Posts Tagged ‘sadness’

Yesterday, out of nowhere I signed up for the Reverb 10 challenge to create a piece or art, writing, post, anything creative for every day of December.

I nearly drowned on the first question: Sum up this last year in one word. A flood of sad words landed on the paper, before I chose the word: PRIVATE, because I really didn’t want to share. I didn’t want anyone to see me that sad, that broken. Last night was long and I got really depressed. I gave those words life by writing them down. They suddenly owned me.

This morning was gray. I might have stayed in bed all day, but I started searching for replacement words, other possibilities, other ways out and this is what happened:


If it wasn’t a good day, mulch it. 🙂

d. xxoo

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The world is freaking me out today. The simmering triple digit heat has left Sacramento feeling edgy, jagged and hostile. It’s May and this is way too early for  July weather. It’s best to ease into summer, one digit at a time, instead it  feels like an intersection collision.

Triple digits have become a trigger. I relate it always to Shadow and that dreadful summer where we laid together on the wood floor beneath the whining window AC. Two weeks of heat that would not relent below 100 and more often rose to 114 degrees. The living room became small, suffocating. I draped sheets over the stairwell and wet towels over Shadow.  He was in so much pain by then. Time has never moved so slowly.

Now, when the sky feels like it’s on fire,  those days come back  in a viscious flood. Life was measured in teaspoons then. They were the worst–and the most important–days of our lives. And then Shadow’s life was over before he could feel the coolness again.  I wanted to go with him, but I had to stay behind.


So, this weekend has been all about haulting encrouching demons,  staying  present, remembering  that it is just heat,  just weather and it will pass. It’s difficult. I don’t want to live here anymore. I hate summer. 

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I went dancing last night and it should have been a lovely evening, but it was so disappointing and the very reason I left tango before. Maybe, I need a new gig. Salsa is usually fun. Maybe, I’ll take up golf.

Women preparing to go to a fancy dance:

Shop for a pretty new dress, dry clean an old one, buy new makeup to match new outfit–stockings, jewelry, shoes, purse, wrap/coat too. Iron, bathe, shave legs, wash hair, lotion, powder, pedicure, manicure, make-up, blow dry, spray, tousle, style, last touches on makeup then stockings, bra, slip, dress, adjust everything, heels, jewelry, earrings, perfume, stock purse–mints, money, lipstick. Don’t forget hostess gift–wine, present, food, etc.

What most men do to go to a fancy dance: Shower, maybe. Put on clean clothes, maybe, go.

What women do at the fancy dance: smile, be congenial, make ridiculously small talk, smile some more then wait as patiently as humanly possible for a man to ask her to dance. Wait some more.



What most men do at the fancy dance: dance as often as they like with any number of a plethora of waiting women, or non of them at all, eat, drink, ignore the plethora of beautiful waiting women.

What women end up doing when the waiting becomes so internally dreadful their own heart may truly break for all the preparation they’ve done and for the lack of notice they’ve received: walk, sneak out, try not to run for the door, holding their heads as high as humanly possible for how horrible they feel, drive home in tears vowing never to return again or to let themselves be foolishly swept away with hope and possibility.

What men end up doing when the dancing becomes exhausting, their bellies full, they go home drunk and happy, sleep soundly, vowing to return again and again because this is the sweetest deal they’ve ever come across: beautiful waiting women–younger women, even!–dancing with them, old stodgy coots, because they’re it at this gig! No younger men to compete with, few men at all! What a find! Little input, huge return! What a score!

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Squish, squish, squish. That’s the sound from Zephyr and I walking through the park today. It is cold outside. I’d say it’s about as cold as it gets here, w/o snowing, which it doesn’t, well, very rarely.

Still, I needed to get out and walk today, puddles or no puddles. So, I bundled up in a scarf (mine 😉 ), felt hat (not mine), gloves and groovy new thrift store sweater that I had scheduled to become a pillow cover and wrist warmers, but it is sooooo cozy and beautiful, however a tad bit small. It’s the creamiest peach, lightly speckled w/red, turquoise, brown, orange. It could be a free range egg; the speckles, the sheen. I want yards and yards of this yarn! (I would show you but if you’ve been reading (bless you) you know my camera dilemma. (BIG SIGH).


The man collection is moving forward. I hooked a good length of a mocha scarf last night–longer this time–while watching Into the Wild–the story of Christopher McCandless.  (We’ve got a starlet connection w/access to movie previews.)  But I had to stop watching before the end, save the sorrow for daylight hours. The movie is exquisite. Photography, narration, all of it, beautiful. I kept praying for Alexander (Emile Hirsch) to survive, even knowing his end. Adapt or parish–hateful phrase, but seemingly true.

The look of utter loss and confusion he experienced on re-entry to L.A. of all places, and his urgency to escape. His peacefulness only found in wilderness, quite, emptiness. I get that. I am very familiar w/the escapist road trip: jeep, dog, books, tent, road. . . freedom. Yet near his life’s end, he writes “happiness is only real when shared.”


Blessing a swift release to Heath Ledger. I feel rather stunned. What a tragedy. May he hook up w/Christopher M.; a shared, peaceful, wild, freedom.

what a day, dahlila.

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