When I lost you, I couldn't pin a time or place.
More like an old beaten up car, pieces kept falling off.
We came together, tightly, then sprung back.
The days became weeks and I held on tight.
Till I realized for the 100th time that day, you
have to live life to its fullest. You can't hide.
We all have a right to be loved as we wish to
be loved. I simply cant love at a distance all
the time.

I'd shake your hand but I will probably never see you.
You'll marry someone less colorful, succumbing
to missionary position and watching tv in bed.
It will seem like quite the life.

Warmth

Quiet moments drawing close
We pause and remember the
beauty of warmth,  from
hearth, campfire,

We give each other warmth
A hug is warm
A handshake
Bodies meeting bodies

Somewhere my warmth awaits
No longer heater blanketed
I stand out in the chill
Waiting for your warmth. Thank you.

I was laying in my bed, watching the sun go away, with sunburnt promises of tomorrow. The ravioli marched down through my intestines and with every stressful thought my heart pounded.

I am the queen of finishing nothing. The prince of self sabotage.

I had this guy and then I didn't. He would never come to visit, it was weird. We would text all day, then he would say that he had his kids, every single day, he would also not come over till 7 or 8. It is was weird. I am sure there is alot more to it.

Usually we text each other all day. I didn't hear anything from him today though I texted and emailed him.

He is a nice guy. Has been there for me in his own way. He never came to the hospital.

Trying to untangle himself from me. Yeah that must be it. Less and less, like how you wean yourself off anything.

Taking less and less till there lingers nothing.

I always thought I was a great Mother. Till I realized that my teenager has a list of stuff I did to harm him or whatever, he doesn't see the 80% that was good.

This is a time of reckoning and transition. 

Please God, show me the way.
 

So you want to be a writer

Charles Bukowski

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Autographed copy

he books I buy often are autographed copies, not on purpose do I choose these, I am mainly looking for titles. With that said, writers tend to get autographed copies, it is like the super book gift. The author with a stack of a hundred or more sat there and signed his or her name over and over.

Somehow having someones name on their own book is better. I don't believe that. How well read the words are, how they pounce on you, stay with you, when you recommend the book to someone else, that is better then a autograph.

I have one autographed book I took with me while my house burned. Once my kids and animals were out, the book I got smoke in my lungs for is a Kurt Vonnegut book. "Cats Cradle" - I trace the letters of his name, hastily scrawled. Perhaps thinking along the same lines 'Why do they want my name? Read the book that is the treat!'

In my day which is now, 2010, I am more then halfway done with a book of stories. Maybe once you have one done then the rest follow in quicker sequence. Birth isn't like that. Love isn't like that.

Books are somewhere else. Their own galaxy. This writing.com site tells me I haven't logged in, in 8 months. I always subscribed that writing was a solitary pursuit. That self aggrandizing and editing others works were somehow a selfish endeavor. It keeps the writer from the primary excuse for living, which is to experience and to write.

Worse

Monday, I'll know Monday what the story is medical wise. I know that I have lost alot of muscle since the big bad surgery in March, which supports the joints. I know but I hope. I want my uptight funny surgeon to tell me it is nothing. To march out of there with just a brace and no plans for PHYSICAL THERAPY. PT is a sentence, it is a sentence of daily pain and it is mental as well as physical. Physical therapists are chirpy creatures, their job is to cause you pain, be your Nirvanaesque cheerleader. You will make everyone else feel as ease, crack jokes. Smirk through the pain. You will go sit in your car afterwards and look at yourself in the rearview 'I am Rose Hill I am Rose Hill' - it means nothing ancestorially but I have always pretended I descended from good brave people with some kind of magic about them.

One thing or the other.

Sometimes it squeezes me that at 38 there isn't alot of time left. I look like a youngster but my insides age, right?

I love life to intently that I know something will come up for the winter, right? Where I can be gone after Christmas through Jan someplace with sun so the darkness doesn't return.

I need a webpage. Which, if you know me, I was a web designer from the ground up for 9 years, and to not have a website is sacrilege! Actually it is freeing. But I need to have a solid space on the web where I put solid pieces so people can see my work and get to know me.

All the stuff I write is personal, I don't know how to get that distance.

All this will come, I pray, I pray.

Better

Erase the aches gurl
We all wanna see you soar
To have to put on sunglasses
You shine so bright
Especially at night
Our own lightning bug