Curtain Call

Eyes closed

soul composed

body bag bed comfort

flirtations with stage curtain peace of sleep

the numbers on the clock slip by

while in your personal truth you leave this life lie

it all boils down to a pot being watched

a mere abstraction of the final act


47 years  =  564 months

47 years  =  2 452.34048  Weeks

47 years  =  17 166.3833  Days

47 years  =  411 993.2  Hours

47 years  =  24 719 592 Minutes

47 years  =  1.48317552 × 109 Seconds

47 years  =  1.5 Billion heart beats (give or take a few flutters, murmur stops and terror thuds and thumps)

47 is the 15th prime number

47 has a movement dedicated to it being the quintessential random number.  The 47 society,  is  connected to Star Trek through one it’s members who was a writer for the program,  and it’s subsequent appearance in movies and television is due to his introduction of this fascination for the number 47.

47 is the telephone code for Norway

Stephen Kings house number is 47…I could go on, by why should I deny you the superstitious and joyful curiosity of trolling the internet yourself?

Oh, as of today, I have been on this planet for 47 years.  Of course, if I died, they would say I was in my 48th year, but hey, why split hairs or years for that matter.  There aren’t as many years as hairs, so why rush when you brush?  Found a lump, going to remove said lump, lump better not be cancer.  Advice:  Always self exam girls.  Always.  It’s important. Never dismiss anything as nothing.    Now, if you read this, go out and eat something terribly tasty and absolutely bad for you.  I know I will.  😉   Now if all that isn’t poetic, what the hell is?

Tic Toc

I hadn’t really checked the passage

Or monitored the hands at work

The sun was still round and high

A noon time circle of false hope

Above the churning belly sea

I was fathoms deep in lateness



Fuck the clock

I don’t care

They’ll have to wait

I’m stuck in traffic

They’ll understand

I’m not that tardy

I’m not that grand



That goddamn clock

Who invented time anyway

Some goddamn cretin with time on his hands

That’s who

Stupid concept

I’m seasonal



Fucking clock

Thank god for fast lanes

On a slow day

Whew I’m here



Fuck the clock

“Hey, I’m sorry I’m late, let me catch my breath, whew, okay, where was I?  Oh yeah, I spilled coffee on myself, I forgot my keys, someone called and wouldn’t stop talking, I got stuck behind a truck on the freeway, and did I mention my alarm clock stopped working?”



“Fuck your alarm clock, your fired!”

The Decision

On Saturday I wrote a post about rejection letters and some middle reader fiction I was preparing to resubmit.  I was rewriting  a cover letter and preparing to address envelopes, but I felt defeated and packed it in for the night.   All this past weekend and well into today, I played mental ping pong with myself:   Should I send it or should I keep it?

  I’ve toyed with the idea of self publishing more times than I would care to admit, and it’s always in relation to this story.   It’s not that I feel it can’t be published or accepted by a publisher,  because I do.   The question for me is this:  How long is this going to take?  Time matters to me a great deal.  I’m not twenty anymore and the days march by like the pillagers they are.   I want my books to be read NOW.  Not ten years from now, maybe,  if I can manage to garner a publishing deal and if the economy recovers and if  I’m alive and well and of sound mind to actually nurture it on it’s journey to the reader’s little hands.   Sometimes waiting is not an option.  

Today I learned that a lovely woman of my acquaintance passed away.  Yep, it was cancer.  She was only fifty two and her passing made me both incredibly sad and  very grateful for my life and breath.   I’ve been very  mindful of my mortality lately.   Everyday for the past month I’ve been trying not to think  of that breast test I have on the 26th.  I’ve been down this road before and I no longer flinch at the thought or suffer night sweats and panic.  I’ve been lucky thus far.  Dysplasia, lumpectomy, no big C diagnosis.  It’s just that every damn year they find something on the mammogram and off I go for more poking and prodding.  Because of this, I’m making a decision to take that lovely story I’ve written for children and self publish it, purchasing the ISBN and marketing it myself.  It’s time to let these characters leave my nest and fly free  to other homes with children who love to read and dream.  Will it be a success?  It already is.  Will someone buy it?  Yes.  Will I make a million?  Who knows?   I don’t really care, because it’s not about that, it’s about the love for the words and it always will be.