I’m not certain today, if Gracie is still Earth bound. I do know that she has been straddling the line between here and gone. It’s been hard, as it has always been hard, for me to wrap my mind around death. Death has shown up as several characters in the play of my life. The first of significance was our family dog, Sheba. After that, I remember little of the human or animal departures, aside from flashes in my mind. Until 1990. My friend Ed.

 Death seems to come so fast and furious now. Chalk it up to my aging human form. My Godfather died last month. Len and Rod were partners for almost as long as I’ve been aboard planet Earth. Now he’s gone. Death kills the living, I believe. It kills a piece of me every time.

Gracie, though. I fancied her invincible. She kicked my ass, knocked me down and broke into my soul. I’m not sure if I hate her for that. I’m not sure about love at all, really. I can’t decide why love makes sense. I hate this suffocating, choking state I’m in. Would I trade the loving for the hurting? I can’t answer that just yet.

All I know is that I can’t save Gracie, or her Mom. And this reality angers me into shutting it all down…

Did you ever have to give those sorts of oral or written reports at the beginning of the new school year? I didn’t. So I’ll start now…

Imagine this scenario…

The garbage truck doesn’t show up this week. They don’t come as scheduled on Monday. You think;  “how odd,” and phone WMI to inquire. They say;  “we’re outta business.” You think; “WTF am I supposed to do with all this emm effing garbage on my driveway?”

The planet answers… “figure it out, beeotch!”

And so you do. You phone me up and ask what the hell all those Hornby Islanders do with their disposable disposables. I relay this story…

And this one…

And I ask the recycle guru, Annie, if she has any advice. She says; “Recycling makes me Hornby.”

And I can only reply, “Recycling makes Y’ALL Hornby.” There is no “I” in team, so it must mean that there’s an entire community that separates, divides and conquers their waste material. I saw it done. I had to participate in it. You shoulda seen the ginormous bag of cigarette butts that I accumulated over two weeks time.

So it goes like this, just in case we have to immediately stop being such a throw-away community; One smoke pack is divided into two- the foil and plastic are absolute garbage but the cardboard is a compostable. Milk cartons are now recyclable but please rinse and dry them as they smell foul if left to their own devices. Fruit, vegetable and nut shells are completely recyclable/compostable. However, meat bones should be hurled as far into the back 40 as you can throw, lest they attract vermin. Bacon fat and other middle-of-the road indecipherables should be fed quickly to Dookie before Gracie catches on.

Crossword puzzles that are incomplete should be hidden and immediately scrunched up and labeled as done. Completed crosswords should be placed in full view for an allocated time period before being placed in the compostables pile. Styrofoam is an absolute freak of nature and should be treated as an alien form of nonsense. DO NOT toss in any pile other than absolute garbage. We would prefer that you take styrofoam “off island.”

A word to smokers…it is me, a fellow human being and inhabitant of this Earth that had to clop your thrown away smoke ends. PLEASE, for the love of all things holy, find a fucking receptacle other than the ground we walk upon to toss your butts. Think of me, in an orange monkey suit, picking up your shit. Okay, don’t think of that exactly, but something along those lines. This goes double for Kelly. You know who you are!

So my dear friends, what I did on my summer vacation was learn. I learned how much I take for granted and how much a community can change if they band together. I am working out a plan in my head.

But I’m just not there yet.

Thank you to those Hornby residents who are the true and righteous stewards of our planet. We ALL can learn alot from y’all.

My summer vacation was an exercise in humility. My summer vacation was a gift. My summer vaction continues…

 So yeah. I’m goin’ again. Like me and my sis down the slide at our pool in Hawaii. Or the mummy ride at Universal. Gotta keep going…it’s exhilerating! Even when our bikini tops fly off. Can’t get enough of that.

 Expensive? Hmmm…let’s examine this. Our American economy sucks royal Canuckian ass. Canadian dollar is worth more than ours. Raise=stunk. Bonus=double stunk. Savings=…Savings…Um…Savings? Yeah, uh. Nada. Care factor with regard to these responsible financial decisions?= Zero. (I throw pennies on the ground, too. Oh my!)

 Get it? Got it? Goody. Because it ain’t about the moolah. It ain’t about the dough. It ain’t about the fact that I hadta to sink so low. I had to actually “request” the time off from…yeah. You know who. The woman who shant be named. But that my dears, is par for corporate American rule.

 Too bad. I’m outta here. Nuttin’ gonna stop me. I’m goin’. I’m clopping, I’m cooking, I’m relaxing and forgetting. I’m not gonna hear or see or smell or taste or feel my means of gettin’ there, for two whole weeks. I’m gonna indulge in the silence and be away from the violence, for two whole weeks. I’m gonna play soccer and chef and cool and fool and Saint Aphrodite and Dee almighty, for two whole weeks. Two whole, organic-grass- fed-composting-granola-sniffing-firewood-lifting weeks, kids!

 And when I return, I’ll be refreshed and rejuvenated and returned to my self. I’ll be all that because I was all there. She knows. She knows me. We know we. Really.

 I got me some Karma Yoga-coins, y’all. And I’m spendin’ them with her, not at the mall. I’ll leave that for those who care ’bout those things. It just isn’t me-it just isn’t Dee. I go in through the back and exit the same, it’s been the same route for this 15 year game.

 I’m goin’ back to Utopia, ticket in hand. My heart is my vessel, I’ll leave it unmanned.

So Yeah. Here I am. Home again.

I’ve been gone so long that I had to Mapquest my street address.

But it’s fine, it’s good. I’m here. I’m safe.

HELLOOOOO???? I’m home {Resonating echo}. Lolita has no ears. She, like me, picks up on vibration.

Well.

 It seems that life moves on without my hand in it or on it.

 The photos? Yeah, the photos. Me and Yadge were just bantering over the origin.

I do believe they were taken in 1980-somewhere/thing/time. My mind being the steel trap that it is and all.

It is a poignant and reminiscent reminder of lifetimes gone away/awry.

I’m trying to recall what I made of myself then. I didn’t have a clue. I still don’t, incidentally.

The cable guy was here today. I resigned myself to some package deal. He asked if I was rich. Look at my face. Do I look rich? I guess he thought that anyone who could afford to leave a 700 dollar per month apartment for three months must be rich. The three other tenant’s luxury cars in their respective spots didn’t hurt either, I guess. Um, yeah. Mine’s the Sentra with the bash in the side. He didn’t know that I was residing in a one room Country Inn and Suites all that time away working…

The cable guy. There were no cable guys back when these pics were snapped, no wealth perceived in my circle. I was a semi-infrequently-employed gas jockey and part-time babysitter in the 80’s. In between firings, that is. I was so lost then.

Kinda like I’m lost now. Dinero or not. (Mostly not, low bonus year).

You know, in the EXACT same way we all get lost. From the inside out.

We have Google maps and Wikipedia and Yahoo and E-harmony and search boxes ad infinitum.

But where’s the link, that one search box that bring us back?

Pictures, I guess. Pictures of then. Pictures that link us to our path. Our path that is the way to our inner home.

I’m home again. Nestled in and breathing deep. For now, anyway.

No Cuervo Gold to picture here.

The gold I seek is North and West.  On the left coast. Ha, totally left.

I’m home again. Welcome me.

(Thanks Yadge, for the visual nostalgia.)

I wore prison orange.

Yup, sure did. Wore the shirt, did the time.

According to the VOR1ZO owner, it was all good, all God. Karma yoga, she said.
Karma Yoga if you aren’t getting paid. (Sorry Yadge, better luck next time?)

(more…)

Gracie brought me down.
Yup. She brought down this one hundred sixty pound woman.
Brought the smackdown to this five foot eight, girl unexpecting…

(more…)

Answer it, quick.

2:38 was the last thing the window showed to me.
Two hours and thirty-eight minutes of one half a sec’.
She does that to me all the time. Makes my time go by in a wink and a blink and a nod.
Then she’s gone. Again. I wanna run so fast to catch up…but there’s no catching her.

She leaves me so she can carry on with her stuff. Her life and needs and wants and lists and weeds and mulch.
The stuff that matters the most to life itself.
God, I love that about her.

She carries on and carries everything on her own. Without me.
Cover your eyes and squish up your face when you read that I RELY on HER.
No really.
I do.
I rely on her strength that betrays her stature and her wisdom that disguises itself in her youth.
Her sense and joy and laughter fill me up with the substance of living this life.

I love her laugh.
I love it when I get to be the cause of it.
It makes me happy. So happy that I could skip down the street.
(I often skip at work just to prove to my staff that one cannot be sad or mean while skipping. Yes, I am an idiot.)
I skip inside my body every time I hear her, though.

I’d be skipping now if I weren’t typing this shit down.

We’ve missed alot of time, me and her.
But we’re getting it back two hours and thirty-eight minutes at a time.

And for that, I’ll answer my house phone any time, baby. But just for you.

Well, it IS an interesting title, is it not?

I have some pollywogs that are my responsibility.

(Nope. We didn’t use a condom.)

They’re growing up without my help.
Without my moral, spiritual, physical aid.
Without my cash donations, even.

They’re growing so fast.
Off to school before we know it.

I saw them at their conception’s result.
Little caviar lookin’ freaky things.
“My kids?” Hell no. Too ugly.

I want a paternity test.
(Yeah, me and P. Diddy.)

I saw ’em squirming around and punching their way out of the sac.

I even saw their odd little tails forming.

But where are they now?

Where are their land-legs?

Where’s their gratitude and thanksgiving?

Not here.

Are they victims of parental separation?
Divorce. The ugly “D” word?

Nah.

My triplex keeps me informed, mostly. She’s good like that.
Realizes the importance of kids knowing their folks.

What excuse will I offer up to them?

Not sure. I was never good at stuttering thru my feelings.
“Um…Uh…Well…Go ask yer Mother.”

Good thing their Mum and I stand together in their future.

I’m gonna get to see their legs spring out.
How fucking cool is that?

Way cool.

We just gotta figure out if they’re gonna go to Princeton or Harvard.

I’m saving my lillies, so’s I can pay for their pad.

See? Things work out.

Just give ’em a chance.

“Yank ’em out o’ the creek,” if necessary.

(Gotta push those legs out. Take ’em for a frog-spin.)

Put them in a rain barrel.

Life/Love finds its own way.

(And I can’t wait ’til one of them turns out to be like MOI, so I can rub it in! Nanny nanny boo boo.)

Peace and ribbit.