THE GIFT OF GIVING


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STEP BEHIND MY SCREEN OF STORIES. The inner voice where gaps of expression are liberated.

A LOT OF I HAVE THIS AND I HAVE THAT. I’M GOING THERE, AND I KNOW THIS.
AND I JUST LISTENED. A CONVERSATION THAT MOVED AT
OLYMPIC SPEED WITHOUT ANY REVERENCE.

IT WASN’T MY GENERATION.  I UNFURNISHED MY LIFE. FIRST I GAVE AWAY THE UNWORN, THE UNUSED, UNWANTED, THE
BROKEN, AND UNREPAIRABLE, ANTIQUES, AND PC PROGRAMS,
STEREOS, TABLES, CHAIRS AND CLOCKS.THEN IT WAS MY  DRESSING ROOM COLLECTION: JEANS AND JACKETS, SUNGLASSES, AND SHOES, PURSES AND GLOVES, BELTS AND HATS. I  DON’T WANT TO SEE WHO I WAS; I WANT TO SEE WHO I AM NOW.
I LOVE TO GIVEAWAY – TO LOSE WEIGHT =ImageI LOVE TO SEE THE SMILES WHEN I OFFER A GIFT.

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THE GIFT OF GIVING


A LOT OF I HAVE THIS AND I HAVE THAT. I’M GOING THERE, AND I KNOW THIS.
AND I JUST LISTENED. A CONVERSATION THAT MOVED AT
OLYMPIC SPEED WITHOUT ANY REVERENCE.

IT WASN’T MY GENERATION.  I UNFURNISHED MY LIFE. FIRST I GAVE AWAY THE UNWORN, THE UNUSED, UNWANTED, THE
BROKEN, AND UNREPAIRABLE, ANTIQUES, AND PC PROGRAMS,
STEREOS, TABLES, CHAIRS AND CLOCKS.THEN IT WAS MY  DRESSING ROOM COLLECTION: JEANS AND JACKETS, SUNGLASSES, AND SHOES, PURSES AND GLOVES, BELTS AND HATS. I  DON’T WANT TO SEE WHO I WAS; I WANT TO SEE WHO I AM NOW.
I LOVE TO GIVEAWAY – TO LOSE WEIGHT =ImageI LOVE TO SEE THE SMILES WHEN I OFFER A GIFT.

A LADY LIKE AUDREY


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The throw of the dice this week lands on new adventures in selfless livingness.
There is assurance that most of all, above the tasks, aspirations, dreams and commitments; we are dead beats without love. The feeling has to pass through our veins and arteries, as often as possible, from one suitor or another. You can love a moon in a black sky, as much as a man or woman. I believe the feeling it gives us is medicinal. It gives us something no other prescription can. That is why when sickness comes, all the love pours out from friends and family.
This comes at a time when a beautiful woman who is more saintly and then anyone I’ve met, except my mother, is suffering. You wouldn’t recognize the heaviness she is carrying; she remains light and sprite. Her doe birch brown eyes flatter her high forehead, and her silky mane of brown hair that moves like a Clairol commercial, do not interfere with her life. She devotes much of her time to the Good Samaritan manifesto. She regularly offers her time to the various shelters, serves food, and provides loving comfort to the sick with her registered lap poodle. She told me that the residents of the hospice all wait for her to show up.
“It’s amazing; they are all standing there waiting for me to come in. No one visits them. Can you imagine living like that??”
“No.
“You should come with me sometime; it’ll give you a whole new perspective.”
I agreed; and thought about what she said. We all have our way of disposing of selfish acts. Some pray, some donate money, and what I’ve found that works for me is to spread my kookiness and follies without prejudgment. If someone looks sour and glib; that’s the person who needs me. It is a branch of love that will keep on blooming.

 

THE PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE Part One


Adventures in Livingness

The people who pass my window aren’t snapped into wool and leather collars any longer. Now their heads raise to the sun; but their movement is sluggishly unfamiliar with spring steps. Soon they’ll be jogging and eying the world through sunglasses instead of face-warmers. Street scenery is similar to my garden; fresh green stems courageously pop up while the rose bushes remain embryos.  20140410_183024[1]
Today I read for two hours; the longest stretch since last year. I had to stay in bed with a tray of coffee and closed curtains. I was restored to the first readings of Anais, when people still talked about her being a lesbian; when in fact she was not expressing that kind of love at all. Only the love as deep as two women want to go. Belonging to her group of artists and bohemian so appealed to me then as a teenager-I manifested that camaraderie by finding love in artists and misfits, malcontents, with rare wisdom and foresight. Men that chose not to belong because they had their own opinions.
The farolitos reflect diamonds of light when the sun is out. I can look out the window by my desk all day to catch surprises. The exchanges with staff at the hotel in a hand swipe and face to face muses on hotel complaints. A man in khaki’s and hiking boots taking studied photos of my house, and the same woman, who talks incessant baby talk to her dog as he pranced ahead.
My emotional tail is wagging; curled up in my desk chair I feel almost as if I was born in this chair. It’s cushioned me through a cyclone of adventures in livingness.
This piece of writing was handwritten on a tablet back in late January. I’ve made some minor additions and deletions. The editor I use before submitting to a publisher asked me, “Why do you keep switching between past and present tense?” I told her I don’t control that until I’m in final editing. My control over my writing is identical to my control over how I live. Acting on impulse, expanding the mundane into a musical, feasting on all the emotions, and fabricating thorny Walter Mitty encounters. I don’t even think of applying proven methods; I make up new ones.
Back to this plateau of solitude. Love what you have and especially yourself; with all your flaws. Integrity is more critical; be proud  not just for yourself, but because someone out there needs you.

EVERY GENERATION IS TO TURN TURN TURN AND


are destined to change the generation before. I only know from the fifties. When I grew up, socializing in fours and hundreds was part of life. Gatherings from my generation was Woodstock, concerts in the park without violence, impromptu jams and performance The millijoules want an audience in numbers dice-logo.gif ONLINE=money. It is the WAY THEY HAVE BEEN BROUGHT UP.