Life Will Not Be Delayed – Prose/Journal Notes

garden-507284_640If you’re reading this and following in any way,  I’ve decided to begin my foray back into television land with the 30 something hour series Downton Abbey.  I’m 18 minutes into it.  I needed a break.  You eyed me from your hobby table…you’ve been listening and not somewhat silently and without opinion.  I’ll eventually have to watch this episode all over again – sans you in the room.  But this is a much better way to watch television.  Really.  This internet way.  To be more in control of how much you will watch before stopping for a discussion and how much you will watch before calling it quits for the day.  Then pick up tomorrow.  Like streaming a movie.  I’m glad it’s taken me this long to figure this out – entirely.  I’m also glad I figured it out and then cared enough to do something – like watch a program.

today's roses



And then the petals began to fall off the roses you brought me several days ago…




walking cane



And my walking stick arrived – the carved Finnish wood one – and you fixed all that up for me nicely.





And I spent 6 hours with my gf during her last really huge chemo cocktail treatment.

And I thought about stuff…too morbid to come from my lips so I’ll save it for some poem or fiction piece.  Or not.


garden photo from pixabay others are mine

Repression – Journal Poem

Poem to story?  Perhaps.  I spend hours over this thought.  I put  the writing of the story, here, on some back burner.

I move through the day.  Stopped up toilet and visit from the plumber.  He ended up to be some warrior one the Bush dynasty sent to war.  I liked him.  He knew something I didn’t know about but wished I did.  We paid for an hour of his time and, once the toilet was unstopped, I directed him to our stuck disposal.  He fixed that, too.

We are at odds.  You suddenly want to discuss, lately, Freud.  FREUD?  So I say to you:

Me:  I don’t care to discuss this any further with you.  If you don’t want to discuss God with me, I don’t care to discuss Freud with you.  Get it?

You:  That’s true.  They’re both somewhat gods, aren’t they?

Me:  Not to me.

And we move into silence.  That is best, I think.  I certainly don’t care to debate Freud with you…at this point.


Once you know
you know.
I mean
how much sense does it take
to know when pictures fade
and reality sets in?


image via pixabay

“It is love. Don’t worry about the words.” Zydeco Memories

Since I decided to center my A-Z entries around my life, Here is Chapter “Z” of the April A-Z Challenge.

I’m in a panic. I may not make the deadline. Here goes. Get up and dance with yourself or someone near.

And, I’ll call it Zydeco cuz I wanna 😛

Zydeco: per Wikipedia
Zydeco is a musical genre evolved in southwest Louisiana by French Creole speakers which  blends blues, rhythm and blues, and music indigenous to the Louisiana Creoles and the Native people of Louisiana.

I could tell a million stories about the scenes in this video.  Family reunions down on the bayou.   Being 8 years old and dancing with my cousins.  Not sure what the foreign Creole French words meant.  Moss hanging from the cypress trees.  Just total innocence.

At the family reunions, my great uncles would play the music.  I remember asking one of my uncles what the words to some of the sad songs meant and him saying:  “It is love.  Don’t worry about the words.”

Then 20+ years of Jazz Festivals and dancing at the Zydeco stage.  It’s a music that takes hold of your emotions and your body and one must simply move along with it entranced.

OK.  Ok.  One more… I Passed By Your Door (with translation)

J’ai passé devant ta porte. (I walked past your door)
J’ai crié “bye-bye” la belle.(I cried, “goodby, my beautiful girl.”)
‘Y a personne qu’à pas répondu (And nobody even answered!)
O yaîe aîe, mon coeur fait mal! (Oh, how my heart aches!)

“Mes amis j’ai observé.” (Then I took a closer look)
“Moi j’ai vu une p’tite lumière allumée.” (And I saw devotional candles lit)
“Y’a quelque chose qui m’disait d’aller pleurer.”(And something told me I was going to cry)”
“O yaîe aîe, mon coeur fait mal!” (Oh! My heart hurts so bad!)

“Moi j’ai été cogné à la porte” (I knocked again at the door)
quand ils ont rouvert a la porte (and when they opened it)
moi j’ai vu des chandelles allumées (I saw the devotional candles lit)
tout autour de son cercueil (all around her coffin)  )



A Tender Moment In Time – Journal

I’m feeling not so pretty these days. My broken arm is in a bright purple cast. I’ve had my hair chopped off into a pixie cut – so it’s easier for us to wash. I’m already sorta teary-eyed to be such a burden to you. Then, you are towel drying my hair. You whisper, “You’re so beautiful.”

I’m transported to a long ago Joe Cocker concert …you, my sweetness, are the beautiful one.


Ellespeth As Toddler – Prose

wpbdWell good grief.  There I am trying to be techy on WordPress…trying to find a comment I’d made a few days ago so I could see about some WordPress challenge and …  what?  I discovered blog stats.  Didn’t I discover these before – and then lose that link somehow?  Well 😛 thank gawd I’m not here for stats because my best visited day was sometime back in 2014.

When I read the particular entry – after I figured out how to do that – I looked at  you and said:  “There must be some way I’ve accomplished this writing goal by now.”  Insert a pouting face for emphasis of hard work done and a loud sigh.  Expect and receive an understanding nod of agreement and a smile and even , I think, I heard a laugh from your side of the room.

I also discovered a trophy 😛 from today, from WordPress  They are wishing me a happy third year here!  I could go on and on but…

~  I am thankful for WordPress.  I can see that I haven’t accomplished all of my writing goals, but at least I have made goals and, therefore, feel some type of obligation to meet them even when I don’t.

~  On the inside – to myself and to people who know me, I am shy.  I have a small number of friends – here on WordPress and in other areas of my life.  It’s a challenge for me to keep up with all that goes on WordPress with all the people I know here.  I’m learning how to stretch and trust more the comments I make.  That’s a huge step for me in life.  That doesn’t mean I’m not shy.  I’m in a process of some sort.  That’s a good thing.

~  Sometimes I want to runaway from WordPress or just hide away as though observing a dream.  Sometimes I post something amd drop it within 5 minutes.  Isn’t that a wonderful function?   Unlike emails, one can actually have second thoughts on WordPress.  We can actually learn something when we read back the words of our unconscious.  And, really, do I want to be that raw with my emotions here – or anywhere?  I’m glad there is that second thought option of simply deleting an entry or making it private until you think it through more.

~  I’m so aware of being thankful to the friends I’ve made here.  To the people whose lives I follow each time I visit.  And to the people who follow my life even when I’m unable to visit theirs.

So Happy Birthday to me!  I’m 3.  I’m just a toddler.  Watch out world!  I’ll just let this go raw unedited cuz I wanna 😛

BTW, what I came here to look up ended up to be A-Z April 2016.   I’ll probably enter this year..oh dear!



Baby Dolls – Diary Entry

I had a little baby doll once.  Her name was Baby Doll.  She was born about 1958.  I still believed in Santa Claus.  She was delivered on a Christmas morning with a dent in her box.  My dad told me that Rudolph had accidentally stepped on her box.  That made me feel like she was truly special 🙂  I bragged about her all up and down the block.  That Rudolph had actually stepped on my baby doll’s box.  I never once considered her damaged in any way.  She was just special.  I told her all of my secrets.   When I grew up and moved away, my mom kept her.  And my sister’s doll.  We both had the same kind.  Eventually, as adults, my sister asked for her doll and I kept asking my mother to keep her for me.  I hadn’t found the most perfect place for her.  My mother kept her in the same bassinet she’d used for all five of us kids.  A little white wicker thing that had a little white wicker rocking chair along side of it.  My  mother always dressed my dolly in clothes I’d actually worn as a baby.  Lost my dolly to Katrina.  Searched since then for another and –

Last week, I found her!  Please join me in welcoming:

ruthie5Gigi Ruth!  The lighting is horrible but she’s totally beautiful.  I’ve named her after my husband’s mother – who’d be over  100 today.

She must be the most perfect baby doll I’ve ever seen!  Sooo realistic looking.  I’m amazed.    I hope I’ll be able to take pictures in better lighting soon but….this is her perfect self!

And here too!   ruthie6How do they do that these days?  Make the dolls look so real?  Plus she feels real – soft skin, etc – and is weighted like a real baby.  I’m thinking to take her grocery shopping with me this week end.  Hahaha!


When There’s No Longer Anything Concrete to Touch – A Diary Entry

Sometimes I come back and delete an entry – like I’m the only one in the world who experiences these sorts of moments and I don’t want to seem odd.  I’ll try not to do that this time.  I’ll just go ahead and post this.  Deep breath…

I will write a poem about this day’s discoveries – or a story or a novel or just more entries. Who knows?

I am reading a lot lately. Ever since I purchased my Kindle Paper Light thing I’d sworn I’d never use in my life. And so, when my vision became so bad – legally blind in one eye – and reading printed books became more and more difficult and the online PC Kindle just didn’t feel like a book…reading, something I used to live to do (right up there with writing) began to drift away from me. I hate audio books (well I shouldn’t say that since I may be sentenced to them one day) because I like to put my own voice into my reading – mine and the writer’s…not some second cousin twice removed voice.

I’ve just finished reading Savage Beauty (biography of Edna St. Vincent Millay) and Drowning Ruth (I guess it was some sort of emotional thriller. It was scary in its possibilities) and I’m almost finished reading Come Back Early Today – a book about lovers going through one of them developing dementia.

My mother suffers from dementia. She had a stroke – shortly after my parents’  home was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. She developed dementia after her stroke and my father felt so very responsible to care for her. Then my father died. Or gave up. It must have been difficult to move – forcefully – from the New Orleans French Quarter to Tennessee. I guess, at their age (75) I would want to give up, too, rather than trying to adapt – again.

Maybe that’s how that book came to my Kindle – Come Back Early Today. Maybe I wanted – at some point – to read a personal account about dementia. Not some medical stupid and impersonal stuff.

I don’t remember a time in my life when I felt a real closeness to my mother. I do remember being an emotional support to her when I became an adult – because I felt sorry for her and angry that society was such that she thought she had to stay married because she was a faithful Catholic and had had five kids and “What was I to do with five children and no husband?”

When we kids were all grown and moved away, she was still bemoaning her life with my father. One evening I had dinner with her and challenged her to leave and be free of it all. She couldn’t leave her ‘things’…which were eventually ripped from her by Mother Nature.

And that’s what I want to write about about Hurricane Katrina – our total inability to determine the moment total loss will/does enter a life and how that moment is received.

Oh well so now – that didn’t hurt much. I’m clearer headed and more hopeful these days. I was right to reduce my anti depressant. I’ve actually been crying sometimes lately. That’s a good feeling – to have a sad feeling now and then. That’s normal …

I’m giving myself lots of slack…and the easier I am on myself, the kinder I feel towards those who occupy my space now and then.


Starting a Journal Late In Life

One thing I’ve never managed to do is to consistently keep a journal.  I’ve started to keep many – and discarded them.  I’ve bought many pretty journals that have ended up to be nice Christmas gifts for friends or family.  I’ve been a participant in quite a number of journal retreats.  I’ve read so many journals of writers and  historical figures that I’ve lost count.

So, it doesn’t make sense – to me anyway – that I have never developed the habit of keeping a consistent journal.  Then I realized that this blog is sort of a journal.  There are entries, like this one, of thoughts and wonderings. And I guess my poetry entries are like on a more personal level.  Other people may read them and relate on some level, but only I know what they  mean to me, and only I remember the moments I’ve put into my poetry.

This Edna St. Vincent Millay biography I’m reading  (Savage Beauty) has me thinking all sorts of things – realizing all sorts of things  Her life wasn’t easy.  Whose is, right?  When I look at her life, you know, and the lives of other figures I admire – Anne Frank, Anais Nin, Sylvia Plath, Anne Rice, John Cheever – even if parts of their lives are or were/seemed easy and joyful,  there are plenty of really sad and difficult times mixed in there too.

They all kept journals.  I think you have to be really strong not to run away from yourself.

I once went to a journal workshop about the journaling “techniques” of Ira Progoff.  One of the techniques is – and maybe I can use this to catch up with  my life (hahaha!) this:    (he also has a book At A Journal Workshop  probably outdated by now – is supposed to keep you from just going on and on about the same thing all the time in your journal/diary…that circular thing that eventually bores you)

It’s something like putting your life into an outline of chapter titles.  And the first chapter is “I was born” (when and where)….and then moving on from there without any elaboration under any of the titles.  He calls it “stepping-stones” – like bread crumbs.

I’m going to do that.  Not here 😛 That’ll be a start.  Like a poem, I’ll know what each chapter title means.  And that’s that.


Faltering w/Love

I’m faltering. It seems such a great task – to gather a few pieces of my life’s work into a small book of pages among so many others.

I should have listened to you months ago and begun gathering  my poetry somewhere other than here and pieces of restaurant paper placements and grocery lists and all those folders of dreams I once had of who I would one day become. I should have seriously published long ago instead of drawing back in fear when I finally did publish. I should have done many things that I never dreamed I’d now regret not doing. 😛

Today you bought me a key. There’s enough space on that key to hold a novel 😛 I don’t know if you think I’ve already written enough poems to fill this key or if you are just daring me to fill it up with words…

I love you, sweetie. I can’t imagine writing a memory key’s worth of words. I love you for thinking big when I think small. And, you know, I know you’ll love me even if I never ever use this memory key at all.  In a few days we’ll head out for a few days of vacation. You’ll go hiking with the mountain lions 😛  I’ll work on putting my poems on this key.  We’ll watch the forest’s leaves turn orange.

I’ll just post this as a random something.