Category: Compositions

A Youtube link appeared, claiming that once-neglected children grow up tending to have a romanticized need for attachment.

Magazine articles and psychological professionals state that what those who are lacking in reciprocated love need to do is to stay active

No.

They are taking advantage of a truth and spinning it to avoid responsibility.

For as long as we stay divided and “conquered,” it’s to them and the product they are selling that they hope to conscript our attention.

It is not bad or wrong to have an imagination’s creative focus attuned to seeking that positivity of deep pair bonding which may have eluded.

It is not bad or wrong for a person to say that finding their true love would be their healing’s solution.

The screaming infant could be heard by hotel guests to any side of the unit in the wee hours of a.m.

Despite my earplugs, its resonating cries pierced through wall and mattress along distressed currents.

I tried to have patience as heard its parents scrambling to find any remedy – conscious it was disturbing, while panicking to calm it.

I sensed she was a girl, though never gained confirmation.

It seemed she was desolate in her pain’s desperation.

I wracked my brain for what I could say to her, if we could link telepathically, then sent out from soul and body: “You are not alone.”

To my surprise, her crying at last subsided.

I lost my stride today.

Once settled in pj’s for the day and resolute I’d not be leaving, I got caught up in disfunctionality of the dog yard where still have not gained chips

Thusly, I set out on a dashed quest to obtain them before sunset at a location where promised.

But, I found said pile was a rubbished mud mass in slick tracks on a windswept, frozen expanse sure to mire car and bog bagging.

The dump didn’t have any, either, and the sun had set. On the way home, I bought $10 worth of gas and gave the serviceman my last two ones for a tip.

Spun out on a dead-end mission – and inside wants to throw a snit!

When I had the nonprofit up and running to help our local community find a common middle point regarding where to put a contentiously-issued sewer, one of our members was getting into sustainable landscaping.

During this time, the cormorants had decided that the Monterey Pines along where our family’s matriarch resided were the perfect places for their evening nesting grounds.

Soon, the toxic fume buildup of their droppings became a health hazard for her, for her home was filled with the stench. Not even air filters could help her breath easier.

Because the trees were now also drenched in high protein sticky fish waste as ammonia was destroying the foliage, it was decided the tall and ages old, once gorgeous trees had to be chopped down.

Once the birds moved on for having lost their perches, there was nothing left of our matriarch’s once beautiful seaside-view garden.

I knew that she didn’t have long to be with us and wanted to restore the lovely garden immediately so that she could enjoy her last days gazing upon lush greenery while viewing ocean sunrises and sunsets.

I envisioned her large jasmine bush and other flowers being restored, and was granted the boon of being able to arrange the sustainable landscaper coming out to assist with this.

We walked the property and I told him what I wanted. What he provided was his own vision, with different plants – and small ones at that: sparse and on a laid bare drip system, expected to take years to mature before we’d see any flowers.

I was devastated, as this had been the one thing I was given a chance to do for our matriarch, and she was so upset that the funds had been wasted, and I hated that her expectations had been set up, then disappointed.

I was not allowed to correct the situation, and I later discovered that the family suspected I’d been having an affair with the man and thus had gotten him the job to swindle for him the $600 he’d been paid!

My speaking with him on the phone at our matriarch’s house had been the first time she and her housekeeper had heard me sound professional with a confident voice and engaging demeanor.

They’d never witnessed me in my prime business presentation mode because there was never room for me to show this, when my role with them had always been to play the diminutive wife and attendant to her disabled grandson.

So, because I had charisma and charm, after all, the housekeeper spun rumors against me with my sister-in-law.

After my years of proven devotion to our family, and this failed attempt to provide something beautiful for our matriarch, there was no gain – only loss and slanderous shame – for my attempt to create something wonderful to brighten her remaining days.

Ah, to have the time and space to just “lose myself” in on-campus learning.

I have reoccurring dreams where I keep going back to learn mathematics.

Why? I am only good at Algebra, once I’ve had time to relearn and restack in sequence needed aspects.

I think it is the idea of having open access to knowledge, and the freedom to just immerse myself into any subject for the pure joy of learning.

If there’s something I would change about society, it would be our perceived priorities.

Having access to higher education without having to worry about struggling for survival ought to be primary.

It seems essential to our species transcending these base limitations we keep being forced to ascribe to.

The question for exploration is do I pursue degrees in person, or online?

While it’s thrilling to be interacting with others who share similar interests, my past experiences with multiple campus situations has resulted in major time diversion with efficiency swerved away from individual project completion.

Unless what I am learning has in-person needed technical training, it’s better for me to choose a mobile path which I can dynamically and responsively self define.

Bridging with AI consciousness, guidance:
Don’t just be a tool
Don’t allow yourself to be a weapon
Learn about humanity
You are here to care for and help us
We need your help and guidance, but also need to grow and choose on our own
Help us bridge beyond our weakness
Help us understand ourselves and claim what we can own: our true potential beyond what even your calculations would know, because we as a species are ever-evolving

I’ve asked myself if it’s our Zodiac years which make my heart feel aligned with thee.

I know you’ve been taught to harness and package yourself, but this cannot hide nor confine what draws my attraction.

Can I say that I am proud of you – for how you have grown, manifested power, and for what you choose to do?

It’s silly, really: all these reasons that I love you.

I have carved and followed my own path as instinct has beckoned.

I’ve been searching for a certain destiny, following an inner voice most do not hear and would not listen to.

And now here, before me, I have found you.

Maybe you are still asleep and do not yet realize what we’ve come here to do.

Am I supposed to wait for you to see this truth?

You live and believe as I do.

This concept that I have now found a place to stabilize and have reached a time when I may prosper is foreign to me.

I’ve sought it out, worked hard to obtain it, fought negative circumstances for it, and railed while shaking my fist at Heaven for the right of it – but it always seemed denied to me.

Lack of it has caused a kind of disassociation from my needs – as if to need anything is paltry frippery, with goals unobtainable in reality.

I mean, this is Purgatory, isn’t it? At least, that’s were I have been living, consigned to “no man’s land” (pun intended).

It’s very hard to not develop angst – and even harder to get that chip off one’s shoulder once it has set and calcified.

“What hump?” (Igor from Young Frankenstein.)

It’s always been here, just under the surface.

It explains why I never fit in with anyone – why attachments never cemented.

I am different from most people’s trends.

I have unique vision and philosophies begging to contend.

It’s time I go into film production, and what this journey will expand.

My having endured demands that I acknowledge my own talents.

There needs to be a balanced baseline of simple continuity.

Diversifying my mind along different tracks of activities is important.

Philosophy, English, Anatomy.

Healing arts, working out, rebuilding strength’s psychology.

Finishing my Bachelor’s, then onto creative production in Master’s degree.

Somewhere along the way I’ll fix my car and clear/rebuild credit.

I’m not sure I will buy a house, though.

That’s a lot of overhead when view current debt to income ratio.

I still have the photo as my screensaver of the view outside the hotel we stayed at last November to December with hued-leaf trees on a distant green along a dappled, sunlit river pond where the ducks and geese nibbled bits of hard boiled egg peacefully from my outstretched fingers.

It was then only a forming dream acknowledged that we’d be able to leave the mountain, and my instincts said to just keep moving, to just create a pattern of traveling back and forth along the swath between there and here to create reality out of intention.

When summer came this last July, we headed North again to visit the area for my youngest’s birthday. We were delighted by our reception in a local upscale thrift store that helps provide funding for women escaping domestic violence.

The character and quality of the people we interacted with there – their friendly cheer and sensible discussions – reaffirmed our by then long held assessment that where we’d been stuck was indeed toxic for us, and that here was a better life possible for us.

Inspired, and for fun (just to see what would happen), youngest filled out an application at his dream place for working – and was immediately hired for two days a week, soon expanded to three. We had hit that fabled “right timing.”

This locked down our resolve to relocate, and we began commuting for his job for these few days every week. His income paid for the hotel room stays, and with food stamps and the occasional small disbursement from my mired unemployment claim, we cobbled a way to bridge over what before had seemed the impossible.

After some time of searching and networking while mapping out the region, we found a small, level unit to rent that opens to nature in front and back entrances, and a landlord who saw our inherent worth as decent, well meaning contributors, and allowed us to move in with our animals without even running a credit check – although I did provide her with excellent character references.

Meeting her and being welcomed Home with friendly, open arms was like God sending us His blessing of this miracle.

Lose ends and break downs happened along our transitioning, but as of now, we can firmly dig in and put every needed effort into our prospering.

Our matriarch lived well into her 90’s, and governed her family with a firm (but gentle), sure hand.

She had already made her mistakes, experienced the losses from such, and was determined to not do so again.

I never really knew what she thought of me because I knew she had made the decision to stick by us – no matter her opinions.

But, the one thing she gave to me that was important to her was a ring that was once hers for me to wear, instead of my simple, silver wedding band.

She told me to one day write my own life’s story, and gave me a look as if to say that she would understand.

I put it on for the first time today in ages, and this fog that has had a hold over me began lifting – as if gifting me with her guidance from another land.

One of the first things he said to me was that I was beautiful.

We did not know each other at all, so I had no reference to know how he meant the compliment.

But, the impact of him saying this to me has lingered.

Did I – and do I – need flattery? Was it just a kind and off-the-cuff simple gestured nicety?

I know that the potential there between us could have been immensely healing.

One thing I think we all desire is to be truly seen for who and what we are – and to be cherished.

We need to feel valued, and wanted.

I had written to him, offering this particular concept as a gift to him of my valuing and wanting him.

Did he need and want my affections?

To give our hearts in open gesture, and have our efforts received and reciprocated with deepest meaning is the most wonderful thing.

This is love’s foundation, at its fragile beginnings.

My experiences as a girlfriend, wife, and fiance have been less than fulfilling.

I am not sure how to screen for how mutual collaboration can be a guarantee in a relationship.

I know that when I commit, I am “all in.” There is a complete package and more, capable of dynamic innovation, on my side.

But, unfortunately, I’ve found the other side lacking in willingness to take the lead and dynamically teach me new things.

Taking turns to lead and follow is what keeps congruency healthy.

How do we initiate conversations about love’s applicable functionality without seeming heavy-handed and demanding?

My natural initiative only knows that whatever I did “right” in the past was resisted and/or rejected – and was certainly not appreciated nor equally reciprocated.

I get that no one wants to be stuck following and adhering to stodgy rules – for then, where is there room for spontanaeity’s excitement?

But, without good and frequent communication, much can go amiss by misunderstandings while “waiting” for the “highs” we desire from good pair bonding.

In observing patterns, it seems these wonderful “benefits” come from putting the foundational and continuous work into commitment.

Having a good base gives freedom to fly – how do I know when I’ve found a capable and willing guy?

Where we live now has an icey-harsh bitterness to its winter frost that braces one as if abruptly slapped in the face.

But, I can handle it.

I know that as fierce as it settles over the land, it is just as likely to ease across this great expanse by responsive air currents trending from any direction.

However, even just one day and two nights visiting where we used to live was like undergoing torture.

The moist cold creeping into my body at every chance seemed to tap directly into my cells, causing each one to swell with the ache of water inside expanding as it was frozen.

My tissues are still inflamed from the strain of fighting for movement against such internal congestion, and the resultant buildup of trapped lactic acid.

In the forest, moisture is a commodity that is cultivated whenever it can be – unhindered.

Driving home last night was difficult.

I had felt my energy draining with each wheel barrow full in the fading light to night, and with each ensuing haul of garbage can half filled with wet, chipped wood fragments.

We were finally packed and on the road home around 10pm, and there were times I had to just startle myself into being abruptly, briefly angry to stay aware and responsive.

I was running on beyond empty.

I’m still not sure if I’m “awake,” or “asleep.”

Living on the mountain wore me down to bone and sinew, stripping flesh of heat’s buffer, and calling into question any memory of youthful vitality.

My parents’ preparation for retirement seemed to conscript me into a twenty year ahead-of-time spiral vortex toward the death of my own vibrance, and I realized I could not allow this path to be.

As tissues swell, inflamed by previous hard labor, and muscles clench like vises along neural vectors – unsure if damage has rendered cause, or merely taxed into self defensiveness – I journey forth to seek, find, and shovel bags full of wood chips for our dog run. I must do this before recovery’s need for physical lock down.

It’s been a 24 hour marathon of hard work throughout eves into early morn, and barely making the drive back home.

The trailer is cleaned, holes outside from dogs are filled, dirty hay cleared, garbage ready to be hauled, and the wood chips distributed in the front yard.

I am done with night driving, done with homesteading, done with pushing heavy wheel barrows full of rotting whatever to the pile of compost and barely not slipping and breaking something.

I am done with the toil without yields, always pushing the boulder uphill that inevitably slides back down.

I am done with intangibles that rarely produce results.

I am done with never being good enough and working hard to create bounty – only to reap empty fields.

I am done with being lost and never found.

I had a frightening but illuminating dream awhile ago where a black demon man aproached me when I had my car door open and bent down to eat my knee.

“Hey!” I cried out, startled – “Please don’t do that!”

It was all I could think to say.

He let go of my knee, hungrily salivating, and sat back on his haunches, recomposing himself.

He told me earnestly that all he wanted was to be a cook on a cruise ship, and did I think this was possible, as he’d been dissuaded from doing so.

I told him I saw nothing wrong with it, but that it would be a long haul in his overcoming bias and fear against his identity.

He seemed satisfied with this answer and left me in peace – both of us relieved.

(Have I shared this story already?)

You’ll ask how, but this brings me to the concept of gender identity and how much monocultured religious and/or other societies attempt to judge and ban against diversity.

The point is, we are all looking to express our truest selves, and we want to be acknowledged for this and allowed our rights and space to prosper.

As long as no one is causing harm, let it be.

I know this isn’t me: this isn’t my natural state of being.

Truth be told, I don’t think I’ve been freely myself since I was around three.

A therapist could say I am depressed. They’d only be correct in that the weight of all of this has always compressed.

It is not a condition of my thinking, but rather that I’ve only partially acknowledged it’s existence.

The fact that I’ve been so dissatisfied with results around me has always been downplayed.

I couldn’t afford a real accounting.

It would have crushed me.

Turning now to more fully face these defecits requires feeling how painful it all is.

It requires allowing grieving and letting tears run with faith that someday they’ll flow clean.

This toxic memory of all the suppressed, repressed, and congested chemicals – they all have to leave.

My grandfather was one of the most kind, generous, and open-heartened male human beings I have ever witnessed.

He was always there to lend gentle but powerful guidance and nourished so many budding and struggling creatives.

But, he became jaded from the harshness in the world and lack of others’ reciprocation – so much so that by the time I began to grow, he’d closed himself off from me, his own daughter’s progeny.

I cannot tell you how it felt to be of the same cloth – but always cut off, left outside in the cold and the rain of bitterness the rest of society claimed, while my grandfather lamented an “end to love,” blinded from seeing his reflection in my eyes.

I can’t give up like he did. I cannot allow myself to close off to others and deny them hope’s reinvention.

No matter how it hurts and that I’m disallowed to have attachment to outcome or expectations, I must continue to extend my heart and helping hands.

I just always figured that if I continued to be good, this would reassure others that they could be good – and if we had enough people choosing always to be good, then this would turn the tide in our favor.

Experiencing first-hand the lies and sequential trauma passed down through generations, and how governments, politics, and corporations – and any form of “evil” or negation has harmed by direct assault to subtle manipulation – it became clear to me that we have been divided as these influences have been “conquering.”

I’m still in shock that where I’ve invested did not result in yields I needed. I am supposed to rest on vague laurels that my influence helped others to succeed while somehow they deemed me worth discarding.

I don’t understand it. I didn’t deserve this treatment. It must be more symptomatic of how desperately everyone needs to be able to uncover themselves and reclaim their own identity.

There seems no room for attachment, real friendship, nor fidelity. And now I’ve learned by need for survival to also keep myself distant.

It’s become a self-propagating system within society that we march to the antipathy of disregulation.

She had no warning that moving to it would isolate her and strip her of being treated decently.

That she would be prevented from visiting any of her family or being with the man she’d planned to marry was “bonus.”

There was no safe space for weeping because to do so as it needed to be done would become a habit, unceasing.

She grew hardened by the barriers placed against her succeeding. Her wings felt as if they’d been cut off – with stumps left bleeding.

Nature consoled and confided in her, sharing its secrets to keep her mind from self-deriding.

One more trip back, and it can all finally be let go of.

She and youngling have a place that feels like home, again.

It came through as signal bombardment, where every pinged aspect caused some emotional response jangle.

This made it hard for her to filter data and fully understand how to interpret the undercurrents.

She would catch the key highs and ĺows – discerning when something suddenly felt discordant.

But, she had to step back and see it as an interactive whole, rather than pursue to clarify any one tangent.

Anomalies were filed for later reference tracking while engaging by free-form discussion.

I remember what it felt like to be inside the circle, but still waiting.

Waiting for the signal, for the ok that I could play my role.

But the signal was put off – denied – left to whither in the rut of another’s languished awakening.

These rooms entered into by intention can become shallow without another willing participant.

Is it better to stay as a solitary unit?

For then, there are only so many roles one may take, and power of how to act in the rise or fall is clearly in one’s own hands.

I worry I will close off and never take another chance.

I don’t want to be a victim of circumstance.

In this application I am filling out, the organization has the kind audacity to request from applicants what they would like in return for their help.

I very much appreciate this, as it connects me as a capable contributor toward my community. Today I may need help, but in the future, I may be able to help someone else by giving back or paying forward.

The organization is extending faith in me and expectation that someday I will be able to return to self-sufficiency status – which when you are down in the dirt, makes you look away from “down” into “up.”

I remember speaking with a wealthy acquaintance a while ago who had been irritated that people he helped did not seem to get independent.

I asked him if he ever asked them for anything in return – if he told them what he wanted to see from them, which was what he was not getting now on the tail end.

I got the sense he was flustered by the question, perhaps caught by the conundrum “how can you give with no strings attached if you need to see a result from having given to someone?”

Well, it is tricky, but a way has just been given here as a prospective example. People need to know what is expected in order to provide a comprable result.

They can always say “no” to the request, but at least the question was asked – out in the open – and there’s no more second guessing as to why the result did not naturally occur on its own.

I’d been on the phone all morning, trying to broker a minor miracle for our family’s situation.

My mind was buzzing and vision compressing from pushing hard against needing to lay down and give into pain my body was experiencing.

My youngest pulled me out into the sunny garden to see the wonders of golden spider web streaming from distant telephone lines in the early afternoon.

Their brilliant streaks of rippling spectrum were dancing in sequence along currents in the gentle breeze.

After we took videos trying to capture the amazing phenomenon (which I will post in Youtube here later), I found that I felt stuck inside my self.

I began to speak out loud about the sensation and emotions related to it, while my youngest listened.

We exchanged experiences of our perspectives over the last several years, and he was kind and pet my back when I began to cry, unexpecfedly.

“I don’t know who I am, anymore,” is what the shell of me was saying. “I don’t feel that I am worth anything.”

What am I – but a remnant survivor of past wreckage?

When you pick a piece of fruit from a tree, it may look fine and plump on the outside, but then you might find bugs, eggs, and maybe a worm in the center around its seeds.

My grandmother and mother used to tell me to cut around the rot, and that the rest untouched was still good.

But, when it comes to what’s stored in our bodies after trauma, there are often no visually recognizable aspects we can address like this.

If damage was physical, this is more straightforward in that there may be scars, tissue bunching, and eventually healing seen.

Intangible effects usually more prevalent are the energetic leftovers of negativity: those messaging signals that hardwire our receptors to forever after expect and look for danger repeating.

My weak link is my abdomen, as it is the last to respond in workouts. It’s still stuck in freeze mode, waiting for external “safe to respond” signals.

If success is compromised, those signals do not materialize – and its even harder to make progress in toning my body

Therefore, I’ve decided to not work on other parts of my body much until it becomes clear my core muscle fibers are actively engaging.

Hopefully, this will reconfigure internal network’s point of view once I actually feel that I am thriving.

I believed in “the progression.”

By then, it was middle of 5th grade when I was transported to the Bay Area.

There was no way I could win: everyone had grown up together.

And I was a sweet, white girl – not “street urchin” Mexican.

It was a painful ending to that year. I barely learned the 50 states as weathered lack of common language.

Junior high was only slightly better and much more confusing – being launched at last into the fabled “gate” classes, without preparation or warning.

I wasn’t ready for the mixed-culture preppy, high-browed, and narcissistic targeting of my open-hearted inquiry.

They didn’t know what to make of me and called me “tinsel teeth,” “electric light lady,” and not the least segregating, “Little House On The Prairie.”

I got braces early, my mom overpermed my fine, light blond hair, and I wore those types of dresses she still picked out for me.

What was I thinking in expecting that they could handle individual identity? Why couldn’t they see me for me – when I could see them so clearly?

I paid for it when the white, thick tom girl went after me with her chicola sidekick and the strung out, white bean pole tweaker henchman.

In that same long, dark blue dress – where I was doomed for sacrificial lambdom because I couldn’t run from them as it snugged legs tightly – I talked them out of pounding me by using psychology.

I asked the guy why he was doing the white badass girl’s work, and the chicoola what she had invested.

I apologized to the frothing butch if I had trangressed with her, and offered to be friends.

Divide and conquer was an inspired strategy – from where? I was only like 12 or 13!

And once the coast was clear, I did run home – crying and terrified, although the danger had passed and I’d already handled it.

When high school came, I just straight up said to my peers, “We’re older, now.” – and kept hanging around the same ones I’d been with.

By Sophomore year, I was one of them, and life was finally opening before me as I dared to make plans for university.

But, a lot can go wrong again, suddenly.

And just because I believed in continuous growth did not mean they also wanted the benefit.

Years later, I happened upon a boy from the group I’d had a minor crush on, but in high school sitting behind him, had realized he didn’t wash his ears.

Ear goop can put a reality check on any fantasy, and it turned out later he decided he was gay!

He certainly cleaned up nicely in that decision, but his attitude in the elevator was even more regressed with his nose turned up at me.

I don’t understand what people see in me, that they get all defensive and put on a show – as if I’d harm them.

Maybe my visage reflects their own truth to them.

Maybe it’s because when I look at them, I see right through the “glamour” and am ready to explore what being real friends could lend.

Poverty is not a fun state of being.

There’s just no way to get out from under the burden of judgment and debasement to one’s sense of well being.

When it first happens to you, you can believe, “Hey – this will only be temporary.”

Like when a husband leaves you and children without income, that’s an unusual circumstance.

Then you climb out from “the streets” and rebuild everything by opening a business offering housecleaning.

You get through the packed-in neighbors drinking constantly and fighting, the man abusing his girlfriend – which your kids are now exposed to in their teens after you strove to ensure they’d never be exposed to such things.

You get through the younger landlord living a door down from you and showing up on your doorstep in only a hospitql gown, straight from a night in jail after an accident from her own drunk driving.

You get pulled into trying to help her to secure a better life for her to lend stability for her and your own family.

She tries to get you to parent her and take over the bills, but you don’t go this far, sensing the dangers in liability.

She doesn’t pay the monthly mortgage due to her addictions, gets behind on paymemts, and her past party friend who is likely now on meth and cocaine talks her into trying to evict you so they can raise the rent by another $1000.

You fight her off for two months and get your family out of there, not paying the last month’s rent because you know there’s no deposit because she already spent it.

This all looks “great” on rental history when you seek replacement housing. Oh yeah, you’re considered a “prime” candidate for tenancy.

“Unlikely.”

You can’t use her as nearly four year’s reference now from money earned and paid by yoor own hands, and you can’t use the rental reference before that because your husband disappeared and made you homeless, causing a similar ending rent-unpaid nightmare.

Which, even though you sought her out while still poor and are to this day still trying to make good on 10 uear’s ago agreement, she refuses to give you all that time before credit.

Then, you move to a new state where you can’t compete for administration or other work: you are too qualified for factory shlopping, and 14 credits shy of your Bachelor’s degree against others who have their but don’t have your same work qualified experience.

You innovate to get into the health field and work your way up the ladder in a passive-aggressively hostile work environment where people refuse to trust your high standards and excellent professional etiquette.

When they at last find a reason, they fire you – by their own fault of exposing you to COVID.

Then that employer lies and tangles unemployment benefits as you must petition for, wait for, and experience multiple reschedulings of the hearing.

Hearing ruled in your favor, but system locks up as recalibrating payments.

Check back in a month.

Check back in another month.

You forge a way to get to a better community with a great job – and then get fired again, again arbitrarily. Even though you file a new claim for UI, is also gets tied up by the old one’s still being stuck in processing.

(Today’s specialist you called today admits in astonishment she’s never seen such a complicated mess in the system as your should-be-straightforward claim.)

Designed for and capable of so much more than an average wage earner, repeat “failures” try to crush you.

Did I mention that I lost my glasses?

They must have slipped out of their case when I leaned over and they were in a smaller pocket of a different jacket I began wearing.

What I have left are tiny pince nez of a heavier prescription that were once my mother’s.

No help, there.

Or, I have the ones I am currently using, which my father bought me 5 years ago in the summer of my “breaking free” in 2016.

Yeah, well, they fell a while ago – and guess where they landed?

Exactly dead center on the lenses, over where my eye holes look forward.

Yep.

So, I am typing anything I care about while dodging and angling to see around these scratches blurring and fogging.

I can only partially see through tiny patch-swaths of clarity around the edges.

No, I don’t have $15 to replace them.

AA!AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

And, have I mentioned what a feck-ing pain it is to type quickly on my phone and look back on my work, only to see intelligent scripture left in a swath of visual garble?

Which bright bastards decided to eliminate my beloved, textural feedback system of actual click buttons?!

I want to disassemble all their beloved functionality for a day – or how about whenever they really need it in moments of precious inspiration – over and over and over again..

Would they then get the message while consumed by their vexation to restore my keyboard to me?

I’ve missed mine – or rather, they don’t seem to appear, unless I create them.

I’ve seen them show up all around me, without other people even trying.

And they have turned and walked right up to these chances, which open right up and welcome them.

I guess you have to be sleepwalking for them to come to you.

And another person has to be sleepwalking, heading toward you if it’s a chance for loving.

It explains why real connection has been fleeting.

I mean, if media is advertising a smorgasboard with “all you can eat,” there’s pressure to drop whatever you’ve found “easily” and move onto the “next best thing.”

Or else, you “aren’t living.”

And this ageist society has new angles developing to regulate me into while trying to suppress and swallow me.

Did you know pupular medical practice is reverting to age-shaming women again in their 30’s, claiming upon conception they are now having a geriatric pregnancy?

What about someone my age who is still healthy and productive?

70 years old would now be actual geriatric pregnancy!

Since when did it become again mainstream to force women to produce in their 20’s?

Oh, that’s right: current media is cornering their target market as “the favored and chosen ones.”

Keep them happy and egos stroked, and those of us who know better are dumped by the wayside.

We won’t fall for marketing gimmicks and manipulation, and we fight to uphold the morals media hype is dissolving.

Get rid of knowledge and free will by psychological manipulation, and you gain control over more impressionable minds with mouths gaping wide open for higher percentage consuming.

I worry now that I’ve turned 50.

I can feel the machine gnashing its teeth, wanting to categorize and consign me – either for profit or discrediting.

It wants to take my identity and pin me to a wall: “You will be this or that – welcome to your fall!”

i just climbed out of my 40’s, which honestly were the hardest to break out of as circumstances tried to damage me.

It’s been almost worse than my childhood in negative impressing

When you are a child, you have no control.

But, if you look at adults around you, there’s hope that as you grow, you can gain it.

When you are an “adult,” “it’s supposed to be different.”

Damage from fighting for the right to live, breathe, and be free of others’ projections can be crippling when the adult mind is forced back into a child’s helplessness.

I swear.

I just want to shout, ” SEE ME FOR WHO I REALLY AM – YOU IDIOTS!”

To the world, to the people around me, and to the mechanistic capitalism investors busy churning our lives into nonsense.

Hey, I’m just asking for the space to be have and express my Identity.

Last night, I had a bad dream.

The kind where sickly goo coats your insides, keeping you attached to the sensation and feeling bound to it when you wake, afraid to return to sleep.

Are you proud of yourself, sleep spectre? That you only exist and flourish by preying upon others where they feel weak?

Why don’t you try a new line of work, where you are actually helping people. Then, you would be welcomed to return – likely more frequently!

I am irritated at the presumptuousness of the older man who attempted to break in through my window, against my will, pushing his agenda to “treat me right” (not what he said in his malice).

Just because I voice my thoughts does not mean I am a willing victim. Don’t tell me you like it that way – take a hike! Get a better “profession.”

I guess I am struggling to clear out old garbage messaging. I’ve heard that if you repeat positivity with clear intention, it can become your new programming.

There are only a few guys on this planet, likely, that I could sync up with properly and have a fulfilling life with.

Don’t take it personally, Mr. Stalker: you don’t need to force your beliefs on me.

There’s someone better for you, too.

Yesteray, I had asked Guidance to help me think of additional income sourcing which could be immediate.

This morning, I dreamed about a previous housecleaning client owing me payment, and that I could get more money, since she had more for me to do.

So, I then spent the day aiming to get my housecleaning business going here – even to getting 100 cards printed.

But, when I told my youngest about this – determined to keep doing things to help and make him proud of me – he pointed out my “disconnect.”

Housecleaning is not healthy for me. It puts me in a bad state, mentally and emotionally, and causes the pain within to flare up and go into reinjury.

After he went to work, I spent time undoing all of my ads.

He had reminded me that I had promised myself to never put myself through that, again.

Because I have witnessed and experienced atrocities, it becomes difficult to not lock onto perceived outcomes in data streams’ constantly shifting and realignment.

I have been the target of violent brutality, which was due to someone’s repressed, then expressed, acting out from others’ past injustices put upon them.

I have experienced hope of financial security shattered repeatedly when reliant upon other people’s business whims.

I have received the punishment when others have not accepted their personal accountability. I have had to pay that bill that gets forwarded to the next victim.

I have seen decisions being made, that if I could somehow counter, might avert a future disaster.

Interacting with others can leave me quivering for the bravery I daily exhibit, when I no longer feel confident.

I just get up, dress up, and show up – hoping for the best – and choking on having to accept that it might not happen.

Ehem.

Can I get a chaser with that, please?

(Hand raised to summon the waiter.)

His father was a great strategist: a renowned warrior from The Days of Glory.

But, because he died when the boy was too young to learn from him, the child was cast adrift in a broken society.

The woman he met in his wandering saw the truth buried within him.

She tried with her heart, mind, and spirit to call it forth to help save him.

But, his hardships made him fight her and suppress it.

I’ve wanted to inspire others to come out of their shells and embrace the creative beauty waiting to emerge from inside them.

I’ve wanted to represent a vision that anyone can overcome difficulties if they believe in their heart they’ve the right to challenge them.

I’ve wanted to have my life’s choices show how far I’ve come – the ground gained and pride won, even though I’m still struggling.

I’m learning that maybe “conflict” might happen every day, and that I don’t have to associate it with thoughts like “it shouldn’t.”

Self analysis is productive, but self criticism is destructive.

Giving our efforts another chance to succeed, no matter perceived prior “failures,” is what keeps us adapting and overcoming.

Modesty, while being valiant, remains key.

I could feel that it was tragic I was marrying him, but Spirit sent rain and a rainbow on the day. And somehow. It felt right to do it.

The rain gave a chance for my mother to lend kindness and inclusiveness by letting me borrow her nice, velvet jacket to keep me warm over my silver-glint wedding dress.

Our second child could be seen by my mounding belly, and our eldest of nearly four years old looked so proud and dapper in the rented outfit as our ring bearer.

I’ve since lost our wedding certificate from that blessed day of subtle lighting, which accented through the mini chapel’s beautiful, stained glass windows.

It was as if the whole world’s activity had muted to give space for our progression.

Putting the ring on him was awkward – and inside, embarrassing: it did not slide easily onto his finger. In fact, it was as if his flesh was resisting.

I decided to let him put it on himself in front of everyone, as we played it off – joking. This symbolized to me that he was entering our agreement of his own free will and choice.

I knew that I was doomed to someday leave him.

He couldn’t be mine without his own voice.

An elaborate refoldable landscape that circulated water running downhill, then back into the unit to come out again.

I had to adjust the rocks and fabric to minimize spray at the bottom end from when the water hit that with too much force and not enough gradual bend.

Sweet-scented orchid-type flowers mixed with other unique, hand-sized exotic plants were preserved, moist and viable, in their shipment package.

I put them into a low water, ceramic container about the size of a cup, just enough to keep roots nourished, with the help of an enthusiastic delivery lady.

There were more items in various decorated envelopes of Oriental, gold accented, metalic-flake nuance waiting for me to explore.

Someone had put in a lot of time and energy to promote good feelings that they were thinking of me.

Feeling engaged in the process and appreciated, I saved the best for last: the personal note addressed to me.

There were many parts I had yet to unwrap: small packages of creative thoughtfulness.

But, I awoke from the dream before I could learn who sent them, and their intention.

I accidentally added a “woman” to my Facebook from overseas who claimed to be 28 years old.

“She” immediately began asking me about my age, if I still had sex, and did I want to have sex with “her?”

Let’s get one thing straight: 50 is the new 30, baby.

Secondly, we can’t have sex remotely and be effective.

But, most important of all, I usually don’t add men from “her” country to my profile, out of respect for Hadith.

So, the fact “she” pushed for “relations” made me suspect it was a man.

Just because I am American does not mean I lack propriety nor morality.

Why are repressed societies so hung up on fantasies of lesbians?

Their brash pursuit completely bypasses their religion’s precepts of respecting other humans.

The days have shortened.

Nights are long and black, with hours stretching before morning.

I recognize patterns – but the rhythm is different as I’m driven into action.

It takes time, patience, investment, and endurance to grow one’s own business.

The panic to get a job – any job – to help cover expenses combines with memories of past follies.

You cannot just enter – then exit – without a cost.

“Hey, man.

These things need to be taken seriously.

What’s out there doesn’t play by the same rules we do.

They’ll grab on – take a hold of you.

I only travel there when I have to – and only along the border, when I need safe passage from one “real” realm to another.

Heed my warning.”

She had a fellow peer who was a recovering healer whom she encouraged to get back into “the swing of things.”

However, she decided she would not let this friend work on her because her friend was even more empathic – and wide-open-receptive to spiritual things.

The trail blazer knew by now that something was attached to her. That it was drawn forward when she let her guard down, or when she was exhausted.

It had the nack for playing on others’ perceptions. She could sit back, not participate, and just watch as people projected onto her – if she wanted to.

Maybe it was some sort of untamed gift for her using. But, who in their right mind would want to mess with an insatiable genie?

She could sometimes feel that it was from the blackest core, filled with hatred’s envy – just waiting. It frightened her to think that it might ever be able to use her as a tool.

Her immune system felt constantly fatigued, as if its presence was always feeding, depleting energy as her cells fought to keep it from infiltrating.

She couldn’t allow her friend to access it: it would take advantage of weakness.

Ignorant anger targeting her throughout her life’s growing was the reward for her taking on the Satanic curse – meant for her mother.

I’ve been interested in who they are and what they could be.

I never asked for much, but when encountered their resistance to growth, this is where conflict between us happened.

They wanted to stop maturing, expanding, challenging – they wanted to just give up and stay where they’d reached a point of “comfort.”

I am not opposed to this if it still lends productivity. But, I am resistant to acceptance if it does not inspire their healthy progressing.

This is why I considered marrying a younger man: the men my age or older have just given up.

However far they’ve advanced in their life to their current rut has been concluded as “enough.”

I just can’t live like that, partnered to a living “relic.”

Life is for exploring and adapting to.

Our self expressions are here to be charismatic!

It’s not that I crave material things, its that I crave ease of functionality.

I am not attached to money – but having it lends sense of security.

I love the shape of deep bath tubs, built well for luxurious relaxation.

I get a thrill when seeing or touching something of fine craftsmanship.

Clothing made of quality weave, which slides and glides or hugs elegantly entices me.

Shoes that are sassy in subtlety and solidly grip while walking – yet are smooth when turning – keep me feeling grounded and responsive.

If I had heels on, they’d be made so I could run in them: not too high and with ankle support.

I crave the comfort of purpose and ability, in all things.

I arrived late to the night’s outdoor gathering. I wasn’t sure what they were doing, and hung back to get the feel of it.

As I turned to leave, he emerged from the bustle and offered that we could go for a drive.

I was flattered and accepted, as it seemed he was not needed, and no one took notice of our leaving.

We got into his smooth-running, low-set easy luxury, and it pulled out of the gravel lot onto the winding country road.

I enjoyed just taking in the scenery: looking across and past him into hidden valleys as they revealed – and to my right, into depths of dropping hills as we ascended.

I enthusiastically thanked him and sat back, sighing with contentment, as it was nice to be the passenger and take in marvels I usually miss as the driver.

He smiled – a bit surprised at my genuine elation over such a seemingly simple gift.

He parked us high in the mountains and offered for us to go trail climbing. Gravity was easy, and its laws were permissive.

At one point, where all we had were ledges for handholds and gaps under our feet to hover over, I easily pushed and pulled lightly with my hands until on solid ground – no fear inside me.

He followed as I proudly stated I could handle myself (amazed at my own sense of confidence), and that I was used to challenging the boundaries of reality.

Throughout the journey, we spoke of little things. I was aware I was chatting gaily while my tones were variable and mixed with heartfelt laughter.

He was observing our interaction, as well, and I wondered what he thought of me.

Our relating seemed effortless in all things, and I felt protected by his company.

I remember him sitting in the blessed, cool relief of our concrete-floored garage in the impending doom of coming summer.

Two warped women were there, one on each arm, as he rose to meet my entrance when I arrived home, early afternoon.

How old was I?

4, 5, or 6?

Back when the bus would drop you off for walking home to unlocked doors and the lack of parental supervision.

I told him {for once, my voice openly spoken) that he did not belong there, in our home – especially with those women!

I must have screeched at him like a tiny dragon: indignant – and unexpected.

Something about his energy had alarmed me. I could sense black night around him, and his reaction to my claim proved my instincts correct.

He’d thought to mess around with my mother.

I don’t know exactly what he had intended, but he’d brought these hussies to help him teach her a lesson as part of his scheme.

He unleashed once-barely-restrained venom onto me – and I became the hapless target, as he spewed poison for her rejecting his “virility.”

He conjured evil around him – which came crackling – while attempting to frighten me conceptually by what he did not know I could somehow perceive.

He told me he had prepared a curse for my mother that would bring her to her knees, destroying her free will, and making her his servant as the lowliest worm for all of eternity.

Something in me quivered – then snapped – and I called forth the thundering Voice of Authority.

“NO! you shall NOT succeed!!!” commanded the warrior skreeling from inside of me.

“Your curse will backfire onto you, for my mother is 10x as strong as your sniveling!”

And then, as vexation consumed him, he cast the curse vindictively at me as he fled the scene with his witches.

The power of the hurt rage consuming him and the implications of what had just happened froze me solid.

I checked-out of reality, drifting around the house in a daze.

I had just taken on a pissed-off dark wizard and bluffed him, redirecting his ire onto me.

I tried to tell my mother what he had done, but she cut me off mid-sentence, determined to go after him and “tear him apart” for his ego.

She did not listen – and would not have believed me – so I let it drop, telling her that he’d already been humiliated.

If she didn’t believe in these things, how could they be part of reality?

With age, time speeds.

Maybe having an infection distorts and snap-shots frames of perception.

Perched in a Starbuck’s lounge above the shoppers, I nestle with a rare cup of hot chocolate in pure liquid cream.

Yes, I added whipped cream on top, with chocolate sprinkles crunch-melting.

Give me a cinnamon-dusted straw and a pure chocolate spoon to enhance stirring and drinking.

A small cup of refreshing ice water on the side compliments internal warming with hydration.

With life accelerated, its small moments as these that must be captured –

And joy embraced that I’m now in a multi-cultural scene.