Monday, March 30, 2015

don't worry be happy

Rolling down the highway listening to Don't Worry Be Happy when Jolie spotted a 5 in the sky. It totally is, I said. The sky is high-fiving us! She took a picture. We kept singing. Kept rolling.

...Ain't got no place to lay your head. Somebody came and took your bed...

...Don't worry ~ Be happy...

Hey, here comes some blue lights. 

We were meeting a car on the two lane highway, on a hill, when two Sheriff SUV's came flying up behind the car that we were meeting. I started to slow down and let these guys get to where they needed to get. 

On the hill. Meeting the car. On the two lane road. 

...When you worry your face will frown... that will bring everybody down... 

...Don't worry ~ Be happy...

With nowhere to pull over, the one SUV started to go around the car I was meeting. Head on to me.


I hit the brakes harder. 

It scared me. A dog might bite when it's scared. I might cuss. 

You Fuuuucccckkkk...

The SUV swerved back in behind the car. 

Everybody got passed. Everybody kept rolling. 

We just got high-fived by the sky. We're singing don't worry be happy. And you're cussing! Said Jolie. 

I know. You're right. It scared me. Scared them, too, I think. 

...Oo, oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo
Don't Worry
Be happy
Don't worry, be happy now...


Saturday, March 28, 2015

panic in the mundane

Dreams can be so bonkers and in your face and knock you down and then pick you back up. 
I'll try to explain. 

A couple days ago I woke up with the remnants of the night's dream floating around in my head. Each having a different vibe about it. 

A wholeness. Friendship. Caring. Warmth. Partnership. Security. Trust. Kindness. Love, perhaps. 
Certainly love. 

I tried to stitch them together through the haziness that dreams often leave. The image wasn't much, it was sketched and partly erased, but the feelings around it were prominent and colorful and deep.  

A friend of mine, who I actually remember and know from the dream, had constructed a gift for me, a thing, a puzzle of sorts. Only a few pieces, each holding a billion other pieces. Something simple based intrinsically on everything I had ever said, or maybe never said at all, and only ever even felt or thought. 

The constructed thing I held in my hands is incoherent to me now. Erased to fragments. Each moving part was like a maze leading to the end result. Each part of this thing leading to the next and to the next and to the next, showing itself to me. Revealing the most beautiful thing. I knew I had been heard and was greatly cared about and taken seriously with an extreme insight. I was happy and stunned, and brought to tears by this, now barely tangible, gift. I let those feelings envelop me for the day. 

For the day, the memory of the dream would revisit me, drift by me, lending barely a breeze of the emotions from my sleeping conscious. Those feelings would swirl around, and inside and out, and over and under me briefly until they blew past. Off and on throughout the day, I floated easy with that breeze. It was as real as someone holding my hand, or pulling me in for a gentle hug. Good company.

It felt like I had someone. Some invisible, unknown, yet to meet, but out there somewhere someone. It all sounds very lonely, and 98% of the time it's not. I'm not. I'm too busy to be lonely. Then the 2%, might as well be 200%, dream shows up and reminds me of the feelings that I've forgotten. The dream shows up and reminds me of a reality. Feelings that I've built a fortress to keep away. 

It's strange to feel the loneliness, since it's hardly ever there. It's odd to not feel lonely until you feel the other side, until what is never missed - is. It's the basic connection that is missed. Conversations and laughs. The particulars I have yet to see, but I will know them when I see them. 

I was at work doing the most mundane things, and my thoughts were playing out in my head as they do, in my own world, when I remembered years ago Jolie asking me if I was afraid of anything. To which I told her, honestly, I wasn't afraid of anything. My thoughts in my head, in my own world, then turned to panic in the mundane. It was clear - I don't want to be lonely. I don't want to feel the loneliness. I don't want to always live alone. I don't want to die alone. 

It knocks me off balance when this stuff happens. 
The dream will eventually be erased, and faded images will replace the prominent. 
I'm thankful for my friend who somehow entered my sleep with the gift of awareness or something. The reminder of what could be for me. The knowledge that I haven't completely killed the emotions, just prematurely and temporarily buried them. 
Maybe another stone added to the wall. Maybe not. 


shack saturday

Happy Saturday, Shackers!


Wednesday, March 25, 2015

the best guy i know

Tyler, the best guy I know, playing guitar while I sang some. Photo by Jolie.
They told me time would go by fast. They told me to enjoy all the little moments, as well as the big. They told me they wouldn't be little for long, and to spoil them as much as I could. I don't know who they were. I think it was everyone. Even without their knowledge, somehow I already knew, but I'm glad they told me. 

I did savor the way he discovered his fingers and watched them move. The way his eyes would look into mine for what seemed like forever, and I wished it would stay that way for forever. Forever is but a few seconds, though. I savored every second.

I tried to breathe and I choked down the pain, and I thought I was going to die as my body prepared itself to push out the baby boy that I had carried inside. I had no control. Everything moved along. It took everything I had. All of my fight, my energy, my fear, my hopes, and my love. All at once, he was there and in my arms, and I knew what it was to know the most perfect love and to know peace. It was so good and overwhelming that my heart ached.

I couldn't believe this boy was mine. I remember walking though the house, days after coming home from the hospital, and thinking, Oh my God, I'm responsible for this human being. He's mine. I would watch him fall asleep, and most times I would still be watching as he would wake. For hours I would just marvel at him. He was, and is, the most beautiful thing. 

He's grown through the years and he's about to step out of high school, and maybe through college doors, or maybe into the world. I'm afraid things are going to warp speed ahead. 

He had a birthday yesterday. I still choke down all of those emotions from the first day at times. I love him fiercely. Everything moves along. 

The other day he was talking about how he can hardly listen to country music anymore, how it's all about just a few things. One of those things being how time goes by so fast, how life goes by. "Who wants to listen to something telling you how fast life goes by? Nobody wants to think about life going by fast." And he's right. But it does. 

I will still watch him at times. Somewhere down the line it got to where he would walk through the house, and I would have to look twice, because overnight there was a man-sized person walking through, and not a boy. I will still look at him sometimes, almost dazing at him, a pitiful attempt at willing time to stop, wishing the days would stay this way forever. Forever is but a few seconds though. Time really does move fast. 

There's a flip-side to the growing pains though. It has been the most fun, the biggest laughs, the most amazing wonder to watch him grow. The kid is smart and funny. He's kind and honest and able. He's everything good. It's all been so easy. So far, it's been the best time of my life, and while I can't wait to see where he'll go and what he'll do from here, I absolutely can. 

Happy Birthday, my love. 


Tuesday, March 24, 2015

dodging bullets and a winner winner chicken dinner

So I was thinking about some things that I dodge from time to time...

When I'm driving I'll try to dodge snakes, frogs, caterpillars, and turtles, and basically any living thing. Frogs are the hardest things to dodge. Sometimes they will jump straight into the grill of the car, killing themselves. Wonder if the frogs were playing leap frog. Wonder if one of the frogs was always talking shit and bragging about how high he could jump, and then all the other frogs dared him to jump on the hood of the car, and so he was like, Hell yeah, watch this. Splat. Nobody likes a bragger. 

Wasps. Those little bitches, man. I was stung in my lip once. All of the inside of my lip was turned inside out. Freaking. Pain. 

Phone calls.

Rebel flags. Years ago I did some work at a house that had a rebel flag flying high on their pole. I could see it a mile away. The closer I got the clearer it became what it said. - I Ain't Comin' Down. To which I said aloud to myself, the fuck you're not. I took the flag down, folded it up and shoved it into the console of my car. I remember being really nervous, not that I had just taken someone's flag off their pole, but that I had a rebel flag in my car. Like, what if I'd had a wreck or something and there it would be and people would see it there. I couldn't have been more nervous if there was a hitch hiker in the passenger seat holding a knife and a bowling ball bag dripping blood, while snorting an eight ball of cocaine. I took it home, triple bagged it and threw it in the trash. 

I think that's the only thing I ever stole. And I'd do it again. 

Bullets. Probably from houses that I'm stealing rebel flags from. 

But I'm not dodging you guys! But I am lame and didn't know how to put the random generator on this blog to show the winner, but I did find a website to do it, and then I had to take a picture of the screen with my phone so it proves to be legit, and this is the longest sentence ever I know, and I should probably dodge these too. 

Congratulations to RockyGrace!! Email your address to me and I will send you the goods! Yay!


PS - Thanks for the comments, you guys. Loved them all. Let's do it again sometime.  
PPS - Keep spreading peace. Don't be dicks. Stay awesome. I think you're all awesome. 

Sunday, March 22, 2015

sweetest of dreams

I watched people go up the stairs and into the old mansion on the hill. The place looked to be in ruins. The windows were all blacked out, and I couldn't see inside, except for sometimes I thought I could see the hands of someone clawing to get out. I watched some of my family members go in, and I had begged them not to, but they always did. They would eventually come back out, but they weren't the same. They weren't human anymore. They were dead. They were evil. As I stood from the yard of my grandparent's house and watched them come out, terror would hold me frozen. They were lunging and running at me, and at the last second I would break away and run in the house, slamming the door behind me. I would hide until they were gone. The next one to be lured and drawn to whatever hell was in that old mansion would be my own little brother. Even though I would beg him not to. 

Night after night this nightmare would haunt my sleep, waking me cold and stiff with fear. Years later my mom would tell me the story of something awful that had truly happened there. Something that must have stayed with me, in some outer realm of my conscious, since being just a babe. After she told me, I never dreamed the nightmare again. She had set me free from it. 

There was another reoccurring dream. This one being simple and beautiful. The yard where I stood frozen in a nightmare, is the same yard that I would run and run and run until I lifted into flight. No wings, but I would soar above the earth and then glide back down to where my feet would hit the ground running, and I would soar again. Flying. Loving it. 

Now I live in the house that my Grandaddy built, and where I spent countless nights with my Gammy. The place of dreams and nightmares. Somehow, that childhood dream of flying let life fly me back to home. I have good memories of being here, and I can't believe I'm making a lifetime of new memories here. It's all the sweetest of dreams. It took a couple of years and a couple attorneys to remove a squatter from this place, but it finally happened. I begged everything in the universe for her to be gone, and now she is. 

I'm back to sweet childhood dreams. Not so much nightmares. However, from the dreams and the nightmares, and from being back at this home-place, I have jumped off and plunged more into my writing, much of it to do with an old mansion and some true events. With no wings, I write. Light pours through open windows. It's a new beginning. A running start.

My brother? He'll be joining me here soon. He's making a new start for himself, as well. The place where we began life and spent so much of our early childhood is the place where we can begin again. We've both come through real life nightmares, and we've had to lean on each other from time to time, as family should. And now we're both going to soar. 


Tuesday, March 17, 2015

dealing peace and free shit

My boy child says the truck looks like a drug dealing truck. Rides low. Tinted windows. Tint on the windshield. He says it's got that vibe. 

I say the truck is a peace dealing truck, since I'm the one driving it. I offer peace and happiness almost all the time. There are a few times, however, that I'll spew out the most in your face profanity, when someone, say, pulls out in front of me like they're welcoming a crash explosion, rides my ass, uses no blinker, drives slow and then speeds up if I choose to pass, or meets me on my side of the road. I don't need you to come on my side of the road. I can see you just fine when you're on your own side. And if you do any of these things that will cause me near death, I will curse you and your momma and your momma's momma. 

I think those people probably have a lot on their minds and probably they could really use the peace that I'm usually dealing. But probably those people are the ones dealing the drugs. Maybe I shouldn't curse them and we should be friends. 


Having said that... I've got some magnets to give away. Three of 'em. One of them is a picture of me, which... at first I thought might be weird or something, but then I thought nah, maybe whoever wins it will think of peace when they look at it, because they'll know that I'm sending them good vibes, and that they've got a friend. Or - whoever gets it could know that someone (me) could be cursing them (you) from behind the steering wheel. 

The one that says Don't be a dick could just remind you to not be a dick, or you could give it to someone, reminding them to not be a dick. It's your call. 

So - three magnets and I'll send you a letter to go along. In case I get famous one day that could be cool. And if I don't... well, you can be like... at least this chick tried like hell. And then the pictures will fade and peel off of the magnets and you can throw them away, or throw them at somebody if they pull out in front of you. 

Anyway. Comment below here on the blog and tell me anything. Any random thing at all. I'll randomly choose a winner and give you a shout in about a week. I hope you'll comment. I mean, I'm dealing peace and free shit here. 


PS If you're not a magnet on the fridge person, you could use them for bookmarks, coasters, mini frisbee, or like, I don't know, three-step hopscotch if you're really tiny? 
2x3 inches, they are. 

shack life

Shack - noun - A roughly built hut or cabin. 

I love the word shack. People hear the word shack and they think of a fallen in, leaking, dirt-floored, broken panes of glass, one room place in the woods. With a bearded honey badger smoking a joint and drinking a jar of shine, and taking a piss in the front yard, because you know, honey badger don't give a shit. 

But that's not it, people, that are thinking that. Even though that has its charm. Yes, I find it all charming. I can't help it. I love the thought of a place like that. I always have. I like the smaller places. Cozy and comfortable. I love worn wood and things with a hint of rust. I once bought a beam of rough, old wood at a yard sale just because. The way people are drawn to all the last second, compulsive junk at the checkout in a store, is the way I'm drawn to tatter. Is it bad? I can't help it. I think it's not bad. 

My Grandaddy built this shack before I was born. I'm incredibly lucky and thankful to be here now. It's in the woods. All panes of glass are intact. New floors have been put down. There's only one small leak out on the porch, and it's only if the wind blows the rain from the West extra blustery. Some of the corners aren't squared, much like my brain. A little wonky. Honey badger don't care. 

Um... There's no dish washer. There is, but around here we call her Angie. There is a washing machine in the bathroom, and a dryer is in the garage. I carry a basket load of laundry out of the bathroom, through the kitchen to the back door to the back porch, out another door that leads outside and to the garage door that houses the dryer. Or in the spring, summer and fall, I go further to the back yard that holds the clothesline. I don't hate it. I kind of love it. More wonky? Yes please. Honey badger don't give a fuck. 

A bedroom in the living room. A living room on the porch, or it's a bedroom if you're asleep out there. An office on the porch. A life on the porch. Winds blow through and the living things in the woods sing and chirp and croak and hiss to me about how their day or night is going. Sometimes they jibber jabber because they just feel like it. Much like the honey badger, they don't give not one squirt of owl shit. Except for the owls. 

It's too simple to be complex, too complex to be simple, and yet, it is. The conversations are real and silly and imaginative. Home is here. Dreams from the past and daydreams of the future are here. Kindness is here. Pissed off is here. 

The sky is painted with white clouds, blue nothing, bright warmth, or twinkles on black. 

Shack walls echo the sounds of laughter, cries, arguments, dogs barking and cats purrs.

The food is hot and the drinks are cold. Hearts and arms are open, and usually, so is the door. 

The shack is warm and the shack is cool. The shack is good and the shack is wise. 

The finest of fines come from this place, this home, this humble abode. Solid and strong. Caring about everything and also not giving a rip. 

It's a good time. Is it bad? I think it's not bad. 


Linked to Timber Creek Farm

Sunday, March 15, 2015

i will always fly

When I was little I never had training wheels on a bike. I'm not even sure where the bike came from. It was too big for me, but I would push off to a start with my feet and jump on the seat, and then crash. A lot. 

I would get so mad, but I kept trying. I would cry, but I kept trying. When mom would try to get me to take a break from it and come inside, she didn't want to see me get hurt, I would cry some more and get mad some more, and then do it all again. 

Then there was the moment that the wheels kept turning and I had wobbly balance, but I had it. I was riding the shit out of that bike. I kept trying and I did it. To feel the smoothness of the rolling tires felt like flying. Weightless. The wind blew the tears dry and the anger changed to joy. 

I try to do things today that I won't give up on, even when a voice in my head says I should take a break from it for a while. Give up. But when there's a primal desire to do something, to achieve something for yourself, there is no quit. You can't give up. I can't give up. So I dropkick that voice in my head straight in its teeth. 

I smash the negativity around me, too. When someone suggests help, laced in gold, and then they can't or don't or won't deliver for whatever reason and with no explanation, then I have to let that go. I have to go back to making my own way. Doing what I knew I could do in the first place. It's falling off the bike and hitting the pavement all over again. It stings. Sometimes the burn of the fall is worse than others and it takes a little longer to get back up. But I will always get back up. I will always have my own back. I will always be drawn to the positive things. And I will always fly. 

Fly, people.


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