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As a long time reader may remember, back in March of 2023 I fought down my anxiety demon and I went to a cafe for an open mic poetry reading. At that time in my life, (and mind you, I only know this looking back on it,) I was living in a cocoon of anxiety. I did not leave my house much, I did not socialize much, and my depression was beating me down daily. Mark pushed me to get out of my comfort zone, and I did by taking myself to Caffe Aroma one Wednesday night. I read my poem, The Hand of God, and someone in the room screened “go poet!” My heart soared. I knew no one in that room, except one of the hosts, whom I had only met a couple of times. I was definitely a fish out of water, but when I finished my poem I felt immense pride and relief and happiness. I went home and told Mark all about it, and he was so happy for me. He even came out a few times with me to the open mics, and managed to read a poem he wrote in front of the crowd once, which he considered one of his life’s great achievements. I started talking to people, instead of just hiding in my shell or fleeing when the time was over. Slowly but surely, and without my knowledge even, I was breaking out of my cocoon.

Fast forward 3 years.

I said to E this morning that I cannot believe it has been 3 years since I started going to this open mic. I have gone pretty much every other Wednesday for 3 years, and that time seems to have gone by in a blink. I think of the poems I have read, starting with ones about grieving the loss of my mother and running through to one’s grieving the loss of my husband, and I realize these people, these strangers at one time, have heard my tale told and never once judged me for it. I started to make friends; I started to meld myself into the community that was being created. I saw my poetry transform itself over the past 3 years, and I credit a lot of that to what I have learned from my fellow poets on Wednesday nights.

This past Wednesday, a torch was passed. Ben and Justin, who have run it for the past 3 years, have a decided to retire. Of course, their retirement party read more like a funeral, but only because us poets tend to opine about the deeper emotions. Their retirement, however does not mean a conclusion to the open mic night. In fact, it will still take place every other Wednesday at the cafe, now hosted by the incomparable Ashley M Hardy and…me.

I don’t know how that happened.

One day, I’m shaking and scared and reading my little poem and the next thing I know that little poem is actually posted up on the wall of the cafe and that was a feat in itself, and now…I’m hosting the thing? How did this happen?

I said that to E this morning and of course she said “Well, Dad gave it to you.” I asked for clarification and she reminded me that it was Mark who pushed me to go in the first place. Before the Wednesday nights, he was pushing me to go to a Friday night reading. Before that, he was pushing me to publish my book. Before that, he was pushing me to get something published in a review or magazine. I did all those things, with his support. And so, E rationalizes that he pushed me into hosting, as well. She says he helped me receive something from the universe that I needed, and that feels pretty true. If it were not for Mark’s support of my writing, I would not have done the things I did.

So, this is my blog where I’m officially announcing that I am now a co-host of the Wednesday open mic night at Caffe Aroma, along with fellow poet Ashley M Hardy. We have done a couple of mics already, but we are now the official hosts and programmers. I am also involved in a larger project for the poetry community, which I will announce more of when we have more information to announce.

I just find it so interesting that 3 years ago I was in the coccon of anxiety. On Wednesday night, something occurred to me. I’m back. I’m back, mentally, to where I was when I worked in the theater. Where I was before Mark. That might sound sad, but it isn’t. I did not think I would have the confidence I have again, and the funny thing is that it had nothing to do with my husband. He gave me unbridled confidence, about myself, my body, my talents…but I never thought anyone else would notice. I lost the confidence that I had in my ability, mostly due to mental and physical health restraints. I still have those restraints, but I have more confidence now than I did before, and I can credit that to the people I met at the cafe.

I am very grateful for the space that Justin and Ben created. I’m very grateful for the people that occupy that space, from the poets to the baristas to the owner herself. I will strive to do my best as a co-host now, and I am hopeful that more people who are too scared to leave the house will make it out somehow, someday, and come read me a poem. I promise, we’ll be gentle.

I have not written in a long time. Words are hard to come by these days. I did manage a poem last week, and I am here right now, so perhaps this is progress? Anyway…

How many poets have written about the moon?

On April Fools Day I read an article telling me there was a manned mission to orbit the Moon. It was April Fool’s Day, so I did not believe this for a moment, until the following afternoon when it was still in the news. Since on April 2nd you can start trusting folks again, I did a Google search and discovered this was no prank. They were sending people to orbit the Moon! I was excited, as both a poet and a spiritualist, and also I’m a little bit of a science nerd from back in the day. (I was also fairly annoyed, as someone who has studied history and knows bread and circuses when they see it, but I digress…)

A couple of days ago, the astronauts were naming things on the Moon. They named something after their ship, a crater, I believe. They also found a bright spot in the Moon’s darkness, and one of the spacemen named it Carroll. Carroll is the name of the late wife of another one of the astronauts.

They showed the crew hugging and crying together. The man was so touched, and for a moment there in the middle of the circus while I was eating my bread, I felt a moment of genuine human GOOD. I cried, not just because I was thinking of my late husband, (whose fingerprints are in space, by the way.  He’s want me to mention that,) but also because of the authenticity of that moment.

This is not a long blog. This is simply to say that life is short, and I prefer to believe as Anne Frank did, that people, in their hearts, are good. There is so much need for love in the world, and there are so many of us that are capable of showing it, to each other and to ourselves. I hope you find GOOD today, dear reader.

Happy Sunday.

I haven’t written in a very long time. I’ve had no urge. I’ve had a bit of a creative block, and only managed to eek out a few lines of poetry here and there since Christmas. A thing that happened is that my grandmother died. It was a sad affair; although, she did live to be almost 95 years old. I’m grateful for all of the time I was able to spend with her, and I’m grateful that she was beside me every time I lost someone in my life. Losing her was sad, but it was not painful as the other deaths have been. With my Gram, it was time; it was no tragedy, it was peace at last, instead.

I was sick a couple of times. I had pneumonia in early January, and then a gastric event the week of Gram’s death. I did manage to stay out of the hospital that last time though, and am it very happy about it. However, it took a long time to recover.

We had St Patrick’s Day, or the beginning of it, at least, on Saturday, when I woke up and made breakfast for Dad, Beth, E, and K. After that, me and the girls went to the parade while Dad stayed home and did the dishes because it was too cold and windy for him. He was not wrong- his hat would have blown straight off his head.

When we got down to the old 1st ward where is the neighborhood parade is, we were already too cold. I bought E some gloves, and got a bunch of hand warmers for the group. After we saw the bagpipers and a couple of Irish dancers, we went back to the car. Pretty much everyone we were supposed to meet down there had bailed because of the weather, so I had 25 jello shots and no place to put them. I drove to my sister’s house, where she had people over for breakfast, also. There was about ten 20-somethings standing in her kitchen when I arrived, getting ready to go out drinking, and they were very excited to see the jello.

After that, Beth and I attempted to go to the Blackthorn, but they had a bouncer, and I can’t seem to find my ID (on st Paddy’s, of course!) They also wouldn’t let us in the restaurant unless we had a reservation, so we walked across the street to the Dog and Pony, but they also had a bouncer. So we walked across the street again, to Hoppers, but their door was locked, even though there was clearly people partying inside. So, we crossed the street again, and went to the liquor store. This is where we should have gone all along. Not only were they giving out several different free shots, but we were able to get beverages at reasonable prices. We left, crossed the street one last time, completing our zig zag, and walked home.

Yesterday I had to work, so I did not go to the Delaware parade, but I have not been in many years. Perhaps some year I will be off on a Sunday morning, and I will give it a go again. I would like to see it once more, at least, because it is one of the biggest parades in the country, and of that I am proud.

Today’s the anniversary of my Poppa’s death, but again, I am not sad. In fact, I am joyful that wherever him and Grandma are, they are together.

I am looking forward to Wednesday, as it will be a special poetry night at the cafe. Wednesday Night Live is always a lot of fun. It occurs to me I haven’t written about that at all. Or maybe I mentioned? I can’t recall, it’s been so long. However, for the past 3 months, I have been co-hosting the open mic nights I was once so scared to attend. I am very excited to attend Wednesday because I had the honor of selecting our Poet of the Season (formerly Poetry of the Month…ish) which features a promising poet who gets to hang their work upon the wall of the cafe. I have had The Hand of God up for a little while there, and I am excited to resurrect the idea.

In the mental health world, I am doing okay. Apparently, I have been diagnosed with some sort of bereavement disorder, which, I mean, c’mon…duh. I am also getting a care coordinator to help me organize and keep up with my health goals, both mental and physical. This will bridge the gap between my doctors, which is extremely beneficial to me in the long run for many reasons.

Finally, on Tuesday it will be Saint Patrick’s Day. It will also be a year and a half since Mark passed. Saying it out loud does not make it sound any more believable. Writing it down does not make it seem any more true. And yet, here we are a year and a half out, and looking back I can see the healing. It’s not to say I’m done, I don’t think I ever will be, but I have let go of much of the sadness and anger that I was carrying. I have chosen to move forward, to think positively, to find something I can build from, and to live life like Mark would have.

One Christmas early on, my mother bought him a t-shirt that said “Carpe Diem.” He had never heard the phrase, and when she explained its meaning, his face lit up. He wore that shirt for 10 years, until it was nothing but holes. I felt bad sneaking it into the trash one day. I felt worse when he asked where it was later that week.

The point being, I shall seize the day. I have to work later, but if the weather is not terrible I am hoping to go out after work, perhaps take a walk. I miss walking with friends, like Beth when she lived close to me or Mark when we did not have a car or Kevin when we are in the woods. Perhaps I shall find a friend to join me. Or, maybe I will just walk alone and talk to The Dead. Either of these methods reduce my stress.

And so, yes, I am still alive and kicking. I will not desert this blog entirely. I have been with it far too long, but I would no longer expect regular updates. At least for the time being, while I attempt to get my writing mojo back. Perhaps a couple more weeks. Perhaps a little more sunshine. Oh dear god, just get me to Spring. Happy Monday.

Christmas is a difficult time for me. First, I lost my aunt many years ago on Christmas. My parents had missed dinner that night, because they had to go to the hospital. By the time dessert was ready, they were calling to tell me I needed to come, too. She was gone by morning.

Then, my mother had the sheer audacity to do the exact same thing as her sister. She died in ’22 during the big Christmas snow storm when we were all trapped in our houses here in Buffalo. The next morning, my late husband Mark strapped presents to his back like Santa Claus and we walked a mile to my father’s house to have a tiny Christmas together and a good cry.

Last year, I don’t remember much. September through February is kind of a blur for me. After losing Mark that Fall, my holiday spirit was quite low. I was not in the mood, and if I did celebrate, I don’t remember very much of it. I was in the fog of grief, and I think I’m only really stepping out of that over the past couple of months.

But oh, Saturday night!

We always had Kiddo Christmas when Mark was alive. No matter what, we made Christmas happen. One year, it was due to an angel tree. One year, I sold my minivan to buy presents. For a couple of years, a Secret Santa would drop toys off in our back hallway. We were never able to get the kids exactly what they wanted, but they were always happy with what they did get. We would have little parties with my parents and sister, and have treats and cocoa and open presents. It was always the weekend before Christmas, because their mother always had them on the holiday.

We didn’t do anything last year, obviously, because we were all trainwrecks. This year, though, I really wanted to get together with my darling kiddos and spread some Yuletide cheer.

Lucas, formerly referred to in this blog as L,  is now an adult and therefore no longer an initial. Recently, he moved into his first apartment, so he was more than willing to host our Christmas get-together. His apartment is lovely, and I am so proud of what he and his girlfriend have accomplished. When I got there, the tree with lit and presents were under it. I met his kittens, we all ate pizza, and we listened to music that Mark would have picked out. Then we exchanged gifts.

For the very first time, I was able to get the kids things they would actually want. For instance, Markus (now an adult as well, and formerly just M,) received an SH Monster Arts King Kong figure. He must have been asking me for one for a literal decade. It felt really good to give them each a gift that I know they were excited to receive. I also had sweatshirts made for them, which were a very big hit, and I ordered all of them personalized keychains that Mark had picked out before he died. His intention had been to give one to each kid when they received their driver’s license, and I gave one to Lucas last year because he was the first out of the gate. This year, E and K have earned their permits, so they got keychains, and Markus, who never intends to drive, got one reminding him to always “walk safe.”

After gifts, we played Cards Against Humanity, which was one of my presents from the kiddos. It was hilarious and fun and I had a blast, even though when I got home I had to explain to my father that while I can play this game with my children, he will not be playing it with me, ever. I don’t think he understood, because my kids are young and him and I are both full grown adults, but if you played this game before, then you know there are words on those cards of which I have never spoken aloud to my father and he has never spoken aloud to me, and frankly I don’t think either one of us want to hear those words come out of the other’s mouth. So if anybody wants to play Cards Against Humanity with my father on Game Night, feel free. Just make sure I’m not in the room.

After that, I drove Markie over to a friend’s house, and then went home. It was late, and I was unable to sleep because I was in such a good mood. Being with the kiddos gave me a natural high and brightened my entire Christmas outlook. The next morning, I texted them and told them how much I loved and appreciated them, and how they were what got me through this past year since their father died. I know the feeling is mutual, and they all expressed how much fun they had again. In truth, I haven’t had a moment with my four kiddos all together since the funeral, and it was nice to be with each other and celebrate instead of mourn.

Currently, it is Monday morning of Christmas week. I am having a very slow day at work, and waiting on Boss Mark to send me some tasks, hence my ability to write this post. I have a 10-hour shift today, 7 hours tomorrow, and then I think I might be in the clear, provided I can take off Wednesday morning, which looks possible. I have had one day off since Thanksgiving, and it was my father’s birthday so it’s not like it was a true day off. I love him, but I was doing an awful lot that day to prepare for his party, so no relaxation for me. I am very much looking forward to the couple of days off I have around Christmas, because work has been tough. The dry cleaners is no problem, but we are short-staffed at the rental agency, which has put stress on the whole team. (Speaking of, anybody want to come work with me?)

I’m not really sure what Christmas looks like this year, because my grandmother is in rehab for her arm, of course. Because that’s the way things go for me- loved ones spending their holiday in a hospital or nursing home or rehab facility. Typically, Wednesday we would go over to her house for Christmas Eve and have a big party, but I don’t know if that will be happening this year. Since we live across the street from her, my father was thinking of extending an invitation to the family to come by and see each other at our house, should they feel up to it. I’m a little sad, but the truth is that I knew it would be our last normal Christmas last year. My grandmother is 94; I have no Illusions about the marching of time, or death itself, for that matter. Truly, I don’t when my grandmother will leave us, but I knew through my claircognizance that last year was it for the standard format of Christmas Eve. I am sad, but I am lucky in that my grandmother is still here with us. I am lucky in that I have been able for the past year to go across the street to see her if I wanted to. I am lucky that I have been close enough for my Aunt Moe to call me if she needs help with Gram. I’m lucky in that whenever I walk into her house, my grandmother recognizes me and is delighted to see me every time, no matter the circumstances. It is this feeling of luck that keeps me from being too sad.

On Thursday, we will have Christmas. Bernie and Dad and I will exchange gifts and drink Bailey’s laced coffees and then Beth will come over and we will do it all again. I will cook dinner, and I will serve it to my aunt’s and my friend and my family, and hopefully no one will die! (Humor is my coping mechanism.)

The last of the Christmas festivities is Saturday night, which is my father’s annual Game Night, which is a big party he throws where we play games and eat food. I love Game Night. I don’t love that I have to work at 8:00 a.m. the next morning, but you can’t win them all, I guess.

I don’t really have plans for New Years. My sister invited me to a party, which is where I will likely end up, unless anybody else has better idea. (Not to sound like I wouldn’t want to go to my sister’s party, but let’s remember that my sister is 13 years my junior and I will definitely be the oldest person in the room.) It does not really matter though, because either way, I am glad to see 2025 go! I’ve said this about other years, but I never meant it the way I mean it right now. It was a Year of Firsts for me, because it was my first full year without Mark. There were times when I did not know if I would make it, but I did. Do you know why? Well, aside from the fact that I remain the strongest woman my mother ever knew, I did it with the help of four people, ages 20 and under. Four little people who I have watched grow from toddlers to teenagers, and who have never stopped loving me, as I have never stopped loving them. Of all the things Mark ever gave me, of all the things he left behind, those kids are the Best of the Best. They may make mistakes, they may have errors of judgment, but they are smart enough to learn from those errors, correct the path they’re on, and try to mend the bridges they have burned. They’re more self-aware than I was as a teenager, and that alone leaves me proud, never mind all the other amazing things they accomplish all the time. They are good kids, with good hearts, and they make me proud everyday.

So, happy holidays to you and yours. Hanukkah has just ended, Christmas is on its way, and my holiday, Yule, was yesterday, which I did not celebrate at all. I was going to do my 12 days of Yule spell like I do every year, but I wasn’t feeling it last night. Instead I went to bed early, and then woke up regretful about it. That’s okay though, because the longest night is over. Now, the sun will start to creep back. I am sitting here and thinking about how it was dark when I got to work and it will be dark when I leave, but that won’t last forever, because nothing does. So this Christmas season, I invite you to hold the ones you love close, share the love that you have, and be grateful for the love that you receive. Happy Holidays.

Here is a tale of how Sean Combs has personally affected my family.

It started when Biggie died. A song was released on the radio, a cover of an old Police tune that my mother used to like. It was quite popular at the time, all the way back when I was in 8th grade, and my mother asked me who the singer was. I then had to explain the rise of Puff Daddy, a new hip hop artist on the scene. She then asked me who he was singing about, which led into ahour long discourse about Biggie and Tupac, their deaths, and the East Coast/West Coast rap battle in general. Mother found all of this very interesting, much as she would have a afternoons episode of Days of Our Lives.

Whenever there was some item in the news about one of these three rappers, my mother was intrigued. She would mention it to me. She would read the article, or watch the segment, and come to me with a question or comment. These are the only rap artists I recall ever discussing with my mother, a woman who knew nothing of rap or hip hop. However, Maureen really appreciated Black Culture. I think about the fact that I grew up in the household that never had a bad thing to say about a black person, and I know I’m lucky in my generation. But this woman really tried, guys. She was a nurse once at a place called The Lighthouse where she worked with a very diverse group of women. It was there that my mother’s macaroni and cheese recipe improved tenfold, and she also learned how to do a dance called “the stanky leg,” which is quite interesting to see from a 60 year old white woman. My point being, she was interested in Hip Hop and Rap because they were a part of Black Culture, and she was always a supporter of equal rights and stood against racism.
So, over the next 20 years, we occasionally discussed Biggie Smalls and Tupac, and by default, Puff Daddy. She went through all the name changes with him, but she always referred to him as Puff Daddy even when I asked if we could just call him Sean Combs, for chrissake.

Then she died.

Then, 30 years after that song’s release, we had my late husband, Mark…prior to being late. He was a big fan of Tupac and Biggie, and he’d always had a bad feeling about Diddy. Something was off about it, so he had two jokes he like to make. One, was that Tupac and Biggie decided that Diddy was out to kill them, so they took off to live on some private island somewhere. The other, was that did he did kill them, because they were going to tell on him about his lavish but disgusting lifestyle. I said jokes, because at the time, they were jokes. Obviously, a man who once went by the moniker of Puff Daddy couldn’t possibly be the triggerman.

Then Mr, Curtis 50 Cent Jackson came out with some tweets, and Mark was all over it! “I knew it,” he screamed, and I came running into the room to find out what it was that he knew. Apparently, 50 Cent starting to make some claims. Some were about wild and abusive parties at Diddy’s mansion, which Mark had suspected long before the Me Too movement, and some were about the unsolved killings of Tupac and Biggie. He began to speculate, all the way to his deathbed, on all the possibilities. I remember sitting in the hospital with him talking about them, listening to Kendrick Lamar make musical references to the situation that had Mark howling. As his illness progressed, he was intubated and sedated. On September 16th, 2024, I was watching the news and knowing that my time with my husband had come to an end, and through my tears, I saw a news story on Facebook: P Diddy. Arrested.

The next day, Mark died.

And then the Super Bowl came, and Kendrick Lamar was the halftime show. A lot of people were very up in arms about it, but I find that they do that every single year no matter who the performer is, so I ignored it. I was pleased, and had no complaints. I watched the halftime show, and I liked it a lot. And I howled with laughter at the Diddy references, wondering if perhaps my husband had played a part in this glorious halftime accomplishment. I wondered if the second he stepped through the veil he took a look around and was like “that guy. I’m going to make it rough for that guy.” While a very loving man, my husband was also a petty bitch.

So now, we are closing out the year with the 50 Cent Netflix documentary about Diddy, which is pretty much exposing all of his parties and his admission that he wanted Biggie Smalls dead. I have not watched it yet, because I want to give a whole evening to it. I want to watch it like I’m watching it with Mark, if that makes sense. I want to watch it like I’m watching it with Mom. Truly, I want to watch it with anyone who wants to watch it with me, because this is our 30-year soap opera and the finale has come!

Mark was an ex-convict. He had some very strong opinions, all of which I agreed with, on how the prison system needs to be reformed and how the judicial system should work in the first place. I would not be surprised if my petty man spent 2025 trying to bring down a rap star from the ’90s. Seriously, if you told me that was the God’s honest truth and that is what he has been doing in his first year as a ghost, I’d be like “yep, that tracks.”

I know I said in my last blog that I wasn’t going update very much, but I really wanted to write about this for some reason. Honestly, I think Mark wanted me to write about it. I feel him very often lately, and hear him very loudly lately, so here. I wrote a blog for you. Now let me get a good night’s sleep, buddy. Happy Wednesday.

I have not written a blog in some time. I have been considering it, and I don’t think I will be updating as often. Of course, I say that now, but something could spark interest in a couple of days and I can be back. However, I have found that I am simply too busy to keep up with my writing. At least, currently.

My blog is my baby, but I have projects I want to work on. Projects that could result in actual cash-money, which this blog does not provide. I would like to pour some more work into my Patreon, which has been neglected over the past year. Of course, my patrons do not blame me for poor output, given the events. Also, I have finally compiled all of the poems I have written in the past three years into one document. My intention is to publish a full collection. I will likely be doing this myself, as I’m a freak who wants to be able to control every aspect of production. Research tells me my best bet is Amazon, which annoys me on a moral level, but is still probably the best way to get the job done.

I have not had much output in 2025. Mark’s death caused a little bit of a writer’s hiccup, as opposed to a total block. I’ve had a few poems, I’ve had a few verses, I’ve had a few blogs- but not like it was before. So, I’m going to take that as a sign from the universe that I should take all of the work I have done in the past 3 years and put it towards a goal. That goal will be publication.

When I published a lovely wreckage I used NFB publishing, with an editor named Mark who was very helpful. It did cost money, as I paid for cover design and ISBNs, but the end result was pleasing. I wonder how well I will do trying to publish on my own. I also wonder if I should contact Mark again. I sent him half of my collection earlier this year, to which he replied with excellent feedback. One thing he did mention was that the collection was short. Of course, it was a chapbook, but that got me to thinking. Should I publish a couple of chapbooks, or should I publish one large collection? While more chapbooks would cost more money, they may bring in more money. A singular collection would be cheaper to make, but may bring it less. However, I could charge a little more because it’s a bigger book…

At the end of the day, it’s really six of one and a half dozen of another.

My point, if I have one, is that I am still going to keep my blog, but I don’t believe I will be updating as often. Maybe if I get a bee in my bonnet. Maybe if something special happens. However, the long-term plan is to get some things published. I have hundreds of poems, two novels, and even a couple of plays I haven’t touched since my twenties, just languishing in my computer files. And for what?

Someday, should I live long enough, I will write an autobiography. Much of what I write about will be found in the blogs I have kept over the past two decades. I’m so happy that in 2001 I discovered LiveJournal in my University’s computer lab, thus beginning my love of the blog. I was eighteen. That was 24 years ago. I’ve come a long way, baby.

So forgive me, constant reader, if I don’t update as often as I used to. It was a hard year, and I’m hopeful the next brings more joy. I am also hopeful that it brings publication. I am speaking this into the universe, hoping she will listen.

We shall see. Happy Saturday!

If you are a constant reader, then you will notice I did not post on election day this year. I typically do. You would know, from the seven elections I have covered in the time span of having this blog, that I love election day! It is my favorite holiday.

However, each election carries with it different weight and different levels of celebration. For instance, presidential election years get lots of coverage on my part. Primaries as well. Last night, though, the main competition was for the Buffalo mayoral race, and I knew my guy was going to win. I knew he was going to win when I saw his numbers at the primaries, and I also knew he was going to win because Buffalo is a bright blue spot in a purplish-red area. I’ll be honest with you- I didn’t even know the republican nominees name until I saw the ballot, and since this time around there was no crazy write-in campaign like with Walton and Brown as previous, so it was a pretty straightforward election. I didn’t feel the need to write a blog post and tell you to go vote because I was pretty sure you already knew to go vote.

I mean, let’s be real. We all know we need to go vote now. No matter what side we are on, we know we need to go vote, now. It is the only way to affect any kind of change in this stalemate government.

The shutdown is really bugging me. I have things I need to get done that I need government offices in order to handle. Also, I am furious for the friends and family who are not receiving their food stamps. I’m also aware of how a SNAP shutdown can affect the economy as a whole as well as its trickle-down effect to the already waning middle class.

However, flipside, if you think for one second I’m going to pay thousands of dollars for health insurance, you’re out of your goddamn mind. The crazy thing is that they could totally end the government shutdown right now if they would just compromise. Or, here’s a thought: just fund both. Please the people of the country that elected you! You can even get the money by stopping giving bailouts to billionaires! Problem solved!
…but no one listens to me.

The crazy part is that they know it’s a class war. They’re trying to focus it on the lower classes, which isn’t the problem. Situationally, which is worse in yoir eyes: a mother buying a bunch of cupcakes for her kids birthday with her SNAP, or a billionaire buying a fourth house when we have a housing crisis they could solve in a day? Which one of those scenarios is truly unneeded? Which one of those scenarios would be considered greed? Which one of those scenarios would you prefer not to have funded by your taxes? If you choose the mother with the cupcakes, either you are one of the billionaires, or you are so emotionally stunted that you lack empathy, and I truly pity you.

So, you can see, I didn’t feel the need to write my usual Election Day post because I already knew what was going to happen, and that was going to be blues across the board. I’m extremely pleased Mamdani won in NYC, and you can come at me for that if you want, but make sure to bring your facts, not your islamaphobia. Overall, last night was a win for the team and I am pleased.

I hope you voted. If you didn’t, I hope you do next time. We should all be using our voices to negotiate legislature instead of using them to tear each other down all the time on the internet. I understand the irony as I write this blog, but keyboard warriors do not get the  results…your vote does.

The other day, I saw a tiktok suggesting that one take their Bible every morning, open to a random page, point to a random verse, and carry that verse with them throughout the day as a sort of message from God. I do pretty much this exact thing every day, except I don’t use the Bible, I use tarot cards.

When I tell folks who are Christian that I am a Pagan, I am met with one of two camps, typically. Either they do not believe the things I believe in, which is fine, because I don’t believe the things they believe in, either. Or, they do believe the things I believe in, and they are scared of it. They demonize me because they have been fed years of propaganda by the church. These are the people who believe that Mary Magdalene was actually a prostitute or who believes there is no God besides the “one true God.”  I can’t reason with these folk, you see. I mean, when they bring up the one true God thing, and I immediately remind them of the First Commandment, they go dumbstruck. In the First Commandment, God tells Moses that he is the one true God and “thou shall have no other Gods before me.” Right there, in that sentence, he is acknowledging that there are, in fact, other gods. He is also declaring that he is superior to all of them, and many times in the Bible threatens punishment those who do not follow his particular path- which seems a little cocky to me, to be perfectly blunt. Who are you to say that you are the best? Who bestowed that honor upon you? What makes you different or better than the other gods and goddesses? It is questions like that, and others, then nearly got me kicked out of Catholic school.

You see, if someone had actually rried answering my questions instead of constantly shutting me down, perhaps I would have stayed in the Church. However, I took my questions to my peers, to my teachers, to the nuns, to the priests, and no one had any answers. I was diverted every time, preached to about having faith, and told often that I was a “Doubting Thomas.” Now, I am a very spiritual person, so I do not need Now, I am a very spiritual person so I do not need to activate all of my senses in order to believe something, but the leap of faith required by the Christian church seemed too large a chasm for me to jump.

I tried other denominations of Christianity, but no one had answers; only more questions arrived on my part. Still, I tried to cling to the belief because I love Jesus.

Wait, what? The Pagan witch loves Jesus?

I will tell you a straight out that I don’t believe that Jesus is the son of God. At least, not the son of THAT God, the vengeful one that is always flooding the Earth and raining sulfur and telling us that he is better than everyone else. That God, I do not understand. Jesus, however, is my homeboy.

Growing up in Catholic school, I heard and read every parable and every story of Jesus that I could get my hands on. He was my hero; I thought he was the best. When I was a kid and wanted to join an order, I was deeply disappointed to discover I could not become a priest. I wanted to be like Jesus, and apparently, my genitals were keeping me from that. It was the first crack in my Catholic armor.

When I grew up and started to learn about Islam through Sahar, I learned about the talking baby Jesus. I also learned that Islam sees Jesus as a prophet and messenger, and that is something I can get behind. I do believe he was a prophet; I do believe he was sent here by some greater power to spread a message of peace and love to mankind. I got nothing bad to say about Jesus – I just got some issues with his supposed father.

When I pray, I don’t pray to the big guy in the sky like I did back in the day. I pray to specific gods or goddesses, I speak to my ancestors, and yes, I still talk to Jesus. I have talked to Jesus since I was 4 years old, and he has always replied. His father? Not once.

Today is the release anniversary of the movie The Worst Witch. It’s about a little girl, played by Fairuza Balk, who goes to a school for witches. (If you’re wondering if that sounds familiar, it is because crazy castle lady totally stole the idea, but I digress…) When I saw this movie when I was a kid, I identified with the lead character immediately and declared myself a witch! About 6 months later, I was marched into kindergarten, where the indoctrination began. Witches were bad…evil. Witches went against God’s plan. And yet, they told me over and over that we were made in God’s image, that we were made perfect for our purposes, by Him, so…what? When he made me, he f**ked up? When he made someone who cared more about nature than churches, who cared more about love than power, who cared more about peace than politics, who cared more about people than institutions, are you saying He was WRONG? Yet another unanswered question.

I’ve been told I will be going to hell before. Hilarious, since I don’t believe in it. I also don’t believe in heaven. Furthermore, I don’t believe in sin, so why would heaven and hell even exist in my ideology? Yes, people make mistakes, people listen to the darker sides of their minds and commit atrocities sometimes, but I do not believe we were born with sin, because I don’t believe in the entire concept. I believe, if anything, we were born sacred. They kept saying over and over that we were made in the image of the Lord, and if that is true, then why wouldn’t we be considered sacred? Sin is just a manipulation of man, meant to keep us all in our place.

Anyway, these are the thoughts in my head as I am shuffling my tarot deck this morning. Perhaps one day, someone will come who can answer my questions, but until that day, I will stick with what I know to be true. I will pull a card from the deck, and I will carry its meaning with me throughout the day. I don’t really see how that differs from what the Christians are doing with Bible verses. I don’t really see what there is to be scared of, but then I remember something Mark said to me once. He referred to himself as an atheist, but he often worried about the afterlife. His theory was that folks only went to church because they were scared of what happens when you’re dead, and I do see some validity in that. Too many people go to church thinking that if they just follow a certain set of rules, they will be spared eternal damnation. Well…what if there is no damnation? And what if there is no reward? What if we are just supposed to be good people, not assholes, which is pretty much all Jesus was teaching?

See? Nobody wants to answer my questions.

I’ve been waiting for a topic to come to me for a week. There is nothing. My world of poetry is even worse off. So here’s a short blog about fishing.

Mark and I loved fishing. His best memory with his stepfather was going fishing, and while he was no master fisherman, he taught me the basics, and we began the hobby together during the Covid shutdown of 2020. Eventually, we got the kids involved, and they all seemed to find it interesting, but none took to it the way K did. She would ask us every weekend when we were going down to the lake, and we would oblige.

When Mark died, I stopped fishing. It’s not that I only did it with him, either; I used to go by myself all the time. However, I found it lonely and sad then, without him. K and I went down to the water once, but it was too soon, and I had to fight to keep the tears out of my eyes, so we went home. I put my pole away and did not think of it again.

Until my cousin Erin called me one day and asked if I would like to go fishing with her. She had taken up the hobby with her boyfriend and was looking for another fishing partner. I very reluctantly agreed. It seemed we suffered one catastrophe after another trying to actually get our lines in the water, but eventually, we were able to catch a few bluegills. We went back another time, and I caught a catfish. I found I wasn’t sad anymore. I was wondering if it was perhaps because I was with her and not K. I didn’t want that to be true, so I texted K and asked her what she was doing on Saturday.

I took her to the spot that I fished at with Erin. As we sat there, casting our lines and chatting, I realized I was not sad at all. In fact, I was happy, I was having fun, and I was with one of my favorite people. When I pulled another catfish out of the water, she remarked that I was in the lead. Mark and I always kept count of how many fish we caught and declared a winner at the end. I laughed and watched as she fought a catfish that jumped off of the line. I told her it counted, but what really counted was the salmon she pulled next. The salmon that I tried to unhook, who then ended up releasing all of its bodily fluids onto my sweatshirt. We called it a day after that.

After I dropped K home, I thought about how happy I was to have gone fishing with her, finally, without tears in my eyes. I know, because they have all four told me as such, that I have been instrumental in helping them deal with their father’s death. What they do not know, however, is how much they have helped me. Every time I have been holding their hands, they have been holding mine as well.

Today, E called while I was leaving work and asked if I could come pick her up so we can hang out for a while. I know she has been missing Mark, and she likes to be around me because I remind her of him. Oh, but how they all remind me so much of him! It is very clear whose DNA dominated their features, as every single one of them has those big brown eyes with luxurious lashes that would cause jealousy amongst supermodels. It’s not just in the looks that I see him, either. He is in so many of the things they do and say, and I swear they received the best of his qualities.

I’m glad I can fish again. I’m glad I have my kiddos, still. I’m really glad that sometimes I get to combine the two.

I’m not so happy about this killer writer’s block, though. Happy Sunday.

The short version of a long story is that I have been sick since Friday, and because of that, I slept all day Sunday. I woke up at 2:00 a.m. on this Monday morning and realized I have to go to work today. This is a good thing, because I missed a few days being sick, but also, I’m tired.

I’m extra tired because it’s September. I somehow managed to get through mine and Mark’s dating anniversary, the anniversary of his death, and our wedding anniversary in a three week period. I cried a lot less than I thought I would, even though I was hit daily with a barrage of memories all month long. At the Out of the Darkness walk, I took stock of the year and realized that at the previous walk, I had been planning my husband’s funeral. This year, I sat in the sun and felt grateful for the people in my life.

I tried to relax at the lake house, but I don’t know that I succeeded. I didn’t get sick this time, which was wonderful, but I was just so tired. I enjoyed every moment spent with my friends, but I had no energy and little desire to do much. I have felt that way most of the month. Even going to poetry nights, I have had to push myself a little, which I don’t care for. I flip-flopped on going to a workshop, and I’m glad I pushed myself to go, but I was just so tired…

I know it is not physical. I know it’s emotional, mental…all those things related to this time of year and the emotional burden of what I have carried for the past 365 days. I also know I am better, in many, many ways, and I will get better in many, many more ways. Still, I find myself weary. Still, I am tired.

When I woke up at 2:00 this morning, I was angry because I knew I wasn’t going to fall back asleep. That means I am about to face a 16 to 18 hour day. However, when I woke up I knew that if I did not fall back asleep, I would be healthy for work. I knew that I could make it if I tried, even though I was tired. Now, though, it’s a manageable exhaustion. My body feels well, even if my emotions are a little sleepy. I can deal with sleepy emotions, though.

I have just been so tired.