Older Women, Younger Men


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I’ve no doubt that something has triggered this topic for me, and I believe it might be a music video I watched the other day. It’s a Maroon 5 song called “She Will Be Loved”. It’s a beautifully sad song. I still prefer to, much like reading books versus their celluloid counterparts, leave the meaning behind the lyrics up to my imagination instead of video imagery. I digress.

I recall an interview Taylor gave once talking about his fans, especially his female fans. Apparently, they go mad-crazy for him, even ones who are old enough to be his mother. He spoke about how they tried to reach him, grabbing at him and his clothing. It’s intense and scary and more than invasive when strangers grope your body, being treated like an object. Taylor, in all of his grace, said that those fans, the older ones especially, are very “passionate”. More like CR.A.ZY.

I know attraction is based on so many factors, and I wonder how the older woman/younger man situation is ever sustainable. I know as I write this there are probably 10 relationships like thi21-Famous-Women-Who-Hit-Off-Younger-Mens to every one that I can probably name.

And what is the “cut off” of a gap? Is it two, five, nine? And why is the reverse – older man/younger woman – so socially acceptable? In my extreme lack of research and therefore, pure guess, the older man/younger woman situations are far more sustainable.

I’m sure it all has to do with the maturity of the male versus female. For myself, I am silly, love to have fun, and can be extremely serious given my true introvert-ish-ness. (It’s a word…in my world…don’t judge.) With the right chemistryanna nicole smith and commitment, no matter what that looks like (it’s different for everyone), the relationship, no matter the age of those in the relationship, really doesn’t matter.

Unless it’s an inappropriate and illegal age. Subway sandwich anyone? (The answer should most definitely be, “NO.”)



Welcome to the (Long) Winter of Our Discontent


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Lately, I’ve ruminated on how quietly discontented with life we as humans are on most days.

There are comparisons to others’ achievements, wealth, material possessions, adventures, talents, experiences.

There is constant regret and guilt, social media partially to blame. I admit to being sucked into the dark, dark abyss of Facebook, perusing photos of people I used to know, seeing how “wonderful” their lives are which can, if not careful, minimalize my great accomplishments.

I’m not a braggart, so my accomplishments will never be known here or on other social media platforms simply because I choose to be anonymous in the social media world. It’s more freeing, without repercussion or consequence, and I get to be me: a human, not known on the “interwebs” for anything happening in my professional or personal life. It is not cowardice but freedom of expression and judgment that would otherwise be imposed upon me and these very words I write right now, past posts, and future ones. Nor do I want to unduly influence anyone else’s expression.

I see so many people, young, older, beautiful, average, married, single, who must look perfect, thin, and manicured in every photo, or they are not good enough.

They must get the perfect angle for each selfie. I wager there are far more digitally trashed selfies than those that ever make it to the social media platforms because every.single.photo is scrutinized meticulously.

What are we doing to ourselves? And why? I enjoy this blog, mostly reading a select few others’ blogs, and Twitter, posting every now and then but mostly reading others’ tweets.

And I’m sure I’ve written about this before, but it seems the more connected we are digitally, the more disconnected we are as the human race.

Not All Writers Are Liberal


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Not all who write are liberal.
Most writers are liberal.
Why do liberal writers assume other writers are also liberal and look down upon writers who are not?

This has been a conundrum for me for a long time. Please stop assuming all writers are liberal. Some of us are not.

That is all. Carry on.



Sometimes I write to be free
And nothing motivates me
Beyond staring at the paper

Begs me to write
Almost quivers in anticipation
For words to be carved into its wood pulp surface

Of emotions creep up, slow tentacles
Slithering leathery skin up my arms
Closing in around my neck
To squeeze words out of my brain

Fears success of my written word
Fears inadquacy measured up against her peers and idols
Those who may know of me but, upon meeting me,
Must realize I’m a fraud

Betraying their reader instincts
Believing I, the wizard behind the curtain was, in fact
Just a curtain



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Grief is bone-crushing. I feel it in my bones because it feels as if I’m being crushed down to my bones, from the inside of my bones outwardly. My head is pounding, throbbing, and feels full. The top of my head feels like it’s got some sort of medieval torture device, a big metal ring, like a halo, hovering over my head, with screws every couple of inches drilled into it, turning tighter so that the whole thing squeezes my head, and at any moment, my head will explode.

My eyelids hurt, the backs of my eyes ache, and my heart feels heavy.

The friend died of a heart attack. And now I fear sleep, that my heart will betray me, too, and steal me away from all I love.



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Lately, and especially today, I’m pondering, ruminating, why I’m here. What is the purpose of human life? If we all die, what is the point? I know, the journey and all that scheisse (“shiza”), but the pain of losing someone is so great for me, I have a hard time comprehending loss along with what happens after, or even what my own impression or vision or understanding of “after” is. I’m even more frightened because of that. I’m skeptical when anyone, due to faith or other reasons, seems fine with death.

I have lost someone today, last night actually, suddenly, unexpectedly, and I don’t understand.



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I am a few months behind on this one, but I absolutely love this song, the music, the lyrics. I love everything about it, and everything it makes me feel. It’s rare that I listen to new music these days. I’ve been in and around music so much that I found myself focusing on it too much. For example, I can’t write while listening to music. I can’t concentrate on my writing because I become too absorbed with the music and lyrics.

So again, it’s rare that I listen to new music much anymore. If you haven’t heard this song, enjoy. If you have, rewind/repeat.

We All Looked Up by Tommy Wallach


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If you were in high school and learned you had a 66.6% chance of dying from an asteroid headed for Earth, how would you spend your last two months? That’s the premise of Tommy Wallach‘s debut novel, We All Looked Up. Before you read any further, if you’ve gotten this far, the point of this blog post is this: buy this book and read it. It’s worth it in every way. When a book stays with me, when its pages in three days are already dog-eared, when its cover (such a fantastic feeling cover) blemished, when its pages have aged with fingerprints and smudges, it’s a great book. From the first page, I was hooked from this paragraph:

Stacy groaned. They’d already been talking about this for fifteen minutes, which, in Peter’s experience, was about fourteen minutes longer than his girlfriend liked to talk about any serious subject.

A couple of pages later:

He crossed the lunchroom, catching sight of his little sister’s newly dyed hair (the sink in their shared bathroom still looked like a leprechaun had thrown up and then died in it).

These aren’t even the best of the novel, but I love them still. I finished the book in about three days and could not put it down. I arrived late for an event because reading this book became my life. I hated to leave it alone, unfinished, not knowing. I felt sad, and a wee bit confused when I read the last page. More on that later. A favourite, local book shopwalu‘s staff hires voracious readers who, much to my delight, hand write their thoughts/summary/review about books on a small placard placed beneath the books about which they are writing. Placed in the “Our Current Obsessions” section, this book’s placard mentioned “The Breakfast Club” film. That caught my eye. Even though it is a compliment to be compared with anything as iconic as “The Breakfast Club”, I feel it does somewhat diminish that to which it is being compared. We All Looked Up is, in its own right, a true work of art, and will be, if my insight and experience serve me well, iconic on its own two feet. I tend to view things I read two ways: as a reader and a writer. As a reader, Tommy Wallach’s novel is a fabulous read, building momentum with each “chapter.” Yes, the word “chapter” is in quotes because while there are not “traditional” chapters (a number or chapter title, for example), each “chapter” is named after the character from whose perspective it is written (not in first person, though). I don’t think I’ve ever read a novel with quite this structure, and I lost myself in the lives, in the world of the novel. As a writer, I could not stop my eyes, my mind, my heart, my soul from the wonderment of his written word. He weaves the characters and the story much like a race car driver or…a master basket weaver. (My apologies for those truly awful similes. I’m tired.) There are insights that made me laugh, certain areas of the book that made me cry, and others that made me downright hate the character of the moment. I’m unsure if I could pick a favourite character of the main ones because they are all so well developed. There are also two things that have got me a bit buggered, neither of which I can state here as they would be deemed “spoilers”. I refuse all spoilers for books, film, music, performances unless, of course, they have “SPOILER ALERT” written beforehand as fair warning. I will say this: one of those things that buggered me, which happens in one of the last few chapters (let’s call that Chapter P), is so subtle, that when I got to an even later chapter (let’s call that Chapter E), where the subtlety is outright mentioned, I had to go back to the Chapter P for re-reading. Still, I do not know the “how”. I searched the internet over trying to find an answer to “how”, and I found nothing. That left me hopeful that no one is writing spoilers but also mentally haggard because I still had no answer to the “how”. Even without that answer, when I want to re-read it the next day after finishing the last page, it’s a brilliant book.

Stuff to Hold More Stuff (a la’ George Carlin)


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Lately, I’ve pondered all the stuff in the world. I’m not an environmentalist nor do I avidly recycle (I do recycle, but not as much as I should). I’m an animal lover but not a vegan. I hate the mere thought of landfills but I do contribute to them.

If I consider the stuff that’s in just one of my bathroom cabinets, my mind immediately does the math and considers how many bottles of lotion and creams and sprays are smearing our landscapes and clogging our seas.

The thought of destroying our planet and its creatures, humans included, in this way overwhelms and saddens me. Do we really need all this stuff?

“Actually this is just a place for my stuff, ya know? That’s all, a little place for my stuff. That’s all I want, that’s all you need in life, is a little place for your stuff, ya know? I can see it on your table, everybody’s got a little place for their stuff. This is my stuff, that’s your stuff, that’ll be his stuff over there. That’s all you need in life, a little place for your stuff. That’s all your house is: a place to keep your stuff. If you didn’t have so much stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. You could just walk around all the time. A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it. You can see that when you’re taking off in an airplane. You look down, you see everybody’s got a little pile of stuff. All the little piles of stuff. And when you leave your house, you gotta lock it up. Wouldn’t want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff. They always take the good stuff. They never bother with that crap you’re saving. All they want is the shiny stuff. That’s what your house is, a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get . . . more stuff! Sometimes you gotta move, gotta get a bigger house. Why? No room for your stuff anymore.” ~ George Carlin