happy birthday, darling




The entire village came to his birthday celebration, laying gifts of food and wine and weapons at his table. The king wore his heavy crown, his most handsome robe, the one stained with the tortured blood and cum of foes and animals and women. The queen wore purple and yellow flowers in her hair, the prince wore the pride of his father. The large man ate and drank to excess (as he was known to do) and puked in the water to make room for more, he smoked and laughed with the men, he fondled all of the women, he told his tales of bravery and debauchery that he had told 100 times before. At the urging of the guest chants to speak, speak, speak, he addressed his followers and thanked the queen and his many friends for their love and loyalty, he sobbed unabashedly as he spoke of his love for his son, he toasted God for a life well lived. So moved by his speech and the wine and the beauty of the night, the guests reveled in the fullness of wealth and their good fortune, and ate and drank and danced and buckled with joy and laughter. So, so, late, the last guests stumbled away, chuckling and rolling their eyes at the pomposity and generosity of their beloved king, squeezing the breasts and cocks of those they held on to. And the king, the foolish and wise and tender and fierce king, could finally release his trousers and collapse on his bed—and dream a drunk dream of his heart’s desire, the gift he wanted above all others, the whore he could not make his queen. And so began another year.


art: Jacob Jordaens


a poem of thanksgiving





I live in a house on a hill on the river

which faces the west and holds in its breadth

all the beauty that belongs to the sunset.

There’s a table and chair on the deck off my bedroom

and I sit and I watch the birds and boats

float thru the gray haze of autumn,

laying sweet silhouettes on the pink that is water

and the orange that is sky.

I am humbled and grateful and lost in the cold

that wraps me warm and content,

more magnificent than before. – pn


photo credit: thesedaysofmine.com

nature stoner




So, since I am high on the subject of nature, a post from the past. In the early seventies, in my college, sophmore summer, I lived with my parents. My gal pals and I smoked hash outdoors that entire summer. We were no more nature nuts than any other person our age, but we did live in the country and outdoors was where you hung out. That, plus this hash was so aromatic, a distinguishable and lingering perfume, that smoking indoors was out of the question. It was plentiful and good and I have no idea how we paid for it. Did I work that summer? I don’t remember—I just remember smoking that hash. And while we smoked in many unimaginable and unfamiliar places, there were 2 smoking sites that stand out, and one pot pouch that traveled with us everywhere.

The pouch was one of those small, plastic circle, souvenir coin purses, this one proudly sporting the name, Myrtle Beach (SC, to those unfamiliar with the South). It was attached to me like an iPhone. One girl would always ask another if we “had” Myrtle Beach, and never just Myrtle, always Myrtle Beach. We frequently smoked in a canoe on the Deleware/Raritan Canal, 2 miles from my parents home. It was a beautiful, moody and neglected canal, thick with insects and branches both dead and alive. It was hardly a destination (even though it boasted a George-Washington-paddled-here history) but luckily for us, there were 2 canoe rental businesses—probably stoner owners, summer slackers who just liked sitting by a murky canal. There were no photos to post, no insta-anything, no accounting of our time or actions. It was perfect teenage freedom.

But it was Sunfish Pond on the Appalachian Trial at the Delaware Water Gap that was my favorite, nature stoner spot. It was a day trip or overnight camp, an hour to get there and probably a 2 hour hike to the glacial lake, and we actually did camp there often, with skill and sass and Myrtle Beach and a mature reverence for the beauty around us that belied our youth. The lake was not as majestic as the art I selected above, but pristine and sun-kissed sparkly, and a complete surprise to the first timer hiker—a turn in the trail and boom, there she was. There were a lot more people around the lake than we would ever see on the canal and smoking could have presented a problem, but not for those who understood the wow of this hash and possessed the best, pot pouch ever. We swam across the 44 acre lake, with a raised arm and Myrtle Beach riding high and dry above the water, carefully passed from girl to girl so that 2 could swim while one carried our stash. We sat on rocks far from fellow hikers, with just enough breath left to inhale. Ah, nature stoner freedom.

It was a wonderful summer, a summer with no agenda other then getting high—outdoors. How perfectly amazing that I grew up in a time and place, amazing that there was a time and a place, where no one worried about girls without cell phones in the woods.


ps – Two afterthoughts: I also swam and ice skated on the Delaware/Raritan canal, and in my hometown, there is a small park on the canal named in memory of my father. And, I have heard (and seen—disgusting photos that I had to turn away from) that the rocks on the shoreline of Sunfish Pond are now covered with sunning snakes—absolutely not so when we were there. Snakes do seem to keep surfacing with me.


art: nancy newman


pink panties


MattBenn8_deviantart_ (1)


I found my pink panties at the bottom of the hamper today, baby. You remember the ones. I know you do. You’ve talked about them several times, and yet, you were only privy to them for such a short time. Such a shame. They are nice, aren’t they, baby? They fit perfectly, but sadly the pink is not the same shade as the pink of my pussy. But a nice compliment, don’t you think? Do you remember your delight upon discovering them, what they felt like under your hands? Do you remember getting hard? I remember. I don’t know how they wound up at the bottom of the pile. They probably didn’t want to get washed, they probably wanted to hold on to our scents, our sex. But I washed them. And put them back on. And stained them again.


photo credit: MattBenn8.deviantart.com


oh joy, oh joy, it’s fall




My favorite season. Absolutely, always and forever a fall girl. So much to love. Yes, of course the leaves are lovely, and yes, my dear friend, Diane, you have a vista of gold and silken shadows at your front door—but leaves are not my passion, nor mums, nor Halloween, and never, ever, ever will I buy pumpkin coffee—ew, who thought that was a good idea?  But yay for sweaters (my favorite item of clothing in the whole, wide world of clothing, and interestingly, their absence the only drawback to my puerto rico plan), yay boots, yay cute little jackets! Yay Thanksgiving, football, fireplaces, pots of soup, a kiss of cold on your cheeks!

But my love of autumn goes beyond the traditional. It is relief after a hot, excruciatingly, long summer. A summer filled with endless facebook pics of Dick and Jane in Montanta, Harry and Sally at the beach. It means I can stop dragging a hose around my yard. I will stop sweating. It’s the end of the bug season and the start of the dormant one. Yes, dormancy. The promise of dormancy delights me, maybe more than dormancy itself. And this is not at all meant to sound ominous. Think about it—if you take your cues from nature, if you suck in all the magnificence, listen to nature’s whispers—it’s coming, the big sleep, time to rest and recharge. Bring it on! Get ready to write stories in bed, read, watch movies. Get ready to reacquaint yourself with those hungry, little birds outside the kitchen window that watch you dunk cinnamon toast in your coffee while you watch them eat sunflower seeds, dressed in your most fantastic robe and socks—heavenly!

Thank you, fall. Thank you for your bounty (and blankets, I forgot blankets!), and thank you for the promise of rest, right around the corner.


ps – sorry, one more: in autumn, the mist on the creek is amazing, perfectly dreamy.


photo credit: smokymountains.com


this is BIG




Well, big if you’re a writer, but fitting for many a craft or profession. Today, I give you a quote, and yes, there are quotes out there for everything imaginable and it’s not hard to find one that applies to whatever you’re thinking or doing. But then, one quote will hit home like no other, and for me, it is the quote below:

“Buried beneath all the anxiety and sorrow and fear and self-loathing, there’s arrogance at its core. It presumes you should be successful at twenty-six, when really it takes most writers so much longer to get there. You loathe yourself, and yet you’re consumed by the grandiose ideas you have about your own importance. You’re up too high and down to low. Neither is the place where we get any work done. We get the work done on the ground level. And the kindest thing I can do for you is to tell you to get your ass on the floor. I know it’s hard to write, darling. But it’s harder not to. The only way you’ll find out if you “have it in you” is to get to work and see if you do. The only way to override your “limitations, insecurities, jealousies, and ineptitude” is to produce.” – Cheryl Strayed

Addition of the bold is for me—maybe for you, too.

And also from Cheryl Strayed:

“Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine coal? They do not. They simply dig.”


photo credit: electicliterature.com


a poor man


He had no money.

Why, even his penis was poor

and any wealth he could muster he turned into words

which proved insufficient.

He had no discretion,

and thoughts and actions were arrogant attempts

towards the truth with hints of humiliation.

He had nothing to give her but consternation

and finding her receptive, gave her more and more

to make up for that which he couldn’t deliver.


And there she drooled,

sitting on hind quarters with paws in the air,

waiting for the bone to fall and the signal to fetch.

And fetch and fetch she did so beautifully.

For she had no pride,

why, even her tears were embarrassed,

and there was always an empty something to fill. – pn


photo credit: polyvore.com