I have to build a wall so Trump can’t come grab my pussy.

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Because we needed this conversation, yes. But kudo’s to to these men, no. You are an idiot. It was “her fault. She didn’t stop it. Where did she draw her boundaries.” This is why girls don’t know how to handle this shit when it does happen. And when we speak too soon we are lying. If we wait it’s about why we waited. Like the women with Cosby…for fucks good lord people…he was America’s FAMILY MAN, it was also the time and day there were zero laws protecting such things. Nobody would believe them. So on and so forth. I guarantee you out of 50 women, someone told someone who told them not to tell anyone. We know we aren’t safe. We know we will be blamed. This is how YOU raise us when you make excuses for this shit. I carry my gun or knife, currently in the wild, not because of the boars and animals which to fear…but because of the men I might come across!

I guess the same can be said for abusive relationships. Those boundaries weren’t drawn!
The same can be said for the four year old molested by her father/brother/uncles. She allowed it to happen!
I guess the same is said for every woman who ever was sexually harassed in a job. It was her fault!
For every woman raped after going to a bar or party. She asked for it!
For every woman period. She shouldn’t have worn that! Been there! Put herself in that situation! Screamed! Did she yell NO ? Enough? Loud enough? Did he hear it? But did he understand it?!

Dealing with sexual harassment as a young woman has been HARD!
I wasn’t raised knowing how to. In fact I was raised that attention from men was what you wanted! Even from men from whom you didn’t want. OMG you’ve no idea!

I was once told to keep my job I’d have to give a blow job. I DID walk out. But I stood there for several minutes thinking “Did I hear that right? And is he going to laugh because this is a joke right?” To which even still…a joke was wrong, and harassment…yet likely had he ‘laughed for the joke’ I might have laughed it off and kept my job…because what else do you do? That is how women are often raised, taught, and expected to handle these things. And on top of it we are told it’s “locker room”, “Guy talk”, “normal and ok and this is how all guys are.” And now even that you would rather elect a President who admits to it! Is on tape of it! In court for CHILD RAPE. Fucking dumb asses. How are women supposed to “stop it” or “Draw boundaries” in that kind of fucked up universe?

The first time I was ever sent a ‘dick pic’ (by email, not cellphone) I laughed it off as “this is what guys do” because I didn’t even know that NO, it wasn’t what guys do! It wasn’t until my 30’s when receiving a dick pic that I even THOUGHT to respond with “Fuck off. Delete my number asshole” and I deleted and blocked them. Even still, I found myself excusing ‘friends’ at times for ‘maybe being drunk.’ Because that is what I am taught to do.

Years ago women might have been slut shamed or even ‘protected’ and told to not sleep around, ‘keep your legs together’, but it hasn’t been until today that women have begun teaching their daughters “kick them in the groin when they grab you, don’t take that shit. You don’t have to sleep with every guy who wants to sleep with you! Don’t take that! Don’t put up with that! Don’t allow that! Not all mens attention is needed, wanted, or should be invited!” Hell, I sure as hell wasn’t taught that!

Women raised in abusive households are more likely to be abused. Boys raised in them more likely to abuse. Much is learned by example. So if we weren’t led by good example (Trump, Trump generation #3 now) we have to figure it out for ourselves. And some people will find that they have morals and don’t beat up their wives or sexually grab pussies when they want! And some women will learn to tell a man to go to hell…but sometimes they won’t until they themselves become a strong and well learned in life woman! It’s best described as a light bulb that goes off one day. Much for me was from surrounding myself over time with strong women and a LOT of reading that woke me up to how I could be, not how I had to be. I really had to find and stumble upon my own examples of strong women. So when I hear someone blaming some young college girl I especially will fuck you up because I remember how young and vulnerable and badly influenced I was then and dear God I am still learning! Apparently so is America!

I remember how easy it was the first time my husband hit me to seriously think “that didn’t just happen” and again and again make excuses, talk it off, blame myself…before ELEVEN months later I finally figured to stand up for myself and draw my boundary. I actually drew one a couple of months prior. Set my fence. Told him NO. Then he crossed it again and so I left then…no more excuses. But I had to spend MONTHS convincing myself to do so. Some of it for me was even having to then admit I’d gotten into such a thing. And I thought from a set example that I “Would never be that woman” because I knew what it was but rather I became very much so because it was what was taught and for many more years than I’d yet had to unteach myself.

I’ve had two bosses tell me I’d have to give sexual acts to keep my job. I’ve been told in the modeling industry that’s the game. I’ve been shown porn on a computer as I walked into a room (with horses) because “Hey aren’t you into horses?” I, BTW, was a virgin then. I was a quiet little mouse of a girl. I weighed 98 fucking pounds. I was new in a city and in a job and to these people. I had no clue how to respond…so I laughed. They laughed. We all laughed. I didn’t yet know what a boundary was! I didn’t know I could voice an opinion! Hell, I’m not even sure I knew what that opinion was. I just know the feeling I walked away with that made me want to take a shower. I didn’t know that was wrong.
I had another boss speak another language talking about sexual acts with me to other men…and then tell me what he was saying wasn’t that at all even though their laughter and gross smiles creeped me out. One man told me what was said. But I needed a job. What was I supposed to do? I had not been taught about jobs and money well at all. I was afraid to let go of what I had.
This does not go into the many approached in bars, on the streets, even chased down a block being yelled after, cars pulled up, creepy landlords who broke into my house, men who physically tried (and did get the knee), texts, phone calls and men jumping out of bushes. The men in bars, buses, work, wherever who ‘accidentally rubbed their groin against my butt.’ The old gay male boss who randomly told me he took his 16 yr old nieces virginity because she ‘asked him to.’ I can’t even tell you all of them.

I’ve said Fuck Off! I was usually then circled by more of their friends in a creepy dark parking lot. I was told by a boss to not be so sensitive when I reported it…finally…after many times. I was told I was lying and that the guy was “their best client.”

My boundary is drawn. It doesn’t have a sign on the fence post that says “Drunk losers come and hit on me, leer at me, and tell me dirty things. “My dating profile never said “Please send me a picture of your little not very entertaining what am I supposed to do with that? dick.”
My ass did not get in your way.
My boobs sure as hell aren’t big enough to get in your way “accidentally.”
My closed bathroom door in a cabin at a party while changing out of my swimsuit did not mean Come On In!
My crotch did not invite your hand to it!

My boundaries are drawn. I did not need a sign around my neck to tell you this.

I can like an orgasm. Read 50 shades of grey. Date. And even flirt without having to tell you not to cross a line. YOU/THEY should control themselves…not that I should be who draws a boundary.

But I guess in your world, it’s not men like Trump who are the problem, but a woman who “asked for it.” When Trump as President comes and “takes your pussy” just remember that YOU ELECTED him knowing that this was his stance ON YOUR PUSSY and therefor you did not DRAW YOUR BOUNDARIES (please hear my sarcasm through these because, I, am not a dumb shit. #StopSexualAssault #StopRape #StopToleratingRape

Guess I will have to take up much more of a shoot now, ask questions later, stance and in court tell the judge to fuck off because I was drawing my goddamned boundaries, saying NO loud enough the fucker UNDERSTOOD. It’s not my fault he didn’t intend rape, or even full on touch me sexual assault…but maybe just the sexual harassment…but how was I supposed to know how far he would push HIS boundary before I set up mine? Is it my fault he didn’t SEE my boundary that said “Don’t be an asshole?” Am I to blame because there isn’t a fence built around me? Maybe I just shouldn’t go n public.

And how can I DARE be appalled at a person like Trump or call myself a Feminist because I went to a Modanna concert?

Teaching consent.

How a man should be.

The Makings Of A Whore.

Stolen Halo.

What I Was Doing When I was Called a Slut.

The people to call me a slut to my face. My mother the 1st time. My boss. My ex-husband. Those are the only time’s I’ve heard this word. Now cunt…heard that a lot more.

How a young girl is approached. What to do?

How do we reply?

When the table turns.

Are young girls supposed to have boundaries with their fathers?

The America of Brock Turner.

It was what she was wearing.

Blaming the Victim. Facts. Rape Culture.

The America of Rape.

Trump.

The America of Trump Rape Culture.

“Kudos to Donald Trump for raising the conversation. Regardless of the election results this year, he is the reason we are all talking about this.” A quote I read today in regards to Anti-Hillary and pro-Trump and his sexual assault.
So…Kudo’s to Brock Turner for the rape conversation America had this year?

The Inspired Writer. Flower of wishes.

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Finding inspiration in any one art is to find it in nature.

A walk in a neighborhood, tuning out all else, the sound of traffic and the barking of dog. And tuning into the Spring time gardens in bloom and the smell after a fresh rain, the Summer time smell of fresh cut grass and the heat of the sun warming your skin, the Autumn colors and crunch of fallen leaves under your feet, the Winter ice storm and smell of fireplaces lit.

And the fallen flower. Especially the bloom that in childhood carried free wishes, summertime childs laughter, and many many memories of summers past. Now there it is, fallen on the ground like the cynicism of adulthood sees all the wishes one made once as a child that never came true.

Yet even in the shadow that we now know exists, the beauty can be found of a fallen flower laying on the ground. I close my eye’s and imagine the sound of my childhood, those wishes I sent into the wind in one big believing and anticipating breath. I remember what was important to me then, what I wished for. And think about what my wishes are for now. I can’t help but to smile, lift that puffy soft boom, and send a wish into the world. Who knows?

I returned home after my walk, a soft lovely image in mind, the shadow brought to light and the light caused only because of shadows exist. That all that grows must fall, but only to grow again in a new season. And that out there my wishes float on air. And here, I remember what was, and is, important to me. Walk returned from, my mind fresh and clear. I sit back to my desk and let the new words flow, as if carried like wishes on air.

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Published Works: The Journey It Takes For A Writer.

Mermaids Published With Remixt

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(Oil Painting and Photo by Artist Elizabeth Punches)

Poetry is what I began with, my first published items being three poems by the age of thirteen in three separate books of the same series, three poems about the seasons. I only remember one more particularly than the others, being about fall, my favorite. After those poems my only next poem was my one and only ever written for a ‘boy’ before I had snapped out of my teen years and into life itself and all that it held for me.

Funny now to imagine the personality that I am now ever having been one to write about crush for a boy in poetic form. But the person I am now understands by far that it would be enough to take me away from writing…and even liking any reading of for the most part, poetry at all for a good long time. I don’t remember it being quite crushing, more a bit embarrassing of an episode.

I do not give it full credit for my turning away from poetry as much as that I turned toward far more different types of writings in that time…..in fact the Political and Police writing came only a few short years later, living in the hub of Los Angeles can do that to a person, as well as whole life times lived in only a few short years and turning on a television to see a tower burn down that you were, at that time, supposed to be in.

To learn of heartbreak for the first time, to lose a child, to know the face of death for me was to shut out poetry rather than as some writers do, embrace it, or drown in it. Rather than to reveal myself to the world, I closed off from it, dealing with only the logistics…at least as far as my writing went. In truth I lived life fully, thankfully I am grateful for this now more than anything else, in that time. I just could not write of it.

Or so I thought I was living fully, but now I know that not to write fully was not to live fully, for a writer, for me. Or perhaps all things in their time…. Decades later and the answers are simply never going to be back & white. So for a long time no fiction, fantasy or dream like writing. No love, no romance, no wishes as my motto was “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride” for a good long time during then. Many things changed and molded about me in those years…good…and maybe even some could say bad.

But my poetic voice lay not lost, only dormant as years later in my womanhood of my thirties with many ’embarrassing’ love moments later, my writing having taken much shape and change in direction…again, and beginning to listen to the voice inside that I had shut behind a door for awhile was once again welcome in. Even before this particular poetic piece the writing started to lean once again into a direction where it remembered the magic and mysterious things and the small wonders that made life…happy, full, embraced.

And thus the poetry that had long lay quiet began to rustle and out of it has been not sing song voices of winter or fall but of a richly lived life who has never withered but often fallen. My writing took a turn for song lyrics, fiction stories and once again poetry began to touch my pages, though I carried with me now the politics and other…the harsh of life at times which combined with the romance of life formed another writer…another person.

Somewhere out of this was born, Mermaids . This one really holds a lot for me…my romance of life while writing it was looking at an oatmeal colored concrete wall of my cage while my mind was filled with what I knew to be out there. Wherever the changes at the moment, the scenery in front of me could not ruin the scenery of my mind…part of me at least, was not in a cage. I regretted everything…and I regretted nothing.

Mermaids, (below) is a piece that I wrote and recently published with Remixt , when actually spending seven months in a county jail , awaiting my day in court. I was surrounded by  three hundred women at a time and in my term met, saw, knew the names of nearly a thousand who came and would go.

Jail aside, this moment was written when I would remember a particular evening a year prior when a friend and I created a photoshoot on the beach one evening of sunset on Galveston Island for an oil painting that she would the create. That evening was of friendship, womanhood unite. But also the sky was of brilliant colors and the water like pure glass. After the photo’s we enjoyed a calming swim, surrounded by dolphins, making our magical evening even more so.

A few paintings came out of that evening that then brought more magic…the women of the art world and friends and of our community became what everybody called during that magical island summer, Mermaids. Not one woman wasn’t a mermaid, no matter of color or creed or of size or mind. We united, we stood as one, we laughed, we lived.

Here I was remembering this while sitting, somehow, in my life then surrounded by cinder block the color of oatmeal and peptobismol. Not even the sky in site. What struck me was how the women united, cried with each other, held each other…strangers but in the same place and above all, fellow women. I often thought of my life prior to landing me in that particular moment of life. I had left a husband who, once my best friend and most gentle man, had become abusive and angry  and from whom I had to run from….my mother, survivor of an  eighteen year abusive  marriage , sat and said “I just never thought you would be in those shoes   .” I thought of her struggles with young little children in and out of womens shelters when she attempted to leave and her head down in defeat when she would go back. I thought of how, no matter what, I had not been able to bring myself to reporting my own husbands abuse and had some how landed exactly where my mother had taught me both to not end up in and exactly where to be. I saw a lot of people in that jail there from lives of abuse. Abuse during childhood that broke my heart, abuse from men because they didn’t ‘deserve better’ because ‘that was their life’, they knew no other. The women who fell into drugs to make the pain go away and then sex to feed the drugs, usually what had started their pain to begin with…and a cycle began. The clinging to any man even if he left her black and blue. My mind kept going back to one painting which I had owned and had not yet picked up from the artists studio, that memory of my own self on a beach at sunset. I was a Mermaid for a summer. Mistakes in life and all, I was a Mermaid for life. I clung to my strength rather than fall to my fears. And sitting on bunk 48 for over 200 days, I wrote this for all of the Mermaids in all the world whom I would meet and those whom I would not. Mermaids is meant for the empowered strong woman, because even in our weakest we are, and for empowering our fellow women. They each come from a very personal place which is hard and raw to share but I do believe my writing is my tool in the world and my experiences are best used rather than forgotten.

When an opportunity from Remixt came along learned through Writespace Houston, I knew it was where to send Mermaids, I had an amazing opportunity to not only reach people, but as a writer to learn and grow through the eye’s of nine editors, nine personalities, tastes and choice. I am honored that Mermaids was chosen and collected with several other really amazing poems, many of which I cried over, have shared since, and as a writer, feel connected. My start in poetry began with seasons of weather, I am at a place now of seasons of life, and I only look forward now to where and what may come.

With special thanks to Editor Ezzy G. Languzzi Pubisher Julia Rios of  Remixt Mag and WriteSpace Houston

Mermaids

In the light of the sunset casting it’s colors of like that of inside a shell;
pink, purple…heavenly blue’s.
Like a jewel of feminine beauty, strength and integrity.
But fragile our minds are not, rather made of many grains of sand,
strong, collected, persistent pearls we are.

As the mermaid inside us all, we carry scales of our own design and color.
We mermaids swim among sharks, and brave hurricane storms.
Let us not sink, our breaths be taken away.

But from the cold depths of our ocean floors reach up toward the light of the surface,
breaking the glass of the image of our past and breath in deep the fresh air of our futures.

Let there be, in our minds, a calmness, a stillness, of the mirror like waters after a storm.
Let our past be washed away, and our slate be left clean, such as where the water meets the sand.
Let our hopes reach high, where the water meets the sky.
Let the mirror image our truths.
Let us not settle only to reach for the stars of the sky but have the strength to push through the current and reach instead for the stars of the ocean.

Hear our sirens song, not for the loss of love, but for our love that we give.
Let us find tranquility in our souls, and a soft sand on which to lay our heads.

The rain that comes and drops upon our glass surface, the dark clouds we do not fear, for we welcome the silver linings of promise.

 

Also of note, Artist Elizabeth Punches and with thanks.

 

The Inspired Writer and the Tumbled Bricks.

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Red Brick behind chain link. One by one to build it up, one by one to tumble down.

Finding inspiration as a writer or for my writing is a question I have come across or been asked on several occasions. The “how do you find it?” question. Really, one way is that I love photography. I love it in art, in museums, in a frame, on large canvas in a gallery. However it is I am drawn to it a lot and enjoy the story that draws me in. I always feel that if the image draws me into a story then the photographer has done their job. I also enjoy finding the image and as a hobby I often take a camera out and walk all over the place, seeking out or just stumbling across those spots that say “capture me, I have a story to tell you.” And I lift my lens and snap.

The image doesn’t have to be one that has me rushing home and jotting down a matching or fitting story. Often it doesn’t at all. But the walk and the image have fed my mind in a different way that has me sitting down with a cleared mind, revved up for something new. Even if that is new words added to a story in progress.

This image of the red brick carriage house and pile of bricks behind the chain link fence doesn’t have me adding this to a story in the least, but maybe the feeling of it penetrates into my words. I might have walked by this location a million times when living on Galveston island and each time my chest would seize with an entirely different feeling, image, thought, idea, or story. But a feeling would always be there. This picture came after six years of walking by it and still a feeling was as strong as the first time. My inspiration can draw from that feeling, whatever it may be, and not from the ‘brick’ of the image itself. Inspiration is a funny thing…is it the site, the sound, the color, the feeling, the weather even at that moment that inspires? Or all of it? Or your own frame of mind at that very moment. Having walked by it a hundred times before, it was this moment in whatever my frame of mind was then that seemed to be captured in this shot.

I look at it now and what I see is that one by one it takes to build it up….and the pile on the ground is to me the image of one by one to tumble down. Life is fragile, on display, but still carries many secrets behind those windows. One meeting doesn’t give the whole story and each meeting is different upon mood….my own, or yours, and the day. It is as if to say that there is no judging the book. One might be visiting the island and see this image as disrepair, tumbling, crumbling, falling down, old and wasting away. Such a shame. And another who has lived here long see’s it, knows of it, as hard work put in over a long period of time, each brick retipped, the foundation strengthened, the weak bricks replaced, the roof rebuilt, the new windows installed. But not all of that is in a single day. This is not a lovely building being left to waste, but one being rebuilt and brought back to life, preserved. And It takes time. Little by little. Yet a different person on one day can see completely different images that to them each a different story.

Our works are like this image, too. As well as ourselves. It takes one brick and then another to create and build over time. A person stumbling upon the work half way through might see a falling image, and another could see the creation process of a building image. On any given day we ourselves can see it in each light, and we ourselves are who has laid each brick and knows, and yet sometimes get a little lost in the process. Forget which way is up. Lose site of the big picture. Lose track of the progress and become frustrated. With our work. With ourselves.

Such is life. Such is how we choose to see the image. Such is how we seek out our inspiration and such is how we choose to hear the story being told to us through word, image, song, time of day. Whenever I lose track of the big picture or the finish line of my work, or of myself, I can take a moment to look at this image and be reminded that I am looking at only the half finished product, mid-way in process, and not the finished version, and that the finished version will not be achieved without one brick at a time being placed.

The day after. Thanks Journalists and Media for ruining 9/11 in 2016.

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Fact: I have passed out at LEAST 4 times in 12 years due to over heating and/or dehydration. I am healthy, active and at the moment not under the tremendous pressure and schedule and work load of a campaigning Presidential candidate. I passed out two days in a row due to my period a few periods ago. Yet I am healthy. I am not on and off a plane, speaking engagements, constant meetings, and talking and ‘entertaining.’ Hell, walking through a mall wears me out and I take a nap after every time I do. I have had walking pneumonia several times in my life and a horrible flu a few years ago and I understand the act of still going to work, trying and yet finally your knees just give out on you.
I also suffer from throat issues, most of us actually have a lot of scar tissue from singing or speaking a lot or doing so through strep throat (as I have) and so I get dry throats like crazy and when I do I choke like the mother fucking dickens and it will not stop for an hour straight sometimes. I sound like I am dying and my face gets super red and it’s ALWAYS at an embarrassing moment and of course when I need to speak and make a good impression. But I am healthy.

For those who are on the catheter bender. True or not. Fact:
Over 29 million Americans (early 10 % of our population) have diagnosed diabetes, with over 8 million Americans (over 27% of the population) being undiagnosed. (Another reason healthy lifestyles/sugars and diabetes has been such a big topic in America). Many of these wear catheter for their kidneys. It can and for many is a normal way of life. However, it does nothing to stop people from living and working and even having children in most cases.

For those on the H.C. wears a diaper situation. True or not. Fact:
1 in 3 adults and 80 % of them women have bladder control issues. It is the joy of age, the way our body treats us and we treat it and another amazing perk of being a woman at times (especially one who’s given birth.) I can go into some really fun details here about why an adult might wear a diaper, but an adult who is on and off planes, from plane to stage and again and likely not getting two minutes to herself in a day…well I am far from the days I worked in an office and drank a lot of tea and had a boss complain about the frequency of my bathroom breaks. But in understanding of then cutting back on the hydrating liquids because of it and then of course the consequences of dehydration….
Astronauts wear diapers.
Marathon runners piss and shit and keep running.
It has been suggested that legislatures wear a diaper before a long filibuster, such as Strom Thurmonds over 24 hour long speech.
Women who just gave birth wear diapers.
Adult diapers are a billion dollar business.

The health of being a President IS in question..and should be…but not to the point of over shadow.

Barack Obama
Came into office as a cigarette smoker, though young, each year more than 443,000 people die from this habit.
He also traveled a lot to exotic places where many known diseases can strike and cause problems later in life. Though our President’s all usually do a lot of traveling in the same fashion…each time we are risking the death of our country’s leader. We are risking their health.

There are entire Wikapedia pages dedicated on just the assassination threats of our American President’s.
We are always at risk of losing our nations leader, this is also why we should always consider the V.P. elect just as importantly (aside from the fact that it says a lot about our Presidential Candidate anyway), and the entire Congress and the Judges that run our country.

I share the same blood type as our President before, G.W. Bush. Which is rare, hard to have enough on hand at every hospital at all times. If he had been shot during his leadership there was a higher chance of him dying. There were health regards he had that had been omitted from his given health history as a President. (Him along with many others.) As a young man he did not pass physicals given. He also had admitted problems of alcohol abuse thus endangering later chances of health problems during his presidency. There was much about his possible drug usage.

(And frankly, as a person who doesn’t do drugs, I still don’t see a rich white man who was a young enough adult in the 80’s not touch drugs at east once. Especially with someone who’s taste for gold in their decor and outdated 80’s fashion is so instilled…no longer speaking of Bush here. And btw this brings up the god-awful decor changes of the White House should a certain someone win. Have you thought about that? Ugh. So much for the Jackie-O era. So much for class and sophistication. Shiny doesn’t mean not tacky. But I digress.)

And the list goes on with Presidential health past.

Yet this year this is one of the biggest topics, and more so on H.C.’s side than a just as unhealthy looking D.T. Age and as we know time in the white house ages you like a mother fucker…a no wrinkles solution is definitely not to enter the white house. And H.C. has been through it once and been through it hard at that. The medical records of both candidates has long been topic of speculation. Though only for Trump as he refuses to release, and for Clinton for everything under the sun.

And frankly, I don’t care. Neither or either could have many problems….there is no way in hell that a person that orange who eats constant fast food and is over weight has not any problems of concern or will possibly in the near future….and at his age. And there is no way that a woman of Hillary’s age might not have issues that may or may not be perfectly controllable but can also flare into issues during a 4 or even 8 year term. And hell for the Bernie love the man couldn’t even stand up for twenty minutes at a time without support of the podium. Our youngest and one of our healthiest of all Presidents was shot and killed.

But for both I will say, they have sustained and done hard work in many stages and board rooms up until now, and will both likely do far more for many years to come…in or out of the white house. I believe in a physical, yes. I believe in disclosure, yes. But I also seem to remember that we are a country who does not hire, fire, or rent or sale (by law) by health, sex, religion, race, or creed. You can not by law fire, refuse to hire me, for being diabetic, HIV positive, or pregnant. Or ugly or fat or unhealthy eating. Or even by discrimination of age. So this does not factor in my choosing a Presidential candidate. It DOES factor in my choosing of their choosing of a V.P. and Congress and Judges.

What I would rather focus on would be mental health.
LAPD undergo panels of psych evaluation as do Military.

But also their plan.
I am more concerned about:
Education (foundation before college)
Social Security and care for elderly and Veterans.
Attention on homelessness and hungry children.
Food and GMO’s and Earth care.
Health care in all factors
Dealing with what may come (ISIS, mother nature, and many other issues at hand)
Equality, rights, work force, shaping up and over hauling our police and prison systems.
Taxes
Economy.
And much more.

So seeing a day full of H.C. dehydration but ESPECIALLY on a day rather than what 9/11 is about. And seeing more coverage on such rather than her plan on the above issues, pisses me the fuck off. I am only alive another 15 years because I was severely sick. So let’s move the fuck on. And thank you to media and jerk-off journalists who obviously need that ‘Free Education’ we can waste our money on, for ruining the remembrance of 9/11.

I suggest that media, journalism, and even the entire Presidential teams get the fuck on board here.

The Inspired Writer. Views from another angle and her chains.

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(Photo by Peggy J. Davenport)

Sometimes to see something clearly you have to get down at a different angle, tilt your head, squint your eye. Often this is true when writing or creating your own art,…we have to step back and look a little crazy to see where to go from there. But the same is true in other aspects of life. On relationships misunderstanding and miscommunication are often caused by not seeing the situation from another angle. Stand back, tilt your head, squint a little. And the same can be said about entire points of view and the way many live, you know, those times we sit there on our little high horses and say “I just don’t get why she can’t get her shit together” and sip away on our lattes. Perhaps we just haven’t stood back, and squinted enough. Seen things from another angle and by somebody else’s perspective. This same analogy came up in conversation about “those who talk ghetto” as it was worded (not by me) I once had the same idea of that but came around to realizing that nobody ever says that Matthew McConaughey should talk different. And frankly, I didn’t need more thought about it after that.

In my writing there are times when I have stared at a white screen and black words until I am blind. Until the white screen and black words are just that, rather than the story spinning as gold threads from my mind. And I have to take a moment and find another angle. When there is a question in the story or about the story that stumps me I must stand back and squint a little. See it in another light. As a writer writing often means finding inspiration, taking a simple walk, reading a book, watching a movie, or listening to a song. As a writer we have this perfect “movie” in our head and have to translate that to back and white, basically into an entirely different language, that will then be able to translate again back into that movie in the mind of the reader, a language and translation in which we are not always fluent. As a writer we get lost in the word count, in the time of day and in the distractions that pull us away and we must take time to stand away from what we are doing, lie on the floor, tilt our head back and stare at the ceiling…clear our mind first to see the picture buried inside. As a writer we write the story for hours and days and weeks that turn into years even, and then we must stand back and through our squinty scrunched up faces we are often likely making at our computer screens, see how the story would be if we came around at it from an entirely different direction.

I took a walk with my camera one day and heavy on my mind were the differences of the world and the fighting against those differences that covered the news. And suddenly I had angles and colors and textures popping out at me every which way, little stories and understandings and everything I came across had meaning. Then I came across this link of chain. And for me, freshly out of seven months spent in jail at the time, this one had me the most. I had been in fear every step of the way since being out and even carried the idea that jail was more comforting than the real world and I was wearing down of the fighting the defeat every day. Seeing the chain my mind opened up to the fact that even no longer wearing chains, I was allowing myself to be held by them.

I was holding myself back from potential, out of fear, out of guilt, out of carrying everybodies opinions drug behind me, weighing me down. And I wasn’t taking the opportunities I had to go where I wanted to go, do what I wanted to do. I went home that day and wrote…and wrote and wrote and have since been writing my way out and away from obligations to anybody but myself, I have released many of those weighed down chains I once drug behind me. I have let go of worrying about what others thought or seeking friendships lost and forgiveness of theirs that frankly, they didn’t deserve nor was I obligated to give. No mistakes are left unmade in this world. I had held any punishments for any of my wrong decisions and I shouldn’t have to continue being punished, most of all I shouldn’t continue punishing myself. I let go of a lot. I worked hard and with new focus. Less wasted time. I put in literal blood sweat and tears and I have a very long road to go ahead but I have at least made my way to that road from being lost in the jungle I had seemed to be in.

All because I stopped and looked at something from another angle.

Now I work hard every day and not worry about the wasted time, lost time, changes of life and all that time I shoulda coulda woulda stuff. You know the “If I had started this ten years ago, I could be somewhere by now” Well, I am here now, I could keep letting myself lose more time or start working to catch up. I instead have the idea of my life for the Now and for what I believe will be the rest of it, though life changes all the time, I put my nose to my work and focus ahead, draw from experience for my work from what is behind me but I let it push me forward rather than hold me back.

Life and world inspiration really comes from a lot of angles and through a lot of squinty eye’s and chin in hand moments (for me there is always an involved chin in hand no matter what wrinkles later in life this may cause) when I feel like I am weighed down, working hard but getting nowhere. Grinding the gears, It is time to take a walk and clear my head and look to be inspired. To be inspired IN my writing, I must look outside of it. And this will sometimes entail finding me with camera in hand, one eye closed through lens and down at odd angles to see something from a different way.

Other angles and different ways. As a writer we are found reading what we wrote out loud, hearing it sound completely different in voice than in idea of your own head. Or sipping our coffee, leaned back in our chair staring at the computer screen, making faces and even talking back at it as if in conversation. Artists often look a little crazy, and often are a little. But don’t mind us, just keep waking by.

But using this idea of viewing from different directions, angles and sometimes through that squinty eye, has helped me mature, in all types of relationships, friendships and even that with my partner. I often have to look at the two of us from another angle as I am a writer with an over-analytical mind, a brain of half engineer and story teller, and a Libra. He is an ex-Navyman, from the north, were I am from the south (that alone makes for some major differences) he is an Aquarius, yet nothing like his sign in a lot of ways, where I am very much mine. He has NO artistic mind whatsoever, and I the writer. We grew up very different in some ways, and very the alike in others. He is just getting started with his first good what can be called even ‘real’ relationship and I am at a time and age of complete comfort in being alone. In many ways on and off paper we work, and in many ways we do not. In many things we differ in view and idea and even value. Don’t even get us started on politics. Balance is created but I myself can only see that by seeking view from another direction, another angle. He is usually already there. But in all sorts of relationships with people of all types I have learned there are times to let the chains go and drop the weight, and when to value more deeply by seeking those angles.

For my work I am less oppressed, I might not always work in exactly what I want but rather than fight the direction my words flow, I let them go and see what comes out of it. As a writer writing every day is key, not everything I write will be a well baked cake but out of the practice, work, dedication, exercise, and routine of it, more well baked cakes than not will come out of the oven for it. I have learned not to fight the flow of a story but let the words play out, and then I can always rearrange what’s there but staring at a blank screen never gives me anything to work with or move around. Less fight, more digging so to speak. I have found I can take large chunks of something written and create them to another project altogether, and then easily go back and fill in the hole left. It is always easier shoveling the dirt into the hole you just dug it out from.

This angle and squinting works well for a year like 2016 with the presidential race happening. I see so many people looking at it from only one direction, often simply “I AM Republican and therefor must vote as so!” and not actually getting down, turning their head and closing one eye to maybe see it from anothers view. Learn a little something while doing so. This other angle idea helps me as a writer and in life. It is similar as stepping into another’s shoes. Seeing from all angles and sides always helped me when running and creating companies, helping me to pay a lot of bills and buy a lot of books in my time, and the owners of many companies enjoying their summer homes and more because of it. It has also gotten me through a lot of the odd times in my life. And it will move me ahead in life and in career.

And in the simplest of all explanations of other angles and squinty eyes, is that you might just find a good picture in it all.

Morning Meditation.

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May was Mental Heath Month and it’s something I feel strongly about and it is not over by the turn of a calendar page. Mental Health has moved me in my writing and my life. You can’t throw a stone and not find someone who suffers from something. And often it’s still such a hush hush thing. Family often try’s to “Take care of the situation” when a member comes up diagnosed or suffering from what is depression or more. Often angering and driving someone they love away, or closing them more into their own world. Friends often go behind a friends back to tell family something is wrong. Thinking they are helping. But breaking trust. Sometimes suffering happens during grievance of a situation. Death, Divorce…taxes. Sometimes we are the loved ones of someone going through something we don’t understand, and don’t know how to help or even just how to be there as a friend or loved one. Sometimes something is happening inside of us that we don’t understand. It can slam into us for or creep up slowly over time. It can have a reason we might be able to pinpoint or no reason at all. Our brains are the most fascinating thing out there….like space. There is so much to explore, and so much unknown.

The Inspired Writer- And The White Moth.

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(Photo by Peggy J. Davenport.)

White Moth.

She flutters attracted to the light, burned by those who shine bright. Falls to the ground, lifeless, lands without a sound.

White Moth, she is found, white wings spread over the blue painted ground, like a once living painting left to be found.

White Moth never sang, she never flew fast upon her white wings, she never knew better than to stay away from what attracted her. She fluttered in her life, through her life, once she hit the heat of light she sputtered.

White Moth follows me. In moments of thought, in moments of change, in moments when I carry question, I have always found her near.

Yet White Moth even in death seems to inspire, to make one wonder, in some cultures, fear. Painters paint, poets recite, and writers write, singers sing, lying there wings spread in death, the white moth somehow impacts more in loss of her slight life than in breath.

She does not have the grace, the beauty or the wingspan of a white butterfly, this makes her scarcely noticed in life, a little sad in death.

The rain comes down, pounding her thin white wings into the ground, little by little she is washed away as if never found.

In many cultures white moth is thought of as a negative presence in life and in death, she symbolizes souls at unrest, death to come, the fragility of the state you are in.
I wonder at her presence in belief of death when she is found at my front door.

With her fluttering wings or her stillness of her sleep of death she is followed by symbolisms, myths, and Shaman law.

Of the white moths presence when she flutters in your dreams, the dream readers believe she brings ill omens, bad luck, misfortune. She has plagued my thoughts and slipped into my dreams since I gazed at her when she lay at my feet.

She is a restless soul of the otherworlds.
I wonder if from another, a message is sent to me. And if so, have I listened?

Sometimes she is thought of a sign of purity and cleansing, even as she carries the names of white witch and ghost. Is there something to cleanse from my life? Is she a ghost of what has been, could be, or should?

For all of the negative, in Shaman law she carries an idea of more. Something deeper, not only plagued in the gray of shadow thought.

The white moth is gifted in the power of the whirlwind….this…whirlwind..life. Such life is.

With her highly sensitive senses she has an ease of movement in the darkness and shadow, this, too resonates with me.

She holds belief the metamorphosis of transformation. At a time of a string of dreams in the exact such, when she showed up at my door, when my life is making much, but then I wonder at her lack of breath instead of showing up in flight and life.

The Shaman have a thought that this slight white fluttering moth has the ability to confuse her enemies. This, too, just might be true.

With her heightened senses she views all from around clearly. As an analytical person I feel this, too.

They say the Moth People usually have psychic and healing abilities and must watch out not to pick up from others their problems and carry them in their own energy, causing confusion and irritability to occur. In this I think of the petals of my own rose of life which have fallen off.

The life cycle of the moth holds symbolism from the time of egg, being birth of an idea. I hold many, work on many, spend hours daily creating many.

White Moths found in the arts.

One of my favorite Artists , whom I met when she lived in the same building I did, the Gaveston Artist Lofts. I bought a few of her prints…eventually might be able to afford more.

Moths in writing.

Moths in song.

Writers Inspiration. Fallen Angels Broken wings.

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I have been asked often where I get my inspiration to write. Or it is a topic among writers every day when you submerge yourself in that pool. Either way, it’s a topic in this world, and I am sure in others.
For a writer there are even writing prompts and other sort of stuff out there to help one get past writers block. The thing is, I never have writers block.
Inspiration comes easily…the actual sit and get it down is the hard part. Always. But even when things don’t flood me in my sleep or as has happened, make me get up and leave movies theaters mid-film to go get it all out I somehow find it, happen upon it easily or it comes to me. The idea, not the work, that is. I am flooded with it, sometimes drown in it.
There are moments when I enjoy taking my camera out, and going for a simple walk. I will absorb everything, sight, sound, color, people, language, tone, accent, and from time to time I see “The Picture” to take. The image is a story, always, in my mind. Right away.
Even if my camera happens to not be in hand at that moment, the image is with me.

Since many of these images bring full stories in the works, or in the midst of submission and even publication, I can’t share some…but I can share plenty of other random places my mind wanders to. One image can bring many stories, and whispers, many songs in different tones. And like I said, sometimes that mind needs a little emptying, filled to the brim that it is. So little wanderings, rather than my writings…are always in the happening.

A lot for me comes from Angels. Funny when I don’t believe really in heaven. But Angels have many forms for me, always have. And somehow they are one image and story that have always found me.

Fallen Angels Broken Wings

The Angel fall. Angels wings shatter like stone.
Angel, now like me. Angel, known love. Angel, known cast away.
Fallen Angel, you hold such sorrow.
Angel Once mighty, now lay naked, weeping, and weak.
Angel once graceful, now you walk like I do.

 

  • Feel free to leave your words of how this image hit you, as a writng prompt, in the comments.

Friends 101.

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Being friends 101.
A friend does not stop being a friend over differing opinions, ideas, or in the case of 2016, who you vote for. I did not choose to vote for Hillary until much more recently. I won’t stop being your friend for choosing Trump.
When we met I never asked you, pre-friendship, who your votes went to. And in the future I won’t ask newly met people “So…Clinton or Trump?” And the walk away or make a friendship based on which it was.

In the current world we also put ourselves out there to be ridiculed. If you do that, then grow the skin you need to have to deal with it.
I will give a good debate, angry even. I will yell and shout and hopefully have a good drink or coffee with you over it.
And you may do the same.
I won’t just stop being a friend because of it.
Debate. It’s a part of life. It’s a part of friendship. It’s even a part of Thanksgiving turkey with the family. I might say some really mean things. I will probably mean them. And you the same. We might seriously fear for our very own lives over the others vote. And we might find each other completely ignorant over the others opinions.

—–But aside from the point that one vote possibly having the ability to make or break our country being the bigger issue and a farther cast net than just our President being the much larger topic of what country we feel that we live in right now—-

We each have our own reason, heart, feeling, knowledge, and different view of the same information. (Such has been the Bible, Science, music, books, best movies, and more, forever. As example. Remember that some of your friends think Keanu Reeves is a good actor. Don’t hate them for it. Don’t stop being their friend for it.

Heck in music/art/movies/actors/books alone if you read about the creator often you hate/despise or disagree with them. If we went so far as all to cut all these things out we likely would lead very boring lives. I struggle with it myself. But I still love Susan Surandan in a movie even if I see her personally as a childish brat. And my own inner self does struggle with Woody Allen movies. Many didn’t jive with who/what Freddie Mercury was personally but still followed/loved/worshipped his music. Hell, even the Republican party loves it! Sometimes people aren’t going to like ME but like my writing (hopefully) and frankly, I don’t always care. I can’t please them all. And the world can’t all please me.

Either way we vote, our world will change. Is changing. Has changed. No vote in all of history has ever been a truly safe vote. The awesome part is, we live in a country where we GET to vote, our leaders are not chosen for us. Either way we go with that, it’s an awesome thing. It’s a freedom. I would not take that from you. I would hope you would not take it from me. But over a drink, coffee and all of friendship we might threaten that a lot, in jest, in seriousness, and in friendship. If you truly can not take it, then you don’t have the right or deserving power of calling yourself “Friend”, and that is a much more sad thing for you in such reasons, not for me, to not be able to remain friends.

*If you wish to tell people that if they are voting for the other party to delete themselves from your friendslist, if you delete those who say different than you, or stop being friends even in actual “real not-fb life”, then you don’t understand friendship, freedom, or America.

*If you can’t handle hearing both sides and then still either holding onto your own beliefs or maybe thinking “huh, didn’t see it that way”, which doesn’t mean you have to change your mind. You might not understand life, living, learning, growth in wisdom.
If you are one to only want to hear, read, learn about, dig into deeper, hang out with/around, surround yourself only in that which jives with your own ideas, beliefs, opinions…then you might be a westboro baptist. Or just really boring even. But most certainly you are one to bury your head in the sand. Not an explorer of life. You are closed minded. But it doesn’t mean we have to stop being friends (I just might think of you as a little ignorant by choice, is all.)

*When you are the white male (the only of my friends who I’ve upon this several times) who has chosen to crush my victory of being a woman closer to freedom with “read the facts” but you don’t have the facts correct. Then, well, as it has happened, you are the privileged white male. And that in itself in todays society IS a problem. It doesn’t mean I’ll stop being your friend. Though you might stop being mine. We women have worked for a long time to have to make our way to the top/be equal./have rights. I will have to do the same. We can still be friends as I have to crush you to do so. When you could have, because it is you who has that choice, long ago stood aside as a gentlemen and allowed me and my rights to walk past. This is not even your ignorance that has you shoot me down in my celebration of victories, but your fear. I won’t stop being friends with you out of fear. If that were the case then no woman and man would ever be friends. Much less married, love, relation of any kind.

But really people. The next three months…we will throw rocks at each others glass houses. We will yell. We will get really truly MAD. We might even for a moment hate. And certainly a few of us adults will stomp and throw a four year olds tantrum.
But when it comes down to it, we were friends before the elections of 2016 for whatever reasons. And maybe some friendships as all happens in adult life needs to be reevaluated. But in the world of social media, the world of adulthood, and the world of true friendship, we can still be friends who hold different ideas. And cast different votes. Even world leaders sometimes have to shake hands and smile with other world leaders whom they do not always in all of history get along with, but must be diplomatic with for the better good.

And if you can’t handle the friendship, then you probably weren’t being a friend to begin with. #BeingAGrowUp #Frendship #Politics2016