Superlative quotes

The best words:  “Do you want to go on an adventure?”

The worst words:  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The craziest words:  Zipperumpazoo, detergent, incredible

The tiredest words: “What do you want to do for dinner?”

The bravest words: “I love you.”

The smallest words: “I’m afraid that”

The proudest: “I was afraid, but”





July 16, 2016


People will be cruel and rage.

Witnesses stand offstage, disengage.

Politicians will speak of condemnation,

BlackLivesMatter, of discrimination.


CNN will take the reigns of inflammation and provocation.

FOX, meanwhile, will whip the mare of degradation and migration.

Facebook will become a scroll

of colors, memes, and gun control.

Twitter birds will fly with flutters

of quippy 140-charactered mutters.

Trump, and Hill, and Bill will

retreat, consult, and then distill

soundbites they know well we will

Repeat, retweet, their wish fulfilled.

QUICK!  A team, a side, a stance you must pick!

If you are to politic, if you are to wield a stick

for ideals propelled by some peacenik

or maybe even a lunatic.

To those who hold all the controls:

But, wait! They are us! and it is We who drill these holes

Into pride, and power, but too, progress

We must take action!  But, let me guess…

I’ll hold a sign, or march in step,

To the beats of discontent,

And now, and forth, you’ll clang and bang

And we’ll continue to harass and harangue.

And on and on, sides will be drawn, and battles fought

(Are you with us, or are you not?)


To provide and sooth our lexicon:

The clear conviction our braun.




He squinted against the smoke of the cigarette hanging from his mouth.  Somehow he was able to do this– smoke and futz at the same time, no hands.  The rusted iron vice gripped one of his Dynastar 203s by the sides, exposing the bottom surface to the ceiling.  His favorite skis so far, they were too long for his height, but they were fast and made him feel like a competitor.

The basement still smelled of newly poured cement, but the cigarette overtook that.  Tonight it was all about performance.  On the pingpong table sat an old iron and a bar of alpine wax, lilac purple in color.  SWIX, the brand name, imprinted large in the surface, though half of the S had already been melted away.

Patiently, he melted drops of the wax onto the base of the ski with the iron in one hand, the wax pressed against it in the other.  The smoke that rose created grey swirls against the low, bare lightbulbs.

He put down the iron and took a hard drag, this time taking the Winston in his hand and stubbing it out in the awkwardly grandiose ashtray he’d taken from his in-laws house next door.  Reclaiming the iron, he swept it back and forth, perfectly melting each drop along the way to a clean, even coating.

When both skis were done, he returned to the first and scraped it until the wax was the thinnest, smoothest, shiniest surface I thought I’d ever seen.  He held it up to his eye and looked down the length for any imperfection.  There was none.

via Daily Prompt: Vice

Stubborn, a free write


Stubborn.  What’s the difference between stubborn and determined?  The former has a negative connotation (con=with, notation… huh) while the latter, a positive one.  Sometimes being stubborn can lead to determination when one is unwilling to admit a wrong– determination to prove the fallacy.  Likewise, determination can lead stubbornness when one is unwilling to admit defeat, or as my life coach friend would say– when something is “no longer serving”.  How kind.  How gentle.

I am being stubborn right now.  As I write this, I’m dressed up like an olympic runner, determined to go out for a run today, but knowing it’s unlikely.  These tight clothes are digging into my thighs and ribs and there is no good reason not to change out of them, BUT THAT when I do, it will seal the sad fate of today’s exercise.  So, I sit, and I itch.  Type, then adjust.

I read a poem today that made me want to explore the interactions between inanimate objects.  Like, what’s the relationship between the wine and the glass?  How does my toaster feel about my counter?  Does it matter if you separate a matching set of chairs from one another, and if so, to whom?  To us, to the chairs?

Another thing happening as I write is that my dog (Ernie) is rolled up against my side and on top of some pillows.  As such, my left arm is being held at such an angle that my head and neck are having to compensate for the too high position of my shoulder.  Ernie demands this for his continued contentment and I, already bothered by my tight and shifty shorts, am also attempting to hold this pose, and this computer, and my thoughts in line, ever so carefully as not to interrupt his no doubt deeply pensive state.  Who is being stubborn here, he or I?

via Daily Prompt: Stubborn



Travel Log, Machu Picchu, August, 2016

Ho.Ly. Fuck.  I pretty much can’t believe I just started this entry, under this title.  I’ve dreamed of going to Machu Picchu since I first laid eyes on a poster of it in my 8th grade Screen Shot 2016-08-04 at 11.44.01 AMSpanish classroom.  Mrs. Nedielski was our teacher.  She had a mousy salt and pepper bob, a warm smile, and a tendency to not take herself too seriously.  Since I’ve taken a post in her very role, I’ve often called her and her light spirit to mind and to my own classroom. Though I’ve tried to find her to thank her for her inspiration and instruction, I’ve not succeeded, so I’ll just have to honor her here.  Thank you, Patricia Nedielski, for being the first person to inject my imagination with the prospect of this trip.  It is happening!

It’s been 28 years since I was in that classroom, and 28 years ago that I promised myself someday I would go to Machu Picchu.  I leave for Peru in six days, and in eleven days start a four day hike to the ancient city of the Inca.  My husband, Tom, will be with me.  He has nurtured this dream along side me and I’m so grateful for his willingness to share in it.  We’re nervous.  We’re excited.

We spent the last two days buying an embarrassing amount of gear.  We will be the tourists we make fun of on other trips, but I don’t care.  This is my dream trip, 28 years in the making, and if I want hydration packs, cargo pockets, and inflatable lumbar support pillows, I’m going to have them.

Anticipated weather on our trekking days:

Screen Shot 2016-08-04 at 11.58.49 AM

What’s with all this rain talk?  It’s supposed to be the dry season.  More gear!

August 9, 2016

Our last night home before we leave for Peru tomorrow.  American Airlines to Miami, then Lima.  On the 11th, we’ll to to Cuzco, 11,000 feet.

Tom is in a bad mood, which he denies.  I’m not sure the source of it– probably pre-travel nerves.  Another possibility is that its somehow associated with a tense political discussion we had yesterday.  Or he just doesn’t like me today.  Or he just doesn’t like me period; though I doubt that.

My backpack is all packed and totals 17 lbs.  I’m using the Osprey Mira which I think was a good, if really fucking expensive.  $165 is a lot for me to spend on a backpack.  Hope it’s worth it.  All told I’ve spent about $600 total on gear, mostly clothes.  I keep telling myself I’ll have it forever.  I probably will, too.  Still– $600.  Whew.

The dining room table of our little house is piled high with clothes, snack food, ponchos, various things in little stuff sacks, and miniature HABA like toothpaste and the cutest deodorants you ever saw.

Aside:  Tom, who was stressing like mad that he didn’t have time to get things done tonight has been over talking with our old neighbor, Russell, for about 15 minutes now.  I will be right to say he’ll stay a while longer, then come home and make it his cross to bear that he “had to talk to Russell” while he feverishly packs his backpack and stresses out.

Here I am, on the other hand, plodding along in my blog and wondering if I’m missing something.  Should I be stressing out, too?  I think I did all my “fings” (as Ernie would say) and have everything I need.  At the same point, the nagging suspicion that I DON’T have any of those things.  I think I do though.

Did the phone calls to family.  Ernie is at Phaedra’s house.  Plants will be watered.  Ah-ha!  I need a checklist.

August 30, 2016

I did not even attempt to update this log during our trip, but, we did it!  I cried when I realized I was there.  I guess I didn’t know, passing through the Sun Gate, that when I looked up after those last steps it would be stretched out in front of me.  It was overwhelming.  It was unbelievable, literally.  I had a few moments alone to take it in, then Tom found me and I hugged him and cried again.

Four days prior, we woke up at 4:45am and got on a bus at 5:30.  We drove to the gateway to the Inka Trail, had breakfast, and officially passed the first checkpoint.  Day one was unforgiving.  It was hot, dusty, and steep.  We hiked for seven hours.  The porters began to look like superheros to us–how they nearly jogged the trail with five times as much weight on their backs as we had, passing us easily, one after another.

*time out– I’m writing in my back yard and my loud neighbors just got home–ugh.*

Day two was much the same, but we had more fight in us, and managed to clammer over Dead Woman’s pass.  Another seven hour day.  My legs were jelly, but my heart was full. We had passed the last of the homes and farms on the trail.  We hadn’t seen anyone from the real world aside from each other.  Everything CNN had vanished.  It was just us, our evolving group dynamics, and the Andes Mountains.  I didn’t miss anything.

By comparison, days three and four were CAKE.  Having gotten the hardest work done, the hike took on a more spiritual experience than physical one.  We’d become accustomed to the mountains.  We learned to hang back from the group (not hard– they were mostly 20-somethings rutting for position) and enjoy the silence.  More often than I’d like, there was a hurriedness, but I wonder if it was real or self-imposed.

These last days we started seeing evidence of other life on our planet again.  “Crazy Pants” made her first appearance on day three, as did “Sweater Man” and “Cute Outfit Girl”.  This cast of characters, as best we could figure it, had taken the abbreviated trek to Machu Picchu.  They were looking fresh and spritely and invasive.  In hind sight, I recognize that they were our slow introduction back into the world.  After sun-up at Machu Picchu, the flood gates of humans opened on us again.  It was a rude awakening.

We did the obligatory tour of the ruins with our guide, Carlos.  His explanations were wonderful and engaging, but it was still hard to focus over the feeling of chaos brought by all the people.  From busses and trains, so many people.  Cameras, tour guides, and selfie-sticks bumped and butted us from all angles.  I missed the trail almost immediately, and I still do.

Though we had tickets for re-entry to the ruins and to hike Huayna Picchu the following day, we didn’t return.  I had waiting 28 years to arrive at Machu Picchu and spent about 20 minutes savoring it from the Sun Gate and then watching the sun rise over it, empty and majestic.  I didn’t want to see it with its throngs of tourists again.  The moment had arrived, and passed.  We had beautiful, clear weather, which I understand is unusual.  My moment with Machu Picchu was blessed, and I want to leave it at that.  The place it holds in my heart is a special one.  You might say sacred.



Red Rover, Red Rover, send Solace right over.

Lucky Strike, Tramadol, Smack, Pinot,

Destiny and Desire in the boxing ring,

Destiny, forever the heftier,

Desire, a sly and slick trickster.

Yet another tedious bout.

Stale bobs, the weaves,

The predictable jabs,

right, right, then a left,

A real blow to the head!

wails the announcer,

too close to the mic,

but he’s up.

He can chin the punches.


Desire ever the victor,

and the salve, nectarous,

saccharine reward,

eyes closed,

let it course,

let it pulse,

until Destiny is.




Getting back to writing

I really want to write again and to find that little inner buzz that making beautiful words swing together created for me many years ago.  I’ve fallen out of the habit, and with each year that passes, the fear that I’ll never feel even a little bit good as a writer grows stronger.  Recently I’ve noticed that even writing letters or a little dinky press release has strained the muscles of my inner scribe — who has clearly atrophied beyond recognition — so much so that the intuitive clauses and punctuation marks that once seemed so obvious are gone.

So, again, I’m here to do my time.  To bide my weary brain.  I don’t know what that means.  But, to allow myself to write shit about shit and be okay with that.  How annoying.

I’ve had some things come to mind that would maybe be rich vignettes.  Turning 40 seems to have put a new face on my old childhood.  What once seemed common and unremarkable has become a complex shape in my hand that can be turned and examined from any number of angles.  Some of these ideas are:

  • Waiting at the bus stop with frozen hair
  • After school, coffee ice cream, and Judge Wapner
  • There’s been one particular one on my mind for days, even just an hour ago, and I can’t remember.
  • The curling iron
  • What WAS it?
  • Babysitting for the Boyers — Was I fired?
  • The day I realized ___________ — The one I’m trying to remember starts like this, I think.

It’s driving me crazy that the reason I resuscitated this journal is the very prompt that escapes me now.  What the hell was it?