To Kill The Giant

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Pennies and Dimes

A feeling of despair, looking toward the ivory tower on the green pasture in front of me. One of the finest East Coast Educational systems is at my feet. I walked in the rain today to retrieve cashmere gloves for the cold. I dress much nicer than most.  I sit in a hotel room staring at the college that most students, let alone every adult who thinks of returning to school dream to attend. Its too late for me now. Too late to have my head filled with alegebra, world theories in mismanagement. Education is something that I did not take seriously, rather couldn’t. I did not have the capabilities to sit in a normal classroom. Hyper? OCD? ADD or ADHD? Perhaps. Names of disorders weren’t tagged to people back then. We were just told we couldn’t pay attention in class. We couldn’t concentrate. School was not for me. Then I am told, it’s never too late. Has anyone told society it isn’t too late? No one hires you after 50. Too much liability, too much health risk, too old. Turned out and too old.

Instead, I am a caregiver, chef, who only wishes she had continued her education. Now past a mid century of living, regrets still follow this middle age body and inhabit my mind of what I truly could have been. A physcist? A doctor? No, instead my God given talent is that of a medium. I can see to the other side and clearly communicate with the souls in Heaven. No amount of education or learning can train you for that. School books don’t teach that. I can also see into the depths of the darkness and know in my heart, no amount of monetary value will make me want to do something so evil as to want to end up there. I live pay check to paycheck. I made choices in my life that most people would have not have chosen. Yet, I am better paid than most in society with college degrees. My position is not for long. I don’t have much time. Distance education is a thought and so are dreams. My dreams paid the bills for over 25 years and still continue to do so.

“Your a survivor” my mother would say. True, I could get a job with the best of the them, for the best of them, for the 1% of the world. I fit in, even though I don’t have the BS degree, the MS degree or the doctorate. I am a high school graduate with certifications. Certifications in street smarts? In life in general? Was my way the best way? The learn by doing trial and error method? I don’t want my nephews and nieces to choose the same path. I will scrub toliets to not let them walk in my path, no matter how glamourous it appears, it is not.

Alert: Fox news reports that college students are striking. They want free tuitiion and waiver of repayment or debt forgiveness. They can’t get jobs in their chosen fields to pay back the loans.

I cant forgive myself for not doing better in school and they want debt forgiveness for not getting a better job? Where is the irony in that?

Let them tread in my footsteps for a day. Let them figure out how they are going to pay for what they feel entitled too, let them learn by doing, then they will covet that degree, make it work for them as a niche and carve a name for themselves in their chosen field, and pay it back, then they will not be sitting in a hotel room staring at the past while waiting on the future to catch up with them which is closer for some than others.

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Johnson Grass Turns Yellow in the Winter

Johnson grass turns yellow in the winter but other types of grasses remain forever green.

Was it for the money or the wanting of a better life? No, the money was there wrapped up like a roll of one dollar bills in real estate assets. The love had turned into a business. Others didn’t speak so unkind. Was it an awakening to what was and not what should have been? Maybe living in a fairy tale with the picturesque house and possessions wasn’t enough or maybe it was too much.
What you didn’t have today will it have appeared tomorrow? True love, it might have been, but not for us, if it did not come with stipulations and contingencies whispered with every other word of “if you don’t change I am leaving”.
Perhaps the love subsided with every evil remark left in the wake of a eruptous argument, like a belt with notches, a new notch created for every unkind statement. The heart broke with the words emblazoned like a neon sign upon its intended. Retreat and withdrawal into oneself never to be discussed left a gregarious person empty and subdued. In Front of people experiencing the tumultuous relationship will replay like a movie shown over and over. Was it really his way or the highway, no detours, no emotions shown? Apologies remain imprinted on their life as scars remain from riding a bike. She always ushering in the first hoping for forgiveness or some acknowledgement of wrong doings. But was it always her fault, no. Simply two minds who thought differently. Sometimes, the grown over scab can be peeled back to expose the hurt and pain.
Never forgetting what was said but never striking back like a cobra with it’s master who mesmerizes it. Then the years fade, birthdays are obscure and come and go, no present, even to the one celebrating it. Anniversaries aren’t remembered except only by friends who remind them of the important date.Christmas is spent at loved ones and vacations are experienced apart. Was it meant to be remembered? Was it not two people who were wed?
Secretly the heart yearns for more in the wake of forgetfulness or unkindness. Still reeling and recoiling, yet, the grass is still yellow. Will it be seeded to turn green again or left to suffer the deprivation and degradation of weeds growing in its path? Never to experience true happiness found in another soul?
The yearning of more is akin to a tumbleweed spinning out of control in a dust storm, and yet eventually finding a place that it can’t be swept away any longer, it journeys to a different hiding spot, supposedly where the grass is greener. Or so it seems.
Johnson grass turns yellow in winter but other types of grasses remain forever green. The grass is never greener while standing in yellow pastures.

This was about my marriage.

The Jokers Smile

The eternal smile, worn tight, fosters an agist culture that demands youthfulness. Constant bombardment of natural cures, anti aging creams, cool sculpting to going under the knife for the sake of erasing time stares back at you in the mirror. The deep circles or sagging neck, the jowls all define the human person as it ages. The greying of the hairs, inset eyes, are but
The time it took someone to experience life, to outgrow diapers, to spell, read and write, hit their first baseball, or learn to ride a bike, is wiped away. Where did the line go that signified true loss and pain or , the moment you captured love in the eyes of another? Is it wiped away in one knife and one pull of the skin? Where did the smile upon attending the grandchild’s first birthday get whisked away to? What happened to the wrinkle that upturned on its own, that symbolized the marriage to the love of your life? When the character lines are erased, where might have the character of the moment of that particular memory have gone? Each subtle pull of the fingers, tightening ever so gently, takes away what life intended you remember. The scar from falling in the river on oysters, the laugh lines from the comedy club, a night spent with friends to the minutest engravings left behind after the worst breakup, where has it gone? Holding the lifeless furry body of your best friend after getting hit by the car, where is the life line on you to connect you to that moment? It’s gone. This is life found in the memories of your skin, character lines of where you have been, and what your soul has experienced.
The attention placed on the soul must be greater than the attention placed on the outward appearance if one is to remain forever young.

The Timeless Red Ribbon

The box appeared on the doorstep. The red bow, the allure of a gift awaited the recipient. Redemption in a package. But for whom? The seller or the receiver?
The age didn’t matter now, only what she carried with her, in her heart and mind. No one was paying attention. No one but her and what awaited in the bow tied red box.
A promise that was never delivered was now sitting on her front door step. For how long could it keep it’s promise? A day? A month? Perhaps, the box needed more time, for she was out of it, time having run out for her.
Still, ever so gingerly lifting the lid, was this what she had been waiting on for so many years?
The promises were never kept. Empty at most, at best, she moved on to other boxes with red pretty bows. Holding out hope even though her time had come and gone and now age was thought of as a thief, robbing the lucky wearer of a valiant resolution, only to have the lid shut on it again.
Another empty promise in a bottle found inside a box with a pretty red bow delivered to a front door step.
For her, time, the evil thief, had stolen it from her when she was not looking but the red bow never aged, it remained intact inside the white box holding the fountain of youth