New Year, New Goal.


It truly is a thing of beauty, don’t you think?

Hello Y’all.

This year I finally achieved my long held goal of reading 100 books in a year. I’ve been going to my goodreads on new years day and setting my reading challenge to 100 for YEARS.

With the new year drawing near I’ve begun to think about my resolutions and plans for the 2017. A lot happened in 2016 that made reaching that goal possible (Wild Fire, a month long evacuation, being unemployed) and it seems like 2017 will be filled with things that will fill up my free time (wedding, applying to creative writing workshops/courses, small renovation projects)

No matter what it is on the horizon I know that I still want to set my goal a little higher and challenge myself. But how much higher? Do I reach just a small step up and set it to 110? Or do I set my self to another number it ay take me multiple attempts to reach. It really boils down to a question of how long I want to delay gratification and how much sweeter victory tastes at the end of a long fought battle…. 130 it is… oh god I regret this already.

Wish me luck, and an easier writing process so I can read more.



Curiosity of Sight

Another one of the poems I’ve been finding written in journals and notebooks from years past.  Written in 2011

Her eyes do not work but she still sees

How can you perceive what you see if you’ve never seen before?

Or what if you don’t remember sight?

“It was lost as a child,”

Before objects had words?

Before you could focus?

Before things solidified?

Would these pictures still form in your mind?

Would you use these images as a basis for imagining everything else?

What do you see when you cant?

What do you see when you close your eyes?

Sparks of light?

Total darkness ?

Figures forming out of nothing?

“Everything, I see everything”



This is from one of my more recent journals. 

We drove through town, tall grass, big trees, canals and boat docks. Sand everywhere. We unpacked the car and set up camp. We walked to the beach across the cool sand and ran right into the water. We did not stay in long. The sky was grey and hazy. The air was thick. You could see with such clarity where the water met the sky. Night fell. We lit a fire. The fire died as we tried to sleep. Air did not circulate the nylon tent so we moved outside. The bugs descended so we moved to the car. Sleep would not come. We walked to the outhouses as the sky went from black to grey. The path crossed the beach and on the way back I started to run, right into the water. I waded out to see the sun rise from behind the trees I undressed in the warm water watching the sun come up. I felt you there.



Another one of the poems I’ve been finding written in journals and notebooks from years past.  Written in 2010

She needed a new heart

the one encased in her ribs had slowly betrayed her

it’s beats held strong

and she could feel it

rise and fall

the constant movement

a comfort

her heart had always shown her the way

resting and racing

safety or fear

sleep or lust

her heart knew  when her brain could not

it was her center

but it was dying

and needed replacing

so they cut her open

dark insides seeing light for the very first time

the soft valves attached to machines while she waited

no more beating

no race

no rest

silence inside her chest

awaiting collision and the death of another

wishing and praying for the silence to end

for someone to die

for the regular beat to resume

but it does not

her new heart flips, flops and cannot be trusted.

its beats fall opposite of how they used to

the malformation is impossible to abide

and that dear friends is how she died.





Fear and Silence

Another one of the poems I’ve been finding written in journals and notebooks from years past. DISCLAIMER/WARNING : at the time this was written, I was reading a lot of true crime books, watching too many horror movies and listening to One More Night by Stars on repeat (this poem is very much a plagiarization of that song) This is the product of a vivid imagination, fear of this particular situation, watching the news (Jaycee Dugard had just been found) and not letting enough light in. Written in 2009 


He watches her

always watches

all he wants to do is touch

but all he does is watch


an impulse

one that should have been ignored

he stops watching

he acts


he pulls up beside her

she pops her gum

gently asks

she says no

breaks his heart

shreds his sanity

he is empty

only twisted thorns linger

drags her in

locks the doors

His dark little haven

his dirty old home

it will be the last thing she sees.


she could save herself,

love him back

she would rather die.


no heat

just filth

without her dress she freezes.

he craved her love,

now he only craves her silence.


a lapse

she is quiet



She Runs

This is the first in a handful of poems I’ve been finding written in journals and notebooks from years past.  Written in 2009

she had lost the path

one she had walked since she was six

it was getting colder

someone was looking for her

how was she still lost?

why wasn’t she found?


not because she is lost

because she has not been found

the darkness around her

surrounded on both sides

by the deepest blue imagined

with so many unseeable obstacles

she runs

and runs



the blindness caused by the darkness

makes her feel like she is spinning

the wind rushing in her face stops her breath

and all she feels is flight


she runs and never looks back.



Revival, Revival, Revival!

I’m not sure if I have publicly spoken out about my overwhelming, undying, slightly scary love for Gilmore Girls. It is the one show that I can watch at anytime. In my eyes everything about it is perfect, even the much hated 7th season.

I have been a “gilly” for 16 years. Rory really spoke to me. She was quiet, mature for her age and bookish. She has a close relationship with her mother and develops a close relationship with her grandparents. We were both the children of single teen mothers and grew up in worlds populated by music, movies, tv and books. And I am not alone in feeling that connection.

I am also not alone in my excitement for the revival promo shots.

“Winter, spring, summer or fall all you have to do is call”