“Never write anything on paper because it can be used against you,” Mom warned me as a child. I was twelve when my sixth grade teacher told me to start writing a journal. She gave us little blue lined notebooks and time to write in them each day. I was prepared to lie about my life. I really wanted to write my truth, however, so I wrote about what was going on at home, booze, loss, blood and heartbreak. My dad was an alcoholic and soon went to a hospital, and his brother committed suicide because he couldn’t stop drinking. We lived in a periodically insane alcoholic world of never knowing when things would explode. I felt mortified every time I thought about Dad’s recent black out and how he drunkenly fell down at the local pool shredding his elbow. I overheard a woman call me ‘the drunk man’s daughter’ and I never wanted to return to the pool or take another breath on this planet.
Then my teacher said, “I’m collecting your journals and will read them over the weekend.” Like Hell you are, I thought. Continue reading “Trusting paper matters” »
I recently attended a public meeting, and a beautiful woman in her seventies stood, greeting people as they entered the building. She looked really together, not one hair out of place, coordinated clothes, and shiny shoes, perfectly applied lipstick. The woman stopped me as I passed through, and started grilling me. Did I know what the meeting was for? Was I new to the protocol, familiar with the issues? I was smiling, answered yes, I was familiar with protocol. She started oppressing me, took my arm, as if to stop me. I realized she wanted to boss me around, especially when she pointed directly to a seat. “Sit there.” That gave me pause. The meeting was open seating. 
I have been throwing an axe for years.
Home smells like a Sutter’s Gold rose in Mom’s backyard. Even though Mom didn’t water it; the gold glory crimson, orange, yellow grew over eight-feet tall outside of her kitchen window, loaded with full body brilliant perfumed blossoms in Tiburon during spring and summer.