Idle, Angry Thoughts

Does he really think I’ve forgotten? Even after almost 50 years, the thought of his hands all over me burns me like a brand, indelible, still raw, the scab so thin that a good breeze, a careless word could blow it away and start the flow of blood again. Every day is a battle. Every day so far, I win it. Stuffing it in the box, behind a door, behind a wall. Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. No one will believe you anyway. That IS what he said to me. I was believed, but it still must be my fault. Never speak of it. The family must never know. And so I deal with it alone, as I always have. And if sometimes I seem hard, or cold or dark, you must know the dark that I live in, the dark that always stares back at me, comforts me. The dark does not judge. It’s how I survive.

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Whenever tragedy like this hits, we sorrow, we rage, we blame, we saturate the media with it until we are so heartily sick of the spectacle that we hide it away until the next time, and then, once again, we wear our sackcloth and ashes and our outrage.

I’m all for better background checks, but our problem is deeper than merely guns. Guns are too easy, and there’s more to it. It’s a society, a way of thinking, a judgement that told the young man, the killer, that having the feelings he was having was wrong. And in his mental instability, he clutched at what he obviously thought was the means to eradicate that. And horror ensued. It’s a mindset that believes that violence and weapons are the only answer when faced with an unanswerable question. It’s the labels that divide into us and them, into religions and politics and ways of thinking that allow the unthinkable to become commonplace. When hate is the first response, violence will, inevitably, follow. And it is so very easy to hate, isn’t it? I have seen people, that I would call friends of mine, rabidly, mindlessly hating, letting it consume them, every waking moment, tarnishing their lives and never really knowing what havoc they’re wreaking on themselves, their families.

In our anger and our fire for vengeance, we forget what’s important. And what’s important is that every one of these bright, funny, lovely human beings was someone’s son, daughter, lover, friend, and that these families have had their very hearts torn out. Perhaps, if we come together to weep, to mourn the loss of those bright flames, we will realize that what unites us is more than what divides us. Though we are straight and LGBTQ, Republican and Democrat, Jew and Christian and Muslim and Pagan, and a million other things, one thing, one thread weaves us all together. We are all human, and we all bleed the same.

So, as the days roll on, hug your family, your friends tightly, because there is no promise of tomorrow. And work for change, for a brighter day when we will not be defined by the labels of who we love or how we worship. But remember to stretch out a hand to those that need it, that might be “different”. The only answer to hate, to fear, is love. And I know that sounds simplistic, but in the face of fear, of hate, to love, to look beyond the differences and see the humanity shining through, that bright thread of blood, is the bravest thing you will ever do. #LoveIsLoveIsLoveIsLoveIsLove

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Managing Your Feelings Is Not My Job



“Whistling girls and crowing hens always come to some bad ends,” my grandma used to say, just before she would tell me that while I was a gracious loser (she was right; I am), I was a “very poor winner.”  By that, my grandma meant that I loved winning too much and that, when I did win, I wasn’t good at pretending not to care.  And, she was right; I do and I’m not; it’s made me a hell of a lawyer.  My grandma loved me and she was just trying to prepare me for what she called “the real world.”

One of the almost unconscious (and completely unpaid) jobs that women are doing all the damn time is managing their own behavior in order to manage men’s emotions.  We do it so much that we’re often not even aware that we’re doing it.  While the Jungian projection is that…

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We With The Pitchforks

Source: We With The Pitchforks

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Death, My Constant Companion

And so another dear friend has passed away, and once more it falls to me to be the strong one, the clearinghouse through which all information must pass. It is an honour and a heartache that I cannot turn down. Her partner has no skill at this, and I would not see him suffer needlessly. And so…

I must take charge of some of her things, her music, her instruments. How can it be that her guitar has not unstrung itself in grief, and that it’s still fine, when she is not? How can the voice of my bandmate be still, when there are CDs with her on them, and when I can still hear and see her in my mind’s eye? I want her to still be here, her alive, sarcastic self, but her reality slips through my fingers like sand, like water, and I cannot work the spell that would breathe life into her again.

No more will we see that cocked eyebrow, that narrowed eye as she tells us that “one of us” is one note off in our harmony, and then listening to the cut once more before singling out the person and changing the note. No more smile and thumbs up from the other side of the stage. No more.

She has slipped away into the night, taken that boat across the grey waters to the Undying Lands. In grief, I will sing her home, for I will see her no more on this side of the veil. Another piece of my heart gone. At this rate, my chest will be empty long before I’m dust.

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While You’ve Been Away…

Hard to believe that it’s been this long since I’ve posted something. I guess that Real Life just barrels along whether you want it to or not, eh? So much death in the past few years. I know that they say that the older you get, the more people you lose, but I’ve never found this to be true. I just lose people. I’ve had people dying my whole life, from the year I was born. And so many friends taking themselves out. I get as depressed as the next person, but, having seen what it does to the family and friends left behind, I could never take myself out. I couldn’t do it to them.

And then there is the casual cruelty of the internet. I try to be a good person, mainly. I have my failings, as we all do, but I do try. But there are so many utter and complete dicks out there. Frankly, I think that the anonymity of the internet breeds trolls. People who would never say things to your face have no problem spouting off the most vile, hateful drivel on the internet. And what for? Does it make their tiny little minds feel superior, to bash people that they don’t know? Are these the same people that pull wings off flies and torture ants? I don’t know, but I do think we’re breeding an entire generation of sociopaths.

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Back from the dead

Or at least feeling a bit like it. I’ve had death, plane rides, stranding in airports and sickness to contend with, but now, hopefully, I’ll feel more like writing and putting “pen to paper”. There’s always a lot to say, but not always time to put it down the way I’d like to.

Bear with me.

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