Pre-Dating Questionnaire:

1) Are you now or have you ever been on heroin, oxycodone or any other mind-altering, massively addictive “recreational” drug?

2) How many therapists are you currently seeing?
(More than one is a red flag.)

3) How many therapists have you seen in the last three months? (More than one has passed red flag and gone flying into Seek Shelter Immediately siren territory)

4) Do you have a love child from a former partner? That is still in your life? With her current girlfriend and their love child?

5) Are you actually a lesbian or are you just working on a new life experience?

6) Do you have daddy and/or mommy issues? If so, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate them?
(1 being “Not really” and 10 being “DANGER WILL ROBINSON DANGER!!!!”)

7. Did you major/minor in Psychology? If so, why? (Refer to question #6 if necessary.)

8. Regarding question #6 and #7 if answered in the positive – What exactly makes you get off about screwing with another persons head? The flip-trip-and-reversing of the other persons words? Watching the other person struggle? Or is it just the Power Trip that you hadn’t experienced until now?

9. Can you allow yourself to be vulnerable?

10. If “Yes” to question #9 – Will you allow yourself to remain vulnerable if the person you opened up to screws up once?
10a. Will you tell the person how you feel? Y / N
10b. If “No” – Why?

11. Do you give second chances?

12. If “No” to question #11 – Why not? Surely you’ve been given at least one second chance in your lifetime, no?

13. What are you afraid of?

___________________ Print Name
___________________ Sign Name
____________ Date


Like…Mother…? (Claire #2)

I was sitting on our stoop. Ma was gossiping with Mrs. Nagy in that fantàstical, magificent

Language of the Magyars…

All gentle cz’s, sz’s, no gutterals, the harshest sounds a buzzing like a bug in your ear. Shhshhh’s and Chhhhh’st and Sshhzzzt’s Chhhzzzzt’s like they wanted the language to be silent and yet still reverberate through the world like gentle thunder.

I wish we’d cared enough to keep it.

I bumped into the concrete banister, so I was told, and the grand, perfectly  round limestone cap teeter-tottered and



Apparently,  the perfectly round limestone cap was not perfectly in sync with gravity. And the hole the drilled through the bottom to hold it in place was less than perfect…


I sat on the chair in the kitchen, holding half a frozen chicken on my head draped in an old towel.

There was blood too…

It took me a little while to realize it was mine. And it when I realized that,  I also realized I was crying, and my head hurt. I felt my chest get tight even as the nausea and frostbite fear settled into my stomach and limbs. I remember looking up at one point, and even though my eyes were blurry from the tears, seeing Ma’s eyes…

I had never seen them so…cold…icy…like…like she’d somehow shut herself off in some way that I couldn’t fathom…

She took the chicken in the towel off my head, frowned, said something in Hungarian, and placed what should have been dinner back on my bloody wound. My hand reached up instinctively to hold it there, hold it so my brains and blood wouldn’t gush out onto the newly mopped worn floor. The fear curled and coiled in my gut until I was frozen in place, my hysteria paused by her words.

“B…bu…but what are they gonna do to me in the hospital?”

My voice quavered as I watched her calmly put her coat on. She looked at me and smile-smirked, a flash of something sparking her eyes crystal.

“Oh, probably cut your head off.”

I proceeded to get more hysterical.


I remembered that as I stood over my daughter lying on the slab of the MRI machine in Lenox Hill. Her Pediatrician stood next to me, an ancient, wizened old man with a head like a billiard ball. He was speaking to her softly, gently…something I…couldn’t do…not…now.

I was so fucking frightened.

The slab began to move, and he took my arm. “She’ll be alright,” I vaguely heard him tell me as he lead me out of the room.

All I could do was focus on the panic on her face…the shudder of terror…the unkown…God why the HELL was she so afraid of the dark???!?…her green eyes so frightened…left pupil so much larger than the right…trying so hard to be obedient then, not move her head in the blocks…

…When the machine began to move her into the tunnel that would scan her brain in stone cold black and white (the X-Ray showed nothing but the lump forming from the impact of her head against windshield), the halo of white light circumnavigating the circumference of the catacomb she was being dragged into crowning her like she was some sort of foolish, triumphant daredevil…

But she never cried once.



Sita vs Hercules

The Bass line/Drum line at the chorus for both songs. It’s a heartbeat. It just depends on where it becomes regular or irregular…and neither of them really do until the chorus….unless I have an irregular heartbeat.

Which wouldn’t shock me at all. simplifying the equations of the music/math as I do…mostly because I get the music and notsomuchthemath…. As always, your mileage may vary.

Sita  = Bum-ba-rat-dat- DUM-ba-rat-dat-DUM-ba-rat-tat-DUM…etc. until the exhale . (There’s a half skip-step just under the ba and the rat…least…I think, unless I’m off a half step.) (And no. No one would be shocked by that news.)

Hercules = Bum-ba-rat-dat- BUM-ba-rat-dat-BUM-ba-rat-tat-BUM…until the “please…” (Again, there’s either a half or quarter skip-step to the beat that I can’t nail down for I am old, tired, and my earbuds can do but so much. Again…see above, etc…)

One may be mildly softer than the other. But I’m convinced these two songs can be mixed really well…I just don’t quite know how.


And before anyone decides to say “BUT” – Yes. Both songs are about women calling out to a masculine hero.

Both the female and the male in the subject line come to bad ends in the myths.

I have no intention of doing that at this time. I don’t need to be Sita (swallowed up by Mother Earth), and Hercules can go scratch (poisoned cloaks make one do that, I’m told.)

I’m just honestly trying to sort out the music first. Because I’ll be fucked if there isn’t a mix in there somewhere.

Any other theory can wait.


Untitled dialogue

“You heave and you huff your prayers down on your knees thinking your “Goddess” hears you.  You’ll bleed your last breath out, choking on your red misted spittle, your snot running bloody tracks and trails down your face and you still think you will be answered? Really?”

Another hard kick to the gut followed the chastising.

I knelt, my nose indeed running bloody, my spit tasting of a dozen copper pennies, struggling mightily against coughing until my body and my lungs seized and all I could do was puke red…for what seemed like forever…

I wiped my mouth with the back of my left hand when I realised I could, when I realized that the words wouldn’t hurt me for the moment. My right hand hadn’t moved off the floor from when I’d first fallen.That hand was my lifesaver.  Fucked up thumb, pinky, scars and all. That hand was keeping me connected, grounded, and for as much as I wanted to fall, upright.

Y’gotta respect a hand like that.

To say nothing of the arm connected to it, busted once, but still holding the meat-bag attached to it as up and not full on her face as possible. Especially after the legs failed.

The meat-bag, meaning me, spit one last glob out and nailed the bitch right on her perfectly manicured foot. I watched its slow dribble down the imperfect slope, leaving a trail like a mortally wounded snail, crimson slowly fading to pink, until the teardrop of mucous, spit, and blood heavily dripdropped between the sole of her foot and the sole of her footwear.

I admit it. I kinda hoped it made the rest of her night squishy and uncomfortable. Which, honestly, is kinda odd when you think about it.

I looked up. Looked at her straight in the face…saw the smirk. The set of the jaw. The familiar eyes of gentle green overflowing, overwhelmed by the gold of anger.

And smiled, teeth rimmed red, feeling the blood trickle down the sides of my upturned grin. After all, when you finally face yourself, after all the beatings and brutalization you’ve put yourself through…?

Y’gotta grin.

“You don’t scare me.”


…since sleep keeps escaping…

I am bound and fucking determined to learn of all of the words to this song…regardless of how many times I sprain something. (Honestly, it’s either going to be my jaw, my tongue, or my brain…Brain coming in at #1)

I have loved this song since I was…16? Still can’t get it all right. And I’ve been trying since the first time I heard it. So…yeah…


Tossing this here…

…because maybe then I won’t just let the short story idea die.

Comedy and Tragedy. Y’think they ever wanted to switch places because they were tired of playing the one role? I have this…these…dialogues in my head that came to me in the shower…and…I dunno…

If I can get it out…it might turn into something really cool to read…if…I can get the voices right…among other things.

No promises. ike I said, tossing the idea here because…maybe then I won’t let it wither.

But…No promises.

This Chance Planet |

Elizabeth Bear scares me.

I have trouble reading fiction. And…writing it…writing anything…but onwards –

Sci Fi, Fantasy, Fiction in the Present or Past Tense. I just do. I’ve gotten so used to reading about “real” history that when it really comes down to it…fiction scares the snot out of me.

Because as a fiction writer, you’re un-bound. The sky is truly the limit. Look at G.R.R. Martin and “Game of Thrones”. The books (not the tv series…because they let the misogyny loose on a scale that dear ol’ Georgie actually doesn’t in the books.) are brilliant in that they show the machinations and the maneuvers and the “Machiavellian” truths of true statecraft.

It sucks.

I have yet to meet someone who isn’t pissed off by something that happened in the books. Me? I have thrown his books across the room in fury. Several times. Because he writes realpolitik.

And realpolitik hurts, especially when you turn the page and…oh…well shit. That wedding sucked big time.

But it happens. And it sucks.

Because realpolitik isn’t about ethics or morality. It isn’t about “How can I make the society that I live in a better place for everyone?” (Although that IS there in his books. You just need to search for it under the fugly bits.)  It’s about “what can I do to ensure my position where I am right now, and who do I need to take down in order to make that happen?”

We look to fiction to make the world a gentler place. Or, at least one where we understand the stakes because they’re laid out in black and white and NOT in the shades of gray we actually have to deal with on a daily basis. That’s why the Marvel movies have been so successful, and the DC re-vamp of Superman comes under such criticism.

Half of Metropolis was destroyed in the new Superman incarnation and critics were all over that like white on rice, sorting out exactly how many people would have died and so on. And Metropolis is a FICTIONAL city. The “Superman” in this movie wasn’t the one we knew of old. He wasn’t swathed in the bright blue and red of Christopher Reeve and of Raphael (The Artist. Not the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle) we’d come so  accustomed to. This was a “Superman” for the New Generation, draped in the Colors of Mark Rothko.

And it failed.      (Relatively speaking.)

It failed because Mark Rothko colors are muted and dark, and the movie was the same, for all intent and purposes.

We don’t want muted and dark.

We want bright primary colors.

When I saw the first Avengers movie, all I kept thinking in the back of my head was “Holy shit. This makes the Twin Towers look like a lame fireworks display.*” My mother’s old office building became semi-toast (maybe McCann Erickson knew something the rest of us didn’t. and moved the hell down a few blocks before all the fuss?.) The blocks I would walk from my mothers apartment along Park Avenue downtown to the MetLlife building (also – fuck you it will still always and forever be the Pan Am building to me), and wander around Vanderbilt Avenue to get downtown into the 20’s? And to look up at that completely screwed up corkscrew street above winding in and out of buildings?


And we loved it.

Because it was Black and White, for the most part. Very few shades of gray. Doesn’t matter that the ‘good guy”  leader is an alcoholic, and that he’s got a “Hulk” on his team who really boils down into the “angry boy” of J.D. Salinger with purple pants. And yes, we had a “Red, White and Blue” hero who was out of touch and out of time and fighting to survive in his own primrose way.

(I’d like to mention here that his sweetheart Peggy Carter  was a founder of S.H.I.E.L.D., because yes, I AM that person. And that Natasha NEEDS her own goddamn series already, because there is no level way that you could tell her story within the timeframe of a film. Sorry, Mr. Wheedon. You’re not that good. “Age of Ultron” proved it. Come back to TV and tell BW’s story).

Loki never stood a chance, no matter what the hell his story was because he’s got a blue-eyed blonde haired brother. Loki was darker colored.. (See how that works?)

(I’ll stop there because this is becoming a rant, and that was not my intention. My intention was to face a fear. Gods help me.)

So, to come back around to Elizabeth Bear.

She writes things like this –

“The Devil can quote scripture, after all. And monsters can say “please” and “thank you” same as any mother’s son.”

That’s from the book ‘Karen Memory’, which I own, and have not yet fully read BUT have recommended to others. Because her writing…is exquisite and blunt and…and..and it makes me feel things.

I’ve discovered that I can deal with the feels so long as they come from within.

This is not necessarily the good thing you might think it should be. Trust me on this.

I leave you with this quote (SPOILERS – she’s referencing Baba Yaga here. But M’Lady Yaga isn’t the point, although her references in the story made me gleeful.. Pay attention to the Dog. Because they do exist.) , and yes, I read the short story all the way through. And I felt.

She scares me, because I wish I could write like she does.

And now, the quote and the link to

“This is how women sometimes turn into witches. We come home from work one day too many to discover our partners curled up on the couch like leeches in a nice warm tank, and we decide it’s better to take up with a hut with chicken legs.

A good chicken-legged hut will never disappoint you.”

Source: This Chance Planet |

PS – Machiavelli got a raw deal. He wasn’t evil. He was writing in terms of the statecraft he knew and was asked by Florence to go and practice. “The Prince” in his writings MAY have been based on Cesare Borgia, but the words were written for the Medici’s. Talk about realpolitik…?

*If you wish to be pissed off at me for saying such a thing, go ahead, I was living in a suburb of Seattle at the time, and…My first memory of 9/11 was seeing smoke. Tons of smoke, My second memory was…”So. World War Three then.” After that…? The pit that resides inside of me grew to the point where I could see it in the periphery of my vision, yawning like the devil’s own soul, and I never want to feel that way again. (I have. and it still sucks.)