personal stuff




I try hard to not let this website become my diary. My postings are meant to entertain, and while some posts do dance around my very own relationship issues, my purpose in writing is not to vent. However…I am about to let go of some personal thoughts that need to be released…and really, isn’t that what writing is all about? Setting free, putting to paper hopes, dreams, fears, feelings, insights, inspiration? The page is my canvas, and the pictures I paint are many and varied and cathartic, and this time, personal.

I am about to leave a marriage of thirty six years for parts unknown. I’ve been a willing participant in my husbands modus operandi for many years but can no longer live this way, and since he wants and can maintain our large home, I’m moving out. I’m just not sure where. Sadly, Puerto Rico is not going to work out at this time, and after researching the entire Eastern seaboard for a locale that meets my criteria, I’m going to give Key West a try. Hey, Hemingway, right? I’m going to pack a very large suitcase and go. That’s it, I may be back, I may not.

There’s a lot on my mind. Some random thoughts in no particular order:  I’ve only been to Key West once, and there’s a real possibility I may pass out from the heat or from over-exposure to aging, male tourists in white sneakers. I’m not sad about the marriage breaking up—I was sad about that when I saw the marriage failing ten years ago—now I’m just tired of it. My husband and I are both determined to remain civil and close friends, which I don’t see as a problem. But he is exhibiting some rash behavior that does make me sad and uncomfortable, and I question his motives and wants. I have friends that died this past year, the first of my peers to pass, and it’s troublesome on many levels. I’m the one that has lived the raucous life—I can go anytime, and I feel I better seek the life I imagine now. I will miss my living and loving friends very much, but I want to be in a writing community, with people that support me and my work, with people that inspire and encourage. I will miss my possessions, but they will be waiting for me when I’m ready—when I find a home and a job. I may come back to Maryland with my tail between my legs.

When I take a walk or ride my bike and I think about the enormity of what I’m doing, I almost cry. Not because I’m sad or scared, but because of the difficulty of the challenge ahead, and the energy, diligence and discipline it will take to make it work. Desire is not a problem—I have imagined living alone for so long, I can’t imagine not trying it. This is a big deal and I have no idea what will happen—only pictures in my mind of what I would like to happen—a life imagined. Thanks for reading—and listening.


photo credit: rebecca longman /

This is the only information I have on this photo, photographer not identified. A marvelous and appropriate picture, don’t you think?


on the terrace




She spent every evening on the terrace. From about 7 p.m. till whenever it was she went to bed. She had her dinner there, smoked there, wrote there, talked on the phone there. She leaned over the railing, mesmerized by life below, she dozed on the chaise, she watched the stars and listened to a hundred different ship sounds. She became familiar with voices on the street, neighbors, their dogs and their dog’s barks. She became familiar with reoccurring faces, partially hidden under the shadows of street lamps. Nights on the terrace were magical, imagination her companion and lover.

There was a man Marlene liked to watch, a man she looked for every evening. He lived across the street, just a few doors down towards the water. She didn’t know what he did during the day, if he worked or left the house at all–but then, she didn’t keep watch during the daylight hours, although she did watch enough to know that all interesting activity happened after sundown. He was Latin, usually suited but with no tie, slender with just a little limp, which was barely recognizable when he walked slowly, which he did most of the time. She thought she could smell him when he passed under the terrace but she probably didn’t—I maybe just want to smell him, she thought. When he moved quickly, she imagined he wanted to get home and shower before she arrived.  When she missed his coming or going, she sulked, but came to attention when she saw him with one of his many woman. Especially should he have his arm around a woman, his mouth close to her ear. Marlene would lean far over the railing to try and hear their conversation, which she imagined to be very dirty, but darted quickly back into the shadows should either the man or his woman turn. Does he see me, she wondered? If he took a woman into his apartment, Marlene would take herself to bed–and imagine him over her.

One evening he came home late, or late for him, 11ish. He was walking slowly but the limp was somehow more pronounced, as if his leg were just tired and that was the best it could do. He stopped to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief and Marlene thought he may have looked up at her but he continued with no acknowledgement, and she remained on the balcony, feeling safe and yet wildly alive in her post. He crossed the street and moved towards her building, Marlene moved away from the light. He stopped underneath her. Are you ever going to invite me in, he asked. Ship horns and barking dogs were silenced, there was no traffic, no moon, no stars, no other people. Marlene held her breath and held perfectly still, the night perfectly still, except for his voice that came from under her, that traveled though the ironwork of the balcony, that traveled between her legs and rose through her breasts to circle her lips like a tongue. Tomorrow, she whispered, pulling at the collar of her night gown, holding her hand at her neck as if to recover from gasping. Please come by tomorrow, she whispered a little bit louder.

She stumbled just a bit stepping back into the room. She was light headed, lost in visions of her mind’s making, the night air or his voice causing her to shiver. She reached for the covers and almost cried upon discovering her encounter was no more than a dream, her man an imaginary voice under the terrace.


art work: Fabian Perez / Balcony at Buenos Aires IX



an amend never made or drinking story no. 4




When I went to college, I pledged a sorority. This was a pretty loosey-goosey sorority—there was no sorority house, no giggly girls painting each others nails, just a small group of North Jersey girls who liked to drink, party, and do a few good deeds along the way. Who wouldn’t want to join? I was dubbed pledge hussy (imagine that), and clown that I am, sang for the cafeteria, danced for the football team, sailed through every test of initiation. These gals liquored me up good and I spent the first half of my freshman year in vomit and recovery mode.

Somewhere in the initiation process, my soon to be sisters blindfolded another girl and myself and drove us to an unknown destination and dumped us there with a handful of change. This was 1969–there were no cell phones, no uber, no guidance systems, nothing. I don’t remember how far we were from campus nor how we got back. But what I do remember is the reverse capture of 2 sorority sisters, and my taking them to the most remote spot in New Jersey that I knew of—East Millstone—ever hear of it? I didn’t think so (okay, 3 or 4 of my jersey girl readers know the locale). There was no need to blindfold the pair—the 40 mile drive from East Orange to East Millstone was confusing enough. My partner in crime and I deposited them right next to the Deleware-Raritan canal, a single lane road with woods on one side and water on the other, right next to nothing. Yes, sophomoric, a silly and simple prank that doesn’t even resemble the hazing environment of some institutions today. But I always felt terrible about leaving them there. They found their way home, of course, and were pretty good sports about it all, but really, it was stupid, the location too far from school, potentially dangerous, stupid.

I, sadly, don’t remember the names of the two sorority gals—there are way too many black holes in my drinking past. I did go visit one at her home several years later and maybe apologized then, but I doubt it—I spent another decade inside the bottle and it would be some time before I attempted amends. So, my sweet, good natured sorority sisters, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I left you on Canal Road, and I’m sorry that I left you clueless and mapless with only a couple of bucks. I’m sorry that I left college without an ounce of understanding.


photo credit:


wendell berry




I have never been any good at writing poetry about nature. I felt that my poems hinged on cliche, and I was too in awe of nature to put it to paper—I never did nature any justice. And then, I was introduced to Wendell Berry and The Peace of Wild Things, and trying to write poems about nature after reading that piece was ludicrous. I share Berry’s poem again for two reasons—I think of his piece whenever nature moves me, and the fact that I can’t turn it into poetry. The moon is magnificent tonight, shadows and light testing the water, the woods illuminated. And I share this poem again because everyone should read it several times a year. I keep it framed by my bed, a gift given to me by another alcoholic.


The Peace of Wild Things

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. – Wendell Berry


artwork:  ray ellis /




jason langer


Oh I’m holding onto heaven. When I breathe it’s only you. – Holding onto Heaven, Foxes



From The Near Transformation of Claire


David to Claire

Subject: firsts


I think of all the delicious firsts we have to look forward to:

The first embrace in the airport, my hands gliding down your back and lightly over your bottom.

The first time I place my hand on your stockinged knee and feel your thighs part as you feel my hand slide up your leg to touch the warm flesh of your upper thigh.

The first time I move my hand to find out if you are wearing panties.

The feel of my hand resting on your ass, feeling you move there as you walk down the corridor,

you then standing before me, liftng your dress to show me, my first unveiling of your outer layers.

The first time I hold you and push my dick between your lips, the first sliding of my cock into your wet and hungry cunt.

The first time I whisper give me your ass, baby, and turn you.

The first time you feel my dick riding in the split of your cheeks and you say, “fuck me in my ass, David.”

The first tears I have to kiss away.


photo credit: Jason Langer / visit this site, beautiful


janet reno’s dance party




I have no idea where this post is going but bear with me.

I have watched Saturday Night Live since it’s inception, and while I’m not a student of the show, I know tons of sketches, tons more than my friends or family. And while I do not have a list of favorites sketches, among my favorites is Will Ferrell as Attorney General Janet Reno in Janet Reno’s Dance Party. It’s not the funniest of bits and I don’t care much for their music choices. I also don’t think the Waco, Texas references are necessary—but I think the idea of a Janet Reno Dance Party, this formidable woman as a closet dance freak, as one susceptible to or in need of cutting loose, is genius. And I also love dance parties. In fact, for my sixtieth birthday party, which I orchestrated, my invitations read Pam Heffner’s Dance Party, the headline chosen solely because of SNL’s Janet Reno and her basement blasts. There was not nearly enough dancing at my party as I would have liked, not the fist-pumping, dance-till-your-sides-hurt kind of crowd, I guess. But as I approach my sixty-fifth birthday, I almost want to do it again. On a smaller scale, however, and with invitations that come with caveat, if you don’t dance, don’t come.

Janet Reno was President Bill Clinton’s Attorney General, Hillary Clinton is running for President. Hmm. Maybe I’ll send them all an invitation.


photo credit:

sorry, no video links – available links were weak


best enjoyed hard




Certain species of pear; one variety of persimmon
Apples; beckoning the bite of appetite,
flesh crisp, bursting juices inside
The cucumber, officially fruit,
should definitely be eaten firm

It’s not that I’m not enjoying
the soft fruit of your kiss
the luscious suck of lower lip
It’s just that I hunger for harder
So down the trunk of your torso I shimmy
grazing knees against the bark of your jeans
in tom-boy haste to grasp what I desire
Down your torso;
to pluck at your buckle
twist at the stem of each button
plunder fingers through your thicket
Seeking and finding the vital rising of sap
firm flesh pulsing against palm
warm as sun-drenched figs

As my lips surround you;
the nibble-tease of teeth undoes you
I relish the feast of your reach
on the platter of my tongue
gorge, voracious along your contours
feel you quiver and quicken,
draw the juices from you
Your trunk bends and bucks;
I cling, marsupial-clawed
a wild nocturnal creature,
weathering the hurricane-frenzy
of your scattered seeding dream
Spill of nectar licked over lips
Holding fast to your fullness

Hunger sated for harder
harder varieties of fruit  – Adrea Kore


artwork: Apple and Pear / Janet Schearer



livin’ the dream




For years before it became popular, my friend Ellen used the expression livin’ the dream a lot—the perfect sarcastic response to how ya doin? or whatcha doin? or in response to head scratching behavior. I always liked that expression and wished I had used it more, but now, I hear it everywhere, and as trendy things go, the sentiment has lost some of the bite and heaven forbid I embrace anything trendy. But livin’ the dream has taken on new significance for me. It is a concept that repeats and repeats in my brain as I move away from previous visions of fulfillment and desire. Dreams change, I have changed, circumstances made it so, and I have the opportunity and huge challenge of creating and living a new dream, to move towards a life that I’ve recently, but vividly, imagined. I’m venturing into new territory, and examining everything along the way.

What does livin’ the dream look like to you? Is it the house in the suburbs or the larger house in the suburbs, a vacation home, a more exotic vacation home? Is it healthy family and friends gathered ’round the BBQ, beautiful babies romping on the grass as you sit with cocktail in hand on the chaise? Is your dream Sundays on the sofa with newspaper, leisure time, travel time, free time to do whatever it is you want? What do you want? Are you already living the dream and don’t even know it? I know that I’m living much of what I previously dreamed of and do take the time to smell the roses, to be grateful and cognizant of all that I have, to take the time to savor dreams realized. But the dream realized is a small part of our existence, a fleeting moment on the lawn chair. While my new dream absolutely includes a beautiful home and a healthy and happy family, I also dream of a life that is satisfying in-between those this-is-what-it’s-all-about-moments. I want to simplify, to enrich, to learn, to sift through previous notions of value and worth and arrive at the essence of what it is I want. I want to live life on my terms, to pursue my interests, to live a life with myself as a priority. I have a selfish dream, and no apologies.

I look around my beautiful home and all the work I’ve put into it, I look at my dear friends and think about our wonderful experiences together, and I ask myself can I walk away from all of this? And the answer keeps coming back yes. The important friends and possessions will travel with me, and the possibilities for livin’ the dream are endless.



photo credit: unavailable / not true – don’t trust the source