Ah, the tattoo!

When I was dealing with the trauma of finding out that a little boy I had taken in as a toddler had grown up to become a terrible person I

Had three things

I decided to use as grief-points:

Get a nose ring

Shave my head

Get a tattoo.

This week I have had to face that sometimes “a tattoo” is a luxury item

In a pandemic

In the way grief

Can worm its way into the fabric of who a person is

I am losing something else

Like a tattoo, a marker of the grief

And I found what I would put on that tattoo–

Love is



There are things that happen in the indelible. First, time becomes a character in the story, exerting control over both the narrative and the heart rate. It moves through each room, touching old pictures and hidden spaces, spinning a cocoon so thick it makes normal movement impossible and must be pulled apart like spun sugar

Next, change

Old you out to sea, pared down, bereft

So you

Write down promises

On every doorpost, every lintel, every exposed beam and limb

Let the words become living things

A forest in the house

She calls him

Revelation 19:16 NIV

[16] On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written:

king of kings and lord of lords.

She calls him King of Heaven. I like that

Evoke the way you effortlessly possess

The sky, the clouds, rolled up One Day for something new. I want to gather these flocks of clouds, the silvery colors of this matchless afternoon

Wonder what is written on you

Wonder what you will write forever

On me

Mark me

Mark me out as your own

Jargon of Uncertain Times

“Now more than ever” they say addressing “these uncertain times” while the quiet is a lovely, spooky thing

Like Prufrock’s curling fog or the calm eye at the middle of every storm

I play the sober girl’s version of a drinking game–keep a running tally of each meaningless thing we say

To ellipsize all the scooped-out half moon lost stitches

In the story of our world

The case of the disappearing email

I have watched (read) coverage of a big (really big) powerful (really powerful) Entity which has been recently caught out lying.

This particular lie involved a lot of people, maybe all of us. The Entity is pretty powerful.

And I have lived in the place they do. So I shoot off an email detailing my pain over the lies, the way victims’ voices were suppressed, the great need for western journalists to hear and report the truth.

When I went back to my sent folder the email had been erased. No content.

What happens when Big Brother can silence little sister? What happens when we, the free, let him?