Been long time…Freewrite

Been long time since I went to the mountains. Since I wet the bed as an anxious child. I am still anxious. Considerably fewer bed wetting incidents. Got better bladder muscles ya know? Not afraid of the dark, was afraid of the dark. Made it hard to get up and pee at night. Now I like night. Like night a lot.

World don’t ledyoufurged your m’stakes. Loves ta pummel n’ spit allover your spirit. Solidates ‘tall inta ‘lil blocks o’ pain. Na super heavy, nah super lite.

Ialwayshadapee. Drink too much water. radder dat den nod enuff.

Am a condwit ta my kidderneys.

Big ‘ol beans ‘n my side.

Nephrons all fusssin’ round ‘n stuff

Nphrons fildering. Hope I ne’er ged a kidnerney stone. Dadberuff.

Uncle god ‘is kidney stone mounted to a ringngabe id ta my aunt for valernteens dee.

Calld iid is baby. Birthed thru ‘is urethrer.

Nod somming i wouldo

Dis beer is really good. I lige dat gurls had. ‘scute.



Freewrite – Journal – Home

Home. Ethan Frome. George Elliot. Home. I am from Denver. And though there are echoes of those deep blue skies anchored in my soul, Denver is not home.

It is too rushed to panic, too unplanned, both people and city. The drivers’ reckless abandon. 10 MPH over in the right lane, 15-20 in the left. No signal pranksters teasing the ties between lanes like flirting condomless teenagers. Except this kind of behavior doesn’t make babies, it takes babies.

More dangerous than experimentation with drugs, unprotected sex, others. Driving is fast, heavy, dangerous.

In Oregon and Washington, people drive calm. They wait. There is no yellow light lean in. Stop signs mean stop instead of just roll and look. There are warnings for chains when it snows a shadow of an inch. Silly, still. In Denver, I drove on thick snow and black ice on bald tires in an ’85 Impala the color of week old snow. Rear wheeled drive with an aching suspension system. A broken gas gauge and just sooo heavy.

Never crashed.

Should of.

Never did.

Not in that car.

I don’t drive like that anymore. I take it as a point of pride to do anything as differently as possible. Different than what’s done at home. At home, in home.

Denver, my parents house. The fights screamed on and on. The eternal victim competition. The weight of guilt. Finger pointing. Denial. Refusal.

The family meals. Dysfunctional fucking family meals. Dysfucktional. The holidays are not the time to address our issues. So we don’t. We never do. Never did. And years pass. Our patterns solidified, each day consolidating our pain, with interest. It’s never the time.

“Too old to change.”

“Too old for therapy.”


“Did you?!”

“No, We’re okay.”

“I’m fucking telling you you’re not.”

The calls, my dad called me today. Their only problem with it all is that I stopped calling them. Unable to construct boundaries enacted by adults. Only wanting to pretend the relationship is fine. No listening. No Understanding.

No apologies. No admission.

I can’t walk into that old age wasteland anymore.

Too many fucked up accusations.

They miss you. Three days after you get back, they want you gone. Again.




A friend said it best a few weeks ago.

“Home is where my books are.”




Ramblestiltskin – Freewrite

This will be a post on wordiness. Maybe in story form or something.

This is a journal. This is a journal I am writing in the classroom before class. This is a journal I am writing in the classroom before class to kill time before class.

I am actually caught up with the reading this week. All of the yellowbook, both essays, though I probably forgot to read something online. It’s cool to be journaling before class cuz I look all studious. I am just wasting time though.

I walked from the bus to the computer lab to print out my weekly page. Then I walked back to my car and dropped off my computer bag and walked back to campus. Then I went to the bathroom. People always say not to write about going to the bathroom. But I go to the bathroom a lot. It is a big part of my character.

Then I walked back to the car to get a single pen. So I would have an extra pen in case anyone ran out. Then I walked back to campus and got a 32 cent cup for water, so I wouldn’t get completely dehydrated.

Then I sat in class and tried to get enough words inked out to get to the bottom of the page. Present.

The bottom of the page is still pretty far away. 4 lines away.

3 lines away now. Not so far.

2 lines and the margin after.

The penultimate line is here.

This is the last line.



I was born in 1985. I have seen Columbine. 9/11 was my 16th birthday. I have witnessed the radical and dramatic shift of technology. I have guided my elders in navigating the sea of newness.

This is something I am proud of.

I am proud of my acceptance of others. We are the most inclusive generation of voting age.

Trump is not our fault. The conditions that led to the creation of Trump and Bush And even Obama were put in place years and years ago.

People make such a fuss over the legacy of presidents and ignore the legacy of generations of people.

We purport to be of the people by the people for the people. Young People are still people.

And I am reminded by many that each generation is likewise blamed for the ills that were created by their elders

As Children are blamed by their parents. Generations of children are blamed by parents.

I pose that the Millennials are a generation comfortable with change.

So perhaps we can look forward to a much more comfortable future of generational understanding. Perhaps we, as a generation will not blame our children for our own anxiety in the face of coming change.

Gay marriage, Rights and protections for LGBTQ, Occupy, Strong Resistance to Tea Party, Black Lives Matter, Mental Health Awareness, Reflection, Artists, Writers, Makers, Business creators, Researchers,

The boomos had the cars. And they moved about like people never had before. Have you ever had a boomo berate you for not understanding the intricacies of oil and brake fluid and windshield wiper fluid and tire pressure while asking you to create an email or find their password. Or turn on the TV?

Understanding and empathy are good.

Compassion exists, love is not a weakness,

Proud to be a snowflake,


“Earth is the material world – without any recognition of G-dliness; water is the knowledge of G-d – divine energy without any containers. Thus snow, being half heaven and half earth provides the perfect intermediary between these two worlds.”














122 rejections

Rejection #2 Received. 120 to go.


“Work Like Hell! I had 122 rejections slips before I sold a story” F. Scott Fitzgerald

So in the pursuit of publication, this storm of queries, I am setting 122 rejections as my goal. And making getting published a secondary goal.

While this is only a mind trick and mostly sarcastic, it is helping. At least in the beginning.

With 2 queries out, I have received my first rejection.

It was a personal story about what it feels like to be bipolar.

Rejection count= 1

Submission count= 2


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Childish Throat – Journal 9-28-17

Things stick in my throat. I just took my meds and the pills, the same as they ever were, are now lodging there.

The mug of warm water opens the tiny throat with liquid warmth. Several seconds tick by, the stuck throat gurgles. Stars shine in the corners of my eyes, the desperate tussle resumes.

When I was young, no one believed me. They said I wasn’t doing it right, I have to keep trying. Do it in the shower, tilt your head back,  massage your throat with your fingers. All meaning, I don’t believe you, stop whining.

I got food stuck at school, heaved over trash cans, walk ran to bathrooms. Gagging puking movements. Smooth muscle frustrated by bulk. It was worse with the mouth widener, the overbite correcter, the braces.

It is fitting that I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder when I was 16. Prescribed life long lithium with fish oil and inositol as supplements, when I was 19. 13 years of pills moving slow down my esophagus, getting stuck, passing, getting puked up. The trouble swallowing, a daily ritual. I can’t get down anything over 500 mg. Lately 450 and sometimes 350 has been difficult.

A few years ago, I got a biopsy. Thought they could widen my throat. Dr.’s thought they could. Woke up in the middle of surgery. Remember it vividly. Anesthesia metabolized with ease. Hours later in the white shining ward with curtains swaying.

“You have a child sized esophagus. Can’t widen it. The rings will cause a puncture.”

Validation at last.