Nana’s Top Songs About Being “Broken”:

Sometimes songs depict various situations in life, or at least the emotions behind them.  Some are by artists of faith and others are not.  I know a lot of “broken” spirits right now. Some have lost partners. Some lost children. Some lost jobs and their homes, etc…Some lost their childhood. These are the top songs for various situations that can leave one “broken”.  Some are going to be more familiar than others–and some are a tribute to those who love the broken just as they are–or those who know they will find their way…And I threw one on here for those who are hypocritical enough to judge the broken, yet have never walked in their shoes. Enjoy–and grab your Kleenex if you are broken…At least you will know you are not alone.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZt7J0iaUD0  Luka–Suzanne Vega

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6l1kpJ0x5k   Home Free–Wayne Watson

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCZ1YteCv5M  “What It’s Like”–Everlast (dedicated to the hypocrites everywhere–they are as broken as those they victimize, I think…)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1QGnq9jUU0  “My Heart is Broken“–Evanescence

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAfyFTzZDMM  “Beautiful”–Christina Aguilera

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miazVAj2PxA  “I Probably Wouldn’t Be This Way“–Leann Rimes

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ttggMJeUAo4  “When You Were Mine”–The Dixie Chicks

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=saalGKY7ifU  “My Heart Will Go On”–Celine Dion

NOW FOR THE ONES THAT REALLY GET TO ME PERSONALLY:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B_KhkXNF6-U  “Mr. Perfect”–Pink  (I love this song)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1GmxMTwUgs  “Angel”–Sara McLachlan

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hSjIz8oQuko  “Family Portrait”–from a girl’s perspective–parental break ups are hell. So is living in WW3.  I experienced the latter in a much different way.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MUfgAbFY4CA  “Wonderful”–Everclear  One of the best songs involving divorce from a kid’s perspective I have ever heard in my life. Parents should listen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQ7oqmikZDQ  “Untitled”–Simple Plan  This video accurately depicts how driving drunk destroys a family. Watch it…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7l98wiQx0s  “Broken”–Lindsey Haun

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MS91knuzoOA “Jeremy”–Pearl Jam   Sometimes children break to the point that they kill themselves.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPG1n1B0Ydw  “Stay”–Sugarland   Sometimes it is the other woman who is the stronger one when she realizes it’s best to walk the hell away.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gmgwx77osw&list=FL5P37z_TMECOYMgJMs0RE6w  “I Was Only 19“–Video from The Herds version of “I was only 19” with the music of the original by Redgum.  This is the very best song about PTSD I have ever heard and the video kicks ass.  This  is an Australian video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Je8mrb31D1g  “All That You Are”–The Goo Goo Dolls   AND if we have people in our lives who help us to reach this point, we’re damned lucky!

There…Pick and choose! Anyway these are a few of my favorite songs about various states of being.

 

Nana knows this much…

The woman never could understand why people search for that which is so hard to find unless they look within. No one needs to spend a fortune to seek these things out. One only needs to be willing to learn and experience it–and to be silent and listen. Each person must do this on his or her own–wherever their wings take them–and it is nothing to fear. And that person must patiently wait for the answer. Fear keeps many from finding their vision and sometimes looking for it through others can prevent it–especially if we become too dependent upon them. Others can guide us, but we must find our path ourselves, in our own way, in our own time. The process is part of the adventure, and it can be rewarding–and for her it has been.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JI2o-nxHd8

I have my mountain to which I run to, and it is where I find my solace but I plan to go to Sedona, AZ or to Pecos, NM for a retreat at some point. There is strength in silence and beauty in places where nature can speak to us.  That being said, I hope you all have a great weekend.

 

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Unusual Truth–Nana

You have beaten me yet I do smile

You have berated me but I still laugh

You have misjudged me and I have survived

You have bound me but never have found me

You have misused me yet I have prevailed

You have discarded me-the stone left unturned.

 

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Two Worlds….

I look in the mirror.  It is one world. It is like a picture of me.

The battle ensues–one of anger and one of apathy

another of love and another of  trust

still more rage…One of pain and one of sorrow

Then that of grief  and total indifference…

With all these wars, can any side win?

I think not.  In fact, I know not.

It may seem silly but it is all there-each facet

mentioning  two different worlds with the

duplicity in each facet as if it should matter

yet it doesn’t.  It just is.

How to Make the World a Better Place

Yes…Another new one for me.  Everything actually begins from within though.  How will I make this world a better place? Here’s a few things I work on…Eventually I’ll do more:

1.  Never live a lie. In other words, don’t commit to something or someone you cannot give your all to. Doing that hurts the cause you’re representing or the person who needs someone who is committed to them 100%. It’s like  a one-way reflection.  Not fair to the cause–or to the person–whichever the case may be. Honesty is always the way to go.

2.  I do my best to make people laugh, even if I’m the butt of the joking regarding my self-depreciating sense of humor.

3.  If I don’t need it, I’ll give it to someone who does.

Simple and short, right?  It’s a start.  Been doing this for a while now, but the first one is coming much easier to me than the 3rd one!

What will you do to make this world a better place?

I want to see this place so badly!  Have a great weekend!

In What Colors Do You Dream?

Sounds silly doesn’t it?  Maybe it is but we all have our quirks and perks.  Some of us even slide into pulling into our shells from time to time because we are safer there. It is when I am in my shell, as I am at the moment that I begin to ask myself what it is I really want? What color do I want my life to be?  Blue is beautiful, yet almost as somber as black depending on the shade.  I love how the rain, lightning and thunder mixes with that–and there are many times I have felt safer in the storm than out of it.

Nobody can understand that thought either. I hear that life cannot be a “color” but who is it that makes these bloody rules?  I know that there are those times when I rant about some things, but they DO make some sense to me.  The color on those days is not a basic crayon red but more of that of arterial blood–my blood, which I once saw after being viciously bitten once.  That was a scary experience–combined with  yellow, which is often associated with fear but not canary yellow…Oh no…It’s more of a pastel because while there is some fear in my hesitation,  that part does not last long.

Then there is my mountain which ranges from brown to green, with various sprinkles of color throughout depending on my journey.  It calms and blends all those other colors.  It is said that we all bleed red but the road is red also.  That blood that dripped from me then is now part of that road for real.  So what color should I dream in?  Should it be the mixture of blues and greys of a summer rain long anticipated, or should I start to dream of greens and such?

Better yet here is a question for you.  What is the color of love?  Does any emotion have a color?  I thought I knew love but I didn’t until now.  It embraces me when I close my eyes. It chases me when I would rather be alone.  It really never gives up on me, so the Universe must know something that I don’t.  However, I don’t let it consume me.  I cannot let it possess me. It opens me back up to yellow all over again…This time the same shade of yellow as that wallpaper that Charlotte Perkins Gillman wrote about. I have heard that love is insane.  Time will tell won’t it?

What color is insanity?  Is it bold and bright or pastels and subdued?  Are the artists and dreamers really the mad ones or is the rest of the world the color of–well what color could the word “fucked” be?

Sometimes it can be the dark hues of “The Awakening” by Kate Chopin or “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath.  All of these colors I am looking into–but if love has a color–I fear letting it become a force to drive me out of this comfort zone–this solitude I am now in for the rest of the week.  As long as I don’t slip into the darkness of a murky river with grey stones to weigh me down, I guess I am doing fine.  That color keeps chasing me–especially when I dream–but should I dream it at all?  Is it white and pure or is it the color of the bruises that I once had upon my heart?

I do know this much–it does have different types and degrees–some true and some false.  How does one know the difference in their heart? Does the  Universe say to trust it, or to think before deciding?   I’m not trying so hard now.  Maybe it is not a color but a vibration.  If I figure this out, I’ll discuss that later.  But for now, in what colors do you dream?  I think I’ll enjoy these colors for a while:

Solitude with peace…This is where love might find me–if I let it.

I will stop this now.  I would rather dream the colors of my mountain and the colors of the new chapter in my life about to open.  Something is on the horizon–and it will be to my benefit.   In what colors do you dream?

Fallen…Forgotten…

I was called Fallen.  I am the one you don’t see or hear.  I stood by you when you cried, and told you all would be well.  Yet you chose to simply let me fall.  I was crushed and broken, but you were no longer there. You built your own Utopia while I faithfully stood and waited.  Silently…Hoping for some sign that my fears had not come to pass.  Then the rain fell.  As each drop penetrated my being, I longed to be part of Mother Earth once again–to have that oneness with something again, for walking on this red road has become increasingly difficult.

At least if I am part of Mother Earth, at some point we will cross paths again and I will feel your warm presence–though you will not know mine for I will be supporting your footsteps as I always have. However, the Great Spirit has other plans for me.  I will one day leave this place behind, and the grief I have with it.  As the rain washes the tears from my fading tracks, you will come to look for me but I will be gone–as well as my tracks.  And when you seek the Great Spirit to return me to you, you will find that he has sent me to where I am truly needed…

And at that point I will no longer be fallen or forgotten. I will be appreciated, needed and loved.  I have a purpose yet to fulfill in this life and will not let you drive me to such depths of despair again–let alone distract me from what I must do ever again.  Farewell, for soon you will be fallen and forgotten as my purpose on this road unfolds before me.  Even now you seek me, but I am not to be found…Please do not ask  about me or for me again. I will no longer answer for the ship I am going to leave on is waiting. I shall not look back because I have now risen.  Of the two of us, I shall now fly to my new sanctuary. Peace.

My Sanctuary

All that I Am–Still Unbroken

Today I found a plastic bowl that one of my boys stained up by using it in the microwave oven…They used something with tomato in it because I could tell by the stain.  I started to throw the thing away, but couldn’t make myself do it.  It elicited a train of though from me that I haven’t had in a long time.

People are quick to toss out things they view as “useless”.  This includes people.  People who may have had things happen to them.  Most know my story so I won’t repeat it, but sharing it has cost me a great deal. People assume that girls who go through what I endured are “damaged” and they want nothing to do with the issue .  There are those who simply wish I wouldn’t talk about it because it disturbs their comfort zone.

Oh well, so be it.  The fact of the matter is that I have decided that I have endured much of the abuse I suffered as a child because some other kid might not have survived it long enough to tell the tale.  If telling my tale helps one child, then the critics and naysayers can all quite frankly kiss my ass.

This “damaged” vessel tells kids that they should never be afraid to keep telling someone until they are listened to.  Period!

I have ended relationships because I could tell that the man I was with had a problem with how I deal with my own issues. Most of them didn’t want to “share me” anymore. They began to isolate me from family and friends and I know exactly what that leads to because my own abusers did the same thing to me as a child–so yes, I know the warning signs and I don’t fall for those lines any longer.

On the other hand, I know that one day another person will cross into my path that will realize that the person I am today is in spite of what happened to me–not because of what happened.  I could have done a 180 and became a totally cruel, sardonic bitch, but I didn’t. I did become a realist.  When a person takes the time to accept me as I am, he will have my heart–and not a minute sooner. He will encourage rather than abase me.  He will lift me up rather than knock me down emotionally.  And he will work alongside me rather than try to constantly control me.  He will let me fly rather than try to put me in his cage. In short, he won’t try to turn me into a creature that I can never be–and I will  return to him that kindness.

By the way, I didn’t toss the bowl since it will come in handy–and besides, it’s less crap for the landfill.  One of these days people will learn that ceramic bowls may break, but they are easier to clean. Once broken, you have to toss them.

That being said, here is one of the most beautiful rock ballads I’ve heard in years.  Johnny Rzeznik (of the Goo Goo Dolls) knows how to craft a lyric…I think it proper to close with this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZcTnu3AWk7Q&feature=related

I will never be broken.

You Just Had to Ask Me…

Note: While I am on my “hiatus” of sorts from discussing certain things  on the blog, I hope you enjoy this interlude of a different story while I keep working on part 6 of “Centuries Under the Moon”–Kadja

The older man came to her and sat next to her…’Wanna dance?”  he asked, brushing back his salt and pepper hair from his face, which had just enough lines to reveal that he was a hard-working man with some determination.

“No. I don’t dance.” she said as she was trying to listen to the band, brushing her black bangs from her eyes.

“You don’t dance? Seriously?” he asked her.

“No. I don’t.  What part don’t you get?” she said firmly as smoke continued to fill the air–and he continued to invade her space…

“Wanna take a walk outside?” he asked.

“No.” she said again.

She had seen the wedding band and knew this guy’s drill.  She already knew there was no common ground with him, so she put her barrier between them quickly.  He was one of many that she had no use for–let alone a desire to get acquainted with.  She kept to herself–until she walked onto stage. Then she let it out.  All that angst–and the power to release it ignited her defiant soul more than ever as she shook her head to one side, her black hair moving away from her green eyes as she took that microphone into her hand.

She then went back to her booth, where a reporter she was expecting had been waiting.  He was a young man, close to her age.  Very good-looking, and he knew she was a tough one to interview. His editor had warned him about how she can be. Yet there she was–all 5’5″ of her.  He stood 6’1″.  When his brown eyes locked on her, he knew this woman was different from the others he’d had dealt with before and he knew that he’d better tread lightly.  Her bottle of Patron and a lit candle were waiting for her, along with two glasses.  She offered him a drink, which he accepted.  She noticed that the sandy colored locks this reporter had were a sharp contrast to Michael Redding’s well-kept black hair. She also liked it that he showed up in jeans and a T-shirt, and appeared to have not shaven in two days as opposed to Michael’s “everything has to be perfect” look.

“You have no one in your life?” he asked after they conversed for some time, talking about her upbringing in Oregon and her family–which she didn’t say much about–YET.

What difference does it make? I have plenty of people who support what I do and I don’t have time to limit myself in any way.  No man has ever loved me for the creature that I am so I fly solo and I sleep solo.” she responded.

“Even though Michael Redding is telling all who will hear him that he wants a relationship beyond friendship?” the reporter asked.

“As I said, what difference does it make?” she asked.

“He seems like a nice enough guy–”

“Which is why I’m doing him a favor by avoiding him this week since that is the public perception.” she mused.

“He’s heir to the Biotechna fortune.” the reporter said, puzzled that she would say such a thing when they seemed to be so close.

“And?”

“But you two seem to go very well together in public–”

“That’s what he tells me.”  she said.

“You’re not going to tell me if you two are in a relationship, are you?” he asked.

“IF we were, I wouldn’t be interviewing with you alone in a darkened booth in a friggin’ bar.” she grinned, as shafts of light flashing into the booth revealed her dark red lips and pale skin.

“Do you have a hard time in relationships?” he asked out of curiosity.

“No because I never enter into arrangements with anyone. I don’t believe in it. If I want to play house, I’ll hire a gigolo.” she said sarcastically as a sheepish grin came across her face.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“People in this town hook up to find convenient arrangements for combining resources and such.  You will find that many couples in this business aren’t in love but they only stay together because they can tolerate each other.  In other words, they play house.  I know four couples right now who cannot say “I love you” to each other, which sucks because two of those couples brought kids into this bitch we refer to as our world.  Their teen children are screwed up because they know why their parents are together–just like mine were back in the heyday of this town.  No thank you.  Men who want that do not interest me. I’m not an investment or a breeding mare.”  she said.

“So you plan to avoid romance altogether? That seems rather sad.”  the reporter said.

“There is no such thing as romance–especially here. It’s all about appearances.  I don’t believe in romantic love anymore. Everyone in this town is about getting into an arrangement.  If they weren’t, you wouldn’t find so many of them screwing around on each other like my own parents did.” she said.

“You have been at odds with your parents for years.  Do you speak to them now?” he asked.

“Not very often.” she said.

“Why?  They seem like nice people–”

“My stepfather is one of the coolest people on the planet.  So is my dad. I cannot say the same about my mother or that bitch my father sleeps with and calls a wife.  I don’t care if you print that or not Mr. Jacobson.  I talk to neither of my parents since I had to go to court to get their hands off of my bank accounts.” she said.

“This is what the feud is over?  Money?” he asked.

“That’s what they WANT to think.  It’s not. It’s about their inability to live their own sick lives through their daughter and son.  They did the same to my younger brother.” she said.

“He committed suicide.” the man said.

“Yes.  AFTER dear old MOM cleared out his funds.  Then she sent part of it to dad via the stepmom and he says he never saw a dime of it although she admits she had it.”  she mused.

“Will you ever make amends with them? They seem to be reaching out to you now–”

“For more money. Here! I’ll prove it.” she grinned as she turned on her speaker phone.

“What’s up Ce Ce?” she asked her stepmother.

“Is this for another one of your business schemes–like the one that broke dad’s company?” she asked.

“No! It’s for your father’s eye surgery and I have no time for–”

“Well, if it weren’t for the lasik I’d send it but I know how you operate. You’d use it elsewhere.”  she said flatly.

“Come on! Reese, what is $15,000 to you?  We are your family–”

“Dad is my family. You are nothing.  He told me he was scrapping the lasik thing last week. Nice try, CeCe.” she said as she hung up.

“Mr. Whatever your name is–THAT is how my family is. Always with a hand out. Always a new lie.  She’s not half as bad as my mother is.  I’m surprised my step dad hasn’t left her ass.   She’s still paying back money she robbed from me.”  she said to him.

“So you’ve been robbed of your childhood, robbed of part of your fortune and robbed of what good in life you can have out of fear of being used?”  the reporter asked.

‘I am a corporation, am I not? I am used every day. Even Mr. Redding will tell  you that much.  I’m not marrying or moving in with him either–and you can print that in the papers, the book, I don’t care…  I like my space.  He asked me to marry him four times in three months, but when he sees my prenup he tries to skirt it so I don’t see him any longer.” she said.

“I just think it is sad that you can trust no one.  Off the record.  Why did you let me interview you?” he asked her.

“You just had to ask me.” she mused.

“I really want to know.” he said.

“Your name is Stephen Robinson and you work for the Herald, correct?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then I chose you because you don’t bullshit. I like that.  I like that article you did on Tibet too.” she said.

“Why do I get the sense that this may head elsewhere?” he asked.

“I’m hiring you to write my biography.  Didn’t your boss tell you that?  IF you decide to do it, you’ll have the exclusive.  You’ll be traveling with me and my band mates–IF I decide to regroup.  You’ll see the good, the bad and the ugly–and the fugly too. ” she grinned.

“Is there anything about the “fugly” I need to know about?”  he asked.

“I have maybe a year to live and I want the truth out.  I’m making my will tomorrow.  I refuse medical treatment as my younger sister died of this particular blood disorder I have.  Here is the reality.  I will never have a normal life. I will never get married or be a mother…In short, you get to write about how f**ked up my life and my family really is.  I know you can bring it out the way it needs to be brought out.  You’ll also be there at the end.  My band knows nothing and neither does my family, my agent or my manager.  I don’t fear dying either. It is the only release I’ll have from the ongoing bullshit in my family anyway.” she said.

“This is a joke, right?” he asked.  Then he noticed as a faint shaft of light came across her face.  A tear had rolled down her cheek.

“I wish it were one of my f***ing jokes.  I would be laughing hysterically if it were.  However, I will leave them nothing. Absolutely nothing.  At the same time, I want to learn how to really live.  Does that make sense?”  she asked as her tone became more resolute and she wiped the tear from her cheek with the sleeve of her blouse.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I want to do what I have always been afraid to do–starting with bungee jumping. Go with me.” she said.

“Bungee jumping?” he asked.

“Bungee Jumping…Right after I get my will signed.  By the way, you are getting a hefty check for all of this shit.” she told him.

“What if you chicken out of the jump?” he asked.

“That’s what YOU’RE there for…To make sure I don’t, dammit.” she said.

“Oh so I’m a personal assistant to you now?  I am sorry but I don’t know how to–”

“Just bring whatever you need to write.  Don’t be anything less than honest either.  That is all I ask of you.” she said as she downed a shot of tequila.

“Look, Miss Harrison–”

“Look at it this way.  Either you write it or nobody else will.” she said flatly.

“I need to think this over and talk with my editor–”

“You’re getting exclusive rights to the story.  I’m paying you $150,000 to write it, plus 50% royalties in any film rights and such,  with a $50,000 advance  for your time.  He knows that.  Besides, you free-lance anyway. IF you want it in writing–”

“Miss Harrison, this is a huge assignment for me.  I need to think about it.  I was going to go to Nepal–”

“Which you’ll have plenty of time to do later because if it’s about the orphanage, I am part of that benefit taking place there.  All I am asking for is part of your time–not 24/7–unless you want to get the whole deal.” she said.

He didn’t have to think beyond 48 hours.  $150K for a year…Not bad and it’s not exactly chump change given the fact that other writers, at least in his mind, were superior to him.  Stephen Robinson knew this assignment would be life changing–but he had no idea how much.  He went to her house in Beverly Hills 2 days later.  When her maid answered the door, Reese was pouting on the stair case.

“TWO days…It took you two days to make up your mind?  I didn’t go bungee jumping either. Thanks for nothing.” she pouted.

“You didn’t need to do that right away anyhow.  Besides, I had loose ends to tie up.” he said.

“Whatever.” she mused as she stood up and went into her conservatory.  While the maid, Abigail, showed him to his room, she told him, “Mr.  Robinson, she is really mad about you taking two days.  She only goes in the conservatory and composes like this when she is angry. Just let her be for a couple of hours and she’ll be fine.  She’s furious with Mr. Redding too.” she warned him.

He was amazed by her choice of decor.  She stayed true to the history of the house, which was built during the early 1900’s.  There was an ornate fireplace in her den, another living area with a smaller one and huge bay windows that had a view of the pool. He noticed the bar and made particular note that everything in the rooms had solid colors–no patterns.  Abigail explained that she did the main rooms of the house in this fashion due to her sister’s epilepsy when she came to visit.  According to Abigail, almost any extreme pattern or something as simple as a flashing light could cause a seizure, so Reese was taking extra precautions.  She did have hanging crystals in her conservatory though and there was some pattern to that.

He loved the deep blue and silver accents and the  fabric adorned it.  There was no straying from the color scheme except to add grey throws to the chairs.  He was also keen to the scent of enchiladas cooking.

“Why? He’s crazy about her–”

“That’s what he wants her to think but she caught him two timing her a few months back when they was together.  He hit her when she refused to take him back. Now he wants her back again and she said very nasty things to him and told him to get out of her life–only she used more curse words.  She really fears him, Sir.” she said.

“Well, thanks for the heads up.” he told her.

“You seem like a nicer guy than he was.  I hope she takes a likin’ to ya!  She deserves some happiness after her mother pulled that stunt last week on her.”  she said.

“What stunt was that?” he asked.

“She tried to get control of her money again but the judge threw it out.  She’s 28 now and she can do what she wants and it just ticks her mama off.  She seems so sad lately though.  She doesn’t joke around much any more.  I’ve known her since she was 12.  Something is not right about her.”  Abigail said.

“Well I’ll see what I can do.” he said as he scratched his head.

When he unpacked, showered and shaved, Abigail was knocking at his door frantically…”Mr. Robinson please come!”

“What’s the matter, Abigail?” he asked as he opened his door after hastily putting on jeans and a T-Shirt. Then he heard the sound of crashing glass.

“She’s in a bad way again, Mr. Robinson–Mr. Redding made her mad again! They are down there arguing and I’m afraid he will slug her like he did before when they were together!”

As he entered the den she threw another vase at Michael yelling, “I told you to get the f**k out of my life and stay out! I meant it then and I damned well mean it now!”

“Look, Reese…I’m sorry you got hurt.  She means nothing to me,” he told her as he tried to get close to her.  She then pulled a letter opener out, “Don’t you dare come near me!” she yelled.

“Reese, you know you aren’t going to do that.  Put it down–”

“Back off dammit!” she yelled.

“I’m not going to hurt you again, Reese–”

“I think you’d better get the hell out of here.” Stephen said firmly to him.

“Oh…And who might you be? I think you’re the one who had better learn your place around me–”

“Anytime you feel lucky, bring it.,” Stephen told him, “But you will not bother her again.  I mean it.”  He saw that Reese still had the letter opener in her hand and she was shaking.

“You work for her?  Gee…Wait until you see how idiotic she is!  She thinks anyone who is with her has to be f***ing perfect! I screwed around on her one time and she  acts like she’s holier than thou! Maybe if she f***ing knew how to put out to a man, she’d be able to keep one–”

“Maybe if you were a man, I’d have stayed with your ass.” she mused.

“Don’t you talk to me like that! You’re the one who goes on tour after tour–”

“And bailed your ass out of a $7 million dollar debt.  We are done now get out!” she hissed.

He stormed toward the front door, “Reese, I’ll be back when you calm down.  We need to talk about this more–”

“I’m getting a restraining order. Abigail, call the police.” she said.

“Yes ma’am!” Abigail said as she went into another room and called them.

“So that’s the way you want it?” Michael asked her.

“For a long time now. Leave me alone!” she said.

“Fine! Don’t come crying to me when you can’t handle the pressure and shit!” he said.

“Oh I won’t. Believe me.” she said icily.

When Michael left, she sat down shaking as Abigail rushed over to her…

“Are you alright–”

“I am now that he’s gone.  I’ll get the restraining order. I’ve had it.” she said.

“I never would have thought him to be violent.” Stephen said.

“Welcome to just one aspect of my fugly world.” Reese said as she looked up into his eyes. It was then he saw the red mark on her cheek.

“Well, it shouldn’t be like that.” he said as he waited for the police to arrive in the foyer.  When they arrived, they wrote out a criminal trespass for Michael and took her statement.  She filed harassment and assault charges since Abigail saw Redding strike her.

“Well, it’s a good thing the media is already here because those reporters he has in his camp are going to make out like he’s just a friggin’ love-sick victim.”  Reese said.

“Good thing I am here, then. I’ll save it for the book though.”  Stephen said.

“Thank you. I appreciate that more than you know.  It’ll die down in a few days.” she said.

Within a few weeks, Stephen saw how she went about her daily routine.  Her songwriting habits and the various chew out sessions with her management and various band members often perplexed him but at times he laughed.  He found some of it to be rather amusing, and was becoming more drawn to her as she undertook charitable work.  They traveled to Nepal and to Costa Rica together where she saw the wildlife refuge and went bungee jumping with Stephen.

As the sunlight shone upon them and the warm tropical breeze embraced their beings, they were having a bit of a heated debate…

“You can’t be serious about doing this! There is plenty of other things to do in Costa Rica than risk our lives!” Stephen said.

“You’re kidding me, right? If the cord breaks and I die, at least I have nothing to lose.” she mused.

“Don’t talk like that! It isn’t funny!” he said to her.

“It is absurd and that is why I said it. I am merely trying to point out to you that there is nothing to be afraid of.  We’re not that high up and the water is 100 ft. deep.” she said.

“Not that high up? Look do—” she pushed him and jumped afterward.

“Shiiiiiiiiiiiiitttttt!” he screamed all the way down as she laughed.

They bounced a bit and he shot her a dirty look once they calmed down.

“Why the hell did you push me?! It’s not funny–” he protested.

“I didn’t have all day to wait on you to make your mind up.  I’ve got other things to cross off my list anyway! Why can’t you just admit that it was kind of fun?  You had to have felt a rush–”

“Oh yeah! The rush of DEATH!” he snapped.

“Exactly,” she beamed, “But if it makes you feel any better, my friend, I’ll never push you off  like that again. I promise!”

Something in her smile was rather infectious.  Something in her assertiveness was addicting.  HE finally cracked a smile at her again.

“Do you MEAN that?” he asked her.

“Not really.” she smiled as she winked at him.

“Oh shit…Whatever.” he said.

Sometimes When I Cry…

I learned that my 6th grade English teacher passed away within the past 48 hours.   This was a woman who was tough, but fair.  She always pushed her students to do their best, yet as they got older, she encouraged them to march to the beat of their own drum.  She was best at marching to her own beat in a time that most felt uncomfortable with anyone or anything that was not descended from the same train of thought that they were.

One thing I did learn was that she expected to hear our own voices when we wrote–not a rehashing of what someone else spent months and years pounding into our heads.  There are days I simply want to scream, “This is who I am!” knowing that very few accept my not-so-conventional train of thought (and probably never will).   I do not know that she ever experienced this depth of feeling so alone at times, but I know I experienced it for most of my life.

Death has been a constant companion to me.  It is neither male nor female, and yet it’s presence seems to invade my space and that peace I have as of late.  It is a part of my life, having been touched by it many times in my youth, and damned near experiencing it myself twice. I won’t go into the details of it, but I know what it is to come very close to experiencing that endlessness that everyone seems to fear with  so much dread.

I don’t fear it though.  Why bother fearing it when it touches us all more than we realize?  If anything, it is what we leave behind that we should fear.  It is the failing of saying “I love you.” to those closest to us each day that should have us reeling in repentance for neglecting to realize that they DO need to hear those three words from time to time.

It is our failing as human beings to do what we know to do that is right even when nobody is watching us that we should fear.  It is the children and grandchildren that will learn what it is to inherit a lack of integrity as a result.

It is our non-acceptance of others regardless of how different they are from us that we should grovel in tears over, because our children and our grandchildren will learn what it is to be a bigot if we fail to realize our own stupidity with respect to this issue.

It is our unwillingness to give selflessly of ourselves to others we should show some remorse over, for our children and our grandchildren will learn what it is to be self-centered from that alone.

It is our willingness to dash one another in thought and tongue from our presence (since it is not legal to kill them) that we should weep over because if we are willing to force our wills upon someone else rather than take them as they are or banish them that teaches our children that hatred is a good thing–as well as power.

There is power in hatred.  From hatred springs every evil known to man–murder, destruction, wars and sometimes pestilence.  Anyone who disagrees should look at how there have been many advantages given to Death to do its deeds with each successive conflict in History–and we won’t even discuss periods of time when hundreds of thousands of people to millions of them were slaughtered.

Sometimes when I cry, it is because  although I know Death is a constant companion in life and to life, I have joy for it does not dominate me.   Death in and of itself is a release from the bonds of our own nature it seems.  However, if we are not concerned about the tracks we leave behind in our trail for those to follow, then we have lost all consciousness of who we are and what we should strive to become throughout our days.  Does that make sense?  If it doesn’t, then reflect on it a while.  How should we WANT to be remembered?  I know how I remember my teacher and several others that have passed before her would answer that question.

Sometimes when I cry, I remember that they gave me a torch to carry and to pass on to my grandchildren–and I will do so–regardless of what others may think.  We should never fear those we don’t answer to–but we should fear what we leave behind for our descendants to answer for in our behalf, I think.  For what we leave in our own tracks, we are accountable because it is the future generations that will always pay for our own stupidity in spades in the end.

Yes, we should follow our own drum–but we shouldn’t sentence our descendants to follow the drum others make for them. Sometimes when I cry, I fear that they will not know what to follow because they are pushed so hard to be like “everyone else” and not themselves now–or so it seems.