Please never contact me again.

Some words are stone arrowheads, dipped in dripping rancor, shot in rage and left lying among the ruins of a bygone time.

Once shot, an arrow cannot be called back. The woman who has let it fly will eventually find it–at the same moment she discovers she is a tenderfoot. There, embedded in her heel, it has found its home. She stumbles to sit, understanding a terrible lesson. The weapon she used has wounded unintended prey.


It has been so, so long.

It has been a very long time since I’ve written. But that’s not really true. I write everyday, but the things I write lately are not fit for public consumption. They are all about the private triumphs and disappointments one experiences in their inner life.

I have thought seriously of deleting this entire blog. It feels…not relevant, a chore, frivolous. It feels like something “other” or apart from real life.

Sitemeter blues.

Are you like me, you blogger, you? Do you read sitemeter like I do, searching for clues on who’s searching for you. Who’s that faceless person in Baltimore trying, day after day (though you don’t post every day–not even nearly!) for you. All when the ONE you want, that particular someone, ignores you–their longs&lats never showing up on sitemeter–an insult and a rebuke by their daily absence.

Are you like me?

Quantify it.

So I am, what now? On a scale of 1 to 10, what?

I’m a seven in prettiness,

a six in brains,

a two in articulation,

an eight in presence,

four in emotional brattiness,

five in the ability to be realistic,

three as compared to your peers,

nine when compared to my peers,

a one in confidence.

Come on. Come on, multiply me. Make me more than the sum of my parts.

Use your words.


Use your words.


Take heart, broken sad heart. Autumn is on its piper way, and with it, orange-red something somethings

no no no


(Deep breaths, girl.

Okay, try again. And a one, a two.)


Take heart, sad heart. Autumn is on its way, marching forth, and with it, fire-crossed embers that seal off pain. Isn’t that what they did? Sear the skin with molten coals to prevent bleeding? And didn’t they




Didn’t they—


Um, didn’t they used to (something poetic and profound to be written here)


(Deep breaths, honey)


Oh God. I cannot write.



Do you keep a journal, or does it keep you? I often wonder about this, the systematic recording of one’s thoughts, feelings, wishes, fears, desires, episodes, et cetera. I mean, why? Why do it?

Because it’s cathartic, it reminds us of where we’ve been, it shows us how strong we are when we see how far we’ve come.

In college, I was enchanted with author and libertine Peter McWilliams. He wrote a couple of books that were absolutely critical to me. One of them was Come Love With Me and Be My Life. In it, he records the beginning, middle, and end of a romantic love experience. It’s almost voyeuristic to read, because it’s journalistic in nature, and no doubt anyone who’s been through a heartbreak (or two) could relate. One of my favorite entries:

I write only
until I cry,
which is why
so few poems
this month
have been
It’s just


I find Goethe comforting.

Confession: though I disagree mightily with Goethe much of the time, I find his writings to be a comfort. Consider:

“One lives but once in the world.” Does this quote not make you want to somehow experience, feel, touch, be, taste, love, reach, create, affect more in life?

“Enjoy when you can, and endure when you must.” Okay, so maybe not inspirational…but you get the sense that you are not alone, that others before you have endured and put their fantasies aside.

and finally,

“As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live.” Thank you, Mr. Wolfgang von Goethe, for throwing forth a pinpoint of hope…that somewhere out in the future, if one becomes evolved enough, and learns to have faith in one’s inherent right to a complete and fulfilled life, one will experience, feel, touch, be, taste, love, reach, create, affect more in life.

It’s a lovely circle.


What are regrets?


Distilled energy, or fantasy

Thoughts gone sideways

Memories suffused with romanticism


Recollections of a past

Combed clean of nuisances, irritations

Practical problems


Larger, better, forever

Musings of yesterday push

Hope, a picture of tomorrow


Happily ever after


—Very interesting—

A trick.

The cusp draws footsteps, hands reaching out ahead to feel the open air where all below is unknown. Here, on the rock face, time stops its sweeping and fire replaces stagnant air. Here, anxiety and anticipation become indiscernible; they face each other in mighty battle.

It is only one mere step—that drop below—and the urge to retreat radiates an influence that is not to be dismissed. “Dive! Dive,” a voice calls up, and with closed eyes, I—



Wait, what?  


Silly, I don’t give away these things so easily. Not in a blog, anyway.