adverbially speaking…
well folks, your sam is worn WAY ragged and thin ( “I feel like butter that’s been scraped over too much toast…”) … between my natural “whee” tendencies being affected by the super-bam-bloom of spring and my natural “moo” tendencies being affected by the grisliness of war and the grief of tax-time, i am alliterated to the gills. i feel like I am on a roller-coaster in the mines of moria: “WHEEEE!*”…“AAAAIIGGHHHHH!**”
i am unbelievably tired, and ridiculously overwhelmed with lists of things to do for other people. there’s not even room on the list for ‘things to do for sam’. i actually have to schedule bath and reading time. how effin’ bunk is THAT?
for those of you who go out of your way to recognize and alleviate – or at least soothe – thank you. god bless you. it is your faces and kindnesses that scroll through my mind when it gets reaaaaalllly, frighteningly dark and blue. lucy showed up and offered ‘cracker barrel’ therapy (not to mention a shoulder, an ear, and some kleenex…), unky is like my own personal long-distance boy scout… buffy is “queeksdraw” with the mama-love and invitations into satz-madness… sallie brings the good food and she and edie and jackson all brought happy clothes... (!). many of you write with kindness and moral (and god knows i need that!) support.
thank you. i sincerely hope that my raggedy thin-ness won’t keep me from being able to return the favor when you need me.
pale and dim, but still burning,
-sam
* “aragorn’s hair looks so pretty and whippy – he’s so cute when he screams!!!”
* “why do I have to share a cart with the !@#$ BALROG?!”
Saturday, March 29, 2003
Friday, March 28, 2003
i believe that this phrase will haunt me for the rest of my life:
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
this is from an article ("Outspoken Army General Upsets Whitehouse") about a General who reported that "Pentagon war strategists had misunderstood the combativeness of Iraqi fighters..." " Wallace's comments fueled the Bush administration's frustration with media coverage that focuses on why the conflict isn't over."
how can there be ANY doubt that these men ("The Whitehouse") are evil and insane? god help us all...
full story here
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
"The war, the White House says daily, is going well and on-time."
this is from an article ("Outspoken Army General Upsets Whitehouse") about a General who reported that "Pentagon war strategists had misunderstood the combativeness of Iraqi fighters..." " Wallace's comments fueled the Bush administration's frustration with media coverage that focuses on why the conflict isn't over."
how can there be ANY doubt that these men ("The Whitehouse") are evil and insane? god help us all...
full story here
Thursday, March 27, 2003
well, will sent this to me and my twinkie as his "thought for the day". i am SO stealing it for my rant as it is brillliant. i don't know if will stole it from someone else (if this IS original, you get 42,000 GQ points), as he is not the blatantly plagiaristic sort*, but even if he did, yay, will! this ROCKS! thank you!
"You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the US of arrogance, and Germany doesn't want to go to war.
Will"
*and i'm not the blatantly sesquipedalian sort, either... :D
"You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the US of arrogance, and Germany doesn't want to go to war.
Will"
*and i'm not the blatantly sesquipedalian sort, either... :D
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Yesterday, when someone asked if I’d seen the latest rain of fire and hell in Baghdad, I said “I don’t watch tv. I haven’t watched it for six years.” They accused me of living in denial and said, “Not watching it won’t make it go away.”
I woke up this morning – as I have for days now – with a sick feeling of dread. Despite the glorious weather, despite the joy and love that my friends bring, I am constantly aware – even in my sleep – of what is happening to the world. I fight the fear and depression, I encourage those around me to fight it, too, but I feel it nonetheless. It is constant. If, for a moment, I forget what is happening I feel a sickening lurch as I swing between the happiness that I was able to let go for a moment and the guilt that I forgot that people are suffering.
I know this isn’t a ‘prime’ state of mind… but I don’t know how else to be. The sickness that I feel over knowing that we are no longer a democracy, that our image of ourselves as a ‘free country’ is utterly false is huge. And added to that, the images of flame and death, of tortured prisoners of war, of destroyed homes, cities, ancient works of art and architecture, whole cultures – combined with the threat that all of that could come here, and the children’s burgeoning realization of all of this is debilitating. I had such a strong urge to quit my job this morning and abandon all responsibility and just take what chance I still have to drive across the country and see new places and old friends… Esme (my truck), Luna, Antonia (my camera), a suitcase and a cooler. If the world crashes down with me sitting at a goddamned desk, or lying in my bed, I will NEVER forgive myself.
People keep asking if I’m ok. I’m not. How can anyone be? I felt so sorry for this tv war-watcher – for all of them. They think I am in denial, but they are the ones being de-sensitized (not to mention glued to the couch) and hand-fed whatever the American media wants them to see. They watch this and they care less about it every day. It becomes as important as the McDonalds and Gap commercials that come in between the news reports. I may not feel anything more intensely than anyone else in the world, but I know that if I watched the tv, I would have to be sedated and locked up. I would certainly not be able to function normally. As it is, I burst into tears at my desk, in the store, or just walking down the street… I feel a constant queasiness and my sleep is not good… I see the newspapers, I hear the radio news, and I see the headlines on the internet. Even those things are more than I can handle most days. Even without all of that, the smell of burning, blood and death haunts me. The crush of the realization that we, too, are at the hands of an insane dictator, who has cast aside all regard for our rights and freedom, is devastating.
I persevere. I have to. People need me, and people need me to not be a burden. This is how I fight the war, by fighting my desire to just take off. By trying to keep myself afloat so I can help everyone around me tread water.
I can’t apologize for not being happy that we, as a nation, have taken this step. I can say that I pray our soldiers come home quickly and in one piece (mentally and physically), but I ABSOLUTELY disagree with them being there. And I have no doubt whatsoever about the righteousness of my decision to not watch the television. What little I might add to the “War Ratings” is nothing in comparison to what the taxpayers would lose in paying for my institutionalization.
Keep the faith, Chiefs.
Love,
R.P. McMurphy
I woke up this morning – as I have for days now – with a sick feeling of dread. Despite the glorious weather, despite the joy and love that my friends bring, I am constantly aware – even in my sleep – of what is happening to the world. I fight the fear and depression, I encourage those around me to fight it, too, but I feel it nonetheless. It is constant. If, for a moment, I forget what is happening I feel a sickening lurch as I swing between the happiness that I was able to let go for a moment and the guilt that I forgot that people are suffering.
I know this isn’t a ‘prime’ state of mind… but I don’t know how else to be. The sickness that I feel over knowing that we are no longer a democracy, that our image of ourselves as a ‘free country’ is utterly false is huge. And added to that, the images of flame and death, of tortured prisoners of war, of destroyed homes, cities, ancient works of art and architecture, whole cultures – combined with the threat that all of that could come here, and the children’s burgeoning realization of all of this is debilitating. I had such a strong urge to quit my job this morning and abandon all responsibility and just take what chance I still have to drive across the country and see new places and old friends… Esme (my truck), Luna, Antonia (my camera), a suitcase and a cooler. If the world crashes down with me sitting at a goddamned desk, or lying in my bed, I will NEVER forgive myself.
People keep asking if I’m ok. I’m not. How can anyone be? I felt so sorry for this tv war-watcher – for all of them. They think I am in denial, but they are the ones being de-sensitized (not to mention glued to the couch) and hand-fed whatever the American media wants them to see. They watch this and they care less about it every day. It becomes as important as the McDonalds and Gap commercials that come in between the news reports. I may not feel anything more intensely than anyone else in the world, but I know that if I watched the tv, I would have to be sedated and locked up. I would certainly not be able to function normally. As it is, I burst into tears at my desk, in the store, or just walking down the street… I feel a constant queasiness and my sleep is not good… I see the newspapers, I hear the radio news, and I see the headlines on the internet. Even those things are more than I can handle most days. Even without all of that, the smell of burning, blood and death haunts me. The crush of the realization that we, too, are at the hands of an insane dictator, who has cast aside all regard for our rights and freedom, is devastating.
I persevere. I have to. People need me, and people need me to not be a burden. This is how I fight the war, by fighting my desire to just take off. By trying to keep myself afloat so I can help everyone around me tread water.
I can’t apologize for not being happy that we, as a nation, have taken this step. I can say that I pray our soldiers come home quickly and in one piece (mentally and physically), but I ABSOLUTELY disagree with them being there. And I have no doubt whatsoever about the righteousness of my decision to not watch the television. What little I might add to the “War Ratings” is nothing in comparison to what the taxpayers would lose in paying for my institutionalization.
Keep the faith, Chiefs.
Love,
R.P. McMurphy
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
my oldest (non-charlyn) girlfriend sent this out with the subject heading "Am I the only one wondering what to pack?"
i am afraid to speak of my worst fears out loud - but i am glad that SOMEone is not:
March 25, 2003 | "Pranas Ancevicius, my maternal grandfather, was intercepted by the German navy while trying to escape the Baltics for Sweden in 1944. An anti-Stalinist intellectual, Pranas had sensed the impending return of the Red Army to his native Lithuania. Caught between two loathsome regimes, he made his way to Nazi Berlin, where he hid with his family under cover of the right combination of documents.
In British Malaya, Lourdes Gnanadicassamy, my other grandfather, had divined the intentions of the Japanese Imperial Army in 1940. He packed the family off to India 18 months before his country descended into four years of Japanese occupation.
Enough of my ancestors have had to make the fateful decision to flee their homes -- and have done so at just the right moment -- that I have often wondered if I have inherited their uncanny sense of timing.
My life is comfortable -- like many of my forebears were, I am a happily married homeowner, a contributing member of civil society. I have suffered somewhat during this economic malaise, but there is food on the table, the occasional vacation, and talk of having a baby. My personal experience of life has been one of security and happiness, but for the first time my genes are getting nervous. As I examine the family histories and read each day's darkening headlines, I find that the question is no longer so abstract, or so leisurely: If it came right down to it, would I know when to go?
By the time my grandmother's family left Siberia, where they had been homesteading when she was born, the Bolshevik revolution was in full swing. Secret denouncements, property seizures, and disappearances were the order of the day. Surely if it came to that, I'd have been packing my bags too, right? Yet under the PATRIOT Act and sundry new regulations, secret military incarcerations, politically directed police forces, and whispers of torture have become daily news in our country. And here I still am, making mortgage payments, buying organic vegetables, listening to Wilco CDs. My great-aunt Anele Tamulevicius, whose husband was "disappeared" in Soviet-occupied Lithuania the day after their wedding, believed to her dying day that the violent vanities of the Old World should never infect the New. It may be too late for that wish.
Stasys Tamulevicius, my great-uncle, perhaps lacked the gene for political timing. A fatalist, he stayed on in Lithuania through the darkness of Soviet rule. In his day, the authorities kept a file on everyone -- following not just their political activities but also the most banal details of one's life, whatever they could get from neighbors or co-workers. It's hard not to think of him when I read about the Office of Information Awareness and its plan for a centralized database that would make a dragnet through all Americans as easy as a Google search. This kind of technology is already being used to screen passengers on Delta Airlines, which, in cooperation with the new Transportation Security Agency, checks passenger credit records and other seemingly irrelevant data prior to letting them fly.
And airlines aren't the only ones eager to facilitate the awareness of information. Recently, eBay's director of "law enforcement and compliance" announced that the company would turn over any of its volumes of information about users -- what they might have bought, or even just looked at -- to government agents without waiting for a subpoena. When the pretense of privacy evaporates, is it time to start pricing (offline) one-way tickets to New Zealand? Could be, but I haven't done it.
Of course, I know that I'm not the primary target of these new regulations. I'm not the one they're looking for. But then again, neither are a lot of other people who have suffered as a result of them -- or as a result of the paranoia that they seem to instill in ordinary citizens. It seems darkly comical when a man is arrested for wearing a "Give Peace a Chance" T-shirt. But it's horrifying when a crowd at a Chicago nightclub is so on edge that they kill 21 people while fleeing what they thought was a terror attack. Is this just our own version of the kind of malignancy that led to my great-uncle Vaclavas' death in 1943? He had constructed a clever escape tunnel beneath his house, but when the time came to use it, he found the exit had been blocked by a jealous neighbor. His body was found in a well a few days later. This is where the escalation of fear leads, and I wonder how far we have already gone down that murky path. Have my economy-class seatmates ever glanced at my dark complexion and silently considered how they might wield a plastic spoon against me to thwart my evil intentions? (I confess I've wondered how I might do the same to them.) Has anyone noticed the stream of leftist fundraising appeals that comes into my mailbox? In what files do essays like this get placed?
In increments we have become a different nation. Each step ruffles our feathers just a bit, but the ruckus dies down quickly and we are on our way to the next. Life goes on, and we find ourselves living in a different country without ever having moved.
My ancestors rarely made their break before disaster was imminent. Each time they escaped at the very last moment, leaving less fortunate -- or less prescient -- relatives and friends to their various fates. My grandmother left Lithuania only after Vaclavas' death. The family didn't leave Berlin until the bombing became ceaseless. Even Lourdes Gnanadicassamy's prescience failed him: he got the family out, but he himself was trapped by the Japanese occupation.
In a nation of immigrants, we all have ancestors who decided it was time to go. Around the world, people make the decision every day, packing a few belongings onto a cart and walking away from the action, as is happening now in Kurdistan and Baghdad. What happens when it's our turn? Much has changed already; how much more will have to change before it becomes time for me to sell the house? Sew gold coins into the hem of my jacket as I gather the loved ones around me one last time? It's not here yet, but is the hour approaching when, once again, we might decide to bid farewell to yet another homeland?
For each of us, the point of no return is at a different place -- the subtle moment beyond which you are the one they're looking for. For the hundreds of Pakistanis seeking asylum at the Canadian border, that point has passed. For the desperate mobs jamming the Kuwait City airport, the moment is upon them. For me, it remains just a possibility."
-Gregory Dicum
salon.com
i am afraid to speak of my worst fears out loud - but i am glad that SOMEone is not:
March 25, 2003 | "Pranas Ancevicius, my maternal grandfather, was intercepted by the German navy while trying to escape the Baltics for Sweden in 1944. An anti-Stalinist intellectual, Pranas had sensed the impending return of the Red Army to his native Lithuania. Caught between two loathsome regimes, he made his way to Nazi Berlin, where he hid with his family under cover of the right combination of documents.
In British Malaya, Lourdes Gnanadicassamy, my other grandfather, had divined the intentions of the Japanese Imperial Army in 1940. He packed the family off to India 18 months before his country descended into four years of Japanese occupation.
Enough of my ancestors have had to make the fateful decision to flee their homes -- and have done so at just the right moment -- that I have often wondered if I have inherited their uncanny sense of timing.
My life is comfortable -- like many of my forebears were, I am a happily married homeowner, a contributing member of civil society. I have suffered somewhat during this economic malaise, but there is food on the table, the occasional vacation, and talk of having a baby. My personal experience of life has been one of security and happiness, but for the first time my genes are getting nervous. As I examine the family histories and read each day's darkening headlines, I find that the question is no longer so abstract, or so leisurely: If it came right down to it, would I know when to go?
By the time my grandmother's family left Siberia, where they had been homesteading when she was born, the Bolshevik revolution was in full swing. Secret denouncements, property seizures, and disappearances were the order of the day. Surely if it came to that, I'd have been packing my bags too, right? Yet under the PATRIOT Act and sundry new regulations, secret military incarcerations, politically directed police forces, and whispers of torture have become daily news in our country. And here I still am, making mortgage payments, buying organic vegetables, listening to Wilco CDs. My great-aunt Anele Tamulevicius, whose husband was "disappeared" in Soviet-occupied Lithuania the day after their wedding, believed to her dying day that the violent vanities of the Old World should never infect the New. It may be too late for that wish.
Stasys Tamulevicius, my great-uncle, perhaps lacked the gene for political timing. A fatalist, he stayed on in Lithuania through the darkness of Soviet rule. In his day, the authorities kept a file on everyone -- following not just their political activities but also the most banal details of one's life, whatever they could get from neighbors or co-workers. It's hard not to think of him when I read about the Office of Information Awareness and its plan for a centralized database that would make a dragnet through all Americans as easy as a Google search. This kind of technology is already being used to screen passengers on Delta Airlines, which, in cooperation with the new Transportation Security Agency, checks passenger credit records and other seemingly irrelevant data prior to letting them fly.
And airlines aren't the only ones eager to facilitate the awareness of information. Recently, eBay's director of "law enforcement and compliance" announced that the company would turn over any of its volumes of information about users -- what they might have bought, or even just looked at -- to government agents without waiting for a subpoena. When the pretense of privacy evaporates, is it time to start pricing (offline) one-way tickets to New Zealand? Could be, but I haven't done it.
Of course, I know that I'm not the primary target of these new regulations. I'm not the one they're looking for. But then again, neither are a lot of other people who have suffered as a result of them -- or as a result of the paranoia that they seem to instill in ordinary citizens. It seems darkly comical when a man is arrested for wearing a "Give Peace a Chance" T-shirt. But it's horrifying when a crowd at a Chicago nightclub is so on edge that they kill 21 people while fleeing what they thought was a terror attack. Is this just our own version of the kind of malignancy that led to my great-uncle Vaclavas' death in 1943? He had constructed a clever escape tunnel beneath his house, but when the time came to use it, he found the exit had been blocked by a jealous neighbor. His body was found in a well a few days later. This is where the escalation of fear leads, and I wonder how far we have already gone down that murky path. Have my economy-class seatmates ever glanced at my dark complexion and silently considered how they might wield a plastic spoon against me to thwart my evil intentions? (I confess I've wondered how I might do the same to them.) Has anyone noticed the stream of leftist fundraising appeals that comes into my mailbox? In what files do essays like this get placed?
In increments we have become a different nation. Each step ruffles our feathers just a bit, but the ruckus dies down quickly and we are on our way to the next. Life goes on, and we find ourselves living in a different country without ever having moved.
My ancestors rarely made their break before disaster was imminent. Each time they escaped at the very last moment, leaving less fortunate -- or less prescient -- relatives and friends to their various fates. My grandmother left Lithuania only after Vaclavas' death. The family didn't leave Berlin until the bombing became ceaseless. Even Lourdes Gnanadicassamy's prescience failed him: he got the family out, but he himself was trapped by the Japanese occupation.
In a nation of immigrants, we all have ancestors who decided it was time to go. Around the world, people make the decision every day, packing a few belongings onto a cart and walking away from the action, as is happening now in Kurdistan and Baghdad. What happens when it's our turn? Much has changed already; how much more will have to change before it becomes time for me to sell the house? Sew gold coins into the hem of my jacket as I gather the loved ones around me one last time? It's not here yet, but is the hour approaching when, once again, we might decide to bid farewell to yet another homeland?
For each of us, the point of no return is at a different place -- the subtle moment beyond which you are the one they're looking for. For the hundreds of Pakistanis seeking asylum at the Canadian border, that point has passed. For the desperate mobs jamming the Kuwait City airport, the moment is upon them. For me, it remains just a possibility."
-Gregory Dicum
salon.com
Monday, March 24, 2003
Letter to a Crow-boy and his Dove of a wife…
I have a friend who is like Tam and Pablo and Bri-bro* - he is one of those people who feels like a lost part of myself. (I think what these friends really do is help to fill the humongous empty space where my brothers are not… I know this is what they do. I could not live without them…)
Boyfriends come and go (fortunately or un-), but these “soul-brothers” are priceless, irreplaceable, and really, really wonderful to know.
I rarely see this one dear bloke, Crow-boy. He works SO hard and plays hard, too… but I saw him yesterday and after he finished his big-dizzy hug, I asked how he was because I’d heard from the other birds that his heart had been heavy. He sank, in a lotus, to the floor, there in the middle of the gym, sighed deeply, hung his head and said “I’m o.k.” And he IS… but he’s sad and heavy, too. His beloved Princess is feeling the weight of the world and he is feeling the weight of the world and of his and his Princesses’ own heart. Neither of them are the type to ever cling to unhappiness, to look into the dark any more than they have to. They are the kind of people who live to bring light into other people’s dark places. But right now their lights are low.
I didn’t know what to say, other than “Spring is here… tell her to have faith. Send her my love. Keep your chin up – you are not alone.” What else could I say? “Crow, I need for you to be happy.”? “I’ll be happier if you are.”? “What can I do?”? I wish I could feed them good things, or bring them gifts – sing and belly dance (badly) for their amusement. I know that time and change and growth will stretch and sooth their ‘heart muscles’, but it’s the RIGHT NOW that hurts. I know that they know all of this, too.
I think all I can realistically do is try harder to be happy myself, to turn my own light up a few lumens. They – and my other friends – will have to worry less about me, and they’ll have a little more light to see by. As beautiful as the spring is, as is the promise of growth, the war hangs above us and we cannot ignore the reality of that, of the worlds’ madness. It makes our normal, day-to-day need and ability to cope much harder. To try to make sense of the delicate intricacies of relationship, home-life and love-struggle in the midst of all of this seems too much. We feel as if, emotionally speaking all we have sometimes is a medicine cabinet fill of those teeny band-aids. The world and its wounds are so huge right now, and it’s scary and overwhelming – but you can do a whole lot for the cuts and bruises, breaks and sprains around you, at home, at work, among your friends with teeny band-aids (not to mention a little duct tape, some popsicle sticks and home-made soup – metaphorically speaking).
I don’t want to seem mean by saying “Crow, you need to buck up and shine that light, ‘cause that’s part of your job on this planet.” I say it to myself, though, because I know that it’s part of my job. I don’t always have the strength to shine, either, but I am always looking for some way to crank up the illumination when things are dim.
Crow’s had his little talks with me(not to mention his own versions of good food & gifts, bad songs & belly-dancing) , though, so I know he understands what I’m trying to say here.
I got some duct-tape AND some band-aids… neon pink ones, in fact. Get yourself and your Dove into the light, Crow-boy. Soak it up, store it – recharge your batteries.
We’re all here for you. (You KNOW Brett will belly dance for you!)
Xoxox
-s
* and James and Stewart and Marc and Roy and Brett and ...
I have a friend who is like Tam and Pablo and Bri-bro* - he is one of those people who feels like a lost part of myself. (I think what these friends really do is help to fill the humongous empty space where my brothers are not… I know this is what they do. I could not live without them…)
Boyfriends come and go (fortunately or un-), but these “soul-brothers” are priceless, irreplaceable, and really, really wonderful to know.
I rarely see this one dear bloke, Crow-boy. He works SO hard and plays hard, too… but I saw him yesterday and after he finished his big-dizzy hug, I asked how he was because I’d heard from the other birds that his heart had been heavy. He sank, in a lotus, to the floor, there in the middle of the gym, sighed deeply, hung his head and said “I’m o.k.” And he IS… but he’s sad and heavy, too. His beloved Princess is feeling the weight of the world and he is feeling the weight of the world and of his and his Princesses’ own heart. Neither of them are the type to ever cling to unhappiness, to look into the dark any more than they have to. They are the kind of people who live to bring light into other people’s dark places. But right now their lights are low.
I didn’t know what to say, other than “Spring is here… tell her to have faith. Send her my love. Keep your chin up – you are not alone.” What else could I say? “Crow, I need for you to be happy.”? “I’ll be happier if you are.”? “What can I do?”? I wish I could feed them good things, or bring them gifts – sing and belly dance (badly) for their amusement. I know that time and change and growth will stretch and sooth their ‘heart muscles’, but it’s the RIGHT NOW that hurts. I know that they know all of this, too.
I think all I can realistically do is try harder to be happy myself, to turn my own light up a few lumens. They – and my other friends – will have to worry less about me, and they’ll have a little more light to see by. As beautiful as the spring is, as is the promise of growth, the war hangs above us and we cannot ignore the reality of that, of the worlds’ madness. It makes our normal, day-to-day need and ability to cope much harder. To try to make sense of the delicate intricacies of relationship, home-life and love-struggle in the midst of all of this seems too much. We feel as if, emotionally speaking all we have sometimes is a medicine cabinet fill of those teeny band-aids. The world and its wounds are so huge right now, and it’s scary and overwhelming – but you can do a whole lot for the cuts and bruises, breaks and sprains around you, at home, at work, among your friends with teeny band-aids (not to mention a little duct tape, some popsicle sticks and home-made soup – metaphorically speaking).
I don’t want to seem mean by saying “Crow, you need to buck up and shine that light, ‘cause that’s part of your job on this planet.” I say it to myself, though, because I know that it’s part of my job. I don’t always have the strength to shine, either, but I am always looking for some way to crank up the illumination when things are dim.
Crow’s had his little talks with me(not to mention his own versions of good food & gifts, bad songs & belly-dancing) , though, so I know he understands what I’m trying to say here.
I got some duct-tape AND some band-aids… neon pink ones, in fact. Get yourself and your Dove into the light, Crow-boy. Soak it up, store it – recharge your batteries.
We’re all here for you. (You KNOW Brett will belly dance for you!)
Xoxox
-s
* and James and Stewart and Marc and Roy and Brett and ...
