Morning Start


A phone call,

the muffled tunnel voice cracks,

“Mom, I want to come home.”

A wave hits the transformer and it’s blown.

No connection.

No contact.

Stunned, mouth agape–

Forgotten exhales,  a mind cries, “no, no, no!!!”

No breath, out of an airless burn, searing lungs, stifled scream—

“This can’t be. I have to jump!”

Over the cliff, falling the eternal drop–

and the shards of rocks jut through the sea to meet gravity’s slam-tossed burden,

through the air and…

((Gasp)), “huh!!! I’m up, I’m up. [catching breath] Okay. Okay. Okay. [quickly glancing about the sliver moon-lit room left to right].

What time is it?”



Not a single paper, not a wrapper, stub, shoebox, tag, container, cookie box or article, never intending to wear, she throws nothing away.
No castaways, no delusions, cares, tidbits nor morsels, not a dream, fantasy or truth, nothing gets past the gates of her need.
All she has touched, received, and placed on a shelf or dresser top, even dropped to the floor, never leaves her.
She retains everything.
She lives knee-deep in it, until the inevitable; they come with a shovel, mask and plastic bags to remove the amassment.
The long lone bedsheet melds with the mattress, unchanged so long; once the whole mattress got tossed out.
Not even shed skin may be shaken from her. No, no loss tolerable, nothing must abandon her, nothing left, taken, discarded, out of her control–a sacred keeping.
She shudders and screams in spasmodic yips and soul-shook howls in skin-ripping pain at the disturbance, the violation.
Skull-red circles emanate from angry, forsaken roots.
“Get out!! Nooooo!!! This is MY room! You can’t just come in here and throw my stuff away. I need things you are throwing away! You have no right!! My door was closed!
Oh? Which side of the door shuts out and which closes in?

Bicycle Down


Why do I want to know that a bicyclist was killed by a hit and run driver way up north in the state somewhere, some place that may as well be Mars for all it has to do with me?

Shouldn’t the news delivered to my phone via text be something more urgent, more relevant like, “nuclear bomb just dropped in Los Angeles” or “meteor headed to earth in about an hour,” something more significant, enough to sound the incoming text alarm and make me look?

A bicyclist down hundreds of miles away.

Well, no doubt it’s a shame, and I can go there with my heart and my mind, that place of family grief and loss, and I can make it my own, especially now that I have a more specific piece of death than people dying everywhere every minute.

But it’s still too far for me to muster up the feels, the agony of killing me pain in the heart over losing someone I love.

Why do I want to be there when I don’t have to be?

And this is how we operate 9 times out of 10 of any given day.


  “akrasia, the mystery of why people choose to do other than what they think is best for them to do.” ― John R. Perry, The Art of Procrastination: A Guide to Effective Dawdling, Lollygagging and Postponing

I am having a meta moment: procrastinating by reading about procrastination. My article is due by midnight. It is not even half way done and the one who assigned it, my possible future editor, is waiting for it to see if I am worthy to write his blog fodder will-write-for-food spin.The thought of this looming project deadline scratches at my peace every hour–at coffee, eating breakfast, scouring Facebook, chatting with a friend, doing yoga, watching a soccer game, eating lunch, texting anyone, playing with the kitten, reading emails–even every quarter of an hour, yet I cannot muster the urgency…yet. 

Curious about procrastination, I started reading widely over the net to discover why I am procrastinating. Finding no answers (and still not writing my work with an ever shortening deadline), I decided to draw the feeling of it, a cocktail of procrastination–slow and steady, slightly shaken–with a shot of stress on the rocks. It should be a jolt but it is more like an electric line down shorting out wildly slashing the ground like a toad on cocaine, like my brain some days. And this is what it looks like at the moment:
So now it’s getting late. I’m sufficiently motivated. Until tomorrow….

Pissing up Ropes

Read a Reddit post about the plight of being white, cultureless, unoppressed and bland that someone replied to by stating, “I’m not going to waste my time pissing up ropes.” 

I had never heard of that expression prior to reading it there so researched with little success. My procrastination limits have already been reached today, so I could not spend the requisite time to do the slang expression justice, but I did find this on

“Piss Up a Rope” is a song by the band Ween in 1996 from the album 12 Golden Country Greats. It was released on 7″ yellow vinyl single on Diesel Only Records.

When asked about the lyrics “You can wash my balls with a warm wet rag” and “On your knees, you big bootied bitch,” Dean Ween stated that he wrote the song for his wife. The inspiration for the title came from his father: “[It is] a funny expression that I copped from my dad. When I was a kid, he used to say, ‘Aw, go piss up a rope.’ It was just nonsense. It was like, ‘Aw, go shit in your hat’ or whatever.”[1]

I gather it is a British expression for some futile exercise, but I would love to find the origins of the expression, just because…well, being a logophile, I like that sort of thing. Who first thought of it and in what context?

Oh, and there is a Facebook page with the title “Pissing up Ropes” that has one like.

Anyone know something about this expression?


A water-bearing poet floats visions, senses voice and intuits vibration, but feels only the air of separation, abandonment and rejection. He drags his sullied heart behind him; tethered to his ankle, the throbbing muscle struggles like a cat on a leash, he sometimes studying it like the ocean in distant admiration but fearful of submersion. His pen inks the air blue.

An earthen essayist eats hollow olives for iron strength, the muddiness of her thoughts offset by the rootedness of her haunches and firm stand, feet imprinting her path. She throws tentative velvet brown stares, intending intimacy but coming up comfortable in a circle of cool, relaxed open-eyed, open-legged hug-slump of a girl. 

They too can dance the breezy corridors between song and whisper, drumbeat and blood–a waltz of wonder. The wind of voices blows warmly.  

Remembering Boredom

Sometimes I forget not to be bored.
I only remember when I am wishing some horror would end, 
like when pitched to the pivotal moment just before a pronounced sentence,
a reading of my fate.
Or, little less than terror, a performance evaluation 
by a man sitting at the back of my classroom with a pen, eyes, ears and judgment,
leaning on every word, gesture and response. 
I am notated.
Anticipating the fall while peering over the precipice, 
these are the times I pray for the ordinary I eschew every other moment of every day:
the groans and dull-eyed drudgery of waking, pissing, showering, caffeinating
and driving the drive in unrelenting heat circulating about my head
blown by the broken air conditioner of a beat up car awaiting the junk yard,
or the crying mop times of late night I’m-just-too-tired-to-do-this moans of despair—
for the boredom, tedium, godawful-lobotomizing numbness of mindless repetition
like factory fingers twisting bow knots on an endless assembly line, 
the industrial rosary, sans soothing rhythmic sync.
Deimos and Phobos, moons of my memory, usher me back to boredom, 
box seat of the stadium, luxury of the lucky lottery winners of life,
born colorless, coddled and cocooned. 

Meeting Her: Guest Post from Patricia D, Volunteer at Infidelity Counseling Network

For those of us who have experienced infidelity, there is one particular moment we truly dread: meeting our husband’s affair partner (a.k.a. The Other Woman). Here is my story of that encounter.

                                                                             Meeting Her

Here’s what is going to happen. Prepare yourself. Imagine the worst thing you have ever experienced, death of parents, losing pets, awful natural disasters, locusts, any of it. Take all of those things, put them in a big truck, have the truck run you over, and maybe that will give you a tiny fraction of the pain and madness you will experience when you discover your partner has been unfaithful and your marriage is done.

Flashback to our Kentucky Derby party. And may I say, the last Kentucky Derby party we would ever host, and likely my last as well. My husband invited a number of women from his gym, where his workouts consisted of Zumba class, Skinny Jeans class, Ripped class – you know, activities where lots of women would be.

From the moment she showed up, almost everyone at our party picked up on something that was off. She walked in to my home like she owned the place; as it turns out, she had been there before. She brought a hostess gift, although it was addressed to “Kirby Baby”, complete with bubble-dot I’s and hearts. She barely acknowledged me. But I was committed to trusting my husband. She spent the afternoon drinking bottles of chardonnay, and suddenly was telling anyone who would listen about how her husband of 23 years cheated on her. As the evening progressed, some my family members pointed out that everyone had gone home except for her. At this point she was so wasted that I couldn’t let her drive, so I told her she could sleep on the couch. I thought since she was a friend of my husband that it was the right thing to do. The rest of us — except him — settled in to watch TV. She went to find another set in a different room, and then it was radio silence.

About twenty minutes later I went to find my husband. Boy did I find him. On top of her, in one of the guest rooms, full-on making out.

I never thought I would be in this place. I’m sure many women have said that exact same
thing. Everything had seemed too good to be true when we settled into our new house; I’d worked my ass off to be able to buy it, completely on my own. We don’t have kids, by choice, mainly because my career kept me traveling, and so for ten years we seemed the perfect married unit. We never really fought, and I never once pressured my husband to get a job. It all worked, or so I thought.

What was going on in the background? His father had recently died; I was traveling a lot for my career; we had lost all the equity in our first home in a bad market; our beloved Labrador had major surgery; my father became sick and died a horrible death six months later; his sisters were feuding over the estate after his mother’s death; I had put on 30 pounds; he had many years of career troubles. Or maybe it was something else. Something different.

After his father died my husband decided to lose some weight. He had always been a big guy, and this was good for him from a health standpoint. Although, as it turns out, his motives were altogether different. He began to drop weight, spent a lot of time with a woman in our apartment complex, and then he started telling me lots of things that were not true.

The first time I found out my husband told me a major lie I was completely devastated. In hindsight, it’s possible that there have been lies all along, but in my mind they were just small, harmless lies. The big lie though, involved a hockey game (I love hockey) and the woman in the apartment complex. She became a divisive factor in our relationship, and turned me into someone I didn’t want to be — a jealous, angry, suspicious wife looking for evidence of an affair. Of course, I had every right to be suspicious, and after a year and her saying just horrific things about me on text messages, the kind of things that typically only a mean teenage girl would say, he abruptly ended their “friendship”. A few weeks later he had a new one on the line. This time I wanted to trust him, so I did. I assumed the lunches were innocent. He said the texts were just flirting. Know this ladies, no good can ever come of flirting text messages. Ever. Ever. Ever. And this was no exception.

When you think about those moments in your mind, or you see them in movies, or hear about them from your friends, you always think you will react a certain way. I’d assumed I would become enraged, loud, vindictive. But this assumption was diametrically opposed to how I actually reacted. Looking back, I am really proud of how I handled it, that night at our Kentucky Derby party when I caught her and my husband making out in our home.

I politely told her she had to leave.

I calmly asked how long this had been going on. They both denied anything was going on.

And just to show you the type of person she was, she insisted on driving home even when I told her she was unfit to drive because she had drank four bottles of chardonnay.

So I explained that I was not concerned about her wrapping herself around a tree, rather the possibility that she might harm someone else and my potentially liability in that situation. Her response? “Well, that’s why you have insurance.” My response? “Get the hell out of my house, now.”

Crossposted at and

By Patricia D.
Volunteer at Infidelity Counseling Network
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Bro-jobs in Salon

She told us, “They stop each other from killing each other by rub rub rubbing, until they come come come. And then have a banana together or something,” adding, “I think there’s a very positive and certainly very natural aspect to this.”

Despite this slightly offputting ending paragraph about rubbing-to-coming monkeys, I appreciated Salon’s broaching a risqué rather than sensationalized topic of real human behaviors that few, if any, in our still-so-homophobic culture here in the U.S. mention.

Of course, I’m a sucker for all things relationship-exploding. Not destructive eruptions, but exploding sedimented behaviors and expectations based on normativity, wether applicable to marital or sexual definitions, the kinds that clear the path to allowing a little reality to seep through.

Salon’s The “Bro Job”: Why “straight” men have sex with each other explores in an anthropology-light sort of way, the underpinnings of self-identifying heterosexual male sex with other men, reasons–if there need be–for its natural occurrence in what is for some, even many, an unnatural social order of human intimate relationships based on heterosexual monogamy.

Pointing out the diversity of male sexual appetite for meaningless as well as meaningful sex, the author explains how men sometimes want sex that is just…well, sex, not love-making or performance, just men enjoying what men do, for fun, release, something less demanding, I suppose, a more automatic, instinctual and non-committal release.

It makes sense to me. Men–and women–suffer under the continual obligation to try and understand another; sometimes the relief lies in just being what they are without apology.

Though the author is quick to point out that sexual politics and labeling are part of the problem too: so is a man who has sex with men and women automatically bisexual? Quickly jumping to labels is what others do to others to make themselves feel comfortable. But the label does not necessarily fit the identity of the labeled.

Fuck labels.

I recommend this quick and tactful read.


Power Tools

Man, myth and vibrators: the Power Tools of the Empowered. Good vibrations: for all your pleasureful needs. And worse. 

I was trying to come up with a title for a blog post I wrote for one of my will-write-for-food sites, a post describing a massager and vibrator section of an online catalog of “romantic toys.” The copy was pretty straight forward: selling sex toys with luscious descriptions of need and success in the bedroom. But the title–a real grabber–is always challenging for subjects I know a lot about and so are enthused about, let alone for topics I know or care too little to whisk up a flavorful title. 

It’s not that I don’t like vibrators. I just have been sort of meh on them. Some have suggested that I may not have found the right one or are too accustomed to “other ways” of achieving the same results, both of which may be true. But I haven’t really thought about it much until I wrote up this blog piece.

Curious whether I could find commiseration in my take-it-or-leave-it attitude about vibes, I went to the internet. Wading past the ads disguised as informationals, I found lots on the topic but only a couple of good reads:  The Secret to Having Mind-Blowing Orgasms with Your Vibrator in and Psychology Today’s Vibrators: Myths vs. Truths.

Beyond the obvious of all obvious recommendations in the one–to experiment and try what feels good (duh, really?) and not to drill your sensitive areas to death–I did take up the solo solution of massaging the rest of your body first as foreplay–sorta.  Imagine that, using a massager as a…well, massager.

And while both tackled some myths about becoming addicted and desensitized to using a vibrator, one confirmed that too much of a good thing could lead to less of a good thing in other areas. In other words, orgasming with a vibrator may make it more difficult to orgasm without one. The psychology writer’s opinion was more a “it depends on the person” comment but clearly denied addiction danger:

Do carpenters become addicted to power tools? No, power tools just get the job done faster. Many women really love their vibrators, but that’s a personal preference, not an addiction

Not sure about the analogy as altogether apt, certainly is cliché, but like most habits, it seems to me it would depend on so many other factors like the person’s relationship(s), mindset, attitude and existing personality traits as to whether vibes are habit-forming. And so what if they are?

Maybe it’s my prejudices. Solo sex is utilitarian, accomplished with or without powertools and a good imagination. Beyond solo, connection with others, well that’s my preference–with or without the tools.