#WhyIDidntReport

It was about 11PM. There was virtually no moon in the night sky. The wind hit my cheeks a cold blade. I was walking home from a friend's house. The neighborhood seemed now, a darker more sinister version then earler that day. There was total absence of color. The gardens, the cars and the sky had all blended together into a dark shadowy grey existence that floted low and wide down each street. The voices of children's aughter were replaced by arguing drunks as they swayed in unison down the walkway.

I was two blocks from home when I heard the footsteps. The sound of heavy boot heals were drumming the pavemet and increasing in speed.

Then it stopped. A heavy hand eveloped my shoulder. I spun around and my mouth covered by the other.

I felt his switch blade open to the side of my neck. He grabbed me by the hair from the back of my head and pulled me between two houses. A women saw me through her kitchen widow and I saw the fear overtake her too as she simply pulled down her blinds shut off the the light and all hope I had. My brain pounded with the thought that I was only get to live fourteen years of life.

We stopped in an alley behind a row of silent dark houses. He threw me up against a dumpster and ordered me to take off my skirt. Through tears and trembling I had trouble undoing my wrap around skirt. He became in raged.

He was growing more and more impatient. He lunged onto me and penetrated my virgin soul.

With his knife, he sliced me behind my right ear and I welcomed the pain to detour from the pain I could not understand. My back now submerged in its own blood from his thrusts grinding me into the glass and rocks beneathme....gringing away until I was no more than all the disgard trash that surrounded me. When he was finished he stood up and laughed and kicked me in the ribs for good measure and ran off. I lay there long enough to feel the morning dew, reminding me I was still alive. There are pieces of me still lying there.

When the sun came up, I went in the house. I saw my mother's angry face. She had had it with me. #WhyIDidntReport

PROXIMITY

The reality in life is that people are almost always too close or too far away. 

Proximity invites conflict. Distance invites loneliness.

Distance is yearning. With distance I can be selfish, I can own myself so completely there is no other reality than the one that exists in my head. It can be perfect and I can revel in the pain of the idealist, holding onto what comes next, of what could be. It also means that I guard myself against the world. It means experiencing highs and lows, strength and weakness, in sometimes feeling each moment so strongly I can lose common sense, my misery can be so sharp I forget to notice where it falls into joy, where I am the mood, where I'm passing through agony and bliss so rapidly I forget the movement exists at all. I also will make mistakes. Many of them, many many of them.

The point is to get close to people because ultimately the best moments and worst moments in my life involved other people. It becomes clear that I can’t do this without invading someone else’s space. I can’t do it flawlessly because they have built up their own routines for how life can be safe, how distance can feel as secure as a warm blanket. I’ll get in their way. They will get in mine. "Life is messy...so let's just jump in and make Mud pies."(Mudpie theory) I will attempt to please them. With time this runs out and I become simply awkwardly myself. Because there really is no other choice after awhile. And sometimes I won’t be fun. Sometimes I won’t be interesting. All I need to do is not pull away so far that I can’t come back.

Sometimes I don’t want to be held. Sometimes I need it like a child does. And being that close can hurt. I feel the wounds I’ve avoided by living shallow. By letting my life be dictated by trivial things, by defining my moments purely by following my interests and obsessions, imagining my humanity simply as a laugh track and Facebook status to be shared with the world.

Closeness means that everything seems to have meaning attached to it. Every second has weight. When I am in their orbit. Then the meaning falls away and is replaced like a gust of wind with some other mood. But I fail to realize that sometimes this weather has nothing to do with me.

When people are far away they can be perfect and so can I. This is why unrequited love hurts so badly as a child and why we mythologize reunions. So, we get wrapped up in small issues. We get stuck in our own head. We go into crisis and emerge from it with no memory.

Then there are those moments when I am just close enough to people, when they sneak further inside me than I thought they could have come as a result of constant company. I can feel the pressure of being seen, of noticing my own racing heartbeat, my own speeding thoughts, I can’t be numb to this, no matter how much I pretend, it hurts to be this close because every cell in my body is alive. I guess we have to risk people getting too close to have them get close enough. Or to put it yet another way, how close one is to life dictates how quickly it passes, how fully one remembers it, how much meaning people have for them. With distance time barely exists, memories are flimsy when not granted weight by pain and hope. Allowing someone close to me one means I can experience time and change...and ultimately growth. Just sayin'.

To My Republican Friends

For those of you that don't recognize your party since Trump took over, I want to let you know something. I respect you. I may not always agree with you but I respect you.
I'm not going to Trump bash in this post. In fact, there were some Republican values back then where you and I would probably agree;

Personal liberty
Personal resposability
A strong defense without ballooning the National debt
Strong relationship with our allies
Strong stand against our enemies

So as an olive branch I extend a link to "Words Matter" a new podcast by two ex-Republicans that I respect immensely Elise Jordan and Steve Schmidt. They dropped out of their beloved party when they couldn't recognize it anymore. On their podcast they talk about how to bring back the party of Reagan, McCain....the party of Abraham Lincoln.

As for me, I'll always be a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat. I'm quite proud of my party these days. But hey....I respect the struggle.

Me: The Unemployed Venting Machine

Venting (again)

I'm trying to find a job. I go the interview prepared, bring a notepad along to take notes, etc. but it seems like no matter what I do I get absolutely no where. I call and follow up. If they have voicemail I leave messages..but they never call back.

The last job I went in for to interview, I was thrilled to get that far. Then I (and evidently the potential employer) noticed that I was the only person in the place over thirty. :( "Young and slim" are what companies aim for, because they apparently think the public doesn't want anyone else to serve them. :-/
Its just as well, the job was to answer calls from people who's pet just died and would be arranging to pick up their dead animal AND while in that process, try to sell them a plot in a "animal cemetery". I'll pass.

Oh yeah...and I don't speak Spanish.

I worked at the snack bar for awhile selling hot dogs to bowlers. Good honest work. But my knees couldn't take it. One friend suggested trying to work in a bar and that I would probably get in pretty easy. But who wants a fat, old bartender? Plus again, my knees can't take prolonged standing.

I know looks shouldn't matter but let's be honest, they do!

So, how do you get an interview on the spot when you aren't fun to look at? Some friends have suggested applying for jobs that don't require face-to-face interaction with customers.

I reached out to a lady I've been working with at an employment agency who is around my age about this. Since we coincidentally when to high school together, she felt comfortable to be candid with me. She said, "Listen, I'm hanging on to this job by my fingernails. From my vantage point I can tell you that now that even women that have multiple degrees and are well-qualified, companies are simply hiring whom they LIKE (rather than who's truly most qualified), and that's often the young and good-looking. If we're older or significantly aesthetically less appealing, I suppose we're supposed to do the polite thing and go off into the wilderness to die so we don't inconvenience the rest. I don't see a solution to this."

Pretty sad. I'm just looking for a little back office job using my clerical skills. Or maybe a job using my graphic arts skills. Who knows. Now that I am driving a tiny bit and have brand new ears, things are A LOT better.

I hear Amazon might be hiring. Wish me luck. *sigh

The Dance Of Resistance

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

– Martin Luther King, Jr.

Resistance can be a tough cookie. She’s not always pleasurable. She’s usually the advocate for a lofty or seemingly unattainable ideal. 

Oftentimes working with resistance for me means complete acceptance of starting just exactly where I am starting. That means, no matter how much further along in the process I want to be, or how frustrated I may feel with not knowing or understanding the ride I’m on, that I embrace with complete love where I am in the process. AND more than that, I must completely surrender to where I am in the process.

There is a little girl that lives inside my head. She holds the very important job of managing me. She manages my mind, my thoughts, my emotions, my experiences, my memories, in essence, she manages everything that happens with my mind because that’s her job. She spends her days driving around in my mind on a fork-lift filing away memories, thoughts, emotions, storing different experiences, all with the intention of helping me keep them all straight.

It can feel heavy. It can feel overwhelming. It can feel expansive. It can feel daunting. It’s a dance. A dance between all the emotions that come through. A dance with yourself, your better self.

The idea is to not get defeated with resistance but rather learn to work with it. Whether that be pushing through it, past it, or sitting in it momentarily, it could mean breathing into it, claiming the resistance and doing the work anyway. For me, the best way to look at resistance is to learn to see it for what it is, be willing to work with it, and let it stimulate all that you’re meant to strive for.....for what rings right and true; to be authentic.

My Attempt At Lyric Writing

I write. I sing. But writing words to music is a whole different kind of writing than ....uh....just regular ol' writing they say

Well, here goes...

Prisoner In My Skin

Maria Scott Herndon

Verse 1

I chose the paisley blouse for our rendezvous

the pattern matched the sheets we had when we were new

We politely talk as we nod in all the right places

But more is said within the empty spaces

Verse 2

A tarnished frame traces us from long ago

It was taken the night we saw that Vegas show

Beside it is a picture of a younger me

With shining eyes beside a Christmas tree.

Chorus

I'm a prisoner in my skin, unseen, unheard within

But I try to be the me I'm supposed to be

I play the part so well, you could never even tell

That the woman lying next to you isn't me.

Verse 3

An old married couple walked down the road ahead of me

Their hands were joined together like a tangled tree

I would love to feel that kind of authentic connection

Instead my yearning comes from every direction

Chorus

I'm a prisoner in my skin, unseen, unheard within

But I try to be the me I'm supposed to be

I play the part so well, you could never even tell

That the woman lying next to you isn't me.

Bridge

Can I find the me I used to be

Brimming over with intensity

Or will I remain paralyzed; heart sterilized

Chorus

I'm a prisoner in my skin, unseen, unheard within

But I try to be the me I'm supposed to be

I play the part so well, you could never even tell

That the woman lying next to you isn't me.

Well? whaddyathink?

Now how do I find music for it?

It's A Matter Of Heart

Political liberals are “bleeding hearts” because they empathize so strongly with the sufferings of others. As Bill Clinton so succinctly phrased it, “I feel your pain.” When Republicans wanted to compete in the empathy department, they had to invent a new term called a “compassionate conservative.”

I ask why conservatives have, or are perceived as having, too little empathy. Why do liberals have too much?

I guess conservatives see the world as a challenging place in which there is always someone else who is ready to steal their lunch. Confronted by a potentially hostile environment, the best course is to take precautions and to ensure well-being of themselves and their families.

I can be categorized as a bleeding heart liberal. Those like myself, have a more optimistic view of the world as being somewhat filled with humans and as such ultimately should have a bond in at least that. So I feel that government is a vehicle through which the the people together in a democracy can solve problems and improve the well-being and happiness of most people.

To lighten this up a bit.....let's talk about humor. I mean, how many really funny conservative comedians are out there? If your answer is Jeff Foxworthy or Larry the Cable Guy, you are probably a conservative, hence point proven. But come to think of it, plenty of conservatives make me laugh, like Bill O’Reilly, Sean Hannity, and Rush Limbaugh. They just aren’t trying to. Liberals, on the other hand, are attracted to more intelligent- sarcastic humor and can grasp satire more easily.

Obviously, conservatives and liberals have different outlooks and opinions. Still, it would be great if we could ultimately work better together and find middle ground.

THE POWER OF YOUTH

While the act of young people speaking out may seem to be new, there’s a long history of Americans who were too young to vote shifting the national conversation on social and political issues.

The March of the Mill Children, the three-week trek from Philadelphia to New York by striking child and adult textile workers in 1903. which energized efforts to end it by law.

The Woolworth' Lunch Counter Sit-in

On February 1, 1960, four African American college students sat down at a lunch counter at Woolworth’s in Greensboro, North Carolina, and politely asked for service. Their request was refused. When asked to leave, they remained in their seats. Their passive resistance and peaceful sit-down demand helped ignite a youth-led movement to challenge racial inequality throughout the South.

Thousands of students left their classrooms and marched on downtown Birmingham, Alabama in 1963. Their Children’s Crusade changed a nation.

Vietnam War Protests

An antiwar demonstrator places flowers into the barrels of rifles while blocking the Pentagon on Oct. 21, 1967.

As many as 100,000 people, mostly young, mostly white, flooded the capital for a demonstration. Just one of countless across our nation, anticipating an injection of counterculture flair into the antiwar movement. 

THE DREAMERS

Local and national immigrant rights groups protest in effort to pressure U.S. lawmakers to find a way to replace Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals that allowed immigrants brought to this country as children to receive two-year renewal work permits and shielded them from deportation.

#neveragain

Protesters rally against gun violence on the steps of the old Florida Capitol in Tallahassee, Florida. To elevate the conversation of gun control and to instigate widespread changes, these students are leading the March For Our Lives on March 24 in Washington D.C. And their goal is to ban civilian ownership of semi-automatic and automatic weapons.

I think that while young protesters cannot always achieve what they demand, it gives them more courage to increase the number and size of their protests in the future. Young people oppose inequality and oppression like the rest of us even if less jaded. Increasingly, in reaction to the world around them they are not afraid to stand up for what they believe in. It is personally amazing to me that they are not just planning their future in a world that we hand down to them but instead actively motivated to change that future in real time to what world they want that to be.

NRA Inspiration

I think the NRA would love if Trump moved forward with his idea to arm the teachers. Hell, they probably crafted the idea and told Newt Gingrich to tell Trump in a way to make Trump think he thought of it. (Not at all hard to do).

So, there they are our teachers.... the already underpaid, under appreciated  with their pistols, armed and ready for murder in their schools. But more will die. More will die because their pistols will be no match for the automatic or semi-automatic weapons. Only in the cartoon brain of Trump can a teacher hit a moving target that is magically not shooting at them. Only in his comic book mind, will the bullets not miss and hit children instead. We ask a lot of our teachers. Can we really ask them to to be armed and ready to protect our schools? Do we demand that they risk killing the very souls they're trying to protect let alone educate? How would they live with that? 

Kids are sent to school to learn. What are we teaching them?

This nightmare of an idea to arm teachers---brought to you by the NRA.

A Slightly Different Coming of Age

FACT - People age at different rates and in different ways depending upon a person's lifestyle and genetics.

So much can and has been said about a person's "coming of age" - when we attain the age of accountability, sprout wings and go out in the world on our own and become responsible for our own
decisions and actions, and find ourselves on the verge of discovering life's unknown wonders. At the opposite end of this equation is another "coming of age". Those people over the age of 50 years old ... who find a somewhat different "coming of age" than their younger counterparts.


Those of us who have reached our GoldenYears have found on more than a few occasions that the mind is willing but the body just says, "Are you kidding?" Yes, we find ourselves on the downside of that adage "coming of age" -especially the age part. When the knees and the back just won't take the long hours of working, standing on your feet to do laundry, wash dishes, or ironing (does anyone really do that anymore? I haveno idea WHERE my iron is!), or lifting what we used to lift without
assistance. If it weren't for my hearing aids, and glasses I would be lost and vulnerable.

Of course one of the first visible signs of aging can be the change in a person's facial appearance. A
question I've often pondered is, who came up with calling those lines around my eyes and mouth - laugh lines? I don't think I've laughed or smiled THAT much to cause such permanent indentures in my skin - does anyone? Anyway, I guess it's just an excuse.When I think back of all the beautiful days at the beach, with the sun beating down and warming my body against the cool, salty waters
in Santa Monica, I certainly wouldn't have guessed this would wreck such havoc on my skin later in my life! After all I did use baby oil! What was wrong with that? LOL! Then, there's the weight gain.
Must be the hormones ... yeah that's it!

Someone asked me a few years ago if I had a "Bucket List". Well, I hadn't really thought about one until they made it seem like I was short-changing myself by not having one! Should I think that climbing Mt. Kilamanjaro, zip-lining thru a jungle, bungee jumping, parachuting, or traveling to Tahiti would make my life any more worthwhile or complete? I think not. I've enjoyed my life and I'm enjoying my life! I now pursue my hobby of doll making, writing, and sometimes singing.

Yes, this is a different "coming of age" that I plan to enjoy until the day I can't any longer.

One Thing Leads To Another

One thing leads to another.

Somewhere along the way I became lost; too many blurry details.

I try to focus; find the positive steps that lead the way out.

Is there more than one path? How do I know?

Should I just sit back and watch?

Some of it is entertaining, some just irritating.

It becomes tiring.

I continue to sift through the turmoil; searching and learning.

I do not let it break me; it is controllable.

Knowledge keeps me grounded. Strength keeps me going.

The light shines through; only if I am aware.

The path opens up; only if I can see past the brush.

There is always a way up the ladder, for one thing leads to another.

Donald J. Trump’s first year in office as President has been one ludicrous, mind-numbing day after another. From his nuclear war-baiting Tweets to his calls to investigate or criminalize legitimate opposition and our free press, Trump has shown America that we may no longer use the term “America First” without cringing.

We allowed, even if we didn’t elect, this racist, mind-blowingly ignorant, sexist, likely criminal, narcissistic child to ascend to our highest office in the land, a catastrophe from which there may be no turning back. Propping himself up with profoundly unqualified, white male sycophants, Trump has unloaded  damage to the air we breathe and the water we drink. He has brought out deep-seated hatreds, emboldened the Nazis, caused average citizens to doubt basic science and fact. The Trump regime has, lowered our standing as a democracy at home and abroad.

Yet, here is the greater problem, the proverbial “elephants in the room:” the Republican Party leadership in all the branches has not only allowed this Trumpian takeover but facilitated it, nourished it, as well as provided cover for it.

Some of the elephants in the room have called for the first Justice Department criminal investigations, not into Russian interference or Trump campaign team collusion with Russia, but into the  intelligence officer Christopher Steele, the author of the “Trump dossier as well as Robert Meuller's investigating team - investigating the investigator basically.” Whether the GOP leadership’s actions are a result of blackmail, bribery, or cowardice, it is certain that they have lost their way. Even the Republicans in Nixion's time weren't this bad.

Republican Speaker of the House has allowed unfiltered access to all documents in the Russia investigation to a man (Nunes) who has already spent a full year furiously working at misdirection.

Republicans in power are doing everything they can to prop up Trump even as he wanders, loses track of where he is or what is going on. Republican leaders of the past would not recognize what has become of their party.

How fitting it is that the Republican Party’s symbol is the elephant, only this elephant is not rare or endangered, just big, bullying, and destructive.

Behind the Melody

A dark figure stands alone on the side of a bridge. A saxophone, reflecting the lights of street lamps and passing cars, is clutched in his hands. He stands motionless for what seems like an eternity. Cars go by. As the street lamps flicker the one closest to him goes out, leaving him in complete darkness. Every now and then another car goes by, illuminating the figure standing silently on the side of the bridge for an instant before driving by.
After what seems like years a single note pierces the still and quiet air. Not a loud note, nor a sharp one. A simple G, alone and without company, sustained for a few seconds and then lost amid a flurry of passing cars. The sound begins again. The G pierces the air again, followed by a slow and mournful melody. Each note reveals the innermost recesses of the artist's soul, disappearing as fast as they come. Far to fast for anyone to read upon them the true feelings of the man, but long enough for a casual listener to bathe in the sheer beauty of every note and phrase. Finally the song comes to a close, and the dark figure sustains the last note for several seconds as the cars go by.
He does not wait for the applause of a non-existent audience. The world has already rejected this man and the music he brings. Now he has nothing more to do but to play his mournful tunes to all who will listen, and all too often he finds his only audience to be the raging currents beneath the ill-lit bridge. Another tune starts up. As the notes and phrases progress, a listener can detect a basic melody hidden deep within the notes. Every action is precise, every decision contributes to the song, every song is part of a concert, and every concert is played out on this bridge, while the only that this man ever receives is the sound of waves clapping heartily on the rocks below. Sometimes he allows his mind to wander, and wonders why he shouldn't end it now, throwing himself and his saxophone down onto the jagged rocks. His answer to this question is simple. As long as he can please someone with the sound of his music, he's like to remain alive, and he always pleases himself.
"Too far ahead of his time." the critics had said after going to the little hole of a club where he played.  

"Complicated and uninteresting" read the review on the night in which he had played "My Favorite Things". The owner of the club had promised to keep him for as long as possible. He stayed at the club for one week before the owner had no choice but to send him on his way.
 After a week playing in an almost empty jazz club, he was left with nowhere to go. The lone figure on the side of the bridge finally picks up his saxophone and begins to play again. He plays "My Funny Valentine"...his favorite. He always holds the last note in his heart. The notes came and went. Some are sustained for a long time, some are released almost immediately. With each improvised phrase the artist reveals himself, and then just as quickly, the notes disappear and the musician returns to his hiding place behind the melody.

I Am Living!

Let’s be honest, when we’re getting false ballistic missile warnings, the most powerful politician in the world describes countries as shitholes, and women are vilified for coming forward about sexual harassment, it’s time to step back and immerse yourself in whatever makes you happy, even if it has been proven to clog your arteries or makes you pretentious.

Is this all there is to life? Chasing one high after the next? Slaves until the weekend, when we can drown our sorrows and feel okay for a few lousy hours?

That’s what we do, right? Chase these momentary fleets of happiness so we can feel alive once again. So we can look at our lives and say, “I am living!”
Or maybe it’s just me?

I don’t know if I’m going through some sort of identity crisis or existential dilemma, or maybe I am just losing my freaken mind, but it’s as though the universe has slapped me hard across the face and said, “GO CRAZY… you only get one chance at life!”

I suppose, over time, life had robbed me of my shine. I felt like I was stuck in a battle of who I am, who I wanted to be and who I should be. So here I am, doing everything I possibly can to claw it back, if only momentarily. To feel alive again.

It is during these moments when I feel most alive. Like, for a split second, I am the only person in the world. Nothing else exists.

And so I continue to tap dance along this fine line of insanity, embracing each and every fragile step. I continue to feel the pull of the universe inviting me to forget who I am ‘supposed’ to be and to embrace who I am.

So maybe this isn’t a midlife crisis, after all, but rather a second-half opportunity - to spread my wings and feel the wind against my body. To follow my curiosity and discover new horizons. To be unafraid of showing my true authentic colors in all their glorious imperfection. To embrace each and every bump, curve and storm. To throw my hands up in the air without a care in the world and scream…I AM LIVING!

For the Love & Fear of Words

Hello 2018.   Uh.......Now what? I'm a bit skittish after 2017. (Sigh) Okay...... Here goes.
Sometimes, I think of our goals in life much like a dark alley in the middle of the night. For some it might be just a shortcut, but for others it’s the path home. Either way you get scared easily. If you can avoid it, you will. Because looking into the darkness and not seeing the light at the other end is too terrifying. And maybe, despite being 90 percent sure, you’re just not willing to risk making it out.

So you don’t. And day after day you walk the long way home, avoiding the alley as if it didn’t exist. Just like, day after day, you avoid thoughts of the things you wish you were doing. The things you know you could be doing, should be doing. Or maybe you got stuck in that place somewhere between thinking of your goals constantly, and actually doing something about them. That is the worst place to be.

An accomplished goal brings with it the euphoria of success; the beauty of manifestation, and the fulfillment of finding purpose. An unaccomplished goal, on the other hand, is like a poison. The only cure, moving forward. We have to push towards our goals until the reality we see when we open our eyes matches the reality we see when we close them.
But it’s frightening. So you never try. And every time you bury the thought of what your life could be, what you could be, you feel a little bit more of that poison. You die a little bit more each time.

Every day you walk past that alley like you’re not strong enough. You think to yourself, I can’t possibly do this. What if I have to fight? The long way home is safe and familiar. It is… comfortable.

Many people will walk down that dark alley. But for the ones that don’t, I feel a sadness. The same cloud of desire hangs over all of us. And it blocks out most of our light. Some people can push on despite that looming cloud; others are simply consumed by it.

I am consumed by a desire write. As the years drag by, I fear my greatest regret in life will be that I did not write on paper all the things I wrote in my head.

These days I find it hard to pull together all the pieces of the story. They are like fragments that float around me, following me everywhere I go. Always in sight, but rarely in reach. And they haunt me, these pieces.

Is it writers block? I had an English teacher who refused to believe in such a liberty. There was a time when I agreed with him, but now, maybe not. Nothing is good enough and nothing makes sense. It’s just emotions and ideas and ramblings. It’s just me. Who cares? Who am I? I’m somebody to a lot of people but nobody in particular. Are my ideas relevant? I’m afraid I have no point. Do I even need one?

So for the longest time I have searched for something to write about. And because I thought I had nothing, I sort of stopped writing. The truth is I have always had more than enough stories, I was just never sure where to begin. Some days I can feel the story of the stars in my bones; putting it down on paper is the only thing that seems to make the anxiety disappear.

So I will write, not only to silence my mind, but to feel everything more deeply.