A friend called the moments after shoving a plate away, stomach round and full from feasting, legs stretch and tummies get patted, this golden moment is toe crackin time.  Shoes off, Curl them up, curl them down, try to grab like a monkey, that’s how I do it.

I haven’t feasted unless you count a perfectly mixed bowl of Colassal Berry Crunch and Marshmellow Matey’s but there is a breeze coming in my window and my bare toes reach for it and I melt into my chair trying to remind myself that life can’t be a perpetual toe crackin moment.  But oh how wonderful the moment is.


Than go back in time, even/especially knowing what I know now.  I, some days, get bitter and mad for the youth I wasted not understanding how amazingly attractive and able I was.  Misunderstanding all I surveyed.  Longing for someone to fill a hole that was created by being alive.






I can’t want to unchoose things I have done.  Not now.  Especially now.  And if I had to spend a hundred years in an iron lung I would do it instead of coping through that mess of youth, really.

I cannot truly understand those who wholeheartedly regret the aging.  Who long for fresh skin and hormones driving you into alcohol driving you into questionable spaces, into each other.




My bitter recriminations on those who wronged my sense of self do dry in short time as I truly contemplate life then and life now.

I am one of the lucky ones.

I am out of it.  The nonsense of pre-40 under achievements and torturous situations, of finding yourself and creating a future you want, of forced relationships and angry hurtful connections.

I much prefer to be here, over 40, 20 years of consequences under my belt and left behind as I go over and down the hill.


A desk, a bed, a peaceful nook to stare at the world from, calmness settling


It’s one search of a lifetime closed.  (Lookinglookinglooking for my space, my shell.)  And finally after a wanderlust that lasted adulthood things are settled.


Finding home after pain leads to reverence.  It is religion. Standing for moments gazing with gratitude and appeasement towards whatever forces finally pushed home upon you.  (whatever the space of home might be.)  Gratitude descends almost unbearable in it’s humblesoulfulgrovel of thankfulness.  Eyes rove the riches of fitting and on joyful things they settle.


Over and over emotions roll searching for what to feel now that things have changed completely and life seems to have a reset button and all that has been past is over and where the future is going none can say, but it will probably be interesting to quench the boredom that rises once all that is

is Settled.


Tagged with:

Just because I can.  No stress. no fuss.  Work is good, new home is still the most peaceful place to me.

Just a few more things needed.

Just can’t believe the okness of my life right now.

Just hope this opens the gates and lets me create and communicate the 8millions ideas in my head.

just because

i can.


I found a place. Not just a place but THE place, the one that I think I want to stay in forever.

It’s the little things that make it feel like home, like window placements and stoops to see.  The space and how easy a commute is.

Sighs of relief echo into my high ceilings as I try to adjust to the feeling of “things been taken care of.”  Happiness is not something one obtains and hangs onto, finding the knack for it.  It’s a fleeting thing in some lives, gathered carefully, worked towards and possibly needing a last minute determined miracle of a phone call to create it into existence.  For those of us who’ve made it to happy moments they are savored.

I’ll never argue the sweetness of finding home is worth the feeling of sorrow and lost before it.  I think that’s a twisted way of trying to deal with enormous loss.  But a simple meal is made better by the sauce of hunger.  And it’s possible that having to carefully build a life also builds character, and maybe character is good for you, it’s certainly can be good for the rest of the world too.

Or maybe it’s just a thing that happens.  Sometimes if you’re very very lucky you reach a place and it suits you and you think here I will stay.


today has been a monday

not the worst monday in the world but one with internet failure and clogged toilet and in general client clean up that is frustrating in it’s techitude (though the clients, still lovely.)

I have ended up at a pub slowly drinking happy hour beer of the foreign and delicious kind while working as hard as I can on their internet.  Most of the time here was quiet.  Me, sometimes one or two others, and a slip of a young man tending the bar. Then mr. loud guy showed up.  They show up to every bar.  They are never from around town, but have come from upstate, out of state or just crashing with friends for a month or two.

And they talk. Everything they are so smart about come out the mouth.  Loud.  So the whole pub can hear the opinions of how to make a new york apartment work, you know, cause living in one for decades wouldn’t give one a clue.

I know, the hubris of youth is unavoidable.  People who know like to share and is it really worth my energy to get annoyed at another loudmouth dude who knows how to make sure EVERY ONE HEARS HIM?






work is very very busy right now.  I wake up when the alarm goes off, or sometimes before, and immediately try to remember what I have to do today, what day is it? where am I? Even when I know I can snooze the things I need to get done tug at me.

I may not be doing them in the most efficient ways.

But I still keep knocking things out, moving onto the next thing, fixing an issue, negotiating a business matter, replying to an email, doing some research.

In fact writing this made me start thinking about the client that had gotten pushed back due to companies emergencies and skipped over to email to write a lovely letter of apology and solutions.

I AM NOT COMPLAINING! For once I am not worried about money.  I have rent paid. I’m not rich. I make my money due to what my time is worth to people.  I have never expanded into people working for me, had some partners for awhile but freelance consulting is a nerve wracking experience, as well as dreams and needs change, and my lovely friends moved onto better for them things.

I am proud of what I’ve done with the past 20 years of my life.  I’m not perfect but I have built a life from scratch in this city.  It probably comes from the same drive that sent generations of my family across the vast plains of this country to the remote place to dig out farms and create lives from scratch.

I’m moving again. My current place is a stopgap.  This is the last hurdle. Finding the apartment.  The one that I can plant myself in.  With the nook for work adn writing, the space to paint and a real live room of my own.

Life has streamlined my dreams in a huge way.

I’m not complaining.


I spent this week struggling with getting all my work done while still fitting in my goal of steady writing in this online JOURNAL (expect nothing!) and by the end of last night instead of running out and seeing a bunch of shows while drinking a bunch of alcohol I got hives from something (wool sweater I dug out of a box to keep warm in?) and took a Benadryl.  And I sat thinking about how soon I would be asleep and what I wanted to do with my Saturday and I wanted to write.  I wanted to open up the novel and get back to work, find the next step of the story.

I started thinking about the film, trying to find the pivot event.  I am looking for something and I’m not sure what.

I did find my appletv remote so I am sitting in my rocking chair, tv speakers playing my itunes, screensaver of the photos I take, some friends, many the scenes of new york city.

And I feel excited to be here. I am going to write and create all day without guilt.  My work and junks and the rest of the stuff is where it is. I get this.  My day.  (Though I will take one moment after I finish babbling on my blog to pay the con-ed bill now that I am remembering it AGAIN.) Tomorrow I will throw myself back into it and clean up all the bits and pieces still needing attention.

Today I write.

Tonight I drink a bit.

Tomorrow I work.



Had an early morning appointment and I was only awake enough to remember to make coffee and spill it all over everything before I had to leave.

Now I’m sitting at a Starbucks watching auto fill screw my attempt at cell phone entry all over the place.

But I am not a quitter. Slow? yes. Fail a lot? You betcha. Quit? Fuck you. Stubborn unyielding determination takes people a lot of places talent and intelligence can’t get off their ass to get to.

So I type. On my sideways phone. Watching where my thumbs go more than crafting clever sentences in my head.

No insights today. Simply one more step forward.


Another morning, another page.

i know.

boring right.

this voice talking about writing.

art is stupid.  art is about finding a place that you can trust your internal world to everyone else’s critiques and relations.

I have grand posts in my head, one about my son, one about my sex life.  I want to do a show again, Bad Mormon, at a bar near by, they have a back room with a small stage. I want to write a movie script and a novel.  Both begun, novel more developed.

Now I can plead that I do not get these things done due to busy-ness.  No one can argue different.  I run a currently, the past few months, successful business and am on the tail end of raising a child, which requires a strange amout of attention, distance, abandonment and worry for him to find some life skills of his own.

Truth is I am scared.  I may be an arrogant, narcissistic artist (who isn’t these days) but I’m at the point in my life that I feel if I put my effort in to these things they would go somewhere.  Grow.

Be Known.

And i am old and weary and understand that this has repercussions.  I’ve served celebrities snacks, I’ve helped them with their computers, I’ve waited on them in stores.  I’ve watched how they do things.  Most seem tense.  Not happy.  (Except Samuel L Jackson, nicest funest guy ever.)

I’ve had my writings cause ripples with my social spheres.  I have my mother paying attention to my Facebook.  No matter what I say and do, unless it’s confined to a small black box theater under the promise of secrecy I’m not sure how to survive putting the internal out and having it be received.

For now i will just keep doing this blog.  Boringly wrestle with my own stupid voices in my head for the ten people who read and the 30 hits for “bad girls mormon” that show up regularly.  (I promise I’m not what you’re looking for. )



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