In the parking lot of the Supermarket, I saw a girl with an adorable puppy with a flourished bandana around his neck. He reminded me a lot of my own when he was that young; the young dog was clearly a larger breed, adorable, playful, energetic, and curious. As she stood, bent over and fumbling with something in the backseat of her car, he pulled on his lead this way and that wanting to say hello to this person and jump on that one.
And then she started to make her way towards the Supermarket entrance.
Perhaps I have spoken about this topic before – I can’t recall – but I will again. And you can’t stop me. I mean, I suppose you could just click past my post, but then that wouldn’t be very nice now would it, hm?
When I was a child, I always thought I was most beautiful when I cried. I mean, yes, there is nothing like a child’s smile (I can see that now), but there is also something so beautifully compelling about a melancholic femme who so obviously bares the weight of many sorrows. At least to me, that is the sort of person whom I would like to get to know more about, to understand, and to analyze.
There’s nothing intriguing
about a cheerleader;
Now, I’m not insinuating that I had a bad childhood – actually, quite the contrary. The life that I was privy to was marvelous – don’t get me wrong. But inside of me there was always something wrong. I was always different. At a much younger age than my peers I thought about love, about mysterious adventure, about many things that a youngster should not comprehend.
I cannot recall
ever being innocent;
Depression is a funny creature. Just when you think you are in the clear, She sneaks up behind you and pulls you back in.
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot
Recently I have been experiencing major anxiety over my relationships and interactions with my female friends. As I posted some days ago, I seem to have taken on the role of therapist among them. This would be okay if just one or another needed advice or a shoulder to cry on at any given time, but it has begun to eat up my whole life. As a friend of mine put it, they’ve become
My husband is a proud man. He is Italian, and – as much as I hate sweeping generalizations – passion and pride are at the top of my list of characteristics of your average Italian (man). While I do mean passion in the romantic or sexual sense, I also mean in all aspects of their lives.
Loss started, for me, with the death of my mother’s mother in 2007. It wasn’t exactly sudden, although I took it very hard. She was only 61 and, apart from her Emphysema, extremely healthy. I will always remember the click and whir sound her breathing apparatus made as she struggled for breath in bed over her last days. She wasn’t even a smoker.
We were always like two peas in a pod. Referring to the interests we shared, my mother always said, “It skips a generation.” It was true – my mother never took any interest in our hobbies. She sewed, crocheted, beaded, and knitted among other activities – all which she passed on to me. My Nana was always so proud to show me off to her stitch-n’-bitch groups. She had also participated in the WAF program which made her one of the first active-duty women in the US Air Force…