getting my house in order

getting my house in order
it's a jungle out there

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Be Bwave Fursday or Be Bwave Fwyday


There's a new thing at work. It's called the drowning turkey stance. It's my own creation. I take this stance when something occurs which is so astounding that all I can do is stop in my tracks with my head tilted back and my mouth slack and open. Just like a turkey in the rain. It's when I'm so dumbfounded by what's occurring around me that I'm paralyzed and allowing myself to drown.


This is what birthed the drowning turkey stance:

...cocaine positive baby born to G10P9 polysubstance abusing mom who has never had custody of her kids and won NY state lottery, receiving 1000$/mo to fund her drug habit...

This baby was in our newborn nursery. As his 9 siblings had been before him. This 10th baby was born with cocaine in his urine, as were several of his siblings. Which means mom used within 72hrs of delivery. All the siblings are in foster homes. And yes, mom is addicted to or abusing more than just cocaine, which she buys with money won through lotto.

Dumbfounded.

I was struck dumb.

Which was unusual for me, as I always have something to say at work. Sometimes I'm funny, sometimes I'm crass, sometimes I'm understanding. But on this particular day for some particular reason I was...

Dumbfounded.

And I stood in the middle of the nurses station, paralyzed, with my head tipped back and my mouth hanging open, staring at the ceiling.

One of the nurses looked at me Michelle, are you OK?
I feel like a turkey caught in the rain...

So conversation ensued. I work with a lot of single moms. Some are R.N.s, some are med techs, some are M.D.s. They pretty much all had the same response.

The state should take the money away.
Someone should report it to Lotto.
What about mandatory sterilization? Or mandatory long term birth control?
Like an IUD or something?

But, alas, we live in a pretty liberal state. Which I love.

But 10 drug exposed babies? All in foster care? And she gets a lot of free money with which she presumably buys drugs?

Seems as though (and this is hearsay ie: a friend of a friend/I know someone who...) if you win the lotto, and you are on any kind of public assistance, you first have to pay back the state. But this lady is NOT on public assistance. Why?

Because all her kids are in foster care and even though the state is paying for it it doesn't count cause she's not directly getting any benefits.

hmmm....

Dumbfounded.

One of the things I love about my job is I get to work with a population that I otherwise there but for the grace of god go i would have no contact. Urban, rough, struggling families. Families from all over the planet. Bangladesh, Vietnam, Jordan, Ghana, Malawi, Ivory Coast, Ecuador, Nepal. The problem with my job is, after 12 years, some days I've lost all my liberal socialist bleeding heart tendencies. And I love that I have those tendencies. But if I'm crabby or tired or stressed, I find myself thinking and feeling some very uncharitable thoughts and feelings.

And I don't want to be judgemental.
I want to maintain my compassion.

But come on!

I had to think myself out of this one, cause I could feel my brain morphing into Glenn Limbaugh or Rush Beck or...

Ms. Moon
the antithesis
of right winged conservative compassionlessness

I remembered her post about a red headed baby.


So I tried to think about this extraordinarily fecund polysubstance abusing lotto winning mother.

How does she feel? Is she tormented? Is she in unbelievable psychic and emotional pain? Was she brutally sexually abused as a child? Has she considered suicide? Does she not care at all? Does she not love her babies? Does she hate them? Does she want them back? Does she worry that they will spend their childhoods in foster care? cause there's not a chance in hell they'll get adopted Or is she thankful that they're in foster care?
Can she care?

So, by channelling Ms. Moon, and forcing my thought process in a specific direction, I was able to cultivate a modicum of compassion for the drug addicted lotto winning mother of 10.

Which is what I wanted to do. I did not want to feel like a Beck Limbaugh groupie.


I remembered a long time ago, before I had kids of my own. I was working in a residential facility for HIV infected foster kids. This place was in Washington Heights, which at the time had the highest crime rate in all of NYC.

Best job of my life. Seriously.

So with HIV infected kids, come their HIV infected mothers. And most of the infected moms were drug addicts. And some worked really hard to get it together, and others... not so much.

There were two sisters. One was 2 and the baby was 10 weeks old. And the baby was running a fever. As was our protocol, the baby was on isolation until we could determine the cause of the fever. Which meant that when mom showed up for her weekly visit, she was unaware that her baby was sick, and the visit couldn't happen. At the time, mom didn't really have an address and only doctors and movie stars had cell phones. Mom did have drugs, though, cause when she arrived she looked a little strung out.

Being the nurse on duty, and the person in charge, I had to explain to this mom that the visit couldn't happen.

I have to say, that I felt just a smidge of superiority. Just a smidge of I'm better than you. Just a smidge of well you get what you deserve and you don't deserve this visit cause it's all your fault anyway.

Yes. I felt that way. Just a smidge.

Well, mom was not happy with this at all. Things escalated pretty quickly. I thought shit she's gonna hit me. The security guard harumph some guard thought shit michelle's gonna get hit.

Why?

She probably saw my smugness. She probably was sick of people judging her and looking down at her and saying you can't and we're taking away your babies on top of it.

And then it hit me a thought not a fist She's their mom. They're her babies. I'd seen her cuddle and croon and smile into her daughters' eyes. I'd seen the pain in her eyes when her visits were over. I'd seen that. Even though those girls were drug exposed and HIV infected I saw that their mom loved them. And her newborn was sick, and there was nothing she could do.

I said the magic words I know your scared.

Her fists unclenched, her shoulders relaxed. The fight left her eyes and was replaced by heartbreaking sadness.

I didn't get hit.

So when I think about this cocaine baby born in our neck of the woods, with 9 siblings, all in foster care, I wonder...

What's that mom thinking?



Wednesday, October 28, 2009

I am NOT my mother

I've spent so much of my adult life trying to NOT be my mother.
I'm not like her. I don't LIKE her.

When I wanted to become a midwife, I only hesitated because I had to become a nurse first.
she's a nurse... i don't want to be a nurse.

Then, while I was becoming a nurse, I did my pediatrics rotation.
On the first day I FELL IN LOVE WITH PEDS
i can't go into peds... she was in peds...

Oh well.

Pediatrics is my thing. I love it. Mainly because I don't like grown ups. I don't get grown ups
which i blame on my mother

But I do get kids.

So when I got my own kids, I vowed to do so much
not everything
differently
Cause I remember really well what it's like to be a kid
which is why I'm good in peds

So I snuggle my kids and tell them I love them and
smile into their eyes.
Cause the first time I ever saw my mother look at me with joy and happiness was when Bruce and I danced together at our wedding. I was 31 years old.

And I'm honestly not sure if I've ever heard her say
I love you.

not sure at all

So I make sure my kids hear those words every single day. And I make sure they will be able to recall my special smile when I'm seeing only them. And they will be able to recall hugs and kisses and gentle touches. They will always be able to crawl into my arms and feel safe rather than awkward.

So I'm
not like her. I throw shit out all the time cause I can't stand the crap that piles up because
I AM NOT A HOARDER.
She wasn't quite as bad as that creepy tv show. But it did take 2 huge dumpsters to get rid of all the accumulated crap in her house. And seeing us throw her shit out gave her... the shits.

Crazy.

For several years when I was in high school, I couldn't have friends over cause there was so much garbage everywhere it was embarrassing. Those were her church lady years. I remember being glad that she had something for herself, rather than her life being only about us.
Cause "us" didn't really float her boat.
But the HOLY SPIRIT and Father Godley did.
Yes. Father Godley. Seriously

Sometimes, when I'm blogging, I wonder if my blogging is like church was for my mom. I wonder if my kids resent it
just a little bit. Cause I could be doing stuff for or with them, but obviously, right at this particular moment in time, I'd rather be blogging.
Maybe just like she'd rather be with the church ladies.

But I'm not like her.

And that detached, distant way she had about her. Quiet, but still exuding exasperation. Or desperation. Or exhaustion. Or irritation.
Or this is so not where I want to be.
I've worked SO HARD not to give off that vibe when I'm with my kids. It's been work. A lot of work. And I think I've been pretty successful.

Cause I'm not like her.

But since my little blue pill, I hardly have to work at that stuff at all. It doesn't take all my energy to keep my head above water. It doesn't take all my energy to make sure I appreciate my kids and show them love every day. It's not work to feel a little peace and joy. It's almost... effortless.

My mom never had a little blue pill.

She did have really awesome Christmases, though. She made us beautiful dresses. And crocheted lovely delicate snowflakes for our tree. And baked tons of fancy yummy cookies. And made Gourmet worthy Christmas feasts. She gave us picture book Christmases.

I hate Christmas.
Cause I can't give Christmas like she gave Christmas.
Cause I'm not like her.

I'm different.
I have a pill.


Wordless Wednesday... well... almost wordless

wordless wednesdays
the easy way out

it's cold and rainy here... i feel lazy...
don't want to clean or cook...
it's a day for tomato soup and grilled cheese...
and The West Wing on Netflix


so... until tomorrow...


my mia


mia's thinkin about the world...
I'm thinkin about being bwave...
maybe tomorrow

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Sundays In My City

Unknown Mami




Farmers' Market Sunday
down at the shore of the Hudson River




revamped little bus carts fresh veggies from our
co-op farm up the road
it also carts high schoolers at risk for failing
to their own plot where they grow stuff
and turn the stuff into salsa
to sell at the market

I love that



this lady is a key farmers market organizer
she provides local cheeses & bread

I love cheese & bread



raspberries from right across the river
need I say more?

OK... I'll say it
I love raspberries



Pete Seeger's Sloop Club
where the Farmer's Market is held in the winter months

Yup... you got it...
I love Pete Seeger
he lives in our town
how cool is that?



Sundays In My City hosted by the incomparable Unknown Mami
My flight was a little delayed today, but better late than never...


Friday, October 23, 2009

Friday Fragments & Freewrites





So I understand finding loose change in the washer or dryer. But the dishwasher? I don't get it.

The shrink wrap is AWESOME. It's completely invisible and I can actually feel the difference it makes. So exciting. And it's super easy to do. So if you're considering it, go for it. If you get the jumbo pack of 9 at Home Depot it costs a buck a window. You can't go wrong.

I've been replaced by a pod person. I bought candy for the kids. 2 bags of candy. One week before Halloween. Cause Mia wanted it. Not for herself. Well, not totally. She wanted to get a sweet surprise for the boys. How could I deny her moment of sweet generosity? So when Ty is presented with the candy his response is along the lines of finally, we've been eating cheese and crackers for dessert for days poor baby. So I'm like Ty, that's cause you guys ate all the oreos n chips ahoy and he says you didn't buy enough. And I say you go through 3 packages a week. silence. And he says well, they don't put enough in the packages

conflict of the week: blog? yoga? blog? yoga? blog? yoga? clean bathrooms? blog? yoga?

Mia put on a play last night. Complete with tickets and announcements. The play's title was The Edventures of Super Martian Robot Girl (yea!) which apparently is a yo gabba gabba reference. Barbie was in the starring role of Mary. Mia introduced her with she doesn't say much and she doesn't blink. As I was about to catch the bloggable moment she looked at me and announced there will be no cameras and no cell phones during the performance. harumpf. The show included an array of small characters, and the requisite scary giant bunny with the crazy psycho voice. Giant bunnies never scared me until I saw Donny Darko. That rabbit scared the shit out of me. Afterwards, she invited the audience to explore the stage and was available to answer questions. When I asked if she had directed other shows she replied yes, my other play is called The Drama Queen. She has also written several books including the Wizard of New York. I ate Raisinets during the performance. They were delicious.


Friday Fragments courtesy of Mrs 4444 @ Half Past Kissin' Time
Friday Freewrites courtesy of Sara Bonds @ Ordinary and Awesome

HAPPY FRIDAY!
wow that was loud



Wednesday, October 21, 2009

scary mommy

Who's the Scariest Mommy?

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Jill at Scary Mommy is hosting a cut throat chew em up n spit em out contest.
If you know me, leave a comment saying how I really am scary and it's not just that I want the cool video camera prize. If you don't leave a comment I'll hunt you down.
Thank you. Have a nice day.


This Scary Mommy has something to say:

on working outside the home

I work because I like to. Not every day. Cause I do really like being home with my kids. Just not every day. I like my job cause I can pee when I need to without someone coming in, or sliding a permission slip under the door, or calling from the other bathroom mommy can you wipe me?

I also like work cause it gives me an excuse to take a shower.

I choose to work 12 hour days cause there's no freakin way I'm gonna see 50 patients then come home and have to deal with homework, dinner, and bedtime forget baths. No. Freakin. Way.

Right. So at the job I give moms the standard he can't go back to school, daycare, whatever until he's fever free for 24 hours. Meanwhile I tell my kids take the motrin and don't tell the school nurse you have a sore throat. I'll bring home some amoxicillin.


on having a 12 year old
aka how to mortify your kid

My oldest is like a perfect kid. No really. Every year his teachers whisper he's my favorite student ever. He's polite at school and has a kick ass sense of humor and is on the honor roll and I've never had to ask him did you do your homework? So when I perceive an injustice is being dealt my extraordinarily perfect messiah-like son, I rant and stomp and threaten I'm gonna send an email. cause emails are the chicken shit way out Mom please don't email the teacher. I'll have to live with it every day. The teacher will take it out on me. doubtful It's bad enough you're "doctor michelle" nurse practitioner for the vice principals' kids.
So I just eat it.


on teaching my children to honor the planet and conserve
aka being cheap

After spending 260$ on roto rooter to root out our 112 year old pipes, a process which caused the entire block to smell like a busted sewage line and sprayed yucky stinky black goo all over the bathroom, I suggested we just run the goo covered toothbrushes through the dishwasher rather than buying new ones.
What?!
Those toothbrushes were only a week old.


on teaching my children how to be considerate of others
aka how to be the scariest mom on Main St.

While walking down Main St, we see a charming scary young thug hop off his bike, leave it in the middle of the sidewalk, and go into the pizzaria. Leaving his abandoned bike right in our path. Jack says Mom just walk around it. NO WAY I bang on the pizzaria window, get the kid's attention and give him my best raised eyebrow super mean mommy look. Well. He hops right on out sorry ma'am and moves his bike.


on teaching my children that we're a family and we've got each other's backs
aka kicking ass

When Mia was 5 a big 11 year old was bullying Ty, then 6, on the playground. She put her hand on her hip and gave her best in your face ghetto head wag and said don't you be mean to my brother. That 11 year old totally backed down.
That's my girl


on teaching my children patience and respect
aka don't bug me when I'm on the phone or blogging

Is there blood or fire?
No, Mommy.
Don't interrupt me unless there's blood or fire.


on trust

Ty vomited last week in the cafeteria. He NEVER vomits. I picked him up and brought him home, and he proceeded to eat the entire contents of our refrigerator. hmmmm... The next morning he woke me up and said mommy I just threw up again. hmmm... he looked ok... sniff... he smelled ok. Come closer honey, open wide. I stuck my nose in his mouth. No pukey smell. hmmm...


on food glorious food
aka how to encourage eating disorders in your children

Ty could spout the sins of high fructose corn syrup. Mia looked at me like I had 2 heads when I tried to explain why local organic cow meat means a better life for the cows than conventional cow meat. But mommy, the cows still get their head chopped off. Jack asks why can't we just eat normal food? Well. I let them eat school lunches. But they know it's only cause I'm too damn lazy and tired to make lunches every morning.

I've been known to give my kids apple pie a la mode for dinner. Dinner. Not dessert. What?! Homemade apple pie. Organic and vegetarian. I figure they get fruit servings and the crust might as well be pasta, right? And ice cream equals dairy.

And they still don't see they're the luckiest kids with the coolest mom in town. harumpf


on not squelching creativity

This summer Mia made a remarkably pornographic but completely innocent sand sculpture. Wanna see? click here. Jack was like jeez mom why didn't you destroy it? What if people SEE? I couldn't knock down her sand castle. It was her creation. I couldn't hang it on the refrigerator, so I left it for all to admire.


On personal responsibility and honesty
aka trying to scare the pants off them

Fine. Eat all the Halloween candy at one time. We have an appointment with the dentist next Tuesday.

Fine. You're sick? If you're sick you might need a strep test. Or a blood test.
This threat is basically unspoken and always on their radar. They know where I work. They say I come home smelling like shots and finger pokes.
oooh entirely too scary.


on the really scary shit
aka is my kid broken?
aaka am I a good mom?

I used to drive two hours once a week and pay out of shallow pocket to take Jack to an awesome dysfluency specialist. I did this to help the above mentioned extraordinarily perfect messiah-like son deal with his pretty significant stutter. I did it hoping that as he gets older, having a stutter won't define him, or limit him, or dim the bright joyful light in his eyes. Then a year into therapy we chose to move to a place where there is no awesome dysfluency specialist. So I hold my breath and watch the light in his eyes and hope it will all be OK

Knowing my 7 year old will probably at some point be diagnosed with bipolar disorder. And trying to figure out if the best thing for her is a pill now. Cause now she struggles. And the world is a heavy place for her. And is it fair that a 7 year old should struggle because of her genes and brain chemistry? But a pill? She's only seven. So I hold my breath and watch for the sadness and hope it will all be OK


Who's the scariest mom? I sing
You are Jack sings back




Sunday, October 18, 2009

For Bruce

I'm loving this song these days



I had no idea this kid was so adorable



I'm Yours

Friday, October 16, 2009

Friday Fragments & Freewrites

So. The boys vetoed the cherry pie. But it was really good cherry pie. Mia only liked the cherries. She doesn't like the crust. Who ever heard of such a thing?? Who's kids are they anyway?? The crust's the best part. I used 2 cups of organic flour and 2 sticks of organic butter in that crust. So guess who's eating an entire pie crust with lattice topping?
Gives organic lard ass a whole new meaning.


I was sitting in our living room, sewing sparkly netting on Mia's halloween costume. It was early Sunday morning, and I had a headache, and not enough coffee, and the sun was shining in my eyes.
Mia looks at me and literally jumps back
Mommy, you have Gramps' face...
I smile. What honey?
When I just looked at you, you had Gramps' face. Kind of confused and worried at the same time. Are... you gonna cry?
No, honey. I love that I can have Gramps' face sometimes. That makes me happy.


So it's cold here. I'm gonna keep complaining. I bought that saran wrap stuff for my windows. You know, the plastic stuff that you hit with a blow dryer and it shrink wraps your windows. The box says it can increase your window's R-value up to 90%. I went to Home Depot and asked for the saran wrap for insulating windows. Those Home Depot guys looked at me like I had two heads. But they knew exactly what I was talking about. Jerks.
So I tell my friend J that I'm gonna try and shrink wrap my windows.
So ghetto.
She laughs and says Oh Michelle, this is gonna take your home to a whole new level...

I think my house makes her a little dizzy.

Can't imagine why...



I like color

the white is now gold

the outside matches the inside
kinda looks like a giant easter basket exploded on our block


I bet no one will even notice the shrink wrapped windows...





Friday Fragments courtesy of Mrs 4444 at Half Past Kissin' Time
Friday Freewrites courtesy of Sara Bonds at Ordinary and Awesome

have a great weekend!

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Be Bwave Fursday or Be Bwave Fwyday: Obama=O.J.

maybe I'll start a trend
if it's only me, is it still a trend?
be bwave fursday or be bwave fwyday
depends on how my brain's feeling
maybe we need a button

Let me say, I'm not a fan of Israel or our country's relentless support of its policies and actions. But I am not anti-semitic. By any stretch of the imagination. Israel doesn't define individual Jews. Nor does Israel define all groups of Jews. Nor does disagreement with Israel necessarily equal bigotry.

And *race* is about as general a term as *germ*.

Obama doesn't define individual blacks
forget the african american euphemism. Nor does criticism of Obama necessarily equal racism or evidence that those same critics use the *n* word at the dinner table. I'm sure there are plenty of folks who hate Obama just because he is black. Just as I'm sure there are folks who blindly support him just because he is black. And I think there are folks who have a lot of influence and power who use the black and white opinions so to speak to further their own agendas.

I'm thinking that our feelings about race are so connected with our experiences from birth, that it's a mucky muck task to see the issue clearly. I know my feelings and views about being black in america are based solely on my experience as an
arguably black girl growing up here. That's how it is for each and every one of us. We can really only see through our own eyes. I say arguably cause I don't fit the mold. Because in order to classify and generalize, there has to be a mold. Black west indian father. White mother. So maybe father's not really black because he has a charming accent from the islands and he's a surgeon...

I don't think of you as black.
what the fuck does THAT mean?
Your father reminds me of Sidney Poitier or Bill Cosby.
hmmm...

We lived in a relatively exclusive NY suburb. And we had a big house and fancy vacations and a sports car. But we were also like the only black family in our small town who didn't live in "the projects". Which were obviously not projects. It was just an apartment complex. But most of the black folks in our town lived there, so... projects. And in school, whenever slaves were mentioned in social studies, it felt like all eyes were on me. Guilty by complexion. as though I should be embarrassed or ashamed, and god knows I was. And if everything on TV in the 1970s was white, except for jokey JJ, or pimps and robbers, where do I fit in?

All I can do is assimilate all my experiences and form a construct to try and understand. And as humans, I think those constructs are formed very early on, when the pathways in the brain have not yet hardened into concrete. At some point we're all just kids trying to understand how the world works. And if we're lucky, at some later point of relative maturity, we can decipher the roadmap and understand why we feel the way we feel, and think the way we think, and react the way we react.

I'm guilty of categorizing too. I'm guilty of sometimes not separating the individual from the symbol.

I remember walking into an exam room a few years ago, and seeing a 14 yr old, a young black manchild, shackled. This boy had been a patient of mine for 10 years. Raised by his grandma. My patient. Shackled. Escorted by a white police officer. I was too shaken to ask why or what. All I could do was examine him and give him a clean bill of health. I couldn't trust my voice, but I must have had quite a look on my face cause the cop looked at me, and kind of gently said we're not the bad guys. I sobbed in the bathroom. Even though this kid must have done something pretty bad, all I could see was white man and shackled black boy.

When OJ was acquitted, I wept tears of joy and relief.
Now don't get all crazy on me... just hear me out.
For me, OJ became a symbol of all the black men who had hung from trees or been whipped or beaten to death. Or denied basic human rights. Or jobs. Or, post civil rights, had the white collar job, but still took to wearing a suit and tie every day even on saturdays as protection against being arbitrarily pulled over by white cops. OJ became a symbol of vindication for me. yes, I know he was the defendant. justice is subjective. And I'm sure he was a symbol for others. Though I don't recall too many admitting that at the time.

I'm only human.

So it's kind of the same with Obama, I think. Michael Moore doesn't want to criticize him during a Charlie Rose interview. People hem and haw about the Nobel Peace Prize. He was supposed to save us. Says who? There's a saying among some black folks. You have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good. Seems like President Obama is under a super electron microscope. Why is that? Why is he being held to a different standard than any other president?

But I'm holding him to a different standard, too.

My 9 year old told me that the New York Times ran an article outlining Michelle Obama's family tree, and that she's not all black. I had to laugh. Granted, I don't know the source of Ty's information, or it's accuracy, but my mixed mixed mixed race kid who has grown up in our mixed mixed mixed race extended family can still recognize that if Michelle Obama's heritage is New York Times news worthy, then race sure as hell does matter.


I think the race issues in this country are as complex and varied as individual Americans. And sometimes I think that opinions or attempts to generalize and categorize race issues in either an attempt at understanding or an attempt to further a cause can be misleading. Or inaccurate. Or maybe destructive. Destructive if people react rather than reconsider. Sometimes it's hard not to react until you've honestly looked at where you stand on an issue. And why you stand there. Maybe all we can do is compare our own experiences. Good or bad, proud or ashamed, judgemental or tolerant. Whatever. It is what it is. As long as it's honest.

We're only human.

And as humans, I believe we're pretty much still functioning in the time of the woolly mammoth. Fight or flight. We need to size up what's safe and what's not pretty quickly. It's in our genes. And other is a threat. Different is a threat. And I think this is where racism/intolerance/bigotry is born. It's in our DNA.

But somehow, as humans, we have the capacity, sometimes, to overcome evolution and DNA and our ancient instincts. Sometimes we're able to reason ourselves out of the primordial goo. But the goo is pretty fuckin sticky.

The older I get, the less I know. It seems like I could find all sorts of studies, or publications, or programming to support and corroborate absolutely any opinion I want to justify. With all the info that's at our fingertips, anything can be rationalized. I don't trust any of it anymore. Now that I'm over the hump of my 4th decade, I'm feeling like all I can do is examine my own thinking, motives, and actions. And know that I know nothing. Cause many things I thought to be true, maybe aren't that true after all. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. It's kind of a relief.

So yes. I cheered when OJ was acquitted.
even though he's pretty much a scum sucker.
And if Obama was white, I wouldn't have been so swept away last fall.
OJ, Obama, my patient, they stand as symbols.

All I have between my ears is a tangled roadmap that I'm trying to decipher. Just trying to understand myself, and then maybe I can understand others better. And I'm trying to get the goo off my feet.

You feewin bwave???


Your fairy is called Columbine Icedancer
She is a bone chilling bringer of justice for the vulnerable.
She lives in mushroom fields and quiet meadows.
She is only seen when the bees swarm and the crickets chirrup.
She wears lilac and purple like columbine flowers. She has icy blue butterfly wings.