It’s all in my head. My forehead.

Ask me about the weather. The body knows all.

Tomorrow?

Absolutely Cloudy with a Chance of Migraines.

That forecast better explain the scorching dagger zigzagging above my eyes. The knees torn learning to ski are in the first stage of rain-related throbbing. And oh that broken wrist from last year? The site of eternal aggravation? She’s kicking into prime pain as we type.

If our bodies are temples, I am about to be invaded by an angry congregation.

I opened the windows today,
the first time in three months,
greeted by the noisy orchestra
of dogs barking, hello hello hello.
This is not the music I hoped to hear
and suddenly summer and air conditioners
seemed like a wonderful duo.

Nothing like saving the good stuff for the last minute.

2:36 am I’m still watching sessions I missed this summer at the online SCBWI conference. I am Cinderella at the ball. The videos turn back into pumpkins at 3 AM. Hold on to your slippers, kids. I am racing the clock! My ballgown has not looked princely or charming since this afternoon. <g>

No Schmooze Zone: What a wonderful conference this was. My brain is bursting with lightbulb moments. Thank you, SCBWI, for keeping the lights on. (If someone out there can leave the videos rolling for me an extra hour or so, I won’t complain.)

Is there a Fairy Godmother in the house?!

Edited to add: It is now 3:31 am and I’m Still Here. How do you like them eggrolls, SCBWI People? <g>

Edited to add, I Saw the Sunrise edition: When I commit to seeing something through, nothing gets in my way (except a coffee break at my desk and a few Motrins to quash the strain on my back and neck).

7 am. Done. Well done. Like my steak. 😬

I’m worried about a friend that messaged me in the middle of the night while I slept. That person mentioned being “ghosted” but no additional details other than it “hertz.” Spelling as is.

I think the friend felt lost. Invisible. I actually began the conversation last night before going to bed. Just checking in, sharing thoughts. Not someone I could reach out to any other way. That would be crossing a line of privacy. I would never compromise that borderline.

The friend’s Facebook page is now gone. Unavailable for messaging or public posts.

Am I the ghost or the ghosted?

If you are reading this, old friend, let me know you are safe and well.

If you are reading this, any friend, you need not hurt alone. Reach out to someone. Write it out. Words matter.

Bad photography alert:

How many photos of your feet do you have? By accident, by intention. We cringe at full body photos. Don’t stand so close to me. My eyes! My hair! My stomach!

Oh the agony of deh-feet!

We twist and turn for the most flattering angles in photos. But head all the way down? Go south, young people. Nothing to run from. Nothing to hide. Who is afraid to show a foot? Naturally beautiful stuff. You know what they say: The feet are the last to go.

By the way, does anyone know who -they- are? I have a litany of questions for the group that seems to know so much.

"May their memories be a blessing."

I must believe in this. I do believe in this. They are not merely obligatory words, the way we say "G-d bless you" after someone sneezes. The way we say "See you soon" as we say good bye "for now."

When memories are all we have, this is more than a blessing. This is life as we know it. These memories are the things we carry, day to day, night to night.

I have much to be thankful for, despite the burden of sorrow, wrapped in a bundle, attached to my shoulders. I hope I have never hurt anyone, intentionally or otherwise.

How do you mend broken hearts, broken promises, broken links?

Reflect. Repair. Refresh.

May you be inscribed in the Book Of Life. Your book. Your life.

Every day is a To Do list,
things to write, things to read,
things to begin, things to finish.
Fear of forgetting thoughts, fear of missing out.

I don't know how to say 
to hell with it all, I don't care, clear the deck, 
cross the items off and start fresh.
Sleep is elusive, a tangled landmine,
a thousand shards of 
unfinished, broken ideas 
festering underfoot.

Life is light 
and I am afraid of the dark.


Speaking of Fears:
In case Facebook goes away, please feel free to subscribe to this, whatever this is. 
Blog? Journal? To Do list? <g> 
There's a link somewhere on this page. Let me know you are out there. As the good book says: "Don't make no difference what nobody says. Aint nobody like to be alone."

I lost two babies on
September 11th,
1990.
I delivered them. They were not alive.
I never saw them beyond the blood.
I have their photos
But I am afraid to look.
Twin A and Twin B.
This day is never easy.
How ironic.
My twin towers.
My 9/11.
We all fall down.

I called my mother every day
Just to hear her voice.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Are you okay?” she asked
That’s all we needed to know.
Those calls are over and it will never be okay.
Now I’m the mother
texting my children every day, asking
“Are you okay?” and
waiting for my children to check in every day
to find out if I’m okay.
Sometimes I am not
but I don’t want them to know.
I wonder now how often
my mother reassured me
all was well and
she was okay,
when all was not well, when she was not okay.

Insomnia is the only thing

that keeps me awake at night.
I wrote this line in a poetry chat earlier and I made myself chuckle.

Sometimes we sample ourselves.

Lil’ P