Time Machine

  • Magical,  Time Machine


    24 years ago a ghost roamed the rooms of a newly-purchased newly-built house, walking, walking, as there was something lost and the walking would help with the remembering. A ghost pacing miles of grey carpeting that stretched in every direction. A ghost that sat silently under white walls that loomed overhead. A ghost that looked out with blank eyes upon a bare yard, pre-landscaping. The ghost had dreams and longings but they thinned impossibly gossamer, invisible in the hot desert sun. Six months later the ghost escaped into the bright sun. The bare walls could no longer contain the ghost and she no longer swallowed handfuls of pills hoping to…

  • Time Machine


    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,

  • Time Machine


    I’m on a bridge. It spans the Here and the There. The Where I have been and the Where I am going. The There, in my mind, soul and heart, has a look and feel that is palpable. Yet I am also open to manifestations of the entire laundry list of supplications-to-the-Universe that apparently I have been compiling — for years and maybe since even before that — that I can’t yet get a feel for. And that’s okay. The bridge is here and I am on it. Crossing over, slowly sometimes, perhaps even too slowly at times for my Impatient Self Who Feels the Future, but crossing. One breath,…

  • Love,  Time Machine

    PS Happy New Year

    Once upon a time I rang in the new year in a bubble under the Space Needle, fireworks shooting overhead and onto my lips, warmed inside — despite the cold — by the promise of All That Could Be. It was absolutely lovely and absolutely perfect for the start of what I believe will be a wonderful year on so many levels. I am still in that magical place and hope to remain there a good long time. The end.

  • My Brain On Crack,  Time Machine


    I have been telling stories lately, the stories that add, thread by thread, to the complex weaving that comprises the fabric of my thus-far life experiences and that shape who I am. Layer by layer these stories build upon each other, some painful, some humorous, some poignant. If I could find one concise word that sums up the me-ness of who I am I would use that to say, “This is me. Here I am. Love me,” but we humans communicate in stories. We all carry stories. While telling mine, I often become lost in the emotions contained within them. I fall down deep dark holes leading far underneath the…

  • My Brain On Crack,  Time Machine

    Past Blast

    I’m holding a ring in my hand. Actually I’m not really holding it, since to type and hold simultaneously would be awkward, difficult, and likely result in larger than the usual number of typos. But I was holding it a minute ago. It’s large, gold and has a royal blue stone in the center. The ring isn’t mine, yet it’s been in my possession for more than 30 years. The ring belongs, in my opinion, to someone else. It was given to me once as a symbol. That symbol connected to things. Promises. But life got blacker and I fell down a rabbit hole and drank a potion making me…

  • My Brain On Crack,  Time Machine

    2009 In The Rear-View Mirror

    A year ago I had just moved from a country that didn’t want me to a bare echoey white place hidden under a stifling canopy of tall dark trees. I adore trees, and loved lying in bed looking at green branches, but the bare echoey place had an inner emptiness that rang loudly in my ears. Plus it had weird carpet. In the spring I discovered forested trails and alternate universes. I sat, motionless, sometimes for hours, staring out through a skylight and eventually emerging into a giddy, childlike state, a person who thought lakes were oceans and wondered whether she should be driving real cars. A year ago I…

  • Time Machine

    Hello Kitty is 35

    This is as full of awesome as it gets. Who knew that an 80’s icon would survive this long? Now Hello Kitty is ironic. Depth of flavor. Let’s examine some other 80’s icons, and find out whether they slipped quietly into ex-iconic obscurity, or became ironic-iconic. Shall we? Boy George. Jumped the shark. Sorry, Boy. Now you’re old and creepy. Breakfast Club. Timeless. Does it help that director John Hughes has died? Do we feel older now? Will you recognize me? Call my name or walk on by? The A-Team. Oh, come on. You can hum the theme song, can’t you? It doesn’t get more retro-cool than that, especially considering…

  • Time Machine

    All The Pretty Little Horses

    At 6, given a shiny penny to throw into the tinkling fountain at the mall we visited once a year in order to buy school clothes, I knew exactly what to wish for. I closed my eyes tight, imagined the elegant, stately horse I knew would be mine one day, and threw the penny into the water, feeling that odd mix of anticipation for something wonderful happening someday and regret for having thrown something valuable away. At 7 in the car, we’d pass horses sometimes. Living in what was once a cowtown and now was an emerging bedroom community of physicists and engineers and their kids, we were surrounded by…

  • My Brain On Crack,  Time Machine


    I have a new thing for pink. No idea where this comes from. For years, pink was right up there as Most Hated Color in the Universe. Possibly because I was surrounded by it: my walls were an insipid shade of pastel pink, my ruffled bedspread was sort of a washed-out salmon color, and even my rug was pink. There’s a photo of me as a wee thing, lying on that pink rug, nose in a book, wearing something plaid. Oh yes, 1970 was a great year for interior design. Pink clothes were out. I allowed my body to be clad in drab plaidish kneelength dresses with Peter Pan collars,…