The Rest of My Life?

I’ve been asking myself for nearly a year now what I will do with the rest of my life and I can’t deny that it’s an impossible question.  I can barely say what I’m going to do with myself in the next 3 months let alone the inevitable 50 next years.  I’ve just turned 30 and all of the people who I went to school with are either married, getting married, well into having started their families, well into their careers, or otherwise successful human beings and that just doesn’t feel like me at this moment.

I’ve never truly known what I would be when I grow up, but I’ve always known what I like to do.  unfortunately, my likes are not special enough to make turning them into a career a very good option.  I like to cook (not in an industrial capacity),  I like to write, I like to knit and crochet, I like to plan, I like to do a lot of things, but me liking it and it being lucrative are two completely different things.

The past year has been very tough.  It’s probably the toughest year I’ve had to date and that is saying something.  The only conclusion that I’ve come to is that I really need to get off my ass and write my book(s).  The only thing that ever felt right was my being a writer, but how many others have said and felt the same thing to no end?  Sometimes it feels like the only contribution I can make to society is to document and chronicle the things the I seem and the things that people are too scared to say.  That being said, I hate to report that those things aren’t very interesting a lot of the time.

Who cares that the vast majority of people out there are screaming in silent frustration at the world around them?  We all know this, it isn’t a new observation for most of us.  The writers that are still read to this day found a way to break the human condition down to its base elements and resonate within their hearts.  What is my story?  What is the truth that I’ve got in me to chronicle?

I don’t have an answer.  I’ve heard too many times that if you’re trying to tell a true story and it is still to close to your own pain, then you won’t be able to effectively convey both sides that make it dynamic.  I still don’t know what that means, I just know that it rings in my ears as I fail to write something.  I’ve been recently focusing on fiction and that seems to be helping.  Taking the people who I know and love and translating my feelings of isolation into a world where we can all be together- it’s cathartic because it would never really happen.

So, my question to you- my two loyal readers- is this:

What is the point?  What is the magic that we are meant to bring into this world?


Angry Squirrel

This is a repost of a repost from:

BUT I have to say that the previous blogger was correcto- this is too good not to share!  Happy Saturday 😀

Angry squirrel

I don’t know who wrote this, but he tells it quite visually and it’s sure worth a laugh or two…If nothing else gives you a good belly laugh this year this will and will last the whole year.

I never dreamed slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect.

I was on Brice Street – a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I passed an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.

It was a squirrel, and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it — it was that close. I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle, but a squirrel should pose no danger to me.

 I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers, never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Valkyrie with steadfast resolve in his beady little eyes.

His mouth opened, and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, “Bonzai!” or maybe, “Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!” The leap was nothing short of spectacular…

He shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack.

Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel. And losing…

I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there.

It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel.

This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH! Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my BACK and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all.

His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled, to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Valkyrie can only have one result.


This is what the Valkyrie is made for, and she is very, very good at it.

The engine roared and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Valkyrie screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in . well .. I just plain screamed.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back.

The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder. With the sudden acceleration I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike.

This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices, but I really did not want to crash into somebody’s tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle…my brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big cruiser.

About this time the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death), and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me.

As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on the Dragon maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment), so her front end started to drop.

Now picture a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel’s tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

Finally I got the upper hand … I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked … sort-of.

Spectacularly sort-of … so to speak.

Picture a new scene. You are a cop. You and your partner have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly a large man on a huge black and chrome cruiser, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by, and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your police car.

I heard screams. They weren’t mine… I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy cross street. I would have returned to ‘fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have.

Really… Except for two things.

First, the cops did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The cop from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody’s front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The cop who had been in the driver’s seat was standing in the street, aiming a riot shotgun at his own police car. So, the cops were not interested in me. They often insist to “let the professionals handle it” anyway.

That was one thing. The other? Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me. That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A somewhat shredded patrol car but it was all his.

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right turn off of Brice Street, and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And a whole lot of Band-Aids.

Another Dream

So I had another dream that stuck in my head the other night … if you can really call it a dream.  I was meditating before bed and I finally managed to get back to my meadow.  Let me do a little explanation first.

When I meditate, my ‘happy’ place is a lush green meadow that sits next to a stream surrounded by a dense forest.  There is a large flat rock in the middle- it’s a lovely place.  Anyway- for quite a while now I haven’t been able to get to this visualization when I meditate and it’s frustrated me to no end.  I’d stopped trying to be perfectly frank, but the other night, I thought that I’d give it a shot.  I put on my thunderstorm sounds to dull the parking lot outside of my apartment and began my deep breathing.

It took me a good while to find the clearing again, but once I was there, it was different than it had been.  Not in a bad way, but greener, like going from Kelly green to a Jade green and it was a little overgrown.  I was so happy to be there and I could feel myself relaxing for having accomplished this feat, then I saw someone else there.  I don’t know who I was seeing, but it was a man for all intents and purposes was a yellowish light- picture the aliens in Cocoon, but yellowish and glowy.

Obviously I was a little perturbed to find an invader, but I was also kind of happy for no reason, so I welcomed the man in.  For a little while, it was like we were doing a dual meditation with energy flowing between the two of us through the hands like a circle.  This was kind of cool and my tummy felt tingly, but then I lost the image and grudgingly came back to reality, like I was being dragged out of the relaxing place between consciously knowing that you are asleep and when you are happily unaware that you are dreaming. 

Once I forced my arms and legs to move, I went to sleep, but I was seeing that scene the entire next day.  Any thoughts from the brain trust as to what the interpretation of this dream should be?  I secretly think that it had to do with the egg and cheese biscuit I’d eaten that day, but who knows.  Analyse away!