Humpty Dumpty fell on a pillow. My daughter’s rebirth.

Her loss was my story and collective guilt,  though I doubt it could have been written any other way.   The threads of our lives were  caught in a whirlwind spinning outward. With so many pages left unturned.

 

 

Her life once existed as a mere thread, hinging upon other stories and other outcomes.    Fortunately grace was rendered in a quick thaw as the gathering cold was about to re-enter our lives.

The days now hung before us, as upon an icy fog;  it weighed us down and closed around us.   Shrouding secrets unknown and unbearable.  Now only memories challenged our dreams,  and painful new beginnings.    It was hard to know where we stood.

No time to consider,  less time to love

Where did it go, these feelings and these thoughts.

The smell of a baby and the touch of compassion.

 

My daughter came and went into a smoldering sadness and by an act of Providence or natural destiny flowered into something special once again.   I remember her tears as much as her words and the knowledge that some things cannot be undone.

Regardless,  the convergence of our lives were manifest destiny and the whims of a mother could not permanently divide.

 

She grew to realize that the lies were silly and I didn’t need to infer,  rather Rachel was blessed both in name and in spirit.     Her experiences gave her light in the darkness and I doted upon her.   We filled in as many blanks as we could and the answers met expectations as seamlessly as possible.

And about that time,  was a movie that I had watched.  A father and daughter separated by adversity and reunited in love.   A father’s love is priceless.   This I know now but I also know that a gentle hand brings favor.

 

The few moments I had in ‘88,   was like the black and white memories of an old show.  And at the moment of pitched blackness,  came the heralding of fulfillment.

 

Those few moments were like tiny seeds that fell deep into rich  soil and their maturity assured their health and their closure.  Both hers and then mine.

 

Life is sooooo good….

The Cat Stole the Cradle

The Cat’s On The Table. My cat arrived just the other day, it wanted to eat and it wanted to play.

It was big enough that it could jump, it jumped on the table in an unusual way.  With all four feet in the flower vase it lept to the counter with agility and grace. She meowed at me and said with a smile can you do that and I said, “not by a mile.

She meowed at me when she fell of the stool she hit her head and began to drool. I said that was funny when she came to but I need to go off to the blasted zoo, when I got there, there she was flirting with a big red cock-a-too.

She meowed and said with a smile, Do you want to ride on a croc, I said not right now because I am on the clock.And as I swept out the Lion’s cage, my cat looked at me in a puzzled way.

She asked me, if I liked big cats and I said, ” not when they are behind me, not when they’re behind me.

 

And before I knew it the Lion crept up

it was behind me now, because I felt it’s breath.

 

I said to my cat, what do I do? She told me, that she didn’t know, but do I have fresh litter and plenty of food?  She said that with a cavalier tude.

The cats on the table and it is sleeping now it is snoring with the baby and I don’t know how.

But before I knew it, the big cat burped, my cat began to smile . My cat began to smile.

Stockton Dirt Track – World of Outlaw Sprints

http://www.stocktondirttrack.com/index.html

This track should not be confused with the New Stockton 99 Speedway that has operated since 1947 and is part of a complex of tracks owned by Tony Noceti.    Located at the San Joaquin County Fairgrounds in Stockton, California offering dirt track events such as King of the West and World of Outlaws 410 winged sprint cars, USAC wingless sprint cars, AMA Pro Racing motorcycles, IMCA modifieds, & tractor pulls.

Stockton Dirt Track measures 3/8 of a mile located at the old horserace track at the San Joaquin County Fairgrounds.   The World of Outlaws Sprint Car Series is a big time event at any of the 50 or so sanctioned tracks across the United States and Canada.

http://www.woosprint.com/

http://www.woosprint.com/western-spring-shootout

Go out and support the series and the track.    It is worth the money and the weather be fine.   See you there!

We’re Not Going to Eat It. Oh no, these cats say, you eat it yourself.

Here is my version of on Dee Snider’s.   “We’re Not Going to Eat it”.

We’re not going to eat it,

take that nasty stuff and beat it,

No, we’re not going to eat it anymore.

 

We’ve got the right to lose it,

we hope you’ll never use it

this is our guts, this is our life.

We’ll fight the Pet Store Owners

Don’t pick our food cause

You don’t know cats, you don’t know us.

 

We’re not going to eat it,

take that nasty stuff and beat it,

No, we’re not going to eat it anymore.

 

Oh you are so jaded

and got us so spaded,

We don’t want vets,  we don’t want that;

Your food is caustic and gross

nasty and regurgitated,

if you call that food,  you don’t know us.

 

Meow,  Meow,  Meow

Meow,  Meow,  Meow

That food is gross,

That food is gross.

My First Essay For The NewYork Times, The Motherlode: I Miss My Daddy. Divorce Stinks.”

Talk about hurt feelings. How do you tell a baby what to feel? Great piece. Thanks

frommtvtomommy

Come read my first essay in the New York Times, The Motherlode blog:

 I Miss My Daddy. Divorce Stinks.

Because children take longer to adjust than the adults do,

Laura

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They gave all: Who were the Lejeune-based Marines killed in the military helicopter crash?

RIP bros!

Caveman Entertainment Network (CET). Bullies in a blender. Reality TV.

Me and my cavemen counterparts were drooling and scratching our nether regions when all of a sudden there arose such a clatter.   My friends and I are as dumb as a box of rocks and say,  “ugh, alot”.  Very profound commentary for us.  But we do have very strong opinions on everything including our cave chicks.  Errr,   Cave Ladies.

We have discussed boobs,  moobs and Jiffy Lube.   The last is a mystery still til this day.   And why do those cave ladies always make remarks that we can’t understand.    The size of our sticks to the best of my understanding.

Now that our cave darlings feel empowered they are making extensive ‘Honey Do Lists’.     We would rather brood in our so-called mancaves and listen to crickets harmonize by the lake than carve out holes in the walls,  to display their fossilized knick knacks.    Hell,  my old lady and I mean really old lady,  wears granny pants and panties.   Kind of like those basketball shorts in the NBA and cargo pants that are bloused and squared away.   Better than those sexy ladies with the hamburgers in their mouths,  if you ask me.

Which one of these three do not belong?

—————————————————————————————–

But one thing that really bugged us and that is,  is wrastling fake?   Or any more fake than Reality TV?  For one,  does anyone believe that Rick’s son Corey actually knows anything about much except that handshake he does? I mean it is like in the hood with the gun thing.   I wonder if he has maybe a gatt or Tech-9.

Now me and the cave morons all agree, that the Amish Mafia can’t be real because how can you commit arson on TV and get away with it.   And we wonder about his nice car.   Okay,  I got a horse and you got a Mercedes.  To be protected from what?   Teen girls smoking straw and overnight and illicit games of Scrabble?

The most inane TV Series is a tie between about 100 Reality TV Shows and ‘The Match Game’ and Gene Rayburn’s microphone.   I am not sure if that is cattle prod for ‘The Butthole Surfers’  or that staff that Moses had in that movie where he was a Pharaoh in training.

As to any of the shows where they are breaking the law what do they think because doesn’t law enforcement have TVs too?  So,  those Moonshine dudes, are on TV and you figure that they would be all in jail by now.    And anyway what happened to the Shapely Sonja on ‘Operation Repo’?   I love that ghoulish makeup and her awesome hair!   Even Billy the Exterminator knows she is a hot ticket in a donut factory.    I do want Billy’s electric Tennis Racquets because I want to nail some churlish wasps while they are sleeping.

Burn baby burn!

When my brother and I were younger he was a rascal.   One day he hit a honey bee hive with a rock and those overly sensitive bees chased us down.   I got stung a few times but rightfully my brother got x10 as many.   Sheez.   Or the day we were playing with Scorpions.

Now why is it when you have shows like the fishing shows that they are always whining like middle school girls?   Cave dudes love to mock and deride other dudes on the deck when the head cave dude is watching WWE and eating Doritos, the insect flavored brands.

Greenhorns my butt,  it is easy to create drama when one does not get enough roe.   Roe this, roe that,  row your boat whiner boy!   In the Storage Wars,  you have Brandi and Yuuuuuuuuup.    The rest is as staged as the Cowardly Lion biting his tail.

But if you want a real classy show,  you have that ‘Ginger’  with the hot ass cave chicks and their good manners.   That poor boy is probably for real,  like they are not my family.    The older guys are just as lame,  still trying to figure out their Tom-Toms and lava lamps.

Could you imagine one of them on a speed date?   “I  like chewing toe bacco and Cave wall porn.”    “My brother’s sister sure does like fyn!” Grunt!!!

I wonder if their National Anthem is Cocaine?   I mean cave dudes are in control of one thing and that is their TV remote controls and their ten foot satellite dishes.   I wonder if Cave chicks had tramp stamps?

Ferguson Matters but not the block parties and 11 year old raped and charged???

Danielle Hicks-Best, 18, holds her son, Levi. After D.C. police questioned her account about being sexually assaulted, Hicks-Best spent years in detention and secure treatment centers. (Sarah L. Voisin/The Washington Post)

http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/magazine/a-seven-year-search-for-justice/2015/03/12/b1cccb30-abe9-11e4-abe8-e1ef60ca26de_story.html

I feel for anyone who is the victim of police abuse but who are these miscreants,  who even our own honorable President Obama called criminals?    No where do you see community activists demonstrating black on black crime.   The defacto parents of this preteen (at the time) were concerned but the police and judge basically called a child who was tortured by her birth parents….  a liar.     Her attackers were late teens and more and they raped her twice.    Child experts who deal with rape and the trauma of other abuses are startled and alarmed at this story and they should be.   We should be.

I am angry for the girl who is now 18 and feels the system has run all over her.    I am angry at community leaders too worried about stuff that does not matter relative to abuse.   I am upset with a system that treats women so shoddily but talks about feminism.

And it upsets me that we are doing nothing to help at-risk children and at-risk adults.    It is not about police and it is not about punishment as much as prevention.    And I am NOT saying that offenders get off,    but how do we prevent this in the first place?    Education should be a lifelong practice and the saying ‘It takes a village’ is utterly correct.    Abusers hide behind their hate and mental issues and so reporting is delayed.

We care more what idiots like Ismus has to stay and other bigots who promulgate by default,  abuse,  hate and misunderstanding.     I have an issue with cops who act like superiors to suspects.   They are not lawyers and they are not judges.    They enforce and are there (ideally) to serve and protect.   I know there are more than a handful of creepy cops.  I have seen the good cops but cops who trip soccer playing girls after a game is a scum bag or the police officer that nearly killed a 90 year old man.   I would love to have a whack at that jerk off.    He is a jackbooted scum bag.

We spend billions enforcing drug and prostitution cases while these kinds of abuse is happening even though we have rapes happening and too many feminists wanting to hear themselves moralize.   I do totally support women and men who contribute to the alleviation of pain and suffering and the fear that blacks have with cops.    Bullying happens every day and by those who are supposed to make us all safer.

So while we are at it,  let’s help now!   There are kids living in hell on streets,  in foster homes and with drug-crazed and mentally unfit parents.   Hollering doesn’t seem to help and building cargo aircraft that are barely used being sent off to the aircraft graveyard is a waste and irreconcilable.

So let’s start getting to know each other.   Stop being rich and condescending and assuming these problems are just going to go away.

http://www.daytondailynews.com/news/news/crime-law/trial-begins-for-man-accused-of-raping-girl-8/nkH6L/

Or like above,   we get crimes by sex offenders who are left to watch over kids?   In what world is that acceptable or any person you do not know?????

We all need to look at ourselves and what we value most.   None of us are exempt to helping others.

I Started to Smoke (A Joke) Bee Gees.

One of my first blogs.. still sucks …ahah

Floyd, Times Are Changin

This is a takeoff on a song,  a humorous interlude into irony.  As it is,  I totally missed the boat while they were all alive.   Instead I saw them as chessie during the ‘Stayin Alive’ days of Disco.   I was too fixated on the hairstyles and their clothes and those silly ‘ooooooh hoooos’.   That stuff drove me insane and women were the most likely to do it.   That was also a time when Big Hair was making it’s appearance and Boy George flamed his way into our lives and we mostly got what he was about.  Creativity.

So recently,  I heard the song again.  There was something ethereal about it.   In fact,  Robin Gibb brought that song to life as if he were still young again and the fact that some said he looked really bad,  I still saw his inner beauty and strength.  …

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Chills, Spills and other things. Roads to now. Are you here?

I felt the sun’s virtually as unabated heat in the white sandy beaches of the Florida  panhandle and the smell that permeated that area from a nearby Paper Mill.   It’s sickly sweet smell hung in a florid sky and the aftertaste of scallops made me feel nauseous and trapped.

The Frozen Rainbow.

 

I guess things happen for a reason and behind the doors of our dreams are cryptic answers too complicated to comprehend.  Especially for a child.   The Northern Lights breathed a luminous landscape in the night skies and the cold winds were a knife with a lethal cut.

Sad moments made the frosty chills breathtakingly painful and unforgettable.  The lonely heart of my many nightmares both real and dreamt cascaded over me,  sealed by the ice and recorded in fragments of memories.

The Rainbows here were made of AU with Santa’s helpers nearby,  ready to conference with that white-bearded Totem handing out candy and coal.

I was lost one day in a row of sleepy trailers which billowed out smoke from wood-stove fires and dangerous old space heaters which either warmed us or ignited other kinds of fire.

My Journey seemed to have no end.   With a runny nose and rubber boots I languished in this maze,   seeking out some answers from a random neighbor.    This story somewhere between a dream and my fear of being permanently lost.   The smoldering ruins of a fragmented world.   Like elevators in towering skyscrapers chased by Gremlins and the free fall of a damaged psyche trying to make amends for being hurt.   To be hurt less or no more.

Life always seemed to be changing.   Starting over again and again with the approach of a train, a car or a bus,  we were Gypsy’s not long for anywhere.  And each mode of transportation offered Rockwell scenes,  with pop tarts,  Corn Chips,  Sandwiches and Koolaid.

 

Texas was the land of tumbleweeds, tornadoes and tacos,   where watermelon festivals and PTA meetings and Open Houses happened in a school with disagreeable teachers and paddles with holes in them strategically located in plain site.

At our home in Burkburnett we had a storm cellar and one day a boy who is a few years older than us wanted to show us younger kids something.   He showed his ass (literally).    Getting upon a large electrical spool inside the storm cellar, he showed us his wares,  so-to-speak.   Or the lack thereof.  (underwear).   I had to be careful with that term.   LOL.

Now as far as his crime,  it was not his own but the influences around him.  Probably at home or somewhere else.  Nothing wrong with the human body,  especially the coming of age stuff.

When you’re an adult and violate the vulnerability of your kid or someone else’s,  you set in motion a disaster.   Roles are confused with adult behavior in a life whose coming of age is thwarted for a time.

   Anger bleeds with wounds so deep you fail to thrive.  Your life is bits and pieces and crashing bells.   You cry silent tears of rage and people getting too close makes you want to fly away to a place no one else can land.   You dream of leaving on a train like the Box Car Children or in a clean space station dressed in white where angels cannot find.  You dream of stories where you are the hero and you can control the volume and the brightness.

Sad songs make you happy because at least they are real and the clouds and the dark skies are a kind of revenge,  control over the storms.    You cheer the rain and people wonder at your skills to know but what they do not know,  that these are your sanctuary.    Snow Days are a thrill, a hedge against consensus. A road painted in white,  radios calling it a day.

One night you wander in your dreams, falling down to the Earth and walking back to the camper where you hung out.   The next morning your bleeding hand started to heal and the following night you punch out a window.    Your dreams and your reality clash and the rebel yell resounds.    Heart beating to rhythms unheard cloaked in allegory.

The ending of a story with buildings punctuating the end.   Times will never be the same.   Love?  Happiness?  Your own shame,  mix in a vortex of purple and green hues.   The Cowboy left bleeding in the sand,  his hand no longer the fastest,  the mask going gray along with the retreating clouds.  The wary veteran reporter no longer finds a smiley face but a dearth of wisdom and the prickly thorns of conscience.

 

My two cats are my sentinels and they know the sounds to make with purrs laced with loyalty and a home where a home might not be.   A car,  an alley or a truck stop day room,  your car at least has your friend.