For every bad word you throw out into the world, expect a bad word in return.

I may be a product of my past, but I am not its prisoner. Strength comes from experience. Each day, depending entirely on me, I grow bigger, or smaller.

Mankind: We are consciousness and biology. We are culture, science, and conditioning. Some accomplish basic generalities of joy. Some live in a swamp of emotional despair, in disappointment, within a montage of catastrophes, prisons of their own making. All are meaty casings hanging around the portal of an underfed soul, all searching for meaning, for happiness, and too often overlooking a solution perhaps too simple to be seen.

Ever notice that many of the little things in life become the big things when they are gone?

Success and money may seem to turn some people into "turds," but I think it just magnifies what you already are, (good or bad), and in some cases, that is already a '"turd."

I have often wondered why so many prefer unabashed flattering, or artful camouflage to candor.

Those of us who do not embrace our heritage, our history, and value our place are subject to manipulation, deception, and exploitation.

The world has not been particularly unkind to me. I don't really have valid reasons to be alone. About 85% of the time, I just prefer it.

I was a long-legged youth, at least as based on the ground I thought I covered. I was as fast as an arrow, could jump as high as a kite, could reach out, pull things, make all ends meet, and was filled with a pirate's greed for life. Now my adventures coast on mind waves while I, spoiled and seasoned and world-prejudiced, settle into the shape of my chair. I open, close the refrigerator. I pet my dog, a cat. I think of a project, and designate the starting date as "tomorrow." And I muse about long-legged youth, inextinguishable energy, an open mind, and begrudge the loss of those sweet, blind, simple shadows. .

Personal stability comes from the isolation of locked doors, drawn curtains, frowns and fences, but at what cost to enjoyment, to progress?

Do you have that one special friend who moved away and you never saw again, at least not thus far in life? I did and it was a boy but that’s not the important part of it. He came from a family that looked like old Indians, and a couple of them were as temperamental as rattlers. He, however, was kind, quiet and kind — a good mix. I remember more than anything else those big dark eyes, too dark to show a pupil and that Labrador-mutt smile that put rubber in my knees, and being seventeen, with an apple halfway to my mouth, and wanting to tell him how much I cared, how much I would miss him when he moved to California...and how I couldn’t get the muscles in my throat to relax so that I could say a single thing.

Nostalgia doesn't intend to be a liar, but it can't resist bringing with it an array of vivid colors to reanimate and brighten up the past.


A goldfish in a bowl knows nothing about the ocean, just like each of us from our small station is small in understanding.


Nature takes its time. It finishes everything it sets out to do.


How can your own life have any worth when you place little value on the lives of others? .


I have argumentative moments. Sometimes I don't even agree with what I say.



California Kid

Way back when I was small, a little girl from California visited our neighborhood.  It was apparent to people on the street that we were different. They would bend to her and ask, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  They would step back from me and inquire, "Just what are you up to now?"   But she was all fresh, frilled and fluffy, with big curls on a tiny head.  I bet it didn't weigh a pound.  And I was Heidi-braided and fresh from the mudhole.  I didn't have a lot of toys, just some jacks, some paperdolls, so I tried to entertain her by teaching her how to cuss. I was pretty good at it. Knew all the variations.  She insisted she didn't do bad things like that. But two days later, that sweet little girl (I'll call her Linda, but I am no longer sure that was her name) with white hands, a frail voice, kisses in her eyes and an angelic smile around her overbite, that little bi-t--h, stole my Rosemary Clooney paperdolls.