This resonates with me. Boundaries. It’s important, fam. Where you end and another person begins. Love is more about honor and respect than giving up your self.  I’m not talking about agape. We can’t be Mother Theresa every day. Let me say that AGAIN. Love is about honoring and respecting where you end. And another person begins. And it goes both ways. Believe it. 🌟🙏

It’s my cookin Friday so I am making Moroccan lemon chicken with olives. It has cumin cinnamon and ginger in it. And then I’ll just make whipped potatoes. 🙂 I want some kind of minerally white wine. Not sure yet which 🙂

Because I am losing weight, I can feel the twin bones of my cheeks rise out of my face. The skin retracts, the bone pushes forward. When I look at myself in the mirror, it is like watching an entire continent shift. The landscape bares itself; we see, finally, its teeth.

When my mother died, I watched the landscape of her body change. Out of her body came another body, whiter, harder, made of stone. We called this death. But, it was there all along, hidden behind a map of tendon and fat. An illusion.

At night, the bones rise to the surface. We call this living. My cheekbones emerge from the surface of my face, shining.
In the ocean the submerged continents wait to be revealed.


And so, wherever life takes it by surprise, and suddenly the artificial self of adaptations proves inadequate, and fails to ward off the invasion of raw experience, that inner self is thrown into the front line—unprepared, with all its childhood terrors round its ears. And yet that’s the moment it wants. That’s where it comes alive—even if only to be overwhelmed and bewildered and hurt. And that’s where it calls up its own resources—not artificial aids, picked up outside, but real inner resources, real biological ability to cope, and to turn to account, and to enjoy. That’s the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they’re suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That’s why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realise you’ve gone a few weeks and haven’t felt that awful struggle of your childish self—struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence—you’ll know you’ve gone some weeks without meeting new challenge, and without growing, and that you’ve gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself. The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all. It was a saying about noble figures in old Irish poems—he would give his hawk to any man that asked for it, yet he loved his hawk better than men nowadays love their bride of tomorrow. He would mourn a dog with more grief than men nowadays mourn their fathers.

And that’s how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate—and enjoy. End of sermon. As Buddha says: live like a mighty river. And as the old Greeks said: live as though all your ancestors were living again through you.

I am interested in the experience of sisterhood. From nunneries to Sororities to mature ties between mothers and daughters and old friends. The secrets we tell each other in the dark. the small ceremonies we keep in our quotidian lives. the fearsome lies and truths and small betrayals. The moments of blind emotion and beauty. The binding loyalties of blood and salt. the inheritance of regret and pride and longing. Women have so many stories they carry. We keep them as parcels, as weights we throw into the sea. Some wait to be found. Others speak loud to be heard. I find them all strong transcendent terrrifying and fragile all at the same time. I have some ideas on writing new fiction but the specifics flood me. Every once in a while I’ll see a photo and the urge to tell a story overwhelms me.

Photo: Osamu Yokonami


The White Fires Of Venus

by Denis Johnson

…The simple cure
for everything is to destroy
all the stethoscopes that will transmit
silence occasionally. The remedy for loneliness
is in learning to admit
solitude as one admits
the bayonet: gracefully,
now that already
it pierces the heart.

Living one: you move among many
dancers and don’t know which
you are the shadow of;
you want to kiss your own face in the mirror
but do not approach,
knowing you must not touch one
like that. Living
one, while Venus flares
O set the cereal afire,
O the refrigerator harboring things
that live on into death unchanged.”

They know all about us on Andromeda,
they peek at us, they see us
in this world illumined and pasteled
phonily like a bus station,
they are with us when the streets fall down fraught
with laundromats and each of us
closes himself in his small
San Francisco without recourse.
They see you with your face of fingerprints
carrying your instructions in gloved hands
trying to touch things, and know you
for one despairing, trying to touch the curtains,
trying to get your reflection mired in alarm tape
past the window of this then that dark
closed business establishment.
The Andromedans hear your voice like distant amusement park music
converged on by ambulance sirens
and they understand everything.
They’re on your side. They forgive you.

I want to turn for a moment to those my heart loves,
who are as diamonds to the Andromedans,
who shimmer for them, lovely and useless, like diamonds:
namely, those who take their meals at soda fountains,
their expressions lodged among the drugs
and sunglasses, each gazing down too long
into the coffee as though from a ruined balcony.
O Andromedans they don’t know what to do
with themselves and so they sit there
until they go home where they lie down
until they get up, and you beyond the light years know
that if sleeping is dying, then waking
is birth, and a life
is many lives. I love them because they know how
to manipulate change
in the pockets musically, these whose faces the seasons
never give a kiss, these
who are always courteous to the faces
of presumptions, the presuming streets,
the hotels, the presumption of rain in the streets.
I’m telling you it’s cold inside the body that is not the body,
lonesome behind the face
that is certainly not the face
of the person one meant to become.