The Sea, the bow & someday

A few hours of sleep, then nothing seemed to what to commit anymore. Not asleep, but almost. Not dreaming, but almost not awake, but… Nothing seemed to want to actually commit to its duties, so – screw it. Apparently I have to take matters into my own hands… prop myself up with the pillows, light the candle, grab the pen. Maybe I'll write myself to sleep…

It's always the early hours, two, three, four in the morning – the silence, the solitude become my muses. Or maybe those hours just know when I'm most easily manipulated to pick up the pen. I think they're all secretly in league together.

I think about the past weekend out at Ocean Beach. Gods, that was needed. Such a simple little vacation, walking on the beach, slowly through the park – the empty trails with the trees towering overhead, dirt under my feet. The archery range.

I decided to leave early Sunday instead of Saturday night, wake early so I have the daylight to clean up Dancer and give her a quick inspection before even this short drive, (flat outside rear tire – check. Right turn signal that makes all the lights dimly flash – check. Nothing looks like it's going to come flying off – check. Cool.) I plug in the mp3 player, get the playlist with Devil Makes Three & Chrome Johnson, roll a couple of cigarettes for the drive, turn the key and she roars to life. It seems like she's as excited as I am, almost that she knows that we'll be driving further than the next closest parking space to avoid the street sweeper. If only I had the money for gas to do this all the time – oh, the places I would go, even just local.

Almost as soon as I make it out of the Mission District the fog gets thicker & the sun begins to fade, which I must admit makes me happy. It will be colder, yeah – but I know there will be less people on the beach, more of a sense of solitude. The sun attracts the people like flies, though. (Don't they know I reserved it for that time?)… and thinking of sunny beaches makes my mind wander back to growing up in La Jolla as a child, the small, beautiful home on Mt. Soledad with a view of the ocean out of almost every window, sometimes hearing the bark of the seals as I fell asleep… I think that even at that young age, not knowing anything different, I was still aware of and able to appreciate the beauty, if not how lucky I was. My parents still have my childhood house – but writing this, thinking too much – I wonder if I'll ever see it again and fight back the tears…

I turn down Fell, then onto Fulton through the Richmond – the closer I get the more excited I become, into the avenues – 20's, 30's, - once it's in sight I know I've made it, mystery fuel and all, and man – if I didn't need three paws for driving I would be pacing back and forth in Dancer, slobbering on the window & sticking my nose…. Oh. Well, anyway, suffice it to say I was happy. I parked so the table windows faced the water, shut off the motor, looked at it for a few seconds then did a small, stupid little "fuck YEAH!" dance – then regaining my composure, just keeping a satisfied grin and shine in my eyes so bright that I could feel it.

Right now those who are actually still reading this blather might be concerned with my sanity, but as I said before – even the smallest of things these days, man – they go a long fucking way. Just the fact that I had enough gas to get to the Sea, some orange juice, crackers & some tobacco left - just how good those simple fucking things made me feel, the knot in my chest… anyway, never mind. I don't think that I would even understand it if it wasn't me, but - fuck - just how far down am I pretending not to be to myself? Then, the inevitable
guilt, thinking of so many others that have so much less…

I stepped outside of Dancer then immediately jumped back in to get a thicker coat. Hands in pockets, I walked past the burnt out fires and debris down to the tide line – and just stood there for a while, looking out at the wind-chopped ocean, the fag-shadows of ships off in the distance, the horizon line barely visible. Just stood there, sometimes closing my eyes and only listening to the music, breathing, smelling. I bent down and laid my hands in the water as it came up to me, then headed back across the sand towards the motor home. As I got closer I decided to make the short walk to the archery range and check it out – I can't even remember when the last time I shot my bow was, with all the moving around and my things being in different places, for a while I didn't even have my bow… I stood at the range for just enough time to smoke a cigarette. That was it – I needed to shoot. Went back to my RV, got my bow – and when I got all st up at the range, target in place, walked off what should be around forty yards, turned, looked at my target – holy shit. That thing is tiny! Long story short, though I was shooting better & better, I'm way out of practice. Still, just getting out there, feeling it in my hands, knowing I was where I belonged – that was incredible, such a beautiful feeling.

As it started to get dark I packed up, looking forward to the next day. That day, well – I was just getting the hang of it again. Yeah. That's it. The serious stuff would happen tomorrow (I told myself as I pulled the arrows out of the random places they hit on the hay bale, only a few actually hitting the target I made with the wacky face on it…)

Anyway, I'm weary of writing this, and it must show. Time to close…

Woken at 4:30am by the police, who must need to go through a course of knock-fu in training. It seemed as if every window & door was simultaneously being pounded on, and the lights made me feel like an escaped prisoner as they swept around, the beams hitting everywhere as if all at once… 5:30, back on Treat St, to my usual haunt, my lovely vacation cut short because I'm guilty of living in a motor home. Fortunately, the police don't seem to bother with something so trivial here.

I'll make it back out there someday soon. It was nice to get a taste, even if all it did was whet my appetite for more.

Someday, soon.

 

As soon as I catch up with all the copying and work, maybe. Still a few blogs behind…

unburdened

5.23

The light from the single candle shines down on these words as I sit up against the pillows, buried under my collection of comforters – Mr. Sharp-as-a-Marble here finally thought of moving the small wall sconce to the 'bedroom' of Dancer, instead of leaving it up in to front area where it complimented the decoration & look of my home. Much better to read by than to walk by, yes yes. Besides, had to get some light in there – the batteries on pretty much everything are kaput, and I didn't have the good fortune of parking under a streetlight this time…

The candlelight, the warmth of my bed, the occasional slight sway of Dancer as the wind gusts by – the tapestries and fabric I've had for years now covering these windows… dressing up the inside, a little paint when I had the money to get a quart, more fabric, pictures – I look around, and a subtle smile appears. This is my home, and – and yeah, it feels like a home, more than anywhere I've lived for countless years – and even then, it was usually just my bedroom.

This, however, is truly a sanctuary, my sanctuary – and the coolest thing - is that it's on wheels!

Sure, there's a bunch of stuff that needs to be repaired, and there are of course some improvements and more decorating I would like to do – but all of those take money – and I'm lucky if I can buy a cup of coffee in the morning these days – and tomorrow, I can't even do that – but oh well. It will work out somehow. I have Dancer.

There's a peace that comes over me when I am in her, warm under the comforters, invisible to the rest of the world as the rest of the world rushes by… gods, I love it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's late now, I feel it. Should probably get to sleep soon, wake up at a somewhat decent hour, drop off prescriptions, write all of this down & check emails at the café while trying to be as invisible as possible so they don't notice me not buying anything, then do a little work on the site as I bring it back to life, busting my ass next week , getting into high gear on the magazine – but first, I need to fulfill something I've been wanting to do for weeks, and get out to Ocean Beach – just walk along the Sea in the beautiful overcast day, , escape everything inside of me, breathe, belong… probably make the short walk to the archery range as well either Sunday eve or Monday - it's been far too long since I've taken up my bow, let everything fall away into the time spent with it. I can still feel the serenity of it in even only the thought of getting back to the range; the way every motion becomes fluid, the way everything feels connected, the absence of thought, but perfect awareness – and the way that all comes with me when I step off the range. – I've always struggled with the usual kind of meditation, thanks to this chatterbox of a head – even the Vipassana retreat had to kick my ass (and break it & my knees) before I got the hang of it… I think I'll make a point of getting to the archery range a bit more frequently.

Then, read in my wonderful little sanctuary, where time doesn't matter, and… (and shit, I need to finish copying this so I can get the hell OUT there! F all asleep to the sound of the waves, the smell of the Ocean – no internet, no computer – it's strange writing all of this down on paper again, it's been years since I used this medium, but I think I'm getting the hang of it again… got to be careful though, as occasionally the words start pulling themselves out of me instead of me putting them down, completely bypassing thought due to not having to pause to find the keys on the keyboard…

Hoping that I have the fuel to get out there & back – guess I'll find out…

Then back to work on Tuesday with new ideas for the mag, always, it seems, running around in the same circle, working my ass off just trying to make enough to survive - penniless, not knowing where more money is coming from, not knowing how I'm going to eat when the food I have runs out, and watching the people run by Dancer each day, rushing everywhere they need to go in order to make the bills, rent, mortgage, car payments, worried about being laid off, hoping that they will be able to take that vacation, and hoping that they won't be found unnecessary while they're gone – again, a circle, and yeah, I've run in that one too for most of my life – then I look at Dancer. Lock the door behind me as I crawl up into her, take off my coat and look around, not even bothering to check the pockets as I laugh to myself, I know there isn't any money in them – a subtle nod as a slight smile appears on my face, taking a deep breath, and realizing how incredibly fortunate I am, that even the smallest of things hold so much more value, and knowing that I'll never forget this time,

Holding the smile, feeling so incredibly blessed – as there is nowhere to go but up…

 

And I'm climbing.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Time for me to post this quickly, and get my ass to the ocean. Talk to you all in a couple days.

 

 

 

inside out

[just a glancing thought, if it could even be called a thought at all. A feeling, a barely noticeable pause in the routine. Easily brushed underneath with all the others that have gathered there. A break in whatever was happening for that fraction of time last September when the day had passed and the phone had still not rung, that one email that wasn't there. My eyes turn to look at nothing, a smile that faltered not even long enough for anyone to notice then push it all down, under, smooth out any wrinkle that might betray, fill the small hole that it left behind and it's as if it's not even there. Back to work, back to whatever I was doing on that day. Things need to be tended to…]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Strange days, these. Something of an absence inside and out, just going through the motions, working on the only thing I have right now and incredibly thankful for that, but wondering , always wondering, how much longer I can keep doing it the way it is now. The magazine, the magazine, the magazine – the constant fight to make it into something, knowing that it can't be anything without a transcriber, but already being let down too many times to believe in anyone enough to search for another one. No, I don't trust you. I know you will go away. I know that I'll fight like a motherfucker because this is my dream, you'll copy a few interviews into print, and then, like all the others, you will abandon me. Always a fight, always the fear until that one day when I will finally be able to actually hire someone, pay them to transcribe the interviews for me. Always wondering if I will make it that far. Wondering if all this is is a charade I'm playing with myself, something to do that only I believe in. Meanwhile I bide my time, hoping that she gets back to me, hoping that the interviews get done, and this issue will finally be able to be put out. So close, so fucking close, but these weeks, these days all I can do is sit on my hands, wait, wonder… I suppress my frustration in order to keep going, I know that things will happen – but right now they aren't and if I don't sweep the frustration under, if I don't ignore it, I'll go fucking mad –

but always, always, when you hide yourself from something you don't want to feel – or hide it from you, you always end up hiding more than intended. Push away the frustration, ignore the worry, and lose some of the passion and magic. You always lose more than you want to. There is always the price to pay, But it's not only the magazine. This isn't about the magazine – not entirely – not really… (Scattered. 4am paper scratches…)

I've known that person. Beginning life with so much pain & confusion that needed to be hidden that everything was. Dead eye smiles, hollow laughter – not entirely gone but more hole than human. Pretend to feel, knowing hate, knowing there was something very, very wrong – with me – but I found my way out, found the pieces that fit the hole and thirty one years of everything is still coming out, I'm still learning, and I will never, ever be that person again… hell, now more than I have room for…

I try to pry it out through writing, but even that frightens me. Frightens me that it will be read, though I want desperately for it to be but I don't want to sound like the self pitying fool, I don't want the words to be misunderstood, taken the wrong way when I can barely find the right ones to get them out – but they need to come out. I wonder what those who do read see behind the words when it goes down too deep and I need to pry open the locks and let it out, let out what I feel. Sometimes I feel that what I write comes out as too much – "Oh, poor foolish Casey, there he goes again with the "woe is me" – but – no, that's not it. Not why I write – at least not this – even I write to pull the mess out from behind the wall, and while there, find the treasures again, as well -and perhaps I shouldn't be concerned about what people think, perhaps I shouldn't care what people think as they read this dribble but… I do, so I try to have it make some sense – some sense for both of us, posted not to be looked on with pity but as any human, simply with the desire to be known beyond the things I will never say – who I am, why, the things inside that only can find a voice when I stop thinking about what I write and let them speak, sing or scream from wherever they come from. Written when I'm in fear of finding the me that I hated again…

These are the things that come up raw, unthought, not filtered through the mind to try to have them make sense. Then hidden glances, the pieces of me that have been pushed aside and hidden because on the outside I know better than to have them affect me, the things that come up in the early hours when the walls are thin and the guard is down, when I'm alone and the things I push aside [I wonder] catch me unaware and [I wonder what kind of person] the water blurs my sight for a moment before [what kind of person I must be and what the fuck] and I write because I need to get them out to preserve the person I have fought so fucking hard to become [what the fuck did I do wrong, and how bad must I be, and what the fuck is wrong with me, why]
because I've fought hard as hell to become this person and I love the person that I've become and [why, what did I do so wrong to be abandoned by two mothers] I am not willing to go back to the me that I grew up being because [by two mothers in one fucking lifetime?] because this is ME now and regardless of the shit that swims around inside, I know, finally, who I am – and I am me precisely because of all of the things inside and because of that, I am finally able to honestly say that I fucking love who I have become, regardless of everything, and because of that, I know that I am being completely honest, with all my heart, the good and the bad of it, when I tell you that…

I love you.

the Road is a Woman

Slowly coming back into what I need to do, getting back into the life I have chosen not out of want, but need. Once a small taste was had, I knew that there was nothing else I could do and remain true to who I am, always wanted to be, always was - it just took time, lots of time, to finally find the doors, yet once found I walked through knowing I would, could, ever go back.

Without question it takes its toll, demands sacrifice around every corner - frustration, hunger, lack of almost any type of security seem to be the norm, at least for me, at least for now, but those also inspire me to become better, do more, give more of myself in order to remain myself...

I've found, however, that that is a balancing act that needs to be closely watched. In past projects there was always a knowledge, a comfort, that I could always walk away with little damage to anything but my spirit, but the magazine - the magazine offers no such peace or comfort. Since February of last year, when I first started working on it, teaching myself how to build a website, design it so it isn't complete shit, learn far more in Photoshop that I ever knew it could do, usually by accident ("oh, cool!... wait - now how the fuck did I do that?...") and days of creating & destroying graphics, four months and then more with barely the minimum of sleep - but it was launched at the end of the day I had chosen. Beltane, May 1st. I did it.

I did it, and lost myself in it. The magazine, my vehicle of dreams, took over my life, took over my soul, spirit, and everything I had fought so hard to become, had grown to be before.
The cliff was there so I jumped, and found the wings that kept me aloft, kept me flying and fighting and trying to put aside the constant fear of what I had gotten myself into...

It took me away. Ruthless, unforgiving, sucking me dry - all I wanted to do is somehow make it work, somehow support myself and more dreams that had been put on hold through it. Every second a fight to somehow have it get me a bit past starving, a bit past having to sell all the books I had, pawn tools, do everything I possibly could just to support the magazine that I had fallen in a strange unhealthy love with. Everything was sacrificed, including my Self - hell, I wasn't even writing anymore; I had sacrificed the words that make me whole, knowing I desperately needed to do something, knowing I could find myself again on the Road, and having no monetary means to get there, I decided that a benefit was in order, a celebration, a wake for the previous year...

Then, the show. All I had to make it happen. All my hopes invested in it. I had a live to change, dreams & my Self to reclaim. I needed to find Art again.
Apparently the Universe has other plans for me.

Emotionally crushed, sitting in my "home" (Dancer, aka Falkor II (Falkor I was a van I had a couple of years ago), aka The Extraordinary Big Top Vagabond Vehicle) in The City, Franny came by to offer love, to check in after I expressed what I was feeling at the time on Facebook. (Funny how so many people can misinterpret "Fuck Everything" when it is put into writing.)
Then Bobzilla sent me a message. I am now coming to the end of some much needed time away thanks to him, who, the day after the "benefit" for Big Top (which ended up dragging me backwards even further from what I want to achieve) called & told me that his house mate would be away, and I was welcome to come and stay at his house for the week. I needed to dissapear, for a short while, for me... I have been able to step outside of myself to more clearly see the inside. I needed this time. I need to continue Big Top...

I folded my wings up and finally, after so long trying to fly higher & higher, have touched ground again. I escaped from everything - didn't read emails or answer calls for almost a week, let the past year of Big Top wash through me, found what I think I needed to, the lessons - and let it wash away. Come back to the ground, come back to me...
Reminded of a message I received years ago when I was writing, I share that with you now - it is very dear to me, and something I don't read often enough...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
I do admire you... I do not know how you do to live the life you live. You remind me of the replicates in the Blade Runner Film. So wild and beautiful like poetry lost in time... like tears in the rain...

Do birds ever come to you?

I will be praying for you these days... for you, my friend, to get home soon. I am so very glad life is good to you because you are so good, way over too many stupidities of this world. And, I might be wrong, of course, for I perceive your nature must bring this need to pull it all the way. Not being a slave at any risk... it’s a pretty good damn meaning and purpose. I believe in you, you are an inspiration to life itself...

I feel you have been giving way too much, and you are so intense, could be dangerous like love... you seem from here like a wild tender beautiful authentic being, more than human. I want to pray for you to find what you are looking for, what you really need....

There is something of me in you; still we might be completely opposites... You are, brother, creator of fantasies, worlds, and million thousand ways to fly. I watch you fly mesmerized; still I wish something wires you to the land... I don’t know why, sometimes I wish I could become that wire to connect you with your land, or at least, send it to you in some magical way...

The higher you fly, the further away, the deeper this wish buries in me... like a dream, it cuts. It’s not easy to say this kind of things, to describe this kind of experience without some fear...

I hope you’ll understand… I hope you do receive a kiss and a hug with these words which aren’t enough, I know, but it’s all I got now…

Blessings
***

From a woman in Caracas Venezuela who I have never met, but she somehow found me in LiveJournal (where I used to write) and followed me through my experiences, and the words I wrote about them. I don't read this often enough. I don't realize how blessed I am often enough...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tomorrow I drive my home back to The City, after a much needed and appreciated week & a half here. A few things to fix on Dancer first (the driver side mirror was hit & torn off the night after I got here, and thankfully I had enough from the show (barely) to find one on eBay & replace it - can't drive it without one, the things is 27 fucking feet long & I need to see shit, ya know?
Back to Big Top and the grind with a new beauty, remembering the lessons I have learned over the past year. Remembering that I need to make absolutely certain I take some time for me, to drive (if I have enough gas) or bus it to the Sea, where I have always found my home, my peace. Remembering that though the show ripped me apart, delaying the road trip for a time as well as many other things I had hoped for, the bottom line - the most important, beautiful thing, is that everyone I have talked to since then has said that they had an absolutely amazing time at it - and when it comes down to what actually matters,

that's it. I created something that made people happy. That is all that everything is about.

Wanting to learn more than I can about the past year of Big Top, the new year of it - and what I need to learn, I took out my Runes yesterday for the first time in a long, long while. They have been my chosen & trusted Oracle for over 14 years, made with stones from most places I have visited, making new individual stones as I find them. I asked, they answered. I drew Kano.

"Kano - Opening, Fire, Torch

This is the Rune of renewed clarity, of dispelling the darkness that has been shrouding some part of your life. You are free now to both receive gifts and to know the joy of non-attached giving.
Kano is the Rune for the morning of activities, for seriousness, clear intent and concentration, all of which are essential at the beginning of any endeavor. One of the thirteen Cycle Runes, the protection offered by Kano is this: The more light you have, the better you can see what is trivial and outmoded in your own conditioning.
Recognize that while on the one hand you are limited and dependent, on the other you exist at the perfect center where the harmonious and beneficent forces of the Universe merge and radiate. You are that center.
Simply put, if you have been operating in the dark, there is now enough light to see that the patient on the operating table is yourself."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I search for the words again, come close at times such as this, but still - they are forced. The ease only comes with an added ingredient. The intimacy I had with myself will need to be relearned in order to write like I once did, when I was pleased with what I wrote, and learned from the simple therapy of escaping my mind and letting my heart speak.

In the past, there have always been catalysts fro my best writing, muses to make every moment lived fully, seen & felt fully. They have always been women - it seems as if they hold a precious key, as guarded as the - Kat, my Motorcycle, music, Stardust, New Orleans, other women of flesh, The Sea...

and that's why I know that the Road is a Woman as well.

and that's how I know that I will do whatever it takes to get back to her...

wandering through my head...

It's so very tempting to fall into the destruction of depth birthed in the one line lives that we now lead, but that doesn't cleanse. That doesn't get anything of value out of me, the lines sitting there like snippets of a conversation that you don't want to have, a place that you don't want to go (the you includes me) out of laziness & perhaps fear...

I promised myself something in the last few days, and I intend to keep that promise - after all, when I finally do get back to the road, my true home, I should probably have rehearsed the writing again, and brought it back.

One line doesn't fix anything...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I sent a "Happy Mom's Day" email, not expecting a reply, not getting one. And so it goes - even my adopted mom turned her back - but isn;t there something in the contract that they signed to get me saying that she shouldn't do that? That somehow it was against the law, her suffocating religion? Somewhere? I play lightly while this cuts deep...
Something I don;t understand - when I was addicted to all the drugs, when there was nothing I wanted more than growth or death (death was winning, then) the folks were there...

but now with direction, now that the dreams are becoming reality, now that I want to show them that I'm doing something good...
it's a good thing that I have my friends, although I should think that by now even they are growing weary.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I found out that The Burn was on my birthday this year. It would be nice to be there for that, and perhaps write about the happenings oin the Red nose District for a special issue...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

More, but not now. So much more...

once was, and again

Only one way to begin again. I need to - but not from the beginning, not again. Far too much has happened, there is no going back to anything. There never was. Just pick up the pieces that remain & paste, bandage yet again.

All I want is the road again, to find the stories there instead of digging up the things inside over and over. I taught myself to feel, taught myself to do away with the silence & suppression and become who I am, the person they can;t seem to accept - but is the only person that I can... Ten years ago there was an opening to a hole that was inside of me, a piece that was shut off with the intricate walls built over a lifetime... from the first day, or somewhere around there. I wonder if I saw her walk away.

The hole was filled with more than I know what to do with. All I can do is write - but I don't want to write about me, not anymore, not about that, not again...

... ..

I don't know where to start. Everything wants to come at once, all the beauty, all of the shit - I find a beginning anymore, no new great adventure that was supposed to be there. I stare at the screen, still on a borrowed computer, still counting pennies for enough fuel to move enough to avoid the parking tickets.

A circle.
Not much has changed the way I had hoped in the past year since the beginning of this... this magazine.
The magazine is not the dream, only a vehicle - a way to find the stories, show the beauty - a way to show the world what the people who are strong enough to chase their dreams are doing.

This, my magazine, is what I'm using to find them - but something needs to change, and change now. I can't do it alone, but I am terrified of putting faith in others...
again.
It comes from depths that even I can't comprehend - but people like it. Like the magazine. I don't know if it does anything good, but I know that it can. It just needs to be able to happen, grow,

and change the world.

I should probably post this. Taking a week off from everything, everyone. I need to figure out what to do with it now. I need to bring back the words I once knew. I need to move forward - when I'm ready, soon.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~

once was adventure
http://ksea.livejournal.com/2005/09/02/

after, circles

5.2.09
I search again for solace in the words.

It's been a long time - far too long since I've looked to them for release, looked to them in hopes that there might be an answer buried in what might come out.

I make excuses to myself for neglecting them; I'm much too busy with the magazine, there's nothing new to write, or nothing of interest- just wake, work, try to survive, try to make sense of it all, fight to find the answers, dance around the challenges, sleep - then do it all over again the next day, day after day
after day...

I felt - I feel - like I've forgotten how to, like they're no longer as close as they once were. The words & I had grown apart, like a person who was once a dear friend ages ago, but seeing them again after so long you find that too much time has passed, and though you search to find the ease you once shared together, things have changed - that the language isn't the same, and there is nothing left but the sad, fond memories of how it once was, and desperately hold onto those as you part company, both back to your separate lives...

Unlike that old friend however, I can bring them back to what I once found in them:

a home.
peace.

a sanctuary, shelter from the storms...

and everything was supposed to change tonight...
at least I'm writing again. - sort of.

The evening started out wit a few hiccups, of course. I expected that. The people were there, tons of love, hope that this would change things... everything has become so incredibly stagnant it seems, regardless of what it seems like on the outside. Everyday fighting for something to change, growth, not to have to struggle every day, not to wake up every morning to the same questions, frustrations - someday.
I am tired though. I wanted so much from this year and I'm sick of everyday these days living with the not knowing how much time I have left and as the blood stains everything I wear the fear grows .....

It was good to see Rick there. This is the first time he's ever come out to see me, busy with my sisters family & all. I learned that my mom was in town from him andd inside I crumbled. Cant let it show try to hide it keep it inside keep things moving but - but at least I didn't break down, at least not there. I wasn't the same after that though. (Hey ma, guess I'm already dead, huh?)
I asked him to tell her that I was doing okay. He said he was impressed with the show - I asked him to tell her that too. I still try to make them proud... though honesty apparently wasn't the way to go...


I have another family now.


I still have me, and so incredibly much inside that I want to give back to them - or just give.

I still have a lot to do before I give into this. I'll come back when I can.

always have.