I know better than to learn about other people.

The details, the little things, the tiny components that make up who they are.

Someone’s tattoos all being Celtic in theme.

Someone singing one of my favorite styles of music in their youth.

Someone’s monthly blood donations… always at the children’s hospital, never anywhere else.

Someone’s secret passion for a particular author.

Someone finding love and peace and faith after most of a lifetime of hell.

Someone’s joy in their child nestling to sleep in their arms.

Someone’s delight in finding an unknown connection with a stranger who becomes a new friend.

Little things.

Components, colored pieces that make up the mosaics of people.  These little things are what fascinate me about people; I love them.  And in turn, I love the people with them.  It becomes overwhelming, not because it’s hard to love so many, but because of the heartbreak that inevitably happens.  People leave, they die, they withdraw, they vanish with or without warning or reason.

If I seem cold sometimes, uninterested in others, it’s not because I truly am uninterested.  It’s because I am passionately interested, and I know that anything and everything I learn I will love, and I will love everyone — friends, lovers, acquaintances, neighbors, strangers buying milk in the store at 2:30 in the afternoon with three children in tow and an absentminded kiss or caress for each of them, folk holding a door in the rain for someone they’ve never met before and will never meet again.

I cannot handle my heart being broken again.  If I notice you, no matter who you are, I will learn about you, and I will love you, and I know that you will break my heart.  So I deliberately blind myself, I don’t look, to try to save what I can of myself.  I try not to look, so that my heart doesn’t shatter again into the pieces that make up the mosaics of everyone I have ever learned of in all my years.



Every day for the last five days, and most days back until December 10th at a casual glance, there has been a hit a day on this blog.


Just one.  


Every day.


Who are you?  What are you looking for?  What have you found that speaks to you?  What are you rereading?


Talk to me.  Let’s make this a conversation.

Midwifery in dreams.

I woke up at 6:30am this morning from a very detailed dream.  I was at at an office or hotel or resort or something (spa resort?  Who knows) with conifers around.  There was a pregnant woman who went into labor; she was younger, brown hair, and frightened.  There was a midwife around, but she seemed less involved in things and I got the impression she was more inclined to call an OB/surgeon.  The impending mother went to lie down on her back and I told her that she didn’t need to do that, to move around as she was comfortable, and I would stay with her.  She did so, spent some time on all fours, and then abruptly moved to a crouch; she was sort of on a low platform/table thing, and I was on the actual floor.  The baby started to be born, a boy — frank breech.  I remembered what I knew about birthing breech babies and simply held my hands under to catch him, and coached the mother through the last push.  The baby was born in caul (membranes intact), and I held him up to his mother.  His eyes were open, he was calm, and he seemed to be returning her kiss.  I parted the membrane over his face so that he could start breathing (umbilical still attached, not cut) and told his mother that she should feel proud and not afraid because she had just given birth to a healthy baby boy… breech and unmedicated and with no problems.  I made a comment to the midwife (who had been standing back and watching) that OBs really need to be trained in delivering breech again, since it’s not that hard.  I then stepped back and realised that this was the first birth that I had attended/midwifed myself (besides my own), and it was an uneventful breech, and was very pleased with and proud of myself.  The entire end of things was joyful and calm and happy, and I woke smiling.

A second dream after I went back to sleep involved me somehow talking to the baby himself, from a perspective inside the uterus.  I told him to remember to keep his chin tucked down and everything would be okay; he was very happy and looking forward to being born.  I reminded him to keep his chin tucked, and a few minutes after that he was being born.  

A very odd pair of dreams, but I do think that if I tire of satellites I may switch to midwifery.

Protected: Next year I could be just as good…

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Frankie and Johnny

The other night I ran into an ex of mine from twelve or thirteen years ago. I didn’t recognize him at all; his entire image and bearing have changed drastically. He talked to me later in the evening, when he caught me alone. Said he treated me very poorly, and that I didn’t deserve it.

I agreed with him.

That threw him off. He repeated it, basically saying he “done me wrong”, and again I agreed with him. He didn’t seem to know what to think. I elaborated that he badly messed me up psychologically, and that because of him I’m still paranoid about surprise flowers. (I love flowers and love getting flowers, but the only person who’s spontaneously brought me some more than once was doing it to mask cheating on me.  He used to bring me bouquets of roses at work, just stopping by randomly to surprise me, and I loved it.  I didn’t find out until later.)

Thing is, I don’t know what he was looking for. Did he want me to say it was all right? That it was okay?

It wasn’t. Not at the time, and not now. Because of him I’ve spent the last thirteen years doubting my reads on people, something I used to be near-telepathic at; it’s taken two therapists and a psychiatrist careful work to convince me to try trusting my gut again. Because of him I still, to this day, am worried that I’m bad at something that I used to be rightfully smug about.  I shut down certain parts of my Self and went into a shell, and because of him I was set up nicely to put up with my daughter’s father. I thought I couldn’t do better and was just grateful that someone wanted me.  I can’t trust because of him; the normal jealous streak that I had got exponentially worse because of him, because of the betrayal.  I’m learning to trust again, slowly and consciously and very gingerly, but I’m still jumpy.

I don’t think I’ve cried for the loss of a relationship since him.  Cried for my own sins, cried for loneliness, cried for despair, but not cried over the end of a relationship since.  My trust, my ability to bond to that level, was damaged that badly.

Seeing him again was not something that I particularly wanted to do.  It’s stirred up a lot of old things, and I find that I’m somewhat angry that my agreement that he hurt and betrayed me very badly was so disconcerting to him.  But there is a lesson in this that I’m understanding, and that others should as well.

It’s okay not to give someone who hurt you absolution.  It’s okay not to tell them “it’s all right”, thereby discounting your pain and damage, the scars and struggles they caused you.  It’s okay not to forget what they did, not to let them think that their actions had no meaning.  It’s okay to acknowledge what they did to others, to you, and not soften the blow of realization.

People wander through life seeming unaware that they affect others around them.  Sometimes they do a great deal of damage.  They might care, if they were aware, but if everyone they affect negatively tells them “it’s okay” they will never know how damaged the trail they’ve walked is, or whether it’s richer or poorer for their passing through.  And if they look back and say with surprise “I trod too heavily there,” it’s okay to tell them that yes, they did, and caused harm in doing so.

People like that are why I strive to do the opposite.  I am aware of the path I tread, or try to be.  I try to leave people better than I found them.  For the most part, I think that I have succeeded; time will tell, but very few seem to curse me.  (That I know of.)  I hope that people feel richer for having known me, or are better off for my having passed through their lives, however briefly or intensely.

These faded flowers

I’m glad I met my ex.

I’m glad we dated.

Because through him, I learned more about myself.  I asked myself some hard questions, and found one of the strongest temptations to me, one that I might sell my soul for.  That I nearly did sell it for.

And through him, I connected with someone I later met in person, and who has become a dear friend.  And through that person I met another friend who registered from the first as part of my “Tribe” (despite a rather amusing introduction story that included an attempt to dislocate a shoulder and a death threat), and yet another dear friend (also “Tribe”, along with the others) who gives me cluebricks as needed.

And this first dear friend also introduced me to the man who is now my boyfriend, in what is probably one of the sanest, calmest, happiest matches of my life.  The trait that’s pissed off everyone else I’ve ever dated?  He regards as positive.  I confess to something I’m ashamed of, though it’s in no way my fault?  He’s calm and supportive and says exactly the right thing and confuses me horribly because I don’t know how to handle it… but I like it.   I’m scared to death and still twitching and even bleeding from my scars and wounds, but he’s there; I can feel him, sort of, solid and patient and calm.

And without my ex, without the “specialness” from what pass for friends with him, without his complete volatility and imbalance and inability to self-regulate, I wouldn’t appreciate what I have now in my friends — true friends — and my boyfriend.  I mean, I would, but there is a richness to it now, an understanding of exactly how fortunate I am to have these wonderful people in my life.  I might have met these same people, but through a different route and the result would not have been the same.

So thank you, my demon.  Your path will not be easy, I’m afraid, though mine will be the easier and richer for having known and loved and been torn to shreds by you.  There is nothing more I can do to help you, though you have helped me; know that I am grateful.

These faded flowers
Precious as memory
A veil of cloud
Correct as energy
We had some good machines
But they don’t work no more


I loved you once…

Tea and roses.

Things are… moving along.  I’ve hit the point in Handling the Bad Thing that I have to be on lockdown with some of what I say, so I won’t say much about that here past that I’ve had to make some very heavy decisions after talking to police.  Everything I do will have repercussions now.

I’ve got my back yard to a place where I’m actively looking forward to having folk over.  I’m even planning a party!  I have places to sit, I have shade and sun, I have plenty of room, I have a rose garden… I’m pleased with things.  It’s a very peaceful and comforting and safe-feeling place to be now.

As for my rose garden, the only one that’s having trouble “taking” is Peace; this might be because the damned guys who do the lawn keep nailing it with the weed whacker.  They’ve already destroyed both lilacs by repeatedly mowing them even after I said to watch out for them.  But I do have one of the roses blooming already… Tranquility has one spectacular and fragrant blossom, and three or four more buds ready to open.

But now, I think, I would like to sit in my back yard with a book, and a cup or two of tea, and good company.


I went to the theater last night.

One-act plays, ranging from decent to amazing.  Talked theater a little bit with the directors of the third (I was there as their son’s arm candy), and it was nice.  I hadn’t realised how much I’ve missed it, and greeting the actors coming from backstage felt odd; I’m used to coming out of that door, not waiting for it to open.

Thing is, I have a fair bit of theater experience and background.  Haven’t done it in YEARS, but started young; the person who has, perhaps, known me longest in my life now met me when I joined a (religious!) acting troupe he was in the instant I hit the age requirement of 13.  I managed to letter and pin in Drama in high school, was involved in a lot of extracurricular things, did Haunted Forest in Norfolk, some set work for community theater, etc.  I’ve been onstage and backstage and even directed (God help me), makeup and some costuming and some special effects.  And now I’m having to firmly remind myself that I do NOT have the time or the schedule to get involved again at this point in my life, no matter how much fun it always was.  Theater requires being able to get to rehearsals, and with my alternating schedule and two kids that’s notsomuch on the happening.

And the funny thing… I feel like another part of Me came Home.  Things that had been out of my life for a decade or more are coming back to me now…  goth/club scene, SCA/Pennsic, a certain subculture I won’t name here but REALLY missed, theater… all of these things are showing back up in my life, and I feel happier and more content and more Me.  And it’s funny… some of these things I know people would never associate with me, or may have thought they knew me well but never knew about, or knew about but didn’t register how deeply things run for me.  But they’re all part of my history, and part of me, and part of what makes me happy.

Riders On the Oncoming Storm

So vasovagal syncope happened.

This is the clinical term for flat-out fainting.  There are many causes, and I’ve had issues with it before but not since I was pregnant with my daughter seven years ago.  This go-round appears to be triggered by not taking care of myself as I should have been the last month and change, low potassium levels, and an emotional shock stronger than most people were aware of, for reasons that pretty much only one person would be aware of.

But I’m taking the clue BEFORE I faint in public again, and trying to take better care now.  One hell of a wake-up call.

I am sort of wondering at the levels of crazy I’m noticing coming out of my ex’s camp; I’ve been doing my own thing but getting “pings” now and then, and I have to wonder if people know how they’re looking to others — including neutral parties and bystanders — by this point.  There’s been some really irrational activity that’s been brought to my attention, and I’m in a fairly constant state of “ooooookaaaaayyyy… that’s, um, ‘special’, isn’t it?”  I’m mostly just doing my own thing.  (That said, I will say that if I ever meet a man like my ex in every respect and detail but minus the self-destructive batshit, I will marry him on the spot.  Too bad everything I ever wanted, needed, or asked for in a Partner came bundled with a proprietary DRM-locked version of subjective reality and some other-user-unfriendly malware.)

And otherwise… I’m actually doing pretty well.  Work has me filling in for my supervisor quite a lot lately, which is nice.  I have plans for a firepit in the back yard, and friends to have over to chat and maybe have impromptu jam sessions and generally hang out, a few sweet playmates, a chunk more of debt paid off, and of course my wonderful children, my Best Beloveds.

As I was writing this, I had one of my darkest fears about my daughter confirmed.  I’ve suspected for several years now that Something Bad Was Going On, but could never get anyone to LISTEN to me until my last therapist, who helped me get on the road to investigating things.  With the help of a new person on the scene who is also looking out for one of my Best Beloveds, independent observation and suspicion was done… and today my daughter actually told me who it was, and that she hadn’t wanted to tell me.  I held her close, told her that she is a very good girl for telling me, thanked her, and told her that I will keep her safe from that ever happening again.  She’s just fine with never seeing this person again, and is scared but willing to talk to the people who need to be talked to.  I finally have the final tool I need to protect my daughter:  her assistance.  I am having my shitfits today and tonight, and will set forth tomorrow on the path needed, wings spread, flaming sword in one hand, my beloved six-year-old daughter’s in the other to help her walk this path.

Telemetry readings

I’ve been too tired lately for much past pretty pictures of words, metaphorical at best and with appealing imagery.  Work is picking up and I seem to be shifting to a position of at least occasional authority, which is really cool; I’m hoping that I’m up to the challenge.

The new therapist is working out well; there’s something horrible in my past that we’re in the process of dealing with, and it’s… going.  I feel like I can actually make progress with this one.

One of my big projects right now is a rose garden.  I’ve decided to theme it, selecting roses by name.  I have Love planted, soon to be joined by Charity, Compassion, Peace, and Tranquility.  It should be a peaceful, pleasant place to sit on a bench and just Be.

I’m actually getting out of the house now and then, too.  I’m running into people I’ve known and not seen in a decade, people I’ve known OF and never met before, and I’m comfortable with them and the vibe.  It’s nice, and I’m finding it easy to slide back into the way I was in my 20s before everything went to hell.  It’s a little unnerving in a few cases, finding out how well and how fondly I’m remembered, but it’s all good in the end.  And I’m getting to dance, which, given the reactions, I’m starting to suspect should be illegal in several states.  (“Sanctified” by NIN last night seemed to get a particularly interesting reaction.)

I do feel that I’m coming more into my Self again, even through the stress and other stuff right now.  And that’s a good thing.  I’m rediscovering abilities and things I used to have and know and tucked away for a decade.  And I’m relearning to trust my gut.

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