Category: Uncategorized

What I want to do is go for a run.

For years I have wanted to be able to go running when I feel like, not for any other reason other than to be able to run.  Not because of the day of the week, or time of day, or for any other direction other than to go.

Running was one of my best thinking places.

I used to be able to return home from a run and my mind would be full of sentences, ideas, thoughts.

Running used to exhaust and expend physical energy while allowing my mind to free-think.

I would say, let’s go for a run.

Let’s slather on sunscreen.  Lace up the running shoes.  Put on the spandex with appropriate under garments to wick away the sweat and moisture.  I’ll put my hair up, wear my hat that keeps the sweat out of my eyes.  Wear sunglasses because sunscreen, hats, and sunglasses are all best preventative measures against sun damage.  I’ll bring my shuffle.  It is so small it is a great way to keep my head going.  And, we will all of us away through the streets running for the fun of it, for health, for cardiovascular health, for healthy lungs, for the whole body sweat that gives your skin – the largest organ of your body – a healthful glow.

We will away the streets because outdoor running along with being outdoors is so much more enjoyable than being locked inside four walls.

I would cook for you except that has yet to return to me.  I had been enjoying myself.  Wonder what this tastes like?  Wonder what it tastes like if you put this and this together?  What about this flavor?  What happens when you add this with this?

Yet, it seems there is a diabolical teacher and Svengali allowed upon my whereabouts and premises.  Every time I start to let go and create in my mind which is a positive experience – WHAM – aside my head, self-esteem, heart-mindful-power-thinking, and my mind is gone from me.

Because I am not allowed to have emotions, feelings, thoughts, ideas, or imagination.  I am only allowed to “do.”  Or, copy.  Because it is more important that someone else stay employed rather than listen to me allowing me to be.  Just be.

What a wonderful thing.  To just be.

However, I am not allowed to go running.  Or run.  Only in my mind where I used to be allowed to be me.

Since, the desire to cook and make others and myself feel better through food has left me so dramatically I would prepare us a breakfast sandwich.

I haven’t been able to have one of these for years now.

Morningstar makes the best breakfast sandwich.  English muffin, soy-based turkey sausage, and soy-cheddar cheese.  Some fresh fruit, whatever is in season, and yogurt.  We did have a big run after all.  I’ll do us both a favor I won’t tell you how to have your coffee and you won’t tell me how I like my coffee.  Capeesh?

As I am using my spoon to scrape the slightest bit of flavor left out of this plastic tray of microwaved breakfast it is just a dream I could one day hope for.

Also, I am on a diet as what has been delivered to me is nothing but extra weight.  I am only 5’2” after all, a few pounds make a big difference.  My BMI would say I should weigh a LOT less.  So, greatly unhappy am I.  Aren’t you all happy for that?!

The truth for the weight, someone’s idea to make me by new pants.  Like I have the money for that when I have so many things around my house that need to be fixed.

Just because I watched a show about someone else’s drug abuse does NOT mean it applies to me.

I want more time off.

I do not feel well – still.  Fat and heavy because what is delivered to me is not what I ordered.  So, depression, great unhappiness consumes me.

It is a toxic combination making me rely on my job as a way to lose weight because I am not allowed to be in the break room or eat while I work.  What a great way to motivate someone?!  Taking away their self-esteem and any positive ideas they have about themselves.

I should have been able to write several pieces that I have in my head.  Writing I want to do.  However, what was delivered to me was problems, heaviness, extreme fatigue, and no imagination.

They should be fighting for me rather than against me.

Is it just me or does it seem that The Washington Post has a separate paper just for me?  Centered around me?  How could that be?  Aren’t there other news stories?  Everything is so specific it would have to be a separate edition for me.  Why do that, I wonder?

I wonder if I should share with you this poem.  I would rather have written one of my own, so it could be more personal.  So, that I could use my brain and write.  However, writing has not been my friend these last few months.

It is hard for me to not look at a person and see.  Are you able to stop yourself from breathing?  Can you tell your heart to stop beating?

I didn’t think so.

So, as am I not able to not see.

Call it vision if you want.  It is being able to see people beyond words and explanations.  It is not police training and deduction.  It is the ability to see into their hearts and minds.  It requires all my senses.

So, this is for a man I saw who’s known persecution, torture, and imprisonment for writing.

This is also for a family torn apart by drug abuse disguised as addiction when words would allow healing.  Time, attention, time spent meaningfully with one another, and truthful words spoken – could heal more than wounds.

Isn’t it true words can create such pain and derision they can become impossibilities stronger than any metal?

Yet, the greatest truth written and spoken breaks down walls, barriers, shielded pain, exposing the greatest part of us, our humanity.

 

Another

By, Pablo Neruda

From, The Yellow Heart

 

From so often travelling in a region

not charted in books

I grew accustomed to stubborn lands

where nobody ever asked me

whether I like lettuces

or if I prefer mint

like the elephants devour.

And from offering no answers,

I have a yellow heart.

 

If it is possible to visualize healing for another person, then let me place my hand on your heart, and just be.

There is nothing wrong in that.

*If you saw a news piece that looks similar to what I wrote above, I wrote it first, several days ago.  It’s just that my writing has received terrible coverage that I do not understand.

Truth be told, I do not want to be here.

I do not want to be sitting down writing.

Writing has become – a problem.  As it is being used as a means of controlling me rather than bringing joy, enlightenment, honest revelations, interest, or stories.

There are few who are privy to this information, so before it gets turned the other way around let me tell you about these boys of mine.

Ahem, I mean, cats.

I used to live on street that was named after T.S. Eliot.  My mother asked me what I thought a good name for our house was.  This was an unusual question, I thought for her.  I decided the name Eliotwood was a good name for that house.  It had thickets of scrub oak trees in the back and front.  Not to mention all the other trees we planted while living there.  Birch, Almond, Cinnamon, Dogwood, Camphor, China Doll, Raintree’s, I could go on and on.

I gave my cats monikers.  It has suited them.  My cats are great people, they always are.  My Thursday used to run to the door when I returned home like a dog.  Tuesday would follow also, but Thursday had the excitement like of dog of seeing his owner or person return home.

Maurice, The Handsome.  My Mauritz.  My Maurit-zie.  He is the saddest boy in the world, but he is the best behave-est boy in the world.  He has the most remarkable colors and colorings and markings.  The top of his head has a skull.  His tail seems to have been chopped off for it is shorter than it should be.  He is a skinny boy, he just has a gooshee fur coat.  Gooshee and slightly shaggy fur coat.  He rarely talks or mews.  He is quiet, and his favorite toy is a mouse he likes to carry in his mouth and drop.  He tremendously enjoys standing on his hind legs like a jackrabbit for a treat or to clean the spoon of cat food.

Lambert, The Good.  The Ever Vigilant.  The Protector of All.  My Lambie-love.  Lambert looks like a lion, he has a broad chest so much so that when he lies down his legs must bow to make room for his chest.  His white fur almost looks pink, a shell pink, unusual.  He has markings on the top of his head that look like little ears with a set of antlers in the middle.  He is the strongest cat in the world.  He could push my piano across the room.  He has no idea how strong he is.  Once I gave the boys a bath, and it was Maurice’s turn Lambert stepped in front of Maurice to protect him.  I have never seen another cat step in front of another cat.  Getting himself between me and Maurice.  Lambert didn’t talk or hiss or fuss, he simply stepped in front of Maurice.  They must have lived on the street before I adopted them.  He is elegant, and sophisticated.  He is humble.  Lambert’s favorite toy is bird feathers on a wand.  He takes that bird down every time I play with him.  Puts the bird in his mouth.  As if to say, Yep, again.  He would play with those bird feathers all day.

Murphy, The Magnificent.  The Brilliant.  Murph.  Murph’s.  Murfreesboro.  He likes Murphy best.  If it was possible for a miniature cat, Murphy is it.  Murphy also has a skull on his head.  He can do anything.  Anything.  He tells me so all the time.  Cherith, did you need something?  Did you need me to go down the stairs?  I will go down the stairs.  Did you need me to go in another room?  I will go.  If I had thumbs I would help you do the dishes, but I don’t so I will just lie on the counter and watch you instead.  He can catch a treat in mid-air with his front two paws.  He has caught a treat with his front paws while doing a back-flip.  True story.  He wants to help.  All the time.  Did you need something?  Just tell me, I will do it.  Just tell me, the Murphy.  Murphy loves to play.  Any toy, no matter.  He plays Pounce and Play with Maurice.  Sneak, sometimes not so sneaky, then Pounce.  And run and run and run and run around the house.  Pounce and Play.  Maurice is so glad Murphy plays Pounce and Play.  Murphy says, yeah.  What else do you need me to do?

This is just an introduction of my boys.  I could go on and on.  I believe they are a good children’s story.  I believe all my cats would make a good children’s story.

Lambert just told me it’s time for me to stop writing.

Another time, another story.

I will not be returning to the movies or movie theater anytime soon.

Not for Star Wars, not for Infinity War, not for anyone.

I am not your baby.

I am not your girlfriend.

I am not your lover.

I am not engaged, or married, either secretly or otherwise.

I am not waiting for a man to sweep me off my feet.  I have yet to see that happen for me in real life.

I am tired of all the lies.  I am tired of every “him” lying to me.

I am tired of women standing behind men pretending that is a conversation.

I will not surrender to your tactics of retaliation and abuse.

You have lost yourself, a customer.

Good luck trying to get that back.

I am sick to death of knee-jerk journalism, and reading about it.

I am sick of sound bites that are not real or based in fact.

Before someone decides they have nothing better to do in the world than dissect a t-shirt slogan, “you” has nothing to do with it.  Every person would buck, and fight against a person and persons who decided you were nothing more than an animal.  That you and your life were not meaningful enough you had to be “trained” as an animal for entertainment.

I am sick to death of this hands-only life that has never applied to me.

It always has, always will be nothing but man flesh.

Because of that I get…a life of extreme loneliness, doctors played by actors, and to be forever alone.

I am sick with grief and sadness.

I needed to write a journal.  I needed to journal my feelings.  I needed to work through the feelings I have.  I needed to work out the trauma, the pain, and what I thought was possible.  Then, I discovered on top of everything else I was not real to him.  I was only a job.  A job he was paid for his time to be with me.  Not to mention everything I laid bare for him.

To say I’m hurt is not enough.

I am sick with grief.  Sick.  My mother.  Sick.  My cats.  Sick.  

He treats me as if I am simple and dumb, so for him…I must be.

I never, in my life thought that I was simple and dumb until I entered his world.  I believed the word sincere.  I believed he might have been sincere until the scale and circumstance of my life proved otherwise.

I was only a game.  A job.  Something he was paid to do.

I wish I knew how to write other words other than shame.

The man who used to bring me sunshine used me for money and nothing else.

I wrote a journal for a few days and wrote it to a “Robert Frost” it was important to me to be able to write to a real person rather than a nothing.

My Mistake.

Because of how bad he made me feel I decided to share it.  So, no one else would have to live with the shame of believing in a man who cares not.

I am starting with the last, first.

May 31, 2018

10:04pm

Robert Frost,

I am taking a break from you.

I am taking a break from writing to you, writing on my blog, writing about all the dead bodies and persons I see edited into news stories, from writing about dangerous men I see, sick children, and flirting with you.

I cannot stand to look at myself in the mirror, I am too fat and disgusting.  My opinion of myself matters more than anything,

If I do not like myself, then I cannot be myself.

I am going back to where I was before I thought you were a true blue.  Because I am so disheartened and disgusted with myself.

You come and go too often and those you have in the interim are not the same nor do they do well by me.

This is a huge problem for me, and I am sick to death of problems I do not want nor understand.

You are not good for me.

You do not wear well on me.

I am not sure this can be repaired anymore.

Perhaps that means I must change my tastes in movies and films.

Every day this feels more and more like a mistake.

I need to take a break from you.

The truth is I do not feel safe writing here.

The truth is I feel threatened, retaliated against.

The truth, it appears is not something the world wants to read, or things would be different.

I am greatly saddened.  I have lost my mother, and I don’t know the exact date that happened.  I was not allowed to be with her when she passed, while she suffered, in her last days, or at her actual funeral.

I will not be watching a movie simply because of the person who gave her fake eulogy.

There is nothing that can take away the pain of not being allowed to witness my mother’s passing.

I have a family that I am not allowed to see or be a part of.

There is nothing that can take away the pain of not being allowed to be a part of my own family.

There is nothing that can take away the pain of not being allowed to have my cats back.  They are the closest I have to children.  I was led to believe I was going to have to my cats back.

I am greatly saddened.

I am greatly hurt.

There is a great deal of stories that I read I simply do not believe are true or based in factual evidence or fact.

The damage is worse than I thought.

Because I am not safe in writing here – still.

How I miss writing this.

How I miss writing in food.

How I miss men.

I do not feel like writing this.

This is me, pushing myself to write this:

Say you’ll go with me.

Say you’ll go with me to the farmer’s market and empty their stalls of fresh produce.

If I had the means and accessibility I would juice for you.

Carrot juice.

Parsley, parsnips, and apple juiced.

Kale, spinach, and pineapple.

I would juice and juice and juice and purge the body of impurities.  Flush it with fresh water.

Powdered chlorophyll with some mint that refreshes the palate in water – drink plenty of it.

I was offered a job at a local health store that was run out of their garage – true story.  Years later they built a separate building on their property.  I would have made the same pay as I was getting from the job I was working; however, I would not have had benefits.  So, I did not take the job offer.

It is normal to look back on your life and wonder what would have happened had you chosen differently.

The health food store was much closer to my home.  I would not have driven so far, every day.

Perhaps, my brother would never have been in his car accident too?

Truth be told, I am not happy at the moment.

So, say you’ll go with me to the health food store and I will buy everything, so we will every one of us be well.

B-vitamins.  How I miss liquid B-vitamins.  Sublingual B-12.  Your body will never overdose on B vitamins, you will simply pee it out.

Vitamin C, your body will tell you you’ve reach your limit of intake when you have diarrhea until then your body needs vitamin C.

Kefir, acidophilus, your gut health is important to the rest of your organs.

Oil of oregano.  This stuff tastes terrible.  A few drops in water.  It does not taste good, yet it is like an internal scrubber.  Anti-viral.  Good for health in general.

Holy Basil.  For adrenal fatigue, and support.  Can you imagine what would happen if he military invested in nutrition and nutrients like Holy Basil in MRE’s?

It is all I can think of for now.

Perhaps it might not ever happen.

Still, it is a nice thought to have.

There is a frenzy.

This frenzy has become dangerous.

It is time to step away from the congratulatory campfire and return home to families and loved ones.

It is time to stop patting each other on the back, hooting and hollering.

It is time to set aside the big moment and live in the small, every day, mundane minutiae that is life.

Because life is full of routine that does not make front page news, however it is still valuable, or it wouldn’t exist.

Go back to your homes.  Go back to your loved ones.  Go back to friends.  Go back to living life.

Look your family in the eyes.  Individually look them in the eyes, talk to them, tell them what they mean to you, let them hold onto a memory that will live until their dying breath.

Kiss your children regardless of their age.  Kiss and hold them, so they will always remember the love of their parent.  Tell them to their face, look them in the eye and tell them what they mean to you, unashamed, unfiltered, pure, uncompromising, and with greater honesty than you thought you had or knew existed, tell them what they mean to you.  Never let go, yourself, of what it means to you to create a memory with your child that will live in yours and their well of truth that cannot be touched, perverted, changed, or sensationalized.

Hold your children as if your very breath depends upon it.  Hug your family members as if there may not be another chance to let them know or create the memory that becomes the core of their being.

Families are not always related by blood.  Some families are created do not leave these families out.  It is important to belong.

It is a part of what makes us human, belonging to one another.  To matter.

Please go back.

Please go back, hold on to the big moments in life, hold it within your well of truth, measure it, let it live there.

But, please go back to everyday life – and live it.

I will remind you I never had a choice in living the life in am in currently.

If I had a choice it would end immediately.

I miss and want my Tuesday and Thursday back.  This was a wrong.  They never should have been taken.  Because the circumstances of my life were available to persons who were not great thinkers.  It is a terrible, terribleness to use animals as a way of manipulation.

I have not had a choice.

People deserve the right to choose.

This duplicitousness nature and maliciousness being spread around I will not tolerate.

A duplicitousness being used within the American government that I simply will not allow.  Be wary of such inappropriate uses of misleading.

The American government, the American people deserve greater respect than I am seeing these days.  They deserve greater respect than I am reading as well.

Be careful with code.

I caution you to not take it so seriously.

You can take any sentence rearrange the words and letters and turn it into another sentence or wording.

However, if persons and parties do not agree on the meaning, then it is meaningless.

Without meaning, it is nothing more than Scrabble.

Before you see otherwise, let me tell you I was once told by someone that a woman changing her hair was a way to get over a man.  It felt like a pointed comment to me.  Within myself, I stepped back.  It was and is untrue.  I have often changed my hair and hair color.  Partly due to boredom, partly because I believe I am greater than my hair color or style and it does not define my character, abilities, worth, skill, or attractiveness.