I am breaking your heart


Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

~ Excerpt from “If You Forget Me” by Pablo Neruda

I sit with blood, and I am tender. I really see the moon tonight; half out, half dark. I keep the glass door closed, though I want it open. I am cold, and I ache.

I know this will be another night she kicks me, my long-legged dog who sheds too much and insists on sharing my bed. Her dreams and her heat will make me throw off my socks and sweatshirt, or fall out and move to the cold pillow on the other side.

But I’ve gotten used to her, this shared intimacy with no strings and no words. I’ve gotten used to her long body, and she is comforting.

And when she is gone, she will be gone. I don’t usually grieve too long.

My friend says that people come and go, that who is in your life always changes. But when they go, I sit in heartbreak.

I watched my old friend cross a city street the other day, and I stared at him begging him to see me. But he’s all up in his own head, so I hung my own and kept walking.

The single butterfly, the baby dragonfly. So tender when they appear their wings are like silent breaths, tears. They visit, then disappear.







A sighting


Photo by Kitty Terwolbeck: https://www.flickr.com/photos/kittysfotos/

Much of human behavior can be explained by watching the wild beasts around us. They are constantly teaching us things about ourselves and the way of the universe, but most people are too blind to watch and listen. ~Suzy Kassem

When my Saluki, Grey, fixates on a creature outside, his growl is terrifying. To keep him from ruining the front window with his nails, I sometimes have to pull him back to draw the shades. When you touch him in this state, you can feel the rumble in his fur. It’s primal, and sometimes I think he’s going to whip around and bite me.

It’s been a quiet spring, but I’ve been seeing more starlings than usual. Though I have to check again, I think they are trying to make their nests in the neighbor’s Eucalyptus, where the wrens were last season.

There used to be a season for everything. You could count on when the finches show up at your feeder, and October was always skunk month. You couldn’t walk outside late at night or at sunrise without getting a good whiff. I learned to check for the scent the hard way, when my Greyhounds were skunked not once, but twice. It’s a different smell than the roadkill smell — it permeates your sinus and there’s no escape, for weeks.

I was feeling uninspired, staring out at the sycamore, and thinking how still everything felt. I could just make out the planes over the airport, turning into moving stars as it got darker. And this is still a game I play at night with the window open — plane or star?

And there it was. A skunk. In April. Yeah yeah, I know they live year round somewhere.

It was beautiful. I saw him leave my neighbor’s yard, disappear behind a car, then walk across the street toward us. It might have heard that I was leaving out peanuts, was my guess.

Grey rumbled. I had to close the drapes, but then I snuck out the back door to see if I could still see the skunk. I got on my tip toes and peered over the fence, but he was gone, not even a whiff.




Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better. ~Henry Rollins

This morning a sparrow came to visit me; he stood on the back fence and waited for me to move so he could feed on any leftover nyjer seed or small flies in my backyard. The sparrow species in the area are numerous, and you have to know what season their plumage is in to make an identification, and even then sometimes you’re wrong.

Silent days are always met with interjections: The screaming kid two houses down, the sound of a pinball machine in the front room, and the sound of my own brain, always looping.

The day is bright and warm, high 60s with a chance of boredom. It’s days like this that the animal kingdom enjoys the sun on their backs and Americans drink. Americans drink every day, for whatever reason. But we’re so afraid of being bored because that means we have to get creative, and the truth is that’s how creativity is born. Because inside we’re all still children and we’re bored with each other, so we make up things that will give us that dopamine hit, like sex, alcohol, and drugs. We’ve lost a sense of community and connection, like when you meet that person who really “gets you” and you get that hit in the best way.

I couldn’t figure out why I was so opposed to apps that would help me organize, help me meditate, help me be calm, tell me where to eat, how to get there, and reconnect with my friends. And I figured it out — I’m not calm because I’m not meditating or listening to rainforest noises, I’m agitated because there is an unrest and a loneliness in the world that can only be solved by connecting. Forget humans, I believe they are irretrievably broken. I mean, we spend our entire lives trying to fix ourselves, and what if there’s nothing to fix?

When I looked into the sparrow’s eyes I see something whole but otherworldly, a messenger. A silent reminder to connect.

I reach out to my friends or have the occasional interaction with a coworker or someone at a local store. I know I’m going to be one of those old ladies that bores the shopkeepers because she’s lonely, but that’s if there are any shops left. As Greg Brown once wrote “as the world becomes one big bland place” as soon enough there won’t be any plazas, just a world staring into a screen, begging to be understood. I think we’re already there, at lightning speed.

It’s physiology folks…we can’t undo hundreds if not thousands of years of relying on each other for our basic needs, but we’ve become these weird semi-bots, obese and needy and grasping for something outside of ourselves, but not grasping for one another. We can’t formulate replies in real time as it’s too risky, and interactions are forced and unsatisfying.

Wind chimes. That’s it. They make a melancholy sound. The earth has become so still some days I never hear them.


“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.