Idaho City


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So, gentle readers and assorted lovelies, I wrote a play: The Mermaids. Once upon a time. And had a thought, hey, could this be a novel? Because I constantly recycle my own words and works, combing through it like a gold miner panning for those flakes. You look for that tell-tale black sand in that pan and then, the shiny flakes or even, on occasion, that big ole nugget. I actually do know how to pan for gold. I’ve done it. It’s hard work. They make it look easy in the movies. It’s not.

Okay! I did promise myself I would not RAMBLE LIKE A MOTHERWUCKER in these here blog posts. Thought, it’s my goldurn blog and I can ramble like a motherwucker if I want to. But, I do have to consider the patience and drive by mentality of today’s internet users and…Okay!

So, I did start a novel, several times, based on my play the Mermaids. Which is set in Idaho City, about four sisters and their wheel-chair bound step-uncle. Family secrets, real poor, Bible-thump-y a bit. Badda bing. And my over-stimulated brain went, hey, maybe there’s a big ole novel here. Maybe this would WORK BETTER AS A NOVEL.

That’s my siren song lately, that notion of


sung as a filthy little doubt lullaby. Nobody wants to produce this as play, why not write up a novel no one wants to touch, either?? Go on!! You know you want to!!

Which is that brain worm in my head talking to me. She [yeah, it’s a she] whispers such ‘helpful’ things all day long! All. Day. Long. And sometimes far into the night and into dreams. I will not go into my dreams, they are all dead, anyway, and floating belly up. Shut up, brain worm!

So!! I started off this project with the standard novel structure. Which was fine but, ugh. So I started it again. And again after that. And then hit on a pseudo-non-fiction riff, where this out of towner hears the tale of the Merlins at the Idaho City gas station and decides to write a book about them. Some made up artist from Cali. A budding film maker, a photographer, a traveler, a woman…Because, I can do that, I am Writer Gal. So, she collects the stories and tales from the four sisters, the uncle, and…yeah.

Basically, the story is that of Becks, Pearlie, Rita and Baby Morning dealing with the death of their mother, a horrible woman, who they are about to bury out in the yard as a big wild fire threatens to come galumphing over the entire area in a bit. A cop shows up to warn them about said fire and hijinks and fun ensue!

There’s lots of family intrigue, secrets, lies, blah.  The eldest sister keeps promising the others they’ll go to California and live by the ocean, and become the Merlin Mermaids; she’s done this since they were all kids. I even threw in a romance, of sorts, between Pearlie and one of the survivalists neighbors. As those survivalist, anti-guv, anti-everything but themselves sorts abound in the dear old Gem State.


So I kept most of the stuff from my play and added some other stuff. Because, yeah, novel.

So!! I’ll post a couple bits from The Merlin Mermaids, which I might never actually finish. Shut up, brain worm!! Shhh!! You don’t know!! The following is the opening salvo from our narrator:



The Merlins have lived in Idaho City, Idaho, since the late 1860’s, when their distant kin traveled from Pennsylvania coal country to try and find gold in the Boise Basin. Pike’s Peak, Sutter’s Mill and the Klondike are famous for gold strikes, Idaho’s Boise Basin has stayed off the radar, oddly enough. For a time, this tiny, slowly dying spot on Highway 21 rivaled Portland for the West’s biggest city between St. Louis and San Francisco. An estimated 250,000,000 was taken from Idaho’s gold fields over roughly two decades. The first gold discovered, that brought the miners, gamblers, speculators, thieves, romantics and fools running, happened on August 2, 1862, in Centerville by George Grimes– a five thousand dollar haul that started a verifiable stampede to cash in on the riches to be had in Idaho’s rivers, lakes and earth. Abraham Lincoln established the Idaho Territory in 1863. The gold found around Idaho City, allegedly, funded the war efforts for Lincoln’s victory over the Confederates. Murders took place here on a regular basis. Of the first two hundred people buried in the pioneer graveyard, only about twenty or so died of natural causes Houses of prostitution flourished here once upon a time. Chinese immigrants built a life here and were denied the vote and citizenship for many years. By the 1870’s, there was an estimated 1700 Chinese living in and around this area. The Native American tribes included the Shoshone, the Bannock and the Piute. There’s a local museum that documents all this. Idaho City also started off known as Bannock City, in 1862, but changed that to Idaho City in 1864.


Devastating fires hit Idaho City over and over. 1865. 1867. 1868, 1871. Recently, another hit, burning many of the businesses and causing expensive damage to a town that simply can’t afford it.

The Merlins are not mentioned. They are not part of the bright, tawdry, colorful pageantry of this small Idaho historical place. They do not number among Idaho’s distinguished citizens or get a pat on the back for family ties that go back even before Idaho became a state.


They are more famous for being outcasts and taking the mantle of the ‘town crazies’. In a state that nourishes the rugged individual and values the image of the lone cowboy against the world… the Merlins have been judged harshly and perhaps, unfairly. Their distant ancestors, after all, never found any wealth here to squander. They were unlucky and worse, seemed cursed by God Himself. Their children, the ones that survived, grew up home-schooled and wary of the government. They were and are clannish, keeping everything close to the vest. They were and are not friendly, or trusting of outsiders. They work and they die. They are relicts of a past belief system, in a way.


What remains of this family are Becks, Pearlie, Rita and Baby Morning. And, missing, for now, their half-brother and their father. Their mother lingers in St. Luke’s to this day, in a coma, neither improving or worsening, the bills for her care, at this writing, astronomical. There is also a step-uncle, a more or less adopted son of their grandfather from one of his many marriages, a man who goes by Murray Merlin.

My idea for writing this book in the first place came from stopping for gas and hearing two locals talking about Ruby, who’d been buried alive. I asked the two men, who have asked not to be named, who got buried alive and what happened. I expected some sort of local trick-the-tourist insider’s joke. My little Prius had Cali plates and decals for a vegan lifestyle, so I expected a fair amount of leg-pulling. Instead, the two related a tale taken from equal parts Edgar Allan Poe, World Weekly and perhaps a telenovela. I set off to find the Merlins. And what follows is what I found.

Okay!! That’s our very flawed narrator setting up her non-fiction take on the Merlins. Here’s a bit from Pearlie‘s chapter, called Pearlie at the Gates of Dawn:

[ Pearlie or Pearl Mary Merlin, is a giant of a woman. She stands about six foot one and could effortlessly flatten a mule, as she mildly put it. There is a calmness to her. She doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone is the impression I get from our talks. The following is taken from our one and only interview. She does not like to reveal herself. She’s hidden her feelings so long, she says, she kinda got used to it and would feel unnatural having hysterics. Her words. She is now involved with one of the neighbors from the Merlin homestead, Blue Horsely. Pearlie wished to speak of that instead of what went down with her sisters, her mother and her step-uncle. As if she wants to protect everyone. If there’s a heroine to this weird, sordid, ugly little tale, it’s Pearlie. Though she admits she stood by and did a lot of nothing about everything. Her words, again. Not mine. I’d love to get her on film and make a short documentary on her but she grew so horrified over that I let the idea die. I don’t want my mug out there for people to laugh over. I been laughed over enough, ma’am. I’ve had enough. I gently asserted no one would laugh over her and would like very much to get to know her. She just looked at the ground then right at me. I know people a lot better than you, ma’am.]

My name is Pearlie. I live outside Idaho City, Idaho and will die somewhere around here in these old hills. Mountains, I guess, is the proper name. Boise is just down the road and the rest of the world. I lived in our family home my entire life until I had to leave and go live elsewhere. Let’s see, at the last there, that old falling down house held me, Becks, Rita, Baby Morning, about a thousand mice and Big Murray. We had no money, never had any money. Our mother lived there as well, until she almost died.

Oh, that. That whole mess. It’s still a mess, our mother is still alive in some home. She came out of the coma, she has cancer. They say she won’t live much longer. But she can’t come back here, she’s too sick and weak. So, she’s a ward of the state or something. Like one of them foster kids. I didn’t even know you could make adults like foster kids. Blue says the damn gubbermint [note: her pronunciation. She had a twinkle in her eye every time she said ‘gubbermint’ instead of ‘government’, though.] can do whatever they want with you and keep you alive to bleed you dry. But she doesn’t have any money for them to take, I argued and he just got mad so I shut up. The state of Idaho took our land and sold it, so I guess they did get some kind of payment. Becks, that’s the eldest sister, she hid how we owed taxes. She hid the letters. I think she just didn’t know what to do. And thought Idaho would just leave us alone. We been here since before Idaho was a state. We Merlins came here a long time ago and we stayed. That has to count for something. But it doesn’t, I guess.

Well, sure, that whole thing with our mother, but we Merlins are used to scandal and everyone hating on us. Becks ran off, I guess she’s the only Merlin who made it to the ocean, is my best guess. Rita’s here with me. She lives with me and Blue, we take care of her, she’s the only baby we’ll ever have, both of us being rather old. His, you know, don’t work a lot of the time and my works are old. I don’t want to say more than that. He’s touchy about that a bit. Sure, I guess, all men are. It’s all they got. They can’t make babies and they don’t really have any sense. [ Pearlie laughs at this point and then offers me some wild mint water. I ask what that is. She says, it’s wild mint crushed in a glass of water with some honey. I say, sure, thank you. It’s exactly what she said it was.]



Now, this is all raw, first draft writing. But I like it. I’m not yet at that, I should just pound nails through my head rather than try to write another word, stage.

Worm brain just smiled. She has plans for me. Oh dear.




from Getflocked

Well, hello, gentle readers. I wrote a scree that went nowhere, as fast as it could, down a feckless road. So I scrapped it.

My inner chemicals sluice and slosh, they are pouring acid into my brain, slow little drops of acid and the clouds forming…ah, but you all know about depression and such fuckery. And I can feel whatever…ugh, that word, ‘feel’. I was told, in a creative writing class, not to ever, ever, ever use that word. It’s so ‘blah’. Find a better word. Stuff and things and feel. Those words are too bland and broad.

Yet. I feel that using things leads to some good stuff at times. Ha ha ha. Oh, I’m so almost clever.


Okay. I wrote this short story.

At ten thousand words, I guess it’s still a short story and not approaching novella length yet. But I could stretch it that way and possibly even stretch it into novel territory, which….intrigues this kitty cat with her head full of acid clouds.

Is there a small novel there in the tale of this little lonely man battling plastic lawn decorations? Mm. Mmmm.

Did Earnest Hemingway wrestle with such weighty concerns when he came across a scrap of something when he took time out from battling across battlefields and hunting water rats?

I am far too lazy right now to look up what Hemingway actually battled and shot, sorry. You, gentle darlings, can go Google it. I hear Google has answers to those trivia questions that crop up and torment us. Who played Amy the witch over on Buffy?? Doh!! What were the movies playing in 1978? Doh! Can you die from an overdose of Tic Tacs?? Doh!!!


So, I’ll post the opening of that salvo of mine.

I’ll admit, I got the title from watching an episode of Lucifer, where the character walked through someone’s lawn just studded with those plastic pink flamingos. And yeah, said something about an army of…yep. That’s the origin story behind this short story. I probably shouldn’t admit I even watch television. That I just read Proust and sneer over the crassness of the world and write my little bits so steeped in esoteric references and clumsy giant words not used outside a freshman Communistic Poetry Stylings to Go After the Christians class that no one can read them.

I was going somewhere pungent with that. I know I was. Damn brain acid clouds. Can my inner demons shoot me a memo as to when the light and hope will return to my brain? So I can make some cookies or something. Thanks!



Ah. Excerpt time!! You lucky puppies!!


They sit out there, stuck into the hard, cold ground, biding their time.

Flamingos. Plastic pink and hollow, full of malice, the spaces inside filled with a juicy invisible menace. I pull back my curtains, the blue ones I found at the thrift store with the purple chickens and the black ducklings, and their flamingo eyes find me, though the painted eyes don’t move. They find me, those eyes. Mock me. Warn me not to sleep or rest or let down my guard. Because they are coming. A pink plastic army. Coming soon. I let the curtain drop.


I don’t know why they would target me for their crusade. But they have. My safety, sanity and well-being amuse and enrage them. I have become their enemy. Not the little brown dog, with the funny ear, that comes sniffing through once in a while, who pees on them. Their only enemy is the man blinking at them from behind a rather silly curtain.

Defenses. I need defenses. I’ve had this vague thought before. Those flamingos belonged to my mother, she collected them, thought them ‘cute’ and ‘funny’ and ‘so American’. She’s buried out in the desert. No no, she died in her sleep, she had a bad heart, and there was no money for her funeral. Her death was not caused by me in any way. My mother lived and she died, simple as that. She worked most of her life as a clerk, Walgreen’s to Wal-Mart to Joanne’s, and then the doctors, at the end, took her feeble life savings. And she wanted to be buried without any fuss– just put me in the ground, she’d told me. No damn funeral homes, look at what they charge! I won’t pay that. I won’t! I took her at her word. I told everyone, well, about three people, that she just went away. That she’s visiting her sister. Her sister lives in Florida. Aunt Carol never calls, writes or visits here. Has never called, written or visited here. My mother never had time for friends, relatives, acquaintances or enemies, anyway. No one checked. No one’s checking now. Her Social Security checks go to her bank account, automatic deposits. My name is on that account. I use it to pay bills, for home repair, nothing that would garner any scrutiny. I don’t think she’d mind, at all, that her checks will keep coming until I arrange to have her die, somewhere else, be buried, somewhere else. Except there’s paperwork, death certificates…sigh. Another problem that needs my attention.

My mother was a most unpleasant woman, with a voice like a cartoon shark. She worked and she collected plastic flamingos. How she came to have me at all is a mystery. I’ve never known my father or her to have a boyfriend, a lover, a one night stand. Maybe she wished me into being. Some women have that sort of power. They can wish for things and things they get. I drink coffee behind my closed and locked bedroom door, wondering about my father, hearing the odd hopping of the spy flamingos in the little house.

They are meant to be outside, stuck in flowerbeds. A metal spike exudes from their centers or maybe two long sturdy wires acting as legs. My mother collected both kinds. At night, they’ll send two or three into the house, just to check things out, to get ready, to scare me. I hear them hopping about, the odd whistling of air in their hollow bodies. At night, sometimes, they are almost real birds. With feathers and long beaks. And they balance by my door, if on a single spike or they balance precariously on their two thin cheap metal legs. Listen to me listening to them. I stand there, by my door, my hands wrapped around a baseball bat, just in case. I know it won’t hurt them, not enough to make them go away and leave me alone. I haven’t yet found the cure for the malignant magical flamingos that haunt my life.

It was my mother, you see. She did something to them. I don’t know what. She fell asleep and never woke up and never told me how to call them off or strip them of the life slowly infusing them; how to offset their utter smoking hatred of me. My mother and I got along, we were amicable toward each other. I can’t make them understand this so they’ll turn their fury toward something else. How do you make barely sentient things know you’re not their bete noire? I haven’t lucked into the right combination of words or deeds yet to do just that.

I didn’t kill her, I tell them every day. I stand out in the lawn among them, twenty-three in all. Which is actually five. If you add the two and the three, it’s five. That’s a magic number, a number with power. I can’t tell you why. I just know. Numbers have power, they tap into the lines and pull of the universe around us, provide order out of chaos. Math is the language of the universe, someone said. The horrible ancient sound of a universe learning to speak, with things we don’t wish to hear, no matter our pretending otherwise. I have no wish to know the truth about what lives behind the sky or who hung that moon, if anything hung that moon…I have no real wish to know the actuality of such things. The terrible finality of such knowledge would surely rip the skin off my little quivering soul. Off all our souls. We’d have to face things. We’d have to line up in rows and face things and we’re not good at that. At all, we humans. I don’t know, my mind wanders off, the way gets fuzzy as a stretched out old sweater, my eyes fill with sandy tears.


Wild Mouse and Finished Novel

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I finished Alice of Oregonlandia. It veered off into wild tundra and took off for the hills and I let it. No one rides for free! Oh, that mouse from the other day, I saw it. In my bed. It was bopping along against the headboard, I had the covers peeled back for some reason. Tiny, gray-brown, surprised. Then it darted back under the bed. Yes, I stripped the entire bed down and lifted up the mattress, the whole enchilada but that mouse refused to let itself be found. It didn’t even have the courtesy to remain in the area, probably. Mice are so rude!


Finished. Kind of drifty. Wondering what to jump into next. If anything. That depressed o what now sensation.

Do I jump into that one novel I started years ago? Or work on some play? Or rewrite my resume with so many lies no one can fact check them all within my or their lifetime? Choices, choices!

A bit from my just finished bit of words, because yours truly is clumsily trying to sell her writing to an indifferent public. Oh, as the story, bwha ha  ha, centers around a spooky old house, well…picture of spooky old house to whet your whistles. Enjoy!!

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On the Oregon-Idaho border. Nyssa, Oregon.

Alice in Oregonlandia excerpt:

“All right, chickies. End of the line. Here’s where I leave you. Ah. One more thing. Payment.” The devil reached for that glove box. Beneath a pile of rustling state maps, she drew out a long, thin-bladed serrated knife, with a shiny plain handle. Aaron stared at it, I sat back, my arm about Gussie and Lysette woke up to find our driver had become a knife-wielding maniac. “I need a hand. From one of you. I don’t care whose hand it is. I really don’t. But I need a hand. I get hungry on these cross-country treks. I get real hungry and cookies don’t fill me up like they used to.” She smiled at all of us, touched that knife tip to her lower lip. “Let me help you, chickies. The boy needs his hands.” She winked at Aaron, who looked away. “This pretty girl here, why, it would just be a shame to maim her. She’s a beauty queen! Look at that pretty face! She’s gonna break hearts! And you, Alice, how you gonna fight that evil widdle Bong Bong if you’re missing a hand? How you gonna get anything done, Alice, if you’re missing a hand? Already so ugly and outside of everything, and now…MISSING A HAND? Imagine how they’ll talk about you at school, baby! One-handed bloody orca dykebitch, I imagine. Stayfree lost her hand, guess now she really can’t get a man. Fat, ugly and now one-handed?? Oooh, honey, they’re gonna murder you for sure. ” The devil shook her head, her pony tail flopping about, her perfume engulfing me. My mind refused to settle on this brand new awfulness. It was not real. We were not sitting in an old Caddie, at the house I used to live in, when I’d still had a mother. The devil, or something that claimed it was the devil, was not waving a knife at us.


“We are not giving you…” I tried so bravely to say. The devil grabbed Lysette and Lysette screamed, wiggled, tried to get free. That knife blade pressed against her right wrist, the devil had my sister’s left arm in her long powerful fingers. “No. Stop. No!”

“You let me go!” Lysette screeched as that knife sliced her, as the devil watched me with her machine gun eyes. Aaron huddled against that door and then he tried to help but the devil used her foot and kicked him lightly back toward the door. My brother gasped and panted, rubbed at his chest. “Alice!” My pretty favored sister. The sister everyone said would grow up to be beautiful and then they would look at me. Look at me. And wonder what had happened to me. Oh she’s such a beautiful girl. No one had ever said that about me. Not one time. Not one time. No one had ever found me nice or lovable. They loved Lysette on sight, they hated me the longer they knew me.

My sister called my name. My little brother turned to me. They were little kids yet. They were little kids. I’m not brave or good. The devil knew it. “Some all powerful thing you are.” I said, Gussie barking, thinking this was some game. Was it not all a game? A name for a game! “Hurting kids. What kind of devil are you?”

The devil let Lysette go, who shot over to Aaron, practically sat on his lap, her face wet, rubbing at her lightly cut right wrist, glaring at me. At me. “Oh honey, what does that matter? Now. Why don’t you let me saw off that little girl’s hand and we can part ways? You don’t want to lose your hand, honey. You don’t want to feel this knife, it’s probably not that sharp by now, trying to cut through your living bone. I’ll make sure she doesn’t bleed to death, either. I promise. And the devil keeps her word.” She winked at me, she let her voice go low and soft and seductive as some poisoned lullaby. “You hate them both, Alice. This should be an easy choice. They all love her more than they love you. Because she’s pretty. You could save a thousand puppies from a house fire and they’d still love her more. You know it. I know it. Make this world a little more fair for you, honey! Let me take her hand. Or that boy’s little boy hand. Come on, Alice. Why do you hesitate, baby? You got Bong Bong to take on. She’s in there, waiting. She can save your daddy. Send her little balls to his room. You already owe her, don’t ya. You already owe her a few favors. You think anything in this world comes for FREE, ALICE?”

I must have made a sound or burst into tears, my head swirled and swirled and swirled. Those balls of light had healed Lysette and Patti. They had yanked glass from my back. I still had little sore spots. No. No, they were not Bong Bong’s little balls of light. No. I remembered them from the house we were parked in front of right now. Those soft free-floating Christmas ornaments that glowed and never hurt anyone. No. “I didn’t know. You’re lying.” I wiped at my hot face. Gussie licked me frantically. Aaron and Lysette had gone silent. They huddled together. Waiting for their sister to save them.


“I see. I’m either lying to you or you’re trying, once again, to get something for free. Just choose that little pretty sister of yours. What are you crying about, Alice? Your mama is right now sneaking into the hospital to see your dad. It’s a goddamn feel-good movie of the week tonight! Well, not for you three.” She laughed and laughed. The air had grown colder and colder. There was now a smell of rot in that car. Like some little animal lay dead beneath the back seat. Or a gut-punched cat. A dead cat someone stepped in on a dark night. I saw ghosts peeking at us from that old house, peering around the burned parts. I saw that Susan’s house didn’t have lights on. I saw an owl flap across the sky without a concern in the world. And then Lysette held out her arm, looking at me with such pity. Such pity! Aaron looked at his legs, snuffling. Lysette held out the arm the devil had already sliced like a bit of cheese. “Look at that. Beautiful inside and out, unlike her shit of a sister. Lookee here. Wonder Woman done showed up.”

I sat there frozen. I am no hero.





from Pinterest

There’s a mouse nibbling at something in my closet. Spring is springing here in Oregon East and the mice seem to be holding tea parties in my boxes of crap and stuff. Now, yours truly has been on a writing slog so yours truly has not been the little housewifely creature she never is, ever.


Alice in Oregonlandia is progressing. My sequel to a novel I just finished, for now called House on Clark Boulevard.

I’m also writing festering crap I would not show a Danger Noodle, let alone the tender readers who dare my clumsy words, galumphing sentences and frothy artistic confections. [Oregon Gothic. Have I mentioned yet, or ever, that I wrote a book called Oregon Gothic??? Don’t worry, I’ll mention it. I promise.]

Alice veered into territory that’s a bit dark and awful, but hey, it’s supposed to give a few tame thrills to readers in the Shivers Department. I’ve been rereading it and trying to get back into it, because I let it rest for a bit and now I’m going, uh, where was I? Where was this actually going? Why did I write about eating hearts and now there’s something about rainbows and puppies?? Was it going anywhere but off the rails on a crazy train?

Great. Now Ozzy is wailing in my head. Wail, Ozzy, wail! Get it over with, brain.

Yep. So. Also trying not to succumb to that utter darkness that wants to suck me into the void. I know! How cheerful am I? Not cheerful at all. No cheer here to give.

I won’t descend into some maudlin screamwhine about my inner hellscapes.

I present them publicly via my writing and plays, so why do I need to further reveal that I am one savagely, probably chemically, depressed little mama? Is it not de rigueur for a writer to be an emotional, physical, mental mess? Does that not ‘fuel’ our art? Would we even know who Virginia Woolf was if she had not gone off the rails on a crazy train?



But. Mice.

I hear them at night. I used to be scared shitless of them. Little rodents just trying to survive their fate as tiny tasty prey to dogs, cats, hawks, owls, coyotes and whatever else lives in the walls of my house. [I do have a horror bent to my writing at times, hello.]

Then I found out they’re smart. They sing to their babies. They’re social. They’re…uh. My Cute Animals Syndrome kicks in. Where cute animals deserve saving and ugly animals don’t.

A mouse is rather a darling little thing, if you look at one. That little face, their little pink paws, ah. The Rescuers! Ah!! I still get annoyed when mice are found in my stuff. I’d rather mice than cockroaches, if I had to choose a vermin from a list.

The cockroaches in Honduras made me scream and head for the nearest flame-thrower. Yep, they were BIG. And if I didn’t have my computer playing something, I could hear them. Hear them. Hear their cockroach feet tap-tapping. Made me want to embrace Jesus in the worst way and just beg Jesus to Rapture me already because surely there will be no giant, thinking about jumping on you, bugs in heaven. Cockroaches know they freak you out. They KNOW. I know they know, they need to be honest and admit that they know they freak us out and do things to freak us out and then go off and have cockroach giggle parties.


I probably spend way too much time alone.

No, I do. But. I cannot stand other people right now. I have an actual phobia to other folks. Probably just my common sense showing up at last to the party that is moi. I’d rather deal with the odd mouse and even a pack of viciously gleeful cockroaches bent on making me try to figure out how to work a flame-thrower. Oh. I did promise not to get all confessional. Because I was already confessional via my writing.



My tooth is loose. I can rock it back and forth in my somewhat sore gum. My tongue plays with it. Hello, poverty! I just watched The Grapes of Wrath, the one with Henry Fonda [Is there a remake or a gritty reboot of this already gritty drama?] and yes, I can relate to the Joads.

Oh you betcha. Ahem!! I am poor and cannot afford the dentist. That’s a thing here in America. Our healthcare system, or rather, lack of anything resembling any sort of compassion toward those without a trust fund. Which has been pounded into the dust and sand and mud and ooze. Politics.



I listened to grown men in the other room praise 45 for that speech. One of the men was Japanese and there’s internment camps you can go look at right here in Oregon where people who were Japanese-Americans, during WWII, were put. For safety. To keep America safe. Anyway! That speech!! Back on the rails…DAMN IT, BRAIN. NO, BAD BRAIN.

That carefully orchestrated performance piece [the State of the Union address] to make a certain Orange Slushie look and sound ‘presidential’ and they, the grown men, some of whom are related to me, gushed. They gushed like teen girls over the newest national or international crush. They sounded like teenyboppers practically having kittens to some cutie pie in some movie they just saw.

If only people would give him a chance. That was a pretty neat speech! I don’t know why those people are upset. He speaks his mind!



I swear to Jesus and Allah and Ra and Odin and The Great Flaming Vagina of Doom– that’s what was actually overheard by this wide-eyed trembling soul. I had an actual out of body sensation. A real ‘this is not my life’ fireworks boom in my head. A moment of ‘They know I can hear them so they’re just having fun with me’, rather like those damn cockroaches and their tappy little feet. Just. Like. That.


And then I mused over how people can hear the same political slickster speech and hear two completely different versions. And isn’t that funny?? Isn’t that rather…ugh. No. No, it’s not funny at all. Hello, darkness, my constant friend. You’ve come because you never went. You’re always here in my head, you’re here when I get up and when I go to bed!

So I should probably clean out the places in my little space that need cleaning out; it is spring! Spring cleaning. What can I throw away? What can I discover tucked away? That I can get out for a bit and then tuck away again? What little bit of something will spark an almost artistic effort? What little bit of forgotten something will…I do cannibalize. Which I admitted in another post. Maybe I left some bones with meat still one them! Ooooh!! This works on both an actual need to clean and sort and throw out level and the metaphysical declutter the brain miasma. Wow. I’m obvious and shallow all in a few handy sentences! Good for me!

Darkness and mice and spring and my tooth and life and Orange Slushies and too-aware cockroaches and depression and writing and Jesus.

I’m going to be honest. I need a haircut.

Did you think I would blurf out something about life, suicide, despair or rivers? Sorry. You’ll have to comb through my writing for my state of mind, darlings.