You.

Yeah, you. You’re reading me, no?

Reading my insides and outsides and my here’s and there’s and so much more.
My why’s and who’s and me’s and them’s and rantings galore…

Thank you for your interest and curiosity. Your comments and animosity. It all is a matter to me. It all does matter to me. Matters, ARE me.

{Uh-oh. I feel a lame-assed ice hockey analogy approaching. You know, Canada’s game? The game from where Gretzgy defected to the You Ess Eh?}

I skate sometimes, on the thin side of the ice. I skate sometimes, too close to your margins. Yeah, I do.

Icing means this; The puck crosses your opponents’ blue line without you touching it with your stick.
I’m a blue line crosser all the way.

I don’t mean to offend. Stiill, it’s my stick that I wield.
Curved and angled. Just like my field.

I can easily shoot my puck at what’s wrong with you. The inner/outer of you, the beginning and end of you.
The where I start and where you finish.
The bundle up, you musn’t be chilled, you.

Where’s me? Get a grip. I’m here.

I’m here. You can see me, you do feel me. I know you are in me.

I’m eternally burdened it seems, with our places in this Stanley Cup race.

I WANT that silver glory. Don’t you?

I LIVE for raising that goblet overhead.

I NEED to be recognized. You too?

I can’t hurt you to get mine, though. I can’t. Despite the fact that hip checking is an integral part of ice hockey. So keep telling me when I’m icing your puck, ok?

I can’t love my life without you, the lives that love me.

You’re what I need.
You’re the words that free.
You slam the puck into the crease that’s Dee.

Love IS icing, crossing the blue line, enticing.
Stay with me now.

I’m faking a Gordie Howe.

Don’t be jealous, y’all.

I know you’re hatin’ on the fact that I get to go to such a plush, opulent resort area.

That I get to lay by the crystal blue, sparkling pool and work on the base tan that transforms me into a hoity-toity boutique shopper. That I get to go play Sun City and tee off amid the Woods’s and Palmer’s.
That I’m gonna sip pink champagne cocktails as I regale the ladies at the Windsor club with my cute little stories about how my Gucci bag was custom made and my ability to accessorize with Fifi, the Maltese, has you green with envy and quickly texting your personal assistant to pick one up on the way to the course.

And don’t be jealous that the sand beneath my toes was imported from Aruba so as to improve the look and ambience of my bikini-serape shots, oceanside. Really, they’re just postcards that I’ll send out to Elle and Vogue. No biggy.

These “natural” surroundings are nothing to bat an eye at. Speaking of eyes, I hope my mascara gets hand delivered by Coco Chanel, as promised. This sea salt spray wreaks havoc on my lustrously long lashes.

Geez, look at the time. It’s 9:00 am according to my hand jeweled, impeccably crafted, Cartier.

I must be off.

Dammit! Where is my chauffer? No tip THIS time, buster.

Ta-ta!

I researched this metaphoric phrase recently as it is relevant to my fence line.

Not in the form as mentioned above, but as this; “The grass grows greener on the other side of the fence.”

There are several ponderous references to the theory, really. Many links to its past.

But it’s how it relates to ME that I care enough to write about.
Like you didn’t catch on to that already.

There’s a grassy knoll in my history. Not only the JFK one. A Grass of a different color. Green and bright and full.
A Grass that meant, and means to this day, a great deal to me. Even when my apprehensions abound.

A blade that swayed toward the dark side. Left the beautiful moon and benevolent sun to follow a nefarious pathway.

Why?

Well that, my dears, is what this blog tries to figure.

The why and the how and the who and the when and what of things. No matter the sense it makes. Or doesn’t.

What leads the grass to drink?

It starts out small, I think.

It begins with a shimmer and a glimmer. A spark even, of doubt.

It begins with a leaving of a soul, maybe.

How does the soul go so far south that it can’t steer clear of the land mines that surely pop up? How, indeed.

Self loathing pops up, crops up, trips us and flips us. You’ve felt it, no?

But you knew better. You knew that life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness was yours for the taking.
Didn’t you?

Maybe you didn’t, Grass. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you thought that your life-tickets, happy-coupons were used up?
Nope. They aren’t. They’re still here, still there. They’re still at your disposal. Go look. Check it out.

It takes a key. Or so they say to us green makers. Those John Deere nothing-run-likers. Listen up. Listen hard. Listen like you’ve not heard a thing. It’s the hearing that takes us where we need to go.

Or so I hear.

There is indeed, a greener Grass. I saw it once. Felt it twice. Need it still. Like the rest of the planet. The Grass must grow, it’s the in the will of all things.

You just need to stretch your face to the sun and feel it.
Life, as with Grass, shows its green when we seek it.

You just gotta seek with all who love you.

It really IS greener here, Grass.

I’m standing in the mirror.

I see the hole between here and there. You know the one. The one that defines you, the one that made you.
Mine’s an “inny,” as so described.
It’s getting more obscured as the years weigh in. I’m getting more discouraged as the years weigh out.

Most folks can add the there and then of it. The umbilical of it. Nourishment. Mother. Genetics. Home.

Not me. It’s just a hole.

Yep. I’ve heard you. I’ve heard you naysayers and scoffers and you, “why can’t you just be grateful-ers.”

Your; “geez Dee, what’s the big deal, anyway?”

I hear you every day. Whether you say shit or not.

You didn’t know that, did you? You didn’t know that the words you say that disclaim my lostness, permeate me.

Permeate me as you strut off to the next room or the next state or even the next country to view your kin, look them in the eye. I can’t see, you see? Get it? No. Not if it isn’t relevant to you.

I saw a show today about a daughter figuring out that her father figure was not figuring for the real father figure.
She KNEW he was real. Her real father. Wow.

What an awesome thing. To see your father, and know it’s him.
Let me repeat.
What an awesome thing. To see your Father, and know it’s him.

It made me cry. Tears running outta my brown iris’s. Yup. Another genetic, “take me for granted.”

There were times along my timeline that me and my mates would speculate about my sires and dams.
They HAD to be movie stars right? Gestation periods being what they are would mean that I was conceived in December of 1965.
We started with Melissa Manchester and Elliot Gould. Both for the dark, curly hair.

Can you imagine letting someone go that’s a part of you?

I can not.

But, yes. I hear you. I hear your: “It coulda been worse and she mighta been in trouble,” theories.

I hear you loud and oh so fuckin’ clear. Because you know me, right? You know exactly how it fucking feels, right?
You speak your language and eat your foods and see your parents, right? Oh yes. You’re right. Knower-of-all-things-right. I see you seeing yours in the right light. See you and envy you. Wrong or right in the feeling of it.

Right?

Me and Lu have our own ideas. She says I’m a hairless chihuahua. I say I’m a native indian warrior. I have to be. How else could I have the skin thick enough to shirk off the fact that I belong to no one, nowhere?

Don’t come at me with your ideologies. Don’t. They do not work on me. They do not, in any way, comfort me.

I still see my middle earth. Empty. The inny.

Does anyone out there want to claim me? I’m up for grabs, you know.