For some reason it seems to be about making statements. Every one, maybe every thing, has their own statement to make to their own version of the universe. No one could really say “I came, I saw, I conquered,” because as someone else observed, “there’s many a slip tween the cup and the lip.” Now I’m talking crazy, huh? There’s room in there for that, too. Each wants to avoid hurt. Some fare much better than others. Here I be. I be me.
My veins have turned metallic There’s a coppery taste in my mouth I’m dizzy and I’m sure I’m gonna vomit Splinters in my hand Easily slips through my fingertips Picking at scabs Weeping pus from oozing eyelids The squeaking of the gurney’s wheels Echos between my eardrums Frigid ice upon my chest Then ‘clear!’ and […]
via Havoc and Consequences — Raw Earth Ink
I’ve spent lot of money on color copying at FedEx plus about 10 hours including standing in the rain waiting for the bus to take me to another bus stop with a sheltered chair to wait, to end up so far with 5 home made Christmas cards–16 pages of photos and sneaked cartoons–mailed them today and just remembered I forgot to staple them together and when the envelope is opened from this–shall I say the word–octogenarian–the loose pages will mysteriously flutter to the floor. I give up, the balance of the loose sheets are headed for the trash cemetery, aka recycling.
I’m caught this crucial week before Christmas without my credit card. I got in a tiff with McAfee who wanted me to renew my security without giving me an option of one or two years–just “renew,” and I may not be alive in 2 years. They proceeded and the bank thought California California might have been a mistake and I couldn’t remember and they ordered me a new charge card Dec. 4, which hasn’t arrived yet. Grump grump. I know, I should be thankful to be alive (and you’d better believe I am), but my spreading joy is impaired. So I turn to you, my beleaguered few, who have holiday emergencies of their own.
We could be in Yemen this minute.
Trump addressing the NRA members:
“With your activism, you helped to safeguard the freedoms of our soldiers who have bled and died for us on the battlefields. And I know we have many veterans in the audience today, and we want to give them a big, big beautiful round of applause.”
(Trump speaking to NRA, assuming carrying concealed weapons–even in a school or park zone–is helping those who died on the battlefield for us,)
Photo by Nancy Romans
NOTQUITEOLD ♦ – Nancy Romans
When my grandfather died my mother said he had come into her bedroom and touched her on the shoulder. I’ve been having the same experience with Lucky, my old blind and deaf cat who continued to live with me until he began to look emaciated and I had him euthanized (which I regret).
He was a brave soul and snuggled up to me on the bed. He learned the path to his food and litter box nearby, and on blind faith would jump back up onto the bed. Recently I have felt the bed jar a little from time to time and briefly feel he is coming to snuggle again. I wonder regretfully if it isn’t only my muscle spasms?
It started with a journal. You wrote for hours all of your hopes for the future. I remember the after feeling. The weight began to lift. After four years of drifting through life seeing it, all pass you by there was real hope in your eyes.
Was this what it felt like to have hope in this mental illness life?
Excerpted from James Edgar Skye – The Bipolar Writer Mental Health Blog, Part I – “A Mental Helth Anniversary–11 Years Later.”
(Added to my Journaling Page)
I feel guilty when I write about Trump, because I’m contributing nothing but despair. And I feel guilty when I don’t write about him, because how life-threatening he is to America. So today I’ll just submit a little poemette, entitled
WILL I STILL BE ME?
I want to know
most terribly so.
While rooming in the womb,
on the stage behind the curtains,
of change. Whose screams?
I arrive, a piece of ignited clay
presenting with my backside,
bringing pain on opening day.