No! There’s no T-bone!

Today has been tense.  Someone got fired at work today for being a racist fuckwad.  It was the asshole with the blue switches on his mechanical keyboard, (and the Confederate flag on many of his shirts, belt buckle, and bumper sticker.)  Every time he pressed a key, it made an annoying click sound that defeats the noise canceling abilities of my Bose QC35’s.  Needless to say, I wasn’t sorry to see him go.  I left for home soon after he was dismissed.  On my way out, my boss asked if I know of anyone to replace him.  I suggested he hire someone disabled.  Then I gave an extemporaneous lecture about why it’s an excellent move.

He started to object right away, so I reminded him I’m disabled.  For some reason, many people assume disabled only means using a wheelchair.  I don’t know the statistics, but I’d guess there are at least as many disabled who don’t look disabled (to the unaware observer.)  I’m so glad I stopped talking at that point and didn’t speculate on who else in our office might have some disabling attributes.  I was thinking it, though.  (And I may have silently armchair diagnosed a few on my way home.)

I love M.’s mom.  It will take a bit longer with his dad because he’s a LOUD talker.  Every time he speaks, it’s like fingernails going down a chalkboard while an infant screams, a dog’s barking, and My Sharona is playing on crappy speakers, at the same time.  (Calgon, take me away!)  I think he might have trouble hearing.  I’ll find out when I get used to his TALKING.  He probably thinks I’m hard of hearing because I don’t respond (verbally) to anything he says.  I like his eyebrows, though.  M. thinks it’s hilarious because apparently, I cringe literally.  (I told him he should be proud I don’t cover my ears and/or flee as that’s what I want to do every time.)  A few more dinners and I’ll get a handle on it.  I hope.

I beat the hell out of my drums when I got home.  (Not really, I’m just hitting them harder.)  I’ve been playing to a different album, Be Myself by Sheryl Crow.  I’m so addicted to it.  I like every song and they flow from one to another (like they should.)  Today, my favorite song is Heartbeat Away.  It fucking rocks.  Yesterday it was Woo Woo, (but I can’t figure out what she means by double bubble Alamo.)  I’m going to listen later with better cans (wired) because I don’t want to get caught singing the wrong lyrics (again.)  She sings in my range (but probably has a much bigger range than me.)  I’m a 2nd soprano (who would much rather be an edgy alto with a signature vibrato.)

Except when I’m singing along to Disney films, like Moana.  I’m about halfway through it and love it so far.  It’s worth viewing just to see how far animation has come with hair.  I’m wicked impressed with how they animated her thick, wavy hair.  I served with some American Samoans, and appreciate they acknowledged their strong body type in the film, too.  Disney is getting there.  Yay.  Too bad Walt isn’t around to see the deNazification of Disney.  I hope it continues.

You cannot buy half a can of soda

I went downtown to the vigil for Heather Heyer.  I’ll remember her forever.  I didn’t stay long.  The Depression Monster is thrilled I’m no longer taking Prozac and is just waiting for an opportunity to pounce.  I going to disappoint him.  I can feel sad without sliding into depression.  It’s been an odd day.  I did a freestyle rap about racism earlier, (and it astonished me.)  Mostly because I don’t rap.  Ever.  It was good, too!  The rhymes kept flowing out of me!

I just kept saying whatever came to mind, and hearing it at the same time, and thinking, “Yes! These are the words!”  I started getting louder (Me! Being loud!) and could feel the knot in my gut unwind a bit with every rhyme.  S. was sitting there watching me, looking stunned.  I was so excited, (and so many other feelings at the same time.)  Then I laughed really hard because The Muse is back.  Huzzah!

I’m deliberately not writing down the lyrics because obviously, they’re for someone else, (a rapper, duh.)  I’m just thrilled they passed through me on their way.  It. Was. So. Awesome.  (I don’t even listen to rap!)  I’ve gotten bits of songs in the past, but never this strongly.  If you’ve ever observed how experienced musicians can create music spontaneously together in jam sessions, you’ve seen the river of inspiration flowing from The Muse.  Jam sessions make me so happy I could cry.

I’ve received other hints she’s back, and am trying to be wise about it.  Naturally, I want to drop my life and go compose some music until I collapse from exhaustion.  Instead, I redid my schedule to allow a set amount of time each day for creating music.  See Alison adult.  (Takes a victory lap around the playroom office.)  I’m reading The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy.  It was mentioned in another novel.  I’m enjoying it so much I’m off to continue.

I think it’s B.O.!

Open Letter to the tiki torch carriers in North Carolina:

I woke up this morning and (eventually) checked my Twitter feed.  Oh.  A demonstration in North Carolina by angry, privileged, and misled individuals carrying tiki torches.  You’re upset because despite having an entire nation specifically designed to give you a better shot at everything in life, you’re still not thriving.  It’s not enough you’ve never experienced life surrounded by hateful people who despise you for existing.  You don’t even know what it’s like to face life without every possible advantage at your disposal.  You can’t imagine it.  It’s much easier to ignore these facts, and pretend to be the victim, instead, eh?

It’s also simpler to waste your life than live it to it’s fullest.  Privilege is an advantage, but it doesn’t live your life for you.  It doesn’t guarantee you will be on top of everyone else.  It doesn’t automatically make you awesome.  You still have to get off your lazy ass and build your life with effort, which is what truthfully has you so upset.  It’s unfortunate you didn’t focus on making yourself into someone you can love, and instead chose to concentrate on hating everyone else.  Every single one who carried their tiki torch around the church, while spewing racial slurs and saluting a dead, meth addicted loser, has publicly announced you are a miserable piece of shit.

That was precisely the message you delivered.  Nobody saw you, and thought, “Hey!  This person has factual information to share with the world!”  We looked at you and were disgusted.  What a pathetic tiki tantrum by spoiled brats who haven’t figured out how to adult yet.  We don’t pity your invented woes.  We know your cause is bullshit.  We are aware you’re merely proving yourself one of the poor fools who fell for (weak) propaganda because it was easy and didn’t take any effort.  You just want to be a terrorist without consequence, and this group will take anyone with white skin.  Finally, you get to fit in without effort or policing your poorly formed personality.  How sad.

Barrack Obama was President of the United States of America for eight years.  He has brown skin.  Obama overcame every single obstacle that stood in his way.  Not one of you tiki torch carrying fuckwads has even faced a single one of the barriers he conquered.  Instead, you’re bent on creating more barriers to ensure such an incredible achievement never happens again.  Even with all the privilege and advantages, in this beautiful country where you automatically have a far better shot at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,  merely for existing, you’re still losers.  That’s so fucking pathetic it’s hard to believe it’s even possible.  Holy shit.

The worst part is the why.  Why are you so miserable and pathetic?  The answer is simple.  You chose this.  You looked at all the opportunities America has to offer you, and said, “Nah, that all sounds like hard work.  Instead, I’m just going to make it harder for everyone else, and then pout over not being treated as if I’m valued, when all I have to offer is hate and destruction.”  On second thought, I do pity you.  If I see you on the street with your bug repelling torch, I’ll hug you.  I can’t imagine how awful it feels to be you.  Besides, you’re alive, which entitles you to my consideration.  You don’t even need skin for me to consider you and your feelings.  But if you strike me, my return will end you, so don’t.  Take the hug or don’t.  It’s yours to accept or reject.

Instead of choosing to be hateful, you can always change your mind and embrace all of America in her glory.  Together, we’re amazing.  I’d rather you were part of our greatness because I  suspect you have something inside you that makes you one of a kind.  Not part of some angry group looking foolish.  Just you, alone, without all the fake baggage.  Oh, there you are!  I can see you better when you’re not pretending to be a psychopath.  I don’t even believe you hate other Americans.  I think you’re angry and frustrated.  You’ve accepted a lot of bullshit as true and decided to go with it because you know you can get away with it, (now.)

I’m hoping you figure out this path leads to a dark empty place.  Many have traveled it, but none of them are still around to share.  You’ve chosen the team that will lose every single time, regardless of how much money and KGB bots feeding the effort.  In the end, love and life always win.  They’re the point, silly.  So think again about who you want to anchor yourself to, and why.  Do you want to spend the rest of your life angry and miserable?  Many have chosen to do this.  We have diseases named after them.  I hope you decide you want far more.  I hope you opt to be honest.  The hate is your thing.  I don’t hate you.  If I did, I wouldn’t bother writing this.

I love you for being alive.  I’m angry you’ve chosen misery because I know it’s a choice.  Nobody is forcing you to go down this road.  You’re truly only hurting yourself.  Don’t do that.  Life is hard enough without sabotaging it.  You know what’s right and wrong.  You’re free to choose.  Just remember, every choice has consequences.  You’re probably going to get away with terrorizing North Carolinians last night because of your white privilege.  Nobody is shocked by this because we live in a nation that doesn’t treat everyone equally.  We hate it.  We fight it.  We do whatever we can do legally to try and even the playing field.  We don’t show up and terrorize you, though.  We treat you better than you deserve, and you make us beg just to exist.

I hope you think about what kind of future you want for yourself, and make better choices.  Your white skin isn’t necessarily going to protect you forever, so please work on building yourself into a decent individual.  Nobody can do it but you.



If anything happens here, can I count on you?

Today flew by.  Probably because I spent most of it working on a T-shirt quilt.  I haven’t made a quilt in a while.  This will be my 8th.  I listened to Be Myself by Sheryl Crow on repeat all day.  I’m glad I checked to see if she released anything recently.  I’m a little behind with her (but compared to just discovering Stevie Nicks, not much.)  I stood about 7 feet away from Sheryl Crow’s tour bus as it was pulling into the fairgrounds years ago, and waved, (even though I couldn’t see anyone through the tinted windows.)

I accepted M’s proposal.  I told him we should wait until after the national crisis, though.  He doesn’t want to wait so we’ll talk about it more.  Instead of rings, we’re going to think of something else.  My first wedding ring, engagement ring, expensive watch, and a few other similar items are somewhere under the sand in the desert outside of El Paso.  I lost one diamond stud in Grafenwoehr, Germany.  The other one disappeared along with roughly half my possessions when they were shipped stateside.  One rollerblade made it.  🙄

I took some pictures of my quilt in progress.

It’s not ironed yet.  I haven’t decided what I’ll use for the back.  I think I have some flannel left over from my Cookie Monster quilt.  I’m getting better at this because I didn’t lose a single drop of blood this time, (so far.)  I did all the cutting on a board on the floor, which made it easier.  From now on, I’m always going to listen to music when I sew.  (I didn’t have wireless headphones last time.)  I can’t wait to continue working on it, (but will till tomorrow, so I don’t disturb my neighbors.)

I finished re-reading A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving the other day.  It’s been years since I last read it, and I got a lot more out of it this time.  I’m reading The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. by Neal Stephenson and Nicole Galland now.  I don’t even read the synopsis before buying his novels anymore.  I know I’ll like it, whatever it’s about.  Excellence is dependable.  I’m probably getting loopy from lack of sleep, so I’m off to read, and hopefully, sleep.

I told you never to come in here. Serenity now!

Welp.  I’m freaking out again.  M. popped The Question.  His parents will be here in a few days.  Inhale… 2… 3… 4…  Fuck.  And out… 2… 3… 4…  This kinda shit isn’t supposed to happen after your mom dies.  It would be in the rule book if I had a say in these things.  I did marriage already.  My brain is threatening to reboot.  Redirecting to a shorter thread.  I’m scared.  That’s what’s happening.  I’m afraid because the last time I got married, it didn’t work out.

Since I haven’t shared anything about my marriage, I’ll give the summary.  I got married when I was 19.  I got divorced 25 years later.  My ex-husband was also serving in the Army when we met.  I’ll always love him.  I smiled all the way through when I typed that.  He was (later) diagnosed with schizophrenia.  His medications had severe side effects resulting in his eventual refusal to take them.  Most people with schizophrenia are nonviolent, but that’s not the case here.  I suspect his spec ops training and combat exposure didn’t help.

Unmedicated, he began self-medicating, first just with alcohol, then he started using meth.  Things got bad.  I left when he got violent, but you can’t actually leave an Army Ranger.  You can move a lot, lose a lot of deposits, waste time with restraining orders and unbelievably misogynistic cops in small towns, get a divorce and beg, but you can’t leave.  I’m going to cut this short because this story sucks.  He’s in prison now and doing well on a new medication.  His mom gives me updates a few times a year, but that’s the only remaining contact.

I struggled with the man I married vs. the man who is very ill.  They’re extremely different.  I’m so in love with the man I married, and always will be.  He no longer exists.  It took time for me to accept that.  The first time he hurt me, I was more shocked and confused than any physical suffering.  I was also government property, (GI = government issue.)  I think that spared me the agony of deciding to leave.  (I’ve read lots of women go back to a mate after the first time he hurts them.)

I don’t blame my ex for being sick, of course.  Mental illness fucks up relationships all the time, I’m sure.  My mom told me I don’t need a man to do anything I want to do.  She told me I can be anything I want if I’m willing to pay the price required.  That nobody is better than me or can tell me how to feel.  My mom had an incredible record for being right.  I’m missing her right now.  I told M. I want time to process and think.  He said he expected as much, so that’s a relief.  At least he didn’t spend money on a shiny rock glued to some metal (that I would lose within 24 hours.)

I don’t believe in spending tons on a wedding, either.  Fuck paying lots of money to be anxious in front of people.  (I just want a cake and to be the DJ.)  So I guess I’m going to say yes, even though I’m so scared I think I may hurl.  I’d like to sleep on it, but that’s laughable tonight.  I’m going to go commune with Sheryl Crow, Stevie Nicks, and Beyoncé while I pace.  When I’m relaxed and empowered, I’ll know what to do.

Hey! I got the body of a taut, pre-teen, Swedish boy.

I’m going to redesign my blog soon, so this is fair warning.  There’s a good chance the new design will closely resemble the original.  Visual anchors are important to me, so I don’t stray willy nilly.  I’m aiming for visually appealing without being overwhelming.  When you spend as much time on auto-pilot as I do, things flow more smoothly when there are no sudden changes.  I’m at the point where I can tell the Prozac is no longer present in my system at a high enough concentration to work.  I thought I would celebrate this moment, but instead, I’m proceeding with caution.

My intention has evolved to remaining off the drug permanently.  I’m at a different stage in life where my priorities have shifted since my last summer Prozac purge.  Things that weren’t even on my radar then are now significant.  I think this is what’s led to being careful.  I’ve mocked the amount of thought, and energy others spend on arranging for sex.  It’s been an inside joke with myself for years because my complete absence of libido (thanks to Prozac) made it seem ridic and primal.  I’m not laughing anymore.  I’m kind of freaking out.

I’m trying to focus on how thankful I am this is happening now, and not when I was younger, and far, far more gullible and impressionable.  (Maybe just one far.)  M. is more mature than I am.  Shocking, I know. 😂  I’m happy with this fact because he’s a good teacher.  I’m learning how to be in the moment when in the presence of others.  The universe has this lesson on auto-repeat, so I’ve conceded, (finally.)  I’m certain I wouldn’t have survived being a kid with today’s internet.  Zero doubt, because any kid with a debit or credit card is an adult online.

I’m actually pretty amazed I’m still kicking it, to be honest.  (And a little smug because I die hard.  💪🏽)  I just had an urge to create a video game that teaches people how to be safer online.  (Suppresses the urge to begin a coding marathon.)  I’m not very confident with this topic, but don’t know how to dance around it very well.  My libido is back, and I forgot everything about being a sexual entity.  I’ve lived for years without having it, and it’s like going to bed and waking up as a teenager, the sequel.  (Except I involuntarily make a noise when I get up now, sometimes.)

So I’m kinda freaking out, but on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being the worst… Kidding!  I’m only mildly freaking.  Memorizing Seinfeld has its uses.  I know the script for the worst case scenario, so it’s all good.  M. has a good attitude about it.  Not many men would continue dating a woman who made him sign a No Sex Ever contract, (on the third time hanging out.)  At least not many of the ones I’ve met so far.  I doubt I’m the only one who uses this method, though.  It’s efficient.

A lot of people just want to have sex and are doing the rest of the date to be polite.  It saves time to know these things up front.  I know about hookups and friends with benefits.  It’s more shit that used to crack me up.  Suddenly, I get it.  I’ve been giggling all day because lots of jokes that weren’t funny (to me) at the time are hilarious today.  I’m tripping on how much of an influence sexuality has on perspective.  These are all the things most people probably noticed when they were teenagers.  Or at least over a gradual transition.

Just one more thing to agonize over when deciding whether or not to take Prozac, I suppose.  Everyone’s mileage will vary to some degree.  It’s solidified my decision to refrain.  I’m tripping and experiencing things I forgot existed, but I’m certain I prefer being the sexual being I was born to be.  I also prefer being friends with The Muse and hated being in exile.  I regret trading my creativity and sexuality for a comfortable, stable numbness.  I realize now it was necessary initially, but not permanently.  Any further use will be for stabilization only, (which is unlikely considering how long it takes to reach a therapeutic level.)

Whew.  Okay, I’m calmed down now.  This is no big deal.  Aside from a slight decline in productivity, I see no cons.  I’ll be glad when I can go for more than ten minutes without realizing another new implication.  I can’t really afford to be more scatterbrained.  Also, it’s occurred to me that Stevie Nicks probably has lots of fans who lust for her.

On Prozac, this information wouldn’t have occurred and probably would have led to my feeling concerned for her safety.  Off Prozac:  Duh!  See what I mean?  I’m more adulty today than I was yesterday, (it is now.)  Yay.  And because I’m a kind person, I’m going to stop tripping out loud.  You’re welcome!  I’m off to beat my drums with sticks.

You can’t bring Pepsi.

I’m so happy to be home.  The cat is ignoring me while keeping me in view.  It’s cracking me up because she acted like a puppy when I first entered.  Then I rolled in my suitcase, and she remembered she’s a cat.  I expect to be forgiven in a few hours, (based on having done this routine before.)  I missed Her Majesty so much, which is why I keep pausing to grin at her between sentences.  I didn’t even wish she was a dog the whole time I was in Denver.  (Sometimes, I just have to conjure an image of all the dog owned in my building in January, and I forget why I ever wanted one.)

My mailbox was stuffed with mail, (and echoes of annoyed murmurs from my postal carrier, no doubt.)  I got a postcard from a friend (squee!), so it wasn’t all magazines and thank-you cards from Democrats from other states.  I’m saving all my snail mail correspondence from Senators and Representatives (assistants).  I plan on being adopted as a grandmother by some delightful young person who needs one someday.  Since I rarely take photos, I figure I’ll need something to back up my stories of how much better or worse things were in the good old days during our visits.  I may even figure out how to bake.

I need to order groceries, do laundry, and clean.  M. restrung all five of my guitars in my absence.  I almost cried when he showed me.  They’re all polished and shit, too.  He gets me more than I realized.  I (over) thought about it in the shower.  I believe he’s my lobster.  I didn’t even realize I needed one.  Bonus.  He has two weeks of vacation beginning tomorrow.  I’ll likely be preoccupied with him over the next few days.  His parents will be visiting soon and taking S. when they leave.  It’s going to be like a scene right out of The Color Purple when she leaves.

Celie:  Write!

Nettie:  Nothing but death could keep me from it!

Except, we’ll Facetime to stay in touch, of course.  She’s not going to be here when Stevie Nicks is performing in St. Paul later this month.  I’m kind of relieved she’s bummed by this because it makes me feel more relaxed with my obsession infatuation enthusiastic appreciation of Stevie Nicks.  I’m not alone.  Her queendom knows no national boundaries.  (Music is more universal than math.)  S. is taking one of the documentaries home, (not In Your Dreams.  Mine.  I’ll send her one for her birthday.)  She also doesn’t know how to feel about Lindsey Buckingham.  (I kinda lean toward forcing maintaining civilized thoughts based solely on his contribution to Fleetwood Mac.)

I’m still pretty anxious about meeting The Parents.  I feel like I should do something to prepare, but have no idea what to do.  Aside from pacing, that is.  Sitting on the edge of my bed will have to suffice.  (Inside joke.)  I watched Dave Chapelle on Netflix earlier.  I think I pulled a muscle from laughing so hard.  Damn, I missed him.  The only thing that’s changed is his audience.  It’s like a casting call for a Benneton ad.  (So diverse now.)  I love it.  (He still got heckled, but it was all positive, and he took it in stride.)

I’d better get busy with my chores.  There’s probably a few cats worth of fur collaborating in the corners since it’s been two weeks without vacuuming.  I’m a vacuuming ninja, so it won’t be there long.  Hi-ho-hi-ho… off to clean I go… 🎶


I think it’s fantastic. I think it’s a fantastic idea.

The kids in hacker training camp have gone on a field trip.  I didn’t go because my being in Denver is my field trip.  No amusement park necessary, thankyouverymuch.  They’re with a physicist who promised to blow their minds.  I’m excited to hear all about it when they return.  I’m excellent at vicarious excitement.  It’s a perk of being autistic.  I’ve been to some fabulous amusement parks and a few sad ones.  My imagination is prepared.  (My inner ears are relieved I’ve accepted the aging process.)

Seventeen stayed behind because he works there.  He is the guy.  She showed me his selfie.  She didn’t first explain what a selfie is, so there’s that.  ☺️  I didn’t really look (because I’d be too tempted to comment on how much he looked like Justin Beiber.  I know.  I’m old.)  I did ask why she didn’t want to see him at work, however.  She answered, but she lost me immediately.  Apparently, it’s strategic.  She’s used her hacking skills to map out the progression of her relationship, in a way.

I had to pinch myself hard to keep from opening my mouth.  I remember how it felt to grow up in the 80’s under the shadow of the Vietnam era boomers.  I’m presently learning their story, and what they endured.  I’ve resented being told I’m a feminist before I even knew what it meant.  More so because of course, it’s true, but I didn’t get to discover this for myself, I was raised there.  It’s completely irrational and selfish, (which irks me even more.)  I know I was spared two incredibly painful journeys by the generation just before my own.  I’m absolutely grateful.  (I just need to continue expanding my knowledge of what I was spared, and how.)

It’s inspired me to be gentle with the young.  I know they have to hurt to grow, but I want them to hurt less than I did.  (I get that the previous generation not only wanted us to hurt less, but made huge sacrifices to make certain of it.)  It must be my maternal instinct that insists I treat those younger than myself with kindness and empathy.  And my memory, I suppose.  So when Seventeen informed me she chose her university based solely on the fact he’s also attending there, I didn’t say shit.  I didn’t ask her what she wants to major in, either.  I just listened.  (It was so hard!)

We’re setting up art supplies for tomorrow while we wait for the kids to return, so I’m off.

You promised a kid in the hospital that I would hit two home runs?

I’m back in Denver.  S. went on the weed tour and has been stoned since.  She’s been looking at her hand for a while now.  I’m just giggling every time I look up at her.  I remember when I went on the tour.  I saw a former Googler who kept staring at me, (but it only creeped me out in hindsight.)  I remember being floored that it was legal for us to ride around in a bus while getting high.  I studied the people and noticed patterns.  The younger people smoked about three times as much as us middle agers.  They smoked pretty much nonstop the whole time and started before we even began moving.

The tour guides identified which of us were using weed for the first time, and I was relieved not to be the only inexperienced person.  I noticed we sat by age, too.  The younger in the back, inexperienced and older up front.  I sat next to a couple from Alabama.  I love the accent so it was deliberate.  They were cool.  Adjacent was the Creepy Starer and a couple from Chicago.  The Chicagoans showed me how to use a bong, (it was huge.)  It made me choke so hard I thought I was going to cry.  But then a wave of warmth and weight crept over me like a whisper, and I settled back and grinned.

It felt like being under my weighted blanket, but the positive effects were magnified.  I felt like I was standing on the border of my inner world while still able to observe and interact with the outer world.  I think it’s what it must feel like to be neurotypical.  I felt like my body was my violin.  My ability to control it required no thought.  I still felt unshielded, but I didn’t obsess internally about things I have no control over.  I didn’t feel anxious and realized I was previously unaware of how it felt to be free of…  Free of the exhausting compulsion to be neurotypical.  Oofda.  I’ll have to think about that some more.

I need to focus on rehydrating.  I can feel a headache threatening to take over soon.  I still haven’t started my vector art project.  I thought about it more and changed my mind about the photo of Stevie Nicks I’m going to use.  I’m using one from 2016 instead.  The Stevie Nicks that exists today is the Stevie Nicks I’m learning so much from.  After I got over feeling sorry for myself for not knowing about her until recently, (and it took a while,😂) I figured there’s a reason it’s now.  This is when I was ready.  I think I had to grow and experience some things first.

I’m realizing Stevie Nicks’ generation is presently guiding me in many aspects of my life.  Through music, The Resistance, and I’m reading novels by authors who are taking me back to the 60’s and 70’s and showing me how things were then, and how it’s affected them.  It’s not a conscious decision, but it’s the generation I’m hearing and heeding.  It’s fascinating and surprisingly comforting.  I finished Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King earlier (and for me, that’s fast reading.)  I couldn’t stop.  I lay down to sleep and then got right back up and read some more.  (Being an adult rocks sometimes.)  I don’t have any criticism for Stephen King’s writing.  I’m baffled any exists, to be honest.

I guess humans generally don’t get art in general.  The inclination to criticize art is something that should be discussed with a psychologist or religious leader, in my humble opinion.  I think art is my second favorite thing about being alive.  People are my first favorite.  I’m just not certain they aren’t the same thing.  I’m off to find a new book.


Did you just roll your eyes at him?


I’m home for the weekend.  I knew I wouldn’t make it the whole two weeks uninterrupted.  S. stayed in Denver to visit with a family she knows.  Now that I’m home, I feel like I exhaled after holding my breath for too long.  I like the energy in Denver, but I don’t know how to relax there (yet).  I had fun this morning on our nature walk.  I asked them to notice any patterns.  The kids found some incredible examples.  Then we discussed beauty.

They’re going to think about it more over the weekend.  It’s fascinating to hear a child attempt to articulate complex ideas with a limited vocabulary.  I’m so familiar with that excitement mixed with frustration, and can’t help but stand on my tippy toes to try and meet them halfway.  I think they sense I want to understand them, and it encourages them to keep working at it.  We finished our day early by playing with our lunch.  I ordered a fruit and veggie platter, and we made patterns on our plates with cherry tomatoes and grapes, etc.

I forgot how spending time with kids reminds me why I love people in general.  Children are unshielded by default.  I think they can sense it about me, too.  I might have a touch of fascination overload, (and I love it.)  I talked to my doctor on the phone this afternoon.  We decided four hours of cardio per day is too much, and why.  Instead, one hour of cardio, and three hours of using different coping skills, (music, art, puzzles, etc.)  In other words, variety.  She was funny about it.  She asked if I’m training for a marathon.  Then she spelled out the correlation between body chemistry and exercise, and how too much of anything isn’t a good thing.

I’m glad as I was having a hard time getting in three hours in Denver.  The book I was reading all this week:  The Long Walk by Stephen King (under a pseudonym) is a hell of a story when your legs and feet are tired and sore.  I finished it last night and enjoyed it.  I predict his books will be studied in the future.  Same with John Irving and J. K. Rowling.  And Brandon Sanderson and Patrick Rothfuss, (stopping short of my full list.)  I don’t know if people fully grasp what they’re doing.  I don’t think so.  I just know it won’t go unnoticed forever.  In the meantime, I appreciate the shit out of their work.

I’m reading Hearts in Atlantis by King next.  I haven’t seen the movie yet.  (I’m still on the first season of Glee.)  I’ll catch up when it snows.  Better Things starts soon.  Yay.  My cat has decided I’m done typing, so I’m off to play with her.