#uncoffeed...

I miss my friend horribly today. I miss the way we could joke about anything, knowing this was the safe zone, knowing we were really all okay and could be trusted in the world despite what we thought funny right now. I miss coffee under palm trees.  I miss painting the stairs. I miss laughing over school assignments. Not holding back. I don't miss those days, but I miss the safe zone and the shared vocabulary.  We knew all along that we'd move on eventually, not knowing to where - it's a rite of passage. We are processes, always moving but not always with translatable maps.  Knowing never makes it easy. I'm alone among friends where I am now.  I've built myself a fort, and I am safe, but it's a different sort of safety.  I miss feeling understood.  I'm afraid of possibly never being understood again, since every minute of every day puts more mileage between then and tomorrow. Now is frangible.  I assure you the fear is valid. New words are...

I attended an AA meeting once in the early 80s, having hitch-hiked to Daytona Beach with the guy who would later become the father of all my children. Laden with sleeping-bag rolls , we were  befriended by people who live on the beach. They immediately showed us the ropes: you can attend the Meeting and get some free donuts and coffee. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to. There will be lots of coffee. You will need it to stay awake during the 3 hours you aren't allowed to be on the beach. It isn't recommended for newbies to try and congregate under the bridge where the regulars go - folks are territorial. So those who don't have territory stay awake and wander the city for 3 hours. We ended up making another friend - a guy on a Harley chopper who let us stay at his apartment overnight. I had about 8 minutes of terror standing on a corner at midnight, waiting to see if this guy came back after taking away my friend; he did. The guy let us ...

Man, what a day for etymology. I really liked this one - thanks, Linda  and Paul. If you have read more than two of my posts, you know that #equality is a huge topic for me. I was raised by my momma to know that all people are equal in value. We have a baseline of not-despicable and our worth is what we make it from there. Let me go off on a tangent before addressing the connotations of words. It's likely that I feel strongly about #equality because I was taught to accept each person as a person, and then I went to kindergarten. Kindergartners can be horrible people. I was mocked for my clothes, for not being able to read, for speaking my mind. I quickly learned how to read, because I could control that. I couldn't choose my own clothes and I couldn't shut up. Still can't. My bestie in Kindergarten came from a Baptist family, and my parents were Catholic. This meant that on any weekend I could go to church up to 5 times, depending how we chose to arrange our...

I like real things, organic things. Sculpting in porcelain, digging in dirt, touching the smooth surface of a marble wall erected centuries ago. Real things break more easily than synthetics - stoneware vs. plastic - but they feel more genuine in your hands and they sound more valid when they bump up against each other. That which is contrived by human machinations feels insufficient. Sometimes you need superficiality, though, like a Band-Aid. Sometimes a bit of fake stuff is useful to hold everything together, like a trash bag. Plasticity is a term that doesn't always apply to synthetics, and it's something you would be wise to grok .  Thank you, Robert A. Heinlein . Don't be mad at yourself - it is good to be flexible. Plastic is better than stone for floating. Try not to get comfortable in it. Try to remember that you're working toward actual brick-and-mortar. Have goals. Float while you must, but aim for the shore and start collecting rocks. 

YEAH, no, I shot myself in the foot on this one because I don't like feely-movies. I was hoping, naively, for more focus on the the discussion of art's impact on society, but really I should have known better. It is sad how judg(e)mental I can remain watching these two strangers enact a very realistic fake marriage of 15 years .  A lot of the time I am siding with the guy: if the wine is bad, you say something. I had to stop watching, though, to comment on a pivotal point in the "marriage" - the pretending wife is complaining that her pretend husband doesn't see her, because he didn't notice she changed her lipstick nor her earrings.  On this I disagree, and I have to credit my ex-husband. Yardy rarely cared if I wore makeup or not. I clean up well, as they say. I often call makeup "battle armor", and it's important when how I present to society is important. It's important when I'm feeling especially unwell and ho...