressI will not heed your warningsand think that I am brokenBecause you don’t approveof What I Am. *Listening to Kacey Musgraves this morning, who is not pageant material either…
It’s been awhile since I’ve written one of these. Find joy where you can. I like when the sun shines on snow and makes it sparkle. I like Christmas decorations, except Santa. I like Johnny Depp’s movies. I’d like an opportunity to find out if I’d like him in person. I like reading real books, except when it’s dark- then I like my Kindle. I like trips. Short ones, long ones, on a plane or in a car. To the city, to the sea. I like trees and I will cry if deprived of them for an extended period. I like magnolias and live oaks best of all. I like dogs with spots. I like drinking cold beer on warm nights outside. I like seeing 4-wheel drives that look like they’re actually taken off-road. I like corny jokes. I like being near water. I like all the items on the Chickalay menu. Except that kale stuff. That should go without saying. And the macaroni, which I have not tried. I like watching groundhogs. I like driving when there’s not much traffic and the road spreads out before me. I like going 100. I like flowers, but not the common ones. Keep your roses and daisies and babies breath. And your carnations, too. Bring me daffodils and dahlias and foxglove and lilies. I like people that tell the truth. I like my red…
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I’ve been having that anxious, at ends, nothing-is-quite-right feeling for some time now. When in truth, everything is better than it has been for awhile. But my brain never has paid much attention to black and white facts. I had been blaming my coffee; I’ve taken it back up in earnest with the temperature recently plummeting. And I’m glad of it, make no mistake. but then I got to thinking. I haven’t written anything in quite some time. So I decided to write. But it’s a mine field. Nothing feels like a safe topic. Do I pour my guts out and make myself cry? That would be stupid. Do I slash someone else’s guts out and hope I make them cry? That’s not very nice. So I’m just gonna start, innocuously enough, with fog. Fog is appropriate for these -ber months. I prefer it only in October, though, when it’s setting you up for the spooky holiday at the end of the month. And it just occurred to me–wouldn’t it be nice if ALL holidays fell on the last day of the month? That way, you’ve got the enitre month to prepare and celebrate early, if you wish. You don’t have to keep up with if it’s the first Monday of the month, or the third Thursday, or anything…
