Every time I have been hurt or torn down,

I cannot let others see

so when I am just a pile of rubble,

I go and appear as if I am a building.

I smile, but want to cry.

I say I am fine, when I want to hide.

X,

You chided me. Said I spent too much time on that “shitty app”. What did you call it? “like Twitter and Facebook for wannabe writers”? That is was nothing more than a social media dumpster fire, “full of drama” and for “mediocre talent”. You called me naïve and too quick to join the “clique”. You regarded my interaction with other writers with utter disgust and jealousy.

Your words stung. I’m not sure if it hurt more because of coming from a lifelong friend, or from a fellow writer I had always respected. You being both, it certainly hurt. But this is not the reason for my email. I want to let you know I am leaving everything behind in order to focus on my writing.

First, I want to tell you ‘thank you’. Thank you for fortifying my suspicion that I may indeed have a story within worth telling. Without your disparaging words regarding my talent and social habits, I may have never taken this drastic step of cutting ties and pursuing seclusion. Your harsh words have ignited a fire in me to write like I never have before. Thank you.

Second, goodbye. Do not reply to this email. You will not hear from me again. I am excited for life’s upcoming chapters; I feel they will be some of my best yet. Our friendship is now a mere footnote of regret in a book forever shelved. Be well.

Wannabe writer no more,

Mariah

Obsessed with nothing

Stumbling endlessly on a loop

Feelings are numbing

Unable to find a troop

Eyes travel with nowhere to land

Heart stays out of it, indifferent to plans

Feet remain fixed, awaiting command

A better version of me

That knows what he wants

The ideal me

A vision that haunts

Alone on the sea

Adrift,

as a dilettante

There’s a belief that “home” can be found in another individual. At first glance, this may appear to be a heartwarming, predestined happening, worthy of celebration (and it may very well be). However, you must first determine exactly what “home” means to you. This takes honest, intentional objectivity.

If home to you meant a place of acceptance, patience, humor, and unconditional love, then you are truly blessed. By all means, rejoice in your newfound connection and disregard what I am about to say. This is for the others: those that home had been a place of judgment, rejection, neglect, uncertainty, and pain. To those are the ones I write.

Your particular home environment inured you to abuse. We humans are designed to identify and follow patterns, regardless if they are ultimately to our detriment. It is easy to confuse that intense, familiar feeling for love and grant the person full access to you. Taking the step into emotional intimacy is a painful mistake. I wish there were a more kind way to say that, but there simply is not.

Just because someone feels like “home” does not always mean that is an inherently good thing. Please consider doing the work first to define what home means to you. Sometimes home is the very last place you should ever return.

Every morning when I expect to hear your knock at my door, and I don’t….. I'm in HELL.

Every time I go to the bathroom and see the light you just bought and installed for me…..

I’m in HELL.

Every time I’m in public and am reminded of a time we shared over the past 13 years or even something you enjoyed…..

I’m in HELL.

Every time I start thinking about what I should’ve said or done differently……

I’m in HELL.

Every time I wish I could have just one hour, minute, or even a second to say goodbye……

I’m in HELL.

Every time I realize that I have to remain here - without you…

I’m in HELL.

But, every time I look into our son’s bright, blue eyes and see yours staring back at me …........

For just a moment…..

I’m in Heaven.

I will always love you.

R.I.P

Patrick Stone aka "Pitty Pat”

08/28/1978 – 04/19/2023

"Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon. Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves. Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone."

Enough said.

1. Don’t think, just write—look back later and gather ideas from there. Our best potential is hidden deep within the unconscious recesses of our minds.

2. Write everything that comes.

3. Keep a dictionary and thesaurus nearby. Every word carries a slightly different meaning, flavor, tone, and it’s crucial to piece together the right ones to convey our image.

4. Read hard books. Exposure to hard, eloquent writing with hard, eloquent words teaches our minds to think naturally on that higher and more difficult level.

5. When faced with a serious bout of writer’s block, look around you for inspiration. Everything has a life, a history, something that makes it

uniquely it. Ponder that.

I don’t want you to be my drunk dial

So please don’t answer the phone

I am slightly bourbonated

So please don’t answer the phone

Also

Don’t look at your texts

In fact

Don’t think of me at all

I promise

I won’t call

I had a fulfilling work life in foreign language education for some 25 years. I taught Spanish for a dozen years and while teaching, consulted for a non-profit foreign language organization. When I stopped teaching, I consulted full time. For several years, the organization was very busy with academic, government and military contracts, but then there was a lull.

Enter, the unsavory job.

While waiting for new contracts, I signed up with a local temp agency (something I always did during breaks in college and grad school), and was immediately contacted to interview with a lawyer looking for a Spanish translator.

His office was only a 20 minute or so drive from my home which was nice. When I entered the office, I was shocked by the absolute, unmitigated mess. Books and papers everywhere. He, let's call him Larry, took some books off a chair and waved me onto it.

Perusing my resume, he laughed and said, "Haha, looks great if it's true."

Excuse me? "Well, it is true and you can contact my references from each. I have no reason to pad my resume with lies. But I am not sure I want to work for someone who starts an interview with an insult to my integrity." I stood up to leave.

He immediately apologized, smoothed my ruffled feathers and got down to what he needed me to do. Basically, translate a legal contract to buy a company in the Dominican Republic where he thought he'd get rich fast by recycling garbage.

He already had an electronic translator but it was not doing a very good job. He wanted me to take what the electronic translator spouted and "fix it" so it made sense. I accepted the challenge, told him my requirements, took over his office, cleaned as much as I could, and got to work (he gave me a key because he kept erratic hours).

It was late 2009. Electronic/digital translators were virtually useless. Especially for legal documents.

After wasting days trying to piece together the garbledygook, I decided it would be easier to start from scratch.

After translating the bulk of it, I asked Larry if he knew what he was doing. The document seemed heavily in favor of the seller with so many caveats I was not sure Larry was actually doing more than giving away his investors' money (because, of course, none of the cash down payment was coming out of his pocket). But maybe he was still making money...

"You sound like my mother," was his annoyed response. (Just before I quit, I met his mother. He clearly meant his comment as an insult but neither she, with all her nagging, nor I, with my queries, was wrong.)

Fast forward a few months, and I am on a plane to the Dominican Republic to meet with the owner of the garbage company Larry wants to buy. It is minutes to take off...and Larry has not yet boarded. I am ready to run off the plane but then, there he is.

We arrive at night, so work begins the next day. We are whisked off to the offices of myriad government bureaucrats who do little more than shake hands, and walk us to the next office. Supposedly, it was a demonstration of support for his contract and recycling plans. That evening, we have a dinner meeting with the owner and his wife and I am the interpreter. They are a lovely couple. Not much business is discussed. The food is great. We fly home the next morning.

Perhaps a month later, I'm still translating revisions and we are off again with three of his investors. According to Larry, the recycling company owner insisted I be a part of the meetings or else he would no longer deal with Larry. Possible. They were kind to me and not so much to Larry on my first visit. And Larry gave the air of knowing less than he wanted you to believe and more than he let on. Contadictory, I know.

This time, rather than a hotel, we stay in a seaside condo.

Enter the unsavory part.

The investors, Larry and I all go out to dinner and when we get back female guests have been arranged for the investors (apparently they all have regular...guests). Larry asks me to tell his pretty young thing that he doesn't want to have sex, he just wants to lay with her. Or something I have since blocked out of my memory because I could not believe I was being asked to interpet the desired outcome of an intimate encounter.

I locked my bedroom door.

The next day we were late for a meeting with the lawyers. I was mortified. I then spent two hours trying to interpret the yelling of eight people.They seemed to hate each other but when it was over it was all smiles, hand shaking and how's the family? I was still shaking when got back to the condo.

We got a late flight home that night and I gave my two weeks notice when we landed.

His mom was cleaning his office, trying to get him to get his life together the last week I was there.

I found out a few months later that the deal fell through.

What a surprise.