ANOTHER ERA

Published October 29, 2025 by Nan Mykel

THIS IS NOT a political rant, just a stroll down memory lane in perhaps a kinder world. I took the liberty of encroaching on some family memories and at the same time protecting the early privacy of our brood. So, know that the events are true but the names are not:

DAILY CHORES

Papa was always an early riser. Winter and summer he got up at 5 o’clock. Long before light we would hear him shaving off a few splinters of lightwood to kindle a fire in our bedroom heater. From there he went to grandpa’s room, made a fire in the fireplace, then carried a shovel of coals to the old kitchen in the yard. He brought two buckets from the spring, whistling as he went. This was only the beginning of Papa’s morning chores. He fed the horses and and hogs and milked and fed the cows before returning to the house for breakfast.

In the meantime the women had their chores. Aunt Sallie cooked breakfast. There were hot biscuits with bacon, sausage or other meat or eggs, fried apples, coffee, the last brought to the dining room table in china pitchers, one for buttermilk and one for sweet milk. In our early childhood the coffee was roasted in our oven and ground fresh for each meal.

Mother made a fire in the sitting room stove and set the table for breakfast, making sure that there was plenty of butter, honey, preserves and sorghum molasses in the center of the table. She also made the beds and helped us children get ready for school. Alice’s hair was sometimes short and had a little curl, but mine was very long and straight and had to be combed and braided by Mother.

Aunt Pokie helped prepare grandma and grandpa for breakfast. Grandma was an invalid and was served her meals in her room from the time she broke her hip when I was seven years old. Grandpa was very deaf, but usually had good health until the last year or two of his life.

After breakfast everybody had other duties. Papa began whatever farm work was in season, overseeing hired help, caring for farm animals, tools, machinery, harness, etc. Mother raised chickens, cared for the milk and butter with help from Aunt Sallie, Alice and me, helped with the house work with caring for Grandma and Grandpa, supervised the garden and did much of the tending and gathering of vegetables. She sold surplus chickens, eggs, butter and milk and, occasionally vegetables to help with family expenses and to put away savings to send her children to high school and college.

Aunt Pokie took the responsibility of caring for Grandma and Grandpa, but was helped by Mother and other members of the family as needed. She also supervised the house-cleaning downstairs and raised beautiful flowers. I remember, especially, her violets, roses, August lilies and chrysanthemums. Aunt Sallie did most of the cooking. This was done in the old kitchen in the back yard until 1918. Food was brought hot to the table for breakfast and dinner….Too-dry cake was served with a sauce. Many ways were found to use left-overs….

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Forwarded this email? Subscribe here for more From Every Trans Suicide Is A Murder By Those In Power: News came this week that transgender athlete and student Lia Smith took her life at just 21 years of age.

” to call her death merely a suicide misses the larger truth—no suicide happens in a vacuum. ”The policies that targeted Lia make life harder—and shorter—for transgender people. In a time when we can’t predict what fresh cruelty might come next, as the president signs one anti-trans order after another, as elite universities quietly comply with his demands to discriminate even in blue states, and as the movement against us widens its sights to target transgender people of every age, we have to name what’s happening plainly. These policies carry blood on their hands. Transgender advocates have warned for years that the relentless criminalization and isolation of our community would lead to deaths. Policies designed to make life unlivable for transgender people bear responsibility too; every trans suicide is a murder by those in power.”

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Sadness…

Published October 9, 2025 by Nan Mykel

And yes, ashamed. How in the world did my country become so alien?

Prevarication may have had something to do with it.
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Here’s a smidge of short fiction for relief:

I Became Jenny Harris

I was born in June, but I became me oh, about March. I didn’t know that this would be the best time of my life. More’s the pity if you can’t remember the gentle, reassuring warmth of the timeless sea rocking you. One with the world—no, the World itself.

We can all hear while still in the womb, but few are sufficiently fortunate to receive an early education through the pulsing walls of their mother, as she teaches her first grade students. I suspect it was her sprightly voice delivering my first knowledge base that helped sharpen my hearing.

What was fortuitous for me posed small problems for my family, because I was reluctant to talk. I wanted to think and absorb the daylight scene. I was busy absorbing and disinterested in verbally engaging. I already knew there were three people in my family: Annie Harris–Mom; Harry Harris–Dad, and brother Trisstan Harris. I soon learned to recognize my own name: Jenny Harris.

The information I took in visually, howevr, was brand new. I had to sort out colors first, having only heard my mother refer to a “black” board and a “red” apple. Although I was slow to learn my colors, I spent days absorbing my family’s features. Mom had lots of hair, and it was curly. Dad’s hair was short so I didn’t know if it was curly or not. Tristan’s hair was longer than my dad’s, and not curly.

For a long time I studied their eyes but not knowing colors I couldn’t label them. Their eyes were crinkly and reassuring, however. They were glad to see me, but later I caused problems for them. I gained weight and crawled as they expected, even walked and ran. But as the weeks passed and they peered at me expectantly, I didn’t talk.

Mom took me to the doctor regularly and finally told him about my not talking. He looked at me and smiled. “She can. There’s nothing wrong with her vocal chords.” He tapped his eyeglasses on his hand and said, “Can she cry?”

Suddenly Mom recalled my wordless howls when displeased, and laughed. “Can she ever!”

The doctor gave me a conspiratorial wink and said, “She will when she wants to, I ‘spect.” I knew he was my buddy.

Not long after that my family got a new member–a black and white kitten who came to visit and stayed. Mom thought she had been abandoned, which made me feel sorry for her, so I kind of mothered the kitten, I guess. Her lips were colored. I later learned they were pink, and Tristan named her Tulips.

While other children hug their blankies, I had my little Tulips to snuggle with.

Mom was intuitive, which means comprehending without being told. She could tell from looking in my eyes that I underwtood more than I let on, so from almost the beginning she began to read me stories. I sat in her lap and followed along, and that’s how I learned to read before I talked–painlessly.

We soon used up the story books left over from Tristan’s younger days, and so one fine sunshiny day Mom popped me in the stroller and headed for the library. Oh, that magnificent building! Mom sort of gave me a choice of books by holding several up until I pointed at one. Or two. (I was secretly reading to myself when Mom wasn’t around. Tulips would snuggle and purr, and I would silently read.)

Mom continued taking me to the library, and gradually I began pointing at books for juveniles, not infants. Intuitive Mom got the hint, and followed my lead in reading materials. So it was that one evening as I was in my third year as we were dining on spaghetti and meatballs, I said my very first word. It was not “spoon,” which I was reaching for, but “Meowr.”

I was half joking, but Mom became tense and said, “Don’t over react. We don’t want her to become mute again.”

They resisted handing me the spoon, however, until I said the word, and that worked so well that I was on the way to becoming an ever questioning pest until they taught me to Google. What fun!

Luckily my uniqueness was kept secret, even from the neighbors, who had no children. We just took me for granted, a blessing compared to what some special children are exposed to in the media. My dream was to become me.

I can remember back to when Tulips was “fixed.” I was horrified. I didn’t want to be fixed! What if my mother had been fixed? I knew Mom had enjoyed teaching school and I also suspected I was a bump in her road. As the family’s ever questioning pest, I asked her.

Her answer was reasuring, just a warm hug, a kiss and her dear smile. “We chose to have you. When you grow up you can choose what you want to do with your life.” That sounded pretty good to me, so I went back to Tulips and Google.

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a poem:

NON-BINARY

What is your status quo?

This or that, yes or no?

Cisgender’s binary,

But on the contrary

how would it seem

if you fell in between,

not male or female;

but beyond the pale?

An archetype, that’s what.

Half man half woman but

how to think of yourself

dressed in power and pelf

like a queen or a king?

But yet…but yet…which

Be the son or the bitch

and really be neither,

a free-to-believer!

Now shut both of your eyes,

try to visualize

YOU! Choose neither one!

And not just for fun!

So don’t ask what I be

I be me! And free!

And non binary!?

….Nan 2025

Short Fiction

Published August 4, 2025 by Nan Mykel

TARGETS

My folks were unable to accompany me to the meeting with my rapist, since they had retired to Costa Rica. The Restorative Justice people made an exception and allowed a friend to join me in the session, for emotional support. They didn’t realize that Mitzi had also been raped by hairy Harry Findley, the perp.

I’m Allison, another survivor. I first met Mitzi in my living room, when she attended a small women’s consciousness raising group composed of women survivors of sexual assault who were slowly learning not to think of themselves as victims, but as survivors.

We waited for Hairy in the prison psychologist’s office at Newcom State Prison. The phone had been pulled to avoid interruption, and Mitzi and I had to wait ten minutes, alone, in the office. An effort had been made to bring a little cheer into the office: a cacti arrangement and a large Vermeer print. A one-way mirror across the room offered reassurance of safety. I remember wondering at the time who the reassurance was for; him or me, since although my rage had cooled during the last year, I knew it was capable of swift re-ignition. For all my moxie, I was conscious of a dry mouth and banging heartbeat.

Mitzi and I both wore loose shirts, loose jeans, and tennies, presenting as asexual as possible for the session. The stated purpose of Restorative Justice was to heal, not dissuade reoffending, but my purpose was the latter. I’ll admit, however, that the motivation for the meeting was (I thought “confrontation” was a tad murky–I wanted to look my attacker in the eye.

We heard a small click, the doornob turned and a corrections officer ushered Harry in, handcuffed, and sat him in a chair opposite us, across a table. He was anything but appealing as he sat slouched in his bright orange prison suit that revealed long black hairs that covered his arms and the back of his hands. A five o’clock shadow had apparently sprouted in the past hour or two, but his head was shaved. The officer left us alone, hopefully behind the one-way mirror.

Although I assumed his presence was due to the hope of making an impression on the parole board someday, I said, “Thanks for coming.”

He dropped his head in acknowledgement, without making eye contact. My ears started ringing and I had to briefly shut my eyes and get centered. I said, “Why are you here?”

“Here? Do you mean in prison or in this room?”

I silently gritted my teeth. “I know why you’re in prison, believe me. But why are you in this room with me?”

He paused. “Curiosity.”

“What do you want to know?”

He was silent.

“Do you regret the sexual attack?”

“I regret prison.”

“But not causing the physical and psychologcal harm you did to me?”

He did not answer.

“Have you ever been raped? I hear that sometimes happens in prison.”

He rolled his shoulders and snarled, “Not likely.”

“Were you mad at me? Did you want to hurt me?”

“Yes. Yes, I wanted to hurt you and all women that play so hard to get. I belong to Intel, and women won’t have anything to do with us. We can’t get any!”

“Any–love? Tenderness? Friendship?”

“Pussy!”

I had read about this group of men who clustered on an internet blog, and that their activities have been referred to as “weaponized misogyny.” Mitzi, beside me, was squirming uncomfortably as he ranted.

“It’s true,” I said in an aside to MItzi. “Evolution scripts females to be attracted to males with the most regular features.”

Hairy’s face turned red and he emitted a subdued roar when he heard me speaking to Mitzi. “It isn’t fair.”

“Nor is it fair to rape and destroy a woman’s healthy sense of self for a life structure she’s a victim of herself!” I frowned. regretting have used the victim word myself.

Hairy didn’t respond immediately, but began fingering his fly, whereupon I rapped sharply on the one way mirror. I was glad ro note that Hairy wore a puzzled expression on his face as he was led out to rejoin the prison population. Mitzi sighed. I squeezed her hand and sighed, myself.

By Nan

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HORIZON

The train doesn’t stop here anymore,

but tonight it did, and the conductor

was impatient for me to board.

The ride was free but the destination

unknown. Goodbye, my dears.

Flash Fiction:

Published June 9, 2025 by Nan Mykel

THE VISITOR

Late night thunder rattled the window pane, almost drowning out the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Beth turned on the light and grunted when she saw the time. eleven-fifteen. In the twin bed next to hers Jessica remained asleep. Beth grumbled all the way to the front door, but was struck silent after unlocking it to see the waif of a woman dripping rainwater and staring, as though mesmerized by the thunder overhead. The woman was a stranger, and Beth immediately looked down the front path for others. Seeing none, she reluctantly stood back to allow the woman to step inside the small duplex to get out of the rain.

Jessica, awake now, appeared at the bedroom door and was the first to speak. “Hello? Who are you?”

The woman gave a choked laugh. “Your landlord,” and dropped her faded green rain jacket to the floor as she fell onto the sofa, uninvited.

After a moment Beth gulped and asked hesitantly, “Which side of the duplex do you own?”

The woman sighed deeply and murmured, “Right here.” The sisters both blinked and after Beth re-locked the front door, they returned to their own beds. It was then Beth sat up briefly and whispered to herself, “If she’s the landlady, why doesn’t she have a key?”

When the sisters woke the next morning they found their “landlord,” or “landlady” still asleep. Beth shrugged her shoulders, still puzzled. Jessica began a big batch of oatmeal while Beth reached for the telephone. She would see what their landlord Terry Fonte had to say. In response, a staccato lifeless voice informed her that “this is no longer a working number.”

Beth repeated the message and began the coffee. Both sisters sighed. Jessica said, “Maybe the locked room is hers.”

Beth snorted. “Yes, and maybe she lost both keys.”

“Is she still in the living room?”

Beth looked. “Yes.”

“Maybe we should give her some oatmeal and coffee.”

Their “landlord” in the Livingroom stirred. “Did someone say coffee?”

Jessica quipped back, “Did somebody say landlord?”

Rather than answer immediately, the woman began drinking. “How much do you pay me a month?”

The sisters exchanged puzzled looks. Beth ventured, “You don’t know?”

The woman sighed. “My name is Gypsy Goggin. I’ve been doing a year in the Idaho hoosegow for drug possession. My so-called boyfriend offered to keep this place rented except for ‘our room’. Barf.”

Beth whispered, “the locked room is hers!”

Tight-lipped, Jessica answered, “Three hundred a month for this small duplex with only one usable bedroom.”

“…And I get only one hundred a month out of that, in my own account.”

“And now he’s disappeared?”

“If he knows what’s good for him, he has.”

As Gypsy was finishing her oatmeal, Jessica asked, “Do you still do drugs?”

Their landlady snorted. “Never did. That was Tony. He has a record and would spend years away if convicted, so I suckered up to it for a year.”

Jessica fumed. “That no goodnik!”

Gypsy nodded. “Ain’t that a man for you,” she grinned.

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TO THE WISE – “A competitive man and a competitive man will compete.” (Put that in your pipe and smoke it.)

WHAT’S WRONG? OR WHAT’S NOT?

Published May 16, 2025 by Nan Mykel

Shall we hobble into the next election cycle, or is there a way out now? Only food for thought, maybe action.

Image: LegaSeaaquarium.com

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In 2018 Pete Buttigieg married Chasten Glezman, a teacher who took his surname. Three years later the couple adopted twins Joseph August (“Gus”) Buttigieg and Penelope Rose Buttigieg.

“My kids remind me, daily, of what really matters in this world. The best thing I can do for them is to continue to show up for them and be the best dad that I can be,” Chasten Buttigieg said. “I know one day they will judge us for what we did to make the world a better place, so I’ll focus on that work and try my best to stay out of the petty criticism some online or in Congress are so eager to pick. That doesn’t mean I’ll be silent when someone goes after my family, though. I’ll always stick up for my kids.”

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IF YOU HAVE A PARROT… I guess I lost my reader with that little headline….Anyway, folks who have a parrot are enjoying reading children’s’ books to them. Now that’s a fun scientific frontier! Birds are having fun while some of us are biting our nails and getting sour stomachs. Per the blogs of Items that caught my attention this week, three were about birds, Exciting, huh? Reading to parrots is explored by Irene Pepperberg, Ph.D: Inside Dr. Pepperberg’s Lab: Reading to Parrots.

Another item that took my mind off current troubles dealt with sparrow shows. Think about observations of the murmuraton of sparrows, those masses of birds in the sky that move together mysteriously and quickly. The view: perhaps in the late afternoon with a clear sky and what appears to be a choreographed show, perfectly executed in sudden shiftings, all together. I still want to know how the leader is chosen. A third escape maneuver was to read and think about the dreaming life of birds. See 90 responses to a discussion of birds’ night terrors on You Tube.

MY PROBLEM:

I’ve sworn off writing about Trump, because attention only gratifies him. But I have to write my blog so I don’t go crazy. And I don’t want to lose any of my precious handful of readers. I’m sure to, but I intend to give it the old college try. What topics can I focus on? I won’t know until I see if any of them work at entertainment or interest:

Poetry (really verses); drawings; memories; short fiction; dreams; out of the blue thoughts; astounding non-political items; stream of consciousness; weird non-Trump politics [maybe?]; climate change; a dab of autobiography; non-political material from my bulging files (don’t groan–only interesting stuff…..) psychological observations, etc. I’m 89 1/2, so it will have an end point. Some time ago I wrote my [funny] obituary, so there’s that, too. Shannon, my computer helper, has agreed to post that dollop. We could talk back and forth if I ever got the hang of that process.

Halloo, GOD! Over Here!

Published April 4, 2025 by Nan Mykel

There’s a deadly virus going around in the United States,, and it is called “Greed.” I was reminded of the word in a reblog on Keith Wilson’s post recently. But I’m still learning Gutenberg so I’m still using page one only, so you’ll have to go fish on Keith Wilson’s blog…

FYI, I’ve been living pillar to post from the day after the eclipse til March 8, when my son-in-law came from Atlanta and worked on additional repairs. Now, in the process of trying to empty 3 storage units, I’ve had to go through more early material, some of which is sort of different, but may be of interest at the risk of being seen as bragging…

To the Tune of My Home Town by Tom Lehrer:

There’s a lady to whom I’ve taken a fancy

who used to be called Nancy

but now is known simply as Nan Mykel.

Oh the pain she has taken us through

learning our addictive cycle.

I really have a yen

to have her lead Phoenix again.

It won’t be the same without our Doctor Nan

for what she has taught us about levels of denial.

We each consider ourself her biggest fan

Remember SAFE?

Tells us if we have an addiction

but if we suffer from this affliction

all is not lost.

We only need to poison our fantasies

and nightly turn a thought’s kernel

into a twelve-page journal.

We’ve learned about SUD’s and Dangerous situations,

abstinence and Failed Expectations–

Early Warning Signs, had our Thinking Errors upended

It’s a pity we didn’t learn all of this

before we offended.

As you begin your retirement

and enter a new environment

there is really no requirement

to keep in touch.

But please do, dear Doctor Nan

We will miss you so much….

[Interesting, but inappropriate for this blog…Sorry]

Test Yourself

Published March 19, 2023 by Nan Mykel

What is a movie about a man who is a man who is a man?

What could the image at the top refer to?

Stephen Ornes wrote an article in Quanta magazine (Not Quora) about unsuspected abilities of the large language models (LLMs) of computational engines behind AI chatbots such as ChatGPT, and I want to refer you to that article in a minute. But first, the LLMs answered correctly on the first try at the movie question, which was Nemo. Also, it has been discovered as reported in Quanta, that the most powerful LLMs can change themselves by Emergence, a process which first referred to an evolutionary process in living things (slime molds).

The question about the image at the top is that it depicts the Trojan horse, which aided invaders to attack Troy as reported in ancient literature. The dangerousness of its presence was unknown until too late. The invaders hidden in the horse were already in the town and it was too late to avoid a catastrophic takeover.

For the interested and curious go to both Ornes’ Quanta magazine’s site and Johnson’s Book Emergence.

What is emergence? In his 2001 book Emergence, Steven Johnson says that “The movement from low-level rules to higher-level communication is what we call emergence.”

Johnson wonders if computers will become self-aware in the coming years by drawing upon the adaptive open-endedness of emergent software. “Even the most optimistic champions of self-organization feel a little wary about the lack of control in such a process.”

The discovery of emergence appears to have begun with studies of slime molds, which in some conditions move as one unit but in other conditions (of food availability) separate and function as individuals.

GREEN STUDY REBLOG

Published July 26, 2020 by Nan Mykel

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did. (Reading others’ older posts can be rewarding)

Posted on March 24, 2015 by Michelle at The Green Study

Parting with Pretension: Writing What You Write

I’ve been stuck for months trying to rewrite my first novel. As a skilled organizational artisan, I’ve created the storyboard, character sketches, and timelines. I’ve scheduled writing time, forced myself to write every day and each time I sit down and write, it feels torturous and miserable, every chapter a chop shop of hijacked words.

I’ve spent too much time lately reading books by lauded authors, writers who have been hailed as literary greats – writers who other writers spend their lives imitating. My own writing became more and more strangled, as I leveled world class academic criticism at it. Everything was shit and sitting down to create more of it became a moribund exercise in self-flagellation.

After working through yet another book that had collected dust in the halls of literary greatness, I sat in silence. This anger that kept erupting inside of me was the result of my own inferiority – this need I could not name. I wanted something that I could not have, that I could not want and still continue to write. I didn’t want to be called a hack. I imagined reviews that mentioned my simplistic prose and unsophisticated ramblings. I didn’t want to be unmasked for the pop storyteller that I truly am. I did not want to be naked in my ignorance, in my lack of creative invention, in my sheer earnestness.

I’ve always believed that in order to be better at anything, I needed to look towards those who are the best in their fields. I needed to read material above my intellect, wrangle with prose until I understood what the author was trying to say, slog through story lines that were miserable and depressing. It finally hit me, I don’t enjoy the books that I’ve been reading. I don’t want to write miserable navel-gazing buckets of guts. I don’t want someone to get to the end of my novel and realize that they need a drink, a rope and a chair. I don’t want someone to read my novel and say “What the hell? I just read 600 pages and nothing happened.”

I wanted so desperately to be something I am not and the words, which I poured out onto the pages were these disappointing, rather stupid children. Why would I expect to write that which I found little joy in reading? Why would I want to imitate authors who I found pedantic and arrogant, writing post-modern, avante garde, experimental bullshit that was more irritating than enlightening. I understand subjectivity, but I was in denial that I am the masses. I am a sheep. I am a pedestrian proletariat with a touch of vulgarity and a smidge of mediocrity. I am all the things that people get called when they just don’t get it.

I like to look at paintings of landscapes, not melting vaginas in the desert. I like music that I can sing to and orchestral pieces that are harmonic. I like a damned good story in language that flows. It doesn’t need to sweat me or make me travel through every minutiae of a character’s day. I don’t need to re-read passages ten times trying to figure out who the hell the dialogue is attributed to and why it’s suddenly daylight.

This is a particular cruelty of self-awareness. You know what you don’t know. You know what you can’t do. You know what you aren’t. Perhaps it was my working class upbringing that has made me so ridiculously sensitive about being perceived as anything less than brilliant. Which is odd, as I have never been described as brilliant. Maybe it’s that I decided to make a deliberate run at this writing thing. Maybe it’s because I’m scared to death that this thing I thought I would always be was a delusion and I’m going to fail so big that it will break me.

This is an epiphany of sorts. We all carry preconceived notions, prejudices and beliefs and as a friend of mine has reminded me “Just because we think it, doesn’t mean it’s true.” Truth has become a priority in my life. And like a true navel-gazer, truth must start with being honest with myself. And letting go of the idea of best and perfection and greatness. Those things were likely never within my reach.

I am a writer. I have stories to tell. I hope that someday, someone will read and enjoy them. The end.

Write your story. Screw literary punditry.

P.S. Some of the great writers seem like real wankers.

A published author!

Published May 4, 2016 by Nan Mykel

It has been more than a year since I published my first book, FALLOUT: A Survivor Talks to Incest Offenders (And Others), plus her dream journal and drawings. Watch my April, 2015 author interview on Kaleidoscope:

And don’t forget to check me out on .

MY METAPHOR

Published January 25, 2016 by Nan Mykel

Come jump into my arms, you furry-feathered verse!
I’ll know you when I see you, either wordy or terse.
Let your metaphor roll in like an occupying force;
sit up high in your saddle on your literary horse!
A shining black stallion, he snorts and passes by
leaving a desolated mule who gives a piteous sigh.
My metaphor has four legs and is not a happy guy.
He does not jump into my arms or even give a try
but nuzzles me as though to say,
“Thanks for waiting for me today.”