Not like they used to be, these fingers of mine. There was a time – ten years ago, before any of you knew me, as I got to finally know myself, where they would grasp anything to write with, anything to write on. Trash in the car, fogged windows, a knife scraping a few words wherever they needed to come out – and of course, hundreds upon hundreds of lost bar napkins.

There was even a time I was sent home from work because I couldn’t stop writing. It was the time of the flood, and 31 years of surpressed emotion had finally found an outlet. When I set my mind to it – made the words soft, palatable, a few poems were even published, and I was invited to a group that discussed such things, and tried, always unsuccessfully, to make sense of what we , as adopted children, felt, to ease the pain of repentant birth mothers, to console anyone in the “triad”.  . I still have the pieces, but it’s nothing that anyone would have seen – not anyone here at least – no one that I know now.  It was pretty cool though – not only did I bring every fucking one of them to tears (including me) but I met and became good acquaintances with Karen Vedder – Eddie’s birth mother.

If only I could focus on creating music – I mean hell – Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam – how many others were fronted by… heh – one of us? No, It sure as hell isn’t a club, that’s for sure…there is no “us”. Always wanted to, though.

Create music, that is…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Okay – what’s this thing I hear of… Nanowrimo. Yeah, I think that’s it… AAAAUUUGGGH! Looks like hell when I dig up the twitter feed – but then again, the novel is already here: – forward, back – have a blast, I’ll sell you the movie rights for cheap if you want them – but only me or Johnny Depp play me.

Maybe I should actually try to write…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Three candles are all that shed light on these rusty fingers, all white this time, two burning low enough that I look at them every few minutes wondering when they will go out. I swear, if nothing else causes worry lines, the incessant dead-candle-watch will. The drawer with ones to replace them is open, and just like almost everything else in here, within reach – but this is where my fingers want to be for now, where thoughts are quiet and the words just simply come.

Words just simply come.  HELLOOOOOOOO, words!!!! That’s your cue, damnit!

Screw it – I’m getting new candles ready. Maybe

Gods, I love the scent of beeswax. I get the dripless candles, as this is such a small place that the smallest mess or disturbance is far too visible, and gods, I do try to keep a clean home. Not like I ever have any visitors to be concerned about, but just for me. Far from anal, but with so little, the little things really matter.

I look around at each of the beautiful candle holders that I use, and realize – each one of them are beautiful, solid brass – that I picked out of my “parents” trash, years and years ago. In back I have my grandmothers gorgeous candelabra – let’s see if I can figure out the picture thing on WordPress…

wait – is that it? Holy FUCH, that was easy! You are also the first ever (besides me) to see the one of me looking like  – well, looking like an idiot who knows that the world is his. Looking like me. Looking at it for the first time in three years, I think I like it… more now.

1:13 am. The time I glanced at. I like that…

Enough for now…


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