Politics Don’t Mean Nothin’ No More

So, I’ve come to the realization that I’m done with politics.

I know, right?

Why would anyone want to deny themselves the pleasure of immersing themselves in a fetid and perfidious arena of molestation? I’m only involved as an innocent bystander and even from that distance, I feel like taking a bath after every election.

I just don’t understand it, you know? I mean, I understand the political process, well most of it. I’ll admit to not understanding how our Premier can actually govern when she has been denied a seat in the legislature by virtue of the fact that she lost her seat, being ousted by Edy and all. To clarify: I understand it on a knowledge level but not on a practical level. I mean, how does that ACTUALLY work? So, you are the Premier but you cannot sit in the legislature and deal with the work of being Premier, is basically what it is. So, now we will spend some more money, money the province says it doesn’t have and, in fact, must earn by offering up our beautiful backyard as an environmental platform for liquid natural gas production and distribution, on a by-election to determine whether she gets her seat back or not. If not, then what? Nobody I spoke with seems to know.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” they say.

Wait and see, indeed.

Then, this morning, I open up WordPress to see a post about Rob Ford, the apparently crack-smoking mayor of Toronto, Canada’s other big city. I don’t want to believe it, you know? I want to believe that the people we have trusted to make the big decisions for us, the ones with our safety and well-being in mind, aren’t sitting up after hours, with their proverbial feet on their desk , smoking on a big ol’ crack pipe and laughing about Pierre Trudeau’s son being a “faggot”. (Actually, apparently it’s the person who can’t be seen in the video who says that and to the credit of the person who posted this, they DID make the distinction that Ford seems to be goaded to agree, and reluctantly laughs it off.)

I want to believe these people are making decisions that are good for us. That’s what they were elected to do. That’s what they said they were going to do. They’re supposed to be our leaders, our protectors. What a load of bunk!

Anyways, I’ve been practicing abstinence. I have not been paying any attention to Ms. Clark because, as you know, she’s not MY leader. She may be SOMEone’s leader, but that’s their problem. I have so far been defending Rob Ford; knowing personally how destructive a false rumour can be. However, I’m beginning to see I’ve set my flag on a sinking ship. That aside, I’ve been feeling a lot better. No more disillusionment. No more disbelief. No more denial.

So, I’m done with politics. I feel like I’m abandoning you all to the sinking ship. I’m shouting at you, “Swim! Swim!”  I’m throwing you a lifeline with these words: Beware. I’m cashing in my cruise ticket for a hike in the forests of reason and calm. Take care of each other.

peace

Reasons, Evermore

 

 

So, as it turns out, not much is done for the sake of goodness.

I always suspected this, but, as you know, I hold out for hope. I’m not entirely sure I can stop. Holding out hope is an addiction for me now, a far more punishing one than cigarettes; I know this because I used to smoke.

My eldest daughter came to visit me last night. She knocked on the door at 3 am and before I even got out of bed my youngest daughter, who had been asleep in hers, shouted to me not to answer it: It’s Hannah. We’ve been texting. Don’t answer it. Of course, at 3 am, if I’m not awake for reasons that please me, I’m awake for reasons that do not and I imagined my eldest in some dire trouble, bleeding, broken, on my porch. Of course I opened the door.

It wasn’t until she was standing in the light of her sister’s bedroom that I saw the scab on her face. She had covered it up with foundation make-up, which made it appear more noticeable, I thought. She was obviously high, attempting to pet wee Spike but instead her fingers twitching in mid-air next to his face. Each step she took was caused my stomach to roll, her feet set in 90 degree angles to her body, flopping with each step and she fell into her shoes as she was leaving.

She was freezing, she said. (Of course she was freezing, she was wearing nothing but a dress so short I could see her underwear, bare-legs and cleavage and it was 3 am in mid-March.) She wanted the hoodie she said her sister had taken from her. They did this, she and her sister: they borrowed each others’ clothes and traded clothes and then, of course, later they would not be able to recall which they had done and shouting, hitting and hair-pulling would ensue. When they were younger, I would physically restrain them and put them in separate bedrooms until they calmed down and then try to get some intelligent discussion going on about the very few pros but many cons of sharing each others’ clothing. This approach doesn’t work at 16 and 18 and the truth is, they should have figured it out by now. They should be able to work this out without violence.

But this isn’t about the sharing of clothes. I know what this is about. This is about that day, 10 years ago, when my ex-husband stood in a crowded parking lot, each hand firmly around the upper arm of each girl, and said I couldn’t “have” both girls this weekend, but which one did I want. And I made the decision that will haunt me, and them, for the rest of our lives. I chose my youngest daughter.

I did this for several reasons. My youngest daughter was the youngest but it was more than that. She was smaller than her sister, delicate, even in her skin tone and the blonde of her hair, you could see that she would be hurt, trampled like some tiny, frost-covered, newly-budded flower that may be thoughtlessly stepped on by someone simply walking by. If anything untoward were to happen, she would be the one most affected by it. My older daughter was more resilient, anyone could see this. She was a tomboy, highly intelligent and capable of almost anything. She was 8 years old and talked using adult language. She climbed trees, she showed no fear. She frightened me.

So, I made this decision in fear and with anger. Rage, really. And as my youngest daughter and I pulled away, I knew that there was pain in life that will sear you, a red-hot dagger that pierces your body right through and scars you as it passes, cauterizing your heart. I’m sure an x-ray of my body would capture it, this emptiness that has been cast by the passing through of a red-hot dagger forged from pain and rage.

I suppose that’s what my older daughter felt as well, so isn’t it fitting then? And when she fights with  her sister about her clothes, it is not the clothes that hold center stage: it is the love she feels she is owed that holds her hostage. She tells me this sometimes: you love her more, she gets whatever she wants. It’s not true, but only a desperate cry for the unrealized childhood that was rightfully hers.

To try and explain to her that the decision to allow her to remain in the custody of a father who hated her, who prostituted her and introduced her to crack cocaine, was made by several social workers and by the courts, does nothing to alleviate her pain. It does nothing to alleviate mine.

So, this is what I think of now, as she struggles to put on a hoodie she found hanging in the closet. She wants me to visit her new place; she lives in a high-rise and can I please come by to see it? My son has already visited. I don’t tell her that he left feeling disturbed by the emptiness and her constant nodding off. We know she is using heroin.

Still, I live in hope. What a sucker. I see her in my mind, beautiful and drug-free. There is such a sweetness and an honesty to her that I think I may die from the splendor of it each time she reveals it to me. She takes my breath away.

peace, Hannah

I Remember Matthew Vaudreuil

I find myself irritated this morning.

I’m irritated at our lack of urgency in light of the news of the tasered 11-year old boy and the failings of the Ministry for Child and Family Development.

Doesn’t anyone remember Matthew Vaudreuil? Doesn’t anyone remember Judge Gove’s inquiry? For those who don’t, here it is: http://www.qp.gov.bc.ca/gove/vol1_02.htm

That was near 20 years ago. And what has changed? I ask you again, what has changed?

We have spent years and years and million and millions into exploring the unnecessary deaths of children in this province and we’re still doing it! Because nothing is changing! We have spent so much money in fact that we now have to violate our land and destroy our trees and our environment to make way for the production and distribution of natural gas because this province is broke. At least, that’s what the provincial government would have us believe. And that’s not the worst of it, right? The worst of it is the decay, the decay of our society, of our morality and our willingness and ability to care. The grief of families and the apathy of our government. The whittling down of our social conscious, the erosion of our vigilance.

And yet, despite all of that, nothing has changed.

You know what? We really are broke. And I’m not talking about economics.

I Couldn’t Tell You This In Less Than 140 Charcters

Ok, first of all, I can tell you I’ve seen a few bad movies.

The worst movie I’ve ever seen was “Walled In”, a movie about a woman who, as you may surmise from the title, becomes “walled in” herself, when she discovers the grisly details about a house alive with spirits who dwell in the walls. Mischa Barton plays the heroine, who very nearly succumbs to the supernatural world.

I didn’t enjoy the movie. I felt the acting was not hitting a standard which really good movies achieve. The plot was weak and, let’s face it, “Walled In” is poor grammar. “Walled Up” works better. “Walled Down” sounds like there may be some gratis sex scenes and, my personal favorite, “Wall Dough.”

Then, there was “Titanic.”

Please. I loved this movie. Leo. Kate. A tragedy that can be blamed on one person, in the end. I loved it so much I watched it 5 times, and that was when it was first released. I’m sure I’ve accidentally seen it a few times since then. But, I was a lot younger then, and the romance of it was absolutely beautiful and breathless. I know now it was all pretty much bs. I’m sorry, but who wouldn’t make room for Leo on their floating headboard. This one realization changed everything about that film for me, and when I watch it now, I imagine bloopers.

I loved the Terminator movies and I get excited when I hear Martin Scorcese or Quentin Tarantino has directed a new film. I try to watch every Juliette Lewis film and I hear the new “Hyde Park On Hudson” which stars Bill Murray as Franklin D. Roosevelt. I hear this may be his finest performance ever and I can’t wait to see it.

You know how this little story came about? I couldn’t tell you, in less than 140 characters, how really masterfully whimsical and innocent Dave Matthews new album is. Buy it. Listen to it. It’s lovely.

And, that’s all, really. I hope your New Years is everything you’ve dreamed.

 

 

 

peace

 

For Goodness’ Sake

Politicizing! That’s the hue and cry today, it seems.

I guess there a couple of ways to look at things. A tragedy has taken place in Newtown CT. I don’t know off the top of my head how far that is from where I am, give or take a couple thousand miles I suppose, but I’m pretty sure that in that town, there are mothers and fathers and grandparents and siblings, entire families, an entire town, grieving…the sounds of which I’m sure anyone there won’t soon forget. It’s heart-wrenching and it’s disturbing and it’s unbelievably sad. It’s so violent that an entire world is left reeling and wanting to offer condolence and warmth to this small town, to its’ people.

Maybe it is in haste, the desire to want to prevent this from ever happening again, but I believe it is the job of the people in Newtown to grieve and it is the job of those who CAN, who are able, to prevent something like this from happening to anyone ever again and to the extent that it is possible, to do so.

I don’t mean to take anything away from the people of Newtown; they have had enough taken from them. But in the name of all that is sacred, can we please do whatsoever we can to see that this doesn’t keep happening? And can we stop just talking about doing something? I mean, can we actually really DO SOMETHING?

This is all I meant. If I was insensitive, please accept my apology.

“I Apologize” by Tiffany Thomas

peace

The Worst Nightmare, Like, Ever

It was, quite possibly, the worst nightmare I’ve ever had.

Not that it was scary. It was just creepy. Really creepy.

I was at Diane’s. I was staying there because, apparently, I had no where else to stay. That in itself was extremely disquieting. For some strange reason we were sharing a bed. Now before you start getting all Freudian on me, I can assure you I was clinging to my edge. Not that I have any fears or judgments were I NOT to be on my side of the bed, but I do have my preferences

In any case, I awoke to see, on the nightstand next to the bed, a wad of cash tightly folded and with an elastic around it to keep it all together. It was huge, and my first thought was: If that is mine, why am I sharing a bed with Diane? I vowed to change that circumstance as quickly as possible. There were some coins as well, next to the wad of rolled cash, and a hair elastic. The rest of the nightstand was littered with hair and dust. It was an empty feeling I had just then, waking up in a bed I didn’t want to be in, in a room that was quite dirty, unkempt. There was a foul, moldy odor in the air. I felt apprehensive and uneasy.

I rolled out of bed, crossed the room to the door that led to a tiny, dark hallway and from there to the stairs leading down to the living room. I didn’t want to go down the stairs and I didn’t want to stay where I was. Not knowing what to do but anxious to do something, I took a step leading toward the stairs. Instantly, I was sitting in my nightie, legs akimbo, on the living room carpet on the main floor. I had just materialized there, I guess, and I sat there, mortified, terrified. It was semi-dark, the early morning feeling like nightfall in this upside-down world and I could barely make out items in the room. Were there any? There was an eerie light coming in through the only window in this huge and empty room. I was filled with an unbearable sense of foreboding. I sat, quite terrified.

Suddenly, did I feel something crawling near my feet? I glanced down at my legs, I was feeling sodden, and a shriek of terror stuck in my throat; from my knees to my feet, my legs were covered in small, black feathers. I tried to pull them off and discovered they were connected to each other, like tiny feather boas. They let go with a tug, in strips, as if they were alive and preferred to stay, like octopus tendrils with tiny suction cups. I was screaming now, grabbing at them, pulling them off, and watching in complete panic as my feet began to swell. The swelling was spreading, up to my knees now and my toes became indistinguishable, gigantic. They became an extension of my foot, bloated and huge. It happened in seconds, and then, just below my left knee. my leg burst open.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: there was a hole large enough to put my fist into and the skin and tissue had formed flaps where the skin had torn, as if I had been shot. There was a translucent liquid oozing from the wound. I had a tissue in my hand, it was just right there and I quickly stuffed it into the fist-sized hole. There was very little blood but I was dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out. I didn’t want to get up, I didn’t want to disturb whatever freakish evil this was but I was also absolutely overcome with fear, and I turned to my left to see where to put my hands. It was then that I saw the carpet. 

The carpet was dark, like the room, and damp and it stunk like rot. There was a small hole in the middle of the carpet and it was oozing some kind of foul liquid. It was pulsing, breathing as if it were alive, and radiating from the hole, spreading out in a spiral, was a delicate branch of feathers, tiny black boas, getting longer and longer with every breath.

I passed out.

Then I woke up.

 

 

Push, Two Years Ago

Push.

Push so it all goes away

So I have room to take a step,

To lower the boom, find something I’d kept.

This isn’t what I want,

To flaunt

The injustice, the cowardice.

I want to move on to kindness, to niceness,

To we’re-so-alikeness.

I’m tired of dealing with the guns, the fear,

And why the hell ain’t you here?

Leave me crying some tears.

I’m so stressed,

With so much to get off of my chest.

I’m depressed,

With the load,

With the length of the road,

With the seeds that I’ve sowed,

And with all that I know:

Manipulation, confiscation, alienation, desecration,

You fucked me up, I’ll fuck you up, you took all that I own,

Don’t you dare use that tone,

With me.

You bow when you come up to me,

And just pray I can see,

That you’re a different man from who I thought you’d be.

How long has it been?

It feels like a century since I saw you last,

Laughing so hard and so fast,

I could barely keep up, but it’s different now.

You’re in the doghouse now,

Kicked out the penthouse now,

Face down in the dirt dust now.

 

peace

To Ban Or Not To Ban

I signed a petition yesterday.

I don’t add my name to EVERY petition that makes it through to my email inbox; I carefully consider the issue, research it if necessary before I either sign or delete, but THIS issue is important to me. The link was sent to me by a friend, a fellow animal lover like myself and a responsible, loving and intelligent owner of a sweet little pittie named Lily. The issue? Banning pit bulls in the province of BC.

I actually signed the petition protesting the ban. But, I have to admit, I’m conflicted about it.

My neighbour has a pit bull. This particular dog has recently recovered, in fact still walks with a limp, from jumping out of a truck window and fracturing its leg. This morning another neighbour and I watched while the dog, obviously bored, barked and snarled its’ way through the destruction of a styrofoam-filled box.  Now, even as I sit typing this, I can hear the dog barking in the now styrofoam-filled yard. The thing is, no one is coming to this dog’s rescue, and a rescue it is because if somebody doesn’t put some time and energy into raising this dog, then some time in the future there’s a very real possibility this dog will be sitting on death row for biting someone. Because it’s bored. It’s not being socialized. It’s not being trained.

The thing is, we all know that there are people who purchase and own pit bulls because of this dogs’ reputation for being pugnaciously loyal, protective and strong, and there’s nothing wrong with that if their admiration for the breed shows itself in the care and attention they pay in training and socializing it. I think problems can arise when the desire to own a breed like the pit bull is coupled with an owner who has something to prove, some underlying insecurity that shows itself as machismo. When that happens, we end up with dogs who bite little girls, mailmen and other dogs because they haven’t been socialized properly, they’ve been neglected, even abused.  Pit bulls, according to PETA, are the most abused dog breed on the planet. How do we make sure that every pit bull owner is a responsible owner? We can’t.

This makes me feel sad for people like my friend, who love their dogs and socialize and train them. Lily is a dog first and a pit bull second. The thing is, it really isn’t the breed; it IS the people. I once owned a pit bull x staffordshire. His name was Jedi Knight and he was the smartest dog I’ve ever met. He would do anything I asked of him and he was protective of our family and just a big love bug…truly a great dog. I’d have another dog like him in a heartbeat. He was respected though, and well-loved and properly trained. That’s what makes all the difference.

I have  a chihuahua now. Sometimes, he bites. He was a rescue dog who had a rough start and he trusts very few people. If he feels overwhelmed or afraid, he will bite. I wonder, if he were a pit bull, would I have to have him put down? Pit bulls do so much damage when they bite, not like a chihuahua at all. Spike’s nips don’t even break the skin. Still, I have plans to purchase a pit bull puppy a bit later on, when I have the time and finances to make it a responsible choice. I know these dogs, when properly cared for, can be generous and loving and every bit a gentleman’s dog. If it’s people that are the problem, why are we making the ban breed-specific? Is it the size and power in those jaws?

One more thing I read, a story about such a gentle dog: http://www.chrisroubis.com/2011/10/dog-tied-to-back-of-car-and-dragged/ Please beware, there are disturbing images.
However this sorts itself out, one thing is for sure: there is no shortage of people who will harm an animal. You know, maybe we could put a license on them, a license to own a pit bull. Maybe muzzles are the answer. What do YOU think?

peace

Calling All Angels

I found this in my e-mail inbox yesterday evening:

along with another document pretty much just setting out how the lawyers for Delta Police have tried to find me among all the places I’ve lived in the past year and a half or so…five in total.

I pretty much felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me.

You see, I think I had given up. The last time I stood before a judge of the Supreme Court, he was quite sympathetic, actually. He said that he had just recently presided over a 10-month-long trial where the accused, three of them, had their defense paid for by legal aid, by US, in other words. These three were found guilty and the judge mused over what their defense had cost us. My best guess would be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars range. That judge moved me to tears (literally, I discovered when I tried to speak moments later and found that I couldn’t) when he said that I must really only need to be heard. He said that he would gladly have his taxes support that cause and honestly, this was the most supported I felt by the legal system in the year and a half that I’ve been dealing with it. But I left my husband in 2003, 10 years ago this March. This first show of real support has come very late in the game.

I want to say here that I’ve never wanted this; I’m not a fan of people who run to the courts at the prick of a finger, or even more serious harm, and use the system as a way of squeezing money out of people. I don’t think it’s admirable.

However, in my situation, this WAS serious harm and I had asked the Ministry on many previous occasions to remove the oppressive label they had applied to me based on the mistaken identity and allow me to move on with my life: get a decent job, live a balanced life, let my neighbors know that I am not, nor was I ever, a prostitute with an addiction to cocaine and a penchant for living off the avails of others. Of course, many of my neighbors know this now and their trust and respect for me isn’t anything I take for granted. But I wanted validation from the Ministry. I wanted an apology. We are talking about 10 years of my life here, my entire fourth decade of life. But that day, in court, the Ministry lawyer said that she had been requested by her superiors to ask for costs.

Costs.

Her superiors are the Ministry of Justice and if that didn’t feel like a slap in the face. The government has already taken everything from me, including my ability to, what was it Ms. Mosher SW had said…”to focus on my grandchildren, to give them the best life I could.” The fact that I don’t have grandchildren and if I did I couldn’t afford to offer them much of anything at all seemed to have escaped her. But to have them ask for costs on top of it all was like a knife thrust deep, not into my back, but right into my chest, the snarling, delirious, vindictively happy face of an inhumane government, pushing it in, all the way to the hilt.

So, I took a step back, which is what most people do when they have a knife sticking out of their chest. I stared at this now obvious truth: I have to let go. So I did. Not easily. Not without a loss of hope and a wounded pride. I retreated to a corner and here I’ve been sitting, licking my wounds.

Until yesterday, when I checked my e-mail and found that I will be going to court again. I started to cry because I know what this is all about. It’s about money. You see, back in June of 2011, when I first approached the courts as a remedy, I learned that if a Plaintiff denies the Defendant the opportunity to set aside a previously ordered judgement against them, in my case a default judgment for damages to be assessed, and the court finds there is good reason to set aside that default judgment, then costs are awarded to the Defendant. I found this out because it’s exactly what happened. What the Delta Police want from me now is money.

So, I’m calling all angels. Sergeant Robert O’Connor, RCMP Ret., Cst. Lyth, RCMP Sidney, BC., Cst. Simpson RCMP Ridge-Meadows Detachment, Cst A. Bewcyk, Port Moody PD, Joanna Coward, SW, J’Anne Ward, (who must be a PhD by now and if not, ought to be), John Andrews, Principal, Moody Elementary, Ms. Clignon, Mr. E, teachers, Moody Elementary, Honorable Madam Justice Challenger, Honorable Madam Justice Dossa, Honorable Judge De Couto, and the many, many others who bore witness to the events of September 2001 through to the present and which concern my children and myself. I am faced with the challenge of finding all of you, some of you I have no idea where to start. Surely, you must wonder what happened? This entire event hasn’t taken place in a vacuum, even though it may feel like it, dammit! You may not like me, you may not agree with some things I’ve done over the years to bring some accountability and order to this chaotic situation…but you can’t, you just can’t have witnessed any of this and not been affected by it. You can’t. It’s not possible.

I’m pleading with you to please come forward so I can find you. Many of you remember my daughters when this all started. They were 6 and 8 years old and if you were a police officer then no doubt you remember them. I made a bloody scene, there is no way you don’t know what happened, even if it was through rumor and speculation, even if what you actually thought was that I was crazy. But now you know I’m not, so it’s okay, right? You can come forward and I will forgive you for not acting back then because it’s what we do, right? We forgive the people who harmed us and especially in your case because you were lied to and manipulated by just a man. Then, later, the entire system. I get it. I do. I get it.

You have this opportunity now to come forward and make a choice, right? Make a choice about where you stand. It’s not just about my family, about my daughters. You understand this, right? This is about humanity, about how we treat each other in a civilized and aware society, about where we are and where we’re going to go. Many of you are on the forefront, it is your experiences and beliefs that create and change social policy. Where we are as a society in 10 years will be largely due to what we do TODAY, to what we bring to the table TODAY. What are you going to bring?

I’m asking you to bring it.

 

peace

Friends…& friends

I lost a Friend today.

Well, let me clarify a couple of things.

First of all, she didn’t die. No, no, she chose to end the Friendship based on our planning to have coffee since mid-January and it just not happening. There are several reasons for this. For one thing, I work nights and if a nonexistent social life is what you crave, simply seek a job where you work nights. That way, you can work all night, sleep all day and never have to take anyone’s phone call. The other thing are the hidden details that “going for coffee” includes. It includes a drive to an adjacent city in a city where one city consists of, like 7 cities and where there are so many cars on the road it’s extremely rare to find a stretch of road that you can actually relax on while you drive to that city. It includes finding a parking spot, paying for the parking…or, in my case, NOT paying for the parking *ahem*. Then, of course, there’s the “let’s get together for a coffee” schtick that has always sounded hollow to me. After all, this is what you do when you meet a client, a reporter or anyone you’re not completely comfortable being alone with. When you DO go for a coffee with a friend, it’s usually spontaneous, not something planned.

No, if you want to impress me, friend or otherwise, please don’t suggest we get together for coffee at some later time. If you’re a real friend, we’ll go now, dammit!

Anyway, this particular morning, I fell asleep when I got home from work. Imagine that. I stayed awake all night on a Friday to take phone calls from people who want a taxi but either don’t know where they are or are too inebriated to actually say where they are and I had the audacity to fall asleep when I got home. Well, I actually did 30 minutes of yoga first. Then I fell asleep. I had planned on getting up at noon since this is now my “weekend” and I’m off for two days. I like to turn my sleeping habits around so I don’t spend my days off sleeping all day and I accomplish this by only sleeping a couple of hours on Saturday mornings. By Saturday night I’m tired again and I can go to sleep normally and wake up Sunday morning and enjoy a normal “day”. A real day.

Today, though, I slept until 3:30. Well, I was awake a couple of times in between. A friend needed help with something and my son dropped by but in each case I was awake for less than 15 minutes. I was just really tired today.

So, I awoke to a text message from the above-mentioned Friend who informed me that she no longer wished to “waist” time waiting to have coffee with me and hopes that I can “connect with people on a more regular basis” in my future.

“Huh?” I asked myself from the fog that defines the waking hours of anyone who works all night and sleeps all day.

Then it hit me: she is a capital F Friend. This is the friend that requires that both of you, the relationship itself,  conform to a pre-determined shape, a set of rules that define the friendship. And, while I think that most, if not all, friendships have rules that define them, in my opinion the best ones have only a few. Carved in stone they may be, but the stone is a pebble, not a boulder.The capital F friend doesn’t really know you. Their idea of who you are is based on their concepts that form what it means to be a friend, but not on who YOU are.  This particular Friend has no idea I recently streaked my hair ( a process that isn’t even finished, you have no idea how long it takes to go from a dark red to a dark red with blonde highlights). She has no idea that I’m in love nor does she know that, unless someone else is behind the wheel,  I hate city driving. She doesn’t know the name of my oldest daughter and doesn’t understand why she doesn’t live with me.  She doesn’t know that, since I rarely smoke cigarettes anymore, I usually only have one coffee a day and that is the one I have on the way to work because I appreciate the caffeine. She doesn’t know me.

While I was writing this, I got a text from my lower-case f friend. We’re going for a walk later and she texted me to tell me that she has a slight headache and it’s really hot so she’s going to take a quick nap and let it cool down a bit before we head out.  This friend knows me. She knows that plans often don’t work out AS PLANNED and that we are best to live each day as it unfolds. She knows why my oldest daughter doesn’t live with me and she’s held me while I cried about it. She knows that I’m in love and she’s the one who streaked my hair. She doesn’t chide me when I bum the occasional smoke and she herself is getting ready to quit. In the 11 years I’ve known her, we’ve never gone for coffee.

I carry a pebble in my pocket.

peace