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And now for something completely different - also may devolve into a rant so ... maybe not so different? Time has allowed things, terrible unspeakable horrors to rise, okay after almost 4 decades the current brand of spackle and paint I use to coat the barn are no longer working. I've been accused of appropriating kabuki. I am by no means a dried apple - on the contrary - all that pap about "moisturizer" doesn't "dew" me - I'm concerned that some third world entity will come plant a flag between my eyes for oil rights - I don't need a tinted moisturizer. I need bondo. I need newborn derrier smooth. I've figured out how to defur the fuzz that comes in almost as thick as the hub's beard. I no longer circle the orbs with kohl. I gloss instead of lacquer - but this girl needs assistance. And powder -which used to provide a lovely matte veneer now makes me look like a smatter of flour on under rolled pie dough. I want color and sparkle - people. Cover Girl no longer covers this girl so what's a girl to do?
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I find quoting Bible verses out of context particularly loathsome but I'ma do it anyway. YOU SNAKES! You nest of vipers! How dare you reach out under cover of darkness and technological anonymity with your veiled threats and passive aggression. You Sir, can go straight to Hell. You get nothing. How stupid do you think I am that I would answer your call? What kind of cowardly excuse for a hominid preys on the devastated? One senior leveled by a massive stroke on the day he learns his wife's pancreatic cancer has returned and is terminal - and she leaves this life two months later and you - you pan for gold in the wreckage. Come for it. Snap at MY heels. I will gladly separate your fanged head from your slithering body.
Seriously, "who makes decisions for the Davis Estate" ME. If anything of value comes from my mom's (and my step dad's) "legacy" - it will go to those who DESERVE it. (And you know who are) Oh and bee tee dub. I possess a 3 digit IQ - a college degree - decades of experience as an accountant and lots of Viking DNA. Shall we add menopause to the frosty mix? Yank my leash again will you? I eat shysters like you for breakfast, spread thinly on toast. End rant. Some days you're the windshield and some days you're the bug...It crept in on daggered feet yesterday and by the morning my heart is shredded. I miss my mom - but even more I find myself wrecked by the truth of who she was and who she wasn't. I keep searching for that healing memory of her love for me, of her selflessness, of that mother daughter connection...and I cannot find it because it simply does not exist. I do not believe I could have "healed her cancer" just by being her child - but had she considered me - we would have had more time to take care of those things she did hold precious. Love is a choice. And when we chose to love someone who does not or cannot return that love - there will be moments when the truth of it all is devastating.
If you want to write well, write what you know. Fascinated by British island folklore - I studied up and in 2018 published a small chapbook of “spooky” poems - Haunted Shores as an homage to my Cornish ancestry. I Don’t even know if it sold - but I thought a few might be fitting to post as spoken word pieces during October. I put the first one up on TikTok and YouTube yesterday. The link is on my writer page here on FB. I can’t dance, and my cat won’t wear a tiara - so … poetry it is. If you happen to check the posts out ( there are two poems now) let me know what you think. Feedback is always welcome. Peace
That moment when -even though you'd be totally fine planting your hindparts on a block of ice most days because you're 57, female and if you know you know - you're not really prepped for fall apparel - the toenails, people. My dragon talons are not ready for sock weather. At least I don't have to wear panty hose to work anymore. I would have gone through a gallon of nail polish and ten pairs this morning. (see - if you get a run in your hose you can put a little polish on...uh, nevermind) I need a band saw and a pair of bolt cutters. Or maybe a farrier.
That bittersweet moment when you send your creative child off into the universe all starry eyed and full of mad hope... and the resonant echo returns hollow, lonely and if intercepted by any sentience...misunderstood. This has always been the feral banshee keening in the center of my soul. I cannot silence her - I can only scream louder...or I can agree. I can give her the room. My creative silence. I can allow myself to be perpetually distracted by the mediocrity that fills my hours but empties my heart. Or I can step out knowing that no one will ever be as passionate as I am about my creative children. Some of you are aware that I took a tentative step yesterday. It felt more like swinging over the abyss on a gossamer thread. What I write, and the subsequent presentation will never be as good as I desire. In fact, it may just suck. And because I have an ego - I won't share on my regular Facebook page - but I will share on my writer page and a couple other places. The banshee will continue her keening cry - but know this: regret is so much heavier a burden to bear than failure. I know both. I'd rather fail moving forward than regret staying inert. So be encouraged. That dream in your heart. DO IT. Be louder and more relentless than the voice in your head telling you you will fail - because if you take that step - you've already succeeded. Peace.
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TL BOehmDo people blog anymore or is it just me? Archives
January 2023
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