Memoirous

I’ve learned a new word—or a word new to me—which seems to sum up our current state of affairs. During the first tRump administration I did not sit idly by. I emailed my state representatives, congress people and senators. I tried to stay informed and angry (how could I not!), but that was nearly 10 years ago and I’m older and more experienced in the fickleness of the American people and how bad things can get (remember a pandemic?). For the first few months I sat this one out. But, now, I can’t help but notice: Kakistocracy. It began with the nomination of RFK Jr. to Health & Human Services, FDA, in charge of the nation’s health=a vaccine skeptic. I have friends who do not vaccinate their children or selectively vaccinate. I forgo some shots available to me. My doctor and I discuss whether I need some tools offered by the medical community. For instance I didn’t get the shingles vaccine until I understood it is a one and done. And the good from it outweighs any presumed inco...

It was a long winter and cold, wet spring. For example: it was 42 degrees last Friday, only 4 days ago and the winds were howling. I’d like to think nothing keeps me down, but when the weather’s bad, I generally do not exercise outdoors. Thus, it’s been a few months since I rode my bike more than 10 miles at a stretch. Today in preparation for taking the bike to Sleeping Bear Dunes next weekend (June 1-4) I did a 35-mile loop this morning. I can tell you about half-way through (17 miles) my legs were already toast. That being said—it was a GREAT ride. I did feel fresh most of the trip and didn’t really struggle even at the end. But I could tell all the parts of me that weren’t quite ready for 35 miles. The feet got sore and tired, my bum, the thighs burned.   The weather and temps were perfect, as they will also be next weekend in the Traverse City area. It felt good to dust off the cobwebs physically and let my mind go for such a long stretch. I look forward to more rides—ju...

When tRump was elected I had so many sideways thoughts. One of which was: Now I’ll have to get on my bike and ride across the country. I immediately had this urge to go hide, runaway from life. The idea of dropping out was very appealing. I didn’t think I could handle the next 4 years. Mostly because I barely handled the other 4 years from 2016-2020. My world was upended by a divorce and pandemic. I did ride my bike across the country. Flashforward. Today is like reliving the past—except, I’m with family. The press of the everyday, ordinary life squeezes out the existential worry of “what if.” The baby is at a particularly tough age: always getting in to stuff, everything! Truly he would kill himself if we weren’t there to pull him off tables, small spaces he’d gotten into, pulling rocks and mulch out of his mouth. He’s old enough to walk and feed himself. He just lacks judgement, foresight, reason. Skills to keep him alive. The other grandson is learning patience, empathy, about h...

Weather service have yet to determine if the severe storm May 15/16 was a weak tornado—I can only say that when I woke up Friday a.m. the damage was considerable. That being said: I slept through it. The Tiny House held. Thursday had been a beautiful albeit HOT day. I’d run and biked and made food on my day off, which also included a playdate with both grandkids. That night I folded up lawn chairs and covered my fledgling tomato plants because I’d had a couple alerts that a strong storm was going to come through. In bed I checked radar and it said about midnight. I was way too tired and closed down for the night, thinking if I heard it I’d get up and check the garden. I did hear it! My phone went off with a National Weather Alert—but I was too out of it to put 2 and 2 together. I told myself to ignore it, the garden would be fine, there was nothing I could do about it, etc. Not once imagining I could be killed. The next morning I went out to inspect the garden and everything was ...

Maybe 6 months ago (not sure) my grandson developed a kind of sign off: Like you, love you, lots He even had his father write that on the valentine Jack gave me on February 14 th . Lately, he’s added to it: I like you, love you, lots, you’re beautiful Which, at first—and I’m dating myself here—sounded very Eddy Haskell (a butt-licker kid from the 50s TV show, Leave it to Beaver )—anyway, I appreciated hearing it from a 4 ½ year old. I believe him to be sincere. Today, he ran over to give me a toilet update, something BTW I really am interested in as he’s been making real progress, before closing the door to my Tiny House, he added after the likeyouloveyoulots And shiny.   Wow. One part of my head asks, What does that mean? While my heart goes, Ahhhh. This is indeed life.

The past few weeks I’ve been busy building a Substack account. Now, to be honest, I’m still not sure what Substack does and how it’s much different from Blogger Wordpress And all the other platforms I use to generate interest in me, my books, and the workshops I offer. And, again, if I’m honest. I’m not sure how much time and effort I want to put into building a presence—especially when it cuts into my creative writing time—which is very limited these days. I’ve asked to go down on hours at my “day” job so that I can devote more time to writing and summer hang out. I feel like I need to refill the tank, as it were. Substack is an all-in-one site for those authors interested in linking Instagram, Facebook, Youtube, and their podcast and where they can also blog and leave updates. Newsletters, etc are directly mailed out to subscribers. There are also levels of subscribers. Some are lurkers who don’t subscribe, but are just checking the site out. Some folks might subscribe but ...

Those stray white petals carpeting my floor   Sounds very pretty But they are tracked inside Stuck to the bottom of my shoes And glue themselves to the tile So that my Dust Duster finds it impossible To suck them up and I have to Bend over and scrape with my nail The flimsy, papery petals, now discolored, And roll them up like a booger and Throw them away, this little bit of spring Which I waited and waited for and longed— Now a curse beneath my feet Those stray white petals carpeting the floor

I hear there’s a new thing, a new game in town, and—as they say—when in Rome—Fantasy League Conclave. There’s at least 133 players, all actionable, concurrent, and eager to play. They come dressed in their gear. All are highly vetted with lifetime stats that recommend. But only one can come out the winner. A game changer. Fantasy League Conclave is a bit of reality TV mixed in with Grand Theft Auto (whatever version you prefer). The contestants—ahem, Cardinals—are fully loaded, ready to deploy. While there is no smoking gun, there’s lots of smoke! There’s the back-room meetings, back stabbing, rumors, dog-piling, false leads all strategies employed by the longest surviving Survivor: “Outwit, Outplay, Outlast.” It’s not in prowess, mental agility, but how one plays the game. And, a bit of luck. Or what the Church calls Faith. Key to one’s success will be forming alliances, adaptability or staying flexible ie the ability to pivot, and knowing when to strike or make a move. Here...

My last post was about glossolalia, not really a process, more like sitting with our heart in our hands and hoping something good can come from it. Writing is about so much more than ordered words. For example, and I asked permission to share this, one of my critique group members sent along for us to read a first draft of a piece that could be defined as flash. It was about a winter’s day, along a river, walking and coming upon a heron on the other side, silent and still. He and his wife walked every day for a week and saw the heron in the exact same spot. They began to wonder: What’s wrong with it? Is it dead?! Other passersby also commented and expressed worry. His piece read like a Reddit story, not sure what was going to happen next or what the point was. Like a lot of first draft writing. Eventually the bird did fly away to the relief of the walkers, riverbank-observers. I told my critique-mate it wasn’t about the bird. The world is terrible right now. I’m not in ev...

In the documentary (series) The Beatles: Get Back , directed and produced by Peter Jackson—which to be honest, I’ve not watched in its entirety (nearly 8 hours in total, quite a commitment) there was insight given into the band members creative process. The series covers the making of the Beatles’ 1970 album Let It Be and draws largely from unused footage and audio material captured while the Beatles were in the studio over the course of 21 days. So a LOT of boring stuff, you know, the part where one sits around and tries to come up with something. The part where we can easily feel blocked or like our left brain is letting us down. Often we just want it to “come”—like turning on a switch. It only comes by butt in chair. Indeed, there’s John Lennon sitting in a chair with a guitar singing nonsense words to a familiar tune that would become “Get Back”. Sometimes Paul would just sing the alphabet, focusing more on chords/arrangements, and then come up with the lyrics later. * My yo...