Lourdes Mint's Mid-Life Miracle

Real-time memoir of the coming year (5/20/14 – 15) and the achievement of a life-long dream

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There is always “burn” here now.

Pretty+Flames+2-7-2007+3-36-23+PM+2816x2112There is always “burn” here now.

Door knobs burn in my hand as I turn them, so I leave the inside ones open. Even the floor burns the bottoms of my feet, so: shoes, but they burn also. These words too, all words, whether I think or say or read them, they all burn now. Sometimes./

To hear them, these ones here, spoken aloud in this room today — w/ no one aside from me listening, no music playing, nothing baking — to hear them without burning, what I would give for that! To be back there, here but back then, in my dream of life again, where it was plenty warm enough, what I would give./

There were times I’d think I must have come from there to here through someplace really cold. I’d think, could I have died that day? That day I “wakened” to the smell of all my pies burning and you knocking as loud as you could on the door. “What’s burning? Are you okay? What’s going on with your hair?”/

We threw the pies into the garden, laughing. You cut my hair in the kitchen to help fix me back up as we aired the place out. “What happened, though? Did you fall asleep? Since when do you bake pies and for what?” I opened you some wine and we spent the rest of the day together./

But I watched the pies slowly disappear alone. It took weeks and then one downpour finally carried the rest away./

Today, I know I came through someplace really cold to get here. Why else, how else, could touching these now — these plastic keys — burn me so? So that the plainest words/thoughts, uttered as plainly as I can manage, are birds barely escaping a flame and then at the very last second returning or just stopping, letting it happen, letting it wrap them and hold them in its hot hands until they turn to ash?/

There is always “burn” here, but I’ve begun to wonder if it might be okay for a time./

After all, crying now is like climbing a tree—but on another planet. Crying: Why? How? It doesn’t happen here, I don’t think, but I’m not completely sure (having learned about evaporation so long ago). I do know it’s not okay not to cry ever./

I know too that today nothing is baking, no music is playing, and no one knocks or doesn’t knock at the door. And I know I didn’t die that day. I am being still and quiet, no more words aloud for now, dreaming of when I was “just warm enough” and wishing I could cry, here or on some other planet, any planet (except Mercury, Venus)./

And yet. Even though these words, my memories, the door, the floor, the bottoms of me feet — ALL of it burns, all of it is burning me — I begin to think it could all turn out all right, that one day I will be just warm enough again.


THIS is a repost, thanks. I’ve been gone from here for SIX long months. I consider it a bit of providence that I log back in tonight, after several days (weeks? months?) of thinking about this blog AND THIS POEM especially, and find that BURN is the one-word daily prompt. Today. When I log back in … But so, I have nothing new here now, I don’t think, am exhausted, but I jump back in to this — everything — holding the hand of my 47-year-old self from two years ago. I trust no one more.






“But as for me, I will [go]”


“But as for me, I will [go]”

Let time pass. Let all kinds of time pass. Once he was settled toward the back of the bus, alone in a two-seater (which he knew wouldn’t last), Nohl shut his eyes and let himself meditate on this gentle imperative. Earlier that morning, as he showered, it rose up and hovered in his mind like steam. On the bus, though, he imagined that the words came to him just then from somewhere outside of himself, way outside. He saw a large slick, insulated (and insured) envelope, containing this message, blasting past black holes and through mesospheres and stratospheres and whatever other ‘spheres there might be, through different kinds of cosmic dust and space clouds, and then dispatched into the earth’s atmosphere, where it continued down along the pale but fast-goldening sun rays of this mid-July morning and caught a warm upward breeze, which sent it very un-coincidentally into an open window on this very same ride. Let time pass. Let all kinds of time pass. That was all it said, but according to the envelope it was meant for him.

Better still, he would like to think the words were delivered specifically to him from “On High,” along with instructions, “Guidance,” on what to do during this “all kinds of time” and how about after it passed, too? Yes, please. And just a bit in the way of explanation regarding the big “why?” of it all would be helpful. But no, nothing like that had ever been, would ever be, forthcoming, Nohl had come very slowly to understand. Feeling agitated, also tired and a little sick because of last night’s activities (the good, the bad, the inexplicable), he tossed about in his seat, his exoskeleton-like exterior clashing with the exoskeleton-like interior of the bus. In one particularly herky-jerky maneuver designed to discourage anyone then boarding from sitting with him (as a favor to them, he thought), he ended up spilling his coffee into his old running shoes, which he had no recollection of taking off. Huh. Could the new Nohl be the kind of guy who takes his shoes off whenever/wherever he pleased … on a bus like this, no less? Why not? He kind of liked it, smiled to himself. So how about throwing away the soggy no-good beaters, laden with roads already travelled, at the very first rest stop, cutting yet another tie with the past? He liked that too — poetic. And he’d just put on the pair packed in his carry-on.

The Nohl who packed the bag late last night was worried about grubbing up these other shoes, which were nicer and newer, on the long bus ride. Today’s Nohl got that but considered it a little strange that he decided to put them in the carry-on at all (given the size of the bag). But then, he often saw evidence of another, wiser, version of himself, who could see further past the surface of things, the present, than the regular Nohl could, knew what to do sometimes when the regular Nohl didn’t (but not every time, far from fucking every time. Last night for example. OK, just: Let time pass. Let all kinds …). Wiser Nohl was there to help pack the bag, sure, but where was he exactly when Russell told him that Francis Fahy was dead and regular Nohl felt compelled to excuse himself to use the bathroom — which he did but not before paying Fahy a little visit (“just to be sure,” was the thin explanation he offered himself), not before having to set his stop-watch bag to zero again. And here he was today (yeah, “as for me…”), wiser Nohl nowhere to be found. He tried to focus on the shoes in his bag, something hopeful, something that made him feel that there were plans for him still and maybe he wasn’t damned after all.


[Continued elsewhere.] 

If you can read this, online, you’re a minority — but you knew that

Minns Window

Even though more than 80% of the world’s reading-age population can read, less than half are internet users. Now some of these non-users may be babies or Luddites or what have you, but I think it’s safe to say that the feeling of THIS being a way of connecting with the rest of the world is one that many of us don’t share.

Africa represents less than 10% of the world’s internet users, as does N. America, surprisingly —  but that’s because of the enormous population of Africa (as well as of Asia) in comparison to N. America.

In N. America, though, about 9 of 10 of the pop are internet users versus about 3 of 10 in Africa, 4 of 10 in Asia, 5 of 10 in Middle Eastern and Latin American/Caribbean countries, and 7 of 10  in other western/European countries.

What are all of those offline others doing? Well, I guess they are living life, as we are, watching the weather, loving their babies, talking with friends about the future, helping one another through crises, etc. But how do they know whether they’re funny, clever, talented … or how many friends (or followers) they have? What/whom do they turn to for definitive answers to some of life’s most pressing questions or even the basic day-to-day conundrums? Where do they find out what’s worth reading … or even what they really want, think, and believe? How do they know who they truly are or which boots are best bets for this winter? How can they be sure they’re getting the sweetest deal on their hotel room for summer vacation?

At the end of the day, maybe the answers to all or most of these questions, for those seeking them in whatever manner, are essentially the same — in terms of the range of their validity. There’s so much we can never be sure of, so many questions with no simple answers. But what a bang-up job the internet does of helping us to forget (or at least buffering us from) the fundamental uncertainties of life! How many times have I come here feeling tired, hungry, and poor and left feeling better — that I know more, that I belong after all, and that I need not flail about or mess around with […] a moment longer. (I’ve had the opposite experience also, plenty, but that’s not important now.) TV works too, as does reading books or dancing like a wild thing all night long, and pretty much anything else that helps you escape the gray area between your ears for a while, but the internet works BEST — I think — for many of us. And that’s because it seems to say, so consistently and convincingly, in so, so, soooooo many words (and pictures and videos too), “Good news! Uncertainty is over! Everything you seek, wonder about, or need to know is HERE!” —  for almost half of us anyway. And it’s good to get a break from the gray. Very good.

What do those others do?

Later/this morning: I woke with this post still in my head. I went to sleep last night feeling that I didn’t totally know what my point was here, but I decided to post it anyway. The rules of my blog seem to change along with my “is-it-ready-to-post?” criteria (playing games with our seven-year-old, just living with him and “the baby” [now an 18-month-old], just living — all have softened [I’ll just say] whatever rigidity [I’ll just say] I had in such areas).

But anyway, here I am, and back to that final line: What do the others do? An answer is that, same as in the online world, some find other good ways of escaping the gray, some are naturally inclined or learn to “sit with” it (to let it be), and others are very adept at sorting that gray into black or white, yes or no, stop or go, right or wrong, etc. — others EVERYWHERE, including in that parallel [?] offline universe where different stories are spun from the information that’s most accessible, spun and shared, taking hold. But what is my point? Maybe I don’t know/understand enough about the world to make it, but I think it’s something like this: that if you are reading this, anything, online, you are privileged in a way that most of the world is not AND that none of us truly has exactly what we think we have or can truly have what we’d like to have (not security, certainty, inviolable protection of our basic rights, a bond with the rest of humanity, etc.) until we all have a shot at having it.

Questions from Deep Space

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Trick Questions.”

A Pulitzer-winning reporter is writing an in-depth piece* — about you. What are the three questions you really hope she doesn’t ask you?


Question I hope she’d ask: “Are you named after the Magnolia Fabrics wallpaper ‘Lourdes Mint’? (Me: Why yes, I am!)

Assuming I MUST answer 100% truthfully, I’d dread these Qs:

What is the weirdest or most anti-social thing you’ve done, thought, enjoyed, sought out, etc.? Anything along those lines would really put me in an awkward position. Still, even though I’ve always feared what I’ve felt to be my weirdnesses, I’ve never thought of them as unusual in the extreme. I’m sure I would not be alone in any of my answers, but I shudder to think of my company… and, truly, of judgment. My freak flag is on the larger side probably, but I usually wave it alone, in the dark, etc. I sometimes find that those that wave them most vigorously and visibly are not very freaky at all.

How many books have you read, really, all the way through? I hope/bet it’s more than I think, but I don’t track these things very carefully. I have no idea. I don’t claim to be  a voracious reader or even a particularly good reader — space out quite a bit, need to reread again and again. I also don’t feel obliged to read anything I don’t strongly desire  or feel a compelling need or responsibility to read, anymore. BUT I have yet to hear of a single successful and good writer who is not also a huge reader. Overall, one could say I’ve lived a very unwriterly life … on the surface in any case.

What’s your favorite [fill in the blank]? I am bothered by the fact that I’m so bothered by questions about favorites. One problem is that I’m never sure what mine are — in pretty much any category. I just don’t look at things this way and I guess I feel like that points to some significant lack in me: lack of identity (conviction?), something unformed inside me. I also don’t like Qs about who’s been the biggest influence in my life or which are the most significant, formative experiences of my childhood or life thus far. If I had to answer with something other than, “I really don’t know (yet?),” I would have to completely fabricate a response.

*Funny? When I first looked at this  prompt, I read “A Pulitzer-winning reporter is writing in deep space about you.”

Learn from me, you will find me waiting for you!

Seek and You Shall Find...

Illustration from the book "A Year and a Day" Illustration from the book “A Year and a Day”

Life has seen me standing hungry by the fence
and fed me with a fig from its trees
seen me naked under the sky
and clothed me in a cloud of its cotton
seen me sleeping on the pavement
and housed me in a star on its breast’
Life said: ‘Learn about me, you will find me waiting for you!’
I said thank you to life, for it is a gift and a talent
I learned about life with all the hardship I could
and it taught me how to forget it to live it

— Mahmoud Darwish, from “Perfection is the same as imperfection,” A River Dies of Thirst.(Archipelago Books, 2009)

Source: metaphorformetaphor

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Oh Lourdes! “Real-Time Memoir” and Other Things That Might Not Make Sense

I don’t want to go back to my About page. I really don’t, so I won’t. Not today. Sometimes I do heed my gut. 😉 I remember the gist and my one goal for keeping a blog, which is to be achieved in less than a year — so fewer than 300 days from now. What I don’t remember is how I thought blogging could support or help me meet my goal, how in the world I thought it would not take away from the small store of available time/energy for working on my fiction that I had then, which is now even smaller. And how could I not recognize that for me anyway (knowing myself as I do), blogging could turn out to be just another form of procrastination, the blog itself another place to dawdle, a way to psyche myself into thinking I’m making some sort of progress … when really I have been here — exactly, precisely here — creatively speaking, for 20+ years?

Also, how could I not anticipate (knowing myself as I do) that this world, your world — inhabited, cultivated by so many committed, serious writers — would become one that would matter to me, one that I might care about and want to belong to and even stand out in? I don’t know. Part of the reason is inexperience, ignorance, whatever. I’m not trying to flog myself here, but I never dreamed I’d blog, rarely read blogs up till now (except my mom’s and a handful of friends’), and really, simply had no idea what was going on out here. I thought they were mostly about making crafts; getting super-awesomely organized or happy or healthy or just BETTER in some big way; or making/saving/managing money — not that there’s anything wrong with any of those things. But I see now: I have been more than a little out of it and this out-of-it-ness has been deliberate on some level, I suspect, a fearful reaction to something I could sense but not bear to look at directly, find out more about: the world of writing, and publishing, is forever changed and changing still! It’s eye-opening and maybe a little intimidating, not just the quality of some of the writing here (in my own humble opinion), but also the sense of community and the thought, care, and generosity that obviously go into reading and commenting on one another’s work.

So I look and cannot help wondering, is there hope for me, my stories? I do think so, but I can’t seem to figure out how blogging fits in — I mean, in a way that makes sense to me as/where I am right now. I get the obvious benefits: the very real opportunities that blogging has brought to some, the success many of you have  found, and even the immense satisfaction — of which I’ve had a taste or two — of simply connecting with a few others.

Why all this angst now?

Well one, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Daily Prompt guy’s post yesterday re: gimmicks (http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/08/05/raymond-carver-simplicity/)  ……………  And I had to ask myself, what is a “Real-Time Memoir” anyway? (This term is in my blog’s subtitle.) I can’t really answer that, so I start thinking: gimmick! Now, I’m not crushed here, not going to panic, but I do think it warrants some thought and that, ultimately, I should have some sort of explanation. I must have had something in mind when I came up with it, which I sort of remember (yammering on about it to a friend while walking the dog, months before Sarah came), but all’s a bit fuzzy now. Maybe the cure for this bout of doubt, the answer to my questions about my blog, lies somewhere in exploring the idea, though. Maybe I’m just not clear on what my blog is for.  [Can’t seem to get rid of these italics.] 

Two, and I almost hate to put this into words: after a long conversation with my six-year-old about lots of things, mostly what we’ve got going on for the rest of the summer, which led to talk about the new school year and how we will try to be better organized in the morning, not so rushed, on time on a more regular basis. Always, even? ………………. I run late, which means WE run late. A lot. We are late as we are having this conversation. So when it comes up, he says, point blank: “You should know better, Mommy” — in the gentlest way possible. But ugh. I should. I do. I start to think about the blog again. Real-time nothing!

Three, I read: “Night Is Young” (http://abozdar.wordpress.com/2014/08/06/night-is-young/), an apparent response to today’s prompt about writer’s block (http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/writers-block-party/). And boom! Somehow the juxtaposition hit me like the final line in that Rilke poem, the first time I read it, about the torso of Apollo (see below if you don’t know it; image borrowed from The Paleo Periodical). I started to think about the blog again, doubting it and somehow so much more, slowly but surely inching my way into a comfortable shadow that remains.

Featured Image -- 507

Archaic Torso of Apollo

by Rainer Maria Rilke

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

Like the time I read Nausea and Grendall during the same summer vacation (bad idea for me at the time), somehow this combination of events has packed a good punch.

I hate the way all this sounds, by the way.

May need to reconsider my space-time coordinates (0r those of my goal, rather), recalibrate, reboot, re-re. Or just go out and celebrate my eighth anniversary with my husband tonight (night is sooooooo young now) and, later, sleep on it. 😉


Day 68 (Daily Prompt): Sudden Downpour, Long-Time Coming

Sudden Downpour

It was sunny when you left home, so you didn’t take an umbrella. An hour later, you’re caught in a torrential downpour. You run into the first store you can find — it happens to be a dark, slightly shabby antique store, full of old artifacts, books, and dust. The shop’s ancient proprietor walks out of the back room to greet you. Tell us what happens next!



It was sunny when you left home, so you didn’t take an umbrella??? I understand, but you know how I am: always prepared! I tote mine along, always, just in case. See, here? Ha-ha-ha. [Sip.] But I’m not saying my lid’s screwed on any tighter than yours, Polly — you know I’m not. Please say you do. We’re just different this way, along with many other ways. So, so many ways. [Siiiiip.]

Yes, I agree. Absolutely! They’re what have kept things interesting for us all these years: our differences.

And so an hour later, you’re caught in a torrential downpour??? Oh no! Poor, poor Polly… But who’s surprised? We knew we were going to hear a good story the second you opened your mouth, didn’t we? Of course we did! You and your adventures! Tell me: When does the memoir come out? Ha ha! No really! And then there’ll be a movie, too? Who will play you, do you think? Hmmmm. There’s a thought for us to nibble on while we wait for our food. Ha-ha! Ha. [Slurp.]

No, I’m just saying ….. Maybe it’s you, not our differences, that’s kept things interesting for us all these years. No, not maybe: it’s a fact. [Siiiiip.] Plain as day now, really, and you must know it. [Slurp.] But we can’t all forget our umbrellas at home and get caught in a surprise monsoon, so please, just go on with your story.

I’m not getting angry. I’m just grumpy. I’m … where is our food? [Slurrrp. Loud sigh.] Say, the chef isn’t a friend of yours is he (or she) — off having an adventure instead of making our lunch???

Oh, I’m joking, Polly! You know how offbeat I can sometimes be. Or is out of step? Out of line, maybe… . Anyway, please. Go on. You were caught in a torrential downpour and then what?

Nothing really, you say? Well, there must be something. That was an hour ago, at least. Hmmm…

My poor Polly, standing in a puddle; soaking wet and all befuddled! All at once, a …

Oh, no, Polly. It’s just that silly rhyming thing I do! It’s a tic, practically. It’s in my genes — you’ve met my mother: you KNOW it can’t be helped. It’s like you and your stories.

[Slurp.] You’re annoyed at me. Disappointed. No, no, I can see it. I’m sorry, Polly. I do want to hear your story. So much. I do. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you for so long —you have no idea. [Slight whimper.]

Thank you, Polly. That’s very sweet. It has been hard … at times. But we’re okay. Most days they’re fine. They eat what I make for them. They laugh at their shows. But no, they usually don’t seem to understand that I’m their daughter. He does more often than she, but even he, now… . It’s odd, though: they know they have a daughter; they just don’t seem to recognize… . I tell them, “Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll call Maude. I’m sure she’d love to come to visit again.” And then, a few days later — oh, this might be really bad, Polly — a few days later, I talk about the visit like it already happened. I usually try to incorporate something from before, something they might remember, and sometimes I can see a little light go off. “Yes!” my mother said last time, clapping her hands together. “Her lemon poppyseed cake! Maude knows that’s my favorite. Oh, our dear girl.” But then my dad added, “But was she well? Is she looking herself again? Seeing anyone?” I go on and on and on, all good. All lies. How bad is that of me, Polly? Tell me what you really think. I want to know. [Faint weep…]

Thank you, Polly. How sweet you are to me.

Of course you can! I’m impervious to delicate questions. Please! Don’t forget who you’re talking to, my soggy little miss!

Uh, um. Yes, we are. We’re getting by just fine. That won’t be an issue. Put it out of our head, Polly, please.

HURRAH!! I see the food! Thank goodness!!! I’m about to fall to pieces here. I’m sorry, Polly. I know I’m not at my best today. I wanted this to be fun.

Well, you’re sweet to say so, Polly. But oh my gosh, Polly, WHERE is the rest of your lunch??? How can you survive on that … bird’s snack? This is why you forget your umbrella. Malnourishment! Very hard to think straight when you’re starving. Sorry. Now let’s hear your story, please, go on with it.

What?? I don’t believe it, not for a moment. All this build up and nothing? Something happened! I can see it in your eyes and you’re keeping it from me. Something wonderful. I want to hear it. I need to!!! Tell me, Polly, please. [Gobble, gulp, slurp….] Please.

Okay then: My poor Polly forgot her umbrella, the rain came down and along came a fella. Polly said…

What? Went into an antique store and bought a what? A broche? Is that it?

Ohhhhhhh, my goodness. Yes. It is … very much like my mother’s, from the old country! She wore it only special occasions, you know. But it’s not exactly like it! Very similar, but not the same. Right, I’d know. I’d know for sure. Hers must be tucked away who-knows -where. Oh, I shudder to think about what I’ll find when it comes time. But it’s … oh, you’re very good to me, Polly. I’m going to cry.

[Sniff, sniff. Sip.] What store was it again? Well, do you remember the street? The proprietor? No? Malnourishment, I tell you!!!! What’s good for the jeans is not so great for the brain! Uh, there I go again. I sound like your mother. I’m just concerned, really, is all. [Slurp. Loud sigh.]

But was anything … do you recall anything said about the broche? Because I know sometimes there’s a story there, and I was so hoping for a story, Polly! You always come through! Ha-ha-ha!

So nothing, at all, was said about where the broche came from? Just curious.

Oh. Right. A person of any real character wouldn’t say, unless you really pried. But then a person with any real character wouldn’t pry. [Sip, sip. Nibble.]

I knew this old fellow once, used to play cards with my folks. He owned an old dump of an antique store down by the water. He’d be ancient by now so it may not be there anymore, but oh could he tell some stories. Anything you wanted to know about anything in the place, with or without purchase — all the gory details. I used to be enthralled, I admit, but now … well.  Anyway, it’s really not the kind of place you’d go, or want to go, I don’t think. Dark, shabby, dusty. Just the opposite of you, Polly. I doubt it’s there anymore anyway. And now, I’m not even sure it was down by the water at all.

Oh, me. Too much sipping.

Here, Polly, have some of my fish. I’m stuffed and I’m just betting you spent the money you set aside for lunch on this broche.

No? Well, it is beautiful. My mother will … she’ll be reminded of her own. And who knows what else that will bring back? Thank you again, Polly. I don’t know what I’d do without you, your sunny self, your sunny stories. Promise me you’ll never tote your umbrella along just in case. Promise me, Polly. [Sudden loud, long sob….]



Day 17: Sarah — My list of one…

List of “reason” I’ve not been blogging:

1. Sarah is here — We’ve been in the adoption process for a long time and planned to let our home study expire in August. And then on Friday, we became parents of our second child, a daughter. She’s a wee thing and still sorting a few things out at the hospital. So I (or we, in shifts) go sit with her for hours; not much else, beyond the absolute MUSTs, is getting done. I could itemize and make an actual list, I guess, but the fact is Sarah trumps all, transcends all, for right now.


I’m hoping you will not lose your faith in Lourdes Mint’s Mid-Life Miracle. I’m not.

Although I haven’t been posting (or, more accurately, completing my posts) since we first learned of Sarah, I have kept listening to those characters (from memories, old stories, my imagination, wherever), who it turns out have NOT given up on me, have not abandoned me for ignoring them for so long. THEY STILL BELIEVE I will write their stories. I think, how can that be? But they keep showing up. So I will too. I will write their stories — some of them, anyway, I’m sure. And I’d like to go back and finish some of the draft/incomplete blog posts too. At the very least, I WILL post the rest of Day 9’s story, which is just one hair shy — I think — of the absolute MUSTs mentioned above. (Oh my gosh, does that one take a turn … and then another and another!)

But, in the meantime, I’m writing longhand (not pretty) and even doing voice memos on my iPhone. Never, ever would’ve believed I’d be doing either (ever, ever, ever), just three weeks ago! It’s been all right, though. The thing is I have wanted SO MUCH to re-engage here, even though I know only a few people have read anything I’ve written (thank you angloswiss-chronicles.com/ for coming by more than once ;)*).

So today I offer you, myself, Sarah, Elliot, Roberto, and all my loves — real and imagined — this list of one. It might seem a bit gimmicky, clever-ish — oh, I don’t know. But it is HERE. And I am on my way again — from “nothingness, to darkness, to earnestness, to home” …. and then beyond, I hope. (Must look that quote up again. Always forget the source! Plus, I think it means something different to me than it does to the character who says it… . Happens a lot to Lourdes Mint. Ha ha.)

Off to see sweet Sarah, who smiled a huge smile at me yesterday. I know what they say about newborn’s smiling (e.g., it’s gas), but I WAS telling her a really funny story and I do think she saw the humor in it.

ANYWAY: I will be back. I will be back, I KNOW, because now I have another reason to reach my goal. I have another reason to try my very best.


* I never see a comment, though, so are these just pingbacks? (Not that I’d begrudge a single pingback [or many]. No, to the complete contrary!) So much to learn still about WordPress (and all the rest). I’m suspecting all, about WordPress I mean, would become a lot clearer with an Upgrade.

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