Heaven, I’m in Heaven,
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak;
And I seem to find the happiness I seek
When we’re out together dancing, cheek to cheek.

If I could choose a dancing partner to dance with the rest of my life, it would be A Promise Unbroken. Tall and straight, never compromising, he would hold my hand fast in his and we would dance merrily through the days. One after the other, the hours would ripple by with hardly a notice because the minutes, the days, would be smooth and seamless. No obstacles in our way, no lies to trip us up, no smears, no scandal, no sorrow.

Most sorrow comes from Promises Broken. Never take him as your dancing partner is what I will tell my daughter. We bear our children under Society’s promise of Health & Happiness! and feel tricked when they are not altogether Healthy! Not altogether Happy! We marry our Lovers and they break their promises, one after another, like bricks through a glass window and we are left shattered. We work at our jobs with the promise of a Secure Future and are duped when we hit old age. We buy with the promise of Satisfaction and find we cannot return our purchase and must leave with the bitter taste of Promises Broken under our tongue.

What is Heaven? Heaven is a promise unbroken.



 December-29-2011-02-45-39-ScreenShot20111228at11.jpg photo

Pessimistic and pessimism. I struggle with both. I tend to have a pessimistic outlook and pessimism resides within. I tried to learn how to attach a photo to my blog. I signed up to Photobucket. It didn’t work. Just like I thought…

Dreams and Aspirations

The soundtrack for my formative years was anything bluegrass. Honkytonk. Steel guitar. 5 string banjo. We always lived way out of town – plenty of miles to listen to Buck Owens, Flatt and Scruggs and The Foggy Mountain Boys. I had many years after leaving home of not listening to the music I grew up with.

Lately, one of my dreams is to learn to play banjo. And I aspire to write songs. I am coming back to my roots.

Maybe someone can put a tune to this one. Because I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.

No water in the hardscrabble dirt
River flows in the rich man’s yard
Lots of stones to sell for graves

The river flows
But my love don’t
The cotton grows
But my babies don’t

Bone button supper and a mason jar
Safety pin waistband and got no car
Sharpen the axe and swing the hammer

The river flows
But my love don’t
The cotton grows
But my babies don’t

Mister’s praying is just a little too far
Debt buzzin’ like skeeters in my ear
Warm my hands at the fires of Hell

The river flows
But my love don’t
The cotton grows
But my babies don’t


Change in your pocket. Change your mind or change your clothes. Most women dread “The Change”. Changing your address is one of the biggest decisions you’ll make. Your body changes after you have children. But the form of change (or exchange) that sends a shiver down my spine is the Changeling.

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

One night you put your child to bed and the next morning you wake them up for school and they are someone else. Its is just a little too real to be scoffed at. We’ve all gone into their rooms late at night to watch them breathe. We’ve measured the rise and fall of their chests. We’ve marked the sight of their angelic sleeping faces on our memory. Contrasting their sleeping face to their awake, mobile, sometimes angry faces. We’ve all wondered who that child was, sleeping there. It isn’t so far from reality that a faery would creep in and exchange their fey child for your blood and bone child. Walking away through the window and the lawn with your child’s hand in theirs

Perhaps we are not so simple to be fooled by a block of ice or a stick of wood in exchange for our child anymore but I believe that many of our children, our mother’s children, have heeded the siren call of the faeries and have went away to the waters and the wild and have left in their place a halfbreed troll who’s only way to survive in the land of humans is to feed their body with drugs.

Our drug addicted changelings keep fooling us. They seem like our child. When you look at them quick, through the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of the imposter. A double image that flashes on your eye then disappears. You are never quite sure of what you saw and then you look full on and you are deceived once again. The Changeling is good at disguising himself. They live on in your house, sucking the life from your soul until you wonder if you will die. But you don’t know what from.



In a dark, faraway land, there lived a prince who was desperately in love with a beautiful princess. Her dark eyes would flash at him over the loaded banquet tables in her father’s dark castle. While the other knights and princes and hangers-on would stuff the dark meats into their maws, he would gaze at her dark brows, winging in flight over her darkly inviting eyes, and he would long to sink his fingers into her luscious hair, dark as a raven’s wing.

She told him one day, in no uncertain terms, that she could only accept his love if he brought to her superbly exquisite items from foreign lands. Only the most expensive, most hard won items would turn her emotions. Perhaps it was a sign of her dark heart.

While the prince did think that his heart was the first gift he had given her, her took her at her word and jumped onto his trusty steed, its dark flanks quivering, and rode off on his new quest. Only he knew that dark sweat stains were rusting the armour beneath his sparkling display of shiny bravado.

The first physical gifts he brought back to the beautiful princess were two exquisite pink rabbits. Their fur was a pearly shade of dark pink. Smoothing their fur one way with her hand, the princess saw one shade of pink. Smoothing it another way, she saw a lighter shade of the same colour. They were lovely. They stared at the princess, noses twitching and their dark brown eyes trusting. But it was not enough. Dark lines cracking through her heart, the princess told the prince it was not enough.

After many months, the prince brought to the princess a pair of slippers. The toes of the slippers were crusted in dark amethyst jewels. Darkly glowing on the vamp of the slippers, yellow sapphires winked up at the princess as she turned the shoes in her hands. Light as air, the white leather of the dancing shoes slipped through her fingers as quickly as falling water. How beautiful the shoes were. They were so lovely it brought tears to her dark eyes. The tears sparkled as she looked at the young prince. He looked so haggard. There was dark stubble on his chin and dark stains on his clothes. He held his helmet under his arm as he watched her marvel over his latest gift. Hope sprang to his face as she gazed at him. Not good enough. The words struck his heart and forced his feelings back down to their dark hole. Not good enough.

Almost one year had passed before the prince presented himself before the dark princess once again. This time he had brought a pair of earrings. Again, the gift was beset with jewels. So tiny, the earrings looked like bits of star shine in his large hand. Diamonds sparked and crackled in the dark light thrown from the large fire in the princess’s room. The earrings were tipped in the finest, most precious globes of yellow diamond. Taking them in her hand, his gift and his heart, in one fell swoop she sealed his destiny. Not good enough. Stumbling into the darkness, dagger clutched in his hand, the prince fled her dark presence.

They found his body in the spring. The snow had melted enough to reveal the moist dark earth. They could see how he had plunged the dagger, dark in its fury, through what would have been his still beating heart. They could imagine the flow of blood, although now long gone, because wherever the dark life blood would have spread, sprouted one of the first flowers of spring, the Bleeding Heart, riotous in its glory.


Sometimes, when I’m running, when I’m hitting that sweet spot where I’m warmed up, my arms and feet and legs are synchronized and my stride matches the beat of the song in my ears, I feel light.

I feel it shine from my fingertips. It hovers in an aura around my knees. It sprouts from the tips of my hair in a thousand myriad sparkles of star shine. I’m light. I feel it. I see it. I’m light. I sparkle.


It’s been a wet November. Just like May and June. Rain, rain, rain. I was able to go to my daughter’s track meet this last spring. The fields were wet. The sand for the long jump was wet. Landing a jump in the wet sand was like landing on a concrete sidewalk. Teeth jarring, knee wrenching, back spasming cold comfort.

The grass was wet. The bleachers were wet. The kids were wet. Their socks and shoes were scattered throughout the melee, abandoned in the rain. Washed up refugees fleeing for dryer land who inadvertently beached in the detritus of broken track meet glory.

I was watching the dashes. 50 metre, 100 metre. The kids would come splashing through the top corner, those on the inside lane getting the worst of it. Water up to their knees, slowing them down. They were pushing hard, resisting the watery fingers cajoling them to Davy Jones’ locker, then they would break free and speed to the finish line.

One little girl came through that tough spot, around the last corner, finish line in sight. She was dead last. She was holding her side and crying. Side stitch revenge. Her coach ran along side her, telling her she could do it! The little girl sobbed, “No, I can’t!” the coach said, “Yes! You can!”.

And she did. She made it. She ran to the finish. She wasn’t anyone one I knew and yet, in that moment, I loved that little girl.