“It is only by working the rituals, that any significant degree of understanding can develop. If you wait until you are positive you understand all aspects of the ceremony before beginning to work, you will never begin to work.” ~ Lon Milo DuQuette

Last night in a burst, I reinstalled drapes that were taken down while painting my bedroom. I had, unsuccessfully, tried to contact a task service to help me, and after a few choice words on their feedback survey, I did it myself. Sort of.

After inserting pins into every fold of one of the drapes, I stood on the step-ladder and began to put them back into each of tract holes, and was triumphant until I got to the last tract and realized I still had several pins left. The other and I decided that the pins had probably been doubled up in the holes, so the right-side was installed in a bunched up mess, and we moved on to the second drape.

The second drape, turns out, was shorter in width than the first, and it belonged where we had put the first.

So…I’m sitting on my bed, looking up at the lopsided installation, I got to thinking about order. I started to think of it as an art installation. I thought, hmmm, maybe I can hang something from those extra holes, like miniature fake birds from strings. That would create some semblance of symmetry, order, and it would look pretty if not a little crazy. If my sister was still around, she would look at me sideways and judge me in silence.

Being good and orderly makes you believe, incorrectly, that you have control in life. You think that you will somehow be rewarded and that you will be protected from harm. This is from being abused or being made to feel inadequate in your formative years. And all the therapists in the world won’t fix you.




“Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: – you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.” ~E.E. Cummings


The moon hangs in the night sky and a star right below it. After some relief from the heat, it’s back again, but not really with a vengeance, just with spite.

The bachelor buttons seedlings that Sweet Farm gave to me weren’t the sought after blue flowers at all, just some sad gangly plant with white blossoms that look like stars. I’m keeping them alive with the dog water just to see what they will do.

Every morning, just as the sun comes up, I put out fresh water and raw almonds for Silent Bob or Jay, who are the Scrub Jays that have come to rely on me for their special stash. I caught a glimpse of one of them drinking out of my fountain, something I rarely see. I had to stand silently behind the pinball machine as he took 1, 2, 3 sips… and the Bushtits are back again, flitting around the crepe myrtle.

The moon stands in the sky, really, and the lonely star is tethered to it. Like an eye chart tomorrow it will move, leaving me to wonder if it’s the same star.

I might leave the blinds open to find out what hallucinations visit me again tonight. Last night a watery reflection of a vinyl record played on my ceiling, and cartoons danced on the blinds. Cartoon A fed Cartoon B with a spoon, and I stood in dumbfounded sleep paralysis, terrified and fascinated at the same time, and unable to move.

The hum of the fan is soothing and I close my eyes, not wanting to prepare for another day. I long for lazy days though I’m not wired for that. I’m dancing and it’s never fast enough. Though I think I’m the light that never goes out, one day the wind will blow the other way, and prove me wrong.

8 ways of the wind

If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees. ~ Khalil Gibran

Image: View from the Dupont Plaza of men walking in Hurricane Betsy: Miami, Florida – 1965

I saw a spiderling today. Or maybe it was just a tiny adult, who knows. I will watch to see if it sticks around and grows any bigger.

The sun is going down earlier now, and it’s almost August. I am trying to figure out how many ways I can write about wind, and it turns out there are many. Like…the wind is shaking the neighbor’s tree, but I can only see it move through the slats of my fence. It’s pretty because the sun is hitting it, and it sparkles like hidden treasure.

It turns out there are lots of ways to write about wind.

I would have not spotted the pink blooms of my Lamium if I hadn’t been watching the wind move the leaves around. My ugly green plastic water jug is now on its side, tipped over by the wind. But I won’t go out to pick it up as my sliding glass door is broken, and I might not be able to close it again. The motto now is “don’t fix it unless it’s really broken.” Life is too short for home improvement. In fact, I think a famous woman writer said that you should write and not clean house. I’m beginning to like this woman.

It turns out there are a lot of ways to write about wind.

As the sun sets, the silhouette of blowing leaves throws shadows on my blinds, and I look for patterns like a child does with clouds. I mostly see old faces, though, not rabbits.

It turns out there are a lot of ways to write about wind.

Wind is always a verb, but noun wind whips up my hair on the subway line.

Wind is always wondering if those tall branches are going to break.

Wind is looking up at the same tall branches and crying, because it’s so beautiful but it’s always the same.

Wind only makes noise when it moves things. In the tree it whispers, in the door frame it creaks.

Only when the crow’s wings beat against the wind it returns the favor by giving the wind a voice.


Here’s an interesting thing about L.A. – it’s overrun with black widow spiders. I could find you one on the street in 10 minutes. ~Dominic Monaghan

I have a spider under my bathroom sink that I think lives there, or at least close by. Not sure where she’s getting her food, or what type of spider she is, but I’m letting her live there because she doesn’t seem to want to bite me. I haven’t got close enough to her to see what her back looks like, but she seems to be getting bigger so I’m wondering if she’s going to have some spiderlings. I suspect that she’s living in my wall or within the hollow sink somewhere, but I’m not sure.

She’s a magical disappearing spider, though, because as I ponder her, and then look away for even a second, she is gone.

Jay and Silent Bob

The more often we see the things around us – even the beautiful and wonderful things – the more they become invisible to us. That is why we often take for granted the beauty of this world: the flowers, the trees, the birds, the clouds – even those we love. Because we see things so often, we see them less and less. ~ Joseph B. Wirthlin

It’s been a long time since I’ve written. I keep resubscribing to WP as it’s the only sense of self I feel I can hold onto, and even that is fleeting. But it’s important to me. Milan Kundera once said “Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding.” How true this is, but we must keep writing. Even though the world is too loud, we still need to keep talking.

I made a couple of friends a few weeks ago, two California Scrub Jays I’ve named Jay and Silent Bob. I named Jay his name because he is feisty and fearless, though not clueless like the real Jay from “Clerks.” Once Jay figured out that I was the giver of raw almonds, he started getting closer and closer to the window where he would see me every morning. Lately he’s been turning his head sidewise so a) he can see me better and b) he can silently demand I hop to it in the almond department. He’s absolutely stunning — the true blues and greys in his feathering I’m sure make him quite the spring contender for the ladies.

I started to worry that I was creating little almond addicts, so I’ve been trying to mix it up when I throw the nuts outside. I don’t want the mess of a bird feeder, so I’m keeping it real with targeted throws. However, what I’ve learned is that bird feeding is actually helpful at times when birds need the most energy, such as temperature extremes in winter or early spring, when natural seed sources are depleted (source: The Humane Society of the US). Birds need less of our help in summer, except for maybe a bird bath if it’s hot.

Silent Bob keeps his distance. He perches on the telephone lines farther away. He still stares, but waits patiently. If I was to anthropomorphize, I would say he’s speaking directly to my empathy, and I’m a huge sucker.


Monday October 24th, 2016


No one cares about my old humiliations
but they go on dragging through my sleep
like a string of empty tin cans rattling
behind an abandoned car.

— Edward Hirsch

I sat outside today on my porch, waiting for a hot flash to pass, letting the cool wind hit the sweat under my Black Flag sweatshirt. In a span of a few minutes, I saw a drug dealer straddle a driveway in his car, then go sit angrily on the stairs in a breezeway, waiting for his money to show up. I could see him through the broken window of the home he waited at. After waiting a while in frustration, he then got back into his shitty Toyota (he works on his own engine, I can tell), and as he sat down, he pulled out a bottle of liquor. I’m sure he took a swig before he pulled away. I half-expected him to return with the rest of the liquor and a lighter to torch the place, but that’s where my head goes in watching such things.

I started to get cold. The family next door always seems to be doing laundry, dragging their basket to and from the car every day. It was barely raining and a woman had her umbrella out.

My neighbor’s old dog watches the scene with me, peering through the slats of their house like a eery ghost.

I was walking my dog up my hill earlier today and I saw a couple get out of their car. The man held his girlfriend’s hand and they shuffled these tiny steps across the street. I think they live in one of the illegal mother-in-law cottages across the way. I imagined he was just bringing her back from getting an abortion, that he keeps her hidden away, impregnates her, and then makes her get abortions, over and over again, and that’s why they were walking so slow. This is the crazy truth about my brain, that I make this shit up to entertain myself.

The sky was beautiful tonight, all grey with hints of white, and crows and ravens you can only capture a silhouette of with your camera, flying south. I’m not even going to try. At 5 pm I couldn’t tell if the rain was falling or the leaves of the Sycamores were rustling, turns out it was both.


I think we are bound to, and by, nature. We may want to deny this connection and try to believe we control the external world, but every time there’s a snowstorm or drought, we know our fate is tied to the world around us. – Alice Hoffman

I have stopped caring about the drought, but not in the way that you think. I’m not apathetic. I do still think we should try to save our dying planet, even if it’s just for the history books…if they survive, too.

Lyanda Lynn Haupt, author of “Crow Planet” and one of my favorite nature writers, said in the same book that wonder has fallen from favor, and I would agree. Though our planet is sick from drought, extreme climate change, and apathetic consumers, I often step back and wonder at what extreme changes I’m seeing. Rather than wallowing in the stupidity of humans, and wringing my hands at what can be done, I instead choose to wonder.

Don’t get me wrong…I do my part. I’m vegan (though I’ve tripped up a few times), I support farm animal sanctuaries, and I try to educate people when they ask what I care about, or why I don’t eat meat. Enough? Maybe not, but right now it’s all I can give. I had to save myself, because the weight of the world was killing me. I had to change how I thought about things.

Lyanda wrote: “I am no ecological Pollyana. I have borne, and will continue to bear, feelings of wholehearted melancholy over the ecological state of the earth. How could I not? How could anyone not? But I am unwilling to become a hand-wringing nihilist, as some environmental ‘realists’ seem to believe is the more mature posture. Instead, I choose to dwell, as Emily Dickinson famously suggested, in possibility, where we cannot predict what will happen but we make space for it, whatever it is, and realize that our participation has value. This is grown-up optimism, where our bondedness with the rest of creation, a sense of profound interaction, and a belief in our shared ingenuity give meaning to our lives and actions on behalf of the more-than-human world.” (Crow Planet)

So today I sat outside with my parrots in their outside cages, and gave myself a homemade manicure and pedicure. I wondered at the nettles and their blossoms, and I let the ants run across my legs. I also contemplated, for a while, the three ladybugs (family Coccinellidae) that crawled through the nettles. What were they doing? What were they looking for? I wondered for a while.