Keep them both alive. The cat and the coyote. Is it too much to ask. My question mark isn’t working.

Watching the world through late night security? (Oh now it works.) I’m rooting for them both.

And I do love the rabbit too. Who comes thundering from the woods and mows my yard and leaves fiber for undecided roots.

The coyote howled at 7. The cat sniffed at 9. The rabbit glowed at midnight.

I frowned on cue each time.

They all run from me.


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Pain Au Chocolat

Some dreams remain vivid as truth.

Last night, I dined in a floating Belgian restaurant. Its little wooden dock connected me to a cultured and comedic dinner. I felt full, belly and spirit, at the end, which allowed me to suggest a sweet rationale for dessert to go.

This was the closest that I was getting to France, after all. (Specifically referring to Paris.) And those pastries, so elegantly browned, the layers so beautifully promising of sugary justification. I ordered them. I suggested another with strawberries for my companion, a favorite from her own childhood. She gladly acknowledged and added to our order.

As we continued to lean forward against the glass case, our smiles reflecting in the light, I began to recognize myself. I felt an urgency and my gaze turned to my friend.

“I can’t go to France with you.”

She listened, while paying the invisible clerk, whose cheerful chatter thanked her in a foreign voice. My friend responded and accepted the white package. She brought it down to her side, resting against the oversized travel bag she carried over her shoulder.

“How will I get home?” I said.

The restaurant remained warm and concrete around us.

“I don’t have a passport!” I warned her and myself at the same time. “How will I get home?”

We began to walk together, with the rest of our dinner companions, out of the restaurant. Up the dock and onto a sidewalk, back into a city with tall and old buildings, with excitement ahead.

I walked with them. “I don’t have a passport, so how did I get here?”

No one responds with any direction, they are just smiling and talking without sound.

We walked further and I began to see familiar outlines in the city horizon. I thought I saw the Eiffel Tower. But it was an electric tower. I paused. I said, “I forgot the pastries.” I waved my friends onward. I turned around and walked away from the journey.


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Down the Donut Hole

worth the trip


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Morning Walk

A long stroll through cold degrees.

Sunshine glitter on the breeze.

Appreciating all the life in trees.

While avoiding other human entities.


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Student of Life


I was a bit of a bad ass in the fourth grade.

I totally refused to do homework and I argued regularly over the existence of words with my language arts teacher. She had very large eyeglasses, which emphasized her bulging veins when she tried to win our debates.

She just didn’t understand that she couldn’t triumph against my oblivious contentment.

I would smile, with my final argument, pointing to a scribbled paragraph, and say, “It is too a word. It’s right here.”

Then, I would skip away in a delightful exit, as if guided by a joyful hymn with lots of rhythm and clapping.

In high school, I morphed into a serious nerd who really liked learning and getting good grades to keep a super high GPA. I had friends who liked their super high GPA’s too (and some friends who just liked being super high).

But, somewhere after high school, both the little carefree fourth grader and the super serious nerd got jaded–and neurotic.

Hello, college professors who actually graded with zeros to make their first impressions.

So my next phase was a depressing attempt to become perfect, not just successful.

Grammar became so important that I started misplacing modifiers among anxiety driven content.

But, I eventually found them again as I discovered my academia groove.

I started figuring out my professors, maybe better than they knew themselves, and began catering all my content to their egos.

My feminist literature professor had all of us sit in a circle every class.

After making us drag our desks into position, she would start our weekly reading discussion with either the student to her right or her left.

(Like, she was surprising us each time. Uh oh, which way will she go this week? I don’t know so I better read the whole assignment. )

Hello, fourth grader. (She hadn’t left me after all.)

I would always sit directly across from my professor, equal distance from either side of her in the circle. By the time she reached me for my summary, I had already gathered enough from the students between us to form my necessary analysis.

Sometimes, I felt a little guilty. I actually had the highest grade in the class (yes, she announced grades in front of everyone) and I never read any of her assignments.

So, I made up for it with my final paper.

She gave us directions to use a subject from one of the feminist lit books and relate it to…feminism. So, I sort of went back and read one of the books and I picked prostitution as a subject, and related it to feminism with a business plan, allowing women to gain control of their own enterprises, without middle men, or even men at all.

I could have debated my grade with her (my fourth grader self really wanted to because the professor really left herself exposed with the ambiguity of her instructions), but I think I hurt her feminist feelings so I took my D, which still left me with an A- for the semester.

I kind of enjoyed the grade, like a little badge that I was still able to think for myself.

Oddly, she had very thick glasses, too.



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To the Moon

I loved you there and back.

Now, I’m back.

Like a moonbeam with nowhere left to shine.


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Piecing It Together


I really don’t have much to write anymore. On this blog at least, so maybe it served its purpose. But now, it just seems like one more thing on my list to do. And I’ve started disliking that list so much lately. I want to sit quietly, not speak, and not deal with anything. I think I’m so tired that I could just sleep and not care to wake, or if I woke, it would be to eat something tasty, and then go back to sleep. But, there’s so much to do, to get done, to be sure to finish. And I’ve got a headache from it all, like it’s not me anymore and I’m sorry I took some turn way back when because I’m in the thick of it now, and I know the only way though is through. There’s a phrase for that out there, but that is the one I say to myself. No side paths, keep on trucking. It will all come together sometime, somewhere, probably someday.


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