“The liar negates his own existence.” I researched this quote, determined to find its source after e-pal, musician, and fellow writer Jeff Costello sent it in response to something I told him. I found plenty of interesting websites, one generating a precious memory and something else, but I’ll tell you more about that later. Continue reading
I have this feeling. I have this feeling and thought that people are gathering at water coolers, in hallways near their cubicles, and on the walking paths of their kingdoms, in the interest of country, duty, honor. You know, to scour each other’s lives. It’s not unlike the Buddy System. That other name, Insider Threat Program, sounds harsh. Continue reading
I should unsubscribe to Organizing for Action (OFA)—a group supporting the election of Democrats, but I won’t, because I’m mining data from the obscenely insincere. The emails open with a clever ploy, use of the familiar, my given name. It’s almost intimate. Some are signed “Barack.” Continue reading
I ran out of my kingdom this morning, past businesses and houses with flowering lawns. Hearing music, I felt that ancient call of divinity and watched a perfect American family (wife, husband, son, and daughter) enter a place of worship, a sanctuary for some, a Sunday morning coming down or comeuppance for others, and usually, for me, real estate seldom noticed. I wondered what my mother would say, that quick-witted little woman who made pronouncements about proper church attire, if I heeded the sound of music and wandered in, wearing New Balance and spandex. Continue reading
If you see something, say something. Who isn’t familiar with this slogan, trademarked by New York’s Transportation Authority and licensed to Homeland Security for the government’s rule-by-fear campaign? Continue reading
“Bet you’re glad you’re in here today instead of court,“ he said, smiling. I braked in front of the Bucheron, not recognizing him immediately. When I’d seen him at the courthouse, he was wearing jeans. At the grocery, he was business attired. Continue reading
I know vengeance personally, the anger that drives a fantasy to action. I admit that it feels too good to be good. I also admit my own complicity in being taken advantage of, but I lied only to myself. Continue reading
When I wrote that first opinion piece after my nephew Chase was killed in Iraq, I naively believed my words could make a difference, would prevent others from hearing the sentence of death, “We regret to inform you.” Continue reading
I was running the path parallel to the main road when I heard brakes wail and then a BOOM. Unable to see anything through the dense tree leaves that partition the Kingdom of Intersections from the larger world, I looked up at billowing, grayish white smoke. Continue reading
Most of what I knew about Kathy was hearsay; this woman who was separated from her husband and engaged in an affair with a man who divorced his wife, thinking he and Kathy would marry. Then, she was sitting in my apartment, larger than life, revealing so many intimacies, including the length of the affair, ongoing for more than six years, and beginning several years before her lover Dan left his marriage. Continue reading
Marine Capt. Cameron West said, “We are all in this together.” Continue reading
It’s likely we witnessed a rehearsal last Friday in Boston for the wedding of Be Afraid and Martial Law. Most Bostonians said, “I do.” And if they promised to obey, plenty of ‘villians, ‘ers, and other ‘onians across the US will, as well, while wearing face paint, shouting “USA! USA! USA!” and waving the American flag. Continue reading
Imagine you’re there, eager, exuberant. You look at the sky and gasp at its beauty. It’s a perfect day for a life-affirming event. Continue reading
Almost six years ago, my husband Charles taped his medicine schedule to the inside of a kitchen cabinet. I couldn’t remove it after he died. Sometimes, I’d get out of bed in the night, open that cabinet, and run my fingers over his handwriting, pressing my palm against it. I thought the tape eventually would become brittle, that its integrity would fail. It didn’t. Continue reading
His sign said: HOMELESS. I pulled the Lesbaru to the curb. When I handed him two dollars, he said, “Remember, no textin’ and drivin’.” Continue reading
My mother talked to the television, disputing anyone with a pro-war message. When George Bush appeared on the screen, she’d turn away, but still talk. At first this was humorous. Continue reading
I drove to North Carolina to visit family and consider again a move from Baltimore to Chapel Hill. I’m indecisive, inertia’d. I need someone to say, “Honey, we have a job opportunity here. What do you think?” Because this is way it was, the reason for all those addresses during my life with Charles. Continue reading
I rarely answer the phone unless I recognize the number or name. And any call from area code 202 (Washington, DC) is suspect. Continue reading
While driving through a March mix, I parallel processed—articles about Bradley Manning, reader comments, the tempo of the windshield wipers clearing slush, if I should turn around and postpone the appointment. Then, the word “snain” appeared—a reminiscence. Some weatherman’s use of “snain” years ago. H, so young with little-boy joy, laughed a melody, repeating the word, amusing himself and us—his parents and older brother. I smiled at the memory. Turn around? No. I was almost at my dentist’s office. Plus, the Lesbaru’s resolute. Continue reading
Twenty-six-year-old Brendan Marrocco is a veteran who left all four limbs in Iraq. On December 18, 2012, in a 13-hour operation, he received two new arms, not prosthetic arms, but two human arms, from a deceased donor. Continue reading
I’ve been lying in bed, temperature elevated, bones on fire, achy, and questioning the decision to reject Big Pharma’s flu vaccine. Continue reading
On January 13, residents of Newtown, Connecticut gathered to discuss the fate of Sandy Hook Elementary where 20 first graders and six staff were slaughtered December 14, 2012 by a 20-year-old using a military-style rifle. Continue reading
The Oregon mall shooting’s been the “top” story most of the day (Wednesday) at Google News, dirty dancing and dipping with the fiscal cliffhanger. Continue reading
Plenty of thoughts were blasting my cranium the other evening—this limbo I’m in because I have a contract on my condo, a contract that may collapse. I decided to watch Netflix episodes of Lie to Me—a teaching tool or penance for months of stupid gullibility about which I’ve written too much. Continue reading
Went south. I-95’d and I-85’d to help sister Laura arrange the furniture in the Chapel Hill house Erma had not seen yet. Traveled north with one of my children, then back on the road again with him to North Carolina. Continue reading
Laura and Erma left. Their condo’s empty. After a tearful goodbye to my sister, I broom swept for the new owner. Erma’s in Kentucky and will join Laura in North Carolina soon. Okay, this sounds like writing, not like truth. Let me try again. When I swept that place, those rooms, I cried. It’s as if they vanished. As if the 16 months they lived down the block were just cushioned in my imagination, except for cat hair—evidence of the sisterhood. Continue reading
Last Monday, my phone rang more than usual here in the Kingdom of Cross Boughs and Errors. Continue reading
This cold sore is hot—a fireworks display. I’ve named it Stupid. Continue reading
We meet weekly for Memoirs, which I’m now instructing. Gently critiquing, we examine sentences and inspect each other’s lives. Continue reading
WidowRica emerged from her high-rise wearing a neon magenta scarf beneath her beautiful smile. Off we drove to the Baltimore Book Fair, a venue of tents, contents of good intentions and pretensions, multi-dimensions, and my personal tensions, not to mention food and music. Continue reading
I have a neighbor, F, here in the Kingdom of Cross Words (and puzzling entanglements), who’s been depressed and medicated off and on for months. The genesis of his anguish is twisted adoration for a female who clutches him closely and then hurls him away with language and equivocation that would send most in the direction of sanity. Seems this woman-like object holding the deed to F’s underwater soul has torture down to an artistic science. And despite my disdain for his willingness to accept abuse, F and I have managed to talk each other up, and by up, I mean elevated from death wishes. Plus, he tolerates my radical political views without recoiling or criticizing. Continue reading
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We can’t get along
Posted on July 22, 2013 by Missy Comley Beattie
I awoke this morning feeling like a shit sandwich without the bread. And then, “Oh, Grandma Fletcher, I’m 64 today.” I lay in bed, thinking, thinking, thinking—knowing the additional year couldn’t be the problem. It’s just one day after being 63. The acquittal of George Zimmerman was on my mind. Continue reading →