I’m pondering, today, like many days, life and death and relationships and the rush of trying to accomplish everything in 24 hours and for what, besides a tear in our nylons? (Okay. I don't wear nylons, but I do wear tights! I'm being metaphoric here. ;) ) What are we exactly rushing about for? How many of you can relate to THAT?
 
While in the grocery store checkout line, my mind drifted to my mom and a poem poured out of me and onto the note pad on my phone.
 
And after I wrote it, I thought back to an older post I wrote, about the way I’ve always been compelled to write this way, this stream-of-consciousness way, even in the weirdest of places: I was the girl who always read and who carried her notebook with her everywhere to jot down things she observed: the woman smoking with her coat pulled tight against herself in the cold wind; the shy teenage boy glancing at me from under his long bangs, fidgety and nervous;  or the plump 3-year-old pulling on her mother’s pants in defiance to get attention. I was always looking for a “story.” And though I don’t carry a notebook anymore, my phone has replaced it. Easier even to record ideas, thoughts, snippets.
 
The truth is, I wrote a lot about my mom too. I had a complicated relationship with her. Can any of you relate? I wonder if it’s more common among mother/daughter and father/son relationships. That dynamic. Those high expectations. I wrote about this before: (loveand-all-its-idiosyncrasies.html).

You see, my mom had a tough life, dreams ripped from her more than a few times, and she was what one may call a pessimist as a result. She was harsh. She was critical. She didn’t like me laughing too much. She often questioned my choices. Do you want people to stare at you? Aren’t those jeans a little too tight? Isn’t that skirt too short? Must you make such a fuss with your hair? You know you’re pretty, but you do realize your looks will fade? Aren’t you going to eat something else? Have you practiced this week? Can’t you be more like your brother?
 
But what I realized in that checkout line, now that my mother has passed, all those things I used to do for her when she was ill, that I sometimes internally complained about, produced an bit of an epiphany in me…and hence, the poem.
 
The tick tock is deafening.
Muscles ache from strain.
Rising sun.
Feet on cold oak.
Passing cars, honking horns, angry fists
of move over
and fuck yellow lights.
Undress.
Dress.
Leotard.
Bun just right.
Spray in place.
Grab an apple.
Keys?
Don't forget the milk for Mom.
Dash to the express checkout
and curse and hiss
Into the back head
of the too-chatty, blue hair,
fumbling in her too-big purse,
fingers not quick enough.
Pour a quick glass of red
to match cursory letters
on black and white
Times New Roman font
In teacher's ink.
Speed-dial family.
Snapchat friends
and try to breathe.
It's what you've waited for.
Except now,
the silenced whirring rush
tramples the solace
because you realize
that the only way
to stop
is to admit: Not anymore.
And you look to see
Irony
holding Time's hand
with a grim grin.
Every year.
One fewer thing to do.
One minute.
One second.
Closer to death.

It might seem a little dark from Rosemary, the romantic. I have a lot of them. These kinds of poems. And they probably don’t make sense to anyone but me. But they’re there. Often. And just below the surface. Always. It's okay. We all have a little dark in our light. I'm just grateful I have this little thing called writing to allow me to see them. It makes me whole.

Tattoos were once thought of as marks of the troubled, the degenerate, the troubIe makers. Employers shunned those with tattoos and lies and myths about them were widespread and full of misconceptions, exaggerations, and lies even. Times have changed, like most things based on fiction and lack of knowledge or understanding. And tattoos are more common and accepted than ever, even consider works of art.

I have one small tattoo that I got in college on a whim, and though not profound or "serious" in its outward appearance, I do love it. I got it at a time when I was truly discovering myself and my sexuality, where I could finally accept that calling myself a feminist and having submissive sexual tendencies didn't have to be opposing forces. Thank you, college, for that!

I'm pondering getting one more, either on my shoulder or lower hip, right on the bone, or on the underside of a breast. Something also small. I'm not a fan of ostentatious tattoos. My body just isn't big enough for that, and it's just not something I find attractive, personally. Plus, I like skin. ;) I want it to be a quote, and I would have gotten one already, except that I'm not sure which one! Of course, Shakespeare comes to mind, and I've narrowed it down

But lately, I've been pondering my own quote, one I penned myself. Is that too self-indulgent? I was thinking about "Ruin My Lipstick" to mark and forever remind me that I published my first poetry book, something I never thought I'd have the courage to do, but I'm not sure at 80, I'd be happy with that choice! And then again, why not? It's another turning point in my life, another mark of accomplishment, a growth, a reckoning. “Ruin My Lipstick” is the title poem of the collection, but it has layered meaning for me in many ways. Literally, there is this:

“I liked to wear lipstick
and nothing else
and found myself fascinated
with the shape
of my lips
and the different colors
I could make them.”
 
But it’s also very symbolic and figurative. We all have insecurities, and as I was compiling my poems to include, I realized the theme of facade runs through much of my work. In fact, most of my writing does, even my novels, those fronts we all put up in real life: who we are expected to be, which is sometimes in direct competition with WHO we really are.

So frankly, perhaps I want this tattoo to be less frivolous, less rebellious really mean something to me, more of a reflection of the person I am now today, not the college student in the beginning of self discovery and rebellion, but the older version of myself that I am happy I am becoming, albeit, slowly. 

To get a copy of Ruin My Lipstick, click here:  NEW RELEASES

Do you believe in ghosts? Why or why not? Has something personally happened to you that makes you feel the way you do? And if you do believe, what exactly do you think ghosts are?

I watched a fascinating film last night: “A Ghost Story.” Has anyone seen it? It takes a very interesting approach to the idea of ghosts in a traditional visual but quite an existential non-traditional way. Besides one of the best endings I’ve seen in cinematic times, the idea of time is explored. We think so linearly about time: beginning, middle, and end, that to ponder it this way is intriguing. The way the director creates this is brilliant. And like any really good movie, it has stuck with me, as in, I keep coming back to it, its idea and content. I recommend it.
In a fascinating article here by Live Science, they state: 
​
“If ghosts are real, and are some sort of as-yet-unknown energy or entity, then their existence will (like all other scientific discoveries) be discovered and verified by scientists through controlled experiments — not by weekend ghost hunters wandering around abandoned houses in the dark late at night with cameras and flashlights… In the end (and despite mountains of ambiguous photos, sounds, and videos) the evidence for ghosts is no better today than it was a year ago, a decade ago, or a century ago.”

For the whole article, which is quite beautifully objective for a change, visit here: www.livescience.com/26697-are-ghosts-real.html

My mother used to espouse the existence of ghosts. She had two stories. One is too personal to share. But one she would tell us as kids was about the house in which she grew up. Each night, she said, a little old lady took her hand and walked her to bed. Every. Night. She said she later discovered who he woman was through research and pictures. Nothing horrific or terrifying. Just a woman who lived there a hundred years ago. Could my mother have seen pictures somewhere she didn’t remember? Had she heard a story in her youth? Or was there in fact a ghost.

I, myself, had a strange experience with a Ouija board. But the details are fuzzy, and I wonder to this day what really happened. Sometimes I wonder if I created the story from a real experience that, through embellishment and fabrication over the years, has blurred the truth of it. I’m honestly not sure. I don’t think I embellished at all. But to think otherwise, leaves me so baffled, I know of no other way. Even writing about it here frightens me.
​
I invite anyone to share their views with me. Personal stories. Stories shared with you. But I guess the big question is: Does it even matter? For either they exist or they don’t. And really, what does knowing do to change that? ​

​Yet another judgmental and arrogant person I've dealt with. Seems these last few weeks are filled with them, and I have no idea why! What is it about sensual images and the writing of erotic stories that can really get people’s knickers in a bunch? I addressed this last week with the word "erotic" and no sooner did I get into it with another on Twitter. This pompous know-it-all actually took one of my graphics and changed it. Now that takes effort! Would you like to see? I've attached it at the end if you do. 

I engaged with him, rather than simply block or lash out. Hell, I figured, at least I’m getting some interaction about my writing, right?  And it slowly turned into the “I have a degree in English lit…and…” Yeah? So do I, buddy. But I didn’t go there.

He wrote: “Usually if has anyone (sic) of either gender on the cover half naked, or uses the word Billionaire in the blurb, (or has a sword), I flick past it.” Okay. He is entitled to his opinion. But I did my own kind of flicking too (it may or may not have been with my middle finger!). Talk about judging a book by its cover. No mention of swords or billionaires in my blurb (not capitalized either, Mr. English major FYI), but yes, Natalie is en pointe ‘half naked.’ Oh my god. The gall, huh? Sadly, he is not alone in his view as Amazon agrees, because Temptation was put into the “jail” ages ago and my publisher hasn’t fixed it, because, well, if they do, I’ll lose all my reviews supposedly. This closed-minded way of thinking is getting old. And tiresome.

When he started to insult the Bard, and that he “never re-reads a book” (What????), I knew it was a useless, one-sided conversation, that I was dealing with a very bored man, an unhappy one I’m sure. He hadn’t read my work, and I realized he wasn’t going to. That somehow because I explore the sensual and erotic in my writing, I’m lesser. I espoused that it’s really sad that such judgments and repression run rampant so strongly and that I find it disturbing. The question that still lingers for me more than anything though, is why he felt the need to go out of his way to engage and further, rework a graphic of mine. Buddy—you need to have more sex. Clearly. And therein lies the crux of the problem. I'm convinced of it!

Natalie’s Edge is about the journey of discovering our true selves, including our sexual ones. The world of repression is very real, and for some of us, our writing is the only safe place we are allowed to express it. Writing that series was quite cathartic for me. And no one can take away its profound importance to my journey not only as a writer but as a human being who breathes and lives one day at a time.

Darkness can consume an individual, swallow up the light, an unhappiness that doesn’t make much sense when that person seems to have everything. And we must reckon that or wither. Writing and exploring some of our darker thoughts and desires can often free us. Sometimes, it’s even therapy for conquering depression. And sometimes, we don’t even know until we let our subconscious roam free on the blank pages soon filled with so much of our truth, we only then can start to live. To deny sensuality is repressed, archaic nonsense.

​I grew up with the Catholic idea that sex is bad, so I know a thing or two about repression. I keep thinking we’re making progress. But we really aren’t. I won’t get into my political views here. But it’s quite apparent. And I ask why…just why does expressing oneself and embracing all facets of our beings get minimized to a sound byte of “porn”? My work is not “porn.” It is about relationships and romance, exploration, and submitting to visceral desires, through the written word to elicit emotion. My work is about love and acceptance. And I pity those that choose to ignore and suppress a vibrant and important part of living… If someone wants to roam about half a man, to him I simply say: I actually feel bad for you. I know. I've been there.