scrumptious monkey

so much more than an amp -- and yet, not.


Exit Too Easy..?

Got two bags packed -- still putting together the backpack.

Being that I am fat -- but wah-hoo, losing girth steadily over the past few weeks -- I've packed some decent button down blouses that will serve right up til my shoulders fall out of the neck, goddess willing.
Future Smocks! lol.

it's so quiet here. I've been watching a documentary on John and Abigail Adams; Our house is going through a typical Sunday afternoon...

but it's the last Sunday Afternoon Rob and I will share. Shouldn't there be more to it than the same patterns...

and well -- I guess that's the point of why I'm leaving, right there.
What a contrast.

"Real love isn't just looking into one another's eyes -- it's looking out together, in the same direction." ~ said about John and Abigail Adams, "The American Experience".
Enough mourning what never was...

I'm going to pack a box to be sent tomorrow: sharp objects, beloved stuffies, CDs, the rest of my teas; some tea mugs. canvas bags. I'll be fretful until they arrive (they -- not it!) but I cannot bring them with me. If ever a cardboard box was packed with Tender Loving Care, it's this one.

There's just no room in the bags for anything but needful things...
well -- almost...

The two "frivolous" items packed into the nauga tote are framed pictures of my parents.
I remember the year Dee gave the pair as Christmas gifts to all of us (kids): pictures taken of each one; just before they met, I imagine -- 18 year olds.
I've never displayed them; to be brutally honest I thought, what the heck will I ever do with these things? I'm not a family album kind of person.
Clearing the bookcase I'd tucked the pictures into, I was forced to look at them for the first time in years.

My mom looks like a sassy film noir Babe; just before that sauciness gets her in trouble...
My dad looks like a wide eyed kid who wants to go on adventures with Pecos Bill or Paul Bunyan... maybe Johnny Appleseed. No wonder his nickname was "Babe".
They are both so very, very young.
I was never that young.
I think in the past -- I resented that.
I had to grow up to let it go.

is it fitting or ironic that of everything in this house; what goes with me from the past are pictures of my parents taken before they ever knew they'd be coupled forever in my DNA?..

lol. Since it's moi -- both.

FLY* Lady

I've been on a rampage of ruthless de-packratting. I have heard clutter and the timesink can be managed. Without a domestic staff.
I signed up 3 days ago and it seems to be keeping me from losing my mind -- and you KNOW what I'm doing right now!

every email from the group starts with a cyber-hug:
"You are not behind! I don't want you to try to catch up; I just want you to jump in where we are. O.K.?"

This was the info that made me decide to check it out. (Part of an email newsletter I've gotten for months that delivers PC tips; the FLY Lady site was "Amanda's Cool Site" for 1/26/06)
Do you have a lot of clutter in your house? Did your home just sort of get away from you? Well I know mine has. There is almost no useable storage. The closets are all tiny and there is nowhere to really put anything.

By joining Fly Lady – which is free – you'll start on a step by step journey to reclaim your house from the clutter within it, as well as, keep a really shiny sink! To join, head over to the Flying Lessons link were you will see "Join FlyLady."

This site is all about teaching you baby steps to get your life organized. It teaches us to stop listening to the perfectionist side of ourselves that wants everything done now and done right. It didn't take just one day for your house to get away from you, even though it may feel like it happened overnight.

Some of my favorite sections are Kelly's Mission, which you will find in the FLY zones section. This is where you can find, what I would describe as, a weekly mission. When I was there, it was to work on the bedroom. The Table of Contents is also a great section. It really helped me navigate around this site and stay on track.

Food for Thought is an awesome section filled with ideas on menu planning and it even has recipes for you to try. It also has some for your slow cooker.

The FLY FAQ – this is a good section to take a look at. I love checking out the frequently asked questions, because this is where you can access information about what people are generally confused about. Who knows, they might be confused about the same things you are, so it's an easy way to get info quick!

Now, I'll leave it up to you to decide if you think Fly Lady's method to declutter your life will work for you or not. But, you know, even if this way is too much for you, you can definitely pick up little tips. A shiny sink really does make you feel proud!


Alright, I admit it seems like indoctrination for a Stepford transplant... then again -- I am darn happy (and FLYing) at the moment -- even with a gadzillion things I should be doing.
I wonder how long the euphoria will last..?
hmmm... Maybe when I get to ****** -- I'll change my name to Euphoria! =)
*FLY stands for Finally Loving Yourself.


All That You Leave Behind

I'm at the packing stage, now.

Since I'm changing planes in New Jersey, I'd like to keep most everything I'm going to need with me in either a carry on or a backpack.

• first and foremost -- medications and glucose testing kit; a couple protein bars in with it.
I am anticipating stress -- and when I'm stressed, my sugar drops and I get woozy.
I plan on checking my blood sugar a few times; and taking steps to keep it in the safety range of 85-130.

• Music. I have a CD walkman, and I'm planning on bringing a few CDs with me. EJ of course. How could I possibly go to live somewhere new without EJ. Even if it does seem like carrying coal to Newcastle.
It's so hard to decide which of the other ones will have to be sent separately.

• Something to read and a journal to write in. I'm bringing my Karen Elizabeth Gordon writing handbooks (I have the first two -- didn't know there were two more! Life is SOO Good!); and I found my Jean Giraudoux four plays: Ondine, The Enchanted, The Madwoman of Chaillot, and The Apollo of Bellac.
I've packed up bibles, grimories, dictionaries, cookbooks, novels, and there is a stack of 342 essentials I have to either box up or pare down to just two more. This is agonizing. Even donated about 500 books so far.
Interesting pickings to be had now at the second hand shop, "My Sisters Place", to be sure.

• Albert Milo Bhaer. Out of all the toys I've collected over the years, this jointed teddy bear has been with me the longest (replacing the disintegrated "yellow dog" of toddler hood).

My sister Dee made A.M.B. from a kit -- and he is unique. (I believe he was the first and last bear she turned her crafty hands to...) Albert has a sweet face. I've often thought I'd take him apart to tighten up the five joints that hold him together -- he seems fragile; as if too tight a squeeze and he'd pop apart. He hasn't yet: and OPENING HIM FOR(unnecessary)REPAIRS would be like performing surgery on a loved one for cosmetic purposes. (Re: Hawthorn. Shudder.)

There are other, special rag doll style bears I have boxed up -- taking the soft blue bear and soft green bear from their shelves I realized I'd never named the pair -- and promptly dubbed them "Blueberry" and "Ptelea". Annelise Bhaer, who has sat beside Albert since she arrived in my life (wearing her maroon wool dress and plaid brown shawl) has gone into the box, as well. Bears are not the only anthropomorphized "stuffies" -- there's also a cowboy Santa. No, really! Complete with candy cane side irons, gingerbread vest, and holly on his cowboy hat.

I have yet to deal with the pile of Raccoons on the end table in the living room; they will require a box to themselves.

I may just squish my beloved TY 18 inch bean bag teddy Thomas (from sister Kee) into the carry-on...

What these toys represent in my life chokes me up and dissolves words into tears.
Some things provide roots for the disenfranchised, wherever they set for the moment -- and I know that's what these toys have done for me.
I'd like to personally give them away to children who need them.

• In a plastic bag... jewelry. Weird, that I wont be wearing these things; but it's just the flight.

• a plastic bag -- of tea bags. so I'm a tea snob. I live with it.

• Four big t-shirts. some trousers.

• Underthings for a few days.

• Slippers, and socks...

• Toiletry items

Seriously, I wonder how guys pack for "The Road".

I may end up with another bag to check in, with my "dress" blouses.
and I'm going a little nutty over the fact my only pair of shoes really need to be replaced. I haven't found another pair!
How hard are canvas oxford deck shoes in men's 10-1/2 to find?!..
evidently -- very.

My sink is shiny(see above post); my laundry is drying, and tomorrow means one day closer to Tuesday.

(little bird) Lilly.


Tuesday Morning Never Looked So Good*

I think I am going to give myself permission to take tomorrow off.
Not that I will -- but I'm going to be a complete mess by Tuesday Morning if I don't get some rest and stop this crazy whirl of emotional swings.

So many "firsts" to consider..

• I've never flown on a plane... and Tuesday morning I have to take two of them.
• Never been further than New Jersey from the place I was born.
• Never ended a marriage before.
• Never thought I'd ever get to where I'll be going...

Overwhelmed... but HAPPY.
*first line from the Freddy Jones Band song, "Daydream".


Busy Busy Busy...

I'm not going to be making many posts here for a bit.

You see --

I'm in a transitional phase, physically.
I'll say where and when when I get there.

Some of you -- my friends -- have been told.
If I didn't delete your dang addy when I closed my earthlink box! sheesh.


I've recently pointed out the blog to some people who are new to reading blogs.
You start in the archives.
click February 2005 -- and read them by scrolling to the bottom for the first entry, and scrolling up, from there.

don't forget to click and read the comments -- they can be the best part!

love you all.


[The Desk Drawer] MISC...

Sorry I haven't been around: I've been immersed in a different sort of writer's group [click post title for link].

I've also not-quite-enjoyed an aborted love affair; got my mental fanny spanked for being "too emotional" (again; and the first and second items are not related except through my being on the receiving end); written a ream of poetry formed emails that have changed my perception on ... everything.

on top of everything else...
I've picked up a new addiction: her name is A.A., she's an Editor-goddess. This is her cat, Mousette. Magnificent: her cattitude here reminds me of Maneater.

been doing a clean up on The Cat Story: I'll have to finish the re-write and post it again. I'm going to let the original stand -- just to remind anyone who cares to compare both 2,000+ word essays what a DIFFERENCE an editor can make!

I feel like I've been reprieved from prison.
(lighthearted, laughing) Lilly
Here's the full piece, edited. I've put a line where the submission begins -- and colored the lines that were excised (tying the piece together with the first half)
You can compare it to the original, HERE


I had a dream about cats last night.

A few weeks ago I was in a pet supply mega-store and they were having a cat adoption program-drive: a bunch of lovely, shy, resigned felines in cages looking at the humans looking at them.

I don't allow myself to look in eyes like that -- I am too much a cat myself these days to bow in service to the Supreme Lifeform of the Earth. I still resent being born this time around sans tail, but I'd thought I'd gotten over the need of ownership. Not to be a Cat Owner (as if any human ever "owned" a cat!) but to be Kept by one...

In my dream last night I was back in the pet store -- and all the cats I'd ever known but one were in the cages...

Growing up in a near rural area, we had cats as a necessity: the house was between two creeks with a swampy back lot and an ancient barn my father used as a garage shop. There were lots of critters one would not want to become too friendly with or be surprised by in the dark, and so the succession of patrol felines.

I use the term "near rural" because the one road going past the house was a major route from deep boonies into the more populated city, and it was located approximately three feet from the front door. (You would be surprised at the sort of noise you can be right on top of and sleep straight through!)

This did make our home a final destination for Humane Society cats. On the right, land and swamp-jungle and wildflower tangle meadows as far as a cat may ramble. On the left -- the IMMEDIATE left! -- sudden death screaming down on you at about 70 mph in the form of interstate tractor trailers and beer-pumped teenagers in too much car for that little share of brains.

We went through a bunch of cats -- some lasting a year, more than a few a matter of weeks, and a memorable handful that I can only describe as --"Free At Last!! YAY!!" -- SPLAT!! (awful, but reminiscent of the Monty Python film "Life of Brian", in which a Roman Centurion questions the nonchalant attitude of an old codger toward the possibility of his impending death by crucifixion by exclaiming, "But that's a horrible death!" The old man says "Yes, but at least you're out in the open air...")

I didn't really get attached to any of the cats until I was old enough to start having a hand in naming them. "Inky" was a black and white Asian mixed kitten my sister Carol found at the back of the convenience store a mile up the road. Inky lived to be 14 and eventually died of the dread Meatloaf Disease so well chronicled by B. Kilban in his cat drawings (where the cat as she ages gradually turns into a (barely animated) meatloaf-shaped entity.)

In Inky's twilight months we brought home a kitten to stimulate her, as is recommended by certain animal "experts"; and the only stimulus effect I could see was that Inky would stop cold in the doorway of the room where Guinevere was frolicking in high cuteness kitty mode, give the cattish glare of "What Fresh Hell Is This?" feline disdain towards all bipeds present, and do the slink and inversion reverse cat exit from the doorway.

I interpreted this to mean Inky did not care for the energetic charms of the kitten; and I had my suspicions further confirmed by the dear old girl departing this world shortly after Guinevere's arrival, Inky having attained full meatloaf form: an inert island on a flood of bladder release, dead center between my wheelchair dependent younger sister's ankles -- perhaps Inky had knotted onto her mortal skein, holding out for one of Susan's rare visits home from College? I'd like to think so: Who wouldn't want to take the option of leaving this Earth surrounded by the comfortingly familiar?..

But I didn't want to talk about Inky and Gwen -- I wanted to talk about MY cats: Maneater and Godzilla.

They arrived as kittens at the same time, though I don't remember if they were litter mates. Zilla was the definition of a Kipling cat. She was a sinewy spar gray,with the hint of tiger striping in charcoal from her shoulders back to her tail, which was plain gray and held in a perpetual question mark "?" bend and curl, whatever her mood or occasion.

Godzilla was a backyard ghost. She was a house ghost. I tried to bond with her over the years, but she was not the sort to approve of human-feline fraternization; all I saw of her was, fittingly, a shadow (what "Zilla" means, in Hebrew) and two emerald green eyes peering-into-the-unseen from the haunts of kitty corners. When I moved out of the house at nineteen, Zilla took The Road Out in beginner "FROGGER" fashion within the first two weeks of my leaving. Did she miss me? Had I mattered to her? Was it just her name getting read out from the karma kitty-callup? I got the cleanup call, as ever, and thought about what makes a self-contained proper cat do the splat, as I tried to give her burial in frost-hardened winter ground.

•••••••••••• exercise starts ••••••••••••

Maneater started out as my sister's cat: When I moved back home two years later to take care of my mom after surgery, Mannie and Inky lived in a state of detente; and the once aloof, conceited-and-proud-of-it Maneater attached herself to me in doglike fashion. I'm sure she was simply bored and missed Susan, who had started college that year.

Maneater...was a big cat made house cat size. Amongst feline definitions of beauty she excelled all conventional notions -- a Siberian with tortoiseshell brushstrokes of vibrant autumn displayed like treasure on a graduated mink coat with an asymmetrical, broken blaze of honey, amber, and gold echoing the Halloween perfection of pumpkin orange eyes; smooth sable shoulders with the left forepaw gauntleted in a swirl of color; and her back end and tail as full and bushy as if she were dressed in cossack trousers. Breathtaking in a "Oh, what IS that?!!" glimpse of something that should have been feral and predatory as well as Queen of All She Surveyed.

This cat became my companion and gave me the privilege of her direct, Cattitude Attentions. My desk is an old 1930's oak teacher's desk, the surface top of which measures 60"x34". "Manita" would sit like a Bastet statue on the desk just to the left of my left hand and watch me read or write in my journal. I, of course, had to start our conversations, but once she had my attention things rolled along as you might expect between a so called "dumb" animal and a lonely human -- which is to say she played me like a piano and I thought she was a Clever Puss!

We were a team. From the moment the alarm clock went off and she started her kitty yoga alongside my shoulder, taking care of my mom throughout the day, she was always ready to offer suggestions on what "Baby Jane" enhancements we could torture the old lady with -- devious little minx of a mind! At the end of the day, I'd put the reading and writing aside and say, "You ready for bed, Miss Thing?" We'd get up from the desk together and hop into bed, and that swirled left paw would always tap my chin or an ear as if to wish me pleasant dreams before we curled into separate fetal knots for sleep.

She was as content to look upon me as I was pleased to look upon her, and there were times I'd KNOW with absolute certainty she not only understood what I was saying to her (not towards her, but TO her) but agreed with me on that level where words of reply are superfluous; an incline of that head, a perfectly timed blink -- the twitch of a nose as if to say, go on...

She never suggested she was bored and I had to play with her. None of this head butting, "how can you look at that silly book while I am sitting here in all my splendorous beauty"; no attempts to chase the pen scratching along on the paper like some ersatz mouse. She sat. She watched. When invited, she provided feedback -- for my sake, I am sure; all she really ever needed from me in the mix of our friendship was my big bipedal presence. Maybe she liked the sound of my voice? I don't know. What makes a dumb beast dumb, but our own lack of understanding?...

My mom eventually regained mobility and went back to work, and I stayed and got a job working at the kennel down the road.

Maneater at first was quite appalled at the smells I brought back with me at the end of the day and the disruption to our daily routine, but she adjusted -- and gave me the space to get stripped down and showered before she'd pop up and we'd chat over the day we had: Her end of the conversation mostly being a blink for yes; a yawn for, _"You've got to be kidding me, O Two-Legger-No-Tail."_

Mannie had her job to do too: She was the chief patrol cat during the day shift, and she had been neglecting her rounds to care for the caregiver during those first two months of my return home. (Mom had gone into the hospital for a replacement hip and been infected with staph, and then she slipped on a wet floor in the hospital corridor and fractured the good hip! Being that I was the only member of the family who did not have -- a) a husband/family of my own to care for, or b) a career to advance in, or c) an education to be furthering -- I got volunteered to assist at home. Sealing my fate was the fact I was temporarily homeless since the Drug Factory in the third floor apartment had gone up in flames, and all my worldly possessions on the first floor were waterlogged. It was deemed a fortuitous chain of events -- for my other five siblings who would not have to deal with Mother on a daily basis.
BTW it was around this time I stopped believing in a merciful Christian God.)

About four months into the kennel gig, we had a freak summer storm blow through our area -- quite the biblical overkill, with day becoming night and hail the size of golf balls doing major property damage. The dogs in the kennel went berserk. I got home and my sister's boyfriend was sitting in the kitchen. Susan wheeled out of the bathroom and looked at him then looked at me and looked at him again. Mom was still at work.

I don't remember who told me Mannie was dead, though I seem to remember the boyfriend did most of the talking.

Maneater was found in front of the house, on the side of the road:killed by a vehicle in that storm. I was gently led to understand (as gently as a graphic horror can be dissembled) that she'd been turned inside out. My sister's boyfriend had already buried the remains; a small blessing to have it "taken care of" before I would be given the grisly task by Mom.

As I type this, the pain and frustration of that bereavement roars up from the past and bleeds -- hemorrhages -- as if it has just happened... and I need to stop typing and mop up the tears and snot before I fry the keyboard.

This happen 23 years ago, and my consolation is I got over it, and I'll get over it again.
Time heals -- but memory is a knife.

In my family, I have the reputation as the Strong One. The Smart One.
She's got a stainless steel spine and she doesn't take shit from anyone, not her Husband, not Mom, not God -- nobody!

My Mother and I have come to a detente of our own -- but that's a story for another time, as are my love-hate love relationships with male figures throughout my life. That cat was one of the most important relationships of my life.

A cat.

I've had dogs since... but today... I just ... miss my cat.


Rolling Stones Age Ban Revoked

Organizers of the Rolling Stones' upcoming performance at the Super Bowl in Detroit have been forced to lift a controversial ban against audience members over the age of 45.

Initially aging fans were told they would be refused entry to the field and dance area during the concert because the National Football Team deemed the show too strenuous for older attendees.

But when critics insisted the decision meant the rockers were too old for their own show, officials were forced to revoke the ban.

The area immediately before the stage is reserved for 2,000 rock volunteers, who will be asked to sing and boogie for the TV cameras.

NFL spokesman Brian McCarthy says, "We wanted to open it up."
wow -- I say we bring in the Boogie-Bingo-Bluehairs to show them some hip-replaced jitterbugging.

what a silly thing to get stuffed on.
it doesn't strike anyone as icky -- the chicks screaming for Mick are old enough to be his Granddaughter?! eeeewwwww Chinatown flashbacks, ewwwwww.

Our Darkside...(a discussion)

ok ok. Found a Yahoo Witch group In Austin (!) and just hadta join -- these are my kinda peeps.
This was recently posed on the list:
Pilarr Azure wrote:
Some various Pagan religions involve the concept of understanding and facing one's Shadow ... seeking one's inner self, and integrating that self into our daily lives.

What does integrating that self mean to you? If it's the darker part of our nature, does that mean we would then act in a meaner way, or more understand that darker part of ourselves and accept it, while not acting on it?

How can we, societally, use the concept of integrating our Shadow-self to improve the world around us? Is that possible? Is it necessary?

Make any sense at all?

No "right" or "wrong" answers --- all opinions welcome.

My answer:

It's been a radical concept for a while, but whenever this discussion comes up I think of Spinoza.
He went against the Descartes "duality" by writing about "Oneness". His ideas didn't catch on because he was a bit of an ascetic, a dutch jew who's example of "living sainthood" -- chaffed the heck on everybody, lol.

When DID humanity accept that the soul is divided into "light" and "dark"?
This is introduced in Judeo-Christian thought in the book of Genesis.
To me, that's when things fell apart -- and to quote a smart man, "A house divided against itself cannot stand."
Neither can the soul.

I wonder about this a lot.
First there is innocence -- and that is a wholeness. Innocence doesn't know "good" and "evil" as concepts. There is only "the self".
Unfortunately, society today doesn't value something that cannot be bought and sold -- it hurts but it's true: if it ain't a commodity, the trend is to belittle, invoke envy, inflame desire -- turn the intangible gold into some kind of coin; and so shatter our wholeness.
and the bastards take the sweepings of that shattered perfection, grind it up, add filler, repackage it and sell it back to us -- as if anyone *could buy* wholeness / innocence.

The Shadow self is not less, and it is not more. It is who we are:but it has become a separate entity because we are taught to shroud it in fear, and to distance ourselves from it, by people who were taught to do the same thing by people who were taught the same thing.

Do you know the story of the five monkeys?..

five monkeys were put in a room: they were given adequate food and care, but a bunch of bananas hung from the ceiling out of reach, and in the room with them were various sized boxes that one smart monkey stacked to get to the bananas...
but when she reached for the bunch of bananas, their observers turned fire hoses on all the monkeys -- punishing the whole group for the actions of the one, with (obviously) no explanation given. this was repeated every time one of the monkeys went for the out of reach food source.
after a bit, the other monkeys didn't allow any monkey to stack boxes to go for the bananas -- policing themselves.
Then one monkey was removed and replaced with a different monkey.
The new monkey got the bright idea to stack boxes to get to the bananas -- and without any prompting, the other four monkeys restrained the new one from doing so. Violently -- and without reason (as we know it) because they knew the consequences of the action: getting unpleasantly hosed whenever any monkey tried to get to the bananas.
gradually, one by one all of the original test group were replaced with new monkeys -- and the hose-down was never repeated...
Even though NONE of the monkeys who experienced the punishment for box stacking was still in the group, the LAW of not stacking boxes to get to the bananas was strictly enforced by all the monkeys when a new monkey appeared with a "new" idea to get to the bananas.
welcome to how morality is shaped.

I suppose we need to define just what Innocence / Wholeness is.
Societally it's viewed as a deficiency (because of reasons stated above) seen as a limited state. We try to protect it in children (and other creatures we love) even as we acknowledge that "growing as a person" means an eventual loss of innocence.

excuse me?
Fellow monkeys -- when was the last time YOU were hosed?!
And if you were -- did you understand the WHY of it?

I believe the handicap to overcome is the *reasoning* of this duality.
If you seek enlightenment -- and let's be honest, a LOT of people do not; can't be bothered, and would be mightily offended by the offer -- you are going to have to deal with integrating your whole Being -- and the big surprise to be had is that -- it IS and always has been -- whole.

but overcoming the duality concept and embracing your whole self means being MORE responsible for yourself. Pilarr wrote:
If it's the darker part of our nature, does that mean we would then act in a meaner way, or more understand that darker part of ourselves and accept it, while not acting on it?
by embracing our wholeness, we lose nothing but fear, want, and ignorance -- and we gain understanding, compassion, and acceptance. First for ourselves: and it's true, whatever system you work in -- to truly love others, you have to love yourself first: and by that I do mean accept and love all of who you are. Unconditionally.

but enough from me -- I usually open my yap and kill these threads stone cold dead. (lol.)


The Wyrd of Words

The Wyrd of Words

You said you loved me
And I believed you
Words are powerful

When you invoke
The ancients, O man.
But you are a modern

Man -- and I am not
Of your time. Words
Are nothing to you;

You use them like
Tools -- a means to
An end.

Your word means
Nothing, and so you
Are weighed; think --

You cheat the scale?
There is a reason The
Goddess is blindfolded as

She Lifts the Balances:
I am blind to your
Show of pretty,

Empty words; and you
O man --
Are lacking.

© Jeen Lilly

take a few minutes...

yes, the music is "New Age".
The sentiments are too.
wish this WAS our New Age...

maybe if enuff people share it...

click title or copy and paste this:

btw: when I sign an email / post / letter with
"Love and Light" --
this is what I mean.


*A Hug*

Image hosted by

A Hug*
Hugging is good medicine. It transfers energy,
and gives the person hugged an emotional boost.

You need four hugs a day for survival,
eight for maintenance,
and twelve for growth.

A hug makes you feel good.

The skin is the largest organ we have and it needs a great deal of care.
A hug can cover a lot of skin and gives the message that you care.
It is also a form of communication.
It can say things you don't have words for.

The nicest thing about a hug is that you usually can't give one without getting one.

~•~•~ ~•~•~ ~•~•~ ~•~•~

many hugs to you from me
even if they're "only" Cyber-etically.
Love and Light,

* from the footer of GrannyMoon's Morning Feast

Group Therapy / On Robin's Song of Hiding

•••It started with this poem from Beth...

If I could, I would run,
Run and run without stopping
Until I came to a place
That felt safe, felt very safe;

Then I would hide there
Until I was sure
That you had passed on by
And could never see me.

I would hide behind the doorways,
I would hide behind the stairways;
I would hide behind the trees
And I would burrow under shrubs.

And if you never find me
I would be ever so happy;
I never want to see you again
I never want you to see me.

I would hide behind the mailbox
I would crawl inside a tunnel
Even hide in the chimney
To get away from you.

Running away isn’t enough
And can never be far enough
Never, never, never
Do I want to see you!

I would hide underwater
And breathe through reeds
I would wear a police uniform
Or dress up like a monk

I would spend a million dollars
I would spend all my allowance;
I would do anything at ALL
To never see you!

© Copyright 12/26/05
Beth Johnson
(Mystic Amazon)
•••which brought this from Robin:
I am so sorry you have had to go through this. I really CAN understand. I am not sure if I told you this or not, but I have a poem, "Hidden" and it is sort of like this poem you wrote. I used to get in BAD trouble if I cried, so if there was ever a time when I could not help but cry, I would go in the bathroom, turn on the shower, and sit on the pot and cry. We had these shelves that we kept our folded towels and wash cloths in, and I would fantasize about being so small, that I would be able to burrow down into the towels and be safe and warm and so small nobody could ever find me.

To all those who retreated the only way they could, from the hurtful
touch of one who was supposed to love but didn't know how.


I'm much too small for you to see
I'm hidden here inside of me
I ran far away, and now I'm lost
You didn't know what your action's cost

The words, they hurt me the most of all
You never even saw my tears fall
Shrinking back in fear and shame
You told me I was the one to blame

For all the times you hurt or hit
I went away, lost bit by bit
Wandering inside my mind, all broken
Where no more hurtful words are spoken

No matter how you try to reach me
You have no lessons left to teach me
The lights are on, but I'm not here
I'm hidden, safe, from all I fear

Robin Stansbury
•••and I wrote this:

I was that poem. When we hide, we enable the abuser.
hiding seems like the only choice to survive, since society is just as likely to punish the abused person as the abuser: more so, because we are labelled "victim". We are both scorned and pitied -- to distance what happened to us from the people who "hear" about it.
And fixing a label on a victim makes it easier to forget about the survivor.

I will never "get over" what was done to me. But I have been able to get past it enough to talk about it. There is NOTHING for me to gain in seeking vengeance against the sociopath who used me: there is everything in my breathing free in fresh air ... and talking about it.

On Robin's Song of Hiding

When I was small I was nothing.
It took me forever to feel something.
A ghost of a child who wished to
disappear -- but found herself bound

and used -- by anyone who spoke
a kind word; cold manipulation:
I didn't know I was rare.
All I knew was no one cared.

My talent is to see inside
and ohh the ugliness; I wept;
cried myself silently to sleep
one eye open; no rest for me.

Everything I learned was twisted
like learning music from a tone
deaf tutor -- I would sooner have
not existed. Do you know how old

I was, when I made my first break
for Heaven?.. That's right: suicidal
thoughts at seven. When abusers
chose, they are sooo selective

Convince the abused that we're
Defective! We ask for it, you
didn't know?
We're the bad ones
and we can't we deserve

This private hell; created by ones
we are told to trust -- no wonder
we feel God gave up on us.
No punishment for a monster

could ever be enough, no
healing for what was ripped
before my mind could grasp it.
I moved from hate and hurt

into hurt and hate... Happiness?
drifted past it. I was the
walking wounded -- shell shocked
and hidden so deep inside

but never safe. There is no
safe when you know everything
is a lie. The semblance of
conformity, just what people

Want to see. I was bent and
molded by a warped artist
who got his kicks from the
forbidden -- and sneered at any

and all women who thought
they were too good for him;
so he stole what was not offered.
Oh they knew he was bad

and they were sure he'd be
hung -- but no one knew just
HOW bad or... what he'd done.
but now -- you do...

Sign me No Name. Sign
me Every Name: look into
the eyes -- of the disenfranchised.
Tom Joad's got nothing on me.

© Jeen Lilly

•••from Robin:
I am so sorry, Lilly, but yes, talking about it is the key. Letting people know that not just ignorant, uneducated weak women are abused. Children are abused, and women from all walks of life are too.

Just call it Group Therapy...


Groups... why'd it have to be groups...

I am a loner by nature. I recognize my weirdness and I celebrate it -- off in the corner, chuckling at my own little translation of the world; it's a bittersweet thing.


it's kind of funny to be the moderator in a group when you really don't fit into a group mentality -- but the group itself isn't a group mentality anyway.

rather like herding cats.

I was given a board to host with the tongue-in-cheek title of "Philosophy and Other BS" in an MSN group. It started as a joke...

I think.

But it's turned into the one place [in the group] where serious discussion happens -- with a good deal of snarky and goofy humor lightening the dark roast -- and it has attracted it's "regulars."

I remember an English teacher I had who confided in me that there was nothing more loathsome on earth to him that High School Love Poetry. Necessary for the angst riddled soul; but jaysus couldja do it in private and wash your hands afterwards?! I joined a couple Yahoo writing groups -- completely the opposite of poetry X (where everything is given a rewrite and the joy of the words are drained to a monochrome, minimalist grey -- manly MAN poetry, man!) the Yahoo groups are all about saying "I love you and your writing." They are Support Groups for broken hearts who write gawd awful unreadable angst wrung poems... AND house a few actual poets who can write: prolifically, consistently GOOD.
Everyone throws a clunker once in a while, but a handful of these people "got it".

I've been wrestling with my creative spark. Use it or lose it: and I'm not using it nearly enough to give me that warm glow of accomplishment...
More words, more work; more happiness.
or at least something to show for taking up this space...

The Little Daisy Monsters On the Beach
i luv u so

There are some threads and
some boards that just whoosh
on past -- and I'll toss a bon mot
(or not) if it happens to tickle
my funny.

I get VERY boo-boo kitty
when my creative work
i.e. the eff-ort-ing stuff
gets passed on.
feels like pissed on.

finding the serious corner
is like drawing up to a
warm driftwood bonfire
on a beach: the figures
drawn around, to it

partially visible; pseudo
fantastiques: could be
faeries, demons. Or just
folks -- all together and
separate: catching sparks

and blowing smoke; with
one common thought
one hope traveled toward
one gift to take and give:

~ Lilly