Aunt Mary’s Mask

My Aunt Mary and Dolly Parton had something in common; they never left home without their “war paint” on.  Pond’s cold cream and Oil of Olay – goop on, goop off.   Gluing on false eyelashes and curling the ones she had, applying foundations, powder for the shiny spots, rouge to add color to the cheeks she justContinue reading “Aunt Mary’s Mask”

Go collect your rubles, Troll, Part 2

They are not talking to me now. Because I questioned their understanding of just who their enemies are. Fox Media had convinced them there was a caravan of terrorists walking – walking – to the U. S. border from various South American countries. I said that was not true. They dismissed me as a Pollyanna.Continue reading “Go collect your rubles, Troll, Part 2”

Where do you store your grief?

What body part stores my grief? I dunno, maybe it’s my feet.  By best friend Bernice has a theory about injuries and maladies.  That they illustrate a spiritual need that’s not being met.  So, I keep breaking/wounding my feet and ankles these last few months.  Go ahead, find the parallel, the symbolism of foot problems while Sheltering In Place.  I’llContinue reading “Where do you store your grief?”

Colors of the Pandemic

The colors of a pandemic are all muted, the days are covered with a gauzy film of desperation.  I guess the part that is most dreadful is knowing hundreds of thousands of people are taking their last breath in colorless rooms where kind cloth covered strangers hold phones to their faces so the family members who would haveContinue reading “Colors of the Pandemic”

Go collect your rubles, Troll

The insult comes immediately upon commenting on line. It’s usually some variation of how I am a Libtard Ivory Tower Snowflake when requesting compassion for the incarcerated. So I type: “go pick up your rubles, troll”. The crazed conspiracy lovers who quote “Fox News” get this comment: “Fox Media because oxymoron”, that’s not news andContinue reading “Go collect your rubles, Troll”

Love in the time of coronavirus

Starting last Thursday, terror became a day to day thing. Starting late last month, shit got real. Love in the time of coronavirus means calling just to hear the faraway one’s voice.“Just checking in. How y’all holding up?”Video chatting has blurred the meaning of distance. The Winged Wahine had not yet booked our next globeContinue reading “Love in the time of coronavirus”