From The Guardian, Tuesday, April 16, 1912

The maiden voyage of the White Star liner Titanic, the largest ship ever launched, has ended in disaster.

Late last night the White Star officials in New York announced that a message had been received stating that the Titanic sank yesterday morning and that many lives had been lost. An unofficial message from Cape Race, Newfoundland, stated that only 675 have been saved out of 2,200 to 2,400 persons on board. At least 1,500 lives have been lost.

ERRATUM: The final tally wouldn't become official until 111 years later, in 2023.

One day I will stand on green grass,

flowers in hand,

tears on my face for a life I never got to have.

That day I’ll lay to rest more than your soul,

I’ll finally put down this fear that I hold.

That day I will no longer hold these heavy walls,

that day I can love you without the consequence it holds.

That day I’ll be safe from what this world cruely made you,

that day I can love you like I have always longed to.

That day Songbird will play in the background,

purple iris’ and gerber daisies will completely surround you.

I will curl up alone with my face near your headstone,

finally feeling safe with the mother I adored.

Though my heart will always be broken,

that day will no longer be torn. For that day I will know,

a mothers love without scorn.

At Starbucks I always got the Skinny Vanilla Latte. Let's frame that in one image: me, downtown, in the black pea coat I always wore, usually over sweatpants, but not on this one particular occasion. On this occasion, I wore real pants, maybe even boots. I knew the calorie count of almost every item on the menu at Starbucks, which seems now like some savant thing, for white girls from suburbia. The Skinny Vanilla Latte was 'safe', a drink I could have and think, I'm being good. This is alright.

A homeless man was outside this Starbucks, asking for change. I walked by him, drink in hand, averting my gaze. He yelled after me, "Rich girl! So important, aren't you?"

Smith College is ranked #13 out of 210 National Liberal Arts Colleges. I had gone there because it was the best school I had gotten into; I was leaving a traumatic high school experience behind and was trying to embrace a new, happy future. But happy at Smith College I was not - my principle memories involve hurting myself, and hurting the people who were trying to save me.

The homeless man was yelling at me on a particularly sad day, the day I decided to drop out. I had been walking around downtown while listening to my iPod, making an internal pros and cons list for dropping out. With the homeless man's words - "So important!" - I was ashamed. I was crawling out of my skin already, and his words hit me right where it hurt. I later realized I was throwing away the very opportunity that his homeless man was talking about - going to a prestigious college, existing with all of my needs being met, and my life even exceeding those means.

Vanilla. That's the word I would have used to describe myself, did use to describe myself until very recently. I always got a Venti at Starbucks, a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte, and I would continue to make that my regular order for many more years. Basic, my life and my disease. Being a depressed girl in a black pea coat, sipping her low-calorie beverage - who did I think I was? Vanilla. Vanilla. Vanilla.

I dropped out. I bounced around different hospitals, outpatient programs, homes. I hated who I was, who I had become. I didn't know then that other flavors could exist for me, didn't even entertain the notion that I could be Better.

My friend recently described me as being the flavor "French Vanilla." This is new because 1) I actually have friends now, and am less alone, and 2) I had been promoted, perhaps in life, perhaps even just for myself. I met her in California, where I went to start over. I am a new person, free from placing myself in a box, from defining myself based on a low-calorie drink. I hear the homeless man in the back of my head now and think, that's not fair. That's not fair at all.

We really don't know anything about each other, but we do have the power to change our flavor.

There's a lot of countries that do not have 911.

What I mean here is in the event of an emergency - you do your best.

I think of this a lot whenever I have anxiety, which might seem counterintuitive, but it actually helps me relax. Because I have a magic number I can dial to summon help, 24/7. Does it matter if they get there in time or I can afford it? Nope.

For a brief period of my life I lived without this magic number. Not only no magic number, but very little safety net whatsoever. We would probably classify it as a third world country; I was in a car accident (van tipped over, jostling everybody inside not wearing seat belts, crawled out the busted windshield after trying not to fall on the people below me) and had to call colleagues to come pick me up from the side of the road at 2 AM. Luckily no injuries; that coulda been harder to handle.

Yet strangely nobody really had anxiety there. Not like here where we stress over paying the rent or making a difference in our career. Those weren't even considerations. You just lived. Like a can getting kicked down the road, life just happened - you didn't have to think about it that hard. It would work out. You asked people for help when you needed it, you did what you had to do, done. There might be a sense of "Gosh, life could be better," whenever you watched the media and saw all those richer countries portraying their cultures and big, shiny homes; but your choices and options were limited so there was no sense of "Man, I'm not making it because I don't have that." You enjoyed what you had and you seized opportunities as they came. So much simpler.

I forget that sometimes as I'm getting older now. I forget that I can actually just sit back and do the bare minimum, and life will keep going. I don't have to think about it or stress about it; I just get up again tomorrow. I can enjoy what I have and seize opportunities as they come. It's not really more complex here it just feels that way sometimes.

I've struggled lately and thought I should try to get some therapy. But, similar to that magic number, I've had trouble getting therapy for most of my life. Would it be nice to have that psych sitting there and helping me out? Sure.

But if it doesn't happen, meh. Life will keep going.

I'll get up again tomorrow.

Eventually, slowly, I'll enjoy what I have.

One day, maybe awhile away, I'll seize an opportunity.

Meanwhile, for now, I just remember my magic number. I remember how nice it feels to have one. And I remind myself that even when I didn't have it, everything worked out okay. Because I can handle life. It doesn't require that much thought.

And maybe somebody else who can't see that needs that psych right now more than me.

The sky was once a blank canvas, waiting for someone to paint it. The gods were busy creating the earth, the sea, the animals and the plants, but they had no time to paint the sky. The sky left it white and empty.

A young girl named Indigo lived on the earth. She loved to paint and draw, using the colors of nature as her inspiration. She painted flowers, birds, mountains and rivers, stars and moons. She was happy and creative, but she felt that something was missing.

She looked up at the sky and saw that it was plain and boring. She wished that she could paint it with colors and make it beautiful. She asked the gods to let her paint the sky, but they did not answer.

She decided to take matters into her own hands. She gathered all her paints and brushes and climbed up a tall mountain. She reached the top and saw that the sky was closer than before. She felt a surge of excitement and hope.

She dipped her brush in blue paint, which was her favorite color, and started to paint the sky. She painted it with strokes of light and dark blue, creating shades and contrasts. She painted it with swirls and curves, creating shapes and patterns. She painted it with dots and splashes, creating sparks and glitter.

She painted until she ran out of paint. She looked at her work and smiled. She had painted the sky blue, making it lively and lovely.

The gods saw what she had done and were amazed. They liked her painting and praised her for her skill and courage. They decided to reward her by letting her keep the sky as her masterpiece.

They also gave her a gift: a necklace made of blue gems that matched the color of the sky. They told her that whenever she wore the necklace, she would be able to see the sky as she had painted it.

Indigo thanked the gods and put on the necklace. She looked at the sky and saw that it was blue and beautiful. She felt happy and proud.

If we are what we eat

then I am mainly

word

and I

though

I believe

in just desserts

I am very happy

with homecooked

verbiage...

I gather up

some thoughts

fresh like eggs

and whip up to a

fluff stiff beaten with

fork and dash of salt

peaked verbs and nouns

poured in aluminum pan

360 degrees preheated

and Bam!

out soufflé will collapse

if not eaten right now...!

Trouble in my kitchen

begins if we're

asking for something

specific.........

like god forbid

the same recipe twice...!?

You demand more deadpan

eggplant lasagna lamb...?

and suddenly I'm scrapping

bottom with spatula not

not even getting a sound,

though that is what I've

been mostly dishing out...

and now feeling queasy,

all that's coming out of the

cupboard is like Horror!!!

All gory and you think

there'll be plenty for

seconds, thirds even more

but no now I'm slicing

everything raw and real,

with just a little turmeric...

and just when you settled

back into your seat from

our necessary trip to Sonic

for something to sink two

teeth....... I'm back... to

dripping my agave and

asking how much sugar

you can take in your

coffee.....Honey...?

03.26.2023

What Food Are You? challenge @ChrisSadhill

Silence is a superpower for those who are truly brave

Immediately defending ones-self or jumping to conclusions happens too often

Learning when to speak and when to listen has become a lost art

Everyone has their own story and own mind and are quick to jump in

Never really stopping the flow to consider that others have more to say

Calling the shots instead of following the lead of a friend

Engaging in conversation should not be such a competition

Sometimes we are so caught up in ourselves, we forget our supporters

Anybody worth keeping around requires some relationship maintenance

Veering off topic can prevent those closest to you from asking for help

Even if they don't need saving, they might need to feel heard

So silence, though difficult, is a superpower for friends in need

“Flavorless. Without Seasoning. A bland chunk of meat. That’s what I’d be.”

I’ve been through a few things and wouldn’t be myself without them. Instead, I’d be a stranger I've never met—I’d be undercooked ribs attached to the bone.

You could waste time wondering what life would be like without your issues, hell I know I have, but as I did, you may fail to realize you’re still alive and end up pondering forever. You got through all that fucked up shit somehow and found a way to crawl out, so take time to realize it and savor it. I get it, it can be nearly impossible to distinguish whether you are indeed out of it until years after the fact. Perhaps, you chose to be deaf to the wise, hardheaded, and ignorant like me; Blazing your path and hammering through every brick wall you came across when you could have easily just walked around them. Maybe you felt like you were forced to, as you were stuck in first gear chugging through life in survival mode for nearly twenty years; Something you were taught at an early age how to do; How to be a navigator, never the driver. It’s also possible there is a reason never to be understood. Hell, I still don’t know.

For whatever causes got us here, our experiences are who we are now; aged pieces of meat slow-cooked to perfection and nothing to be ignored. What was once, a tough, flavorless slab of flesh just required time and patience to become an Umami masterpiece. Hot off the grill and well rested, let everyone grab a plate. Make sure to add a kiss of motherly alcoholism, a sprinkle of homelessness, and a dash of mental health issues to taste, then finish it off with a few globs of other fattening shit to clog the arteries. Make them grease the corners of their mouths and line their bellies until they are sick.

I would rather be dry-rubbed in my special blend any day than be seasoned like all the rest. So, serve me up until I’m gone, and save the garnish for the weak.

I have always loved the winter. The snow comes down and covers the black barren tries with snow.

My brother's favorite season was spring, he loved to dance in the rain and smell the pink and purple flowers that grew in the forest.

I hate spring. Everything is too bright and it hurts my eyes. The bright sun gives me a head ache. The rain made everything muddy a gooey and I always seemed to get sick after a heavy rain shower.

I put up with it. If it made my brother happy, I had to. I put up with it for years and years and years.

Then I found a foolproof way to end my problems.

Now I don't have to put up with the nasty season called spring because I burned all the trees and everything green until they were black beyond future growth.

Then I killed my brother, Rain, and my sister, Summer, so I would never have to step in a puddle or glare into the blazing sun again.

Now there is only me, Winter. I am eternal.