You read those last few posts and you'd think I was upset or something...!!!

Yeah so, ok, it got a bit bleak for a little tintsy bit there. And then I fixated on someone because it was so much easier than being present in all the muck that I had to deal with...

And then fast forward, and things got better. I mean, I didn't get better really...that is to say I will always have what I have, but life wasn't all about that anymore. And then I branched out and tried dating again...and met someone who peaked my curiosity...who I have been falling for...who is amazing and kind and generous and caring and incredibly intelligent and amazing...she meets all the items on "the list" Leah had me make ages ago. And not, meets those things in the moment I'm crushing, or when the honeymoon is still going, but really meets all those things, even under pressure or if little ripples come along and rock things a little.

Between figuring out to live with what I need to live with, falling in love, ironing out some work stuff, and then taking on an apartment move, I just stopped logging on and writing. Uh, yeah, that's gotta stop.

So although this is more of a diary entry, more fiction will begin to flow, now that I'm settling in and finding a rhythm.

I'm looking forward to it...

Love, cigarettes, pitter-patter; no love but good laughs instead; a baby, real love, real caring all over the place, all pieces back together – in me too; feels like it anyway or getting there. Curls on curls, easy and easy so refreshingly simple and easy and right and it doesn't matter that it won't be that – it matters that it is; fresh spring air, sense of calm with a dash of determined fortitude and growing gracefulness under fire then…no fire, except the passion kind, and happy and loving and open and real and free.

How do I say that in a way that other people will understand?

Maybe I just…smile and breathe and show up and be…and say hi…and leave it up to them to conceptualize.

I read news online from a variety of sources, international and domestic, mainstream and pieces that run to the far left and right, usually winding up with a kink in my neck from all the head-shaking. I watch the local news when I can stomach it. Even the more in-depth reports offered in my magazines of choice get to me. I'm not claiming to know everything there is to know about every topic. I know that my formal education has been limited and the information I do have at my disposal is filtered through maybe three news organizations around the world and therefore carries with it the possibility of prejudice and distortion designed to promote the owning news corporation's interests.

Having said all that, I have noticed that more and more it seems as though the smallest things are being regulated by state or federal government policy. This seems to be occurring around the world, though we do seem to spend more time regulating things here in the good ole US of A.

There is a poll on CNN.com today asking if models that are too skinny should be banned from the runways. Hmmm. Of course we all know Mayor Bloomberg spearheaded the drive to ban trans-fats and smoking in New York. Then there's the State of California – everything of a personal nature seems to be regulated by some government body there.

I perhaps am too cynical for my own good, but I don't for a minute believe that the push to ban smoking or trans-fats came from good-hearted folk concerned for the well being of their fellow Americans. It came from the medical lobby, a system that is wrecked and greedy and doesn't want to pay the health care costs of the smoking, fried-food eating population it deals with on a regular basis. It was backed by people, Bloomberg included, who feel superior to us regular muckity-mucks who have bad habits they abhor.

However, these products – tobacco and partially hydrogenated oil – are not themselves banned, so the makers of these products can still make their profits. People just can't use them in public places, which makes them seem…seedy and underworld-ly. I can't wait until the guys in Washington Square Park start keeping a flask of partially hydrogenated oil inside their coats and good tobacco up their sleeves, to offer along with the coke, smoke, spliff, baby, that usually make up the menu.

Banning and regulating…and at the same time, and I can't help thinking that somehow the mentality is related, people lose their grip on reality when seeing Lite Brite boards around Boston – well, when finally seeing them; they were there for two weeks before anyone noticed. I mean, whatever could they be? Must ask government guy, can't…think…for…self…

Models will probably starve themselves whether they are banned or not. But maybe a ban would make the industry fatten up their cranky gazelles before sending them teetering down the runway in clothes most people will never wear. Maybe. Maybe banning trans-fats from restaurants will forcibly prevent people from developing heart disease by eating foods that clog their arteries. Maybe banning the "N-word" will remove racist thinking from this nation. Maybe banning Harry Potter books will bring children closer to God. Maybe there is so much good to come from banning everything under the sun that the negative side effects are just the price we should all pay.

What negative side effects, you ask in dismay? Surely only good can come from a clear-lunged, unblocked-arteried, kind speaking, witchcraft debunking populace. But…shouldn't that populace be encouraged to become those things, through education and the promotion of self-respect and respect for others, and not be mandated to do so? And doesn't the act of mandating whole societies of people to behave and think in acceptable ways – and by the way, acceptable to whom? – take away the individual's ability to reason and make choices for him or herself, remove personal responsibility and consequence of action from the equation, as well as continually put private matters under the harness of government bodies? And couldn't that action of giving your private choices over to your government and removing your own ability to think a thing through and choose the right thing for yourself actually be detrimental to independent thought, to personal freedom, to preventing a government body from becoming all-powerful, and all those other "mushy" things that are referred to in fancy language in that one document, the thing we supposedly are so proud of having? What's it called again? The consti-something…?

Shucks, maybe I'm taking it too seriously. I mean those fellas in them thar official offices are doing what they need to in order to keep me safe from the brown people with funny clothes in the Middle Eastern who pray all the time and seem to shout a lot while doing it. I really need to just trust my leaders. I mean really – why would a government want to castrate its own population or turn their citizenry into helpless saps who can't think or do for themselves without a ban or a mandate or a regulation to guide them? And honestly, when I don't have to make choices for myself, I'm really just getting more time to shop and watch my favorite shows on the television, so why complain? One less thing to do, that's how I should look at it, right?

If skinny models are banned – those bony creatures who have a reputation for alcohol and drug addiction, smoking habits, and eating disorders, though God forbid we address those issues, just keep 'em out of sight – then I hope they binge on fried chicken, fried zucchini, fried cheese, and fried broccoli. I hope they do this by the busload and then when their gastrointestinal systems explode and there are not-so-skinny model bits all over the walls and sidewalks of the major cities around the world, I will join the candle light vigil of the shocked and awed. "How could this happen?" we will all ask ourselves. "What a shame, she was such a pretty girl," will be the sad and sighed statements at the book burning bonfires after Sunday service across the country. And we will look, like so many dull-eyed cattle grazing in an open field, to our masters for guidance on what we should do next.

Everyone knows what it means and how it's supposed to go. And then you get hit with something you could never have contemplated in even the worst of dark thoughts. And everyone has their reasons and then words are flung, and they are meant to hurt. And they do. And things are shattered, and everyone says it's beyond repair and you agree and fuck everything, you have a life to lead. So off you go to lead it, badge on from having gone through it, and "never-agains" and deeper reasons are spoken as cautionary tales, and heads shake and time passes and you distract yourself with other people.

Then the calendar rolls and a year goes by and it bubbles back up, even though it never crossed your mind that it would. And there are so many other things going on and it fucking kills you that you even have to nod acknowledgement in the direction of the memory of the bad thing that happened.

And then someone or something starts you thinking of the good times. And you fight it off and remind yourself of this reason and that and dig your heels in and furrow your brow and focus on the here and now. Maybe somebody tells you to get over it, or let it go, or even to call and bury the hatchet. And you scoff and sputter and resist. And the thought of that won't get it's fucking hands off you.

And then, I don't know, life veers somewhere else you didn't expect. Or maybe you expected but tried with everything you had to avoid it and it happened anyway. And you suddenly see yourself in one of those old Warner Brother's cartoons, one where an anvil was dropped on your head and it sent you crashing down a side of a cliff on your motor scooter to find yourself in a pile of wrecked stuff and rocks at the bottom of a ravine, and a coin or a hubcap is slowly circling then speeding up as it finally comes to rest, and amidst soot-covered skin your giant white eyes peek out and blink twice.

And maybe somewhere in there you did actually call and leave a message, which lead to an email response and a back and forth and a text message or two. And you agreed finally to meet up, although someone would always change it around so you don't, and the pit of your stomach kind of wads up like a dying spider into a tight little ball at the thought of actually doing it, because what if you just stare at each other. Or worse, you realize just how wrong you were.

And then somebody makes the call, the first call where you might actually hear the other's voice in however long it's been. And you see the call coming in and hesitate a moment, first from shock registering that it's real, and then a half moment longer for obvious reasons, and then you surrender and hit "talk" and say your first "hello".

I usually include both possibilities when speaking theoretically, (just play along like that's what I'm doing) but I don't have the heart to imagine what other path it could have gone down.

The path it did go down was the one that would make the good hearts in the world warm and full and the flowers blossom and the angels sing.

"Are you sleeping?" "No, not really, I'm…no, it's good… Hi."

And you're off. You both just…talk. Breakups have happened, jobs come and gone, melodramas that were a waste of time and things in life that just happen and couldn't be avoided. And you talk over one another. And you laugh at different situations, give a serious sigh or murmur at others, and even finish a thought or two for the other person, just like you used to. And you walk a little, but not pace, and get water and step out for a smoke, and use the loo and yammer on…and you look up and four hours have gone by and you're still talking, and no one wants to be the one to hang up the phone.

No, it's not a lover thing, it never was, though there was a time you spent so much time together people asked you both that very question - it's much, much more.  Another friend told you recently, when you said you were back in touch a little, that she remembered when the two of you had "broken up". You were quick to correct, and she told you to shut up, it wasn't about that, but it was a break up and unnatural and wrong, like a letter from the alphabet suddenly just disappeared, and you two were sisters, and yes sisters fight, but it was the right thing and the natural thing and the perfect, relieved, and lovely thing that was happening now, according to this other friend.

And you say things to one another about what happened before, but without the emotion of before, like it's a movie you both watched or a book you both read. And each of you admit in a real way what neither had been able to back then, and the love and forgiveness wash over you and fill you up and make you float and ground you all at the same time. And you both say you thought it wouldn't be the same but here you are anyway and it really does feel just like they always say, like it was just yesterday since last you spoke.

And you make definitive plans now and you know you'll both follow through and you're filled with the right measure of anticipation and peace at the thought of it. And then you hang up. And you walk through your darkened and quiet apartment. You pace a little by accident, walk in a circle or two, because your legs want to move and your heart already is and you don't even realize you're walking.

And then it hits you that actually it isn't the same. It was an awful thing that happened. It hurt so much, so deeply. And you struck back with everything you had and the kitchen sink, to return the hurt and maim. You hit your mark and then so much time passed and now you're here and so is that other person, and it isn't the same.

Because regardless of how goddamned stupid or maybe sad it was that it happened after all those years, you both had to do it anyway. You both had to nearly bleed each other to death to realize. Realize how much resentment you harbored over things done in the past, things you didn't even know you were holding onto, to realize how much had been taken for granted, to live without each other and know what it felt like to lose what you had, and know how it felt to be on your knees and cry out "enough" and crawl your way back, and let each other off the hook and love each other, and even say so out loud.

And that isn't the same. It's deeper and it's more grounded and it's more significant. It's the stuff that people go to the movies to see or read books to feel. It's moving and for some people, it's something they'll never have in their lives.

My father died a bitter, frightened, hateful man, unable to forgive. My mother still has her moments where the contract is deemed null and void and it's as though a person who hurt her or one of her own never existed to begin with.  And I understand it and do it, clearly, in my own life, and sometimes you have to and I'm sure I will be faced with that decision again.

But you don't always have to. And if you do, it doesn't mean you went beyond the point of no return. And sometimes there is hope and sometimes there is healing and sometimes the word "forgiveness" becomes a living, breathing thing that touches you like a messenger from God, lifting you and moving through you and, in its wake, turning water to wine.

Thank you. Thank you, my old friend, for dialing my number tonight. Thank you for loving me, for letting me love you – then, now, hopefully for a long time to come.

xo

I was standing outside on my stoop, inhaling deeply on a cigarette even though I know it's making my body ache and even though I tried so hard to give it up, contemplating the latest turn of events and feeling overall kind of detached. I looked up to the chilly blue winter sky between the two buildings across the street. There was only one cloud there, a wispy small thing floating slowly. And suddenly I wasn't detached; I was very awake and focused, as though someone had called my name from a long way away. I squinted and looked as the cloud shifted a little in the air. I really felt as though someone was trying to say something but I couldn't quite hear…and then it happened.

Part of the top of this little cloud swept up and over the top and looked very much like the tip of a wave as it folds into a tube or a pipe or whatever it's called when it makes that cool circle that cool surfers ride through on their cool surf boards, looking free. And then the main part of the cloud shifted a bit and it actually looked like the silhouette of someone on a surfboard coming right through the tube towards me, right hand over his head. And my breath caught in my throat for a moment and the sound of waves was in my ears. And then the goofiest part happened – the wind pushed through the head of the silhouette and made it look like a giant, bobbing smiley face, and made that right hand separate into a hand with fingers as though this big goofy headed smiley-faced surfer was waving to me.

And then the wind shifted again and the wave and the surfer melted away. And I felt as though somehow I was just told that everything was all right, to remember the important things, to let go. And I let go of that breath that had been caught in my throat and my shoulders relaxed and I thought it might all be ok after all.

there are no words, just try to follow along (thanks for the tip gretch though i had to tweak the image sizes) - this took place on the night of the day of birth plus thrity and one years of our beloved miss leah ba-dee-ah, janUUUary fifth:

I don't believe in marriage and I don't go after men for more than the occasional raunchy romp so I have something to shake my head about when I look in the mirror...as though I didn't already have enough to shake my head about when I look in the mirror.

So why then would I want to marry him? His words actually make me cry a little, and not just when I'm hung-over and emotional. His words also make me laugh a little. Sometimes that happens in the same song, which is like life and so then I am even more impressed.

I saw his picture and his videos. He really didn't do anything for me, though I wasn't entirely turned off, just ambivalent, and you know what Tony Kushner says about that.  The music turned me on, though. Now that I sat in my living room in my comfy draw-string yoga pants and TFF t-shirt and watched him and his facial expressions and his walk and listened to his speaking voice, all in the context of a film that *also* made me cry a little and laugh a little in the same song…well, now I want to marry him.

I don't know about babies and all that – I mean there are just so many all over the place and I don't have the genetic arrogance to need my own (though that's the only arrogance I don't have). But if he insisted, I suppose I could make an exception for him. Making and maintaining a litter of little Eugenes would be an ok occupation I suppose.

I'd learn the language and how to cook the food, too. And I'm completely fine with him having other women or men or both. I hope he doesn't mind my girlfriends, though that term is a stretch. Lovers? No. Umm…how about…I hope he doesn't mind my proclivity for girlie sex. Yeah, ok, that works.

Ok, well I'm glad I got that off my chest. I guess I'll just wait for a bulletin telling me he's in New York and then dress in my finest and propose.

I have now received critiques, which I have received before, many unsolicited, on my writing from pitches to emails to scribbled notes. Most of the critiques now are solicited; in fact I begged in a couple of cases. And I'll be the first to admit that, yes, yes, yes indeed, my command of the English language sucks...

I end sentences with prepositions. I use the wrong verb tense, the wrong word for a given context, and double negatives to the point of disorientation. I string together confusing sentences filled with dangling participles and modifiers, split infinitives, improper punctuation and just plain wrong apostrophe usage; my use of hyphens, semicolons and commas especially when listing three or more items it horrendous – my pronouns disagree on a regular basis, and I love, love, love run on sentences. And fragments.

I'll be perfectly honest: I really need to go back to high school, revisit all subjects at a fourteen-year old level – I didn't really pay attention when I was there the last time.

Having said all of that, please be aware that *some* of the really bad writing in this blog is actually intentional. Sometimes I am making my own little inside jokes, a reference to a man who did spake in that manner, to which he would point aggrandizingly as proof of his elite understanding of Old English and experience and comfort with Shakespeare.

I meant to do that by the way.

He'd get it wrong all the time…in public, before I was old enough to know how wrong he was and after, every time he opened his mouth. *Sigh* Then he'd scream about how brilliant he was and how stupid the rest of us were and he didn't have children to serve on them, he had children so they could serve him, keep looking at him like that and he'd give you a reason to cry, and stop coughing so loudly.

Wha?


The first step on the road to recovery is to admit you have a problem.

My English sucks. There, admitted, acknowledged. If I ever try anything as ludicrous as going legit, I'll be sure to get some private tutoring before and hire the best copy editor ever after I think I have something worth publishing. Ok?

Ok.

Oh, and cigarettes are really bad for you. They taste really nasty, even if you kinda crave the taste when drinking alchohol, and certainly taste really nasty to any non-smoker who tastes you after you've had one. They make you feel queasy and even drunker than you are while you're drinking, and make the hangover about a hundred times worse the next day. They inflame your sinuses. They cause your throat to feel as though it's been burned – as really, after all, it has. I think due to the tightening and shrinking of your capillaries and thus your circulation they make you feel as though your extremities are fifty pounds heavier than they actually are. They alter your mood, make you breathe heavier but not in a sexy way, cause you to cough up chunks of gunk and phlegm in the morning, and all in all should be avoided.

Oh, you knew that? Well aren't you smart. I "knew" it too, thought it's one thing to "know" a thing and another to really know it, you know?

Spam: Special Projects Abridgement Magistrate
Barbara Ziel ã 2006

A lot of the bits of Spam that get past the generic email filter on my accounts have garbage-character subject lines, are for Viagra or porn sites, and sometimes are back dated so you have to crawl through your inbox to find them intermingled with mail from a week ago. The stuff that gets caught by the filter and sent to the Spam box is mostly Spam, but occasionally good email gets in there and you have to redirect it manually. This is why I open my Spam box and skim the emails to see if anything is categorized incorrectly before hitting delete.

Checking the Spam box this evening made me realize what a rich story telling landscape these filtered emails can create if strung together, as what wound up in my Spam box tonight was, all in all, very interesting and sparked some ideas when viewed from a different, more hopeful perspective. The Spam had very little to do with me, offering products that so clearly are marketed to any other demographic but mine, but the story, children, was right out of a graphic novel or perhaps something written by some John Grisham-Tom Clancy hybrid, on the best seller list, optioned for Hollywood, cast with Harrison Ford, John Leguizamo, and Cate Blanchett, and scheduled for theatrical release Christmas, 2007.

An offer for a 24 hour loan, a detox foot patch, the "freedom fighters" asking me to consider becoming a cop, Christian singles in my zip code, a flying micro x copter toy, and an ad looking for people to join the Renu Moistureloc lawsuit.

Mmmm. And so the story begins:

It's raining. Susan is rushing home with only a newspaper to cover her head, plastic bag half filled with a couple of oranges and toothpaste swinging on her wrist. Someone is watching her.

Jack loves his wife. He still has her picture framed in the house, though she has been gone now for six years. Disease is an ugly thing, especially when it kills so young.

Carlos is desperate. He is straightening things out, on the right track, and damn Figiosi for tracking him down. The past is always there to wreck your future, his father used to say. He couldn't have said it better himself.

Jack leaves the house as dusk pours down with the rain. He glances at the sky before opening his umbrella and making a run for it, down the stairs of his old stone building, the type that is being loosely referred to as a "brownstone" in the effort to revitalize the East side, though the only thing brown about the stones is the cheap lead paint that was last applied in 1968, now chipping off and washing away in this latest downpour. It's a short block, then a left. He dashes into Junior's All Night Diner at the end, on the corner of Jackson and East Mayview. Best damn walnut Danishes in town, though his doctor was on him to knock them out of his diet after his cholesterol levels came back earlier this week.

Sal is behind the counter and greets Jack with his usual nod and bark. He continues seamlessly to argue with the regulars as he pirouettes with a working class gracefulness from counter to coffee machine to glass pastry dish.

"No, just the coffee, Sal."

"Wha?"

"Doctor's orders."

In the background Susan runs past the diner window as Carlos parallel parks his beater car across the street, in front of ACE Bonds and Insurance on the second floor of just another run-down building on the East Side. ACE's sign is a half functioning neon crapper, and along with the "Tarot Card Readings" and "Xin Hau Laundry" signs gives a gawdy, 1970's look to the stretch of businesses no one in their right mind would want to own.

With a flick of the wrist Sal opens a brown paper bag, slides in the to-go cup, a red plastic stir-stick and a handful of sugar packets.

"Or are you gonna tell me it's Splenda from now on, too?"

"Oh yeah, thanks Jack, your generosity is overwhelming…"

Jack laughs and waves over his shoulder as he props the door open with his foot, balances the bag and opens his umbrella in one motion, and then steps out into the early evening damp.

Carlos is huffing up the stairs. Damn, this is humiliating. He'll get his pay at five tomorrow, but Figiosi's man said it had to be tonight. He's working his ass of, child support and rent and the muffler on that shit can car of his out of his last check, and now this. Thank god Jimmy and he have a good rapport or he'd be stuck.

The door to the office opens with a clang and a shudder of the glass. The old fashioned bell above the door is responsible for the clang, and the glass – well, when those punks broke in earlier in the year Jimmy told everyone, 'I ain't waistin' cash on having new glass professionally installed' and did it himself. The glass was never properly secured, and Carlos is sure that before the end of the year the whole thing will just spontaneously loose itself from the tacky goo adhering it to the frame and crash into a million pieces on the hundred-year-old, stained, nasty-assed office carpet below.