Saturday, November 21, 2015

I think maybe this is my holiday letter...

"Why don't you write holiday letters anymore? I used to look forward to your letters."
People ask me this all the time, and I always say something like, Oh, I've just been busy.  Because it's not socially acceptable to speak the truth, and it confuses people to hear it: Because my child went missing over 12 years ago, and I've been dead for a while now myself. It's confusing because you can still see the surface of us both, even though we've been gone.
Sometimes I find Sully in crowds where I know he isn't. He's in a group home with 24/7 staff, where autism took him. But sometimes I when I drop my daughter off at school, I see a kid who is built like he is, and I pretend I've just dropped them both off, as it should be. Or there's this high school kid who works at the grocery store, and he is as tall as Sully is and has Sully's complexion. Every time I see that kid, I think: There Sully should be again. Every time I get this crushing pain in my chest because Sully and I got cheated.
My heart really does hurt and has been hurting for at least a week now, but I'm not going to get it checked because I don't care. It is broken. I don't care that my job takes me into drug houses or domestic violence situations or through the worst neighborhoods or straight up the side of a loose gravel mountain road or down a clay mud road where everybody's cooking meth. Yeah, I'm good at what I do because I'll do about anything. I'm not afraid of any of this because the worst thing that could've ever happened already has, and the rest of this stuff is just shit gravy. Finish me. I don't care.
I realize that some consider it negative thinking to look at what's gone and that the focus should be on what still is, but those folks need to realize that his hard drive crashed, and everything I had was on it. And if you want to talk about what still is consider that my son still is not with me and likely never will be again. It's been over a year now, and the pain still is. There's no escaping it.
The only way to relieve this pain in my lifetime is if he's somehow restored. I need  him to be restored. My mind goes to this a lot. Okay, he's been away a very long time now, and it's time for him to come back. I need him back. I miss him. What's the key? I need the puzzle solved now. All I wanted was this one thing. This one thing that I lost and probably can't ever have again.
He was only two when he went away, and I was just getting to know his personality when it was wiped out. I know, though, that he would've been a well-rounded kid. Probably the type that would play both sports and piano. I should be going to his games now, see? He's perfectly built for basketball. He should be watching football with me. My dad should've taught him to hunt and fish by now. Would he prefer a bow or rifle? Or would he be like me, unable to shoot anything, worried about how the fish's mouth feels after it has been captured and released?
Yes, I love him for who he is. Yes, he's still perfect to me. Yes, I try to embrace the present, but I'm not going to deny that we started out beautifully, and life has kicked the shit out of us. I'm tired. I feel like I've lived about three lifetimes already. We've been doggy paddling in choppy seas for at least 12 years. The only reason the sharks haven't eaten us is probably because were so damn beaten that we appear to be dead.
I haven't been worth much here lately. I hold it together and do my job. Helping others is a wonderful distraction, but once I'm home, here it all is, and here it all isn't too. But I recognize the gift of winter and stormy days, the void that makes depression not look so dark.  We can tunnel down into this and sleep for hours, for days, and maybe if we go deep enough and stay peaceful enough, come springtime some tiny sprout of hope will poke through.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Pieces of time from a winter past

There was a writing challenge called "Small Stones" (You can probably still find it if you google.), and I fell in love with it. You capture one tiny moment in each day for a month and paint it with words. Sometimes they morph into bigger poems, and I've found that doing this forces me to be mindful and engaged with my world. Here are a few from winter 2012. 

The bitter wind
Makes the missin you harder.
Lonely sinks deeper into cold bone.
The sky is so gray, so overcast
That even my shadow has left me alone.
My only companions are a few snowflakes.
They are refusing to allow sunshine,
But they aren't passionate enough to cause a storm.
I'm flaky and ungrounded enough join their tribe,
But the blanket of your memory is too thin to keep me warm
So I'm forced to go back inside.

(I don't trust the snowflake gang, actually.
They are meandering, indecisive, lacking focus,
And most assuredly on a downward spiral.)

I take the dirty, rogue dishes,
And dip them under the water, cleansing them.
I find it gratifying to put them in the drainer,
Forcing them to line up into conformity.
I wonder...
If the local church folk
Wish they could do the same things to me.


The old, rusted, broken down, Ford truck
is permanently parked by the abandoned farm.
I drive by and try to imagine:
Who wrecked it?
Who was last in the cab?
Maybe a young boy just learning to drive?
Maybe an old man who should've quit driving long ago?
What about the farm?
Who decided to stop painting the barn?
Who sold the last cow?
Who just stopped using the plow?
Likely nobody made these decisions.
Decline seeps in slowly, methodically, invisibly,
Like arthritis in the farmer's bones,
Like dirty oil in the truck's engine,

Like rain drip, drip, dripping on untended wood.

Saturday, October 17, 2015

What the dead want you to know...

Terminial. We're all terminal. It's not your business what time somebody else's plane leaves. Only they know when they gotta catch that flight. Idk if the plan was plotted before we arrived or if we made it up as we went along or some combination of the two. The way you arrived here may have been planned. You may have been hoped for, prayed for , or you may have originated as a mistake, but the very end is unmistakable. Though I do believe we have some control over when it's time to go. Those who commit to suicide had more control over it than others, but maybe only because everything else spiraled out of control. They saw how things were going down, and they decided to eject. And you can redirect yourself to all those positive things therapists like to say: well maybe things are bad now, but that doesn't mean it's how they are going to be. Tomorrow will be better. Don't take a permanent solution to a temporary problem. But.

But the thing about it is, you have no proof of any of those happy things. And someone who has lived with depression and in chronic pain DOES have daily proof that things continue to be bad and can get worse. People make decisions based on the best information they have at the time, based on the evidence they have. No one else has any way to know another's pain level, and we don't have the right to dictate what they are able to tolerate. Maybe the last rock in the pocket wasn't enough to pull the person under, but this next rock is  a doozy. And the burden of the weight is cumulative, though most of the time outsiders can only see the current rock and may interpret it as a pebble. (And anyone in the person's life is an outsider really, because no other person, no matter how intimate the relationship,  is able to know everything another has been through or how the person interpreted and tolerated the events.)

You wouldn't be angry if your loved one had a crushing migraine and sought the relief of medication. Likewise, you can't be angry if someone was in so much emotional pain that they sought the relief of suicide. And their decision was not your fucking business.

It's pointless to be angry with the dead. They have already left the terminal no matter how they got on the plane.

And don't give me the argument that someone was "selfish" to leave you. If someone is suffering so badly that they chose to leave life, they were doing all they knew to do, given the circumstances. They building was burning,  and they had no parachute. Did you want them to hang out another day and burn alive? If you wanted them to avoid relief because YOU  still needed them around, then who indeed is the fucking selfish one?

Terminal. We are all terminal. We all have different flights at different times, and in this body , as this person, we only have one way tickets.  A person may be at the airport already waiting and not even know it. A flight may be delayed for years. A flight may take off suddenly, but when it's time for your flight, only you know, and it's impossible to miss. At any other airport, if we knew a friend had a one way ticket, we wouldn't stand at the gate after they take off and be pissed that they can't come back. It'd be pointless. And so, here too, you can't  be angry with the dead.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Happy Halloween from me, zombie hamster, and Enderman kitty

Halloween is just FULL of surprises! So far this year, I've got me a  dead hamster, a yearly performance evaluation at work, a shit-ton of vet bills, and Dilly, the blind demented kitty. Oddly enough, the kitty is flipping me out the most. He's always been a lil special because he was a feral stray and inbred. But now, at age 15, there probably aren't enough ICD-10 codes to list everything he's got. What's troubling him the  most:   kidney failure, blindness,  dementia, and routine constipation because the muscles that enable him to shit don't always work.
I took Dilly to see the vet, who doesn't think he's terminal right now. His kidneys are failing, but they can improve functioning with the help of this special food that only costs $44 for a 12-day supply. They gave him an enema to clean him out and told me to stir some non-flavored Metamucil into his food. I also have to get a baby gate and confine him in the writing loft when I'm not home so that he can find his food, litter box, and bed. When I am home, I've been carrying him around with me most of the time because if I don't carry him, he just wanders around aimlessly and runs into stuff. He almost fell down the basement stairs. He walks into walls. He runs into Tricky, who is Queen of all Cats, and she knocks the hell outta him because she needs a lot of personal space. (Tricky is short for "Trick-or-Treat." She was a Halloween surprise back in 2011). He's like a zombie from Night of the Living Dead. He's like Church from Pet Cemetery. He's like an Enderman from Minecraft. He's breaking my heart.
He broke my bank account too and so does Tricky, who has asthma and has to have an inhaler twice a day to the tune of $55 a month. They are all high maintenance. All five kitties have to have flea meds that cost $65 a month. Then there is the bearded dragon that has to have meal worms and crickets, and you have to shake-and-bake coat them in calcium powder. And you have to make sure he has a heat lamp and an ultraviolet light, and if any of these bulbs go out, you gotta rush out and get replacements or he will freeze. The other lizard, the crested gecko, has to be misted with warm water twice a day, fed occasional meal worms, and every other day he gets a fruit smoothie. Dilly has to have his own can of special diet food up in the loft so the other kitties won't take it. The other four have to have their food in the kitchen so that Dilly won't get into it. Buttercup, the hamster, needs time to run around the floor in her ball.
I get up two hours before the Amish to take care of all these fucking animals. And they have their own credit card, and if they max it out, I guess they would get another one.  But they are family, and if we lose even one tiny critter, it's very upsetting.
We lost Thistle, the hamster, this evening. Raven thought he was dead this morning, and she came to me in tears. I was on my way out the door, on the way to a mandatory class at work and to complete my yearly performance evaluation. I was trying so hard to be sensitive, but quick like. I hugged her up, and we talked about hamster life expectancies. I told her to give him to me, and we'd find a box. She put him in my hands, and he breathed. It was the deep and oddly spaced breaths of someone who is "circling the drain." It always flips me the hell out. Be alive or be dead, but stop being both! But he was still breathing. I knew he wouldn't make it through the day, and I was glad I got home before her and found him. I wrapped him in a paper towel, buried him next to the rock wall, covered the grave with rocks, put his little house on top of it, and filled the house with flowers. Oh how I hope Guinness the lab doesn't decide to retrieve him. If Thistle is on my porch tomorrow, I'll piss my pants.
When I get stressed and tired, I get uncontrollably goofy, and the universe handed me comic relief in the form of this guy running down the street in purple skinny jeans with a skeleton mask on. It was funny in a wreck-the-Jeep-doing-a-double-take kinda way. Then I go in to fill out my yearly paperwork. They ask about mental health issues. "Are there any mental health issues that prevent you from doing your job?" I think: If I wasn't crazy, I couldn't do this work. I think: Just ADHD, OCD, ODD, chronic PMS, and paranormal schizophrenia. ( I hear dead people, but they are talking about you guys, not me, so I'm not paranoid.) But I look at our serious, ultra professional HR fella, and I decide not to mess with him today.  Buddy, you are granted a reprieve. I'm gonna allow him to have the mellow morning not afforded to me.
 I took good care of all the animals but forgot to feed my kid breakfast. I forgot to do laundry and sent her off to school in shorts in October. I'm up here in the loft writing, when I should be downstairs doing family time. I could feel guilty about all this, but I'm granting myself a reprieve too. Raven ate breakfast at school, and she will have pants tomorrow. I have to write and have my alone time so that I can be better for my loved ones when I am with them.
Dilly sits with me, and  he's purring a little tune. We have this relationship that has been forged over 15 years. There are so few humans in my life that I've consistently kept that long. Money can't buy a successful 15-year relationship, and nothing can replace it once he's gone. I have to take the time to sit and hold this blind, demented kitty because the world only makes sense to him when he is in my lap. If you have the opportunity to be that person for anybody (animal or human), then that's your gift. Don't allow life to be too hectic to recognize that. Don't be too busy to use it, and don't allow anyone else's standards to de-value what only you can do.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Sand Road Shack

Sand Road Shack

I found her on the side of the road,
in a little shack
that housed the only bathroom
in the middle of the
Mojave desert.
She gave me a thumbtack,
told me to stab her map,
show her where I'm from.
I'm from way the hell across the country,
shoved way the hell up this holler,
right there...
where we don't get sun beating down on us,
where we don't get white heat.
I'm fascinated by the sand roads.
I don't want to pay eighty dollars to see the Grand Canyon.
She tells me a short cut,
a road to take to see the canyon from the other side:
where the tourists ain't,
where the paved road ain't,
and where the cell signal ain't.
I'm in a rental car and figure what the hell.
I bought the extra insurance.
Miles out the sand road,
with the tumbleweeds and cows,
I wonder which one of us is fucking crazier.
I'd go back and ask her,
but I'm afraid she and the shack may have

disappeared by now.

Trinny Sigler 9/16/2015 

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Zombie Corn

Here lately, I can't drive past a dying field of corn without thinking they look like zombies. 

Zombie Corn

All that's left now
is the army of zombie corn,
 limbs in awkward and stiff positions,
coloring not quite right.
The slightest wind causes
some to lean forward
and some to tilt back.
The standing dead are
waiting to be gathered,
waiting for the reaper
with his scythe,
ready for
the fall.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Swattin flies with sledge hammers and other things to do when aggravated.

The cat insisting on sitting on my lap and dominating my writing loft may be the final straw that sends me to the nuthatch (as my friend used to say before he really did go). The cat is driving me fuckin' crazy. He insists on sleeping on the printer or sitting on my lap at all times. I can't reach the keyboard to type. Also, he's a keyboard licker. He loves to lick keyboards, whether it be on the desktop or my iPad, and yesterday evening, he kicked his crazy up a notch by actually chewing off the keys. I found the "9" in the floor with teeth marks in it and was able to pop it back into place on the keyboard, but then this morning, the letter "N" was missing. I've had enough of his shit, and I yelled at him this evening.
"This shit's not gonna start tonight, Bubby!"
Two minutes later: "No, Bubby!"
Two minutes after that: "Get the fuck down, Bubby!"
(His real name is Comma, but I started calling him Brother because he sleeps on the Brother printer. Then I shortened it to just Bubby because every redneck around here has a Bubby that they scream at, and I guess I felt left out.)
I feel a little bad that Bubby is bearing the brunt of my frustrations. Perimenopause is just as much to blame, I guess. They tell me that's what I'm going through. Hormones are the reason I want to eat sugar and kill men and say things that I shouldn't be saying aloud like: I wouldn't piss on you to put you out if you were on fire, and I was on fluid pills. I'm not on fluid pills yet, thank the Lord and Sonny Jesus. I tried to get some help-me-meds from the gyno today. I called up the doctor, and you know how they do:
"WELCOME TO THE OB-GYN! THIS IS BRITTANY (or Kandi or Muffy or something too cute and perky)! Can you hold for half the damn day please?"
"Meh. Sure."
She comes back 20 minutes later, "Oh, you still there hon?"
"I need help because I haven't had a period in two months but I've been PMSing for at least a month."
"Are you pregnant?"
"Are you cramping?"
"No, I'm achy and irritable and bloated, and I feel like I've had PMS for a month."
"Okay. Hold on."
She comes back some time later, "The doctor says this is normal sometimes. She said to wait a few more weeks, and if nothing happens, call us back."
And she leaves me wondering: Normal for who? Because I just told you I've had PMS for a month.  What has to happen to warrant me calling them back? A total melt down? Somebody probably told Lorenna Bobbit the same shit just prior to her event. Obviously, Brittany-Kandi-Muffy doesn't understand that PMS and ADHD makes you a total bitch that says whatever comes to mind to whomever happens to be around. It's bad for functioning. I might not have anybody left in my life in a few more weeks, and Brittany-Kandi-Muffy doesn't even care.
She doesn't understand that weight gain alone can drive me insane. I've gained 12 pounds since February. I could be hormones, everyone says. It could be that I live in my car and eat stuff I find at gas stations or that I emotional eat when people like Brittany-Kandi-Muffy don't take me seriously when I tell them that I'm a bloated, achy, mega bitch. She doesn't understand that just today alone, I went off on an IEP team, a psychologist, and some lady from Meals on Wheels.
Cookies. I needed cookies right that instant.
I bought a dozen of them and settled into my Jeep to drive some.
If Trinny has a dozen cookies and five friends, how many cookies will each one get? Two.
If Trinny has a dozen cookies and chronic PMS and five friends, how many cookies will each one get? The friends will get one each, if they are lucky.
But if Trinny has a dozen cookies, chronic PMS, and scares off all of her friends, she can eat all the cookies by herself.
If Train-wreck-Trinny leaves Point A with a dozen cookies and chronic PMS, chances are the friends will disperse before the train-wreck arrives at Point B. Therefore no cookies will have to be shared.
The reality of it is, all those damn cookies are gonna be gone before I get home, and the friends will never know of their existence and everybody's  happy.
Speaking of trains, I'm worried about my boomerang baby. I call Sully my boomerang baby because you can drop  him off at school, and they will suspend him so fast that he will beat  you back  home. He was suspended the first week of school. He runs away from school, and they sent him home for running away so when he had to return to school, he ran again, so they suspended him again. And Sully's thinking: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.
He's teaching the behavioral specialists how to give him his way every time. They tell me he hits. They tell me he elopes. They tell me he paces and doesn't attend to task. I tell them that this is AUTISM and that every other school system we've been in knows how to deal with it. Why do they act like they've never seen it before? What have they done with all the other kids who are like him?
I ask if the door can be locked to prevent elopement. No, they say, because it would violate the fire codes. I ask if we can send his favorite caregiver with him to keep him safe. No, they say, because that person is not a school employee and could be a liability on the school. I ask if they can change rooms that Sully works in so that there is not an outside opening that leads to the street and train tracks. No, they say, there are no other rooms available...even though the conference room we are sitting in is in the middle of the school with no door leading to the outside and even though it's virtually empty except for the table we are working on. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Can't. Can't Can't.
Ok so his caregiver can't come to the school. The teacher can't manage him. The current aide is female, even though we've told everyone involved he needs a male. Annnnd no one can keep him from running away. Why aren't they concerned about the school's liability about that?
I wanna smoke, and I shouldn't smoke. I wanna drink, and I can't drink right now. I have to be alert, oriented, and "on" seemingly 24/7. So I've been walking and trying to transition that to running, but so far I really hate running, and  most of the time I meander more than I walk. I'm easily distracted by the river, sunlight through trees, interesting people, drawings kids have done in sidewalk chalk, and this bastard dog that keeps trying to eat me.
He's just a little ankle biter, but he gets frantic when I walk by.  Jumps up and down while he's running (I swear to God he can do this), growls and barks. The first day he did this, I jumped because I wasn't expecting him and that just reinforced  his ego. He's like those guys in big trucks with no penises. Those guys that have the need to rev the engine to get your attention because there's really nothing under the hood. So anyway, I've  had it with this little bully of a dog, and  I yelled at him the other day in Eminem Lyrics:
"I don't have a weapon, but I'ma pick up a rock and bust ya ass!"
And do you know that he did shut up. And every day since when I walked by he just stared at me like: The insanity in me recognizes and appreciates the insanity in you.
Yeah, that's right. Namaste, you little mo-fo.
These little crazy pets are reinforcing to me that yelling does work, and it makes me feel like a bully. But actually, the pets were bullying me first so I just stood up to a bully and yelled at a bully, and that usually has always worked. It has worked for me since 6th grade.
I yelled at a bully once in 6th grade. She said mean things to me every morning when my dad would drop me at school, and it always ruined my day. Then one day I mouthed off to her, and she didn't do shit. Then she tried to be friends with me, but I wasn't havin' that either. I saw her the other day on my walk, ironically just after I passed that bully dog. She looks way older than me and in worse shape. Yeah, I sized her up and figured I could kick her ass now, but it looks like some combination of the universe, karma, and drugs have kicked her around enough.
I had this little calico cat one time. Snags was her name. She was the epitome of the scrawny alley cat, and I couldn't fatten her up no matter how hard I tried. She would lay on the kitchen chairs and enjoyed reaching out and snagging your legs when you walked by. Fearing nothing, her approach to life was to reach out and grab it or smack it. If she was intimidated by something, it only made her aggression worse. I saw her flatten herself out on the ground, reach under a rock, and jerk out a snake all in the space of about three seconds or less. I watched her take down a fully grown Siberian husky before. He wasn't expecting it. He ran by her barking, expecting her to run from him, and she ran at him, grabbed him with one paw and pummeled him with the other. He was running sideways to get away from her.
I learned a lot from her. Advocacy for one thing. If something is a threat to the most vulnerable, you  have to go after said threat and take it out. And don't just hit it with a fly swatter because it may just get stunned, bounce back, and keep being a threat. You have to quash it, like Eminem says. I like overkill in situations like that, like smashin flies with sledge hammers. Those fuckers ain't gonna unfold themselves and annoy me again. They are gonna be DONE. Usually these threats come in forms of policy.
Antiquated policy becomes the law and bible of the uncreative. They adopt this attitude of: We can't do what would work because it's not what we've always done. We've always done this, and if this doesn't work for you, then we can't help you. And those who are supposed to be helping and serving become slaves to what is and have no vision of what can be. Or maybe they become slaves to higher salaries and sell their humanity because they have to tow the company line.
I'm wild. I'm unmanageable (ask anyone who has tried to manage me). Nobody owns me. Say what you're gonna say. Do what you're gonna do. If I think something oppresses the vulnerable  or just isn't right,  I'm not going along with it, and I don't care what it costs me, and that's what you call sincerity. It's what you call being genuine. I think to do less than this is to risk losing our humanity. You gotta always be willing to reach under those rocks, jerk those slimy bastards out, and expose them. Smack that fucking bully in the face, and worry about the consequences later.
Between social work and advocacy efforts for Sully, I've been spending a lot of time lately trying to protect vulnerable folks from slimy bastards. It's my passion, though, and really the only thing that makes me feel alive, fired up, hyper, and ready to take on whatever. I guarantee you that I will wear down what aggravates me before it wears me down (thanks to OCD and ADHD). I've carved out a role of being a bully to the bullies. I don't know what that makes me, but I can weather any shit-storm on the horizon.  It will  be all right. Things will  work out. So mote it be.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

The Disappointing Pin-up Dress

I wanted to look like a sexpot pin-up girl
from the 1940s.
I ordered:
the dress in yellow,
the shoes in red and white,
the cardigan sweater in red,
the headband in red polka dots.
I looked like:
Ronald McDonald,
the mom from Christmas Story,
Flo from Mel's Diner,
somebody's mother-in-law
or grandmother,
a combination of Saturday Night Live characters,
a goddamn circus tent.
The mister says:
"Those shoes say:
There's no place like home
except the bowling alley."
Maybe he's never seen so much sexy in one place.
I've clicked my heels together a million times,
but I can't get anywhere but here.

*If you're not sure if sexpot is one word or two, DON'T google it! 

Sunday, August 23, 2015

A blog I wrote for Mother's Day (just a few months late)

For the first time in 20 years, I went to Beecher's house. Last time I went to Beecher's house, I was with Beecher. It had been a winter day, and we were high school seniors. His mom had made a stew, but Beecher and  his brother didn't like all of the ingredients, so when she fixed their bowls, she used a strainer to fish out anything they didn't like. That's love, I thought.
He was long-haired and free-spirited, loved music and playing his guitar. He smelled like cigarettes, leather, and freshly washed hair. He felt things deeply and would react rashly, but he would come back later and talk it out, apologizing if necessary.
Two years after we graduated, his life started to unravel. Problems mounted at work, school, and with his girlfriend. It got to be too much, and he made the decision to take his life. I imagine that, if it were possible, he would think it over, come back and apologize. And in some ways he has.
Beecher appeared to me in dreams multiple times. He always wanted me to check on  his mother. He would show me images and tell me things. Once he showed me a lake. She was on one side, he  on the other.
"But you are the lake," he told me.
He wanted me to call her, and I did. He would come to me several more times over the years. Then there was this final dream. I did not see him, but he was flying and carrying me. We looked down on the earth. He showed me scenes of war and destruction and then beautiful images: a single tree in  pasture with a rainbow hanging over head, the sky still mostly gray.
"There are terrible things and beautiful things, but I'm all done here," he said.  I haven't dreamt of him since.
Often I had thought about going to visit his mother, but how could I go to Beecher's house without him? We all play those games in our minds where we pretend that something is unless we go prove to ourselves that it isn't. Sure, I knew the reality of it. I had been to his grave multiple times, a pack of Marlboros and a little wilted bunch of wild flowers in my hand, and I 'd sit and chatter to him.  But I held the image of him tucked away at his house instead of in his grave, and a visit to his house would take away the security of denial.
Denial was something his mother didn't have the luxury of. She had faced a house without him every day for years and had gained a level of acceptance. Not peace and not a feeling of "getting over it" but an acceptance of what is. I'd run into her at the grocery store and promise to come over and visit, but I'd never followed through. Finally one evening she offered to come to my house, and I worked up the nerve to agree to go to hers.
I drove the three miles up the holler road. I pulled down into his driveway, walked up the steps, knocked on the familiar door, and heard his father telling me to come in.
 Beecher looked like both of his parents. He had his father's nose and mouth and his mother's golden eyes and beautiful, long, naturally curly hair. I found a little bit of him in each of them. His scent was still in the air. We all hugged, and his father asked me why I hadn't been up before. I just told him I'd been busy. I found it too difficult to explain that I was both afraid that I would find too much of Beecher there and not enough of him all at the same time.
I sat and talked with his mother for hours. Every time I held eye contact with her, there Beecher was again. Nobody else I know has eyes that color. Some of her mannerisms and the way she phrased things, gave him back to me in small doses, an IV drip to a spirit in drought. I hope I've been able to do the same for her. I can't bound up on her porch and bust through the door like I did years ago, probably excited about some concert and talking about music. All I can offer are a few scattered dreams, the reporting of visits, and a maybe a reminder of how old he'd be now.
We're hitting 40. Would he get a kick out of me turning 40 while he is eternally 19? I think so. Because that's how he is. I can almost hear it, "Fuck, Trin! You're getting old."
A fellow psychic recently told me that he still comes around me and that there are several who follow me. She said I'm a beacon, that they can see me if they can't see anything else, and so they will come. He's an enlightened one, and I feel that he has moved on. He doesn't hang out because he has to. He comes around because he wants to.
We finished our coffee. I gave her a hug and promised I'd be back, and I fully intend to visit regularly. She's one of those people that will always be "home" to me. She followed me out to the porch and watched me walk up the driveway to my car. Last time I did that, Beecher ran beside me yelling "I got shotgun."  

He always called shotgun and wanted to ride up front beside me. Even if I had a boyfriend who should've rightfully been in that spot, we always let Beech ride shotgun when he called it. I wish shotgun would've retained this innocent meaning. I wish so many things weren't so. 

Saturday, August 15, 2015

He said he wouldn't, but then he did. And, anyway, today marks that day.


Things were groovy ‘til you went insane,
and I didn’t have a clue
that reality was so hard for you to maintain.
I danced in your bizarre point of view.
There’s nothing a friend can do.
I’m not the keeper of your zoo.

There’s no tour guide
on the bipolar roller coaster ride,
but Mr. Jones is by your side.
And always, always, always
you still have your pride!

I have to admit this whole relationship
is going down like a bitter tea,
especially when my mind steeps too long
in the way things used to be.

This simmers on the back-burner of my brain,
and for a while I’ll let it brew,
but I’m always startled by the sharp whistle of pain

when my thoughts decide to sip on you. 

Viewpoint of a Sociopath

You don’t have real problems.
None that compare to mine.
Your biggest issue is that
you don’t see me as divine.

Of this crumbling castle!
There’s no kingdom in sight, but
I have no subjects but
I know I’m right!

Life has hardened me.
I’m not the boy you knew.
The only promise I make is
I’ll only hurt you.

I know how to save me.
I don’t need your advice.
You can never reach me.
What will you sacrifice?

I can’t love you.
Love would make me weak.
You’re ALL weak and needy.
Wipe that tear from your cheek. 

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Walking with the Little Professor

This was a "small stone" (where you try to capture a moment of time each day and paint it with words), but it turned into a longer piece. Little goes to middle school next week. Sully is on his first camping trip with his buddies and starts 8th grade. My dear niece "Baby Sam" is preparing to leave for college. I'm struggling with it all.

Walking with the Little Professor

We step out into the humid, shady morning.
"This is good weather for the crested gecko," she says.
"We could take him walking,
if we had a tiny but really long leash."

We go to check on the chicks,
hatched only weeks ago.
We make our rounds through the
tomatoes, cantaloupes,
pumpkins, cucumbers.

Lazy butterflies float by.
The dog won't lift his head to greet us.
Leaves drop themselves into the creek to float a while.
The sun beats down.
"And now this is good weather
for the bearded dragon
because he likes the desert,
but it's too hot out here for me."

Years ago when she was about four,
she found a special rock on the playground
and held it up to me:
"Wose Quawtz," she said.
Rose Quartz.

I lost her to kindergarten round-up that year.
I'll lose her to middle school shortly.
"Four more days until school starts, Mama,"
she said out of the blue today.

"Time sure does go fast." 

(*Insert crying like Snoopy here*) 

Monday, July 27, 2015

August is coming, and I hate August.

Soaking It All In

The small azalea and blueberry bushes grew
in small pots on the porch when they were tiny and new.
They were junkies, too,
addicted to long drinks of rain and sips of dew
(on the rocks).

They jonesed  for the sunlight.
They quivered beneath the moonlight.
They had some blow when the wind was right.
Grass could be found everywhere in sight.

They were cut off cold when the winter came.
No sunshine, no dew, no drops of rain.
The blow turned bitter and caused them pain.
Nothing sustaining shot up into their veins
(So they slept.)

They awakened when they heard the robin's song!
They survived the darkness, and their branches are long.
I wish you would have been as strong.

You couldn't find a way to bud or start your life anew.
Stuck in the void, you decided you were through,
while the little plants fought their addictions and grew.
So we planted them, but we scattered you.

(And I wept). 

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

The Velvet Jesus After-Party

The Velvet Jesus After-Party

The dog's name is Precious.
He tried to bite me.
I want to stick quarters between his cactus-spikey meth teeth,
shove them back into his smooshed face,
get a washer started,
wash his smell away.

The baby's name is Mercedes,
and they dress her in pageant clothes.
Never mind the snot caked around her nose,
her Cheeto mouth, and brown baby teeth.

The truck is bigger than the trailer.
The license plate says: "My Toy,"
but it belongs to the bank,
and they're coming to get it.
The letter says so.
The puppy-piss-soaked letter
That no one in the house knows how to read.

Velvet Jesus hangs on the wall...powerless.
They know not what they do.
He can only watch:
The Mister and Missus in a fry-pan fight.
The Missus goes to sleep with the neighbor.
They pop commandments like bubble wrap.
Velvet Jesus knows that:
They all drink until 2 a.m. on Sunday morning,
just hours before sliding into the booth at his house,
with their blood-shot eyes,
with liquor on their breath,
because Mawmaw won't cook dinner
unless they attend the salvation after-party.
Last call! Alter call! Communion wine.

Contemplating Frogs in Pots

Contemplating Frogs in Pots

Just put them in lukewarm water,
they say.
Gradually turn up the heat.
They won't try to get out.
They will just float there
and cook.

I think about this.
As the water gets hotter,
surely there will be signs
of distress.
I imagine there would at least be a whimper.
At even the smallest whimper,
I'd grab them off the stove,
rush them outside,
release their bumpy green butts
back into the mossy grass goodness
into the cool.
Hop along, little buddies,
I didn't mean it.

How could they be dumb enough
to float there, cooking,
to not recognize that it's getting hotter?
But some deny global warming,
And some still grease up lily pale skin
and go to bake in the sun.

I start off with lukewarm water,
add myself, a bottle of wine,
a book of poems.
I use my toe to gradually turn the heat up,
and I wonder:
If the water tank was big enough,
and the water could get hot enough,
would I stay in their long enough,
to cook without knowing?

Cooking with wine can be dangerous.
I've fallen asleep in the bath before.
The cold water up to my neck,
my head bobbing to the side.
He noticed I wasn't in bed,
and came and pulled me out
just in time.
He's done this at least twice in 20 years.

Could frogs be dumb enough
to hang out in dangerous waters
and remain mellow as they float
toward their death?
I guess the answer is


Thursday, April 16, 2015

Introducing my poetry book...

Above is a link to my new poetry book, and below is a sip of what's inside:

Drooping, Shrinking Hopes

The folks at the restaurant,
in crisp shirts and overalls,
are amazed at the machine on the bathroom wall.
For people who look like they’ve rolled in from the prairie,
that lil machine holds things that are scary.

There are oils and lubricants,
a rainbow of rubbers,
a mystery called the “goodie box”
to satisfy lovers.

There’s a very large sign
proclaiming abstinence is best,
but if you’re gonna be a whore,
we can feather your love nest.

And while Clem’s drinking root beer
and talking with the guys,
His beloved Corie’s in the restroom,
planning to buy him a surprise.

She digs in her granny purse.
(They’ve been married 50 years.)
She pulls out her wallet
and laughs 'til there are tears.

With a lil bit of money,
and the flick of her wrist,
their creaky old marriage
could get a new twist!

Drooping and shrinkage
would be problems of the past.
This mysterious goodie
could surely make Clem last.

She’d blow more than his mind,
and heat up his bed!
Ecstasy could be theirs
just like the sign said!
The machine screams promises of pleasure intense.

Too bad Corie didn’t have 50 cents.

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

Bloom or Bust

Bloom or Bust

Maybe when the spring comes,
I'll roll out of here,
loud and wild like a thundercloud.
Clap my hands and shake the mountains,
shake your home.

But for now, I'm content
to be blanketed by the winter,
dropped into a void
like a tulip bulb
humming with potential
and ignoring the fact
that I'm only nurtured
with bullshit.

Maybe I'll bloom in the spring,
But maybe I'll stay hidden in the dark,
content to be a dud.

You'd forget about me.
You'd drop your expectations.
Eventually, as with all of us,

only the earthworms will remember. 

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

I Don't Know You. You Don't Know Me.

I Don't Know You. You Don't Know Me.

A couple, holding hands while hitch-hiking their way
through the evening autumn sunshine.
She carries a well-fed puppy in her backpack.
I want to pick them up, take them to dinner,
ask them how they've spent their day.

I'm stable,
with the job
and responsibilities.
I'm tied down with plenty of roots
but connected to nothing.

They are full.
I can see it in their eyes.
They don't know where they will be sleeping tonight,
but they will be together
probably under stars.

The rest of us drive by them,
in vehicles that own us,
rushing home to big houses,
with big, lush, pillow-top mattresses,
where night after night,
we pile up our empty shells.

Friday, January 30, 2015

The STFU post

I always try to hold my tongue and mince words....right. If you're easily offended, stop reading now because I'm calling this one the STFU post.

Once again autism moms are being bashed in the media for chosing not to vax their kids or vaxing on an alternative schedule. You don't have children so you've never had to make these decisions? Oh okay, you can stop reading, and STFU right here and now.

Both of my children were vaccinated, and both were damaged. They are both adopted and not biologically related so I have two cases of children damaged by vaccines, who have no biological link. So anyone one wants to try to argue that they are both genetically predisposed to have medical issues, you can stop reading, and STFU

One of my children became violently ill and AUTISTIC after he was hammered with his 15 month vaccines AND flu shots all at the same time, which collectively had enough mercury to poison a 150 pound person. At the time he weighed ohhhhh less than 30 pounds. This was back in 2001, when the govt realized that there was enough mercury in the vaccines to poison the kids and ordered the mercury to be removed, BUT didn't do a recall and allowed doctors to use up the vaccines they had on the shelves. These were the ones my child got. Yes, I know when my child became autistic. He was exposed to nothing else during this time frame so, yes I know what CAUSED it. So those of you who think that parents don't realize when a new stimulus is introduced and their child becomes damaged,  you are here! Feel free to stop reading, and just STFU.

Fast forward to 2005 when I got my baby girl. I didn't want to be this fanatical mother who didn't get her kids vaccinated so with Raven, I had her vaccines broken down into individual doses. She got her mumps vaccine with no issues. She got her measles vaccine the next month. It appeared for a few days that there were no issues, and she was doing fine. Then one night just before I put her to bed, I noticed she felt warm. In the time it took me to get the thermometer to check her temperature, she went into convulsions and had to be taken to the ER. At the ER, I told them she had the measles component of the vaccine a few days before and asked if that could be the culprit. Oh nooooo they said. It would have been an immediate reaction, not delayed. So I get on WVU's medial database to research this, and there are muliple cases of this happening days after the MMR, AND many children died because they had no symptoms of illness, their parents put them to bed, and they went into convulsions and died. Something like 30 percent of the kids who had seizures went on to have another one, and of those who had a second one, they had a high risk of developing seizure disorder for life. I think I read that it was 70 percent. (Those of you who blindly believe everything nurses tell you can STFU too. Don't get me wrong, I work with a lot of wonderful  nurses, and many of them are smarter than doctors, but there are those who are dumber than hell, and I have no idea how they got through school. And  you know it's true...)

So both of my children have been damaged by vaccines. The United States will not do the test to see if children have heavy metals/ mercury poisoning so I had to send my son's labs to France to get evidence that he has mercury poisoning that could have come from no source. (So there is some science that everyone seems to think it's okay to ignore. ) Yes, he has mercury poisoning that has damaged his brain, and he presents as autistic. One in 68 kids is autistic now. And look at the number of people with Alzheimer's (which looks a lot like adult on-set autism)  which I believe that years of mercury-containing flu shots have contributed too. Yes, vaccines help in a lot of ways, but it's undeniable that we have a lot of problems now that we didn't have years ago. China didn't have an autistic population until we started sending our vaccines over there. There is no autism in Amish communities. Why is it okay to ignore this but not okay to question studies that are funded by  pharmaceutical   industries and backed by our first-do-no-harm-but-if-you-do-first-cover-your-ass government? So those of you who think we are ignoring science, you can STFU too. Science is ignoring us. Studies can be produced to say anything. Anything.

And this recent measles outbreak...blame the concerned autism moms if you want. I understand that you have to have someone to blame other than authority because you are sheeple. But have you wondered why this outbreak started somewhere large and in the public eye, like Disneyland? It hasn't been news in any small towns, just BOOM! Measles in Disneyland! If all of the anti-vaxers were causing so much chaos across the country, why aren't you hearing about his in small towns everywhere. But the media fall out sure has turned the public tide against moms who are just looking out for their kids and has taken a lot of pressure off Big Pharma and Uncle Sam.

 Those of you who blindly trust the government can STFU too. There was a time when Uncle Sam thought it was okay to hand out small pox blankets. Draw your own conclusions, but it's time you fucking QUESTION.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Untitled 1/14/15

Maybe when the spring comes,
I'll roll out of here,
loud and wild like a thundercloud.
Clap my hands and shake the mountains,
shake your home.

But for now, I'm content
to be blanketed by the winter,
dropped into a void
like a tulip bulb
humming with potential
and ignoring the fact
that I'm only nurtured
with bullshit.

Maybe I'll bloom in the spring,
But maybe I'll stay hidden in the dark,
content to be a dud.

You'd forget about me.
You'd drop your expectations.
Eventually, as with all of us,

only the earthworms will remember.